The In Death Collection Books 6-10 &#8211; Read Now and Download Mobi

The business of murder took time, patience, skill, and a tolerance for the monotonous. Lieutenant Eve Dallas had them all.

She knew the act of murder required none of these. All too often a life was taken on impulse, in rage, for amusement, or simply out of stupidity. It was the last of these, in Eve’s mind, that had led one John Henry Bonning to throw one Charles Michael Renekee out a twelfth-story window on Avenue D.

She had Bonning in Interview and calculated that it would take another twenty minutes tops to shake a confession out of him, another fifteen to book him and file her report. She might just make it home on time.

“Come on, Boner.” It was her veteran cop talking to veteran bad guy. Level ground, her turf. “Do yourself a favor. A confession, and you can go for self-defense and diminished capacity. We can tie this up by dinnertime. I hear they’re serving pasta surprise in lockup tonight.”

“Never touched him.” Bonning folded his oversized lips, tapped his long, fat fingers. “Fucker jumped.”

With a sigh, Eve sat down at the little metal table in Interview A. She didn’t want Bonning to lawyer himself and gum up the works. All she had to do was keep him from saying those words, steer him in the direction she was already heading, and she had a wrap.

Second-rate chemi-dealers like Bonning were invariably slow-witted, but sooner or later he’d whine for a representative. It was an old shuffle-and-dodge, as timeless as murder itself. As the year 2058 stumbled to an end, the business of murder remained basically unchanged.

“He jumped—a quick gainer out the window. Now why’d he do that, Boner?”

Bonning furrowed his ape-sized forehead into deep thought. “Because he was a crazy bastard?”

“That’s a good guess, Boner, but it’s not going to qualify you for round two of our stump-the-cops sweepstakes.”

It took him about thirty pondering seconds, then his lips stretched out into a grin. “Funny. Pretty funny, Dallas.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking of moonlighting as a stand-up. But, going back to my day job, the two of you were cooking up some Erotica in your porta-lab on Avenue D, and Renekee—being a crazy bastard—just got some hair up his ass and jumped out a window—right through the glass—and dived twelve stories, bounced off the roof of a Rapid Cab, scared the living shit out of a couple of tourists from Topeka in the backseat, then rolled off to leak his brains onto the street.”

“Sure did bounce,” Bonning said with what passed for a wondering smile. “Who’da thought?”

She didn’t intend to go for murder one, and figured if she went for murder two the court-appointed rep would bargain Bonning down to manslaughter. Chemi-dealers greasing chemi-dealers didn’t make Justice flip up her blindfold and grin in anticipation. He’d do more time for the illegals paraphernalia than he would for the homicide. And even combining the two, it was doubtful he’d do more than a three-year stretch in lockup.

She folded her arms on the table, leaned forward. “Boner, do I look stupid?”

Taking the question at face value, Bonning narrowed his eyes to take a careful study. She had big brown eyes, but they weren’t soft. She had a pretty, wide mouth, but it didn’t smile. “Look like a cop,” he decided.

“Good answer. Don’t try to hose me here, Boner. You and your business partner had a falling out, you got pissed off, and you terminated your professional and personal relationship by heaving his dumb ass out the window.” She held up a hand before Bonning could deny again. “This is the way I see it. You got into, maybe dissing each other over the profits, the methods, a woman. You both got hot. So maybe he comes at you. You’ve got to defend yourself, right?”

“Man’s got a right,” Bonning agreed, nodding rapidly as the story sang to him. “But we didn’t get into nothing. He just tried to fly.”

“Where’d you get the bloody lip, the black eye? How come your knuckles are ripped up?”

Bonning stretched his lips into a toothy grin. “Bar fight.”

“When? Where?”

“Who remembers?”

“You’d better. And you know you’d better, Boner, after we run the tests on the blood we scraped from your knuckles, and we find his blood mixed with yours. We get his DNA off your fat fingers, I’m going for premeditated—maximum lockup, life, no parole.”

His eyes blinked rapidly, as if his brain was processing new and baffling data. “Come on, Dallas, that’s just bullshit. You ain’t gonna convince nobody I walked in there thinking to kill old Chuckaroo. We were buds.”

Her eyes steady on his, Eve pulled out her communicator. “Last chance to help yourself. I call my aide, have her get the test results, I’m booking you on murder one.”

“Wasn’t no murder.” He wanted to believe she was bluffing. You couldn’t read those eyes, he thought, wetting his lips. Couldn’t read those cop’s eyes. “It was an accident,” he claimed, inspired. Eve only shook her head. “Yeah, we were busting a little and he . . . tripped and went headlong out the window.”

“Now you’re insulting me. A grown man doesn’t trip out a window that’s three feet off the floor.” Eve flicked on her communicator. “Officer Peabody.”

Within seconds Peabody’s round and sober faced filled the communicator screen. “Yes, sir.”

“I need the blood test results on Bonning. Have them sent directly to Interview A—and alert the PA that I have a murder in the first.”

“Now hold on, back up, don’t be going there.” Bonning ran the back of his hand over his mouth. He struggled a moment, telling himself she’d never get him on the big one. But Dallas had a rep for pinning fatter moths than he to the wall.

“You had your chance, Boner. Peabody—”

“He came at me, like you said. He came at me. He went crazy. I’ll tell you how it went down, straight shit. I want to make a statement.”

“Peabody, delay those orders. Inform the PA that Mr. Bonning is making a statement of straight shit.”

Peabody’s lips never twitched. “Yes, sir.”

Eve slipped the communicator back in her pocket, then folded her hands on the edge of the table and smiled pleasantly. “Okay, Boner, tell me how it went down.”

Fifty minutes later, Eve strolled into her tiny office in New York’s Cop Central. She did look like a cop—not just the weapon harness slung over her shoulder, the worn boots and faded jeans. Cop was in her eyes—eyes that missed little. They were a dark whiskey color, and rarely flinched. Her face was angular, sharp at the cheekbones, and set off by a surprisingly generous mouth and a shallow dent in the chin.

She walked in a long-limbed, loose-gaited style—she was in no hurry. Pleased with herself, she raked her fingers through her short, casually cropped brown hair as she sat behind her desk.

She would file her report, zing off copies to all necessary parties, then log out for the day. Outside the streaked and narrow window behind her, the commuter air traffic was already in a snarl. The blat of airbus horns and the endless snicking of traffic copter blades didn’t bother her. It was, after all, one of the theme songs of New York.

“Engage,” she ordered, then hissed when her computer remained stubbornly blank. “Damn it, don’t start this. Engage. Turn on, you bastard.”

“You’ve got to feed it your personal pass number,” Peabody said as she stepped inside.

“I thought these were back on voice ID.”

“Were. Snaffued. Supposed to be back up to speed by the end of the week.”

“Pain in the butt,” Eve complained. “How many numbers are we supposed to remember? Two, five, zero, nine.” She blew out a breath as her unit coughed to life. “They’d better come up with the new system they promised the department.” She slipped a disc into the unit. “Save to Bonning, John Henry, case number 4572077-H. Copy report to Whitney, Commander.”

“Nice, quick work on Bonning, Dallas.”

“The man’s got a brain the size of a pistachio. Tossed his partner out the window because they got into a fight over who owed who a stinking twenty credits. And he’s trying to tell me he was defending himself, in fear for his life. The guy he tossed was a hundred pounds lighter and six inches shorter. Asshole,” she said with a resigned sigh. “You’d have thought Boner would have cooked up the guy had a knife or swung a bat at him.”

She sat back, circled her neck, surprised and pleased that there was barely any tension to be willed away. “They should all be this easy.”

She listened with half an ear to the hum and rumble of the early air traffic outside her window. One of the commuter trams was blasting out its spiel on economical rates and convenience.

“Weekly, monthly, yearly terms available! Sign on to EZ TRAM, your friendly and reliable air transport service. Begin and end your work day in style.”

If you like the packed-in-like-sweaty-sardines style, Eve thought. With the chilly November rain that had been falling all day, she imagined both air and street snarls would be hideous. The perfect end to the day.

“That wraps it,” she said and grabbed her battered leather jacket. “I’m clocking out—on time for a change. Any hot plans for the weekend, Peabody?”

“My usual, flicking off men like flies, breaking hearts, crushing souls.”

Eve shot a quick grin at her aide’s sober face. The sturdy Peabody, she thought—a cop from the crown of her dark bowl-cut hair to her shiny regulation shoes. “You’re such a wild woman, Peabody. I don’t know how you keep up the pace.”

“Yeah, that’s me, queen of the party girls.” With a dry smile, Peabody reached for the door just as Eve’s tele-link beeped. Both of them scowled at the unit. “Thirty seconds and we’d have been on the skywalk down.”

“Probably just Roarke calling to remind me we’ve got this dinner party deal tonight.” Eve flicked the unit on. “Homicide, Dallas.”

The screen swam with colors, dark, ugly, clashing colors. Music, low octave, slow paced, crept out of the speaker. Automatically, Eve tapped the command for trace, watched the Unable to Comply message scroll across the bottom of the screen.

Peabody whipped out her porta-link, stepping aside to contact Central Control as the caller spoke.

“You’re supposed to be the best the city has to offer, Lieutenant Dallas. Just how good are you?”

“Unidentified contact and/or jammed transmissions to police officers are illegal. I’m obliged to caution you that this transmission is being traced through CompuGuard, and it’s being recorded.”

“I’m aware of that. Since I’ve just committed what worldly society would consider first-degree murder, I’m not overly concerned about minor nuisances like electronic violations. I’ve been blessed by the Lord.”

“Oh yeah?” Terrific, she thought, just what she needed.

“I have been called on to do His work, and have washed myself in the blood of His enemy.”

“Does He have a lot of them? I mean, you’d think He’d just, what, smite them down Himself instead of enlisting you to do the dirty work.”

There was a pause, a long one, in which only the dirge played through. “I have to expect you to be flippant.” The voice was harder now, and edgier. Temper barely suppressed. “As one of the godless, how could you understand divine retribution? I’ll put this on your level. A riddle. Do you enjoy riddles, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“No.” She slid her gaze toward Peabody, got a quick, frustrated head shake. “But I bet you do.”

“They relax the mind and soothe the spirit. The name of this little riddle is Revenge. You’ll find the first son of the old sod in the lap of luxury, atop his silver tower where the river runs dark below and water falls from a great height. He begged for his life, and then for his death. Never repenting his great sin, he is already damned.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because this is the task I was born for,”

“God told you that you were born to kill?” Eve pushed for trace again, fought with frustration. “How’d He let you know? Did He call you up on your ’link, send a fax? Maybe He met you in a bar?”

“You won’t doubt me.” The sound of breathing grew louder, strained, shaky. “You think because you’re a woman in a position of authority that I’m less? You won’t doubt me for much longer. I contacted you, Lieutenant. Remember this is in my charge. Woman may guide and comfort man, but man was created to protect, defend, to avenge.”

“God tell you that too? I guess that proves He’s a man after all. Mostly ego.”

“You’ll tremble before Him, before me.”

“Yeah, right.” Hoping his video was clear, Eve examined her nails. “I’m already shaking.”

“My work is holy. It is terrible and divine. From Proverbs, Lieutenant, twenty-eight seventeen: ‘If a man is burdened with the blood of another, let him be a fugitive until death; let no one help him.’ This one’s days as a fugitive are done—and no one helped him.”

“If you killed him, what does that make you?”

“The wrath of God. You have twenty-four hours to prove you’re worthy. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t disappoint you, asshole,” Eve muttered as the transmission ended. “Anything, Peabody?”

“Nothing. He jammed the tracers good and proper. They can’t give us so much as on or off planet.”

“He’s on planet,” she muttered and sat. “He wants to be close enough to watch.”

“Could be a crank.”

“I don’t think so. A fanatic, but not a crank. Computer, run buildings, residential and commercial with the word luxury, in New York City, with view of the East River or the Hudson.” She tapped her fingers. “I hate puzzle games.”

“I kind of like them.” Brows knit, Peabody leaned over Eve’s shoulder as the computer went to work.

Luxury Arms
Sterling Luxury
Luxury Place
Luxury Towers

Eve pounced. “Access visual of Luxury Towers, on screen.”

Working . . .

The image popped, a towering spear of silver with a glint of sunlight off the steel and shimmering on the Hudson at its base. On the far west wide, a stylish waterfall tumbled down a complex arrangement of tubes and channels.

“Gotcha.”

“Can’t be that easy,” Peabody objected.

“He wanted it easy.” Because, Eve thought, someone was already dead. “He wants to play and he wants to preen. Can’t do either until we’re in it. Computer, access name of residents on the top floor of the Luxury Towers.”

Working . . . Penthouse is owned by The Brennen Group and is New York base for Thomas X. Brennen of Dublin, Ireland, age forty-two, married, three children, president and CEO of The Brennen Group, an entertainment and communications agency.

“Let’s check it out, Peabody. We’ll notify Dispatch on the way.”

“Request backup?”

“We’ll get the lay of the land first.” Eve adjusted the strap on her weapon harness and shrugged into her jacket.

The traffic was just as bad as she’d suspected, bumping and grinding over wet streets, buzzing overhead like disoriented bees. Glide-carts huddled under wide umbrellas and did no business she could see. Steam rolled up out of their grills, obscuring vision and stinking up the air.

“Get the operator to access Brennen’s home number, Peabody. If it’s a hoax and he’s alive, it’d be nice to keep it that way.”

“On it,” Peabody said and pulled out her ’link.

Annoyed with the traffic delays, Eve sounded her siren. She’d have had the same response if she’d leaned out the window and shouted. Cars remained packed together like lovers, giving not an inch.

“No answer,” Peabody told her. “Voice-mail announcement says he’s away for two weeks beginning today.”

“Let’s hope he’s bellied up to a pub in Dublin.” She scanned the traffic again, gauged her options. “I have to do it.”

“Ah, Lieutenant, not in this vehicle.”

Then Peabody, the stalwart cop, gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut in terror as Eve stabbed the vertical lift. The car shuddered, creaked, and lifted six inches off the ground. Hit it again with a bone-shuddering thud.

“Goddamn piece of dog shit.” Eve used her fist this time, punching the control hard enough to bruise her knuckles. They did a shaky lift, wobbled, then streamed forward as Eve jabbed the accelerator. She nipped the edge of an umbrella, causing the glide-cart hawker to squeal in fury and hotfoot in pursuit for a half a block.

“The damn hawker nearly caught the bumper.” More amazed than angry now, Eve shook her head. “A guy in air boots nearly outran a cop ride. What’s the world coming to, Peabody?”

Eyes stubbornly shut, Peabody didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sorry, sir, you’re interrupting my praying.”

Eve kept the sirens on, delivering them to the front entrance of the Luxury Towers. The descent was rough enough to click her teeth together, but she missed the glossy fender of an XRII airstream convertible by at least an inch.

The doorman was across the sidewalk like a silver bullet, his face a combination of insult and horror as he wrenched open the door of her industrial beige city clunker.

“Madam, you cannot park this . . . thing here.”

Eve flicked off the siren, flipped out her badge. “Oh yeah, I can.”

His mouth only stiffened further as he scanned her ID. “If you would please pull into the garage.”

Maybe it was because he reminded her of Summerset, the butler who had Roarke’s affection and loyalty and her disdain, but she pushed her face into his, eyes glittering. “It stays where I put it, pal. And unless you want me to tell my aide to write you up for obstructing an officer, you’ll buzz me inside and up to Thomas Brennen’s penthouse.”

He sucked air through his nose. “That is quite impossible. Mr. Brennen is away.”

“Peabody, get this . . . citizen’s name and ID number and arrange to have him transported to Cop Central for booking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t arrest me.” His shiny black boots did a quick dance on the sidewalk. “I’m doing my job.”

“You’re interfering with mine, and guess whose job the judge is going to think is more important?”

Eve watched the way his mouth worked before it settled in a thin, disapproving line. Oh yeah, she thought, he was Summerset to a tee, even though he was twenty pounds heavier and three inches shorter than the bane of her existence.

“Very well, but you can be sure I will contact the chief of police and security about your conduct.” He studied her badge again. “Lieutenant.”

“Feel free.” With a signal to Peabody, she followed the doorman’s stiff back to the entrance, where he activated his droid backup to man the post.

Inside the shining silver doors, the lobby of the Luxury Towers was a tropical garden with towering palms, flowing hibiscus and twittering birds. A large pool surrounded a splashing fountain in the shape of a generously curved woman, naked to the waist and holding a golden fish.

The doorman keyed in a code at a glass tube, silently gestured Eve and Peabody inside. Unhappy with the transport, Eve stayed rooted to the center while Peabody all but pressed her nose against the glass on the ascent.

Sixty-two floors later, the tube opened into a smaller garden lobby, no less abundant. The doorman paused by a security screen outside double arched doors of highly polished steel.

“Doorman Strobie, escorting Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD and aide.”

“Mr. Brennen is not in residence at this time,” came the response in a soothing voice musical in its Irish lilt.

Eve merely elbowed Strobie aside. “This is a police emergency.” She lifted her badge to the electronic eye for verification. “Entrance is imperative.”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a quiet hum as her face and ID were scanned, then a discreet click of locks. “Entrance permitted, please be aware that this residence is protected by SCAN-EYE.”

“Recorder on, Peabody. Back off, Strobie.” Eve put one hand on the door, the other on her weapon, and shouldered it open.

The smell struck her first, and made her swear. She’d smelled violent death too many times to mistake it.

Blood painted the blue silk walls of the living area, a grisly, incomprehensible graffiti. She saw the first piece of Thomas X. Brennen on the cloud-soft carpet. His hand lay palm up, fingers curled toward her as if to beckon or to plead. It had been severed at the wrist.

She heard Strobie gag behind her, heard him stumble back into the lobby and the fresh floral air. She stepped into the stench. She drew her weapon now, sweeping with it as she covered the room. Her instincts told her what had been done there was over, and whoever had done it was safely away, but she stuck close to procedure, making her way slowly over the carpet, avoiding the gore when she could.

“If Strobie’s finished vomiting, ask him the way to the master bedroom.”

“Down the hall to the left,” Peabody said a moment later. “But he’s still heaving out there.”

“Find him a bucket, then secure the elevator and this door.”

Eve started down the hall. The smell grew riper, thicker. She began to breathe through her teeth. The door to the bedroom wasn’t secure. Through the crack came a slash of bright artificial light and the majestic sounds of Mozart.

What was left of Brennen was stretched out on a lake-sized bed with a stylish mirrored canopy. One arm had been chained with silver links to the bedpost. Eve imagined they would find his feet somewhere in the spacious apartment.

Undoubtedly the walls were well soundproofed, but surely the man had screamed long and loud before he died. How long had it taken, she wondered as she studied the body. How much pain could a man stand before the brain turned off and the body gave out?

Thomas Brennen would know the answer, to the second.

He’d been stripped naked, his hand and both his feet amputated. The one eye he had left stared in blind horror at the mirrored reflection of his own mutilated form. He’d been disemboweled.

“Sweet Jesus Christ,” Peabody whispered from the doorway. “Holy Mother of God.”

“I need the field kit. We’ll seal up, call this in. Find out where his family is. Call this in through EDD, Feeney if he’s on, and have him put a media jammer on before you give any details. Let’s keep the details quiet as long as possible.”

Peabody had to swallow hard twice before she was sure her lunch would stay down. “Yes, sir.”

“Get Strobie and secure him before he can babble about this.”

When Eve turned, Peabody saw a shadow of pity in her eyes, then it was gone and they were flat and cool again. “Let’s get moving. I want to fry this son of a bitch.”

It was nearly midnight before Eve dragged herself up the stairs to her own front door. Her stomach was raw, her eyes burning, her head roaring. The stench of vicious death clung to her though she’d scrubbed off a layer of skin in the locker room showers before heading home.

What she wanted most was oblivion, and she said one desperate and sincere prayer that she wouldn’t see the wreckage of Thomas Brennen when she closed her eyes to sleep.

The door opened before she could reach it. Summerset stood with the glittery light of the foyer chandelier behind him, his tall bony body all but quivering with dislike.

“You are unpardonably late, Lieutenant. Your guests are preparing to leave.”

Guests? Her overtaxed mind struggled with the word before she remembered. A dinner party? She was supposed to care about a dinner party after the night she’d put in?

“Kiss my ass,” she invited and started passed him.

His thin fingers caught at her arm. “As Roarke’s wife you’re expected to perform certain social duties, such as assisting him in hosting an important affair such as this evening’s dinner.”

Fury outdistanced fatigue in a heartbeat. Her hand curled into a fist at her side. “Step back before I—”

“Eve darling.”

Roarke’s voice, managing to convey welcome, amusement, and caution in two words, stopped her curled fist from lifting and following through. Scowling, she turned, saw him just outside the parlor doorway. It wasn’t the formal black that made him breathtaking. Eve knew he had a leanly muscled body that could stop a woman’s heart no matter what he wore—or didn’t wear. His hair flowed, dark as night and nearly to his shoulders, to frame a face she often thought belonged on a Renaissance painting. Sharp bones, eyes bluer than prized cobalt, a mouth fashioned to spout poetry, issue orders, and drive a woman to madness.

In less than a year, he had broken through her defenses, unlocked her heart, and most surprising of all, had gained not only her love but her trust.

And he could still annoy her.

She considered him the first and only miracle in her life.

“I’m late. Sorry.” It was more of a challenge than an apology, delivered like a bullet. He acknowledged it with an easy smile and a lifted eyebrow.

“I’m sure it was unavoidable.” He held out a hand. When she crossed the foyer and took it, he found hers stiff and cold. In her aged-whiskey eyes he saw both fury and fatigue. He’d grown used to seeing both there. She was pale, which worried him. He recognized the smears on her jeans as dried blood, and hoped it wasn’t her own.

He gave her hand a quick, intimate squeeze before bringing it to his lips, his eyes steady on hers. “You’re tired, Lieutenant,” he murmured, the wisp of Ireland magical in his voice. “I’m just moving them along. Only a few minutes more, all right?”

“Sure, yeah. Fine.” Her temper began to cool. “I’m sorry I screwed this up. I know it was important.” Beyond him in the beautifully furnished parlor she saw more than a dozen elegant men and women, formally dressed, gems winking, silks rustling. Something of her reluctance must have shown on her face before she smoothed it away, because he laughed.

“Five minutes, Eve. I doubt this can be as bad as whatever you faced tonight.”

He ushered her in, a man as comfortable with wealth and privilege as with the stench of alleys and violence. Seamlessly he introduced his wife to those she’d yet to meet, cued her on the names of those she’d socialized with at another time, all the while nudging the dinner party guests toward the door.

Eve smelled rich perfumes and wine, the fragrant smoke from the applewood logs simmering discreetly in the fireplace. But under it all the sensory memory stink of blood and gore remained.

He wondered if she knew how staggering she was, standing there amid the glitter in her scarred jacket and smeared denim, her short, untidy hair haloing a pale face, accenting dark, tired eyes, her long, rangy body held straight through what he knew was an act of sheer will.

She was, he thought, courage in human form.

But when they closed the door on the last guest, she shook her head. “Summerset’s right. I’m just not equipped for this Roarke’s wife stuff.”

“You are my wife.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. I let you down. I should’ve—” She stopped talking because his mouth was on hers, and it was warm, possessive, and untied the knots in the back of her neck. Without realizing she’d moved, Eve wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better. This is my business.” He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. “My job. You have yours.”

“It was a big deal though. Some whatzit merger.”

“Scottoline merger—more of a buyout, really, and it should be finalized by the middle of next week. Even without your delightful presence at the dinner table. Still, you might have called. I worried.”

“I forgot. I can’t always remember. I’m not used to this.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and paced down the wide hall and back. “I’m not used to this. Every time I think I am, I’m not. Then I come walking in here with all the megarich, looking like a street junkie.”

“On the contrary, you look like a cop. I believe several of our guests were quite impressed with the glimpse of your weapon under your jacket, and the trace of blood on your jeans. It’s not yours, I take it.”

“No.” Suddenly she just couldn’t stand up any longer. She turned to the steps, climbed two and sat. Because it was Roarke, she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.

He sat beside her, draped an arm over her shoulders. “It was bad.”

“Almost always you can say you’ve seen as bad, even worse. It’s most always true. I can’t say that this time.” Her stomach still clenched and rolled. “I’ve never seen worse.”

He knew what she lived with, had seen a great deal of it himself. “Do you want to tell me?”

“No, Christ no, I don’t want to think about it for a few hours. I don’t want to think about anything.”

“I can help you there.”

For the first time in hours she smiled. “I bet you can.”

“Let’s start this way.” He rose and plucked her off the step up into his arms.

“You don’t have to carry me. I’m okay.”

He flashed a grin at her as he started up. “Maybe it makes me feel manly.”

“In that case . . .” She wound her arms around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder. It felt good. Very good. “The least I can do after standing you up tonight is make you feel manly.”

“The very least,” he agreed.

The sky window above the bed was still dark when she woke. And she woke in a sweat. The images in the dream were muddled and blurred. All too glad to have escaped them, Eve didn’t try to clarify the dream.

Because she was alone in the big bed, she allowed herself one quick, hard shudder. “Lights,” she ordered. “On low.” Then sighed when the dark edged away. She gave herself a moment to settle before checking the time.

Five-fifteen A.M. Terrific, she thought, knowing there would be no return to sleep now. Not without Roarke there to help beat the nightmares back. She wondered if she’d ever stop being embarrassed that she had come to depend on him for such things. A year before she hadn’t even known he existed. Now he was as much a part of her life as her own hands. Her own heart.

She climbed out of bed, grabbing one of the silk robes Roarke was constantly buying her. Wrapping herself in it, she turned to the wall panel, engaged the search.

“Where is Roarke?”

Roarke is in the lower level pool area.

A swim, Eve thought, wasn’t a bad idea. A workout first, she decided, to smooth away the kinks and the dregs of a bad dream.

With the objective of avoiding Summerset, she took the elevator rather than the stairs. The man was everywhere, sliding out of shadows, always ready with a scowl or a sniff. A continuation of their confrontation the night before wasn’t the way she wanted to start her day.

Roarke’s gym was fully equipped, giving her all the options. She could spar with a droid, pump up with free weights, or just lay back and let machines do the work. She stripped out of the robe and tugged herself into a snug black unitard. She wanted a run, a long one, and after tying on thin air soles she programmed the video track.

The beach, she decided. It was the one place other than the city she was completely at home. All the rural landscapes and desert vistas, the off-planet sites the unit offered made her vaguely uncomfortable.

She started out at a light trot, the blue waves crashing beside her, the glint of the sun just peeking over the horizon. Gulls wheeled and screamed. She drew in the moist salt air of the tropics, and as her muscles began to warm and limber increased her pace.

She hit her stride at the first mile, and her mind emptied.

She’d been to this beach several times since she’d met Roarke—in reality and holographically. Before that the biggest body of water she’d seen had been the Hudson River.

Lives changed, she mused. And so did reality.

At mile four when her muscles were just beginning to sing, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Roarke, his hair still damp from his swim, moved into place beside her, matching his pace to hers.

“Running to or away?” he asked.

“Just running.”

“You’re up early, Lieutenant.”

“I’ve got a full day.”

He lifted a brow when she increased her pace. His wife had a healthy competitive streak, he mused, and easily matched her stride. “I thought you were off.”

“I was.” She slowed, stopped, then bent at the waist to stretch out. “Now I’m not.” She lifted her head until her eyes met his. It wasn’t only her life now, she remembered, or her reality. It was theirs. “I guess you had plans.”

“Nothing that can’t be adjusted.” The weekend in Martinique he’d hoped to surprise her with could wait. “My calendar’s clear for the next forty-eight hours, if you want to bounce anything off me.”

She heaved out a breath. This was another change in her life, this sharing of her work. “Maybe. I want to take a swim.”

“I’ll join you.”

“I thought you just had one.”

“I can have two.” He skimmed a thumb over the dent in her chin. The exercise had brought color to her cheeks and a light sheen to her skin. “It’s not illegal.” He took her hand to lead her out of the gym and into the flower-scented air of the pool room.

Palms and flowing vines grew lushly, surrounding a lagoon-styled pool sided with smooth stones and tumbling waterfalls.

“I’ve got to get a suit.”

He only smiled and tugged the straps from her arms. “Why?” His graceful hands skimmed her breasts as he freed them and made her brows raise.

“What kind of water sport did you have in mind?”

“Whatever works.” He cupped her face in his hands, bent to kiss her. “I love you, Eve.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes and rested her brow against his. “It’s so weird.”

Naked, she turned and dove into the dark water. She stayed under, skimming along the bottom. Her lips curved when the water turned a pale blue. The man knew her moods before she did, she thought. She did twenty laps before rolling lazily to her back. When she reached out, his fingers linked with hers.

“I’m pretty relaxed.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, so relaxed I probably couldn’t fight off some pervert who wanted to take advantage of me.”

“Well then.” He snagged her waist, turning her until they were face to face.

“Well then.” She wrapped her legs around him and let him keep her afloat.

When their mouths met, even the whisper of tension fled. She felt loose and fluid and quietly needy. Sliding her fingers up, she combed them through his hair—thick, wet silk. His body was firm and cool against hers and fit in a way she’d nearly stopped questioning. She all but purred as his hands skimmed over her, just hinting of possession.

Then she was underwater, tangled with him in that pale blue world. When his mouth closed over her breast, she shivered with the thrill of sensation, from the shock of being unable to gasp in air. And his fingers were on her, in her, shooting her to a staggering climax that had her clawing toward the surface.

She gulped in air, disoriented, delirious, then felt it whoosh out of her lungs again when his clever mouth replaced his fingers.

The assault on her system was precisely what she’d wanted. Her helplessness. His greed. That he would know it, understand it, and give was a mystery she would never solve.

Her head dipped back to lay limply on the smooth side of the pool as she simply wallowed in the pleasure he offered her.

Slowly, slyly, his mouth roamed up, over her belly, her torso, her breasts, to linger at her throat where her pulse beat thick and fast.

“You’ve got amazing breath control,” she managed, then trembled as gradually, inch by inch, he slipped inside her. “Oh God.”

He watched her face, saw the heat flush her cheeks, the flickers of pleasure move over it. Her hair was slicked back, leaving it unframed. And that stubborn, often too serious mouth, trembled for him. Cupping her hips, he lifted her, moved in deep, deeper to make her moan.

He rubbed his lips over hers, nibbled at them while he began to move with an exquisite control that tortured them both. “Go over, Eve.”

He watched those shrewd cop’s eyes go blind and blurry, heard her breath catch then release on something like a sob. Even as his blood burned, he kept his movements achingly slow. Drawing it out, every instant, every inch until that sob became his name.

His own release was long and deep and perfect.

She managed to drag her hands out of the water and grip his shoulders. “Don’t let go of me yet. I’ll sink like a stone.”

He chuckled weakly, pressed his lips to the side of her throat where her pulse still danced. “Same goes. You should get up early more often.”

“We’d kill each other. Miracle we didn’t drown.”

He drew in the scent of her skin and water. “We may yet.”

“Do you think we can make it over to the steps?”

“If you’re not in a hurry.”

They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. “Coffee,” Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.

When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.

“Hungry?”

She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. “Starving. But I want a shower.”

“Upstairs then.”

Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. “Lower the water temp and die,” she warned.

“Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing.”

“You’ve already taken care of that.” She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.

She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.

She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.

“I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night.”

Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. “Am I going to have to apologize every time I’m called away on business that affects our personal plans?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. “No. The thing is I was headed out the door—I hadn’t forgotten—and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn’t track.”

“The NYPSD has pitiful equipment.”

“Not that pitiful,” she muttered. “This guy’s a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it.”

“Now, that’s insulting.”

She had to smirk. “Well, you might get a chance at him. Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn’t put it past him to contact me here.”

Roarke set his fork aside, picked up his coffee, both gestures casual though his entire body had gone to alert. “Personally?”

“Yeah, he wanted me. Hit me with some religious mission crap first. Basically, he’s doing the Lord’s work and the Big Guy wants to play with riddles.” She ran the transmission through for him, watching his eyes narrow, sharpen. Roarke was quick, she reflected as she saw his mouth go grim.

“You checked the Luxury Towers.”

“That’s right, penthouse floor. He’d left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom.”

She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. “It was as bad as I’ve ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He’d been pumped up with illegals—enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He’d been disemboweled.”

“Christ Jesus.” Roarke blew out a breath. “An ancient punishment for political or religious crimes. A slow and hideous death.”

“And a goddamn messy one,” she put in. “His feet had been severed—one hand gone at the wrist. He was still alive when his right eye was cut out. That was the only piece of him we didn’t recover at the scene.”

“Lovely.” Though he considered his stomach a strong one, Roarke lost his taste for breakfast. Rising, he went to the closet. “An eye for an eye.”

“That’s a revenge thing, right? From some play.”

“The Bible, darling. The lord of all plays.” He chose casual pleated trousers from the revolving rack.

“Back to God again. Okay, the game’s revenge. Maybe it’s religious, maybe it’s just personal. We may zero in on motive when we finish running the victim. I’ve got a media blackout at least until I contact his family.”

Roarke hitched up the trousers, reached for a simple white linen shirt. “Children?”

“Yeah, three.”

“You have a miserable job, Lieutenant.”

“That’s why I love it.” But she rubbed her hands over her face. “His wife and kids are in Ireland, we think. I need to track them down today.”

“In Ireland?”

“Hmm. Yeah, seems the victim was one of your former countrymen. I don’t suppose you knew a Thomas X. Brennen, did you?” Her half smile faded when she saw Roarke’s eyes go dark and flat. “You did know him. I never figured it.”

“Early forties?” Roarke asked without inflection. “About five-ten, sandy hair?”

“Sounds like. He was into communications and entertainment.”

“Tommy Brennen.” With the shirt still in his hand, Roarke sat on the arm of a chair. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me that he was a friend.”

“He wasn’t.” Roarke shook his head to clear away the memories. “At least not in more than a decade. I knew him in Dublin. He was running computer scams while I was grifting. We crossed paths a few times, did a little business, drank a few pints. About twelve years ago, Tommy hooked up with a young woman of good family. Lace curtain Irish. He fell hard and decided to go straight. All the way straight,” Roarke added with a crooked grin. “And he severed ties with the less . . . desirable elements of his youth. I knew he had a base here in New York, but we stayed out of each other’s way. I believe his wife knows nothing of his past endeavors.”

Eve sat on the arm opposite him. “It might have been one of the past endeavors, and one of those less desirable elements, that’s responsible for what happened to him. Roarke, I’m going to be digging, and when I dig how much of you am I going to uncover?”

It was a worry, he supposed. A mild one to him. But, he knew, it would never be mild to her. “I cover my tracks, Lieutenant. And, as I said, we weren’t mates. I haven’t had any contact with him at all in years. But I remember him. He had a fine tenor voice,” Roarke murmured. “A good laugh, a good mind, and a longing for family. He was fast with his fists, but never went looking for trouble that I recall.”

“Looking or not, he found it. Do you know where his family is?”

He shook his head as he rose. “But I can get that information for you quickly enough.”

“I’d appreciate it.” She rose as he shrugged into the casual elegant shirt. “Roarke, I’m sorry, for whatever he was to you.”

“A touchstone perhaps. A song in a smoky pub on a rainy night. I’m sorry, too. I’ll be in my office. Give me ten minutes.”

“Sure.”

Eve took her time dressing. She had a feeling Roarke would need more than ten minutes. Not to access the data she’d asked for. With his equipment and his skill he’d have it in half that time. But she thought he needed a few moments alone to deal with the loss of that song in a smoky pub.

She’d never lost anyone even remotely close to her. Maybe, Eve realized, because she’d been careful to let only a select few become close enough to matter. Then there had been Roarke, and she’d had no choice. He’d invaded, she’d supposed, subtly, elegantly, inarguably. And now . . . she ran a thumb over the carved gold wedding ring she wore. Now he was vital.

She took the stairs this time, winding her way through the wide halls in the big, beautiful house. She didn’t have to knock on his office door, but did so, waiting until the door slid open in invitation.

The window shields were up to let in the sun. The sky behind the treated glass was murky, hinting that the rain wasn’t quite finished. Roarke manned the antique desk of gleaming wood rather than the slick console. The floors were covered with gorgeous old rugs he’d acquired on his journeys.

Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. She was almost accustomed to the grandeur she now lived in, but she didn’t know what to do with Roarke’s grief, with the self contained quiet sorrow.

“Listen, Roarke—”

“I got you a hard copy.” He nudged a sheet of paper across the desk. “I thought it would be easier. His wife and children are in Dublin at the moment. The children are minors, two boys and a girl. Ages nine, eight, and six.”

Too restless to sit, he rose and turned to stare out at his view of New York—quiet now, the light still dull, the skies almost still. He’d brought up visuals of Brennen’s family—the pretty, bright-eyed woman, the rosy-cheeked children. It had disturbed him more than he’d anticipated.

“Financially they’ll be quite comfortable,” he said almost to himself. “Tommy saw to that. Apparently he’d become a very good husband and father.”

She crossed the room, lifted a hand to touch, then dropped it. Damn it, she was no good at this, she thought. No good at knowing if comfort would be welcomed or rejected. “I don’t know what to do for you,” she said at length.

When he turned, his eyes were brilliantly blue, and fury rode in them along with the grief. “Find who did this to him. I can trust you for that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

A smile touched his lips, curved them. “Lieutenant Dallas, standing for the dead, as always.” He skimmed a hand through her hair, lifting a brow when she caught it.

“You’ll leave this to me, Roarke.”

“Have I said otherwise?”

“It’s what you haven’t said that’s just beginning to get through.” She knew him, knew him well enough to understand he would have his own ways, his own means, and very likely his own agenda. “If you’ve got any ideas about going out on your own, put them to bed now. It’s my case, and I’ll handle it.”

He ran his hands up her arms in a way that made her eyes narrow. “Naturally. But you will keep me apprised? And you know that I’m available for any assistance you might require.”

“I think I can stumble through on my own. And I think it would be best if you took a step back from this one. A long step back.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “No,” he said pleasantly.

“Roarke—”

“Would you prefer I lied to you, Eve?” He picked up the hard copy while she fumed, handed it to her. “Go to work. I’ll make a few calls. I’d think by the end of the day I should have a complete list of Tommy’s associates, professional and personal, his enemies, his friends, his lovers, his financial status, and so forth.” He was leading her across the room as he spoke. “It’ll be easier for me to accumulate the data, and it’ll give you a clear picture.”

She managed to hold her ground before he pushed her out the door. “I can’t stop you from accumulating data. But don’t step out of line, pal. Not one inch.”

“You know how it excites me when you’re strict.”

She struggled back a laugh and nearly managed a glare. “Shut up,” she muttered, and shoved her hands in her pockets and she strode away.

He watched her, waited until she’d disappeared at the stairs. Cautious, he turned to the security monitor and ordered view. The laughter was gone from his eyes as he watched her jog down the steps, snag the jacket Summerset had laid back over the newel post for her.

“You’re forgetting an umbrella,” he murmured, and sighed when she walked into the thin drizzle unprotected.

He hadn’t told her everything. How could he? How could he be certain it was relevant, in any case? He needed more before he risked tangling the woman he loved in the ugliness of his own past, his own sins.

He left his office, heading for the communications room that was both expansive and illegal. Laying his palm on the security screen, he identified himself then entered. Here, the equipment was unregistered and any activity would be undetected by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard. He needed specifics in order to plan his next step, and sitting in the deep U of a sleek black control center, he began.

Invading the system of NYPSD was child’s play for him. He sent a silent apology to his wife as he accessed her files, dipped into the medical examiner’s office.

“Crime scene video on screen one,” Roarke ordered, easing back. “Autopsy report, screen two, primary investigating officer’s report, screen three.”

The horror of what had been done to Brennen swam on screen, made Roarke’s eyes go cold and flat. There was little left of the young man he’d known a lifetime before in Dublin. He read Eve’s clipped and formal report without emotion, studied the complex terms of the preliminary report from the ME.

“Copy to file Brennen, code Roarke, password my voiceprint only. Off screen.”

Turning, he reached for his in-house tele-link. “Summerset, come up please.”

“On my way.”

Roarke rose, moved to the window. The past could come back to haunt, he knew. Most often it remained in some ghostly corner waiting to strike. Had it slipped out to strike Tommy Brennen? he wondered. Or was it just bad luck, bad timing?

The door slid open and Summerset, bony in black, stepped through. “Is there a problem?”

“Thomas Brennen.”

Summerset’s thin lips frowned, then his eyes cleared into what was nearly a smile. “Ah yes, an eager young hacker with a love of rebel songs and Guinness.”

“He’s been murdered.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Here in New York,” Roarke continued. “Eve is primary.” Roarke watched Summerset’s mouth set and flatten. “He was tortured, kept alive for the pain. Disemboweled.”

It took a moment, but Summerset’s already pale face whitened a shade more. “Coincidence.”

“Maybe, hopefully.” Roarke indulged himself by taking a slim cigarette from a japanned case, lighting it. “Whoever did it called my wife personally, wanted her involved.”

“She’s a cop,” Summerset said with a lifetime of disdain in his voice.

“She’s my wife,” Roarke returned, the edge in his voice scalpel sharp. “If it turns out it isn’t coincidence, I’ll tell her everything.”

“You can’t risk that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder—even justifiable murder.”

“That’ll be up to her, won’t it?” Roarke took a long drag, sat on the edge of the console. “I won’t have her working blind, Summerset. I won’t put her in that position. Not for myself, not for you.” The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. “Not for memories. You need to be prepared.”

“It’s not me who’ll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done.”

“And so will Eve,” Roarke said mildly. “Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing.”

Roarke studied Summerset’s stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. “That’s what I was counting on. Let’s get to work then.”

The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn’t matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.

He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.

His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.

He bent, kissed the white marble feet.

For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.

But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.

He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.

He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.

He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.

Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man’s visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.

He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.

He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.

The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their ’links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.

Peabody’s cube was a dimly lighted two-foot square in the far corner. Despite its size and location, it was as ruthlessly organized and tidy as Peabody herself.

“Somebody forget where the toilets are?” Eve asked casually, and Peabody turned from her dented, police issue metal desk.

“Bailey had a sidewalk sleeper in for questioning on a knifing. The sleeper didn’t like being held as a witness and expressed his displeasure by emptying his bladder on Bailey’s shoes. From all reports, said bladder was unusually full.”

“Just another day in paradise. Is the sweeper report in on Brennen yet?”

“I just gave them a nudge. It should be coming through shortly.”

“Then let’s start with the security discs from the Luxury Towers and Brennen’s apartment.”

“There’s a problem there, Lieutenant.”

Eve cocked her head. “You didn’t get them?”

“I got what there was to get.” Peabody picked up a sealed bag containing a single disc. “The Towers’s security, penthouse level, for the twelve-hour period before the discovery of Brennen’s body and the SCAN-EYE in Brennen’s place were disengaged, and empty.”

Eve nodded and took the bag. “I should have figured he wouldn’t be that stupid. Did you download the incoming and outgoing calls from Brennen’s tele-link?”

“Right here.” Peabody handed over another disc, neatly labeled.

“My office. We’ll run them and see what we’ve got. I’m going to give Feeney a call,” Eve continued as they headed out of the bullpen. “We’re going to need the Electronic Detective Division on this.”

“Captain Feeney’s in Mexico, Lieutenant. Vacation?”

Eve stopped, scowled. “Shit, I forgot. He’s got another week, doesn’t he?”

“Just over that. In your lovely cliffside villa. To which your devoted aide has yet to be invited.”

Eve lifted a brow. “You got a yen to see Mexico?”

“I’ve seen Mexico, Dallas, I’ve got a yen to let a hot-blooded caballero have his way with me.”

Snorting, Eve unlocked her office door. “We wrap this case up in good time, Peabody, I’ll see if I can arrange it.” She tossed the discs on her already disordered desk, then shrugged out of her jacket. “We still need someone from EDD. See who they can spare who knows his stuff. I don’t want some second-grade tinkerer.”

Peabody got out her communicator to make the request while Eve settled behind her desk, slipped the disc of Brennen’s communications into her unit.

“Engage,” she ordered after remembering her password. “Playback.”

There was only one call, an outgoing on the day before Brennen was murdered. He’d called his wife, talked to his children. And the simple, intimate domestic chatter of a man and the family he was planning to join made Eve unbearably sad.

“I have to contact the wife,” Eve murmured. “Hell of a way to start the day. Best get it done now before we have a media leak. Give me ten minutes here, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. EDD is sending over a Detective McNab.”

“Fine.” When her door shut and she was alone, Eve took a long breath. And made the call.

When Peabody came back ten minutes later, Eve was drinking coffee while she stood staring out her skinny window. “Eileen Brennen’s coming back to New York, bringing her kids. She insists on seeing him. She didn’t fall apart. Sometimes it’s worse when they don’t crumble, when they hang on. When you can see in their eyes they’re sure somehow you’ve made a mistake.”

She rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging off a weight, then turned. “Let’s see the security disc. We could catch a break.”

Peabody unsealed the disc herself and engaged it. Seconds later both she and Eve were staring at the computer screen.

“What the hell is that?” Eve demanded.

“It’s—I don’t know.” Peabody frowned at the figures moving over the screen. The voices were raised but solemn and in a foreign tongue. At the center was a man in black, robe over robe, with two young boys in white beside him. He held a silver goblet in his hand as he stood before an altar draped with black cloth and white flowers and candles. “A ritual? Is it a play?”

“It’s a funeral,” Eve murmured, studying the closed and gleaming casket beneath the raised platform. “A funeral Mass. I’ve been to one. It’s a Catholic thing, I think. Computer, identify ceremony and language on disc.”

Working . . . Ceremony is Catholic Requiem Mass or Mass for the Dead. Language is Latin. This section depicts offertory chant and ritual in which—

“That’s enough. Where the hell did you get this disc, Peabody?”

“Straight out of the security room at the Luxury Towers, Dallas. It was coded, marked, and labeled.”

“He switched them,” Eve muttered. “The son of a bitch switched discs on us. He’s still playing games. And he’s damn good at it. Computer, stop run, copy disc.” Shoving her hands in her pockets, Eve rocked back on her heels. “He’s having fun with us, Peabody. I’m going to have to hurt him for that. Order a sweep of the security room, and arrange to confiscate all discs for the appropriate time period.”

“All discs?”

“All discs, all floors, all levels. And I want the report from the uniforms who handled the door-to-doors on the Towers.” She pocketed the copy her computer spat out. “And I’m going to see what the hell’s keeping the initial sweeper report.”

She reached for her ’link just as it beeped. “Dallas.”

“You were quick, Lieutenant. I’m impressed.”

Eve only had to blink to have Peabody ordering a transmission trace. Eve smiled thinly at the colors swimming across her screen. This time the music was a chorus of voices in a language she now recognized as Latin. “You did quite a job on Brennen. Looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, I did, believe me, I did. Tommy was quite a singer, you know. He certainly sang for me. Listen.”

All at once the room was full of screams, inhuman, weeping screams that had ice skating up Eve’s spine.

“Beautiful. He begged for his life, then he begged me to end it. I kept him alive for four hours giving him time to relive his past sins.”

“Your style lacks subtlety, pal. And when I nail you, I’ll have enough to keep you from pulling a mentally defective. I’ll get you straight, and I’ll push for a cage on Attica Two. The facilities there make on-planet cages look like country clubs.”

“They caged the Baptist, but he knew the glory of Heaven.”

Eve searched her threadbare memory of Bible stories. “He’s the one who lost his head to a dancing girl, right? You willing to risk yours to a cop?”

“She was a harlot.” He mumbled the words so that Eve had to lean close to hear. “Evil in a beautiful form. So many are. He withstood her, her temptation, and was martyred pure.”

“Do you want to be martyred? To die for what you call your faith? I can help you with that. Just tell me where you are.”

“You challenge me, Lieutenant, in ways I hadn’t expected. A strong-minded woman is one of God’s greatest pleasures. And you’re named for Eve, the mother of mankind. If only your heart was pure, I could admire you.”

“You can save the admiration.”

“Eve was also weak in spirit and caused the loss of Paradise for her children.”

“Yeah, and Adam was a wimp who couldn’t take responsibility. Bible hour’s over. Let’s get on with it.”

“I look forward to meeting you—though it can’t be for a little while yet.”

“Sooner than you think.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. Meanwhile, another riddle. A race this time. The next sinner is still alive, still blissfully unaware of his punishment. By his words, and God’s law, he will be condemned. Heed this. ‘A faithful man will abound with blessings, but he who hastens to be rich will not go unpunished.’ He’s gone unpunished long enough.”

“For what?”

“For a lying tongue. You have twenty-four hours to save a life, if God wills it. Your riddle: He’s fair of face and once lived by his wits. Now those wits are dulled as like poor old Dicey Riley, he’s taken to the sup. He lives where he works and works where he lives, and all the night serves others what he craves most. He traveled across the foam but closes himself in a place that reminds him of home. Unless you find him first, his luck runs out tomorrow morn. Better hurry.”

Eve stared at the screen long after it went blank.

“Sorry, Dallas, no good on the trace. Maybe the e-detective can do something with it when he gets here.”

“Who the hell is Dicey Riley?” Eve muttered. “What does he mean ‘sup’? Like supper? Food maybe. Restaurants. Irish restaurants.”

“I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“Huh?”

“Bad joke,” Peabody offered with a sick smile. “To lighten the mood.”

“Right.” Eve dropped in her chair. “Computer, list name and locations for all Irish restaurants in the city. Hard copy.” She swiveled in her chair. “Contact Tweeser—she was head sweeper on Brennen. Tell her I need something, anything. And have a uniform go over to the Towers and get those security discs. Let’s move.”

“Moving,” Peabody agreed and headed out.

An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper’s report. There was little to nothing to study. “Bastard didn’t leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up.” She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.

She needed to clear her vision.

The Biblical quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.

Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen’s associates, friends.

No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they’d existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.

At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Midtwenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.

He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.

“You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide.”

“And you’d be Dallas.” His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. “I’d be McNab, with EDD.”

She didn’t groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. “You’re one of Feeney’s.”

“Joined his unit six months ago.” He glanced around her dim, cramped office. “You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD.”

He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. “Nothing like a woman in uniform.”

“Peabody, McNab.”

Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. “This is the EDD dress code?”

“It’s Saturday,” McNab said easily. “I got the call at home, thought I’d swing in and see what’s up. And we’re a little loose over at EDD.”

“Obviously.” Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.

“With three of us in there, we’ll be standing in sin. But I’m game.” He shifted enough to let her by, then followed, letting his gaze skim down to judge curves.

Not bad, thought McNab. Not bad at all.

When he lifted his gaze and encountered Eve’s stony stare, he cleared his throat. He knew Eve Dallas’s reputation. She didn’t tolerate bullshit. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve got a homicide, Detective, and I may have another by this time tomorrow. I need a trace on communication. I need a location. I need to find out how the hell this prick is jamming our lines.”

“Then I’m your man. Calls coming in on this unit?” At Eve’s nod, he moved closer. “Mind if I take your chair, see what I can do?”

“Go ahead.” She rose, moved aside for him. “Peabody, I’ve got to get over to the morgue this afternoon. Try to head off Mrs. Brennen, get a statement. We’re going to split the restaurant list between us. We’re looking for someone who works and lives on the premises, someone who emigrated into New York, and someone with a possible connection to Thomas Brennen. I’ve got a list of Brennen’s nearest friends and associates. Narrow it down, and narrow it fast.” She handed Peabody a hard copy.

“Yes, sir.”

“And check close on anyone named Riley—or Dicey.”

McNab stopped the under-the-breath humming that seemed to be the theme song of every electronics man Eve knew. “Dicey Riley?” he said and laughed.

“I miss the joke, McNab?”

“I don’t know. ‘Dicey Riley’ is an Irish pub song.”

“Pub?” Eve’s eyes narrowed. “You Irish, McNab?”

She caught the slight flare of insult flicker over his pretty face. “I’m a Scotsman, Lieutenant. My grandfather was a Highlander.”

“Good for him. What’s the song mean—what’s it about?”

“It’s about a woman who drinks too much.”

“Drinks? Not eats?”

“Drinks,” he confirmed. “The Irish Virus.”

“Shit. Well, half these are pubs anyway,” Eve said as she looked down at her own list. “We’ll run another check on Irish bars in the city.”

“You’ll need a twenty man task force to hit all the Irish pubs in New York,” McNab said easily, then turned back to his work.

“You just worry about the trace,” Eve ordered. “Peabody, run the names and locations for the bars. The uniform back yet with the discs from the Towers?”

“He’s en route.”

“Fine, have the bars broken down geographically. I’ll take the south and west, you take north and east.” Even as Peabody left, Eve turned to McNab. “I need something fast.”

“It’s not going to be fast.” His boyish face was grim with purpose now. “I’ve already gone down a couple of layers. There’s nothing. I’m running a scattershot trace on the last transmission that came through. It takes time, but it’s the best way to trace through a jam.”

“Make it take less time,” she snapped. “And contact me as soon as you break through.”

He rolled his eyes behind her back as she strode out. “Women,” he muttered. “Always wanting a miracle.”

Eve hit a dozen bars as she worked her way down to the medical examiner’s building. She found two bar owners and three crew who lived above or behind the business. As she pulled her unit into a third-level parking space at the ME’s, she called up Peabody.

“Status?”

“I’ve got two possibles so far, and my uniform’s going to smell like smoke and whiskey for the next six months.” Peabody grimaced. “Neither of my possibles claims to have known Thomas Brennen or to have an enemy in the world.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the same line. Keep at it. We’re running out of time.”

Eve took the stairs down, then coded herself into security. She avoided the discreet, flower-laden waiting area and moved straight into the morgue.

The air there was cold, and carried the sly underlayer of death. The doors might have been steel and sealed, but death always found a way to make its presence known.

She’d left Brennen in Autopsy Room B, and since it was unlikely he’d taken himself off anywhere, she approached the security panel, holding up her badge for the scan.

Autopsy in progress, Brennen, Thomas X. Please observe the health and safety rules upon entering. You are cleared, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

The door clicked, then unsealed with a whoosh of chilly air. Eve stepped in to see the trim and dapper form of Dr. Morris, the ME, gracefully removing Brennen’s brain from his open skull.

“Sorry we’re not finished up here, Dallas. We’ve had a flood of check-ins without reservations this morning. People—ha, ha—dying to get in.”

“What can you tell me?”

Morris checked the weight of the brain, set it aside in fluid. His waist-length braid made a curling line down the back of his snowy white lab coat. Under it he wore a skin suit of virulent purple. “He was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man, and had once suffered a broken tibia. It mended well. He enjoyed his last meal about four and a half hours before death. Lunch, I’d say. Beef soup, bread, and coffee. The coffee was drugged.”

“With?”

“A midline soother. Over-the-counter tranq. He’d have felt pretty relaxed, maybe with a slight buzz.” Morris manually logged data into his portable log and spoke to Eve across the white and mutilated remains. “The first injury would have been the severed hand. Even with the soother in his system, that would have caused shock and quick, traumatic blood loss.”

Eve remembered the walls of the apartment, the ghastly sprays of blood. She imagined the severed arteries had spurted and pumped like a fire hose on full.

“Whoever hacked him stopped the blood jet by cauterizing the stump.”

“How?”

“My guess would be a hand torch.” He grimaced. “It was a messy job. See where it’s all blackened and crispy from the stump to the elbow. Say ouch.”

“Ouch,” Eve murmured and hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “What you’re telling me is Brennen basically collapsed after the first attack—which accounts for the little to no sign of struggle in the apartment.”

“He couldn’t have fought off a drunk cockroach. Victim was restrained by his remaining wrist. Drugs administered were a combination of adrenaline and digitalis—that would keep the heart beating, the brain conscious while he was worked over.” Morris blew out a breath. “And he was worked over good. Death didn’t come quick or easy for this Irish rover.”

Morris’s eyes remained mild behind his safety goggles. He gestured with a sealed hand to a small metal tray. “I found that in his stomach along with his lunch.”

Eve frowned down at the tray. The object was about the size of a five-dollar credit. It was glossy white with a bright green image painted on it. On the other side was an oblong shape that met at one end with crossed lines.

“A four-leaf clover,” Morris supplied. “It’s a symbol for good luck. Your murderer has a strong and nasty sense of irony. On the back—that funny shape? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I’ll take it with me.” Eve slipped the token into an evidence bag. “I intend to ask Dr. Mira to consult on this case. We need a profile. She’ll contact you shortly.”

“Always a pleasure to work with Mira, and you, Lieutenant.” The communication band on his wrist buzzed. “Death Palace. Morris.”

“Mrs. Eileen Brennen has arrived and requests to view her husband’s remains.”

“Take her on into my office. I’ll be there shortly.” He turned to Eve. “No use her seeing the poor bastard like this. You want to interview her?”

“Yes.”

“Use my office as long as you need it. Mrs. Brennen can see the body in twenty minutes. He’ll be . . . presentable by then.”

“Thanks.” She headed for the door.

“Dallas.”

“Yeah?”

“Evil is—well, it’s not a term I like to toss around like candy. Kind of embarrassing.” He moved his shoulders. “But the guy who did this . . . it’s the only word I can think of that fits.”

Those words played back in Eve’s head as she faced Eileen Brennen. The woman was trim and tidy. Though her eyes were dry, her face was waxy pale. Her hands didn’t shake, but neither could they be still. She tugged at the gold cross that hung on a thin chain to her waist, tugged at the hem of her skirt, combed fingers through her wavy blond hair.

“I want to see the body you found. I insist on seeing it. It’s my right.”

“You will, Mrs. Brennen. We’re arranging that. If I could have a few minutes of your time first, it would be very helpful.”

“How do I know it’s him? How do I know it’s my Tommy until I see him?”

There was no point in offering hope. “Mrs. Brennen, we’ve identified your husband. Fingerprints, DNA, and the visual ID of the doorman at the Luxury Towers. I’m sorry, there’s no mistake. Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Some water.”

“I don’t want anything. Nothing.” Eileen sat with a little jerk, her hands closing and unclosing. “He was to join us today, in Dublin. Today. He only stayed back in New York this past week to finish up some business. He was coming today, stopping off in London first last night.”

“So you weren’t expecting him until today.”

“No. He didn’t call last night, he was supposed to call from London, but sometimes he gets busy.” She unclasped her purse, shut it again, repeating the movement over and over. “I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think anything of it,” she repeated and fisted her hand over the cross until the rounded points dug into her palm.

“So you didn’t try to contact him?”

“The children and I, we went out to dinner and to an entertainment center. We got home late, and Maize was cross. I put her to bed and went to sleep. I just went to sleep because I was tired and I didn’t even think of Tommy not calling from London.”

Eve let her wind down, then sat across from her in one of Dr. Morris’s soft brown cloth chairs. “Mrs. Brennen, can you tell me about the business your husband stayed in New York to see to?”

“I don’t—I don’t know that much about it. I don’t understand all of that. I’m a professional mother. I have children to raise, three houses to run. We have another home in the country. In the west of Ireland. I don’t understand business. Why should I?” she demanded in a voice that cracked.

“All right. Can you tell me if your husband mentioned anyone who concerned him? Someone who threatened him or disturbed him.”

“Tommy doesn’t have enemies. Everyone likes him. He’s a fair man, a kind-hearted one. You’ve only to ask anyone who knows him.” Her eyes, a pale blue, focused on Eve’s face again, and she leaned forward. “You see, that’s why you must be wrong. You must have made a mistake. No one would hurt Tommy. And the Luxury Towers is very secure. That’s why we chose it for our home in New York. So much crime in the city, and Tommy wanted me and the children safe.”

“You met your husband in Ireland.”

Eileen blinked, distracted. “Yes, more than twelve years ago. In Dublin.”

“Did he still have friends from that time, associates?”

“I . . . he has so many friends. I . . .” She passed a hand over her eyes. “There would always seem to be someone who’d call hello to him if we were out. And sometimes he’d go to a little pub when we were in Dublin. I don’t care much for pubs, so I didn’t often go. But he’d get a yearning now and then and go in for an evening.”

“What was the pub?”

“The name? The Penny Pig, I think it’s called.” Suddenly Eileen gripped Eve’s arm. “I have to see him. I have to.”

“All right. Just give me a moment. I’ll be right back.” Eve stepped outside the office, pulled out her communicator. “Peabody.”

“Lieutenant.”

“The Penny Pig. Any of the pubs on your list by that name?”

“Just a second . . . no, sir. Nothing with Pig at all.”

“Just a thought. Keep at it. I’ll be in touch.” She shifted, contacted Dr. Morris. “She needs to see him.”

“He’s as good as he’s going to get here. I’ll pass you both through.”

Eve opened the office door. “Mrs. Brennen. If you’ll come with me now.”

“You’re taking me to him.”

“Yes.”

As much for support as guidance, Eve took Eileen’s elbow. Their footsteps echoed down the white-tiled corridor. At the door, Eve felt the woman stiffen and brace. Heard her draw in a breath and hold it.

Then they were inside. Morris had done what he could, but there was no disguising the trauma. There was no way to soften death.

Eileen let out the breath in one choked sob. Just one, then she drew it in again and gently pushed Eve’s supporting hand aside.

“It’s my Tommy. This is my husband.” She stepped closer, approaching the white-sheeted figure as if he were sleeping. Eve said nothing when Eileen traced fingertips over her husband’s cheek. “How can I tell our babies, Tommy? What will I tell them?”

She looked over at Eve, and though her eyes swam, she seemed determined to hold onto her tears. “Who could have done such a thing to such a good man?”

“It’s my job to find out. I will do my job, Mrs. Brennen. You can rely on that.”

“Finding out won’t bring Tommy back to me or our children. Finding out’s too late, isn’t it?”

Death, Eve thought, made everything too late. “It’s all I have for you, Mrs. Brennen.”

“I don’t know if it can be enough, Lieutenant Dallas. I don’t know if I can make it be enough.” She bent over, softly kissed her husband’s lips. “I always loved you, Tommy. From the first.”

“Come with me now, Mrs. Brennen.” Eileen didn’t resist as Eve took her arm. “Come outside. Who can I call for you?”

“I—my friend Katherine Hastings. She lives . . . she has a place on Fifth Avenue, a shop. Noticeable Woman.”

“I’ll call. I’ll have her come and meet you here.”

“Thank you. I need . . . someone.”

“Do you want some water now? Coffee?”

“No, just to sit down.” And she all but collapsed into a stiff-backed chair in the waiting area. “Just to get off my feet. I’ll be fine.” She looked up, blue eyes swimming in a white face. “I’ll be all right. I have the children, you see. I have to be all right.”

Eve hesitated, then pulled the evidence bag out of her pocket. “Mrs. Brennen, have you ever seen this before?”

Eileen concentrated on the token as if it were a rare piece of art. “No. That is, of course I’ve seen a shamrock before, but not this little button.”

“Shamrock?”

“Of course, that’s what it is. A shamrock.”

“How about this?” Eve turned the token over.

“A fish.” She closed her eyes now. “A symbol of the Church. Will you call Katherine now, please? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Right away. Just sit and try to rest a minute.”

Eve rushed through the call to Katherine Hastings, offering little explanation. She was skimming her hard copy of the pub list as she did so. She had no Penny Pig, no Four-Leaf Clover, nothing with fish or church. But she had three locations with Shamrock in the name.

She snagged her communicator. “Peabody, concentrate on locations with Shamrock in the name.”

“Shamrock, Lieutenant?”

“It’s a hunch. Just do it.”

Eve walked into the Green Shamrock at three P.M. She’d missed the lunch crowd—if there’d been one—and found the small, dark pub nearly deserted. A couple of sad-looking customers sat huddled over thickly foamed beers at a back table while they played a desultory game of gin. Though she saw no on-site gambling license displayed, she ignored the piles of credits beside the mugs of beer.

A young woman with a white apron and rosy cheeks was whistling as she wiped tables. She smiled at Eve, and when she spoke Eve heard that lovely lilt of Roarke’s native land.

“Good afternoon to you, miss. Can I get you a menu? It’s just sandwiches this time of day, I’m afraid.”

“No, thanks.” There was no one manning the bar, but Eve slid onto a stool before pulling out her badge. She saw the young waitress’s eyes widen.

“I haven’t done anything. I’m legal. I have papers.”

“I’m not with Immigration.” From the hasty relief on the girl’s face, Eve imagined the papers were still wet, and likely fake. “Are there rooms for rent on the premises? Do any of the employees, or the owner, live on-site?”

“Yes, ma’am. There are three rooms. One in the back and two upstairs. I have one upstairs myself. It’s up to code.”

“Who else lives here—what’s your name?”

“I’m Maureen Mulligan.”

“Who else lives on-site, Maureen?”

“Well, Bob McBride did until last month when the boss fired him for laziness. Bob had a hard time lifting a pint, you see, unless it was up to his own lips.” She smiled again and began to scrub at the bar industriously. “And now there’s Shawn Conroy who takes the back room.”

“Would he be back there now?”

“I just looked a bit ago, and he wasn’t about. He should be in here now, half hour ago his shift started.”

“You want to show me his room, Maureen?”

“He’s not in any trouble, is he? Shawn drinks a bit, but he’s a good worker and does his best.”

“I want to make sure he’s not in trouble. You can call your boss, Maureen, and clear showing me in the back.”

Maureen bit her lip, shifted from foot to foot. “Well, then I’d have to say as how Shawn’s not in for his shift, and there’d be hell to pay then, wouldn’t there? I’ll show you the room if you want to see it. Shawn doesn’t do illegals, Lieutenant,” she continued as she led the way through a door beside the laminated bar. “The boss, he’s strong against illegals and sloth. There’s not much more will get you the ax around here, but either of those’ll do it in a wink.”

She unlocked the door with an old-fashioned key from a chain at her waist.

It wasn’t much, just a bunk-style bed, a cheap dresser, and a streaked mirror. But it was surprisingly neat. A quick look in the closet assured Eve that the absent Shawn hadn’t packed up and left.

She walked to the dresser, idly opened a drawer. Shawn had one pair of clean underwear and two mismatched socks. “How long has he been in the U.S.?”

“Shawn, why, two or three years at least, I’m thinking. He talks about going back to Dublin, but—”

“That’s where he’s from?” Eve asked sharply. “He’s from Dublin?”

“Yes, he says he was born and raised there and came to America to make his fortune. Not much of a fortune yet for Shawn,” she continued with a sunny smile. Her gaze shifted to the empty bottle of brew on the nightstand. “That’s probably why. He likes the drink a bit more than it likes him.”

“Yeah.” Eve glanced at the bottle as well, then her gaze sharpened on what sat beside it. Her muscled tensed as she picked up the enameled token. “What’s this, Maureen?”

“I don’t know.” Maureen angled her head and studied the green shamrock on the white background. And on the back, the fish. “A lucky piece, I suppose.”

“Have you seen it before?”

“No. Looks new, doesn’t it? It’s so shiny. Shawn must have just picked it up. Always looking for luck, Shawn is.”

“Yeah.” Eve closed her fist around the token. She was very much afraid luck had run out.

“I need you to think, Maureen. I need you to be calm and clear.”

Huddled in a neatly patched chair in her own little room above the Green Shamrock, Maureen wet her lips. “I’m not going to go to jail or be deported?”

“You’re not in any kind of trouble. I promise you.” Eve edged forward in her chair. “Help me out here, Maureen, help Shawn out, and I’ll pull some strings and get you real papers. You won’t have to worry about Immigration ever again.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to Shawn, truly I don’t. He was never anything but nice to me.” Her eyes darted over to where Peabody stood by the door. “I’m a little nervous, you see. Cops make me a little nervous.”

“Peabody’s a pussycat. Aren’t you, Peabody?”

“Tame as a tabby, Lieutenant.”

“Help us out here now, and think back. When did you last see Shawn?”

“I’m thinking it must have been last evening when I went off my shift. You see, as a rule, Shawn comes on midday like. I’m on from eleven—that’s when we open—until eight. I have two thirty-minute breaks. Shawn he works through till half ten most nights. Then he comes back on at one and works the after-hours—”

She shut up like a clam in seawater.

“Maureen,” Eve began with straining patience. “I’m not worried about the after-hours business. It’s no concern of mine if the bar stays open past its licensing limit.”

“Well, we do a bit of after-hours business now and again.” She began to wring her hands. “I’ll be fired for sure if the boss finds I’ve told a cop such a thing.”

“Not if he doesn’t get any heat from it. Now you saw Shawn last night, before you went off shift at eight.”

“I did, yes. When I finished up, he was behind the bar and he said something like, ‘Maureen, me darling, don’t you be letting that young buck steal any of my kisses.” ’

At Eve’s lifted brow, Maureen flushed. “Oh, he didn’t mean anything by it, Lieutenant. He was just joking like. Shawn, he’s was forty years old or more, and there isn’t anything like that between us. I have a sort of young man. I mean . . .” She fumbled again, looked nervously at the silent Peabody. “He is a man, a young man, and I’m seeing him lately. We’re getting to know each other, and Shawn, he knew I had a date last night, so he was just teasing me.”

“All right, so you saw Shawn when you left at eight. Then—”

“Oh wait!” Maureen threw up her hands. “I saw him again. I’d forgotten. Well, not ‘saw’ so much. I heard him when I got in from seeing Mike—my young man—that is, the young man I’m seeing lately. I heard Shawn talking when I came in, you see.”

She beamed, pleased as a pup who’d done its master’s bidding.

“Who was he talking to?”

“I don’t know. You see, I have to pass his room to get to the steps to come up to mine. It would have been right about midnight, and Shawn would have been on his break before the after-hours shift. The building’s old, you see, so the walls and doors aren’t really thick or soundproofed well. So I heard him and another man talking in Shawn’s room.”

“Did you hear what they said?”

“Not really. I was just passing, but I remember being glad that Shawn sounded happy. He was laughing and he said something about something being a fine idea and he’d be there for certain.”

“Are you sure he was talking to a man?”

Maureen furrowed her brow. “It was more an impression. I didn’t hear the words from the other, just a rumble of voice. But deep, like a man’s. I didn’t hear more than that because I came up here to get ready for bed. But I know it was Shawn talking. It was his laugh. He has a big laugh, does Shawn.”

“Okay, who covers the tables after your shift?”

“Oh, that’s Sinead. She comes on at six and we work the two hours together, then she handles the tables alone until closing. Sinead Duggin, and she lives only a couple blocks over on Eighty-third, I think. And the barkeep who works the busy time with Shawn is a droid. The boss, he only uses the droid for the busy times. They’re costly to maintain.”

“All right, Maureen, have you noticed anyone new coming into the bar over the last week or two, striking up a conversation with Shawn?”

“We get new people in from time to time, and some come back. Some of them talk and some don’t. Most will talk a bit to Shawn because he makes a friendly drink, you see. But I don’t recall anybody in particular.”

“Okay, you can go on back to work. I may have to talk to you again. If you remember anything, anything at all, or anyone, you’ll get in touch with me.”

“I will, yes. But Shawn can’t have done anything really wrong, Lieutenant,” she added as she rose. “He’s not a bad sort, just a bit foolish.”

“Foolish,” Eve mused, turning the token in her fingers as Maureen hurried out. “And unlucky. Let’s get a uniform to stake out the bar just in case we’re wrong and Shawn’s been out all day wheeling a deal or making love to a woman. We’ll go see if Sinead Duggin is any more observant than Maureen.”

“The riddle guy, he said you had until tomorrow morning.”

Eve rose, tucking the token away. “I think we can safely assume he cheats.”

Sinead Duggin lighted a skinny silver cigarette, narrowed hard green eyes, and blew jasmine-scented smoke in Eve’s face. “I don’t like talking to cops.”

“I don’t like talking to assholes,” Eve said mildly, “but I spend half my life doing it. Here or at Cop Central, Sinead. Up to you.”

Sinead shrugged thin shoulders, the movement nudging apart the poppy-strewn robe she wore. Absently she tugged it tight and, turning, padded barefoot into her cramped one-room apartment.

It wasn’t cramped with furniture. There was the Murphy bed, open and unmade, that she’d crawled out of when Eve had battered at the door. Two small chairs, two narrow tables. But every surface, window sills included, was jammed with things.

Obviously, Sinead liked things. Colorful things. Bowls and plates and statues of fuzzy little dogs and cats. The tassels of the two floor lamps were heavy with dust. Scatter rugs were piled like jigsaw puzzles over the floor. Sinead sat cross-legged on the bed, hefted up an enormous glass ashtray that would have made a fine blunt instrument, and yawned hugely.

“So?”

“I’m looking for Shawn Conroy. When did you see him last?”

“Last night. I work nights.” She scratched the instep of her left foot. “I sleep days.”

“Who did he talk to? Did you see him with anyone in particular?”

“Just the usual. People come in looking for a bottle or a glass. Shawn and I oblige them. It’s honest work.”

Eve dumped a week’s worth of clothes off a chair and sat. “Peabody, open those blinds. Let’s get some light in here.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Sinead covered her eyes, hissing when the blinds zipped up and sun shot in. “That stuff’ll kill ya.” Then she let out a long sigh. “Look, cop, Shawn’s a drunk right enough. But if that’s the worst you can say about a body, it’s a fine life after all.”

“He went back to his room on his break. Who went with him?”

“I didn’t see anyone go with him. I was working. I tend my business. Why do you care?” Her eyes cleared slowly as she lowered her hand. “Why do you care?” she repeated. “Something happen to Shawn?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Well, he was right as rain last night, I can tell you that. Cheerful enough. Said something about an outside gig in the offing. Money heading his way.”

“What kind of gig?”

“Private parties, classy stuff. Shawn had a yen for classy stuff.” Sinead tapped out her cigarette then immediately lighted another. “He came back from his break grinning like a cat with a bowl full of canaries. Said he’d put in a word for me if I was interested.”

“A word where, with who?”

“I wasn’t paying attention. Shawn’s always talking big. He was going to be tending bar, serving the finest wines and such at a party for some high flyer.”

“Give me a name, Sinead. He was bragging, full of himself. What name did he drop?”

“Well, hell.” Irritated, but caught up, Sinead rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “An old mate, he said. Someone from Dublin who’d made it big. Roarke,” she said, jabbing with the smoldering cigarette. “Of course. That’s why I thought it was just Shawn bullshitting as usual. What would a man like Roarke be wanting with the likes of Shawn?”

It took all Eve’s control not to leap up from the chair. “He said he’d talked to Roarke?”

“Christ, my mind’s not awake.” She yawned again when an airbus with a faulty exhaust farted outside the window. “No, I think he said . . . yeah, he was saying how Roarke sent his man to do the deal. And the pay was fine. He’d be out of the Shamrock and into the high life before long. Take me along for the ride if I wanted. Shawn and me, we bumped together a few times when the mood struck. Nothing serious.”

“What time did you close up the Shamrock?” As Sinead’s gaze slid away, Eve ground her teeth. “I don’t give a shit about the after-hours license. I need the time you last saw Shawn, and where he went.”

“It was about four this morning, and he said he was going to bed. He was to meet the man himself today and needed to look presentable.”

“He’s playing with me.” Eve slammed into her vehicle, rapped a fist against the wheel. “That’s what the bastard’s doing, playing with me. Throwing Roarke’s name into the mix. Goddamn it.”

She held up a hand before Peabody could speak, then simply stood staring out the window. She knew what she had to do. There was no choice for any of them. She snatched up the car ’link and called home.

“Roarke residence,” Summerset said in smooth tones, then his face went stony. “Lieutenant.”

“Put him on,” she demanded.

“Roarke is engaged on another call at the moment.”

“Put him on, you skinny, frog-faced son of a bitch. Now.”

The screen switched to the pale blue holding mode. Twenty seconds later, Roarke was on. “Eve.” Though his mouth curved, the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Problem?”

“Do you know a Shawn Conroy?” She saw it in his face before he answered, just a flicker in those dark blue eyes.

“I did, years ago in Dublin. Why?”

“Have you had any contact with him here in New York?”

“No. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in about eight years.”

Eve took a calming breath. “Tell me you don’t own a bar called the Green Shamrock.”

“All right. I don’t own a bar called the Green Shamrock.” Now he did smile. “Really, Eve, would I own something quite so clichéd?”

Relief had the weight dropping out of her stomach. “Guess not. Ever been there?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Planning any parties?”

He angled his head. “Not at the moment. Eve, is Shawn dead?”

“I don’t know. I need a list of your New York properties.”

He blinked. “All?”

“Shit.” She pinched her nose, struggling to think clearly. “Start with the private residences, currently, unoccupied.”

“That should be simple enough. Five minutes,” Roarke promised and ended transmission.

“Why private residences?” Peabody wanted to know.

“Because he wants me to find it. He wants me there. He’s moved quickly on this one. Why hassle with a lot of security, cameras, people. You get a private home, empty. You get in, do your work, get out.”

She flipped her ’link to transmit when it beeped.

“Only three unoccupied at the moment,” Roarke told her. “The first is on Greenpeace Park Drive. Number eighty-two. I’ll meet you there.”

“Just stay where you are.”

“I’ll meet you there,” he repeated, and broke transmission.

Eve didn’t bother swearing at him, but swung the car away from the curb. She beat him there by thirty seconds, not quite enough time for her to bypass the locks with her master code.

The long black coat he wore against the bite of wind flowed like water, snapped like a whip. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and despite her scowl kissed her lightly. “I have the code,” he said and plugged it in.

The house was tall and narrow to fit the skinny lot. The ceiling soared. The windows were treated to ensure privacy and block UV rays. At the moment, security bars covered them so that the sunlight shot individual cells onto the polished tile floors.

Eve drew her weapon, gestured Peabody to the left. “You’re with me,” she told Roarke, and started up the curving flow of the staircase. “We’re going to talk about this later.”

“Of course we are.” And he wouldn’t mention, now or then, the illegal nine-millimeter automatic he had in his pocket. Why distress the woman you loved with minor details?

But he kept a hand in that pocket, firm over the grip as he watched her search each room, watched those cool eyes scan corner to corner.

“Why is a place like this empty?” she wanted to know after she’d assured herself it was indeed empty.

“It won’t be next week. We’re renting it, furnished, primarily on the short term to off-planet businesses who don’t care to have their high execs in hotels. We’ll furnish staff, droid or human.”

“Classy.”

“We try.” He smiled at Peabody as they descended the stairs. “All clear, Officer?”

“Nothing here except a couple really lucky spiders.”

“Spiders?” Lifting a brow, Roarke took out his memo and plugged in a note to contact the exterminators.

“Where’s the next place?” Eve asked him.

“It’s only a couple of blocks. I’ll lead you over.”

“You could give me the code and go home.”

He brushed a hand over her hair as they stepped outside. “No, I couldn’t.”

The second home was back off the street, tucked behind now leafless trees. Though houses crowded in on either side, residents had sacrificed their yards for privacy. Trees and shrubs formed a high fence between buildings.

Eve felt her blood begin to stir. Here, she thought, in this quiet, wealthy arena, where the houses were soundproofed and protected from prying eyes, murder would be a private business.

“He’d like this one,” she said under her breath. “This would suit him. Decode it,” she told Roarke, then gestured for Peabody to move to the right.

Eve shifted in front of Roarke, opened the door herself. That was all it took.

She smelled fresh death.

Shawn Conroy’s luck had run out in a gorgeously appointed parlor, just off a small, elegant foyer. His blood stained the wild roses climbing over the antique rug. His arms were stretched wide as if in supplication. His palms had been nailed to the floor.

“Don’t touch anything.” She gripped Roarke’s arm before he could step inside. “You’re not to go in. You’ll contaminate the scene. You give me your word you won’t go in or I’ll lock you outside. Peabody and I have to check the rest of the house.”

“I won’t go in.” He turned his head, and his eyes were hot with emotions she couldn’t name. “He’ll be gone.”

“I know. We check the house anyway. Peabody, take the back. I’ll do upstairs.”

There was nothing and no one, which was what she’d expected. To give herself a moment alone with Roarke, she sent Peabody out to the unit for her field kit.

“He wants it to be personal,” she began.

“It is personal. I grew up with Shawn. I knew his family. His younger brother and I were of an age. We chased some of the same girls on the streets of Dublin, and made them sigh in dark alleys. He was a friend. A lifetime ago, but a friend.”

“I’m sorry. I was too late.”

Roarke only shook his head, and stared hard at the man who’d once been a boy with him. Another lost boy, he thought. Eve turned away, pulled out her communicator. “I have a homicide,” she said.

When her hands and boots were clear sealed, she knelt in blood. She could see that death had come slowly, obscenely to Shawn Conroy. His wrists and throat had been slashed, but not deeply, not so that the blood would gush and jet and take him away quickly. He would have bled out slowly, over hours.

He was sliced, neatly, almost surgically from breastbone to crotch, again so that the pain would be hideous, and release would be slow. His right eye was gone. So was his tongue.

Her gauge told her he’d been dead less than two hours.

She had no doubt he’d died struggling to scream.

Eve stood back as the stills and videos of the body and scene were taken. Turning, she picked up the trousers that had been tossed aside. They’d been sliced off him, she noted, but the wallet remained in the back pocket.

“Victim is identified as Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, age forty-one, residence 783 West Seventy-ninth. Contents of wallet are victim’s green card and work permit, twelve dollars in credits, three photographs.”

She checked the other pocket, found key cards, loose credits in the amount of three dollars and a quarter, a slip of torn paper with the address of the house where he’d died. And an enameled token with a bright green shamrock on one side and a line sketch of a fish on the other.

“Lieutenant?” The field team medic approached. “Are you finished with the body?”

“Yeah, bag him. Tell Dr. Morris I need his personal attention on this one.” She slipped the wallet and the pocket contents into an evidence bag as she glanced over at Roarke. He’d said nothing, his face revealed nothing, not even to her.

Automatically, she reached for the solvent to remove the blood and sealant from her hands, then walked to him.

“Have you ever seen one of these before?”

He looked down into the bag that held what Shawn had carried with him, saw the token. “No.”

She took one last scan of the scene—the obscenity in the midst of grandeur. Eyes narrowed, she cocked her head and stared thoughtfully at the small, elegant statue on a pedestal with a vase of pastel silk flowers.

A woman, she mused, carved out of white stone and wearing a long gown and veil. Not a bridal suit, but something else. Because it seemed both out of place and vaguely familiar she pointed. “What is that—the little statue there?”

“What?” Distracted, Roarke glanced over. Puzzled, he stepped around a field tech and might have picked it up if Eve hadn’t snagged his hand. “The BVM. Odd.”

“The what?”

His laugh was short and far from humorous. “Sorry. Catholic shorthand. The Blessed Virgin Mary.”

Surprised, she frowned at him. “Are you Catholic?” And shouldn’t she have known something like that?

“In another life,” he said absently. “Never made it to altar boy. It doesn’t belong here,” he added. “My decorating firm isn’t in the habit of adding religious statues to the rental units.”

He studied the lovely and serene face, beautifully carved in white marble. “He put it there, turned it just so.”

He could see by the cool look in Eve’s eyes that she’d already come to the same conclusion. “His audience,” she agreed. “So, what was he, like showing off for her?”

Roarke might not have thought of himself as Catholic or anything else for too many years to count, but it sickened him. “He wanted her to bless his work, I’d say. It comes to the same thing more or less.”

Eve was already pulling out an evidence bag. “I think I’ve seen another just like this—at Brennen’s. On the wife’s dresser, facing the bed. It didn’t seem out of place there, so I didn’t really notice. There were those bead things you pray with, holos of the kids, a statue like this, silver-backed hairbrush, comb, a blue glass perfume bottle.”

“But you didn’t really notice,” Roarke murmured. Some cops, he mused, missed nothing.

“Just that it was there. Not that it shouldn’t have been. Heavy,” she commented as she slipped the statue into the bag. “Looks expensive.” She frowned at the markings on the base. “What’s this, Italian?”

“Mmm. Made in Rome.”

“Maybe we can run it.”

Roarke shook his head. “You’re going to find that thousands of these were sold in the last year alone. The shops near the Vatican do a bustling business on such things. I have interests in a few myself.”

“We’ll run it anyway.” Taking his arm, she led him outside. It wouldn’t help for him to watch the body bagged and readied for transport. “There’s nothing for you to do here. I have to go in, file the report, do some work. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

“I want to talk to his family.”

“I can’t let you do that. Not yet. Not yet,” she repeated when his eyes went narrow and cold. “Give me a few hours. Roarke . . .” Helplessly she fell back on the standard line. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He surprised her by grabbing her close, pressing his face into her hair and just holding on. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands over his back, patted his rigid shoulders.

“For the first time since I met you,” he murmured so she could barely hear, “I wish you weren’t a cop.”

Then he let her go and walked away.

She stood out in the freshening wind, smelled hints of the winter to come, and bore the miserable weight of guilt and inadequacy.

Roarke was closed in his office when she arrived home. Only the cat greeted her. Galahad twined affectionately between her legs as she shrugged out of her jacket, hitched her bag more securely on her shoulder.

It was just as well she was alone, Eve decided. She still had work. Since she was obviously pathetic at comforting her husband, she’d be a cop. There, at least, she knew her moves.

Galahad came with her, bounding up the steps despite his girth as she headed for the suite of rooms where she often worked and sometimes slept when Roarke was away from home.

She got coffee from the AutoChef, and as much because Galahad looked so hopeful as for her own appetite, ordered up a tuna sandwich. She split it with the cat, who fell on it as if he hadn’t eaten in a month, then carried her own to her desk.

She studied the door that connected her office with Roarke’s. She had only to knock, she knew. Instead she sat behind her own desk.

She hadn’t saved his friend. Hadn’t been fast enough or smart enough to prevent death. Nor would she be able to keep Roarke out of the investigation. There would be questions she would have to ask, statements she would have to take.

And the media would know by morning. There was no way to block them out now. She’d already decided to call Nadine Furst, her contact at Channel 75. With Nadine she would get fair coverage. Though Nadine was annoyingly persistent, she was without doubt accurate.

Eve looked at her ’link. She’d arranged for McNab to program her office ’link to transfer transmissions to her home unit for the night. She wanted the bastard to call.

How long would he wait? And when would he be ready to play the next round?

She drank coffee, ordered her mind to clear. Go back to the beginning, she told herself. Replay first round.

She shoved a copy of the initial contact call into her machine, listened to it twice. She had his rhythm, she thought, his tone, his mood. He was arrogant, vain, smart, yes, he was smart and skilled. He was on a holy mission. But conceit was his weak point. Conceit, she mused, and his skewed faith.

She’d need to exploit it.

Revenge, he’d said. An eye for an eye. Revenge was always personal. Both men who were dead had a connection to Roarke. So, logically, did their killer. An old vendetta, perhaps.

Yes, she and Roarke had quite a bit to discuss. He could be a target. The thought of that turned her blood cold, scattered her heartbeat, froze her brain.

She shoved it aside. She couldn’t afford to think like a wife, like a lover. More than ever, she needed to be pure cop.

She gave Galahad most of the second half of the sandwich when he came begging, then took out the copies of the security disc for the Luxury Towers.

Step by step, she ordered herself. Every disc, every area covered, no matter how long it took. In the morning she would have Roarke view them as well. He might recognize someone.

She knocked her coffee cup over when she did.

“Stop,” she ordered. “Replay from zero-zero-five-six. Jesus Christ. Freeze, enhance section fifteen to twenty-two by thirty percent, shift to slow motion.”

She stared as the figure in the trim black suit and flowing overcoat enlarged, as he walked across the sumptuous lobby of the apartment complex. Checked the expensive timepiece on his wrist. Smoothed his hair.

And she watched Summerset step into the elevator and head up.

“Freeze screen,” she snapped.

The time at the bottom read twelve P.M., the afternoon on Thomas X. Brennen’s murder.

She ran the lobby disc through, fast-forwarding through hour after hour. But she never saw him come back out.

She didn’t bother to knock, but simply shoved open his door. Her blood was hot, her mind cold.

Roarke could clearly see both temperatures in her eyes. Deliberately and without haste, he flipped his computer manually to hold, closing off his work.

“You’re overdoing again,” he said easily, remaining seated as she stalked—a single posse closing in on her man—to his desk. “Fatigue always steals the color from your face. I don’t like seeing you pale.”

“I don’t feel pale.” She wasn’t sure what she felt. All she could be certain of was that the man she loved, a man she’d taught herself to trust, knew something. And he wasn’t telling her. “You said you hadn’t had any contact with Brennen or Conroy. Any contact, Roarke? Not even through a liaison?”

He angled his head. This wasn’t the track he’d expected. “No, I haven’t. Tommy because he preferred to sever ties, and Shawn because . . .” He looked down at his hands, spread his fingers, closed them. “I didn’t bother to keep in touch. I’m sorry for that.”

“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice sharp and keen. “Look me in the face, damn it.” He did, rising now so their gazes were nearly level. “I believe you.” She whirled away from him as she said it. “And I don’t know if it’s because it’s the truth, or because I need it to be.”

He felt the nick of her distrust at the edge of his heart. “I can’t help you with that. Would you prefer to do this in Interview?”

“I’d prefer not to do it at all. And don’t climb on your golden horse with me, Roarke. Don’t you even start.”

He opened the japanned box on his desk, carefully selected a cigarette. “That would be ‘high horse,’ Lieutenant.”

She clenched her fists, prayed for control, and turned back. “What was Summerset doing at the Luxury Towers on the day of Thomas Brennen’s murder?”

For perhaps the first time since she’d met him, she saw Roarke completely staggered. The hand that had just flicked on a silver lighter froze in midair. His just beginning to be annoyed blue eyes went blank. He shook his head once, as if to clear it, then carefully set down both the lighter and the unlit cigarette.

“What?” was all he managed.

“You didn’t know.” Her limbs went limp with it. It wasn’t always possible to read him, she knew. He was too controlled, too clever, too skilled. But there was no mistaking the simple shock on his face. “You weren’t prepared for that. You had no idea at all.” She took a step closer. “What were you prepared for? What did you expect me to ask you?”

“Let’s just stick with the initial question.” Outwardly his recovery was smooth and quick. His stomach muscles, though, were tightening into oily knots. “You believe Summerset visited Tommy on the day of the murder. That’s just not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because he would have told me.”

“He tells you everything, does he?” She jammed her hands in her pockets, took a fast, impatient turn around the room. “How well did he know Brennen?”

“Not well at all. Why do you think he was there that day?”

“Because I have the security discs.” She stood still now, facing him with the desk between. “I have Summerset in the lobby of the Luxury Towers at noon. I have him getting into an elevator. I don’t have him coming back out. The ME puts Brennen’s time of death at four-fifty P.M. But the initial injury, the amputation of the hand, is clocked at between twelve-fifteen and twelve-thirty P.M.”

Because he needed something to do with his hands, Roarke walked over, poured a brandy. He stood for a moment, swirling it. “He may irritate you, Eve. You may find him . . . unpleasant.” He only arched his brows when Eve snorted. “But you can’t seriously believe Summerset is capable of murder, of spending a number of hours torturing another human being.” Roarke lifted the snifter, sipped. “I can tell you, without a single doubt, that he isn’t capable of it, and never has been.”

She wouldn’t be swayed by sentiment. “Then where was your man, Roarke, from noon to five P.M. on the date in question?”

“You’d do better to ask him.” He reached up, pressed a button on a monitor without glancing at it. “Summerset, would you come up to my office, please? My wife has a question for you.”

“Very well.”

“I’ve known the man since I was a boy,” Roarke said to Eve. “I’ve told you most of it, trusted you with that. Now I’m trusting you with him.”

She felt a fist squeeze around her heart. “I can’t let this be personal. You can’t ask that of me.”

“You can’t let it be anything else. Because that’s exactly what it is. Personal,” he continued, walking to her. “Intimate.” With fingertips only, he skimmed her cheek. “Mine.”

He dropped his hand as the door opened.

Summerset stepped inside. His silver hair was perfectly groomed, his black suit ruthlessly pressed, his shoes shone with a mirror gleam.

“Lieutenant,” he said, as if the word was ever so slightly distasteful to his palette. “Can I help you?”

“Why were you at the Luxury Towers yesterday at noon?”

He stared at her, through her, and his mouth thinned to a line sharp as a blade. “That is certainly none of your business.”

“Wrong, it’s exactly my business. Why did you go see Thomas Brennen?”

“Thomas Brennen? I haven’t seen Thomas Brennen since we left Ireland.”

“Then what were you doing at the Luxury Towers?”

“I fail to see what one has to do with the other. My free time is . . .” He trailed off, and his eyes darted to Roarke, went wide. “Is that where—Tommy lived at the Luxury Towers?”

“You’re talking to me.” Eve stepped between them so that Summerset focused on her face. “I’ll ask you again, what were you doing at the Luxury Towers yesterday at noon?”

“I have an acquaintance who lives there. We had an engagement, for lunch and a matinee.”

“All right.” Relieved, Eve pulled out her recorder. “Give me her name.”

“Audrey, Audrey Morrell.”

“Apartment number?”

“Twelve eighteen.”

“And Ms. Morrell will verify that you met at noon and spent the day together?”

His already pale face was slowly going whiter. “No.”

“No?” Eve looked up, and said nothing when Roarke brought Summerset a glass of brandy.

“Audrey—Ms. Morrell wasn’t in when I arrived. I waited for a time, then realized she’d . . . Something must have come up.”

“How long did you wait?”

“Thirty or forty minutes.” Some color seeped back into his cheeks now, of the embarrassed sort. “Then I left.”

“By the lobby exit.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t have you on the security discs coming out. Maybe you left by another exit.”

“I certainly did not.”

Eve bit her tongue. She’d tossed him a rope, she thought, and he hadn’t grabbed for it. “Fine, you stick to that. What did you do then?”

“I decided against the matinee. I went to the park.”

“The park. Great.” She leaned back on Roarke’s desk. “What park?”

“Central Park. There was an outdoor art exhibit. I browsed for a time.”

“It was raining.”

“There were inclement weather domes.”

“How did you get from the apartment complex to the park? What kind of transpo?”

“I walked.”

Her head began to throb. “In the rain?”

“Yes.” He said it stiffly and sipped his brandy.

“Did you speak to anyone, meet someone you know?”

“No.”

“Shit.” She sighed it, then rubbed absently at her temple. “Where were you at midnight last night?”

“Eve—”

She cut Roarke off with a look. “This is what I do. What I have to do. Were you at the Green Shamrock last night at midnight?”

“I was in bed with a book.”

“What was your relationship with Shawn Conroy?”

Summerset set the brandy down, stared at Roarke over Eve’s shoulder. “Shawn Conroy was a boy in Dublin years ago. He’s dead, then?”

“Someone claiming to represent Roarke lured him to one of Roarke’s rental units, nailed him to the floor, and opened up pieces of him. Let him bleed to death.” There was shock on his face, she noted. Good, she wanted him to be shocked. “And you’re going to have to give me a solid alibi, something I can confirm, or I’m going to have to take you in for a formal interview.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Find one,” she suggested, “before eight A.M. tomorrow. That’s when I want you at Cop Central.”

His eyes were cold and bitter when they met Eve’s. “You’ll enjoy interrogating me, won’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Hauling you in on suspicion of a couple of torture murders is just the chance I’ve been waiting for. The fact that the media will be screaming the news of your connection to Roarke by midday is only a minor inconvenience.” Disgusted, she stalked toward the door that connected her office with Roarke’s.

“Eve.” Roarke’s voice was quiet. “I need to speak with you.”

“Not now” was all she said as she closed the door between them. Roarke heard the bad-tempered snick of locks engaging.

“She’s already decided I’m guilty.” Summerset drank brandy now, deeply.

“No.” While regret warred with irritation, Roarke studied the panel that closed him off from his wife. “She’s decided she has no choice but to gather the facts.” His gaze shifted to Summerset’s, held it. “She needs to know all of them.”

“That would only worsen the situation.”

“She’s entitled to know.”

Summerset set the snifter down, and his voice was as stiff as his spine. “I see where your loyalties lie, Roarke.”

“Do you?” Roarke murmured as Summerset left him alone. “Do you really?”

Eve slept in her office suite, and slept poorly. She didn’t care that her deliberate avoidance of Roarke was petty. She needed the distance. Well before eight she was at Cop Central. After toying with a bagel the consistency of cardboard and coffee that bore too close a relationship with raw sewage, she shot off a transmission to Peabody with orders to report to Interview Room C.

Prompt as a palace guard, Peabody was already in the small tiled and mirror-walled room checking the recording equipment when Eve came in. “We’ve got a suspect?”

“Yeah, we’ve got one.” Eve filled a pitcher from the water distiller herself. “Let’s try to keep a cork in it until the interview’s wrapped.”

“Sure, but who . . .” Peabody trailed off when a uniform brought Summerset and Roarke to the door. Her eyes darted to Eve’s, rounded. “Oh.”

“Officer.” Eve nodded to the uniform. “You’re dismissed. Roarke, you can wait outside, or in my office.”

“Summerset is entitled to representation.”

“You’re not a lawyer.”

“His representative isn’t required to be.”

She had to consciously unclench her jaw. “You’re making this worse.”

“Perhaps.” He sat, folding his hands on the scarred table, an elegant presence in an unfriendly room.

Eve turned to Summerset. “You want a lawyer,” she said, spacing her words carefully. “Not a friend.”

“I dislike lawyers. Nearly as much as I dislike cops.” He sat as well, his bony fingers hitching the knees of his trousers to preserve the knife-edge pleats.

Eve thrust her hands into her pockets before she could pull at her hair. “Secure the door, Peabody. Recorder, engage.” Taking a deep breath, she began. “Interview with Summerset—Please state your full name for the record.”

“Lawrence Charles Summerset.”

“Interview with Summerset, Lawrence Charles re case number 44591-H, Thomas X. Brennen and case number 44599-H, Shawn Conroy. Homicides. The date is November seventeen, twenty fifty-eight, time is oh eight hundred point three hours. Present are subject; his chosen representative, Roarke; Peabody, Officer Delia; and Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, conducting interview. Subject has come into Interview voluntarily.”

Still standing, she recited the revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations, Summerset?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you waive legal representation at this time?”

“That’s correct.”

“What was your connection with Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy?”

Summerset blinked once, surprised she’d shot straight to the heart. “I knew them, casually, when I lived in Dublin.”

“When was that?”

“Over a dozen years ago.”

“And when was the last time you saw or spoke with Brennen?”

“I couldn’t say precisely, but at least a dozen years ago.”

“Yet you were in the Luxury Towers only days ago, the day of Brennen’s murder.”

“Coincidence,” Summerset stated with a quick and belligerent lift of his shoulder. “I had no knowledge that he resided there.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

“Tell me again. For the record.”

He hissed out a breath, poured water from pitcher to glass with a steady hand. In flat tones he repeated everything he’d told Eve the night before.

“Will Ms. Morrell verify your appointment with her?”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Maybe you can explain to me why the security cameras caught you in the lobby, walking to the elevators, getting in, and yet there is no visual record of you exiting the building by that route at the time you claim to have left. Or, for that matter, any other time that day.”

“I can’t explain it.” He folded his perfectly manicured hands again and stared her down. “Perhaps you didn’t look carefully enough.”

Eve had reviewed the tape six times through the night. Now, she pulled up a chair and sat. “How often have you visited the Luxury Towers?”

“It was my first visit there.”

“Your first,” she said with a nod. “You’ve had no occasion to visit Brennen there before?”

“I had no occasion to visit Brennen there at any time, as I was unaware he lived there.”

He answered well, she thought, carefully, like a man who’d skimmed his way through Interview before. She spared a glance at Roarke, who sat silently. Summerset’s official record would be clear as a baby’s, she imagined. Roarke would have seen to it.

“Why would you leave by an unsecured exit on the day of his death?”

“I did not leave by an unsecured exit. I left the way I came in.”

“The record shows otherwise. It clearly shows you coming in. There is no record of you exiting the elevator on the level where you claim Ms. Morrell lives.”

Summerset waved one of his thin hands. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Peabody, please engage and display evidence disc one-BH, section twelve for subject’s examination.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody slipped the disc into a Play slot. The monitor in the wall flickered on.

“Note the time display at the bottom right of the recording,” Eve continued as she watched Summerset walk in and through the attractive lobby of the Luxury Tower. “Stop disc,” she ordered when the elevator doors shut behind him. “Continue play, section twenty-two. Note time display,” she repeated, “and the security label that identifies this area as the twelfth floor of the Luxury Towers. That is the floor in question?”

“Yes.” Summerset’s brows drew together as he watched the recording. The elevator doors did not open, he did not walk out. A cool line of sweat dribbled down his spine as time passed. “You’ve doctored the disc. You tampered with it to implicate me.”

Insulting son of a bitch. “Oh, sure. Peabody’ll tell you I spend half my time on a case screwing with the evidence to suit myself.” Temper just beginning to brew, Eve rose again, leaned on the table. “Trouble with that theory, pal, is this is the original, straight out of the security room. I worked with a copy. I’ve never had my hands on the original. Peabody collected the security discs.”

“She’s a cop.” Summerset sneered it. “She’d do what you ordered her to do.”

“So now it’s a conspiracy. Peabody, hear that? You and I tampered with the evidence just to make Summerset’s life tough for him.”

“You’d like nothing better than to put me in a cage.”

“At this particular moment, you couldn’t be more right.” She turned away then, until she was certain her rapidly rising temper wouldn’t rule her head. “Peabody, disengage disc. You knew Thomas Brennen in Dublin. What was your relationship?”

“He was simply one of many young men and women I knew.”

“And Shawn Conroy?”

“Again, he was one of many young people I knew in Dublin.”

“When was the last time you were in the Green Shamrock?”

“I have never, to my knowledge, patronized that establishment.”

“And I suppose you weren’t aware that Shawn Conroy worked there.”

“I was not. I wasn’t aware that Shawn had left Ireland.”

She hooked her thumbs in her pockets, waited a beat. “And naturally, you haven’t seen or spoken to Shawn Conroy in a dozen years.”

“That’s correct, Lieutenant.”

“You knew both victims, you were on the site of the first murder on the day of Brennen’s death, you have, thus far, offered no alibi that can be substantiated for the time of either murder, yet you want me to believe there is no connection?”

His eyes locked coldly on hers. “I don’t expect you to believe anything but what you choose to believe.”

“You’re not helping yourself.” Furious, she snagged the token she’d found on Shawn Conroy’s nightstand from her pocket, tossed it on the table. “What’s the significance of this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“What? No.” Pure bafflement replaced the chill in his eyes. “Unitarian. Mildly.”

“How much do you know about electronics?”

“I beg your pardon?”

No choice was all she could think, and refused to look at Roarke. “What are your duties for your employer?”

“They’re varied.”

“And in these various duties, do you have occasion to send and receive transmissions?”

“Naturally.”

“And you’re aware that your employer has very sophisticated communication equipment.”

“The finest communication equipment on- or off-planet.” There was a lilt of pride in his voice.

“And you’re very familiar with it.”

“I am.”

“Familiar enough, knowledgeable enough, to cloak or jam in- or outgoing transmissions?”

“Of course I—” He caught himself, set his teeth. “However, I would have no reason to do so.”

“Do you like riddles, Summerset?”

“On occasion.”

“And would you consider yourself a patient man?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I would.”

She nodded and, as her stomach fisted, turned away. Here was the thought, the worry, the grief that had kept her wakeful most of the night. “Your daughter was murdered when she was a teenager.”

She heard no sound behind her now, not even breath. But if pain had weight, the air grew heavy with it. “Your current employer was indirectly responsible for her death.”

“He was—” Summerset cleared his throat. Beneath the table his hands had fisted on his knees. “He was not responsible.”

“She was tortured, she was raped, she was murdered to teach Roarke a lesson, to hurt him. She was no more than a tool, is that correct?”

He couldn’t speak for a moment, simply couldn’t squeeze the words past the grief that had so suddenly dug claws into his throat. “She was murdered by monsters who preyed on innocence.” He took one breath, long and deep. “You, Lieutenant, should understand such things.”

When she turned back her eyes were blank. But she was cold, horribly cold, because she did understand such things all too well. “Are you patient enough, Summerset, are you clever enough and patient enough to have waited all these years? To have established the relationship, the trust, with your employer, to have gained unconditional access to his personal and professional dealings, and then, using that relationship, that trust, that access, attempt to connect him to murder?”

Summerset’s chair dug into the aged linoleum as he shoved back from the table and sprang to his feet. “You dare speak to me of using. You dare? When you’d use an innocent young girl in this filthy business? And you would stand there and point your finger at the man whose ring you wear and say that he was responsible for the horrors she endured? They were children. Children. I’d gladly spend the rest of my life in a cage if it makes him see you for what you are.”

“Summerset.” Roarke stayed seated, but laid a hand on Summerset’s arm. His eyes were flat and cool as they met Eve’s. “He needs a moment.”

“Fine. This interview is broken at this time at the request of the subject’s representative. Record off.”

“Sit down,” Roarke murmured, keeping his hand on Summerset’s arm. “Please.”

“They’re the same, you see.” Summerset’s voice trembled with emotion as he lowered himself into a chair. “With their badges and their bullying and their empty hearts. Cops are all the same.”

“We’ll have to see,” Roarke said, watching his wife. “Lieutenant, I’d like to speak with you, off the record, and without your aide.”

“I won’t have it,” Summerset fired up.

“It’s my choice. If you’d excuse us, Peabody.” Roarke smiled politely, gestured toward the door.

Eve stood where she was, kept her eyes on Roarke’s. “Wait outside, Peabody. Secure the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Engage soundproofing.” When she was alone with Roarke and Summerset, Eve kept her balled hands in her pockets. “You’ve decided to tell me,” she said coldly. “Did you think I didn’t realize you knew more than you were saying? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”

Roarke read the hurt behind the temper and bit back a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You would apologize to her?” Summerset snapped. “After what she—”

“Just shut the hell up,” Eve ordered, turning on him with teeth bared. “How do I know I didn’t have it just right? The equipment to jam transmissions, to bypass CompuGuard, is right there in the house. Who knows about it but the three of us? The first victim was an old personal friend of Roarke’s, the second another old friend who was killed in one of Roarke’s properties. You know everything he owns, everything he does and how he does it. It’s been almost twenty years, but that isn’t so long for you to wait for payback, to avenge your daughter. How do I know you’re not willing to sacrifice everything to destroy him?”

“Because he’s what I have left. Because he loved her. Because he’s mine.” This time when Summerset picked up his glass, water sloshed to the rim and over onto the table.

“Eve.” Roarke spoke softly even as he felt his heart, and his loyalties, dragged in opposite directions by angry hands. “Please sit down, and listen.”

“I can listen fine standing.”

“Suit yourself.” Wearily Roarke pressed his fingers to his eyes. The woman fate had handed his heart to was rarely easy. “I told you about Marlena. She was like a sister to me after Summerset took me in. But I wasn’t a child,” he continued, eyeing Summerset with amused affection. “Or innocent.”

“Beaten half to death,” Summerset muttered.

“I’d been careless.” Roarke shrugged. “In any case, I stayed with them, worked with them.”

“Running grifts,” she said tightly. “Picking pockets.”

“Surviving.” Roarke nearly smiled again. “I won’t apologize for that. I told you that Marlena . . . she was still a child, really, but she had feelings for me I’d been unaware of. And she came to my room one night, full of love and generosity. I was cruel to her. I didn’t know how to handle the situation so I was clumsy and cruel. I thought I was doing the right thing, the decent thing. I couldn’t touch her in the way she thought she wanted. She was so innocent and so . . . sweet. I hurt her, and instead of going back to her own room and hating me for a while as I’d hoped—as I’d thought she would—she went out. Men who were looking for me, men I was arrogant enough to believe I could deal with on my own ground, found her, took her.”

Because a part of him still mourned, and always would, he paused a moment. When he continued his voice was quieter, his eyes darker. “I would have traded my life for hers. I would have done anything they asked to spare her one moment’s fear or pain. But there was nothing to be done. Nothing I was allowed to do. They tossed her on the doorstep after they’d done with her.”

“She was so small.” Summerset’s voice was barely a whisper. “She looked like a doll, all broken and torn. They killed my baby. Butchered her.” Now his eyes, bright and bitter, met Eve’s. “The cops did nothing. They turned their backs. Marlena was the daughter of an undesirable. There were no witnesses, they said, no evidence. They knew who had done it, because the word was everywhere on the street. But they did nothing.”

“The men who had killed her were powerful,” Roarke continued. “In that area of Dublin, cops turned a blind eye and deaf ear to certain activities. It took me a great deal of time to gain enough power and enough skill to go up against them. It took me more time to track down the six men who had had a part in Marlena’s death.”

“But you did track them down, and you killed them. I know that.” And she’d found it possible to live with that. “What does this have to do with Brennen and Conroy?” Her heart stuttered a moment. “They were involved? They were involved with Marlena’s death?”

“No. But each of them fed me information at different times. Information that helped me find a certain man in a certain place. And when I found the men, two of the men who had raped and tortured and murdered Marlena, I killed them. Slowly. Painfully. The first,” he said with his eyes locked on Eve’s, “I gutted.”

The color drained out of her face. “You disemboweled him.”

“It seemed fitting. It took a gutless bastard to do what was done to a young helpless girl. I found the second man through some data I bought from Shawn. When I had him I opened him up, one vein at a time, and let him bleed to death.”

She sat now, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Who else helped you?”

“It’s difficult to say. I talked to dozens of people, gathered data and rumor, and went on. There was Robbie Browning, but I’ve checked on him already. He’s still in Ireland, a guest of the government for another three to five. Jennie O’Leary, she’s in Wexford running a bed and breakfast of all things. I contacted her yesterday so she would be on the alert. Jack—”

“Goddamn it.” Eve thumped both fists on the table. “You should have given me a list the minute I told you about Brennen. You should have trusted me.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trust.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.” He grabbed her hand before she could shove away. “No, it wasn’t. It was a matter of hoping I was wrong. And a matter of trying not to put you in the very position I’ve just put you in.”

“You thought you could handle it without me.”

“I’d hoped I could. But as Summerset’s being set up, that’s no longer an option. We need your help.”

“You need my help.” She said it slowly as she tugged her hand free of his. “You need my help. That’s great, that’s fine.” She rose. “Do you think anything you’ve just told me takes the heat off of him? If I use it, you’ll both go into a cage. Murder, first degree, multiple charges.”

“Summerset didn’t murder anyone,” Roarke said with characteristic cool. “I did.”

“That hardly takes the pressure off.”

“You believe him then?”

He’s what I have left. She let Summerset’s words, the passion behind them, play back in her head. “I believe him. He’d never involve you. He loves you.”

Roarke started to speak, closed his mouth, and stared thoughtfully at his own hands. The simple statement, the simple truth behind it rocked him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She said it more to herself, just to hear the words out loud. “I have to pursue the evidence, and I have to go carefully by the book. Officially. If that comes down to me charging you,” she aimed a level look at Summerset, “then that’s what I’m going to do. The only way you’re going to help yourself is to give me everything. You hold back, it works against you. I’m going into this with both hands tied behind my back. I’m going to need yours,” she said to Roarke.

“You have them. Always.”

“Do I?” She smiled humorlessly. “The evidence points to the contrary. And I’m hell on evidence, Roarke.” She walked to the door but didn’t yet disengage the locks. “I’ll clear your bony ass, Summerset. Because that’s my job. Because not all cops turn their backs. And because this cop keeps her eyes and ears open.” She shot one last fulminating look at Roarke. “Always.”

She opened the locks and stalked out.

Peabody knew when to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. Whatever had been said in the interview room off record hadn’t put her lieutenant in a cheerful state of mind. The lieutenant’s eyes were hot and broody, her mouth grim, and her shoulders stiff as a board of black market oak.

Since Eve was currently driving uptown behind the wheel of a not entirely reliable vehicle—and Peabody was in the passenger seat—the lieutenant’s aide chose the better part of valor.

“Idiots,” Eve muttered, and Peabody was dead certain she wasn’t referring to the stream of jaywalking tourists who barely missed being mowed down by a maxi-bus.

“Trust, my ass.”

At this, Peabody merely cleared her throat and frowned sternly at the smoke-obscured corner of Tenth and Forty-first where a pair of glide-carts were dueling over territorial rights. Peabody winced as the operators rammed their carts together. Metal sang against metal once, twice. At the third butt, a funnel of flame shot skyward. Pedestrians scattered like ants.

“Oops” was Peabody’s comment, and she resigned herself when Eve swung her vehicle to the curb.

Eve stepped out into the smoke, caught the scent of scorched meat. The operators were too busy screaming at each other to notice her until she elbowed one of them aside to reach the regulation extinguisher hanging on the corner of the nearest cart.

There was a fifty-fifty shot that it would contain anything but air, but luck fell on her side. She coated both carts with foam, snuffing out the fire and eliciting a stream of furious Italian from one operator and what might have been Mandarin Chinese from the other.

They might have joined forces and jumped her, but Peabody stepped through the stink and smoke. The sight of a uniformed cop had both operators satisfying themselves with threatening curses and vicious glares.

Peabody scanned the crowd that had gathered to watch the show, and furrowed her brow. “Move along,” she ordered. “There’s nothing more to see here. I always wanted to say that,” she murmured to Eve, but got no quick, answering grin in response.

“Make their day perfect and write them up for creating a public hazard.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody sighed when Eve walked back to the car.

Ten minutes later, and in silence, they pulled up in front of the Luxury Towers. The droid was on duty at the door and only nodded respectfully when Eve flashed her badge and walked by him. She headed straight to the elevator and stood dead center of the glass tube as it shot them up to the twelfth floor.

Peabody remained silent as Eve pressed the bell at Audrey Morrell’s snowy white door. A moment later it was opened by a tidy brunette with mild green eyes and a cautious smile.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Audrey Morrell?”

“That’s correct.” The woman focused on Peabody, the uniform, and lifted a hand to the single strand of white stones around her neck. “Is there a problem?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Eve took out her badge, held it up. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Of course. Please come in.”

She stepped back into a lofty living area made cozy with soft pastel hues and the clever grouping of conversation areas. The walls were crowded with paintings in dreamy, bleeding colors.

She led them to a trio of U-shaped chairs covered in Easter-egg blue.

“May I offer you anything? Coffee perhaps?”

“No, nothing.”

“Well then.” With an uncertain smile, Audrey sat.

This would be Summerset’s type was Eve’s first thought. This slim, pretty woman wearing a classically simple pale green sheath. Her hair was neatly arranged in smooth waves.

Age was difficult to gauge. Her complexion was creamy and smooth, her hands long and narrow, her voice quiet and cultured. Midforties was Eve’s best guess, with plenty of bucks spent on body maintenance.

“Ms. Morrell, are you acquainted with a man named Summerset?”

“Lawrence.” Instantly the green eyes took on a sparkle, and the smile grew wider and more relaxed. “Yes, of course.”

“How do you know him?”

“He attends my watercolor class. I teach painting on Tuesday nights at the Culture Exchange. Lawrence is one of my students.”

“He paints?”

“Quite well, too. He’s working on a lovely still life series right now, and I . . .” She trailed off, and her hand went back to twist her strand of rocks. “Is he in trouble? Is he all right? I was annoyed when he missed our engagement on Saturday, but it never occurred to me that—”

“Saturday? You had an appointment with him on Saturday?”

“A date, really.” Audrey shifted and brushed at her hair. “We . . . well, we have common interests.”

“Your date wasn’t for Friday?”

“Saturday afternoon. Lunch and a matinee.” She let out a breath, worked up a smile again. “I suppose I can confess, as we’re all women. I’d gone to quite a bit of time and trouble with my appearance. And I was terribly nervous. Lawrence and I have seen each other outside of class a few times, but always with art as a buffer. This would have been our first actual date. I haven’t dated in some time, you see. I’m a widow. I lost my husband five years ago, and . . . well. I was crushed when he stood me up. But I see he must have had a good reason. Can’t you tell me what this is about?”

“Where were you on Friday afternoon, Ms. Morrell?”

“Shopping for my outfit for Saturday. It took me most of the day to find just the right dress, shoes, the bag. Then I went to the salon for a manicure, a body polish.” She lifted her hand to her hair again. “A little highlighting.”

“Summerset claims your engagement was for Friday noon.”

“Friday.” Audrey frowned, shook her head. “That can’t be. Can it? Oh, did I mix the dates?” Obviously distracted, she got up quickly and hurried into another room. She came back moments later with a slim silver-toned datebook. As she coded in, she continued to shake her head. “I’m certain we said Saturday. Yes, that’s what I have here. Saturday, twelve noon, lunch and theater with Lawrence. Oh dear.” She looked at Eve again, her face comically distressed. “Did he come on Friday, when I was out? He must have thought I stood him up, just as I—”

She started to laugh then, sitting down, crossing her legs. “How absurd, and the two of us with our pride and feelings crushed just because we didn’t have the good sense to call and verify. Why in the world didn’t he at least leave a message at the door?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Pride again, I suppose. And shyness. It’s so difficult for two shy people to manage.” Her smile faded slowly as she studied Eve’s face. “But surely this isn’t a police matter.”

“Summerset is involved in an investigation. It would be helpful if we could verify his movements on Friday.”

“I see. No, I don’t,” Audrey corrected. “I don’t see at all.”

“I can’t give you a great deal of information at this time, Ms. Morrell. Did you know a Thomas Brennen?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

You will, Eve thought. By the evening newscasts everyone would know of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy. “Who else knew about your date with Summerset?”

Audrey’s fingers tangled with her necklace again. “I can’t think of anyone. We’re both rather . . . private people. I suppose I did mention to my beauty consultant when I made the appointment that it was for a special occasion.”

“What’s your salon?”

“Oh, I always use Classique on Madison.”

“I appreciate your time,” Eve said and rose.

“You’re welcome, of course. But—Lieutenant, was it?”

“Yes. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, if Lawrence is in any sort of trouble . . . I’d like to help however I can. He’s a lovely man. A gentleman.”

“A lovely man,” Eve muttered as they headed back to the elevator. “A gentleman. Right. Penthouse floor,” she ordered as the tube closed them in. “I want to go over the scene again. Set your recorder.”

“Yes, sir.” Efficiently, Peabody clipped the minirecorder onto her starched lapel.

Eve used her master code to bypass the police block on Brennen’s door. The apartment was dim, the outside light blocked by security screens. She left them in place and ordered the lights to bright.

“It started right here.” She frowned down at the bloodstains on the carpet, the walls, and brought the gruesome image of a severed hand into her mind. “Why did Brennen let him in? Did he know him? And why did the attacker hack off his hand? Unless . . .”

She circled around, moved back to the door, eyed the direction of the bedroom. “Maybe it went this way: The killer’s an electronics whiz. He’s already messed up the cameras. Can’t take a chance that some bored security guard scans discs before he can do the job here then get back to them. So he’s taken care of that. He’s smart, he’s careful. He can get into this place easily enough. Bypass the codes, pop the locks. That’d give him a kick, wouldn’t it?”

“He likes to be in charge,” Peabody offered. “Could be he wouldn’t want to ask to come in.”

“Exactly. So he lets himself in. What a thrill. The game’s about to begin. Brennen comes out, from the kitchen most likely. He’s just had lunch. He’s caught off guard, and he’s a little sluggish from the tranq. But he grew up on the streets, he grew up rough. You don’t forget how to take care of yourself. He charges the intruder, but the intruder’s armed. The first injury, it could have been no more than a defensive move. Unplanned. But it stops Brennen, stops him cold. There’s blood everywhere. Most likely some of it splattered on the intruder. He’ll have to clean up, but he’ll worry about that later. Now he wants to do what he came for. He tranqs Brennen a little deeper, drags him into the bedroom.”

Eve followed the trail and puddles of dried blood, then stood in the bedroom, eyes keen. She lifted the statue of the Virgin from Eileen’s dresser, scissoring the head between her fingers to upend it and check the markings on the base. “The same. The same as at the Conroy scene. Bag this.”

“Seems kind of—I don’t know—disrespectful,” Peabody decided as she sealed the marble image.

“I’d think the Mother of God would find cold-blooded murder a bit more than disrespectful,” Eve said dryly.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Still, Peabody pushed the sealed statue into her bag where she didn’t have to think about it.

“Now, he’s got Brennen in here, on the bed. He doesn’t want his man to bleed to death. He wants to take his time. Gotta stop that bleeding. So he cauterizes the stump, crudely, but it does the job.”

She circled the bed, studying the grisly rust colored stains. “He gets to work. Secures his man to the bedpost, gets out his tools. He’s precise. Maybe he was nervous before, but now he’s just fine. Everything is going just as he wants. Now he puts his symbolic audience on the dresser so she has a good view. Maybe he says a prayer to her.”

She frowned, looked back at the dresser, put the statue back in place in her mind. “Then he gets down to it,” she continued. “He tells Brennen what he’s going to do to him, and he tells him why. He wants him to know, he wants him to piss himself with fear, he wants to be able to smell the pain. This is payback, and payback’s the big one. Passion, greed, power, they’re all part of it, but revenge drives it all. He’s waited a long time for this moment, and he’s going to enjoy it. Every time Brennen screams, every time he begs, this guy gets off. When it’s done, he’s flying. But he’s a mess, covered with blood and gore.”

She moved toward the adjoining bath. It sparkled like gems, the sapphire walls, the ruby insets in the tiles, the silver dials and faucets. “He’s come prepared. He had to be carrying a case of some kind, for the knives and rope. He’s got a change of clothes in there. He’d have thought of that. So he showers, scrubs himself like a fucking surgeon. He scrubs the bathroom too, every inch. He’s a goddamn domestic droid in here. He sterilizes it. He’s got plenty of time.”

“We didn’t find a single hair or skin cell in here,” Peabody agreed. “He was thorough.”

Eve turned away, walked back into the bedroom. “The ruined clothes go back in his case, along with all his nasty tools. He gets himself dressed, watching where he steps. Don’t want to get blood on our shiny shoes, do we? Maybe he stops back here for a last look at his work. Sure he does, he wants to take that image away with him. Does he say another prayer? Oh yeah, one for glory. Then he walks out, and he calls a cop.”

“We can review the lobby tapes, check out anyone with briefcases or satchels.”

“There are five floors of offices in this building. Every second person carts in a briefcase. There are fifty-two shops. Every third person has satchels.” Eve moved her shoulders. “We’ll look anyway. Summerset didn’t do this, Peabody.” When her aide remained silent, Eve turned impatiently. “Brennen was five-ten, but he was a hundred and ninety pounds—and a lot of that was muscle. Maybe, just maybe, a skinny, bone-ass fart like Summerset could take Brennen by surprise, but he doesn’t have the arm to have severed flesh and bone with one swipe. And one swipe was what it took. Say he got lucky and managed that—how do you figure he hauled dead weight from here to the bedroom, then managed to drag that nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight up two and a half feet onto the bed? He isn’t physical enough. He’s got strong hands,” she murmured, remembering well how those fingers had gripped her arm from time to time and bruised. “But he’s got no muscle, no arm, and he’s not used to lifting much more than a tea tray or his nose in the air.”

Now she sighed. “And you have to figure that if he’s smart enough to play electronic games with us, to fiddle with security discs, he’d have done better than to let himself get tagged walking into the lobby of the murder scene. Why didn’t he wipe those discs while he was at it?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Peabody admitted.

“Somebody’s setting him up, and they’re setting him up to get to Roarke.”

“Why?”

Eve stared into Peabody’s eyes for a long ten seconds. “Let’s seal up here.”

“Dallas, I’m no good to you if you stick blinders on me.”

“I know. Let’s seal it up.”

“I need air,” Eve said when they were outside again and Peabody’s recorder was tucked away. “And food. Any objections to getting both in Central Park?”

“No.”

“Don’t pout, Peabody,” Eve warned as they climbed back into the car. “It’s not attractive.”

They drove in silence, squeezed into a street level parking spot, and headed off into the denuded trees. The wind had enough kick to make Eve fasten her jacket as they crunched dead leaves under their feet. At the first glide-cart Eve debated between a veggie hash pocket and a scoop of soy fries. She opted for grease while Peabody ordered a single healthy fruit kabob.

“Your Free-Ager’s showing,” Eve commented.

“I don’t consider food a religious issue.” Peabody sniffed and bit into a pineapple spear. “Though my body is a temple.”

It made Eve smile. She was going to be forgiven. “I’m in possession of certain information that, as an officer of the law, I am duty bound to report to my superior. I have no intention of doing so.”

Peabody studied a slice of hothouse peach, slid it off the stick. “Would this information have relevance in a case currently under investigation?”

“It would. If I share this information with you, you would also be duty bound to report it. Not doing so would make you an accessory after the fact. You’d risk your badge, your career, and very likely some portion of your freedom.”

“It’s my badge, my career, my freedom.”

“Yes, it is.” Eve stopped, turned. The wind ruffled her hair as she studied the earnest face, the sober eyes. “You’re a good cop, Peabody. You’re on your way to earning a detective’s shield. I know that’s important to you. I know what mine meant to me.”

She looked away to where two uniformed nannies watched their young charges play on the grass. Nearby a jogger stopped along the path to stretch, to shift the bottle of antimugging spray on his hip when a licensed beggar meandered in his direction. Overhead, a park security copter cruised lazily with monotonous thudding blades.

“This information I have affects me personally, so I’ve made the choice. It doesn’t affect you.”

“With respect, Lieutenant, it does. If you’re questioning my loyalty—”

“It isn’t a matter of loyalty, Peabody. This is the law, this is duty, this . . .” Heaving a breath, she dropped down on a bench. “This is a mess.”

“If you share this information with me, will it help me assist you in apprehending the killer of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want my word that said information remains between us?”

“I have to ask for it, Peabody.” She looked over as Peabody sat beside her. “With regret, I have to ask you to promise me you’ll violate your duty.”

“You have my word, Lieutenant. With no regret.”

Eve squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Some bonds, she realized, were formed quickly and held fast. “It started in Dublin,” she began, “almost twenty years ago. Her name was Marlena.”

She related it all, carefully and concisely, using the cop speak that both of them understood best. When it was done, they continued to sit. Eve’s lunch lay untouched on her lap. Somewhere deeper in the park birds sang, their voices competing with the drone of traffic.

“I never thought of Summerset having a daughter,” Peabody said at length. “Losing her like that. There’s nothing worse, is there?”

“I suppose not. But somehow something worse always comes along. Revenge. Marlena to Summerset to Roarke. It fits like a skin suit. A shamrock on one side, the Church on the other. A game of luck, a mission from God.”

“If he set Summerset up, knew he’d be in the Towers, doctored the discs, he had to know about his date with Audrey Morrell.”

“Yeah. People are never as discreet as they think they are, Peabody. My guess is at least half that painting class knew they were eyeballing each other. So, we check out the art students.” She rubbed her eyes. “I need a list from Roarke—the names of the men he killed. The names of everyone he can think of who helped him track them.”

“Which list do you want me to run?”

It surprised Eve to feel her eyes sting. Overtired, she told herself and willed back the tears. “Thanks. I owe you big for this.”

“Okay. You going to eat those fries?”

With a half laugh, Eve shook her head and passed them over. “Help yourself.”

“Dallas, how are you going to get around the commander?”

“I’m working on that.” Because it made Eve’s stomach uneasy, she rubbed it absently. “Right now, we have to get back to Central and goose McNab on the jams. I have to deal with the media before this explodes. I need the sweeper’s and ME’s reports on the Conroy homicide, and I have to have a fight with Roarke.”

“Busy day.”

“Yeah, all I have to do is fit the commander in, and it’ll be perfect.”

“Why don’t I go harass McNab and you can go bribe Nadine Furst?”

“Good thinking.”

Eve didn’t have to find Nadine. The reporter was in Eve’s office, grinning at Eve’s communication center. The guts of it were spread over the desk.

“A little electronic blip, Dallas?”

“Peabody, go find McNab and kill him.”

“Right away, Lieutenant.”

“Nadine, how many times have I told you to stay out of my office?”

“Oh, dozens, I imagine.” Still grinning, Nadine sat down and crossed her shapely legs. “I don’t know why you bother. So, who was Shawn Conroy and why was he killed in Roarke’s house?”

“It wasn’t Roarke’s house, it was one of Roarke’s properties, of which he has legion.” She angled her head, lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. “That’s a qualification I’m sure you’ll include in your report.”

“My exclusive report.” Nadine smiled her sunny smile. “Which will include a statement from the primary.”

“You’ll get your statement, and your exclusive.” Eve shut the door, locked it.

“Hmm.” Nadine lifted one perfectly arched brow. “That was entirely too easy. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Nothing yet. You’re running a tab. The NYPSD is investigating the murder of Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, unmarried, forty-one years of age, bartender by trade. Following an anonymous tip, the primary in the case—with the assistance of Roarke—discovered the victim in an empty rental unit.”

“How was he killed? I heard it was nasty.”

“The details of the crime are not available to the media at this time.”

“Come on, Dallas.” Nadine leaned forward. “Gimme.”

“Nope. But the police are investigating a possible connection between this crime and the murder, on Friday last, of communication tycoon—and Irish citizen—Thomas X. Brennen.”

“Brennen? Jesus. Friday?” Nadine leaped to her feet. “Brennen’s been killed? Christ Almighty, he owned majority stock in Channel 75. Holy God, how did we miss this? How did it happen? Where?”

“Brennen was killed in his New York residence. Police are pursuing leads.”

“Leads? What leads? God, I knew him.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed. “Did you really?”

“Sure, I met him dozens of times. Station functions, charity events. He even sent me flowers after—after that business last spring.”

“The business where you nearly got your throat slit.”

“Yes,” Nadine snapped and sat again. “And I haven’t forgotten who made sure I didn’t. I liked him, Dallas. Damn it, he’s got a wife, kids.” She brooded a moment, pretty fingers tapping her knee. “The station’s going to be in an uproar when this hits. And half the media around the world. How did it happen?”

“At this point, we believe he surprised an intruder.”

“So much for security,” she muttered. “Walked in on a damn burglary.”

Eve said nothing, pleased that Nadine had jumped to that particular conclusion.

“A connection?” Her eyes sharpened. “Shawn Conroy was Irish, too. Do you believe he was involved in the burglary? Did they know each other?”

“We’ll investigate that angle.”

“Roarke’s Irish.”

“So I’ve heard,” Eve said dryly. “Off the record,” she began, and waited for Nadine’s reluctant nod. “Roarke knew Shawn Conroy back in Ireland. It’s possible—just possible—that the house where Conroy was taken out was being cased. It was furnished—well, as I’m sure you can imagine how well. And the new tenants weren’t due to move in for a couple of days. Until we nail things down a bit, I’d like to keep Roarke’s name out of it, or as far in the background as possible.”

“Shouldn’t be hard at this point. Every station, and certainly ours, is going to hit with the Brennen story—then we’ll do a lot of retrospectives, biographies, that sort of thing. I’ve got to get this in.”

She leaped up again. “Appreciate it.”

“Don’t.” Eve unlocked the door, opened it. “You’ll pay for it eventually.”

And now, Eve mused, rubbing her temple, she could only hope she could bluff and bullshit her commander with half as much success.

“Your report seems sparse, Lieutenant,” Whitney commented after Eve had finished backing up her written report with an oral one.

“We don’t have a lot to work with at this stage, Commander.” She sat, face composed, voice bland, meeting Whitney’s sharp dark eyes without a blink. “McNab from EDD is working on the jams and trace, but he doesn’t appear to be having much success. Feeney will be back in about a week.”

“McNab has a very good record with the department.”

“That may be, but so far, he’s stumped. His words, Commander. The killer is highly skilled in electronics and communications. It’s possible that’s his link with Brennen.”

“That wouldn’t explain Conroy.”

“No, sir, but the Irish connection does. They knew each other, casually at least, in Dublin some years ago. It’s possible they continued, or renewed, the acquaintance in New York. As you’ve reviewed the tape of the transmissions I received from the killer, you know the motive is revenge. The killer knew them, most likely in Dublin. Conroy continued to live in Dublin until three years ago. Brennen has his main residence there. It would be to our benefit to enlist the aid of the Dublin police to investigate that angle. Something these men did, or some deal they were part of in Ireland in the last few years.”

“Roarke has interests there as well.”

“Yes, sir, but he’s had no recent dealings with either Conroy or Brennen. I checked. He’s had no business or personal contact with them in a more than a decade.”

“Revenge often takes time to chill.” He steepled his fingers and studied Eve over the tips. “Do you intend to bring Summerset back into Interview?”

“I’m weighing that option, Commander. His alibi for the time of Brennen’s murder is weak, but it’s plausible. Audrey Morrell confirmed their date. It’s more than possible they confused the times. The manner of Brennen’s death, and Conroy’s as well, doesn’t fit Summerset. He isn’t physical enough to have managed it.”

“Not alone.”

Eve felt her stomach stutter but nodded. “No, not alone. Commander, I’ll pursue the leads. I’ll investigate Summerset and any and all suspects, but it’s my personal belief, and a strong personal belief, that Summerset would do nothing to harm or implicate Roarke in any way. He is devoted—even overly devoted. And I believe, Commander, that Roarke is a future target. He’s the goal. That’s why I was contacted.”

Whitney said nothing for a moment as he measured Eve. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice had been steady. He imagined she was unaware that she’d linked her fingers together and that her knuckles were white.

“I agree with you. I could ask you if you’d prefer to be taken off the case, but I’d be wasting my breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll interview Roarke.” He paused while she remained silent. “And I imagine there will be no official report of said interview. Be careful how far you bend the rules, Dallas. I don’t want to lose one of my best officers.”

“Commander.” She rose. “His mission isn’t complete. He’ll contact me again. I’ve already got a feel for him, an impression of type, but I’d like to consult with Dr. Mira on a profile as soon as possible.”

“Arrange it.”

“And I intend to work as much as possible out of my home. My equipment there is . . . superior to what’s available to me at Cop Central.”

Whitney allowed a smirk to twist his wide face. “I bet it is. I’m going to allow you as much free rein as I can on this, for as long as I can. I can tell you that time will be short. If there’s another body, that time’s going to be even shorter.”

“Then I’ll work fast.”

Halfway up the long, curving drive Eve sat in her car and studied the house that Roarke built. That wasn’t entirely accurate, she supposed. The structure would have been there for more than a century, ready for someone with money and vision to buy it. He’d had both and had polished a stone and glass palace that suited him beautifully.

She was at home there now, or more at home than she’d ever imagined she could be. There with the towers and turrets, the graceful lawns and glamorous shrubberies. She lived among the staggering antiques, the thick carpets from other lands, the wealth and the privilege.

Roarke had earned it—in his way. She had done nothing more than tumble into it.

They had both come from the streets and misery, and had chosen different paths to make their own. She had needed the law, the order, the discipline, the rules. Her childhood had been without any of them, and the early years that she had so successfully blanked out for so long had begun to hurtle back at her, viciously, violently, over the past months.

Now she remembered too much, and still not all.

Roarke, she imagined, remembered all, in fluid and perfect detail. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget what he’d been or where he’d come from. He used it.

His father had been a drunk. And so had hers. His father had abused him. And so had hers. Their childhoods had been smashed beyond repair, and so they had built themselves into adults at an early age, one standing for the law, and one dancing around it.

Now they were a unit, or trying to be.

But how much of what she had made herself, and he had made himself, could blend?

That was about to be tested, and their marriage, still so new and bright, so terrifying and vital to her, would either hold or fail.

She drove the rest of the way, parking at the base of the old stone steps. She left her car there, where it consistently annoyed Summerset, and carried a small box of file discs into the house.

Summerset was in the foyer. He would have known the moment she’d driven through the iron gates, she imagined. And he would have wondered why she’d stopped for so long.

“Is there a problem with your vehicle, Lieutenant?”

“No more than usual.” She stripped off her jacket, and out of habit, tossed it over the newel post.

“You left it in front of the house.”

“I know where it is.”

“There is a garage for the purpose of storing vehicles.”

“Move it yourself. Where’s Roarke?”

“Roarke is in his Fifth Avenue office. He’s expected home within the hour.”

“Fine, tell him to come up to my office when he gets here.”

“I’ll inform him of your request.”

“It wasn’t a request.” She smirked as she watched Summerset pick up her jacket by the collar with two reluctant fingers. “Any more than it’s a request when I tell you to make no plans to leave the city until further notice.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched visibly. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a bucketful of laughs for me. A couple of dead guys, one of them slaughtered on my husband’s property, both of them old pals of his. I’ve been breaking up over it all day.” When he stepped forward, her eyes went to dangerous slits. “Don’t get in my face, old man. Don’t even think about it.”

The core of his anger simmered out in one terse sentence. “You interrogated Ms. Morrell.”

“I tried to verify your piss-poor alibi.”

“You led her to believe I was involved in a police investigation.”

“News flash: You are involved in a police investigation.”

He drew air audibly through his nose. “My personal life—”

“You’ve got no personal life until these cases are closed.” She could read his embarrassment clearly enough, and told herself she didn’t have time for it. “You want to do yourself a favor, you do exactly what I tell you. You don’t go anywhere alone. You make certain you can account for every minute of your time, day and night. Because somebody else is going to die before much more time passes if I can’t stop it. He wants the finger to point at you, so you make sure it doesn’t.”

“It’s your job to protect the innocent.”

She’d started up the stairs and now she stopped, turned back until their eyes met. “I know what my job is, and I’m damned good at it.”

When he snorted she came down two steps. She came down slowly, her movements deliberate, because her own temper was much too close to the boil. “Good enough to have figured out why you’ve hated the sight of me since I first walked in that door. Since you understood Roarke had feelings for me. Part A was easy—a first-year rookie could have snagged onto it. I’m a cop, and that’s enough for you to hold me in contempt.”

He offered a thin smile. “I’ve had little reason to admire those in your profession.”

“Part B was tougher.” She came down another step so that their eyes were level. “I thought I had that figured, too, but I didn’t realize that Part B had a couple of stages. Stage one: I’m not one of the glamorous, well-bred stunners that Roarke socialized with. I haven’t got the looks or the pedigree or the style to suit you.”

He felt a quick tug of shame, but inclined his head. “No, you don’t. He could have had anyone, his pick of the cream of society.”

“But you didn’t want just anyone for him, Summerset. That’s stage two, and I just figured that out this morning. You resent me because I’m not Marlena. That’s who you wanted for him,” she said quietly as the color slipped out of his cheeks. “You hoped he’d find someone who reminded you of her, instead you got stuck with an inferior model. Tough luck all around.”

She turned and walked away, and didn’t see his legs buckle, or the way his hand shot out to grip the newel post as the truth of what she’d tossed in his face struck him like a fist in the heart.

When he was sure he was alone, he sat on the steps and buried his face in his hands as the grief he thought he’d conquered long ago flowed through him, fresh and hot and bitter.

When Roarke arrived home twenty minutes later, Summerset was composed. His hands no longer trembled, his heart no longer shuddered. His duties, as he saw them—as he needed to see them—were always to be performed smoothly and unobtrusively.

He took Roarke’s coat, approving of the fine and fluid weight of the silk, and draped it over his arm. “The lieutenant is upstairs in her office. She would like to speak with you.”

Roarke glanced up the stairs. He was sure Eve hadn’t put it quite so politely. “How long has she been home?”

“Less than thirty minutes.”

“And she’s alone?”

“Yes. Quite alone.”

Absently he flicked open the top two buttons of his shirt. His afternoon meetings had been long and tedious. A rare tension headache was brewing at the base of his skull.

“Log any calls that come through for me. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Dinner?”

Roarke merely shook his head as he started up the stairs. He’d managed to put his temper on hold throughout the day, but he felt it bubbling back now, black and hot. He knew it would be best, certainly more productive, if they could speak calmly.

But he kept thinking about the door she’d closed between them the night before. The ease with which she’d done so, and the finality of the act. He didn’t know if he would be able to remain calm for long.

She’d left her office door open. After all, Roarke thought sourly, she’d summoned him, hadn’t she? She sat scowling at her computer screen as if the information it offered annoyed her. There was a mug of coffee at her elbow, likely gone cold by now. Her hair was disordered and spiky, no doubt disturbed by her restless hands. She still wore her weapon harness.

Galahad had made himself at home on a pile of paperwork on the desk. He twitched his tail in greeting, and his bicolored eyes gleamed with unmistakable glee. Roarke could almost hear the feline thoughts.

Come on in, get started. I’ve been waiting for the show.

“You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”

Her head came up, turned. He looked cool, she noted, casually elegant in his dark business suit with the collar of his shirt loosened. But the body language—the cock of his head, the thumbs hooked in his pockets, the way his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet—warned her here was an Irish brawler spoiling for a fight.

Fine, she decided. She was ready for one.

“Yeah, I wanted to see you. You want to shut the door?”

“By all means.” He closed it behind him before crossing the room. And waited. He preferred for his opponent to draw first blood.

It made the striking back more satisfying.

“I need names.” Her voice was clipped and brisk. She wanted them both to know she was speaking as a cop. “Names of the men you killed. Names of any- and everyone you can remember you contacted to find those men.”

“You’ll have them.”

“And I’ll need a statement from you, detailing where you were and who you were with during the times of the Brennen and Conroy homicides.”

His eyes went hot, for an instant only, then frosted to brilliant blue ice. “Am I a suspect? Lieutenant?”

“No, and I want to keep it that way. Eliminating you from the top simplifies things.”

“By all means let’s keep things simple.”

“Don’t take that line with me.” She knew what he was doing, she thought with rising fury. Oh, she had his number, all right, with his cold and utterly reasonable tone. Damned if he’d shake her. “The more I can go by the book on this, the better it is for everyone involved. I’d like to fit Summerset with a security bracelet. He’d never agree if I asked, so I’d like you to.”

“I won’t ask him to submit to the indignity of that.”

“Look.” She got to her feet, slowly. “A little indignity might keep him out of a cage.”

“For some, dignity is a priority.”

“Fuck dignity. I’ve got enough problems without worrying about that. What I need is facts, evidence, an edge. If you keep lying to me—”

“I never lied to you.”

“You withheld vital information. It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” Oh, he had her number, he thought, with her stubborn, unbending rules. Damned if she’d shake him. “I withheld information in the hope I could keep you out of a difficult position.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” she snapped as control teetered.

“I won’t.” He moved to a dome-topped cabinet, selected a bottle of whiskey, and poured three fingers into a heavy crystal glass. He considered throwing it.

She heard the ice pick fury in his tone, recognized the frigid rage. She would have preferred heat, something hot and bubbling to match her own mood.

“Great, terrific. You go ahead and be pissed off. I’ve got two dead guys, and I’m waiting for the third. I’ve got essential information, information vital to the case, that I can’t use officially unless I want to come visit you in a federal facility for the next hundred years.”

He sipped, and showed his teeth in a smile. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“You can just yank that stick out of your ass, pal, because you’re in trouble here.” She found she wanted to hit something—smash anything—and settled for shoving her chair aside. “You and that bony droid you’re so goddamn fond of. If I’m going to keep both your butts out of the sling, you better get yourself a quick attitude adjustment.”

“I’ve managed to keep my butt out of the sling by my own devices up until now.” Roarke drained the rest of the whiskey, set the glass down with a snap of glass on wood. “You know very well Summerset killed no one.”

“It doesn’t matter what I know, it matters what I can prove.” Temper straining, she dragged her hands through her hair, fisted them there a moment until her head began to throb. “By not giving me all the data, you put me a step behind.”

“What would you have done with the data that I wasn’t doing myself? And, with my contacts and equipment, doing more quickly and more efficiently?”

That, she thought, tore it. “You better remember who’s the cop here, ace.”

His eyes glinted once, like blue steel in moonlight. “I’m unlikely to forget.”

“And whose job it is to gather evidence and information, to process that evidence and information. To investigate. You do whatever it is you do with your business, but you stay off my turf unless I tell you different.”

“Unless you tell me?” She saw the quick and vicious flare of violence in his eyes, but stood her ground when he whirled on her, when he closed a fist over her shirt to haul her up to her toes. “And what if I don’t do what I’m told, Lieutenant, what I’m ordered? How do you handle that? Do you walk away and lock the door again?”

“You better move your hand.”

He only yanked her up another inch. “I won’t tolerate locked doors. I’ve got my limit, and you reached it. If you don’t want to share our bed, if you don’t want me near you, then you say so. But I’m damned if you’ll turn away and lock the door.”

“You’re the one who screwed up,” she shot back. “You pissed me off and I didn’t want to talk to you. I’m the one who has to deal with what’s going on here, what’s gone on before. I have to overlook the laws you’ve broken instead of carting you off to a cell.” She lifted both hands, shoved hard, and was both surprised and furious when she didn’t budge him an inch. “And I’ve got to make dinner conversation with a bunch of snooty strangers every time I turn around, and worry about what the hell I’m wearing when I do it.”

“Do you think you’re the only one who’s made adjustments?” Enraged, he gave her a quick shake, then let her go so he could prowl the room. “For Christ’s sake, I married a cop. Fuck me, a cop. It has to be fate’s biggest joke.”

“Nobody held a knife to your throat.” Insulted, she fisted her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who pushed for it.”

“And you’re the one who pulled back, and still does. I’m sick of it, sick to death of it. It’s always you, isn’t it, Eve, who has to make the changes and give way?” Fury shimmered around him in all but visible waves, and when those waves crashed over her, she’d have sworn they had weight. “Well, I’ve made changes of my own, and given way more times than I can count. You can have your privacy when you need it, and your neurotic little snits, but I won’t put up with my wife closing doors between us.”

The neurotic little snits left her speechless, but the my wife freed her tongue again. “Your wife, your wife. Don’t you dare say my wife in that tone. Don’t you dare make me sound like one of your fancy suits.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Now I’m ridiculous.” She threw up her hands. “I’m neurotic and ridiculous.”

“Yes, often.”

Her breath began to hitch. She could actually see red around the edges of her vision. “You’re arrogant, domineering, egotistical, and disdainful of the law.”

He lifted one amused brow. “And your point would be?”

She couldn’t form a word. What came out was something between a growl and a scream. The sound of it had Galahad leaping from the top of the desk and curling under it.

“Well said,” Roarke commented and decided to have another whiskey. “I’ve given up a number of businesses in the past months that you would have found questionable.” He studied the color of the whiskey in the glass. “True, they were more like hobbies, habits, I suppose, but I found them entertaining. And profitable.”

“I never asked you to give up anything.”

“Darling Eve.” He sighed, found most of his temper had slipped away. “You ask just by being. I married a cop,” he said half to himself and drank. “Because I loved her, wanted her, needed her. And to my surprise, I admired her. She fascinates me.”

“Don’t turn this around.”

“It’s just come full circle. I can’t change what I am, and what I’ve done. And wouldn’t even for you.” He lifted his gaze to hers, held it there. “I’m telling you not to lock the door.”

She gave a bad-tempered shrug. “I knew it would piss you off.”

“Mission accomplished.”

She found herself sighing, a weak sound she didn’t have the energy to detest. “It’s hard—seeing what had been done to those men, and knowing . . .”

“That I was capable of doing the same.” He set his glass down again. “It was justice.”

She felt the weight of her badge, tangibly. Not in her pocket but on her heart. “That wasn’t for you to decide.”

“There we part ways. The law doesn’t always stand for the innocent and the used. The law doesn’t always care enough. I won’t apologize for what I did, Eve, but I will for putting you in the position of choosing between me and your duty.”

She picked up her cold coffee and drank it to clear her throat. “I had to tell Peabody. I had to bring her in.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “She’ll stand with me. She didn’t even hesitate.”

“She’s a good cop. You’ve taught me the phrase isn’t a contradiction in terms.”

“I need her. I need all the help I can get on this one because I’m afraid.” She closed her eyes, fought to steady herself. “I’m afraid if I’m not careful enough, not quick or smart enough, I’ll walk onto a scene and I’ll find you. I’ll be too late, and you’ll be dead, because it’s you he wants. The others are just practice.”

She felt his arms come around her, and moved in. There was the warmth of his body, the lines of it all so familiar now, so necessary now. The scent of him as she gripped him close, the steady beat of his heart, the soft brush of his lips over her hair.

“I couldn’t stand it.” She tightened her hold. “I couldn’t. I know I can’t even think about it because it’ll mess me up, but I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t stop—”

Then his mouth was on hers and the kiss was rough and hot. He would know that was the tone she needed, that she needed his hands on her, hard, impatient. And the promises he murmured as he tugged her shirt aside were for both of them.

Her weapon thudded to the floor. His beautifully cut jacket followed. She tipped her head back so that his lips could race thrills over her throat as she dragged at his belt.

No words now as they hurried to touch. With greedy little nips and bites they tormented each other. She was panting when he pushed her onto the desk. Paper crinkled under her back.

She reached for him.

“I’m not neurotic,” she managed to say.

He laughed first, delighted with her, delirious for her. “Of course not.” He closed his hands over hers and drove into her.

He watched her come at the first thrust, those golden brown irises blurring, that slim torso arching up. The shocked pleasure strangled in her throat then shuddered out on his name.

“Take more.” His hands were less gentle than he intended as he lifted her hips, went deeper. “Take all of me.”

Through the stunning waves of sensation she understood he wanted acceptance, finally and fully, for both of them.

She took all of him.

Later they shared soup in her office. By the second bowl, her head was clear enough to deal with the business at hand.

“I’m going to be working here for the most part for a while.”

“I’ll lighten my schedule so I’ll be available for you.”

She broke open a roll, buttered it thoughtfully. “We’re going to have to contact the Dublin police. Your name’s bound to come up.” She ignored the quick grin he flashed her and bit into the roll. “Should I expect any surprises?”

“They don’t have any more hard data on me than your records show.”

“Which is next to nothing.”

“Exactly. There’s bound to be a few members of the guarda with long memories, but there shouldn’t be anything too embarrassing. I’ve always been careful.”

“Who investigated Marlena’s murder?”

The amusement died out of Roarke’s eyes. “It was an Inspector Maguire, but I wouldn’t say he investigated. He went through the motions, took the bribes offered, and called it death by misadventure.”

“Still, his records might be of some use.”

“I doubt you’ll find much, if any. Maguire was one of the many cops in the pocket of the cartel whose territory I trespassed on.” He took the other half of Eve’s roll. “The Urban Wars started later and lasted longer in that part of the world. Even when I was a boy there were pockets of it still being waged, and certainly the results of the worst of it were still in evidence.”

He remembered the bodies, the sound of gunfire screaming through the night, the wails of the wounded, and the sunken eyes of the survivors.

“Those who had,” he continued, “had in abundance. Those who didn’t, suffered and starved and scavenged. Most cops who’d been through the hell of it went one of two ways. Some dedicated themselves to maintaining order. Most took advantage of the chaos and profited.”

“Maguire decided to profit.”

“He was hardly alone. I took plenty of kicks from a beat cop if I didn’t have the payoff in my pocket. When you’re down to your last punt, you’d as soon have the kick and keep the pound.”

“Did you take any from Maquire?”

“Not personally. By the time I was working the grift and the games, he was riding a desk. He used uniforms as his runners and muscle and collected in comfort.” Roarke sat back with his coffee. “For the most part I outmaneuvered him. I paid my shot when I couldn’t get around it, but I usually stole it back. Cops are easy marks. They don’t expect to have their pockets picked.”

“Hmm” was all Eve could say to that. “Why was Maguire brought in on Marlena?”

“When she was killed, Summerset insisted on calling in the police. He wanted to see the men who had . . . he wanted to see them punished. He wanted a public trial. He wanted justice. Instead he got Maguire. The bastard came sniffing around, shaking his head, clucking his tongue. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘seems to me a father should keep a closer eye on a pretty young girl. Letting her run wild like that.” ’

As the old fury crawled back, Roarke shoved away from the table to rise and pace. “I could have killed him on the spot. He knew it. He wanted me to try it, then and there while he had six cops around him who’d have broken me to pieces at the first move. His conclusions were that she was an incorrigible, that there were illegals in her system and she’d fallen in with a bad lot who’d panicked and killed her when they’d done with her. Two weeks later he was driving a new car around Dublin Town and his wife had a new haircut to show off her diamond earrings.”

He turned back. “And six months later, they hooked him out of the River Liffey with enough holes in him for the fish to swim through.”

Her throat had gone dust dry, but she kept her gaze steady. “Did you kill him?”

“No, but only because someone beat me to it. He was low on my list of priorities.” Roarke came back, sat again. “Eve, Summerset had no part in what I did. He wasn’t even aware of what I planned to do. It wasn’t his way—isn’t his way. He ran cons, bilked marks, lifted wallets.”

“You don’t need to defend him to me. I’ll do my best for him.” She let out a breath. “Starting now by ignoring regulations, again, and using your unregistered equipment to run names. Let’s start on those lists.”

He got to his feet, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “It’s always a pleasure working with you, Lieutenant.”

“Just remember who’s in charge.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll remind me. Regularly.” He slipped an arm around her waist when she stood. “Next time we make love, you can wear your badge. In case I forget who’s in charge.”

She eyed him narrowly. “Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

“I do.” He planted a kiss between her scowling eyes. “I love one.”

Eve stared at the list of names on the wall screen in Roarke’s private room. The equipment installed there was every hacker’s wet dream. He’d indulged himself in aesthetics in the rest of the house, but this room was all business.

Illegal business, she thought, since all its information, research, and communications devices were unregistered with CompuGuard. Nothing that went in or came out of that room could be tracked.

Roarke sat at the U-shaped console, like a pirate, she thought, at the helm of a very snazzy ship. He hadn’t engaged the auxiliary station with its jazzy laser fax and hologram unit. She imagined he didn’t think he required the extra zip, just yet.

She stuck her hands in her pockets, tapped her boot on the glazed tile floor and read off the names of the dead.

“Charles O’Malley. Murder by disembowelment, August 5, 2042. Unsolved. Matthew Riley. Murder by evisceration, November, 12, 2042. Donald Cagney. Murder by hanging, April 22, 2043. Michael Rowan. Murder by suffocation, December 2, 2043. Rory McNee, murder by drowning, March 18, 2044. John Calhoun, murder by poisoning, July 31, 2044.”

She let out a long breath. “You averaged two a year.”

“I wasn’t in a hurry. Would you like to read their bios?” He didn’t call them up, simply continued to sit, staring at the viewing screen across the room. “Charles O’Malley, age thirty-three, small-time thug and sexual deviant. Suspected of raping his sister and his mother. Charges dismissed through lack of evidence. Suspected of torture-murder of an eighteen-year-old licensed companion whose name no one bothered to remember. Charges dismissed through lack of interest. A known free-lance spine cracker and debt collector who enjoyed his work. His trademark was shattering kneecaps. Marlena’s knees were broken.”

“All right, Roarke.” She held up a hand. “It’s enough. I need you to run their families, friends, lovers. With luck we can find a computer jock or communications freak among them.”

Because he didn’t want to say their names again, he typed in the request manually. “It’ll take a few minutes. We’ll bring up the list of contacts I had on viewing screen three.”

“Who else knew what you were doing?” she asked as she watched names begin to scroll on screen.

“I didn’t pop into the pub after and brag about it over a pint.” He moved his shoulders dismissively. “But word and rumor travel. I wanted it known in any case. I wanted to give them time to sweat.”

“You’re a scary guy, Roarke,” she murmured, then turned to him. “At a guess, then, most anyone in Dublin—hell, in the known universe—could have gotten wind of it.”

“I found Cagney in Paris, Rowan on Tarus Three, and Calhoun here in New York. The wind blows, Eve.”

“Jesus.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Okay, this won’t help. We need to cull it down to interested parties, people with a connection with one or more of . . . your list. People with a grudge against you.”

“A number of people harbor grudges. If it was about me personally, why is Summerset being set up instead of me?”

“He’s the bridge. They’re walking over him to get to you.” She began to pace while she thought it through. “I’m going to consult with Mira, hopefully tomorrow, but my take is if this goes back to Marlena, whoever is behind it sees Summerset as the cause. Without him, no Marlena, without Marlena you wouldn’t have played vigilante. So you both have to pay. He wants you to sweat. Coming at you direct isn’t going to make that happen. He has to know you well enough to understand that. But going after someone who matters to you, that’s different.”

“And if Summerset was taken out of the equation?”

“Well, then, it would—” She broke off, heart jumping as she whirled. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t even think about it.” She slapped her hands on the console. “You promise me, you have to give me your word you won’t help him disappear. That’s not the way to play this out.”

He was silent for a long moment. “I’ll give you my word to play this out your way as long as I possibly can. But he’s not going in a cage, Eve, not for something I’m responsible for.”

“You have to trust me not to let that happen. If you go that far outside the law, Roarke, I’ll have to go after him. I won’t have a choice.”

“Then we’ll have to combine our skill and our efforts to make sure neither of us has to make a choice. And we’re wasting what time we have debating it.”

Seething with frustration, she spun away. “Damn it, you make the line I have to walk thin and shaky.”

“I’m aware of that.” His voice was tight and warned her she’d see that cold, controlled temper on his face when she turned back.

“I can’t change what I am either.”

“And you’re a cop first. Well, Lieutenant, give me your professional take on this.” He swung around in his chair, engaging the auxiliary station. “Display hologram file image, Marlena.”

It formed between them, a lovely laughing image of a young girl just blossoming into womanhood. Her hair was long and wavy and the color of sun-washed wheat, her eyes a clear summer blue. There was the flush of life and joy in her cheeks.

She was tiny was all Eve could think, a perfect picture in her pretty white dress with its scallop of lace at the hem. She carried a single tulip in her china-doll hand, candy-pink and damp with dew.

“There’s innocence,” Roarke said quietly. “Display hologram image, police file. Marlena.”

The horror spilled onto the floor, almost at Eve’s feet. The doll was broken now, bloodied and battered and torn. The skin was gray paste with death, and cold from the police camera’s passionless eye. They’d left her naked and exposed, and every cruelty that had been done to her was pitifully clear.

“And there,” Roarke said, “is the ruin of innocence.”

Eve’s heart shuddered and ripped, but she looked as she had looked on death before. In the eyes—where even now dregs of terror and shock remained.

A child, she thought, swamped with pity. Why was it so often a child?

“You’ve made your point, Roarke. End hologram program,” she ordered, and her voice was steady. The images winked away and left her staring into his eyes.

“I would do it again,” he told her. “Without hesitation or regret. And I would do more if it would spare her what she suffered.”

“If you think I don’t understand, you’re wrong. I’ve seen more of this than you. I live with it, day and night. The aftermath of what one person does to another. And after I wade through the blood and the waste, all I can do is my best.”

He closed his eyes and, in a rare show of fatigue, rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry for that. This has brought too much of it back. The guilt, the helplessness.”

“It’s stupid to blame yourself, and you’re not a stupid man.”

He let his hands drop. “Who else?”

She stepped around the console until she stood directly in front of him. “O’Malley, Riley, Cagney, Rowan, McNee, and Calhoun.” She would comfort now, because now she understood how. Eve put her hands on his shoulders. “I’ll only say this once. I may only mean it once, now, while I’ve still got her image in my head. You were right. What you did was necessary. It was justice.”

Unspeakably moved, he put his hands on hers, sliding them down so their fingers could link. “I needed to hear you say it, and mean it. Even if only once.”

She squeezed his hands then turned to the screen. “Let’s get back to work and beat this son of a bitch at his own game.”

It was after midnight when they shut it down. Eve tumbled into sleep the instant her head hit the pillow. But somewhere just before dawn, the dreams began.

When her restless movements woke him, Roarke reached for her. She struggled away, her breath coming in quick little gasps. He knew she was trapped in a nightmare where he couldn’t go, couldn’t stop the past from cycling back.

“It’s all right, Eve.” He gathered her close even as she fought to twist free with her body shuddering, jerking, shuddering.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.” There was a plea in her voice and the voice was thin and helpless, a child’s voice that broke his heart.

“You’re safe. I promise.” He stroked her back, in slow and soothing motions, when at last she turned to him. Turned into him. “He can’t hurt you here,” Roarke murmured as he stared into the dark. “He can’t touch you here.”

There was a long, catchy sigh, then he felt the tension drain out of her body. He lay awake, holding her, guarding against dreams until the light began to slip through the windows.

He was gone when Eve awoke, which was usual. But he wasn’t in the sitting area as he was most mornings, drinking coffee and scanning the stock reports on the bedroom monitor. Still groggy, she rolled out of bed and hit the shower. Her mind cleared slowly. It wasn’t until she stepped out of the drying tube that the dream came back to her.

She stood, one hand reaching for a robe, as it flashed into her mind.

The cold, horrible little room with the red light blinking into the dirty window. Hunger clawing at her belly. The door opening and her father stumbling in. Drunk, but not drunk enough. The knife she’d held to cut the mold off a pitiful hunk of cheese clattering to the floor.

The pain of that big hand smashing over her face. Then worse, so much worse, his body pressing hers into the floor. His fingers tearing, probing. But it wasn’t her struggling. It was Marlena. Marlena with her white dress ripped, her delicate features locked in fear and pain. Marlena’s broken body sprawled in fresh blood.

Eve looking down at that wasted young girl. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, with her badge displayed on her pocket, studying death one more time. Reaching for a blanket, a thin, stained blanket from the bed to cover the girl. Against procedure, disturbing the crime scene, but she couldn’t help herself.

But when she turned, looked down again with the blanket in her hand, it was no longer Marlena. Eve stared down at herself, in death, and let the blanket fall over her own face.

Now she shuddered and bundled quickly into the robe to help chase away the chill. She had to put it away, ordered herself to shut it away. She had a maniac to catch, lives that depended on her doing so quickly. The past, her past, couldn’t be allowed to surface and interfere.

She dressed quickly, snagged a single cup of coffee and took it with her to her office.

The door between it and Roarke’s was open. She heard his voice, only his, and stepped to the doorway.

He was at his desk, using a headset ’link while he manually keyed data into his computer. His laser fax shot off a transmission, immediately signaled an incoming. Eve sipped her coffee, imagined him buying and selling small galaxies while he carried on a conversation.

“It’s good to hear you, Jack. Yes, it’s been awhile.” Roarke turned to his fax, skimmed it, then quickly logged and sent a reply. “Married Sheila, did you? How many kids did you say? Six. Christ.” He let out a rolling laugh and, turning back to his computer, made arrangements to buy the lion’s share of a small, floundering publishing company. “Heard that, did you? Yes, it’s true, last summer. Aye, she’s a cop.” A lightning grin flashed across his face. “What black past, Jack? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m as law-abiding as the parish priest. Yes, she is lovely. Quite lovely and quite remarkable.”

Roarke swiveled away from his monitor, ignored the low beep of an incoming call. “I need to talk to you, Jack. You’ve heard about Tommy Brennen and Shawn? Aye, it’s a hard thing. My cop’s connected them, and the connection goes back to me—to O’Malley and the rest and what happened to Marlena.”

He listened for a time, then rose and walked to the window, leaving his communication center humming and beeping. “That’s exactly so. Any ideas on it? If any occur to you, if you can dig up anything, you can contact me here. Meanwhile, I can make arrangements for you and your family to get away for a time. Take your kids to the beach for a couple weeks. I’ve a place they’d enjoy. No, Jack, this is my doing, and I don’t want another widow or fatherless child on my conscience.”

He laughed again, but his eyes stayed sober. “I’m sure you could, right enough, but why don’t we leave that part to my cop and you and your family get out of Dublin awhile. I’ll send you what you need today. We’ll talk again. My best to Sheila.”

Eve waited until he’d pulled the headset off before she spoke. “Is that what you’re going to do, ship off everyone you think might be a target?”

He set the headset aside, vaguely uncomfortable that she’d heard his conversation. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.” She crossed to him, set her coffee down so that she could take his face in both hands. “I love you, Roarke.”

It was still a rare thing for her to use the words. His heart tripped once, then steadied. “I love you, Eve.”

Her lips curved, brushed his lightly. “Is that what I am now, ‘your cop’?”

“You’ve always been my cop—ever since you wanted to arrest me.”

She tilted her head. “Did you know that when you were talking to your Dublin friend your accent got thicker, the rhythm of your speech changed. And you said aye instead of yes at least twice.”

“Did I?” He’d been totally unaware of it, and wasn’t sure how that sat with him. “Odd.”

“I liked it.” The hands she held to his face slid around to link behind his neck. Her body bumped his. “It was . . . sexy.”

“Was it, now?” His hands roamed down, cupped her bottom. “Well, Eve, me darling, if you’re after—” His gaze flicked over her shoulder, and the amusement in them deepened. “Good morning, Peabody.” Eve jerked, then swore when Roarke held her firmly in place. “Lovely day.”

“Yes, it . . . I beg your pardon. Sir,” she added lamely when Eve scorched her with a look. “You said eight sharp, and there was nobody downstairs so I just came up and . . . here I am. And, ah, McNab is—”

“Right behind her.” Leading with a grin, McNab stepped into view. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant, and may I say that your house is . . . Holy Mother of God.”

His eyes went so huge, so bright, that Eve reached instinctively for her weapon as he rushed in.

“Would you look at this setup? Talk about sexy. You must be Roarke.” He grabbed Roarke’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I work on one of your 2000MTSs in EDD. What a honey. We’re crying for the 5000, but the budget, well, it sucks. I’m rebuilding an old multimedia unit at home—the Platinum 50? That baby rocks. Is that a Galactic MTS?”

“I believe it is,” Roarke murmured, cocking a brow at Eve as McNab rushed over to drool on the communication system.

“McNab, get a grip on yourself,” Eve ordered.

“Yes, sir, but this is ice.” His voice quivered. “This is a goddamn glacier. How many simultaneous tasks will it perform?”

“It’s capable of three hundred simultaneous functions.” Roarke wandered over, more to prevent McNab from playing with his equipment than to give a tour. “I’ve had it up to nearly that without any glitches.”

“What a time to be alive. Your R and D division must be paradise.”

“You can put in an application,” Eve said dryly. “Since if you don’t get your ass in there and deal with my unit, you won’t have one in EDD.”

“I’m going. You really ought to talk her into upgrading her home unit,” he told Roarke. “And that thing she works on at Central. It’s a supreme junker.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled as McNab sauntered out. “Interesting associates you have, Lieutenant.”

“If Feeney doesn’t get back soon, I’m going to shoot myself. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

“Peabody,” Roarke said quietly before she could follow Eve out. “A moment.” He stepped closer, satisfied when he heard Eve arguing with McNab in the adjoining room. “I’m in your debt.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The lieutenant, and the department, is grateful for your assistance in our investigation.”

Touched, Roarke took her hand, brought it to his lips. “Peabody, you are a jewel.”

She flushed, and her stomach fluttered pleasantly. “Yeah, well, ah . . . you were an only child, right?”

“Yes.”

“Figures. I’d better go keep Dallas from pounding on McNab. Doesn’t look good on interdepartmental memos.”

She’d barely turned when Eve’s ’link beeped—one long, two short.

“Okay.” McNab began to toy with controls on a small, portable trace unit. “That’s coming into your downtown office—bypassing main control. It’s him, yeah, it’s him. She’s jammed solid.”

“Unjam it,” Eve snapped. “Fast.” She reached for the ’link. “Block video,” she ordered. “Homicide. Dallas.”

“You were quick.” The voice flowed out, a hint of charm, a wealth of amusement. “Dear old Shawn wasn’t even cold when you found him. I’m so impressed.”

“I’ll be quicker next time.”

“If God wills it. I’m enjoying the competition, Lieutenant. And I’m coming to admire your strength of purpose. So much so that I’ve already begun the next stage. Are you up for the challenge?”

“Why don’t you play with me directly. Take me on, asshole, and let’s see who wins.”

“I follow the plan given me by a higher power.”

“It’s just a sick game to you. God has nothing to do with it.”

“I am the chosen.” He took a long breath. “I hoped you would see, I’ve wanted you to see, but your eyes are blinded to that because you’ve accepted worldly acclaim and responsibilities over the spiritual.”

She stared holes into McNab as he muttered under his breath and finessed dials. “Funny, I didn’t see anything spiritual in the way you slaughtered those two men. I’ve got one for you. From Romans, chapter two verse three. ‘Do you suppose, O man, that when you judge those who do such things and yet do them yourself, you will escape the judgment of God?” ’

“You would dare use His word against me? I am the angel of His justice, and the sword of His fury. Born and bred to deliver His verdict. Why do you refuse to see, to acknowledge?”

“I see exactly what you are.”

“One day you’ll kneel before me and weep tears of blood. You’ll know the grief and despair only a woman can know.”

Eve glanced at McNab, who was hunched over his equipment and swearing under his breath. “You think you can get to Roarke? You overestimate yourself. He’ll flick you off like a gnat. We’ve already had some good laughs over it.”

“I can rip out his heart any time I please.” The voice had changed. There was fury in it but the fury was nearly a whine.

“Prove it—he’ll meet you. Name the spot.”

There was silence for a long moment. “You think you can draw me out that way? Another Eve offering forbidden fruit? I’m not the sheep but the shepherd. I have accepted the task, I hold the staff.”

The voice wasn’t quite controlled. No, Eve thought, it was fighting for control. Temper and ego. Those were her keys inside him.

“I think you’re too much of a coward to risk it. You’re a sick, pathetic coward who probably can’t get it up unless he uses both hands.”

“Bitch, cop whore. I know what women of your kind do to a man. ‘For a harlot may be hired for a loaf of bread, but an adulteress stalks a man’s very life.” ’

“I’m getting something,” McNab whispered. “I’m getting it. Keep him talking.”

“I wasn’t offering you sex. I don’t think you’d be very good at it.”

“The harlot did. She offered her honor for her life. But God ordered her execution. His will be done.”

He has another one was all Eve could think. She may already be too late. “You’re boring me, pal. Your riddles are boring me. Why don’t we just go to the main match, you and me, and see what shakes down?”

“There will be nine before it is accomplished.” His voice grew stronger, like an evangelist’s saving souls. “A novena of vengeance. It’s not your time, but hers. Another riddle, Lieutenant, for your petty and secular mind: Pretty girls grow into pretty women, but once a whore, always a whore. They come running when the price is right. You’ll find this one in the west, in the year of her crime. How long she breathes depends on her—and you, Lieutenant. But do you really want to save a whore who once spread her legs for the man you spread them for? Your move,” he said and ended transmission.

“He’s bouncing the transmission all over hell and back. Goddamn it.” McNab shoved at his hair and flexed his fingers. “Got him on Orion, into Stockholm, up into Vegas Two, and through Sydney for Christ’s sake. I can’t pin him. He’s got me outequipped.”

“He’s in New York,” Roarke said. “The rest is smoke.”

“Yeah, well, it’s damn good smoke.”

Eve ignored McNab and concentrated on Roarke. His face was pale and set, his eyes icily blue. “You know who he has.”

“Yes. Jennie. Jennie O’Leary. I just spoke with her two days ago. She was once a barmaid in Dublin and now runs a B and B in Wexford.”

“Is that in the west of Ireland?” Even as Roarke shook his head, she was rising, skimming her fingers through her hair. “He can’t want us to go to Ireland. That can’t be right. He’s got her here, he wants us here. I don’t have any authority in Ireland, and he wants me in charge.”

“The West Side,” Peabody suggested.

“Yeah, that would fit. The West Side—in the year of her crime,” she added, looking at Roarke.

“Forty-three. Twenty forty-three.”

“West Forty-third then. That’s where we start. Let’s move, Peabody.”

“I’m going with you.” Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s arm before she could protest. “I have to. McNab, call this number.” He turned long enough to scrawl a ’link series onto a card. “Ask for Nibb. Tell him to have a 60K Track and Monitor unit and a 7500MTS sent over, along with his best tech to install it here in my wife’s office.”

“There’s no 60K T and M,” McNab objected.

“There will be in about six months. We have some test units.”

“Holy shit, 60K.” McNab nearly shuddered with delight. “I don’t need a tech. I can handle it.”

“Have him send one anyway. Tell him I want it up and running by noon.”

When he was alone, McNab looked at the card and sighed. “Money doesn’t just talk. It sings.”

Eve got behind the wheel and took off down the drive the minute the doors were shut. “Peabody, run all the flops and lc nests on West Forty-third.”

“Licensed companions? Oh, I get it.” She pulled out her personal palm computer and got to work.

“He wants her to die in a whore’s surroundings—my guess is the sleazier the better. Roarke, what do you own on West Forty-third that fits the bill?”

Another time he would have made a joke of that. He took out his own ppc and requested the data. “I own two buildings on West Forty-three. One is a restaurant with apartments above—single-family units, a hundred percent occupancy. The other is a small hotel with a public bar, projected to be refurbished.”

“Name?”

“The West Side.”

“Peabody?” Eve cut over to Seventh and headed downtown. She nipped through a red light and ignored the blast of horns and pedestrian curses. “Peabody?” she repeated.

“Working on it. Here. The West Side—that’s 522 West Forty-third. Approved for on-site alcohol consumption, private smoking booths. Attached hotel licensed companion approved. Former owner, J. P. Felix, arrested January 2058. Violation of Codes 752, 821. Operating live sex acts without a license. Operating gambling establishment without a license. Property confiscated by City of New York and auctioned September 2058. Purchased by Roarke Industries, and currently up to code.”

“Five twenty-two,” Eve muttered as she winged onto Forty-third. “Do you know the setup here, Roarke?”

“No.” In his mind he could see Jennie as he’d once known her. Pretty and bright and laughing. “One of my acquisitions staff viewed and bid on the property. I’ve only seen the paperwork.”

He looked out the window as a young boy set up a three-card monte game while his adolescent partner scanned for cops and nuisance droids. He hoped they made a killing.

“I have one of my architects working up a plan for remodeling,” he continued. “I haven’t seen them either.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Eve jerked the car to a stop, double parking in front of 522. She flipped on the NYPSD blinker, which helped her chances of finding her vehicle in one piece when she came back. “We’ll check at the front desk, see what the clerk can tell us.”

She bypassed the bar, noted grimly that the security plate on the hotel door was broken. The lobby was dim, with a single pathetic plant going from green to sickly yellow in the corner. The thick safety glass that caged in the desk was scratched and pitted. The access door was wide open. The droid on duty was out of operation.

It was easy to see why, as its body was slumped in a chair and its head sat on the counter.

“Goddamn it. He’s been here. Maybe he’s still here.” She pulled out her weapon. “We take a floor at a time, knock on doors. Anybody doesn’t answer, we go in.”

Roarke opened a drawer under the droid’s head. “Master code.” He held up the thin card. “It’ll make it easier.”

“Good. Use the stairs.”

Nearly every room on the first floor was empty. They found one groggy-eyed lc sleeping off a long night. She’d heard and seen nothing, and made her displeasure at being roused by cops obvious. On the second floor they found the remnants of a wild party, including a fistful of illegals scattered over the floor like abandoned toys.

On the graffiti-strewn stairway heading toward three, they found the child.

He was perhaps eight, thin and pale, with his toes poking out of his ragged sneakers. There was a fresh bruise under his right eye, and a scruffy gray kitten in his lap.

“Are you Dallas?” he wanted to know.

“Yeah. Why?”

“The man said I should wait for you. He gave me a two-dollar credit to wait.”

Her heart picked up rhythm as she crouched down. The aroma there told her the kid hadn’t seen bathwater in a number of days. “What man?”

“The guy who told me to wait. He said how you’d give me another two if I did, and I told you the thing.”

“What thing?”

His eyes scanned her face slyly. “He said how you’d give me another two.”

“Sure, okay.” Eve dug in her pocket, made certain to keep her tone light, her smile easy. “So, what’s the thing?” she asked as the boy took the credit and fisted it in his grubby hand.

“He said . . .” the boy closed his eyes and recited, “ ‘It’s the third but not the last. You’re quick but not too fast. No matter how much flash, no matter how much cash, no bastard son of Eire can ever escape his past. Amen.” ’ He opened his eyes and grinned. “I got it right, told him I would.”

“Good for you. You stay right here and I’ll give you another two. Peabody.” She waited until they’d reached the landing. “Take care of the kid. Call Child Protection Services, then see if you can get any kind of description out of him. Roarke, you’re with me. Third victim, third floor,” she said to herself. “Third door.”

She turned to the left, weapon raised, and knocked hard. “There’s music.” She cocked her head to try to catch the tune.

“It’s a jig. A dance tune. Jennie liked to dance. She’s in there.”

Before he could move forward, Eve threw up an arm to block him. “Stand clear. Do it.” She opened the locks and went in low.

The barmaid who had liked to dance was hanging from a cord from the stained ceiling. Her toes just brushed the surface of a wobbling stool. The cord had cut deep into her throat so that blood trickled down her breasts. It was still fresh enough to carry that copper penny smell, still fresh enough to gleam wet against white skin.

Her right eye was gone, and her fingers, bruised and bloodied from dragging at the cord, hung limp at her sides.

The music played, bright and cheerful, from a small recorder disc under the stool. The statue of the Virgin stood on the floor, her marble face turned toward violent death.

“Fucking, filthy bastard. Bloody motherfucking son of a whore.” Roarke’s vision went black with rage. He bulled forward, shoving Eve aside, nearly knocking her to her knees when she fought to muscle him back. “Get out of my way.” His eyes were sharp and cold as a drawn sword. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“No.” She did the only thing she could think of, and, countering his weight, knocked him back against the wall and rammed his elbow to his throat. “You can’t touch her. Do you understand me? You can’t touch her. She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do. This is for me. Look at me, Roarke. Look at me.”

Her voice barely punched through the thick buzzing in his head, but he dragged his eyes away from the woman hanging in the center of the room and stared into the eyes of his wife.

“You have to let me try to help her now.” She gentled her tone but kept it firm, as she would with any victim. She wanted to hold him, to lay her cheek against his, and instead kept her elbow pressed lightly to his windpipe. “I can’t let you contaminate the scene. I want you to go outside now.”

He got his breath back, though it burned his lungs. Cleared his vision, though the edges of it remained dark and dull. “He left the stool there. He stood her on the stool so that she could strain just enough to reach it with her toes. She could stay alive as long as she had the strength to reach the stool. She’d have been choking, her heart overworked, the pain burning, but she could stay alive as long as she fought for balance. She’d have fought hard.”

Eve lowered her elbow, laid her hands on his shoulders. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t your doing.”

He looked away from her, forced himself to look at an old friend. “We loved each other once,” he said quietly. “In our way. We had a careless way, but one gave the other what was needed, for a time. I won’t touch her. I’ll stay out of your way.”

When Eve stepped back, he moved to the door. He spoke now without looking at her. “I won’t let him live. Whether you find him or I do, I won’t let him live.”

“Roarke.”

He only shook his head. His eyes met hers, once, and what she read in them chilled her blood. “He’s already dead.”

She let him go, promising herself she would talk him down as soon as she could. With her eyes tightly shut, she trembled once, hard. Then she pulled out her communicator, called it in, and signaled for Peabody to bring up her field kit.

When Roarke stepped outside the building, he saw Peabody had the field kit gripped in one hand and the kid’s arm gripped in the other. Roarke thought she was wise to keep him in tow. From the look on his face he’d be unlikely to hang around now that he had four in credits in his pocket. At least he’d be unlikely to hang with a uniformed cop.

He forced himself to block the scene he’d just left from his mind and concentrate on this one. “Got your hands full there, Peabody.”

“Yeah.” She blew out a harassed breath that fluttered her razor-straight bangs. “The CPS isn’t known for being quick on its feet.” She glanced up at the building, longingly. If Eve had called for the field kit, that meant there was a scene to preserve and investigate. And she was stuck baby-sitting. “I assume it’s inadvisable to take the minor back in, so if you wouldn’t mind taking the lieutenant her kit . . .”

“I’ll mind the boy, Peabody.”

Her eyes simply lit with gratitude. “That works for me.” With more haste than tact, she handed him over. “Don’t lose him,” she warned and hustled inside.

Roarke and the boy eyed each other with cool calculation. “I’m faster,” Roarke said, easily reading the intent. “And I’ve got more experience.” Crouching, Roarke gave the kitten a scratch behind the ears. “What’s his name?”

“Dopey.”

Roarke felt a smile tug at his lips. “Not the brightest of the Seven Dwarfs, but the most pure of heart. And what’s yours?”

The boy studied Roarke cautiously. Most of the adults in his life only knew Snow White as an illegal happy powder. “Kevin,” he said and relaxed a little as Dopey was purring hard and loud under the man’s long scratching fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Kevin. I’m Roarke.”

The offer of the man’s hand to shake had Kevin giggling at once. “Meetcha.”

The foolish and lovely sound of a child’s quick giggle lightened his heart. “Think Dopey’s hungry?”

“Maybe.”

“There’s a cart down the block. Let’s check it out.”

“He likes soy dogs.” Kevin began to skip along beside Roarke, thrilled beyond belief with his new good fortune. The new bruise was a dark and ugly contrast under the pale gray eyes.

“The only sensible choice for the discriminating palate.”

“You talk fancy.”

“It’s a fine way to make people believe you’re saying something much more important than you are.”

He held the boy’s hand lightly, then let it go when the smoke from the glide-cart puffed into the air. Kevin raced happily ahead, bouncing on his toes when he reached the cart where soy dogs and turkey hash rolls were popping with heat.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come around here?” The operator started to shove Kevin aside, snarling when the boy danced expertly out of reach. “I ain’t got no freebies for dirty little boys.” She grabbed up a long-handled, dual-pronged fork, jabbing with it. “Keep pestering me and I’ll chop up that ugly cat and fry its liver.”

“I got money.” Kevin clutched his kitten tighter, but stood his ground. His stomach was rolling with distress and hunger.

“Yeah, yeah, and I shit gold turds. Go beg somewhere else, or I’ll blacken your other eye.”

Roarke stepped up, laid a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and had the operator shrinking back with one stony stare. “Can’t you decide what you’d like, Kevin?”

“She said she’s going to fry Dopey’s liver.”

“Just joking with the boy.” The operator grinned hugely, showing off teeth that screamed an abhorrence for basic dental hygiene. “I’ve always got a joke and a few tater snacks for the neighborhood kids.”

“You’re a regular fairy godmother, I imagine. Box up a half dozen soy dogs, three scoops of fries, a couple of fruit kabobs, a bag of pretzel twists, two jumbo tubes of—What’s your drink, Kevin?”

“Orange Fizzy Supreme,” Kevin managed, dumbfounded by the upcoming feast.

“Two, then, and a handful of the chocolate sticks.”

“Yes, sir, right away.” The operator went to work with a vengeance as Kevin stared up at Roarke, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Want anything else?” Roarke asked as he reached in his pocket for loose credits.

Kevin only shook his head. He’d never seen that much food in one box before. Dopey, inspired by the scents, let out a wild meow.

“Here.” Roarke pulled one of the soy dogs out, handed it to Kevin. “Why don’t you take this. Go back to the lieutenant’s car—and wait for me.”

“Okay.”

Kevin turned, took three steps, then, turning back, did something just childish enough to warm Roarke’s heart. He stuck out his tongue at the vendor then dashed off.

Roarke hefted the box of food, ignoring the operator’s oily chatter. He tossed credits onto the pay board, then stared through the smoke. “I’m in the mood to hurt someone—too much in the mood, which is why you’re still standing. But if you ever lay hands on that boy, I’ll hear about it. And it won’t be a cat’s liver that ends up on the grill. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely. Yes.” Her fingers were already snagging up credits, but her eyes stayed warily on Roarke’s. “Didn’t know the kid had a dad. Thought he was just another street brat. They’re worse than rats around here. Scavenging, making life messy for decent folk.”

“Let’s put it this way.” Roarke clamped a hand over the woman’s wrist. It took all his control not to give in to the urge to snap it like a dry twig. “It should take me about thirty seconds to walk back to where the boy’s waiting. When I get there, I’m going to turn around. I don’t want to see you here.”

“This is my corner.”

“I’d advise you to find another.” Roarke released her and hefted the box. He’d taken no more than two strides when he heard the metallic clang of the cart being moved. It was a small satisfaction. A bigger one was seeing Kevin sitting on the hood of Eve’s unit, the cat beside him, and each of them devouring half a soy dog.

Roarke joined them, set the box between him and the boy. “Dig in.”

Kevin’s hand darted toward the box then jerked back as though he was wary of a trick. “I can have anything?”

“Whatever you can stomach.” Roarke nipped out a fry for himself and noted that the cart was gone. “Is she always so unpleasant?”

“Uh-huh. The big kids call her Snitch Bitch ’cause she’s always calling the beat droid on them. She keeps a zapper in her cart, too. She was scared of you, though, and you didn’t even try to steal anything.”

Roarke took another fry, only lifting a brow as he watched Kevin mow through the chocolate. Life, he thought, was much too uncertain for some to risk saving the best for last.

“Tell me about the man who asked you to wait for Lieutenant Dallas.”

“He was just a guy.” Kevin dug out another soy dog, splitting it in two. Boy and cat ate with the same ferocious concentration and lack of finesse. Then Kevin froze as two black-and-whites turned the corner, sirens screaming. Behind them was an NYPSD crime scene van.

“They won’t hassle you,” Roarke said quietly.

“Are you a cop, too?”

Roarke’s huge, gut-level laugh had Kevin grinning uncertainly. He would have liked to have slipped his hand into Roarke’s again as the cops streamed by, but he was afraid to be thought of as a pussy. He contented himself by scooting just a little closer, and thought fleetingly that the man smelled good, almost as good as the food.

“I needed that.” Sighing hugely, Roarke ruffled the boy’s hair. “A good laugh after a miserable morning. What I am, Kevin, is a grown-up street brat. Here, drink some of this to wash that down before you choke.”

“ ’Kay.” Taking the tube, Kevin sucked up sparkling orange. “The guy, he talked like you.”

“How?”

“You know, like singing. The way the words go up and down.” He mashed a handful of fries into his mouth.

“You can take the boy out of Ireland,” Roarke murmured. “What did he look like?”

“Dunno. Kinda tall maybe.”

“Young, old?”

Kevin’s answer was a grunt and a shrug followed by a happy belch. “He musta been hot.”

“Why is that?”

“He had a big long coat on, and a hat, and a scarf thing and gloves. He smelled really sweaty.” Kevin held his nose, rolled his eyes, then, giggling, dug for more food.

“Close your eyes,” Roarke ordered and nearly smiled at the speed with which Kevin complied. “What kind of shoes am I wearing? No peeking.”

“Black ones. They’re shiny and they don’t hardly make any noise when you walk.”

“Good. What kind was he wearing?”

“Black ones, too, with the red swipe. Hightops, like the big kids want all the time. They were beat up some. They’re better when they’re beat up some.”

“Okay. What color are my eyes?”

“They’re really, really blue. Like in a picture.”

“What color were his?”

“I . . . green, I think. Sorta green, but not like Dopey’s. Maybe they were green, but they were mean. Not mean like yours were when you talked to Snitch Bitch. His were more scared mean. That’s worse, ’cause they hit you more when they’re scared mean.”

“So they do,” Roarke murmured and draped an arm around Kevin’s shoulders. “That was well done. Lieutenant Dallas would say you’d make a good cop.”

Kevin belched again, shook his head. “Shit work.”

“Often,” Roarke agreed. “Who blackened your eye, Kevin?”

He felt the boy pull back, just an inch. “Walked into something.”

“I often had that problem when I was your age. Will your mother be looking for you?”

“Nah. She works late, so she sleeps mostly. She gets pissed if I’m around when she’s sleeping.”

Gently, Roarke took the boy’s chin in his hand until their eyes met. He hadn’t saved Jennie, he thought, and would have to live with that. But there were lost children everywhere.

“Do you want to stay here, stay with her?”

To Kevin, the man’s face looked like an angel’s. He’d seen one on screen once when he’d snuck into a vid-den. “I got no place else.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you,” Roarke said quietly. “Do you want to stay here with her, or do you want to go with the CPS?”

Kevin swallowed hard. “The CPS, they put you in a box, then they sell you.”

“No, they don’t.” But it would seem like that, Roarke knew. As a child he had chosen his father’s fists over the system. “Would you like to go somewhere else entirely?”

“Can I go with you? I can work for you.”

“One day maybe.” Roarke ran a hand over the boy’s hair. “I know some people you might like. If it’s what you want I can see about having you stay with them. You can take some time to make up your minds about each other.”

“Dopey has to go, too.” Kevin would give up his mother with her unhappy eyes and quick slaps, but he wouldn’t give up the cat.

“Of course.”

Kevin bit his lip, turned his head to look up at the building. “I don’t have to go back in there?”

“No.” Not as long as money bought freedom and choices. “You don’t.”

When Eve came out onto the street she was surprised, and a little annoyed, to see Roarke and the boy were still there. They were a few yards up the street, talking with a woman. From the navy blue suit, side arm zapper, and sour expression, Eve pegged her as the social worker for this section of the city.

Why the hell isn’t she moving the boy along? Eve wondered. She’d wanted the kid and Roarke gone before the body was brought out and transferred to the morgue.

“All the bagged evidence is stowed, Dallas.” Peabody stepped up beside her. “They’re bringing the victim out now.”

“Go in and tell them to hold for five minutes.”

She started toward them, relieved when she watched the social worker walk off with the boy. To her surprise the kid turned, flashed a killer smile at Roarke, and waved.

“CPS took their time, as usual.”

“Neglected children are plentiful—and no more than a chore to some.” He turned and disconcerted her by kissing her long and deep. “And some find their way alone.”

“I’m on duty here,” she muttered, casting a quick look over her shoulder to see if they’d been observed. “You should catch a cab, go on home. I’ll be heading there shortly, but I’ve got some stuff—”

“I’ll wait.”

“Go home, Roarke.”

“She’s already dead, Eve. It won’t be Jennie they bring down in a bag, just what once contained her.”

“All right, be hardheaded.” She pulled out her communicator. “Continue transport.” Still, she did her best to distract him. “So, what were you huddled with the social worker about?”

“I had some . . . suggestions as to Kevin’s foster care facility.”

“Oh?”

“I thought Richard DeBlass and Elizabeth Barrister would do well by him.” He watched Eve’s brows draw together. “It’s been nearly a year since their daughter was murdered, since they had to deal with the cancer that had eaten away at their family. Elizabeth mentioned to me that she and Richard were thinking about adoption.”

It had been the DeBlass case that had first brought Eve and Roarke together. She thought of that now—the loss and the gain. “Life cycles, I suppose.”

Roarke saw the morgue team roll out the body bag. “What choice does it have? The boy needs a place. His mother knocks him around—when she’s around. He’s seven—at least he thinks he is. He doesn’t know his birthday.”

“How much are you . . . donating to CPS?” Eve asked dryly and made him smile.

“Enough to ensure the boy gets his chance.” He touched Eve’s hair. “There are too many children who end up broken in alleys, Eve. We have personal experience there.”

“You get involved, it’s your heart that gets broken.” But she sighed. “A lot of good it does to tell you when you’ve already made up your mind. He had a great smile,” she added.

“He did.”

“I’ll have to interview him. Since you’re going to see that he gets shipped off to Virginia, I’d better put it higher on my list.”

“I don’t think you’ll need him. He told me everything he knew.”

“He told you?” Her mouth went grim, her eyes hot and hard. Her cop look, Roarke thought with admiration—and a surprising tug of pure lust. “You questioned him? Goddamn it, you questioned him about an open case? A minor, without parental permission or a CPS rep present? What the hell were you thinking of?”

“A young boy—and a girl I once loved.”

Eve hissed out a breath and tried to pace off the worst of the heat. After two swings up and down the sidewalk, she felt more controlled. “You know damn well I can’t use anything you got. And if the kid opens his mouth about talking to you, we’re in hip-deep shit. The primary investigator is married to you, the prime suspect is in your employ and has your friendship and loyalty. Anything you got the kid to say is tainted.”

“And well aware you would take precisely that view, I took the precaution of recording the entire conversation.” From his pocket he drew a microrecorder. “You’re welcome to take it into evidence, and you yourself have witnessed that I haven’t had the time or opportunity to doctor it.”

“You recorded your conversation, with a minor, on an open homicide case.” She threw up her hands. “That caps it.”

“You’re welcome,” he retorted. “And though you may be reluctant to take it into evidence—though I have no doubt you could get around the letter of the law there—I don’t believe you’re stubborn enough to ignore it.”

Seething, she snatched the recorder out of his hand and jammed it into her pocket. “First chance I get, very first chance, I’m heading to midtown and horning in on one of your board meetings.”

“For you, darling Eve, my door is always open.”

“We’ll see if you say that with a smile when I fuck up one of your billion-dollar mergers.”

“If I can watch, it would be worth it.” Still smiling, he took something else out of his pocket and offered it. “Here, I saved you a chocolate stick—which was, under the circumstances, no easy task.”

She frowned at it. “You think you can bribe me with candy?”

“I know your weaknesses.”

She took it, yanked down the wrapper, and bit in. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I’m devastated.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m taking you home,” she said over the next bite. “And you’re staying out of my way while I talk to Summerset.”

“If you’ll listen to the recording, you’ll see that the man Kevin described wasn’t Summerset.”

“Thank you for your input, but I’ll just muddle along here. The chances of me getting the commander to take the word of a seven-year-old kid—who no doubt had chocolate breath—over hard evidence is just slightly less likely than me dancing naked in Times Square.”

She started off at a loping stride. “If Times Square intimidates you,” Roarke began, “perhaps you could practice the naked dancing at home.”

“Oh, bite me.”

“Darling, I’d love to, but you’re on duty.”

“Get in the goddamn car.” She jerked a thumb at Peabody, who was currently doing her best to pretend she was deaf and blind.

“Please, Eve, these public displays of affection must stop. I have a reputation.”

“Keep it up, ace, and I’ll give you a public display of affection that’ll have you limping for a week.”

“Now I’m excited.” Smiling, Roarke opened the front passenger door, gestured to Peabody.

“Ah, why don’t I sit in the back?” Where it’s safer, she thought.

“Oh, no, I insist. She probably won’t hurt you,” he murmured in Peabody’s ear as she ducked in front of him.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“Just be grateful I don’t put up the cage,” Eve snapped when Roarke settled in to the backseat.

“I am. Constantly.”

“Was that a snicker, Peabody?” Eve demanded as she pulled away from the curb.

“No, sir. It’s, ah, allergies. I’m allergic to marital disputes.”

“This isn’t a marital dispute. I’ll let you know when I’m having a marital dispute. Here.” She shoved the last of the chocolate stick at Peabody. “Eat that and keep it buttoned.”

“You bet.”

Still fired, Eve’s eyes met Roarke’s in the rearview mirror. “And you better hope Summerset has an alibi for this morning.”

He didn’t, and all Eve could do was pull at her hair. “What do you mean you went out?”

“As usual I rose at five A.M. and went out for my morning constitutional. As it was market day, I then returned, took one of the vehicles, and drove out to the Free-Agers’ market for fresh produce.”

Eve sat down on the arm of a chair in the main parlor. “Didn’t I tell you not to leave the house, not to go anywhere alone?”

“I’m not in the habit of taking orders on my personal routine, Lieutenant.”

“Your personal routine is going to include group showers where even your bony ass will get plenty of attention if you don’t start listening to me.”

His jaw muscles fluttered. “I don’t appreciate your crudeness.”

“And I don’t appreciate your bitchiness, but we’re both stuck. This morning at approximately nine A.M., the body of Jennie O’Leary was discovered, hanged at a location on West Forty-third.”

The high color fury had brought to his cheeks drained. He reached out blindly for support when his knees buckled. Through the buzzing in his head, he thought he heard someone swearing bitterly. Then he was being pushed into a chair and a glass was pressed to his lips.

“Just drink,” Eve ordered, thoroughly shaken. “Drink it down, get a grip, because if you faint on me, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

It had the effect, as she’d hoped, of snapping him back. “I’m perfectly fine. I was simply shocked for a moment.”

“You knew her.”

“Of course I knew her. She and Roarke were close for a time.”

“And now she’s dead.” Eve’s voice was flat, but her heart settled back into place as she scanned Summerset’s face and judged him composed again. “You’d better be able to take me through every step—where you were, what you did, who you saw, who you spoke with, how many goddamn apples you bought. Right now I’m the best friend you have in the world.”

“If that’s the case, Lieutenant, I believe I’d like to call my lawyer.”

“Fine, great, you do that. Why not fuck it up all the way?” She whirled away to stride around the room. “You listen to me. I’m going out on a limb here because you matter to him. The evidence against you is only circumstantial, but it’s piling up. There’ll be pressure from the media, which translates into pressure on the department. The PA’s going to want to tag someone, and the pile’s just big enough on you for orders to come down to hold you for questioning. It’s not enough to book you, not yet.”

She paused, frowning into middle distance. “But once the PA comes aboard, there’s a very strong chance they’ll pull me off. Either way, I figure we got another week, tops, to nail this down. After that, you’re likely to be dealing with another cop.”

Summerset considered, nodded. “Better the devil you know.”

With a nod, Eve took out her recorder, set it on a table between them, then sat. “Let’s do it, then.”

“I bought a half bushel of apples, by the way.” He very nearly smiled, making Eve blink in surprise. “We’ll be having pie.”

“Yum,” she said.

Ninety minutes later, Eve carried her discs and a screaming headache up to her office. She nearly groaned when she spotted McNab lounging at her desk, his feet up, ankles crossed to show off flower-patterned socks.

“Make yourself at home, Detective.” To accent the invitation, she gave his feet a hard shove.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Just taking a little break.”

“I’m up against the wall, McNab, which means your butt’s right up there with mine. We don’t have time for little breaks. Where’s Peabody?”

“She’s using one of the other rooms in this castle to run your latest victim, and performing other official acts. Tell me, is she really all regulation, or does some of it come off with her uniform?”

Eve walked over to the AutoChef, ordered coffee, hot and black. “Are you considering an attempt to divest Officer Peabody of her uniform, McNab?”

“No. No.” He stood up so quickly the quartet of silver wands in his ear clanged together musically. “No,” he said for a third time. “It was a matter of some curiosity. She’s not my type.”

“Then why don’t we dispense with the inappropriate chatter, and get down to work?”

He rolled his eyes behind Eve’s back. As far as he could tell, both female officers were ear high in regulations. “The equipment Roarke had sent over is beyond mag,” he began. “It took some time to get it installed and programmed, but I’ve got it doing an auto search and trace on the incoming from this morning. Oh, nearly forgot, you had a couple of ’link transmissions come through while you were out.”

Helpfully, he punched in Recall. “Nadine Furst, she wants a meet asap. And Mavis, no last name given. She says she’ll be coming by tonight.”

“Why, thank you for taking such an interest in my personal communications.”

He let the sarcasm pass. “No problem. So this Mavis, she’s a pal of yours, huh?”

“And she cohabitates with a guy who could break you into very small pieces one-handed.”

“Well, scratch that. So, maybe I could get some lunch while I wait for—” He broke off when the trace unit began to send out high beeps. “Solid.” He all but leaped behind the desk, tossed his flowing tail of hair over his shoulder, and began to whistle as paper spilled out of the machine. “Clever bastard, damn clever. Bounced the waves all over hell and back again twice. Zurich, Moscow, Des Moines for Christ’s sake, Regis Six, Station Utopia, Birmingham. Gotta love it.”

She’d seen that exact adoring gleam in Feeney’s eyes and understood it to be a side effect of working in EDD. “I don’t care where it was bounced to, McNab, where did it bounce from?”

“It’s coming, it’s coming. Even technology needs a patient hand. New York. Originates in New York. You called it, Lieutenant.”

“Fine it down. Get me an address.”

“Working on it.” He flapped his hands behind him where Eve hovered. “Give me some room here, though I’d like to mention you smell terrific. Origin of traced transmission New York City, find zone.”

Tracking . . . estimated time to complete, eight minutes, fifteen seconds.

“Begin. I could use a burger. Got any stocked?”

Eve struggled to find patience. “How do you want it?”

“Rare. A slice of provolone and plenty of mustard—poppy seed roll, pasta salad on the side, and a cup of that wicked coffee.”

Eve drew a breath in, let a breath out. “What?” she said sweetly. “No dessert?”

“Now that you mention it, how about—”

“Lieutenant.” Peabody hurried into the room. “I’ve got the data on the last victim.”

“In the kitchen, Peabody, I’m fixing the detective his lunch.”

The killing look Peabody aimed at McNab was answered with a cheeky grin.

“How much longer before Feeney gets back?” Peabody wanted to know.

“One hundred and two hours and twenty-three minutes. But who’s counting the time?” Eve programmed the AutoChef for McNab’s choices. “What have you got?”

“Victim departed Shannon airport yesterday on a four P.M. transport. Arrived Kennedy-Europa annex at one P.M. EST. She checked into the Palace at approximately two o’clock, into a prepaid suite. It was booked and paid through Roarke Industries.”

“Fuck it.”

“At four, the victim left the hotel. I haven’t been able to track a cab company who picked her up. Got the name of the doorman who was on duty. He’ll be back on in about an hour. The victim left the key to her room at the concierge station. She never picked it back up.”

“Have them block off her room—no one goes in. Get a uniform to stand until we get over there.”

“Already done.”

Eve pulled McNab’s lunch out. “Get yourself something to eat. It’s going to be a long day.”

Peabody sniffed at the burger. “Maybe McNab has taste in something. I’ll have one of them. Want anything?”

“Later.” Eve walked back into the office, dropped the plate on the desk. “Progress.”

“Got the zone nailed, it’s searching for sector. We’re closing in.” He hefted the burger one-handed, bit in heartily. “God love us,” he managed over a full mouth. “From a real cow or I’m a Frenchman. Better than mother’s milk. Want a bite?”

“I’ll pass. McNab, aren’t all those earrings heavy on the lobe? You keep adding them on, you’re going to start walking on a slant.”

“Fashion demands a heavy price. Here she comes. Zone five, yeah, yeah, sector A-B.” With a hand studded with rings, he shoved his plate off the chart he had spread over the desk. “That puts us”—his limber fingers trailed over the chart, stopped—“just about here. Here,” he said, raising his gaze to Eve. “Right about where I’m sitting eating this really remarkable cow burger.”

“That’s wrong.”

“I’ll run it again, but it’s telling me the transmission originated in this house, or on the grounds. This place takes up this entire sector.”

“Run it again,” she ordered and turned away.

“Yes, sir.”

“McNab, what’s the error probability on that unit?”

He fiddled with the red ribbon he wore as a tie. “Less than one percent.”

She pressed her lips together and turned back. “I want to know if you can bury this for a while. I don’t want a report going into Central on this data until I can . . . until I pursue another avenue of the investigation. Are you able to comply with that?”

Watching her, McNab sat back. “You’re the primary, Dallas. I figure it’s your call. This kind of data’s tricky, gets lost really easily. Takes some time to uncover it again.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I appreciate the burger. I’ll go back over the steps, see what pops. Feeney says you’re the best, and he ought to know. You figure there’s something off, maybe there is. And if there is, I’m good enough to find it.”

“I’ll count on that. Peabody?”

“Sir, just coming.” Loaded with a plate, Peabody started out.

“Bag that if you’re hungry and saddle up. We’re back on the clock.”

“Just give me a—” But since she was already talking to Eve’s back, Peabody dropped the plate in front of McNab. “Enjoy.”

“I will. See you, She-Body.” He wiggled his eyebrows when she turned and glared at him. And let out a little sigh when she stalked out. “Sure is built,” he murmured, then pushed up his sleeves and got back to work.

“Recorder on, Peabody.”

Eve signaled the uniform to step away from the door, then used the master code to access the locks. She entered a parlor, lush and spacious, with a bank of fresh flowers in brilliant whites and blues sweeping beneath a waist-high wall of windows.

The spires and spears of New York rose beyond it, with the air traffic light and meandering. The blasting billboards that populated the West Side were banned here in the more exclusive Upper East.

Typical of most things Roarke owned, the hotel suite was beautifully appointed—thick cushions covered with jewel-toned silks and brocades, highly polished woods, carpet deep enough to wade in. An enormous basket of fruit and a bottle of sauvignon blanc, likely a welcome-to-the-Palace staple, sat on the pond sized coffee table.

The fruit had been riffled through, the wine opened. Jennie had had a few moments to enjoy the luxury, Eve thought, before she’d been lured away to death.

As far as Eve could see, nothing else had been disturbed. The entertainment and communication center was still discreetly tucked behind a silk screen of tropical birds, and the mood screen covering most of one wall was blank.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve and Peabody, Officer Delia commencing search of victim O’Leary’s suite in Palace Hotel. We’ll start in the bedroom, Peabody.”

Eve crossed over and entered a room where the sunlight filled a trio of windows and the peacock blue spread on a huge platform bed was neatly turned down for the night. Gold-foiled mints rested on plump pillows.

“Make a note to track down the maid who was on duty last night for this room. See what she touched, what she noticed.” As she spoke, Eve moved to the closet. Inside were three blouses, two pair of slacks, one day dress in plain blue cotton, and a cocktail suit in cream of an inexpensive fabric blend. Two pair of shoes were neatly lined beneath.

Routinely Eve checked the pockets, the inside of the shoes, ran a hand over the top shelf. “Nothing here. Dresser drawers?”

“Underwear, hose, a cotton nightgown, and a small black evening bag, beaded.”

“She brought her best party dress.” Eve brushed her hand over the flounced hem of the cocktail suit. “And never got the chance to wear it. She took the time to unpack—single suitcase in closet—brought enough clothes for three or four days. Jewelry?”

“I haven’t found any so far.”

“She might have carried it with her. She’d have had something special for her evening wear. Run her ’link for incoming and outgoing. I’ll check the bath.”

The bath offered a jet tub big enough to party in. A bottle of the hotel’s complimentary bath foam sat on the lip. So she’d used the tub, Eve mused. It would have been hard to resist, she imagined, and Jennie had been waiting for contact.

Nervous? Eve wondered. Yes, she’d have been a little nervous. She hadn’t seen Roarke for some time. She’d have worried about how she’d changed, aged, what he would see when they met again.

A woman would always worry about what a man like Roarke saw when he looked at her. They’d been lovers, she mused, studying the tidily arranged toiletries and cosmetics on the shell pink counter. Jennie would remember the way he’d touched her, the way he’d tasted. A woman wouldn’t forget the power of a lover like Roarke.

And if she’d been human she would have wondered—hoped that he would touch her again. Had she submerged herself in that fragrant, frothy water imagining that?

Of course she had.

They’d been friends as well. Sharing laughs, perhaps secrets and dreams. They’d been young together, and foolish together. That was a link that was never completely broken.

And he’d summoned her, asked her to fly across an ocean.

She hadn’t hesitated.

She’d known there was trouble, but she’d dropped everything and come, and had waited. And had died.

“Dallas?”

Eve shook herself, turned to Peabody. “What?”

“Nothing on the ’link, but I had the fax replay transmissions. You’ll want to see this.”

The minifax was tucked inside a small, slanttop desk. It hummed patiently, waiting the next command. Peabody picked up the single sheet of paper it had spilled out and handed it to Eve.

Jennie, my dear,

Roarke wishes to convey his thanks for you agreeing to make this unexpected trip. We hope it hasn’t caused you any great inconvenience. We trust your rooms are satisfactory. If you have any needs or desires that haven’t been met, you have only to contact the concierge.

You’re aware Roarke is concerned for your welfare. It’s vital that he speak with you privately, and without the knowledge of the woman he chose to marry. He has information he wants to pass on to you as soon as possible. It’s imperative that you meet him, and that you tell no one, not even those you trust, where you’re going. Please go to the corner of Fifth and Sixty-second at fiveP.M. A black sedan with New York plates and a uniformed driver will meet you. The driver will escort you and has full instructions.

Forgive the intrigue, Jennie. A man in Roarke’s position must be discreet. We ask that you destroy this communication.

Yours,

Summerset

“Clever boy,” Eve murmured. “He gives her enough to be sure she goes along. He tells her to get rid of the copy of the fax, but he doesn’t tell her to wipe the machine. He has to figure we’ll check it, and he wants us to find this.”

“It’s still circumstantial.” Peabody frowned at the communication. “Anybody can send a fax, put any name on it. He’s blocked the return code.”

“Yeah, on the hard copy, but I’ll bet a year’s pay that when we hand the unit over to McNab, he finesses the code, and that the code matches one of Roarke’s fax lines. Bag it,” she ordered, passing the sheet to Peabody. “Our boy drove the pickup car, waltzed her right into the room on the West Side. Then he took her down, physically or with drugs. The ME will tell us that part. Then he took his time setting it up. Everything he needs is in the car. Maybe he owns it, maybe he rented it. Slim chance he boosted it for the day, but we’ll check on reports of stolen black sedans.”

She paused, took a slow survey of the room again. “Calling the sweepers in here’s a waste of the taxpayers’ money, but we’ll go by the book. I’ll call it in, and run the sedan for what it’s worth. You take the minifax to McNab at my home office. I’ll meet you there when I can.”

“Where are you going?”

“To ask another favor,” Eve said as she walked out.

It was waiting to rain, and the air was moist and cool, the wind freshening. A few stubborn mums continued to bloom, adding unexpected splashes of color and scent. There was a fountain where water bubbled over the petals and stems of copper and brass water lilies. Well across the rolling lawn and sheltered by tall trees stood the big stone house, glowing in the dimming afternoon sun.

Dr. Mira sighed. Such a place was built for peace and power, she thought. She wondered how often Eve settled for the first, how often she allowed herself to enjoy it.

“I’ve been expecting your call,” she began, watching as Eve stared at the house. “I heard about the third murder.”

“Her name was Jennie O’Leary. It sounds like a song, doesn’t it?” Surprised that she’d said such a thing, Eve shook her head. “She and Roarke were friends. More than friends once.”

“I see. And the other two victims, they were both from Ireland?”

“He knew them, all of them.” She made herself turn.

Mira was tidy, as always, though the wind was fluttering her short, soft brown hair. Her suit was a deep green today, a change from the usual quiet colors she wore. Her eyes were patient and filled with compassion. And understanding.

Eve thought she looked every bit as efficient here, sitting on a stone bench under the denuded branches of an oak, as she did in her elegant office. She was the best criminal and behavioral psychologist New York, and possibly the country, had to offer.

“I appreciate you agreeing to meet me here.”

“I remember the grounds from your wedding.” Mira smiled. It was difficult to nudge Eve over that first hurdle and into trust. “It’s a magnificent space. Carefully planned, lovingly tended.”

“I don’t get out here much, I guess.” Feeling awkward, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “I forget to look out the windows when I’m working here.”

“You’re a focused individual, Eve. That’s why you’re an excellent cop. You don’t come out here often, but I have no doubt you could describe the grounds exactly. You observe instinctively.”

“Cop’s eyes.” Eve shrugged. “Curse or blessing, who knows?”

“You’re troubled.” Her feelings for Eve always went beyond the professional and tugged at Mira’s heart. “Are you going to let me help?”

“It’s not me. It’s not about me.”

But Mira thought it was, partly. The woman inside the cop was disturbed at facing the dead that Roarke had once been intimate with. “Then you’re sleeping well? Undisturbed.”

“Mostly.” Eve turned away again. She didn’t want to delve into that area. Mira was one of the few people who knew the details of her past, the memories that came swimming back unexpectedly, the nightmares that plagued and terrified. “Let’s let that rest, okay?”

“All right.”

“I’m worried about Roarke.” She hadn’t meant to say it, and regretted it instantly. “That’s personal,” she continued, turning around again. “I didn’t ask you to meet me to discuss that.”

Didn’t you? Mira thought, but only nodded. “Why did you ask me to meet you?”

“I need a consult on the case. I need a profile. I need help.” The discomfort of her position showed in anger in her eyes. “I didn’t want to do this in official surroundings because I’m going to ask you to skirt some of the rules. You’re under no obligation to do so, and I’ll understand perfectly if you not only refuse but decide to report this request.”

Mira’s expression, mild and interested, didn’t alter by a blink. “Why don’t you explain the situation to me, Eve, and let me make up my own mind?”

“The three murders are connected, and the probability that they’re linked to a . . . series of events that took place several years ago is high. The motive is revenge. It’s my opinion that Roarke is primary target and that Summerset is being used to get to him. There’s circumstantial evidence attached to each murder that points to Summerset, and that evidence is piling up along with the bodies. If I believed he was responsible I’d close the cage door on him myself without a minute’s regret, no matter what he means to Roarke. But it’s a setup, cleverly planned and executed, and just obvious enough to be insulting to my intelligence.”

“You’d like me to do a profile on the killer, and examine Summerset for violent tendencies, unofficially.”

“No, I want those official. Black and white, by the book. I want to be able to turn them in to Whitney. I haven’t given him a hell of a lot else.”

“I’ll be happy to do both. You’ve only to clear it with your commander, get me the data. I can shift it to priority for you.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“And the rest?”

Eve’s palms went damp. Impatient, she swiped them on the thighs of her slacks. “I have information that is vital to the investigation, and your profile, that I can’t—no, that I won’t—record in full. I’ll only share this information with you under the scope of doctor-patient confidentiality. That protects you, doesn’t it?”

Mira lifted her hands, folded her fingers. “Anything you tell me as a patient is privileged. I can’t report it.”

“And you’re protected? Personally, professionally?” Eve insisted.

“I am, yes. How many people are you determined to protect here, Eve?”

“The ones who matter.”

Mira smiled now, a full bloom. “Thank you.” She held out a hand. “Sit, and tell me.”

Eve hesitated, then took the hand Mira offered. “You . . . when I remembered what had happened to me in that room in Dallas. When I remembered my father coming in drunk, raping me again, hurting me again. When I remembered killing him that night, and I told you, you said it was pointless, even wrong, to punish the child. You said”—she had to clear her throat—“you said I’d killed a monster, and that I’d made myself into something worthwhile, something I had no right to destroy because of what I’d done before.”

“You don’t still doubt that?”

Eve shook her head, though there were times, there were still times she doubted it. “Did you mean it? Do you really believe there are times, there are circumstances when taking the life of a monster is justified?”

“The state believed so until less than two decades ago when capital punishment was, yet again, abolished.”

“I’m asking you, as a person, a doctor, a woman.”

“Yes, I believe it. To survive, to protect your life or the life of another.”

“Only in self-defense?” Eve’s eyes were intense on Mira’s, reading every flicker. “Is that the only justification?”

“I couldn’t generalize in such a manner, Eve. Each circumstance, each person goes to defining the situation.”

“It used to be black and white for me,” Eve said quietly. “The law.” She held up one fist. “The breaking of it.” Then the other. On a long breath, she tapped the two fists together, held them close. “Now . . . I need to tell you about Marlena.”

Mira didn’t interrupt. She asked no questions, made no comments. It took Eve twenty minutes to tell it all. She was thorough, and made the effort to be dispassionate. Facts only, without opinion. And when she was finished, she was drained.

They sat in silence, while a few birds chattered, the fountain gurgled, and bruised clouds drifted over the sun.

“To lose a child that way,” Mira commented at length. “There is nothing worse to be faced. I can’t tell you the men who did that to her deserved to die, Eve. But I can tell you, as a woman, as a mother, that if she had been my child, I would have celebrated their deaths, and I would have sworn my gratitude to their executioner. That isn’t scientific, it isn’t the law. But it’s human.”

“I don’t know if I’m shielding Roarke because I believe what he did was justice or because I love him.”

“Why can’t it be both? Oh, you complicate things, Eve.”

“I complicate things.” She nearly laughed, and pushed up from the bench. “I have three murders that I can’t investigate in an open, logical manner unless I want to see my husband locked away for the rest of this life. I’ve involved my aide, an e-detective I barely know, and you in the duplicity, and I’m busting my ass to keep that idiot Summerset out of lockup. And I complicate things.”

“I’m not saying circumstances aren’t complicated, but there’s no reason for you to internalize as much as you do. There’s no need to try to segregate your heart from your intellect.”

Mira brushed a speck of dust from her skirt and spoke briskly. “Now, from my end of it, I’d think it best if you make an official request for Summerset to be examined. In my office, tomorrow if possible. I’ll do a complete testing scan and copy the results to you and Commander Whitney. If you can get me the data—official and otherwise—on your killer, I’ll begin a profile right away.”

“The unofficial data can’t be included in your workup.”

“Eve.” Now Mira laughed, a light, musical sound as charming as the fountain. “If I’m not skilled enough to slide such things into a psychiatric profile without being specific, then I’d best turn in my license to practice. Believe me, you’ll have your profile, and, if you’ll forgive me, it’s highly unlikely my work will be questioned by anyone.”

“I need it fast. He doesn’t wait long between rounds.”

“I’ll have it to you as quickly as possible. Accuracy is every bit as important as speed. Now, on a personal level, would you like me to speak with Roarke?”

“Roarke?”

“I can read through even your closely guarded lines, Eve. You’re worried about him. About his emotional state. You think he blames himself.”

“I don’t know if he would talk to you. I don’t know how he’s going to feel about the fact that I’ve told you all this. Emotionally, he’ll cope.” She began to worry her wedding ring around and around her finger with her thumb. “My more immediate concern is his safety. I can’t predict when the last round’s coming. All I know is that Roarke’s the finale.”

Eve shook that off, knowing that fear would cloud her thinking. “If you’d come in now, I’ll give you what I have, and we’ll pin Summerset for testing tomorrow.”

“All right.” Mira rose and to Eve’s surprise hooked arms with her. “And I’d love a cup of tea.”

“I’m sorry, I should have thought. I’m lousy at the hostess thing.”

“I’d hoped we’d progressed beyond the point of hostess and guest and into friendship. Look, isn’t that Mavis and her gentle giant getting out of a cab at your front door?”

Eve looked over. Who else but Mavis Freestone would be decked out in pink leather and green feathers on a weekday evening? Beside her, Leonardo looked huge and magnificent in an ankle skimming robe the color of good bordeaux. As fond as she was of both of them, Eve gusted out a sigh.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with them?”

“I’d say you’re going to take a short break and be entertained.” With a laugh, Mira lifted an arm in a wave. “I know I am.”

“So, you know, like this is all so bogus in the extreme.” Mavis helped herself to a glass of wine, gesturing with it as she clicked around the room on four-inch heels. Tiny golden fish swam within their clear spikes. “Leonardo and me, we’ve caught most of the deets on the screen. I’d’ve been by before.” She gulped wine, gestured again. “But I’ve got gigs scheduled back-to-back to prep for the recording session next month.”

“She’s magnificent.” Leonardo beamed at her, his wide, golden face glowing with love.

“Oh, Leonardo.” She wrapped her arms around him, as far as they would go. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true. Turtle dove.”

She giggled, then spun around, the feathers decorating her breasts and shoulders fluttering. “So, anyhow, we came to give Summerset our moral support.”

“I’m sure he appreciates it.” Since she could see no immediate escape, Eve reached for the wine herself. “Dr. Mira?”

“I’ll wait for the tea, thank you. Mavis, is that one of Leonardo’s designs you’re wearing?”

“Absolutely. Frigid, isn’t it?” She turned a circle in a flourish and had her currently lavender locks bouncing. “You should see the mag rags he’s got going for spring. He’s got a show in Milan coming up.”

“I’d love to show you a preview of my corporate woman line, Dr. Mira,” Leonardo offered.

“Well . . .” Mira ran her tongue around her teeth, eyeing Mavis’s feathers, then, catching Eve’s exaggerated eye roll, chuckled. “I don’t know if I’m as creative a model as Mavis.”

“Just a different style.” Leonardo’s smile was sweet and guileless. “You’d want classic lines, cool colors. I have some marvelous linen in a dusky pink that would be perfect for you.”

“Dusky pink,” Mira repeated, intrigued.

“Leonardo does the conservative jazz really well,” Mavis chimed in. “Sexy lady of the manor, you know.”

“I might just have a look at that.” Sexy lady of the manor, Mira thought and smiled.

“There he is!” Mavis made a leap forward as Summerset rolled in a cart laden with a tea service, neat squares of apple pie, and rounds of frosted cakes. His color rose when Mavis locked herself and her feathers around him. “We’re behind you, Summerset. Don’t you worry about a thing. Eve’s the best there is. She took care of everything when I was in trouble. She’ll look out for you.”

“I’m sure the lieutenant will settle the matter.” His gaze flicked to Eve. “One way or the other.”

“Come on, lighten the load.” Mavis squeezed him. “Have a drink. Want some wine?”

His eyes softened as his gaze returned to Mavis’s eager face. “Thank you, but I have duties.”

“He doesn’t know if he wants to pat her head or jump her bones,” Eve muttered to Mira, causing the doctor to muffle a laugh into a cough.

“Roarke will be down momentarily,” Summerset continued. “He’s completing an interstellar transmission.”

Mavis caught up to him in the hall, tugged on his arm until he stopped and turned. “Listen, I know what you’re feeling. Been there, you know.” She offered a quick, crooked smile. “When I was scared, when they put me in a cage and part of me thought they’d just leave me there, forever, you know, I got through it because I knew Dallas wouldn’t let it happen. I knew she’d do it for me, no matter what it took.”

“Her affection for you is one of her finest qualities.”

“And you figure because the two of you don’t rub smooth she’ll let things slide?” Her eyes, colored to match her hair were round and sad. “That’s jerk thinking, Summerset. Dallas’ll work till she drops to do right by you, and I figure you know it. If somebody came after you, she’d step between and take the hit, because that’s who she is. I figure you know that, too.”

“I’ve done nothing.” He spoke stiffly now, refusing to acknowledge any shame. “I would expect an efficient detective to deduce that, whatever her personal feelings.”

“You’re down,” Mavis said gently. “You want to ventilate sometime, just give me a call.” She teetered onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll bring the brew.”

“Your young man is very fortunate in you,” Summerset managed then hurried down the hallway and disappeared through an open door.

“That was well done, Mavis.” Roarke continued down the steps now and crossed to her to take her hands.

“He’s bummed flat. Who can blame him?”

“And who could stay flat with you around?”

“It’s like my mission to bubble things up. Let’s see what we can do with the group in the parlor.” She slid a smile up at him. “Am I staying for dinner?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Despite the company, Eve managed to slip away long enough to dismiss McNab and Peabody, gather their reports and file them for later view. She cornered Summerset and, after a nasty little conversation, convinced him it would be in his best interest to report to Dr. Mira’s office at eleven A.M. for testing.

At the end of it, her head throbbed badly enough for her to resort to a dose of painkiller. Roarke found her in the bathroom, scowling at the pills palmed in her hand.

“It must be unbearable, for you to even consider a pill.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said with a shrug, and dumped the pills back into their tube. “But I can handle it.”

“We’ll run a bath. You need to relax.”

“I’ve got work.”

“Eve.” Firmly, he took her arms, turned her to face him. “This is the part of your job I hate most. The shadows it puts under your eyes, and in them.”

“I don’t have a lot of time on this one.”

“Time enough to take an hour for yourself.” Still watching her, he began to rub at the knots in her shoulders.

“I have to read the reports, extrapolate from them for the official record. I keep hitting walls.” There were nerves in her voice, and hearing them irritated her. “I haven’t been able to trace the tokens at all, and you hit it on the statue. Thousands of them available at God shops all over the known universe. Even at five hundred credits a pop, she’s a popular lady.”

She started to pull back, but his hands held her still. “I have to give Whitney something by tomorrow. I told Mira everything.”

His hands paused, a fraction of a moment, then continued kneading her muscles. “I see.”

“Maybe I should have asked you first, but I did what I felt was necessary.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing.” This time she shrugged him off. “I’m saying.” She stalked into the bedroom. Even excellent coffee could start to burn a hole in the gut. Despite it, Eve jammed at the AutoChef to program a pot. “I’m doing what needs to be done, and one of those duties is to advise you to increase your personal security until this case is closed.”

“I believe my security is more than adequate.”

“If that was the case, this bastard wouldn’t have slipped through it to shoot transmissions from this house, to arrange for hotel rooms with one of your credit accounts, to draw a woman over from Ireland in your name.”

Roarke angled his head, nodded. “Point taken. I’ll have a look, personally, at my electronic security.”

“Fine, that’s a start.” She slopped coffee into a cup. “I’m putting a tag on Summerset.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m tagging him.” The fury was bubbling, couldn’t be stopped. “For his own welfare. The next time I find a body, I want him well alibied. I put a tag on him, fit him with a security bracelet, or cage him. I figure the first is the easiest choice.”

“Perhaps it is.” Roarke decided brandy would go down easier than coffee. “And do you intend to put a tag on me, Lieutenant?”

“If I thought one could stick, damn right I would. Since you’d peel it off within an hour, it would be a waste of time.”

“Well.” He lifted his snifter in salute. “We understand each other.”

“I think we do.” She drew a breath. “I contacted the ME. There were traces of a tranq in Jennie O’Leary’s system.”

Roarke stared into his brandy. “Had she been raped?”

“No, there were no signs of sexual assault, no indication of struggle. She was still tranq’d when he strung her up. But the token—there was another token—the ME found it in her vagina. Again, there was no bruising or indication of force or struggle. It would appear that the token was inserted while she was unconscious. I’m sorry, but I thought you’d want the details.”

“I do, yes.”

“The ME reports that you’ve requested—as the victim has no next of kin—to be given possession of the body when it’s released.”

“She’d want to go back to Ireland.”

“I assume you’ll take the body back yourself.”

“Yes.”

The burn in her gut spread to her heart. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when you’ve finalized your plans.”

He looked up then, and the emotions swimming in those beautiful eyes stabbed her heart. “Did you think I would send her back alone? That I would wash my hands of it and go about my business?”

“No. I’ve got work.”

“For Christ’s sake.”

It was the tone, impatience, frustration, and just a whiff of amusement that had her whirling on him. “Don’t take that line with me, pal. Don’t try to make me feel like an idiot. You loved her. Okay, fine. Do what you have to do, and so will I.”

He was swearing viciously by the time he caught her. Even the whiff of amusement was extinguished. “Yes, I loved her, and what we once had was important to me. Even so it wasn’t so much as a shadow against what I feel for you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Shame rushed over her, smothering temper. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s all pushing into my head.” Feeling helpless, she lifted her fingers to press at her temples. “None of the others mattered because . . . I don’t know, they just don’t matter to me. She does, and I hate myself for being jealous, even for a minute, of a dead woman.”

“Eve.” He laid a hand on her cheek. “From the first moment I met you, every other woman paled for me.”

She only felt more foolish. “I wasn’t groping, it’s just—”

“You’re all,” he murmured, touching his lips to each pounding temple in turn. “You’re only.”

The burning around her heart turned to an ache, sweet and strong. “I need you.” Her arms came tight around him, her mouth fused to his. “For so many things.”

“Thank God.” He deepened the kiss, gentled it until she sighed. “We’ll take that hour now. Together.”

She could think again. Until she’d met Roarke, Eve hadn’t realized how many benefits sex had to offer. Feeling limber, focused, and energized, she settled down in her office.

The new computer Roarke had arranged to have installed that morning was a beauty. Eve indulged herself, admiring it, tinkering with the tonal qualities. Her mood lifted even higher as it gobbled up the data she inputed like a hungry, yet well-mannered wolf.

“Oh, you honey,” she murmured and stroked its sleek, stylishly black armor. “Okay, let’s see what you can do. Run probability scan, file A data. What is the probability that victims Brennen, Conroy, and O’Leary were murdered by same perpetrator?”

Working, the computer announced in a creamy baritone enlivened with a hint of Parisian French. Before Eve could finish her grin, the scan was complete.

Probability ninety-nine point six three percent.

“Dandy, remain in file A. What is the probability that suspect Summerset committed murders?”

Working . . . . Probability eighty-seven point eight percent. With current data arrest warrant for murder, multiple, first degree, is recommended. Please advise if list of available judges is desired.

“No thanks, Bruno, but I appreciate the advice.”

Please advise if you wish to contact the prosecuting attorney’s office.

“Eve.”

She looked over, saw Roarke in the doorway. “Hold on, Bruno.” Eve swiped her hair back, rolled her shoulders. “I told you I was going to work.”

“Yes, so you did.” He wore only jeans, unhooked at the waist and obviously tugged on as an afterthought.

Despite the fact that her blood was still warm from him, it heated now. She found herself fantasizing about tugging those unfastened jeans off again, then maybe nipping her teeth into his firm, naked butt for good measure.

“Huh?” she managed when his voice got through her fantasy.

“I said . . .” He paused, then, recognizing the glint in her eyes, arched a brow. “Christ Jesus, Eve, what are you, a rabbit?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She shifted back and stared hard at her monitor.

“You certainly do, and I’m more than happy to accommodate you . . . after you explain why you’re running probabilities on Summerset. I thought you agreed he was innocent.”

“I’m doing my job, and before you start,” she continued, holding up a hand, “I’ll explain. I’ve run the probability from my file A, which contains all the data, all the evidence that I’m free to pass on through official channels at this time. This analysis indicates that I’ll be carting Summerset off to maximum lockup in restraints. It’s not a lock at under ninety percent, but nobody would argue with the arrest.”

She rolled her shoulders again, blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Now we’ll run the scan using file B, which is everything I know, everything I have. Computer—”

“I thought its name was Bruno.”

“Just a joke,” Eve muttered. “Computer, run probability scan, suspect Summerset, using file B.”

Working . . . With additional data probability index drops to forty-seven point three eight percent. Warrant is not advised with available data.

“Cuts the probability by more than half. And I’d say with Mira’s testing results logged in after tomorrow, it’ll drop more. File A will drop some, too, maybe just enough to keep his ass from swinging.”

“I should have known.” Roarke moved behind her, leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head.

“He’s not clear yet. The God guy’s counting on me not being willing to trade you off for Summerset—and he’s got that right.”

“But he’s underestimated you.”

“Goddamn right. And he’s overplayed, Roarke, I can use that with Whitney, too. A man smart enough to pull off these murders isn’t stupid enough to leave such an obvious trail. It stinks from setup. And he’s going to want to play again. Riddles. Games,” she mused, leaning back in her chair. “He likes to fall back on God, but he likes his games. Games are for children.”

“Tell that to the linebacker for Big Apple Arena Ball and see where it gets you.”

She only shrugged. “So, men are children.”

He barely sighed. “Thank you so much.”

“Men are more into toys, games, gizmos as status symbols. You’ve got a house full of them.”

A bit nonplussed by her opinion, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t just mean the toy toys like video and holo rooms.” Her forehead was furrowed now, the line between her brows deepening. “Cars, planes, entertainment centers, spar droids, VR equipment, hell, your businesses are toys.”

Now Roarke rocked back on his heels. “Darling Eve, if you want to tell me I’m shallow, don’t be concerned with bruising my feelings.”

“You’re not shallow,” she said with an absent, back of the hand gesture. “You just overindulge.”

He opened his mouth, struggling to be insulted, and ended up laughing. “Eve, I adore you.” He slid his hands down over her breasts, his mouth to her neck. “Let’s go overindulge each other.”

“Cut it out. I want to—” His fingers grazed over her nipples and caused her thigh muscles to thrum. “I really have to—Jesus, you’re good at that.” Her head fell back just enough to make her mouth vulnerable to his.

Before it had been soft and easy, a kind of healing both of them had needed. This was fire, hot and fast and all for greed. She reached up, circling her arms around his neck, and left herself open for him.

He made quick work of her robe, parting it so that his hands could roam flesh already damp, so he could race down and find her, already wet. She came with delightful ease, shuddering as she felt the climax roll through her and flood his hand.

Then she was struggling free, turning in the chair and rising on her knees to clutch at him. “Now, now, now.” She gasped it out, punctuating each demand with nips and bites as she jerked at the jeans riding his hips.

He slid into the chair, gripping her hips as she straddled him. And he watched her throat, the lovely arch of it, the tiny pulse pushing in fast rhythm against the flesh as her head dipped back. She gripped the back of the chair, dizzy when he sucked her breast hard into his mouth, as the chair rocked, as she rocked, tormenting them both with the friction.

The pace was hers, and he let her ride, let himself be taken. His fingers dug into her hips while she drove him, while the breath strangled in his throat. And when it seemed his blood would burst from his veins like flames, he emptied himself into her.

Her hands slid limply down his damp shoulders. Her heart was still pumping viciously as she raced quick, delirious kisses over his neck and throat.

“Sometimes I just want to gobble you whole, eat you alive. You’re so gorgeous. You’re so beautiful.”

“What?” His senses were slowly swimming back, the roar in his ears subsiding like the tide.

She caught herself, appalled, mortified. Had she actually said that aloud? she wondered. Was she insane? “Nothing. I was . . .” She took several deep breaths to level her system. “I was just saying I only wanted to bite your ass.”

“You wanted to bite my ass.” He shook his head clear. “Why?”

“Because it’s there.” Relieved, spent, satisfied, she grinned at him. “And it’s a pretty great ass all in all.”

“I’m glad you—” He blinked, narrowed his eyes. “Did you say I was beautiful?”

“Give me a break.” She snorted, then quickly wiggled off him. “You must be hallucinating. Now, fun’s fun.” She picked up her robe, pulled it on. “But I have to get back to work.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ll get us some coffee.”

“There’s no use both of us going without sleep.”

He smiled, ran a finger over her wedding band. “Want some pie?”

“I guess I could choke some down.”

Within an hour Eve had moved the investigation into Roarke’s private office. The lists she would run now couldn’t be viewed by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard.

“Six men,” she muttered. “The six who killed Marlena generate over fifty in family alone. What’s with you Irish, haven’t you ever heard of Zero Population?”

“We prefer the go forth and multiply rule.” Roarke pondered the list that took up two screens. “I recognize a dozen or so. I might do better with faces.”

“Well, we’ll eliminate the females, for now. The barmaid at the Shamrock said Shawn was talking to a man, the kid on the West Side—”

“His name’s Kevin.”

“Yeah, the kid said a man. And the creep who’s been calling me—even if he’s using voice alteration to sound like a man—has a male rhythm to his speech. And typical male responses to insults and sarcasm.”

“It’s illuminating for me,” Roarke said dryly, “to discover your fascinating opinion on my gender.”

“When push comes, men are different, that’s all. Computer, delete female names from screen.” Eve paced in front of it, nodding. “That’s a little more manageable. Best place to start is at the top. O’Malley’s group, father, two brothers.”

“On screen three.” Commanding manually now, Roarke shifted the three names onto the next screen. “Full data, with image. Ah, Shamus O’Malley, the patriarch, I do remember him. He and my father had some dealings together.”

“Looks like a violent tendency,” Eve commented. “You can see it in the eyes. Major scar on the left cheek, a nose that’s been broken more than once by the look of it. This makes him seventy-six, and he’s currently a guest of the Irish government for first degree assault with a deadly.”

“A prince of a man.”

Eve hooked her thumbs in her robe pockets. “I’m going to eliminate anyone doing time. It’s impossible to say if our guy’s acting alone, but we’ll concentrate on him.”

“All right.” Roarke tapped a few keys and ten more names disappeared.

“That wipes the smiling O’Malleys.”

“They were always a bad lot, and not bright with it.”

“Go to the next.”

“Calhouns. Father, one brother, one son. Liam Calhoun,” Roarke mused. “He ran a little food shop. He was a decent sort. The brother and the boy I don’t remember at all.”

“The brother, James, no criminal record. Guy’s a doctor, attached to the National Health Services. Forty-seven, one marriage, three children. Reads like pillar of the community.”

“I don’t recall him. Obviously he didn’t run in my circles.”

“Obviously,” Eve said so dryly Roarke laughed. “The son, also Liam, is in college, following his uncle’s footsteps it appears. Young Liam Calhoun. Good-looking . . . nineteen, single, top ten percent of his class.”

“I remember a boy, vaguely. Scruffy, quiet.” Roarke studied the image of a cheerful face and sober eyes. “Looks like he’s making something of himself from the academic data.”

“The sins of the father don’t always transfer. Still, medical knowledge would have come in handy in these particular murders. We’ll hold these two, but put them at the bottom of the list. Bring up the next group.”

“Rileys. Father, four brothers—”

“Four? God Almighty.”

“And all of them a terror to decent citizens everywhere. Take a good look at Brian Riley. He once kicked my head in. Of course two of his brothers and a close personal friend were holding me down at the time. Black Riley, he liked to be called.”

Roarke reached for a cigarette as the old, well-buried bitterness punched its way free. “We’re of an age, you see, and you could say Riley had a keen dislike for me.”

“And why was that?”

“Because I was faster, my fingers lighter.” He smiled a little. “And the girls preferred me.”

“Well, your Black Riley’s been in and out of cages most of his young life.” Eve angled her head. Another good-looking man, she mused, with fair hair and sulky green eyes. Ireland appeared to be filled with handsome men who looked for trouble. “But he hasn’t served any time in the last few years. Employment record’s spotty, mostly as head knocker at bars and skin clubs. But this is interesting. He worked security for an electronics firm for nearly two years. He could have picked up quite a bit in that amount of time if he has a brain.”

“There was nothing wrong with his brain, it was his attitude.”

“Right. Can you get into his passport?”

“The official one, easily enough. Give me a minute.”

Eve studied the image while Roarke worked. Green eyes, she mused. The kid—Kevin—had said the man he’d seen had green eyes. Or he’d thought so. Of course eye color could be changed as easily as a spoiled child’s mind.

“Immigration records, screen four,” Roarke told her.

“Yeah, he’s visited our fair city a time or two,” Eve noted. “Let’s log these dates, and we’ll see if we can find out what he was up to while he was here. Were the brothers close?”

“The Rileys were like wild dogs. They’d have torn out each other’s throat for the same bone, but they’d form a pack against an outsider.”

“Well, let’s take a good, close look at all four of them.”

By three A.M. she was losing her edge. The data and images on screen began to blur and run together. Names and faces, motives and murder. When she felt herself drifting to sleep where she stood, Eve pressed her fingers hard against her burning eyes.

“Coffee,” she muttered, but found herself staring at the AutoChef without a clue how to operate it.

“Sleep.” Roarke pressed a mechanism that had a bed sliding out of the wall.

“No, I just have to catch my second wind. We’ve got it down to ten possibles. And I want to look harder at that Francis Rowan who became a priest. We can—”

“Take a break.” He came up behind her, guided her toward the bed. “We’re tired.”

“Okay, we’ll take a nap. An hour.” Head and body seemed to float apart as she slid onto the bed. “You lie down too.”

“I will.” He lay beside her, gathered her close. He could feel her fall into sleep, a lazy tumble that had the arm she’d tossed around his waist going limp.

He stared at the screens a moment longer, into the void of his past. He’d separated himself from that, from them. The boy from Dublin’s sad alleys had made himself rich, successful, respected, but he’d never forgotten what it was to be poor, a failure and disdained.

And he knew, as he lay in the soft bed on smooth linen sheets in a magnificent house in a city he’d made his home, that he would have to go back.

What he might find there, and in himself, troubled him.

“Lights out,” he ordered, and willed himself to follow Eve into sleep.

It was the beep of an incoming transmission that woke them both three hours later. Roarke swore when Eve jerked up and the top of her head caught him smartly on the jaw.

“Oh, sorry.” She rubbed her head. “Is that yours or mine?”

“Mine.” Gingerly he rotated his jaw. “It’s a warning alarm. I have a conference call set up for six-thirty.”

“I’ve got McNab and Peabody here at seven. Christ.” She scrubbed her hands over her face and, when her fingers dipped below her eyes, studied him. “How come you never look ragged in the morning?”

“Just one of those little gifts from God.” He scooped back his hair, which managed to look sexily tousled. “I’ll shower in here, save time. I should be finished up with this call by the time McNab gets here. I’d like to work with him this morning.”

“Roarke—”

“The transmission didn’t come from this house. So I have an electronic leak somewhere. I know the setup here, in and out. He doesn’t.” He added a bit of charm to his smile. “I’ve worked with Feeney.”

“That’s different.” But since she couldn’t explain how it was different, she shrugged. “McNab has to clear it. I won’t order him to work with a civilian.”

“Fair enough.”

By eight, Eve had Peabody installed in a temporary office down the hall from her own. It was actually a small and elegant sitting room off a sweeping guest bedroom, but it was equipped with a tidy little communication and information center for the convenience of overnight associates who often visited.

Peabody gawked at the original pen-and-ink drawings covering the walls, the hand-knotted area rug, the deep silver cushions spread over an S-shaped settee.

“Pretty grand work space.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Eve warned. “I want to be back at Central by next week. I want this closed.”

“Sure, but I’ll just enjoy this while it lasts.” She’d already eyed the mini AutoChef and speculated on what it might offer. “How many rooms are in this place?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think they mate at night and make more little rooms that grow into big rooms, and mate at night—” Eve stopped herself, shook her head. “I didn’t get much sleep. I’m punchy. I’ve got data here that needs a fresh eye and organizing.”

“I got eight straight. My eye’s fresh.”

“Don’t be smug.” Eve pinched the bridge of her nose. “This data is unofficial, Peabody, but I think our man’s in here, somewhere. There’s a temporary block on this computer so that your work will bypass CompuGuard. I’m working on a way around that, but until I figure it out, there’s no fancy way to put this. I’m asking you to break the law.”

Peabody considered for a moment. “Is that AutoChef fully stocked?”

Eve had to smile. “Around here? They always are. I have to get something to Whitney by this afternoon. I’m putting what I can together. Since this guy doesn’t wait long between hits, we’re in a squeeze.”

“Then I better get to work.”

Eve left her to it, but when she walked into her office, she found McNab and Roarke huddled together. The snazzy black armor of her computer was on the floor. Its guts were exposed, its dignity in ruins. Her desk ’link was in several unidentifiable pieces.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

“Men’s work,” Roarke said and flashed her a grin. His hair was tied back, his sleeves rolled up, and he looked to be having the time of his life.

She would have mentioned men and their toys, but decided it would be a waste of breath.

“If you don’t get this back together, I’m taking over your office.”

“Help yourself. You see here, Ian? If we interface this it should open the whole system long enough for us to see if there’s a leak.”

“Don’t you have a thing that does that?” she demanded. “A scanner?”

“This is the best way to keep a scan from showing up.” McNab spared her a look that clearly told her she was in the way. “We can search, and nobody—especially our mystery caller—will know we’re looking.”

Intrigued now, Eve moved closer. “So he stays confident. That’s good. What does this do?”

“Don’t touch anything.” McNab nearly smacked her hand before he remembered she outranked him. “Sir.”

“I wasn’t going to touch anything.” Annoyed, Eve jammed her hands into her pockets. “Why’d you take my ’link apart?”

“Because,” McNab began with sighing patience, “that’s where the transmissions come through, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Eve. Darling.” Roarke paused in his work long enough to pat her cheek. “Go away.”

“Fine. I’ll just go do some real cop work.” She maintained dignity until she slammed the office door.

“Whoa, she’s going to make you pay for that one.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Roarke murmured. “Let’s run this, Ian, first level. See what we find.”

On her own, Eve struggled with the wording and tone of her official report. If she used the Marlena connection so that she could give Whitney the names of the men who’d killed her—justify the investigation of their families—she’d lock Roarke into it.

All the men had been murdered, all their cases remained open. So far even the International Center for Criminal Activity hadn’t connected those murders. Could she use them now, and sell Whitney and the chief of police, the media, on one of those murders being the motive for her current investigation?

Maybe, if she was good enough, if she could lie with conviction and logic.

Step one: Build the facts and evidence that Summerset was being used. She needed Mira’s findings to polish that up.

Step two: Build a logical theory that the setup was motivated by revenge—mistakenly targeted revenge. To do that she had to build a reasonable case that the six men who died had died by separate hands, for separate causes.

They had all been part of the crime community, had all associated with undesirables. Their deaths had been spread out over three years and had all been caused by different means.

Roarke was far from stupid, she mused. He’d taken his time, covered his tracks. All she had to do now was to see that they stayed covered.

If she had one break first, one solid, tangible piece of evidence to indicate a conspiracy. Anything she could put in Whitney’s hand to help convince him to buy the rest.

She heard a shout from the next room and scowled, annoyed that she’d neglected to engage the sound control. But as she rose to do so, the excited voices on the other side of the door drew her through it.

“Okay, what’s the big fucking deal? Did you find a new way to play Space Marauders?”

“I found an echo.” McNab was nearly dancing as he continually slapped Roarke on the back. “I found a goddamn beautiful echo.”

“Take it to the Alps, pal, and you can have lots of echoes.”

“An electronic echo. The bastard’s good, but I’m better. He bounced the transmission from the core system right here in the house, but he didn’t send it from here. No indeed he didn’t, because I have a fucking-A echo.”

“Good job, Ian. Here’s another. See it?” Roarke pointed to a small needle gauge jury-rigged to the ’link. Eve saw nothing, but McNab hooted.

“Yeah, baby, that’s the way. I can work with this, you bet your ass I can.”

“Wait a minute.” Eve muscled between them before they could slap backs again. “Explain this in terms normal people can understand. No e-jabber.”

“Okay, try this.” McNab inched a hip onto her desk. He was wearing hearts in his ears today. A dozen tiny red hearts Eve tried not to focus on. “The last incoming from mystery boy you received. I tracked it all over the damn place, and into here. Every indication showed the transmission originated from this building.”

“I got that.”

“But we don’t want to believe that, so we open up the system for element scan. It’s like—Do you cook?”

Roarke only chuckled. Eve sneered. “Let’s be serious.”

“Okay, I was going to say like a recipe where you separate the eggs from the sugar and like that.”

“I’m not a moron, McNab, I can follow that.”

“Good, great. When we’re taking the elements for our cake and examining each one for, like, quality, maybe we see one’s off, just a tad off. Like the milk’s turned. So when we figure the milk’s turned we want to know why. Now we find there’s a leak in our refrigeration system. Just a tiny leak, microscopic, but enough to affect the quality, enough to let in germs. Your house system had a germ.”

“What does that have to do with echoes?”

“Ian.” Roarke held up a hand. “Before you whip up a four-course meal, let me explain this. Electronic signals leave a pattern,” he told Eve patiently. “And that pattern can be tracked and simulated. We’ve run the patterns for incomings on this unit for the last six weeks. We also ran patterns for outgoings from the main system for the same length of time. When doing so, and taking it through several levels, we discovered a shift in pattern on one incoming. The one that matters. An echo—or a shadow layered over the consistent pattern—which clearly indicates a different source.”

“You can prove the transmission didn’t originate from here?”

“Exactly.”

“Is this the kind of proof you can put into black and white and I can take to Whitney?”

“You betcha.” McNab beamed at her. “EDD’s used this kind of evidence in hundreds of cases. It’s standard. This one was buried deep and the pattern was nearly smooth. But we found her.”

“You found her,” Roarke corrected.

“I couldn’t have done it without your equipment and your help. I missed it twice.”

“You came through.”

“Before I toddle off,” Eve interrupted, “and leave you two boys to bask in the glow of mutual admiration, would you mind taking just a moment to distill this evidence into hard copy and disc for my pesky report?”

“Lieutenant.” Roarke laid a hand on McNab’s shoulder. “You’re embarrassing us with your praise and gratitude.”

“You want praise and gratitude?” On impulse, she grabbed Roarke’s face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then—what the hell—she did the same to McNab. “I want the data within the hour,” she added as she strode out.

“Wow.” McNab pressed his lips together to hold on to the taste, then patted a hand on his heart. “The lieutenant has some great mouth.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Ian, just when we’re beginning such a beautiful friendship.”

“She got a sister? Cousin? Maiden aunt?”

“Lieutenant Dallas is one of a kind.” Roarke watched the needle give another, barely discernable jerk. “Ian, let’s distill this data for her, then wouldn’t it be fun to see just how far we can follow this echo?”

McNab’s brow furrowed. “You want to try to track an echo this faint? Hell, Roarke, it takes days of man-hours and top equipment to track a solid one. I’ve never heard of anything below the scale of fifteen being tracked.”

“There’s always a first time.”

McNab’s eyes began to shine. “Yeah, the boys in EDD would bow to me if I pulled it off.”

“More than enough reason to push forward, I’d say.”

Eve paced the reception area outside Mira’s office. What the hell was taking so long, she wondered, and checked her wrist unit once again. It was twelve-thirty. Summerset had been in testing for ninety minutes. Eve had until one to present her progress reports to her commander.

She needed Mira’s findings.

To help herself wait, she practiced her oral backup to her written reports. The words she would use, the tone she would take. She felt like a second-rate actor running lines backstage. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine.

The minute the door opened, she leaped at Summerset. “What’s the deal?”

His eyes were dark and hard in a pale face, his jaw clenched, his mouth thin. Humiliation rolled greasily in his stomach. “I’ve followed your orders, Lieutenant, and completed the required testing. I’ve sacrificed my privacy and my dignity. I hope that satisfies you.”

He stalked past her and through the outer doors.

“Screw it,” Eve muttered and walked straight into Mira’s office.

Mira smiled, sipped her tea. She’d had no trouble hearing Summerset’s bitter comments. “He’s a complicated man.”

“He’s an ass, but that’s irrelevant. Can you give me a bottom line?”

“It will take some time for me to review all the tests and complete my report.”

“I’ve got Whitney in twenty minutes. I’ll take anything you can give me.”

“A preliminary opinion then.” Mira poured another cup of tea, gesturing for Eve to sit. “He’s a man with little respect for the law, and a great deal of respect for order.”

Eve took the tea but didn’t drink. “Which means?”

“He’s most comfortable when things are in their place, and he’s somewhat obsessive about keeping them there. The law itself, the laws society makes mean little to him as they are variable, often poorly designed, and quite often fail. Aesthetics are also important to him—his surroundings, appearances—as he appreciates the order in beauty. He’s a creature of routine. This soothes him, this pattern, this stability. He arises at a certain hour and retires at a certain hour. His duties are clearly outlined and followed. Even his recreation, his free time is organized.”

“So, he’s a tight-ass. I already knew that.”

“His way of dealing with the horrors he witnessed during the Urban Wars, the poverty and despair he escaped from, and the loss of his only child is to create a certain acceptable pattern, then follow it. But . . . in unclinical terms, yes, he’s a tight-ass. However rigid he might be, however much he may sneer at the laws of society, he is one of the most nonviolent personalities I’ve encountered.”

“He’s given me a few bruises,” Eve muttered under her breath.

“You disturb his need for order,” Mira said, not without sympathy. “But the fact is, true violence is abhorrent to him. It offends his very rigid sense of order and place. And it’s wasteful. He finds waste repellent. Again, I believe, because he saw far too much of it throughout his life. As I said, it will take a bit of time to review the tests, but I would say at this point it’s my opinion that someone of his personality structure is unlikely to have committed the crimes you’re investigating.”

For the first time in hours, Eve’s stomach unknotted. “This knocks him down the list. Way down. I appreciate you dealing with this so quickly.”

“I’m always happy to do a friend a favor, but after reading your data on this investigation, it’s a bit more than that. Eve, you’re dealing with a very dangerous, very canny, very determined and thorough killer. One who has had years to prepare, and be prepared. One who is both focused and unstable, and who has a massive and unstable ego. A sociopath with a holy mission, a sadist with skill. I’m afraid for you.”

“I’m closing in on him.”

“I hope you are, because I believe he’s also closing in on you. Roarke may be his main target, but you stand between. He wants Roarke to bleed, and he wants him to suffer. Roarke’s death puts an end to the mission, and the mission is his life. But you, you’re his connection, his competitor, his audience. He has a black-and-white view of women. Chaste or whore.”

Eve let out a short laugh. “Well, I can figure where I stand.”

“No.” Disturbed, Mira shook her head. “It’s more complicated with you. He admires you. You challenge him. And you anger him. I don’t believe he’s able to slip you into either mold and that only makes him more focused on you.”

Her eyes glinted. “I want him focused on me.”

Mira held her hands up a moment to give herself time to gather her thoughts. “I need further study, but in a nutshell, his faith, his religion is catalyst—or excuse, if you prefer. He leaves the token—faith and luck—at every murder. He leaves the image of Mary as a symbol of her female power and her vulnerability. She’s his real god.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“The Mother. The Virgin. The pure and the loving. But an authority figure nonetheless. She is the witness to his acts, the audience to his mission. At this point, I’d have to say it’s a woman who formed him. A strong and vital female figure of authority and love. He needs her approval, her guidance. He needs to please her. He needs her praise.”

“His mother,” Eve murmured. “Do you think she’s behind it all?”

“It’s possible. Or just as possible that he sees his current behavior as a kind of homage to her. Mother, sister, aunt, wife. A wife is unlikely,” she added with a faint shake of her head. “He’s probably sexually repressed. Impotent. His god is a vengeful one, who permits no carnal pleasures. If he’s using the statue to symbolize his own mother, he would view his conception as a miracle—immaculate—and see himself as invulnerable.”

“He said he was an angel. The angel of vengeance.”

“Yes, a soldier of his god, beyond the power of mortals. There is his ego again. What I am sure of is that there is a woman—or was a woman—whom he seeks to appease, and one he views as pure.”

For one sickening moment, Eve saw the image of Marlena in her mind. Golden hair, innocent eyes, and a snowy white dress. Pure, she thought. Virginal.

Wouldn’t Summerset always see his martyred daughter exactly that way?

“It could be a child,” she said quietly. “A lost child.”

“Marlena?” The compassion was ripe in the word. “It’s very unlikely, Eve. Does he mourn for her? Of course he does, and always will. But she isn’t a symbol to him. For Summerset, Marlena is his child, and one he didn’t protect. For your killer, this female figure is the protector—and the punisher. And you are another strong female figure of authority. He’s drawn to you, wants your admiration. And he may, at some point, be compelled to destroy you.”

“I hope you’re right.” Eve rose. “Because this is a game I want to finish face-to-face.”

Eve convinced herself she was prepared for Whitney. But she hadn’t been prepared to face both him and the chief of police and security. Tibble, his dark face unreadable, his hands clasped militarily behind his back, stood at the window in Whitney’s office. Whitney remained behind his desk. Their positioning indicated to Eve that it was Whitney’s show—until Tibble decided otherwise.

“Before you begin your report, Lieutenant, I’m informing you that a press conference is scheduled for four P.M. in the media information center at Police Tower.” Whitney inclined his head. “Your presence and participation are required.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It has come to our attention that a member of the press has received certain communications which attack your credibility as primary in this investigation, and which indicate that you, and therefore the department, are suppressing certain data germane to said investigation, data that would implicate your husband in multiple murders.”

“That is both insulting to me, the department, and my husband, and absurd.” Her heart hitched, but her voice stayed low and steady. “If these communications are deemed credible, why hasn’t the member of the press reported same?”

“The accusations are so far anonymous and unsubstantiated, and this particular member of the press deemed it in his best interest to pass this information along to Chief Tibble. It’s in your best interest, Lieutenant, to clear up this matter now, here.”

“Are you accusing me of suppressing evidence, Commander?”

“I’m requesting that you confirm or deny at this time.”

“I deny, at this time, and any time, that I have or would suppress evidence that would lead to the apprehension of a criminal or the closing of a case. And I take personal offense at the question.”

“Offense so noted,” Whitney said mildly. “Sit down, Dallas.”

She didn’t comply, but stepped forward. “My record should stand for something. Over ten years of service should outweigh an anonymous accusation tossed to a hungry reporter.”

“So noted, Dallas,” Whitney repeated. “Now—”

“I’m not finished, sir. I’d like to have my say here.”

He sat back, and though she kept her eyes on his she knew Tibble had yet to move. “Very well, Lieutenant, have your say.”

“I’m very aware that my personal life, my marriage, is the source of speculation and interest in the department and with the public. I can live with that. I’m also aware that my husband’s businesses, and his style of conducting his businesses, are also the source of speculation and interest. I have no particular problem with that. But I resent very much that my reputation and my husband’s character should be questioned this way. From the media, Commander, it’s to be expected, but not from my superior officer. Not from any member of the department I’ve served to the best of my ability. I want you to take note, Commander, that turning in my badge would be like cutting off my arm. But if it comes down to a choice between the job and my marriage, then I lose the arm.”

“No one is asking you to make a choice, Lieutenant, and I will offer my personal apologies for any offense given by this situation.”

“Personally, I hate chicken-shit anonymous sources.” Tibble spoke for the first time, his gaze steady on Eve’s face. “And I’d like to see you maintain that just-under-simmer righteous anger for the press conference when this matter comes up, Lieutenant. It will play very well on screen. Now I, for one, would like to hear the progress of your investigation.”

The anger helped her forget fear and nerves. She fell into rhythm, comfortable with the cop speak, the formality and the slang of it. She offered the names of the six men responsible for Marlena’s murder, handed out hard copy of data on them, and proposed her theory.

“The caller stated that revenge was the name of his game. Therefore it’s my belief that, acting alone or with a partner or partners, this individual is avenging the murder of one or more of these men. The connection’s there. Marlena to Summerset, Summerset to Roarke. I’ve run the names and their cases through the ICCA.”

She said that briskly, as though it was no more than routine. And her stomach jumped like a pond of frogs on speeders. “There is no evidence to link their murders to one individual. They were killed at different times over a three-year period, with different methods and in different geographical areas. The six men, however, were all linked to the same gambling organization based in Dublin, and that organization was investigated for illegal activities no less than twelve times by local authorities and the ICCA. Data supports that the men were killed individually and for separate motives, likely perpetrated by rivals or associates.”

“Then where’s the connection to the deaths of Brennen, Conroy, and O’Leary?”

“In the killer’s mind. Dr. Mira is working on the profile, which I believe will support my suppositions. If you take it from his angle, Marlena was killed by these men as an example to Roarke, to discourage him from infringing on their territory.”

“That wasn’t the conclusion of the investigating officer.”

“No, sir, but the investigating officer was a wrong cop, known to associate with this organization. He was in their pocket. Marlena was no more than a child.” Eve slid two photos out of her bag, one still taken from each of the hologram images. “This is what was done to her. And the investigating officer spent precisely four and a half man-hours on closing her case and ruling it death by misadventure.”

Whitney stared down at the stills, and his eyes went grim. “Misadventure, my ass. It’s obviously a torture murder.”

“One defenseless girl brutalized by six men. And they got away with it clean. Men who can do that to a child are men who could brag about it. I believe those close to them knew, and when they were killed, one by one, at least one person decided Roarke and Summerset were responsible.”

Tibble turned the still of Marlena’s body facedown. He’d been away from the streets long enough to know he’d be haunted by that image. “And you don’t believe that, Lieutenant? You want us to believe that those six deaths were unrelated, but that our current madman believes otherwise. And you want us to believe he’s killing now, framing Summerset, and all to exact revenge on Roarke?”

“That’s exactly right. I want you to believe that the man Mira described to me as a sadistic sociopath with a holy mission is using all the skill at his disposal to ruin Roarke. Framing Summerset was a miscalculation, and you’ll see when Mira has completed her test evaluations on him. She’s told me in a preliminary interview that Summerset is not only incapable of this range of violence, but is appalled by violence. The circumstantial evidence compiled against him is obvious enough for a cross-eyed five-year-old to see through.”

“I prefer to withhold judgment on that until I see Mira’s completed evaluation,” Whitney told her.

“I can give you mine,” she said, and threw her weight on Summerset’s end of the scale. “The security discs at the Luxury Towers were doctored. We know this. However, the lobby sector—which clearly shows Summerset’s entrance into the building—was untouched. Why? McNab has the disc of the twelfth floor being analyzed by the EDD compu-unit. I’m confident that we’ll discover a blip for the period when Summerset exited the elevator and waited for Ms. Morrell. And again, in the lobby sector where he’s indicated he left the building at approximately twelve forty.”

“The extent of tampering you’re indicating would require very specialized skill and equipment.”

“Yes, sir. So does jamming transmissions into Cop Central. Religion plays a vital part in the motive and method of these killings. The evidence points to a strong, if twisted, attachment to Catholicism. Summerset isn’t Catholic nor is he particularly religious.”

“A man’s faith,” Whitney put in, “is often a private and intimate matter.”

“Not with this man it isn’t. For him, it’s a driving force. I have more. This morning Detective McNab, who was assigned to me from EDD, found what he referred to as an echo on my ’link transmission from the perpetrator. The transmission did not originate in my home, but someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it appear as if it did.”

Whitney said nothing until he’d scanned the report Eve offered. “This is good work.”

“One of the Riley brothers did a stint on security for a large electronics firm—and he’s also made several trips to New York in the last ten years. I’d like to pursue that angle.”

“Are you planning on going to Ireland, Lieutenant?”

Training prevented her from gaping. “No, sir. I can access any necessary data from here.”

Whitney tapped a finger on the reports. “I’d consider it, seriously consider it.”

Press conferences rarely put Eve in a cheery mood. The free-for-all at the media center was no exception. It was bad enough to be ordered to stand in front of a sea of reporters and tap dance around what was, what should be, and what wasn’t, tricky enough when the questions batted to her dealt with her professional area. But many of the questions during the slated hour took a personal curve. She had to field them quickly, skillfully, and without breaking a sweat.

She knew damn well reporters could smell sweat.

“Lieutenant Dallas, as primary investigator, have you questioned Roarke in connection with these murders?”

“Roarke has cooperated with the department.”

“Was his cooperation elicited by the primary, or by his wife?”

Snake-eyed, flat-faced son of a bitch, Eve thought, staring the reporter down and ignoring the autotronic cameras that slid spiderlike in her direction. “Roarke volunteered his statements and his assistance from the initiation of this investigation.”

“Isn’t it true that your prime suspect is in Roarke’s employ and resides in your home?”

“At this point in the investigation we have no prime suspect.” That brought on the growl from the wolf pack, the shouted questions, the demands. She waited them out. “Lawrence Charles Summerset was interviewed formally and has voluntarily undergone testing. As a result of this, the department and the primary are now pursuing other investigative channels.”

“What is your response to the supposition that Summerset murdered three people on orders from his employer?”

The shouted question from the back had the effect of smothering the shouts. For the first time in nearly an hour, there was silence. Even as Chief Tibble stepped forward, Eve held up a hand. “I’d like to answer that.” Fury might have clawed at her throat, but her voice was cold and level. “My response is that suppositions of that nature have no place in this forum. They belong in tiny rooms where they can be discussed by tiny minds. Such a supposition when voiced publicly, particularly by a member of the media, falls into the category of criminal negligence. Such an innuendo, with no facts or evidence to support it, is an insult not only to the men involved, but to the dead. I have nothing more to say here.”

She stepped around Tibble and off the platform. She could hear the questions being shouted out at him, and his calm, reasonable voice answering. But she had blood in her eye and a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Dallas! Dallas, hold on.” Nadine Furst rushed after her, her camera operator in hot pursuit. “Give me two minutes, come on. Two lousy minutes.”

Eve turned on her, knowing that it would be a miracle if she held on to her temper for two seconds. “Don’t get in my face here, Nadine.”

“Look, that last one was over the line, no question. But you’ve got to expect to take some heat here.”

“I can handle heat. I don’t see why I have to handle morons, too.”

“I’m with you there.”

“Are you?” Out of the corner of her eye, Eve noted that the camera operator was recording.

“Let me help you out here.” Instinctively Nadine smoothed down her hair, hitched her jacket into a perfect line. “Give me a statement, a quick one-on-one to balance things out.”

“Give you a ninety-second exclusive, you mean, and bump your rating points. Jesus.” Eve turned away before she could do or say something regrettable.

Then Mira’s words came back to her. The massive and fragile ego of the murderer. His focus on her—the need for female approval. She wasn’t certain if it was impulse or instinct, but she went with it.

She’d give Nadine her ratings boost, all right. And she’d take a nice hard slap at the killer. One she hoped he’d feel honor bound to try to return.

“Who the hell do you people think you are?” She whirled back, let her temper boil over. She had no doubt it would show, in her face, in her clenched fists. “Using your First Amendment rights, your public’s right to know, to interfere with a murder investigation.”

“Wait just a minute.”

“No, you wait.” Eve jabbed a finger into Nadine’s shoulder, knocking her back a step. “Three people are dead, children are orphaned, a woman is widowed, and all because some self-absorbed piece of shit with a God complex decided to play games. There’s your story, pal. Some asshole who thinks Jesus speaks to him is playing the media like a damn banjo. The more air time you give him, the happier he is. He wants us to believe he has a higher purpose, but all he really wants is to win. And he won’t. He won’t because I’m better than he is. This jerk’s an amateur who had a short run of luck. As long as he keeps screwing up I’ll have him caged in a week.”

“And you’ll stand by that, Lieutenant Dallas,” Nadine said coldly. “You’ll apprehend the killer within a week.”

“You can count on it. He’s not the smartest I’ve gone after, he’s not even the most pathetic. He’s just one more tiny pimple on society’s butt.”

She turned and stalked off.

“That’s going to make great screen, Nadine.” The camera operator all but danced for joy. “Ratings through the roof.”

“Yeah.” Nadine watched Eve slam into her car. “And so much for friendship,” she muttered. “Let’s transmit it raw to the station. We’ll have it on air in time for the five-thirty.”

Eve was counting on it. Her man would see it. Maybe he’d stew, maybe he’d explode, but she had no doubt he’d make a move. His ego would demand it.

And this time, he’d come after her.

She headed into Cop Central. She thought it would do her good to work a few hours in her usual environment. As an afterthought, she called home. When Roarke answered himself, Eve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Where’s Summerset?”

“In his quarters.”

“Sulking?”

“Painting, I believe. He thought it would relax him. And where are you, Lieutenant?”

“On my way in to Central for a while. Just wrapped up a press conference.”

“And we know how much you enjoy them. I’ll be sure to tune in for the five-thirty.”

She didn’t wince, at least not visibly. “I wouldn’t bother. It was pretty dull. Look, I figured you’d be at your headquarters. There’s no reason to put your world on hold because of this.”

“My world continues to revolve. I can handle details from here for a bit longer. Besides, Ian and I are having such a good time playing with our toys.”

“Getting anywhere?”

“I think so. It’s slow.”

“I’ll take a look when I get there. Couple of hours.”

“Fine. I believe we’re having pizza.”

“Good, make mine loaded. See you.”

She cut transmission as she drove into the underground lot at Central. She took a minute to curse, as Lieutenant Medavoy from Anti-Crime had once again parked crookedly and infringed on her space. She squeezed in, indulged herself by rapping her door smartly against the side of his vehicle.

A new one, too, she thought, noting the shiny surface now nicely dinged. Where the hell does Anti-Crime get the budget?

Fifteen minutes to air, she noted as she took the glide into the core of Central. She’d get herself some coffee, lock her office door, and watch the show.

She wasn’t disappointed. Her impromptu statement to Nadine came across exactly as intended. She’d appeared furious, overconfident, and reckless. It was going to burn his ass, she decided, and wondered if she had time for another cup of coffee before Whitney summoned her.

She didn’t have time for another sip.

She accepted the expected dressing down without argument or excuse, agreed that her comments had been unwise and overemotional.

“No pithy remarks, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“What are you up to here, Dallas?”

She shifted gears swiftly, smoothly, realizing she’d been just a bit too conciliatory. “My armpit’s in this investigation, one that is causing a great deal of stress on my personal life. I blew off steam, and I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“Be sure that it doesn’t, and contact Ms. Furst. I want you to offer her another one-on-one, this time with you in control of your emotions.”

Eve didn’t have to feign the annoyance now. “I’d like to avoid the media for the near future, Commander. I think—”

“That wasn’t a request, Lieutenant. It was an order. You made the mess, now clean it up. And quickly.”

Eve closed her mouth, teeth first, and nodded.

She worked off her temper for the next hour by dealing with paperwork, and when that didn’t do the trick, she contacted maintenance and scalded their ears over the as-yet unrepaired guidance system in her vehicle. Calmer, she drafted an e-message for Nadine offering another interview and shot it off before she could brood about it.

And throughout it all she waited for her ’link to beep. She wanted him to call, willed him to call. The sooner he made his move, the sloppier he would be.

Who is he? Sociopath, sadist, egotist. Yet, there was something weak and sad and even pathetic about him. Riddles and religion, she mused. Well, that wasn’t so strange. Religion was a riddle to her. Believe this, and only this, because we say so. If you don’t you’re buying a one-way ticket to everlasting Hell.

Organized religion baffled her, made her vaguely uncomfortable. Each had followers who were so sure they were right, that their way was the only way. And throughout history they’d fought wars and shed oceans of blood to prove it.

Eve shrugged, idly picked up one of the three statues of the Madonna she’d lined on her desk. She’d been raised by the state, and a state education was forbidden, by law, to include even a whiff of religious training. Church groups were forever lobbying to change that, but Eve thought she’d done well enough. She’d formed her own opinions. There was right and wrong, the law and chaos, crime and punishment.

Still, religion, at its best, was supposed to guide and to comfort, wasn’t it? She glanced at the pile of discs she’d amassed in her research of the Catholic faith. It remained a mystery to her, but she thought it was supposed to. That was its core, the mystery shrouded in pomp and pageantry. And its rituals were lovely and visually appealing.

Like the Virgin. Eve turned the statue in her hand, studying it. What had Roarke called her? The BVM. It made her sound friendly, accessible, like someone you could take your troubles to.

I can’t quite work this one out, I’ll ask the BVM.

Yet she was the holiest of women. The ultimate female figure. The Virgin Mother who’d been called on to bear the Son of God, then watch him die for the sins of man.

Now there was a madman using her image, twisting it, using it to stand witness to man’s inhumanity to man.

But mother was the key, wasn’t it? she mused. His mother, or someone he viewed as that figure of love and authority.

Eve couldn’t remember her mother. Even in the dreams she was powerless to control there was nothing and no one in that role. No voice soft in lullaby or raised in anger, no hand stroking gently or slapping in annoyance.

Nothing.

Yet someone had carried her for nine months, had shot her from womb to world. Then had—what? Turned away, run away? Died? Left her alone to be beaten and broken and defiled. Left her shivering in cold, dirty rooms waiting for the next night of pain and abuse.

Doesn’t matter, Eve reminded herself fiercely. That wasn’t the point. It was this man’s background that mattered now, what had formed him.

Eve Dallas had formed herself.

Gently she set the statue down again, staring into that serene and lovely face. “Just another sin on his plate,” she murmured, “using you as part of his obscenities. I have to stop him before he does it again. I could use a little help here.”

Eve caught herself, blinked in shock, then laughed a little as she ran a hand through her hair. The Catholics were pretty clever, she decided, with their statues. Before you knew it you were talking to them—and it was a hell of a lot like praying.

It isn’t prayers that will bring him down, she reminded herself. It was police work, and she’d be more productive at home. A decent meal, a good night’s sleep would keep her primed.

She discovered Medavoy’s car was gone when she reached the garage, and since there was no memo stuck to her windshield she assumed he had yet to notice the new dent in his passenger-side door.

The garage echoed around her. She heard the whine of an engine starting up, the quick skid of tires on asphalt. Seconds later a unit bulleted by. The sirens hit the air as the car zipped out of the garage and into the night.

She uncoded her locks, reached for the handle. Footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled, her weapon in her hand, her body in a crouch.

The footsteps skidded to a halt, and the man threw up his hands. “Whoa. At least read me my rights.”

She recognized the detective from her unit and reholstered her weapon. “Sorry, Baxter.”

“Jumpy, aren’t we, Dallas?”

“People shouldn’t go skulking around garages.”

“Hey, I’m just heading to my vehicle.” He winked as he uncoded a car two down from hers. “Got myself a hot date with a saucy señorita.”

“Olé, Baxter,” she muttered and, annoyed with herself, slid behind the wheel. It took three tries for the engine to catch. She decided she would go to maintenance personally in the morning and murder the first mechanic who crossed her path.

The temperature control hummed straight to warm, then shot into roast. Eve ordered it off with a snarl and settled for the late November chill.

She drove two blocks, hit a traffic snarl and sighed. For a time she simply tapped her fingers on the wheel and studied the new animated billboard over Gromley’s Theater Complex. A dozen different videos were advertised. She watched an air chase between two sky-cycles over New Los Angeles that ended with a very impressive crash and display of flames. She pondered the beautiful couple who rolled across a spring meadow wearing little but glossy skin. The latest kid-flick was next in line and offered a trio of dancing spiders garbed in top hats and tails.

She inched forward, ignoring the bad-tempered honks and shouted curses of other drivers similarly situated.

A teenage couple riding tandem on an airboard surfed through the snarled traffic in a bright flash of color. The driver beside her resigned herself to a long wait by turning up her music system to an ear-splitting pitch and singing along in a loud, off-key voice.

Overhead an airbus blatted. There was something smug in the sound, Eve thought. Yeah, yeah, she mused, scowling up at it, if more people took advantage of public transpo, we wouldn’t be in this fix.

Bored, Eve pulled out her communicator and tagged Peabody.

“You might as well call it a night,” Eve told her. “I’m in a vehicle jam here and my ETA is anyone’s guess.”

“There’s this rumor about pizza.”

“Okay, enjoy then, but if you’re still there when I get in, you’re going to have to give me a full report on the day’s work.”

“For pizza, Lieutenant, I would face much worse.”

She watched it happen. It was perfectly choreographed for disaster. Three cars ahead of her, two Rapid Cabs shot into vertical lift at the same time. Their fenders brushed, bumped. The cabs shimmied. Even as Eve was shaking her head over idiocy, the cabs lost their lift and hit the street with resounding thuds.

“Well, damn.”

“Problem, Dallas? Thought I heard a crash.”

“Yeah, a couple of brain dead cabbies. Oh yeah, that’s going to help. Now they’re out of their rides and screaming at each other. This’ll get traffic moving, all right.”

Her eyes narrowed as she saw one of the cabbies reach through his window and pull out a metal bat. “That tears it. Peabody, call for a couple of black-and-white floaters, assault with deadly in progress, Tenth Avenue between Twenty-fifth and -sixth. Tell them to make it fast before we have a riot. Now I’m going to go give these assholes a lesson in driving courtesy.”

“Dallas, maybe you ought to wait for backup. I’ll have—”

“Forget it. I’m sick of idiots.” She slammed her door, took three long-legged strides. And the world erupted.

She felt the hot fist of air punch her in the back, scoop her up like a doll, and fling her forward. Her eardrums sang with the force of the explosion as she flew. Something sharp, twisted, and flaming shot past her head. Someone screamed. She didn’t think it was herself, as she couldn’t seem to draw in air to breathe.

She bounced headfirst off the hood of a car, dimly saw the shocked, white face of its driver gaping at her, then hit the street hard enough to scrape flesh and rattle bones.

Something’s burning, something’s burning, she thought, but couldn’t quite place it. Flesh, leather, fuel. Oh God. With wobbly effort, she pushed with her hands, managed to lift her head.

Behind her, people abandoned their cars like rats running from doomed ships. Someone stepped on her, but she barely felt it. Overhead, the traffic copters zoomed in to shine security beams and blast out cautions.

But eyes were dazzled by the fierce light, the shooting flames coming from her vehicle.

She wheezed in a breath, let it out. “Son of a bitch.” And passed out cold.

Roarke muscled his way through crowds of people, lines of emergency vehicles. Airlifts hovered above, shooting out their streams of lights amid the shriek of sirens. There was a smell of sweat and blood and burning. A child was screaming in long, gulping wails. A woman sat on the ground, surrounded by sparkling, fist-sized diamonds of Duraglass, and wept silently into her hands.

He saw blackened faces, shocked eyes, but he didn’t see Eve.

He refused to allow himself to think or to feel or to imagine.

He’d been in Eve’s office, tinkering with McNab, when the hail for Peabody had come in. He’d continued to work, amusing himself by listening to Eve’s voice, the irritation spiking it, then the disgust when she’d ordered Peabody to call for a floater.

Then the almost female shriek of the explosion had caused the communicator to jump in Peabody’s hand. He hadn’t waited, not even a heartbeat, but had been out of the room and gone even as Peabody had desperately tried to raise Eve again.

He’d abandoned his car a full block back, but was making good time on foot. Sheer force of will had people scrambling out of his way. Or perhaps it was the cold rage in his eyes as he scanned faces, forms.

Then he saw her vehicle—or what was left of it. The twisted hulk of steel and plastic was hulled out and coated with thick white foam. And his heart stopped.

He’d never know how long he stood there, unable to breathe, his body rocking with shock. Then he broke, started forward, with some wild notion of ripping the ruined car to pieces to find her.

“Goddamn it, I said I’m not going to any hospital. Just patch me up, for Christ’s sake, and find me a fucking communicator before I kick your sorry ass over to the East Side.”

He whirled, his head whipping up like a wolf’s scenting its mate. She was sitting on the running board of a medivan, snarling at a harassed medical technician who was struggling to coat her burns.

She was singed, bleeding, bruised, and furiously alive.

He didn’t go to her at once. He needed a moment for his hands to stop shaking, for his heart to stop sputtering and beat normally again. Relief was like a drug, a spiked drink to make him giddy. He gulped it down, then found himself grinning like an idiot as she rammed her elbow into the MT’s gut to prevent him from giving her a dose of medication.

“Keep that thing away from me. Did I tell you to get me a communicator?”

“I’m doing my job, Lieutenant. If you’d just cooperate—”

“Cooperate hell. Cooperate with you guys and I’ll end up drooling and strapped to a gurney.”

“You need to go to a hospital or health center. You have a concussion, second-degree burns, contusions, lacerations. You’re shocky.”

Eve reached up and grabbed him by the band collar of his uniform coat. “One of us is going to be shocky, ace, if you don’t get me a goddamn communicator.”

“Well, Lieutenant, I see you’re in your usual form.”

She looked over, up, and, seeing Roarke, wiped the back of her hand over her bruised and sooty face. “Hi. I was just trying to get this jerk to find me a communicator so I could call you. Let you know I’d be late for dinner.”

“I figured that out for myself when we heard your explosion.” He crouched down until they were eye to eye. There was a nasty scrape on her forehead, still seeping blood. Her jacket was gone, and the shirt she wore was ripped and singed. Blood stained the sleeve of her left arm from a six-inch gash. Her slacks were literally tatters.

“Darling,” he said mildly, “you’re not looking your best.”

“If this guy would just patch me up enough so I could—hey, hey, hey!” She jerked, slapped out, but wasn’t quick enough to prevent the pressure syringe from shooting into her arm. “What was that? What’d you give me?”

“Just a pain blocker. This is going to hurt some.”

“Ah shit, that’s going to make me goofy. You know that stuff makes me goofy,” she said, appealing to Roarke. “I hate when that happens.”

“I rather enjoy it myself.” He tipped her chin up as the MT went to work on her arm. “How many devoted husbands do you see?”

“Just you. I don’t have a concussion.”

“Yes, she does,” the MT said cheerfully. “This gash is plenty dirty—got lots of street grit in it—but we’ll clean her right up and close it.”

“Make it snappy then.” She was starting to shiver—part cold, part shock—but didn’t notice. “I’ve got to follow this up with the fire team and the explosive unit. And where the hell’s Peabody, because I . . . shit, shit, shit, it’s happening. My tongue’s getting thick.” Her head lolled, and she shook it back into place. She felt a snort of laughter building and fought to suppress it. “Why don’t they just give you a couple shots of Kentucky bourbon?”

“It isn’t cost-effective. And you don’t like bourbon.” Roarke sat on the running board beside her, took her free hand to examine the scrapes and burns himself.

“Yeah well, I don’t like this either. Chemicals make you all otherwise.” She stared dully as the medic guided a suturing wand over her ripped flesh, neatly mending it. “Don’t you take me to the hospital. I’ll be really pissed.”

He didn’t see her beloved leather jacket anywhere and made a mental note to replace it. For now he stripped his own off and tucked it over her shoulders. “Darling, in about ninety seconds you’re not going to know what I do with you, or where I take you.”

Her body began a lovely slow float to nowhere. “I will when I come out of it. Why, there she is. Hey, Peabody. And McNab, too. Don’t they make a cute couple?”

“Adorable. Put your head back, Eve, and let the nice MT bandage it for you.”

“Okay, sure. Hiya, Peabody, you and McNab out on the town?”

“He drugged her,” Roarke explained. “Tranqs always do this to her.”

“How bad are you hurt?” White-faced and shaken, Peabody knelt down. “Dallas, how bad?”

“Oh.” She gestured widely, and managed to slap the long-suffering MT. “Bumps and stuff. Boy, did I fly. Let me tell you, the up part can be pretty cool, but those landings suck space waste. Wham!” To demonstrate she attempted to slam her fist on her knee, missed and caught the medic in the crotch. “Oops, sorry,” she said when he folded. “Hey, Peabody, how’s my vehicle?”

“It’s a dead loss.”

“Damn. Well, good night.” She wrapped her arms around Roarke, nestled into him, and sighed.

The MT sucked his breath back then got shakily to his feet. “That’s the best I can do for her here. She’s all yours.”

“Indeed she is. Come on, darling, let’s go.”

“Did you save me some pizza? I don’t want you carrying me, okay? It’s embarrassing. I can walk fine.”

“Of course you can,” he assured her and hefted her into his arms.

“See, told you.” Her head dropped on his shoulder like lead. “Mmm. You smell good.” She sniffed at his throat like a puppy. “Isn’t he pretty?” she said to no one in particular. “He’s all mine, too. All mine. Are we going home?”

“Mmm-hmm.” There was no need to mention the detour he intended to take to the nearest hospital.

“I need Peabody to stay for . . . I need her to stay for something. Yeah, for follow-up, get those bomb guys to spill it, Peabody.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dallas. We’ll have a full report for you in the morning.”

“Tonight. ’S only the shank of the evening.”

“Tomorrow,” Roarke murmured, shifting his gaze from Peabody to McNab. “I want to know everything there is to know.”

“You’ll have it,” McNab promised. He waited until Roarke carried Eve through the crowd, then turned to study the car. “If she’d been inside when it went up . . .”

“She wasn’t,” Peabody snapped. “Let’s get to work.”

Eve woke to silence. She had a vague recollection of being poked and prodded, and of swearing at someone—at several someones—during a physical examination. So her waking thought was panic, laced with fury.

No way were they keeping her in the damn hospital another five minutes.

She shot up in bed, and her head did one long, giddy reel. But it was relief that settled over her when she realized she was in her own bed.

“Going somewhere?” Roarke rose from the sitting area where he’d been keeping one eye on the scrolling stock reports on the monitor and one eye on his sleeping wife.

She didn’t lay back. That was a matter of pride. “Maybe. You took me to the hospital.”

“It’s a little tradition of mine. Whenever my wife’s been in an explosion, I like to make a quick trip to the hospital.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes keen on her face, and held up three fingers. “How many do you see?”

She remembered more now—being awakened half a dozen times through the night and seeing his face looming over her while he asked that same question. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“It’s become a habit now. It’ll take me a while to break it. How many?”

“Thirty-six.” She smiled thinly when he simply continued to stare. “Okay, three. Now get your fingers out of my face. I’m still mad at you.”

“Now I’m devastated.” When she started to shift he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Stay.”

“What do I look like, a cocker spaniel?”

“Actually, there’s a resemblance around the eyes.” He kept his hand firmly in place. “Eve, you’re staying in bed through the morning.”

“I am not—”

“Think of it this way. I can make you.” He reached out, caught her chin in his hand. “Then you’d be humiliated. You really hate that. Think how much easier it would be on your pride and ego if you decided to stay in bed a couple more hours.”

They were fairly well matched physically, and Eve figured they were about even in takedowns. But there was a look in his eyes that warned he’d make good on his threat. And she wasn’t feeling quite her best.

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind staying in bed a couple hours, if I had some coffee.”

The hand on her shoulder slid up to her cheek. “Maybe I’ll get you some.” He leaned forward to kiss her lightly, then found himself holding her tight against him, burying his face in her hair, rocking as every thought and fear he’d held back during the night flooded free. “Oh God.”

The emotions that poured out of him in those two words swamped her. “I’m all right. Don’t worry. I’m all right.”

He thought he’d dealt with it, thought that through the long night he’d conquered this sick, shaky sensation in his gut. But it shot back now, overwhelmingly strong. His only defense was to hold her. Just hold.

“The explosion came through Peabody’s communicator—loud and clear.” As his system began to settle again, he laid his cheek against hers. “There was a long, timeless period of blind terror. Getting there, then getting through the chaos. Blood and glass and smoke.” He ran his hands briskly up and down her arms as he drew back. “Then I heard you, sniping at the MT, and life snapped back into place for me.” He did kiss her now, lightly. “I’ll get your coffee.”

Eve studied her hands as Roarke walked across the room. The scrapes and abrasions had been treated, and treated well. There was barely a mark left to show for their violent meeting with asphalt. “No one ever loved me before you.” She lifted her gaze to his as he sat on the bed again. “I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it, and maybe I won’t. But I’ve gotten to depend on it.”

She took the coffee he offered, then his hand. “I was giving the MT grief because he wouldn’t get me a communicator. I had to get one to call you, to tell you I was okay. It was the first thing I thought of when I came to. Roarke. That was the first thing in my head.”

He brought their joined hands to his lips. “We’ve gone and done it, haven’t we?”

“Done what?”

“Become a unit.”

It made her smile. “I guess we have. Are we okay now?”

“We’re fine. Clear liquids were recommended as your upon awakening meal, but I imagine we’d like something more substantial.”

“I could eat the best part of a cow still on the hoof.”

“I don’t know that we have that particular delicacy in the pantry, but I’ll see what I can come up with.”

It wasn’t so bad, she decided, this being tended to. Not when it included breakfast in bed. She plowed her way through a mushroom and chive omelette made from eggs laid by pampered brown hens.

“I just needed fuel,” she managed over a bite of a cinnamon bagel. “I feel fine now.”

Roarke chose one of the thumb-sized raspberries from her breakfast tray. “You look amazingly well under the circumstances. Have you any idea how a bomb was planted in your official unit?”

“I’ve got a couple of theories. I need to—” She broke off, frowned a little when a knock sounded on the door.

“Peabody, I imagine. She’d be prompt.” He went to the door himself to let her in.

“How is she?” Peabody whispered. “I thought they might have kept her overnight at the hospital.”

“They might have, but then she’d have hurt me.”

“No whispering,” Eve called out. “Peabody, I want a report.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody crossed over to the bed, then grinned from ear to ear. The woman in a red silk nightie, settled back on a mountain of pillows in a huge bed, a tray loaded with food on fine china settled over her lap, was not the usual image of Eve Dallas. “You look like something out of an old movie,” she began. “You know, like . . . Bette Crawford.”

“That would be Davis,” Roarke told her, after he’d disguised a chuckle with a cough. “Or Joan Crawford.”

“Whatever. You look sort of glam, Dallas.”

Mortified, Eve straightened up. “I don’t believe I asked for a report on my appearance, Officer Peabody.”

“She’s still a little testy,” Roarke commented. “Would you like some coffee, Peabody, a bit of breakfast?”

“I had some . . .” Her eyes brightened. “Are those raspberries? Wow.”

“They’re fresh. I have an agri-dome nearby. Make yourself comfortable.”

“When you two finish socializing, maybe we could take a moment to discuss . . . oh, I don’t know, how about car bombs?”

“I have the reports.” Drawn by the raspberries, Peabody sat on the side of the bed. She balanced her shiny black shoe on the knee of her starched uniform pants. “The sweepers and bomb team put it together pretty fast. Thanks, this is great,” she added when Roarke supplied her with a tray of her own. “We used to grow raspberries when I was a kid.” She sampled one and sighed. “Takes me back.”

“Try to stay in this decade, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. I—” She glanced over at the three quick raps on the door. “Must be McNab.”

McNab poked his head around the door. “All clear. Hey, some bedroom. Outstanding. Is that coffee I smell? Hey, Lieutenant, looking decent. What kind of berries are those?”

He crossed the room as he spoke, the cat jogging in behind him. When both of them made themselves cozy on the bed, Eve simply gaped.

“Make yourself right at home, McNab.”

“Thanks.” He helped himself to her bowl of berries. “You look steady, Lieutenant. Glad to see it.”

“If someone doesn’t give me a goddamn report, I’m going to look a lot more than steady. You,” she decided, pointing at Peabody. “Because normally you’re not an idiot.”

“Yes, sir. The explosive device was a homemade boomer, and whoever put it together knew their stuff. It had a short range, classic for car explosives, which is why it took out your vehicle, but had—relatively speaking—little effect on the surrounding area. If you hadn’t been in a jam, cars locked in on all sides, there would have been basically no outside damage to speak of.”

“Were there any fatalities?”

“No, sir. The vehicles on your perimeters were affected, and there were about twenty injuries—only three were serious. The rest were treated and released. You sustained serious injuries as you were outside of the vehicle and unprotected at the time of the explosion.”

Eve remembered the two teenagers who’d boarded by only moments before. If they’d still been in range . . . She ordered herself to shake that image away. “Was it on a timer? How was it cued?”

“I’ll take that.” McNab gave Galahad an absent stroke on the back as the cat curled next to Eve’s legs. “He went for the standard car boom style—which was his mistake. If he’d used a timer, well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be eating berries this morning, Lieutenant. He linked it to the ignition, figuring it would trigger when you engaged the engine. Fortunately for our side, you drive—or drove—a departmental joke. The electrical system, the guidance system, the ignition system, well, just about every damn system in your vehicle was flawed. My guess is when you started it up yesterday, it hiccuped a few times.”

“It took me three tries to get it going.”

“There you are.” McNab gestured with a berry, then popped it in his mouth. “It threw the link with the boomer off, skipped over the trigger. It was primed, could have gone off at any time from there. You hit a pothole, stop short, and boom.”

“I slammed the door,” Eve murmured. “When those idiot cab drivers pissed me off, I got out and slammed the door.”

“That’s likely what did it. Nothing wrong with the boomer. I took a look at the debris myself, and I can tell you he used top-grade components. It was just waiting for the signal to trigger.”

Eve drew a breath. “So what you’re telling me is I owe my life to budget cuts and a departmental maintenance crew who have their heads up their butts.”

“Couldn’t have put it better.” McNab patted her knee. “If you’d been driving one of those rockets like the boys in Anti-Crime, you’d have gone up in the garage at Central and become a legend.”

“The garage. How the hell did he get into the garage to plant it?”

“I’ll take that.” Peabody did her best not to speak through clenched teeth. Not only did McNab report in an unsuitably casual style, but it should have been her damn report. “I swung by Central and requested a copy of the security disc for yesterday. Whitney cleared it.”

“Have you got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Smug now, Peabody patted her bag. “Right here.”

“Well, let’s—Oh for Christ’s sake.” Eve swore as someone banged on the door yet again. “Just come the hell in. We should be selling tickets.”

“Dallas.” Nadine rushed in, all but leaped on the bed. Her usually shrewd eyes were clouded with tears. “You’re all right? You’re really all right. I’ve been sick worrying. None of my sources could get the status. Summerset wouldn’t say anything but that you were resting every time I called. I had to come see for myself.”

“As you can see, I’m dandy. Just hosting a little breakfast party.” She picked up the bowl of berries McNab was rapidly depleting. “Hungry?”

Nadine pressed her fingers to her lips to control the trembling. “I know this is my fault. I know you could have been killed because of what I did.”

“Look, Nadine—”

“It was easy enough to put together,” Nadine interrupted. “I go on air with that statement I hammered out of you, and a couple hours later, your car blows up. He came after you because he heard the report, because I put it on the air.”

“Which is exactly what I intended.” Eve set the bowl down again. The last thing she needed on her conscience was a hysterical, guilty reporter. “You didn’t hammer anything out of me. I said what I wanted to say, and what I wanted you to broadcast. I needed him to make a move, and I needed him to make it in my direction.”

“What do you mean you—” As it struck home, Nadine held up a hand. It took a moment before she was certain she could speak. “You used me?”

“I’d say that was quid pro quo, Nadine. We used each other.”

Nadine took a step back. Her face was bone white now, her eyes blazing. “Bitch. Goddamn cop bitch.”

“Yeah.” Weary again, Eve rubbed her eyes. “Wait a minute. A minute,” she repeated before Nadine could stalk out. “Would you all give Nadine and me some space here? Peabody, McNab, set up in my office. Roarke . . . please.”

Peabody and McNab were already out the door when he walked to the bed, leaned down close. “I think we’ll have to discuss this latest development, Lieutenant.”

She decided it was best to say nothing, and waited for him to go out and quietly close the door behind him. “He’s not going to understand,” she murmured, then looked over at Nadine. “Maybe you will.”

“Oh, I get it, Dallas. I get it. You want to move your investigation along, why not fake a statement to a credible on-air reporter. Just use her—after all, what does she matter? She doesn’t have any feelings. She’s just another idiot reading the news.”

“The statement wasn’t faked. It was what I wanted to say.” Eve set the breakfast tray aside. Doctor’s recommendation or not, she wasn’t going to have this confrontation while lounging in bed. “It was what I felt, and what, under most circumstances, I’d have kept to myself.”

She tossed the covers aside, got to her feet. Then realizing her legs weren’t quite ready to support her, she abandoned pride for dignity and sat on the edge of the bed.

“It was impulse. That’s not an excuse. I knew exactly what I was doing, and where you would go with it. But one thing, Nadine. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come after me with a camera.”

“That’s my fucking job.”

“Yeah, and it’s my fucking job to catch this guy. I’ve got lives on the line here, Nadine, and one of them may be Roarke’s. That means I’ll do anything it takes. Even use a friend.”

“You could have told me.”

“I could have. I didn’t.” Her head was starting to pound, so she rested it in her hands. Meds wearing off, she supposed. It was just as well. “You want me to tell you something in confidence, Nadine, I will. And where you go with it is your choice. I’m scared.” She moved her hands to cover her face, just for a moment. “I’m scared to the bone because I know the others are just layers. He’s working his way through them to get to the core. And the core is Roarke.”

Nadine stared. She’d never seen Eve really vulnerable. Hadn’t known she could be. But the woman sitting on the bed, her sleep shirt hiked on her thighs, her head in her hands, wasn’t a cop. Not then. She was just a woman.

“So, you wanted to make sure they had to go through you first.”

“That was the idea.”

A softened heart couldn’t hold anger. She sat on the bed beside Eve, draped an arm around her shoulders. “I guess I do understand. And I wish I wasn’t so damn jealous. I’ve scouted around a lot and never hunted up what you’ve got with Roarke.”

“I figure it doesn’t work that way. It finds you, and it grabs you by the throat and you can’t do a damn thing about it.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, then sighed. “But I stepped over the line with you, and I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, you must have a big bruise on the brain if you’re apologizing to me.”

“Since there’s nobody else here, and I think you’re feeling sorry for me, I’ll tell you I feel like I’ve been run over by a fleet of airbuses.”

“Go back to bed, Dallas.”

“Can’t.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, hard, rolled her aching shoulders. “He’s still a step or two ahead, and I’m going to fix that.” When the thought occurred, she turned her head and studied Nadine. “But if some hotshot on-air reporter were to broadcast that Lieutenant Dallas’s injuries are serious, that she is recuperating at home and is expected to be laid up for a couple days . . .”

“You want me to lie to the public?” Nadine arched a brow.

“My injuries are pretty serious. Everybody’s been saying so until I want to deck them. And I am recuperating at home, aren’t I? You can see that for yourself.”

“And you will be laid up, as you put it, for a couple of days.”

“It already feels like a couple of days. It might buy me time, Nadine. He’ll want to wait until I’m on my feet again before he tries to take the next one out. He isn’t playing solo. He wants an opponent.” She shook her head. “No, he wants me. Particularly. I can’t play if I’m flat on my back and tranq’d.”

“I’ll do it.” She rose, looked down at Eve. “And let me tell you, Dallas, I wouldn’t be surprised if Roarke sees to it that you are flat on your back and tranq’d for the next few days.” Hitching her bag on her arm, Nadine smiled. “Anyway, I am glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too.”

When Nadine left her, Eve managed to rise and make her way slowly into the shower. Bracing both hands against the tile, she ordered water, full force at one hundred degrees. Ten minutes later, she felt steadier, and by the time she was dressed, nearly normal.

But when she walked into her office, it took only one long stare from Roarke to have her inching back.

“I figured I’d just stretch out in the sleep chair. I feel pretty straight,” she hurried on when he said nothing. “I guess that stop at the hospital last night was a good move. I appreciate it.”

“Do you think you’ll get around me that way?”

“It was worth a shot.” She tried a smile, then let it go. “Look, I’m okay. And I need to do this.”

“Then you’ll do it, won’t you? I have some things to see to myself.” He moved to his office door, then flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Let me know when you have a free moment, Lieutenant. For more personal matters.”

“Well, shit,” Eve sighed when his door shut.

“Never seen anybody steam that cold,” McNab commented. “He even gave me the shakes.”

“Do you ever shut up, McNab? I want to see the disc, garage security.” Skirting the sleep chair, Eve sat behind her desk. “Cue it up, Peabody, start at sixteen hundred. That’s about the time I logged in to Central.”

Struggling not to sulk over more personal matters, Eve kept her eyes glued to the monitor as the image flicked on. “Keep it on the access doors. He had to come from somewhere.”

They watched cars and vans pull in and out. Each time, the scanner eye above the access doors blinked green for cleared.

“That wouldn’t be a problem for him, would it, McNab? Anybody who can pull the electronic magic he’s been pulling could skim by the security eye for garage level.”

“Security’s tight there. With the bombs in public buildings plague during the Urban Wars, all government and state facilities had new security installed at all access areas.” He nodded, kept watching. “Even with budget cuts, they get maintained and upgraded twice a year. That’s federal law. A specialized droid unit does spot inspections on a regular basis.”

“Could he do it?”

“He could, but it wouldn’t be a round of Rocket Racers. And it’s a hell of a lot riskier than a vid-game. If the alarm trips, all access and exit areas are automatically sealed. He’d be in a box.”

“He was pissed, and he’s cocky.” Eve leaned back. “He’d have risked it—and since he didn’t trip any alarm, he pulled it off. He got into Cop Central garage, planted the boomer, and got out. That’s the only place he could have gotten to my car during the time frame. Computer, split screen, second image section AB, level two. There’s my vehicle, safe and sound.”

“You don’t want to see it now,” Peabody commented and managed to suppress the shudder. “They hauled it in to vehicle analysis. I shot through the automatic requisition for a new unit.”

“They’ll probably stick a couple of bolts in it and expect me to make do.” However foolish and sentimental it was, she almost hoped they did. “Idiot bureaucrats are always . . . wait, wait, what’s this?”

Turbo-van, the computer told her helpfully. Model Jet-stream, manufactured 2056—

“Stop, freeze image. Look at this.” Eve gestured Peabody closer. “The windows are privacy tinted. Surveillance vans aren’t allowed to have that tint on the driver’s area. And those plates, see the plates? That’s not a van ID. It’s a cab plate, for God’s sake. Our boy’s in there, Peabody.”

“Good catch, Dallas.” Impressed, McNab tapped some keys and had the frozen image printing out in hard copy. “I’ll run the plates for you.”

“Let’s see what he does,” Eve murmured. “Continue, computer.” They watched the van circle the first level, climb slowly to the next. And stop directly behind Eve’s car. “We’ve got him. I knew he’d get sloppy.”

The van door opened. The man who stepped out was concealed in a long coat, and his hat was pulled low. “Police issue. That’s a beat cop’s overcoat. It’s a uniform’s hat. . . . But he got the shoes wrong. He’s wearing air treads. Damn it, you can’t see his face. He’s wearing sunshades.”

Then he turned, looked directly into the camera. Eve got a glimpse of white, white skin, just a hint of the curve of a cheek. Then he lifted a slim wand, pointed it, and the picture swam with color.

“Fucking hell, he jammed it. What the hell was that he had in his hand? Play back.”

“I’ve never seen a jammer like it.” McNab shook his head both in bafflement and admiration as the image replayed and froze. “It’s no more than six inches long, barely thicker than a ski pole. You ought to have Roarke look at it.”

“Later.” Eve waved that away. “We’ve got coloring, we’ve got height and build. And we’ve got the make of a van. Let’s see what we can do with it.”

She continued to stare at the screen as if she could somehow see through the concealing shades and hat to his face. To his eyes. “Peabody, run the make and model of the van. I want a list of everyone who owns one. McNab, find out when that cabbie lost his tag. And figure this: He’s driving into the garage at six twenty-three—that’s less than one hour after Nadine’s broadcast. Maybe he already had the boomer made up, but he had to have time to rig it for transport, to decide on a plan, to find my location. And you bet your ass he needed time to have a temper fit. How much time did he spend in transpo?”

She sat back again and smiled. “I’m betting he’s located downtown, within a ten-block radius of Cop Central. So we’re going to start working our own backyard.”

Smiling, she ordered her computer to continue. She wanted to see just how long it took the son of a bitch to rig her car.

Eve wasn’t in the mood for another marital bout, but she thought it best to get it over with. She needed Roarke’s eye, his contacts—and, since she was going to follow her commander’s request and travel to Ireland, his expertise in a foreign country.

Since Peabody and McNab had begun sniping at each other like longtime cohabitants, she’d separated them, shooing them off to different assignments in different locales. With their current competitive level, she hoped to have her answers from both of them by midday.

She paused outside Roarke’s office door, sucked in a bracing breath, and gave what she hoped was a brisk and somewhat wifely knock.

When she entered, he held up a finger, signaling her to wait while he continued to address two hologram images. “. . . Until I’m free to travel to the resort personally, I’ll trust you’ll handle these relatively minor details. I expect Olympus to be fully operational by the target date. Understood?”

When there was no response other than respectful nods, he leaned back. “End transmission.”

“Problem?” Eve asked when the holograms faded.

“A handful of minor ones.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but have you got a minute?”

Deliberately, he glanced at his wrist unit. “Or two. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I really hate when you use that tone.”

“Do you? Pity.” He leaned back, steepled his fingers. “Would you like to know what I hate?”

“Oh, I figure you’ll tell me, but right now I’m pressed. I’ve got McNab and Peabody in the field chasing leads. I’m locked in here because I planted a story through Nadine that I’m busted up and recuperating at home.”

“You’re getting good at that. Planting stories.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Okay, we’ll run through it and clear the air. I made the statement, crossed the official line, to insult and challenge the killer to make a move on me. I’m supposed to serve and protect and I had to figure if he swung his aim in my direction, I’d buy time for whoever he’d targeted next. It worked, and as I’d calculated, he was pissed off enough to be sloppy, so we’ve got some leads we didn’t have twenty-four hours ago.”

Roarke let her finish. To give himself time he rose, walked to the window. Absently he adjusted the tint of the glass to let in more light. “When did you decide I was gullible, or simply stupid, or that I would be pleased to know that you had used yourself to shield me?”

So much for the cautious route, she decided. “Gullible and stupid are the last things I believe you are. And I wasn’t considering whether or not you’d be pleased that I deflected his attention from you to me. Having you alive’s enough—even pissed off and alive is fine by me.”

“You had no right. No right to stand in front of me.” He turned back now, his eyes vividly blue with temper that had gone from frigid to blaze. “No fucking right to risk yourself on my behalf.”

“Oh really. Is that so?” She stalked forward until they were toe to toe. “Okay, you tell me. You keep looking me dead in the eye and you tell me you wouldn’t have done the same if it was me in jeopardy.”

“That’s entirely different.”

“Why?” Her chin came up and her finger jabbed hard into his chest. “Because you have a penis?”

He opened his mouth, a dozen vile and furious words searing his tongue. It was the cool, utterly confident gleam in her eyes that stopped him. He turned away and braced both fists on the desk. “I don’t care for the fact that you have a point.”

“In that case I’ll just finish it out so you can swallow it all in one lump. I love you, and I need you every bit as much as you love and need me. Maybe I don’t say it as often or show it as smoothly, but that doesn’t make it any less true. If it pricks your ego to know that I’d protect you, that’s just too bad.”

He lifted his hands, dragged them up through his hair before he turned to her. “That’s a hell of a way to diffuse an argument.”

“Did I?”

“Since any argument I could attempt would make me sound like a fool, it would seem you have.”

“Good thinking.” She risked a grin at him. “So, if you’re finished being mad at me, can I run a few things by you?”

“I didn’t say I was finished being mad, I said I was finished arguing with you.” He sat on the corner of his desk. “But yes, feel free to run a few things by me.”

Satisfied with that, she handed him a disc. “Put that in. I’ve got a still on it you can project on screen. Enhance it to full.”

He did as she requested, then studied the image. He could see the fingers of a gloved hand wrapped around a wand-shaped device. The hilt was blocked from view but the pattern of notches and buttons on the stem were clear. A light at the tip glowed green.

“It’s a jammer,” he said. “More sophisticated and certainly more compact than anything I’ve seen on the market.” He stepped closer to the screen. “The manufacturer’s ID—if there is one—is likely on the hilt and hidden by his hand, so that’s no help. One of my R and D departments has been working on a smaller, more powerful jammer. I’ll have to check the status.”

That caught her off guard. “You’re manufacturing this kind of thing?”

He caught the tone, smiled a little. “Roarke Industries handles a number of contracts for the government—for a number of governments, as it happens. The Defense and Security Department is always looking for new toys such as this. And they pay well.”

“So a device like this might be in the works in one of your departments? Brennen was in communications. One of his research arms could have been working on one.”

“It’s easy enough to find out. I’ll check which one of my particular arms has something along these lines on the boards, and have one of my moles check Brennen’s organization.”

“You have spies?”

“Data gatherers, darling. They object to being called spies. Have you got the rest of your man on here?”

“Click one back.”

“Computer, display previous image on screen.”

Roarke frowned at the picture and, using the vehicles for points of reference, speculated. “About five-ten, probably about one-sixty by the way that coat hangs on him. He’s very pale from the looks of that swatch of skin you can see. I wouldn’t say he spends a lot of time outdoors, so his profession, if he has one, is likely white collar.”

Roarke tilted his head and continued. “No way to tell age, except he . . . holds himself youthfully. You can see part of his mouth. He’s smiling. Smug bastard. His taste in outerwear is miserably inferior.”

“It’s a beat cop’s topcoat,” Eve said dryly. “But I’m inclined away from thinking he’s got a connection with the department. Cops don’t wear air treads, and no beat cop’s going to have access to the kind of knowledge or equipment this guy has or EDD would have snatched him up. You can pick up one of those coats at a couple dozen outlets in New York alone.” She waited a beat. “But we’ll run it anyway.”

“The van?”

“We’re checking. If he didn’t boost it, and it’s registered in the state of New York, we’ll narrow the field considerably.”

“Considerably’s optimistic, Eve. I probably have twenty of these vans registered in New York to various outlets. Delivery vans, maintenance units, interstaff transpos.”

“It’s more than we started with.”

“Yes. Computer, disengage.” He turned to her. “Peabody and McNab can handle a great deal of the legwork on this for the next day or two?”

“Sure. Then Feeney’s back pretty soon and I’m grabbing him.”

“They’re finished with Jennie’s body. It’s being released this afternoon.”

“Oh.”

“I need you to come with me, Eve, to Ireland. I realize the timing might not be convenient for you, but I’m asking you for two days.”

“Well, I—”

“I can’t go without you.” The impatience surfaced, glowed in his eyes. “I won’t go without you. I can’t take the chance of being three thousand miles away if this bastard tries to get to you again. I need you with me. I’ve already made the arrangements. We can leave in an hour.”

She thought it best to walk to the window so that he couldn’t see she was fighting to hold back a grin. It was dishonest, she supposed, not to tell him she’d intended to ask him to go to Dublin with her that afternoon. But it was too sweet an opportunity to miss.

“It’s important to you?”

“Yes, very.”

She turned back to smile at him with what she believed was admirable restraint. “Then I’ll go pack.”

“I want the data as it comes in.” Eve paced the cabin of Roarke’s private plane and stared at Peabody’s sober face in her palm ’link. “Send everything to the hotel in Dublin, and send it coded.”

“I’m working on the van. There are over two hundred of that make and model with privacy tint registered in New York.”

“Run them down. Every one.” She skimmed a hand through her hair, determined not to let a single detail slip by. “The shoes looked new. The computer should be able to estimate the size. Run the shoes, Peabody.”

“You want me to run the shoes?”

“That’s what I said. Sales of that brand of air tread for the last two—no, make it three months. We could get lucky.”

“It’s comforting to believe in miracles, Lieutenant.”

“Details, Peabody. You’d better believe in the details. Cross-check with sales of the beat cop’s coat, cross-check that with sales of the statue. Is McNab working on the jammer?”

“He said so.” Peabody’s voice chilled. “I haven’t heard from him in over two hours. He’s supposed to be talking to the contact Roarke gave him in Electronic Future’s research and development.”

“Same orders for him, all data, coded, as it’s accessed.”

“Yes, sir. Mavis has called a couple times. Summerset told her that you were resting comfortably and under doctor’s orders couldn’t receive visitors. Dr. Mira also called, and sent flowers.”

“Yeah?” Surprised and disconcerted by the idea, Eve paused. “Maybe you should thank her or something. Damn, how sick am I supposed to be?”

“Pretty sick, Dallas.”

“I hate that. The bastard’s probably celebrating. Let’s make sure he doesn’t party for long. Get me the data, Peabody. I’ll be back inside of forty-eight hours, and I want to nail him.”

“Swinging the hammer as we speak, sir.”

“Don’t bash your thumb,” Eve warned and ended transmission. She slipped the ’link back into her pocket and looked at Roarke. He’d been lost in his own thoughts throughout the flight, saying little. Eve wondered if it was time to tell him she’d already contacted the Dublin police and had an appointment with an Inspector Farrell.

She sat across from him, bounced her fingers on her knee. “So . . . are you going to take me on a tour of the favored locales from your misspent youth?”

He didn’t smile as she’d hoped, but he did shift his gaze from the window to her face. “They wouldn’t be particularly picturesque.”

“They may not be among the tourist hot spots, but it would be helpful to brush up with some of your former friends and companions.”

“Three of my former friends and companions are dead.”

“Roarke—”

“No.” Annoyed with himself, he held up a hand. “Brooding doesn’t help. I’ll take you to the Penny Pig.”

“The Penny Pig?” She straightened quickly. “Brennen’s wife said he used to go there. A bar, right?”

“A pub.” Now he did smile. “The social and cultural center of a race who goes from mother’s milk straight to stout. And you should see Grafton Street. I used to pluck pockets there. Then there are the narrow alleyways of South Dublin where I ran games of chance until I moved my portable casino into the back room of Jimmy O’Neal’s butcher shop.”

“Link sausage and loaded dice.”

“And more. Then there was the smuggling. An adventurous enterprise and the financial foundation for Roarke Industries.” He leaned forward, hooked her safety strap himself. “And even with all that experience, I had my heart stolen by a cop and had to mend my ways.”

“Some of them.”

He laughed and glancing out the window watched Dublin City rise toward them. “Some of them. There’s the River Liffey, and the bridges shine in the sun. A lovely place is Dublin Town of an evening.”

He was right, Eve decided when less than an hour later they were in the back of a limo and streaming along with traffic. She supposed she’d expected it to be more like New York, crowded and noisy and impatient. It certainly bustled, but there was a cheer beneath the pace.

Colorful doors brightened the buildings, arched bridges added charm. And though it was mid-November, flowers bloomed in abundance.

The hotel was a grand stone structure with arched windows and a castlelike air. She had only a glimpse of the lobby with its towering ceiling, regal furnishings, rich dark walls before they were whisked up to their suite.

Men like Roarke weren’t expected to fuss with such pesky details as check-in. All was ready for their arrival. Huge urns of fresh flowers, massive bowls of fruit, and a generous decanter of fine Irish whiskey awaited them.

And the tall windows gleamed with the last red lights of the setting sun.

“I thought you’d prefer facing the street, so you could watch the city go by.”

“I do.” She was already at the windows, hands tucked in her back pockets. “It’s pretty, like . . . I don’t know an animated painting. Did you see the glide-carts? Every one of them was shiny, the umbrellas stiff and bright. Even the gutters look like someone just swept them clean.”

“They still give tidy village awards in Ireland.”

She laughed at that, amused and touched. “Tidy village?”

“It’s a matter of pride, and a quality of life most are reluctant to give up. In the countryside you’ll still see stone fences and fields green enough to startle the eye. Cottages and cabins with thatched roofs. Peat fires and flowers in the yard. The Irish grip their traditions in a firm hand.”

“Why did you leave here?”

“Because my traditions were less attractive and more easily let go.” He drew a bright yellow daisy from an arrangement and handed it to her. “I want a shower, then I’ll show you.”

She turned back to the window, twirling the daisy absently by its stem. And she wondered how much more she would see of the man she’d married before the night was over.

There were parts of Dublin that weren’t so cheerful, where the alleys carried that universal smell of garbage gone over and thin cats slunk in shadows. Here she saw the underbelly of any city, men walking quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes shifting right and left. She heard harsh laughter with desperate undertones and the wail of a hungry baby.

She saw a group of boys, the oldest of them no more than ten. They walked casually, but Eve caught the cool, calculating gleam in their eyes. If she’d had her weapon, her hand would have been on it.

The street was their turf, and they knew it.

One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. “Beg pardon,” he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Mind the hands, boyo. I don’t care for any but my own in my pockets.”

“Turn me loose.” He swung, comically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm’s length. “Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing.”

“Only because you’ve thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six.” He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. “A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well.” He looked down into the boy’s furious face and shook his head. “You’d do better as the pass-off man than the pincher.”

“That’s great, Roarke, why don’t you give him a few lessons on thievery while you’re at it.”

At Eve’s words the boy’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. “They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves.”

“You’ve got the nerves, but you don’t have the fingers.”

“They work well enough on most.” Relaxed now, the boy flashed Roarke a quick and charming grin. “And if they don’t I can outrun any cop on two legs.”

Roarke leaned down, lowered his voice. “This is my wife, you bonehead, and she’s a cop.”

“Jay-sus.”

“Exactly.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. “I’d keep these for myself if I were you. Your associates scattered like rats. They didn’t stand with you and don’t deserve a share.”

“I won’t be after dividing it.” The coins disappeared into his pocket. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He slid his gaze to Eve, nodded with surprisingly dignity. “Missus,” he murmured, then ran like a rabbit into the dark.

“How much did you give him?” Eve asked.

“Enough to tickle his humor and not disturb his pride.” He slid his arm around her waist and began to walk again.

“Remind you of someone?”

“No indeed,” Roarke said with a cheer he hadn’t expected to feel. “I’d never have been caught so handily.”

“I don’t see that it’s anything to brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn’t be so light these days.”

“I’m sure you’re right. A man loses his touch with age.” Smiling, he held out the badge he’d lifted out of her pocket. “I think this is yours. Lieutenant.”

She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. “Show-off.”

“I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are.” He stopped again, studying the pub. “The Penny Pig. Hasn’t changed much. A bit cleaner maybe.”

“It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award.”

It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.

The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.

It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.

High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.

Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.

Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who’d once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.

While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve’s shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.

“Guinness, a pint and a glass please.”

“On the way.”

“What am I going to be drinking?” Eve demanded.

“The heart of the realm,” Roarke murmured, and watched his old friend build the drinks with an admirable expertise. “It’s an acquired taste. If you don’t care for it, we’ll get you a Harp.”

Eve narrowed her eyes against the smoke. “Don’t they know tobacco’s been banned in public places?”

“Not in Ireland it hasn’t, not in the pubs.”

The bartender came back with the drinks. Eve lifted hers to sip while Roarke dug more coins from his pocket. Her brows drew together at the first sip, then she shook her head with the second. “Tastes like something I should chew.”

Roarke chuckled and the bartender beamed. “You’re a Yank then. Your first Guinness?”

“Yeah.” Eve frowned at the glass, turning it slowly while examining the dark brown liquid with its foamy white head.

“And your last as well?”

She sipped again, holding the beer in her mouth for a moment, then swallowing. “No. I think I like it.”

“That’s fine then.” The bartender grinned widely, and neatly nudged Roarke’s coins back. “You’ll have the first on me.”

“That’s kind of you, Brian.” Roarke watched Brian turn from admiring Eve to study him.

“Do I know you? There’s a familiar look about you that I’m not quite placing.”

“It’s been fifteen years, more or less, so your memory might be dim even after all the times we had. I recognized you right enough, Brian Kelly, though you’ve added a stone or two. Perhaps three.” Roarke flashed a grin, and it was the grin that did it.

“Well, bloody hell, lock up your women. It’s Roarke himself.” Brian’s lips stretched in a mile-wide grin as he rammed a fist into Roarke’s face.

“Christ Jesus” was the best Roarke could do as his head snapped back. He kept his balance, shook his head to clear it.

“Sucker punch,” Eve commented, and took another sip of stout. “Nice pals you’ve got, Roarke.”

“I owed you that.” Brian shook a finger. “You never did come back with the hundred pounds that was my fair share of the cargo money.”

Philosophically Roarke swiped the back of his hand over his cut lip to blot the blood. After the briefest of pauses, both the music and the hum of conversation continued. “It would have cost me more than a hundred pounds to come back at that point with the guarda on the prowl.” Roarke picked up his pint, sipped to soothe his mouth. “I thought I sent it to you.”

“Hell you did. But what’s a hundred pounds between friends.” With a roaring laugh, Brian grabbed Roarke’s shoulders, yanked him over the bar, and kissed him dead on his bleeding mouth. “Welcome home, you bloody bastard. You there!” He shouted to the musicians. “Play ‘The Wild Rover’ for me old friend here, for that’s what he ever was. And I’ve heard he’s got gold in great store all right, enough to buy a round for the house.”

The patrons cheered and the music turned lively.

“I’ll stand the house for a round, Bri, if you’ll give me and my wife a few minutes of your time back in the snug.”

“Wife, is it?” He roared again and pulled Eve forward for a hearty kiss. “Blessed Mary save us all. I’ll give you a few minutes and more, for I own the place now. Michael O’Toole, you come on back and give Johnny a hand with the bar. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

He pressed a button beneath the bar and had a narrow door at the far end swinging open.

The snug, Eve discovered, was a tiny private room fitted out with a single table and a scattering of chairs. The light was dim, but the floor gleamed like a mirror. Through the closed door, the music piped.

“You married this reprobate,” Brian said, sighing as he lowered himself onto a chair that creaked beneath his weight.

“Yeah, well, he begged.”

“You’ve got yourself a pretty one here, boyo. A long one with eyes the color of the best Irish.”

“She’ll do me.” Roarke took out his cigarettes, offered one to Brian.

“American.” He closed his eyes in pleasure as Roarke lighted it for him. “We still have a hard time getting these here.”

“I’ll send you a case to make up for the hundred.”

“I can sell off a case of Yanks for ten times that.” Brian grinned. “So I’ll take it. What brings you to the Penny Pig? I hear you come to Dublin now and again on your rich man’s business, but you don’t wander our way.”

“No, I haven’t.” Roarke met his eyes. “Ghosts.”

“Aye.” Brian nodded, understanding perfectly. “They’re thick in the streets and alleys. But you’ve come now, with your pretty wife.”

“I have. You’d have heard about Tommy Brennen and the others.”

“Murdered.” Brian poured from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken from beneath the bar. “Tommy would come in now and again over the years. Not often, but now and again, and we’d have a song out of him. I saw him and his wife once, and his children, strolling on Grafton Street. He saw me as well, but it wasn’t the time to speak to the likes of me. Tommy, well, he preferred keeping certain parts of what had been from his family.”

He lifted his glass more in resignation than toast. “Shawn now, he was a rare one. He’d send word back from New York, always claiming he was making a fortune, and when he’d finished counting all his money, back he’d be. A fine liar was Shawn,” he said and drank to him.

“I’ve brought Jennie’s body back with me.”

“Have you?” His wide and ruddy face sober, Brian nodded. “That’s the right thing. She’d have wanted that. She had a sweet heart, did Jennie. I hope they catch the bloody bastard who did her.”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re here, hoping you can help.”

“Now how could I do that, being an ocean away from where the deed was done?”

“Because it all started here, with Marlena.” Roarke took Eve’s hand. “I didn’t properly introduce you to my wife, Brian. This is Eve. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York City Police and Security.”

Brian choked on his whiskey, thumped his chest to help the air into his lungs. His eyes watered. “A cop? You married a bloody cop?”

“I married a bloody criminal,” Eve muttered, “but nobody ever thinks of that.”

“I do, darling.” Amused, Roarke kissed her hand. “Constantly.”

Brian let go another of his rollicking laughs and poured another shot. “Here’s to the pair of you. And to the icicles that are forming in Hell.”

He’d have to postpone the next.

He prayed for patience. After all, he’d waited so long already. But it was a sign from God, he understood that. He had veered from the path, acted on his own desires, when he had planted the bomb in her car.

He had sinned, and so prayed for forgiveness as well as patience. He had only to listen to the guiding force. He knew that, and was repentant. Tears blurred his vision as he knelt, accepting his penance, his punishment for his conceit and arrogance.

Like Moses, he had faltered in his mission and tested God.

The rosaries clinked musically in his hands as he moved from bead to bead, from decade to decade with a practiced ease and a deep devotion.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

He used no cushion for his knees, for he’d been taught that forgiveness demanded pain. Without it, he would have felt himself uncleansed. Votive candles, white for purity, flickered and carried the faint smell of wax pooling on wax.

Between them, the image of the Virgin watched him silently. Forgivingly.

His face was shadowed by the candlelight, and aglow with the visions of his own salvation.

Blessed art thou among women.

The anthem to the Virgin Mother was his favorite prayer, and no penance at all. It was comfort. As he completed the fifth of the nine rosaries he’d been given as penance, he pondered the Sorrowful Mysteries. He cleared his mind of worldly cares and carnal thoughts.

Like Mary, he was a virgin. He had been taught that his innocence and his purity were the paths to glory. Whenever lust crept its stealthy way into his heart, heating his blood, slickening his skin, he fought that whispering demon with all his might. Both his body, well trained, and his mind, well honed, were dedicated to his faith.

And the seeds of his faith were sown in blood, rooted in vengeance, and bloomed with death.

Eve could hear the low murmur of an international news report from the parlor screen when she awoke. Her body clock was a mass of confusion. She figured it was still the middle of the night according to her system, and a nice, rainy dawn where her body happened to be.

She didn’t think Roarke had slept long, but accepted that he needed less sleep than anyone she’d ever known. He hadn’t been talkative when they’d gotten back from the Penny Pig the night before, but he had been . . . hungry.

He’d made love like a man desperate to find something, or to lose it, and she had little choice but to grab hold and join the ride.

Now he’d already been up and working, she imagined. Scanning the news reports, the stock reports, making calls, pushing buttons. She decided it was best to leave him to it until her mind cleared.

She eyed the bathroom shower dubiously. It was a three-sided affair of white tile that left the user’s butt exposed to the room. Search as she might, she found no mechanism that would close her in and protect her privacy.

It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.

Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who’d killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.

Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.

Confident that would only take a bit of maneuvering, she ordered the spray off, turned to step out of the shower, then yelped as if scalded.

Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you a towel.” Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, well enough.”

“I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You’ll like it.”

She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?”

“I’m thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?”

She’d started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. “Who?”

“The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?”

She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn’t help. “I never said I was meeting anyone.” When he only lifted a brow, she swore. “Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel.”

“I don’t know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?”

“Listen, I can’t have this conversation naked.”

“I like having conversations when you’re naked.”

“That’s because you’re a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel.”

He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. “Come and get it.”

“You’re just going to try to get me back into bed.”

Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. “I wasn’t thinking of the bed.”

“Step back.” She held up a hand, feinted to the right. “I’ll hurt you.”

“God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me.”

“I’ll give you excitement,” she promised. She’d just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.

“I’m not fighting with you in here.” She blew at her wet hair. “Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It’s a death trap.”

“We’ll have to risk it.” Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. “You’re wet, and you’re warm, and you’re tasty.”

Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. “You’re dressed,” she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. “Just let me fix that for you.”

Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.

Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.

“Um,” she managed, plowing her way through. “Can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t eat like this every day. Whole country’d waddle to their death.”

It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. “It’s a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence.”

“Good. Mmm. What’s in this meat stuff here?”

Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. “You’ll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it.”

“Okay.” She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. “I’m meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you.”

“You’re telling me now,” he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. “That’ll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go.”

“We?” Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. “Farrell is meeting with me—as in me—as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn’t bring her husband along.”

He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. “Was that an attempt to put me in my place?”

“Figure it out.”

“All right, and you figure this.” Taking his time, he topped off both their coffee cups. “You can pursue this investigation your way.” His gaze flicked up to hers, glimmered there. “And I can pursue my interests in the matter in my way. Are you willing to risk my finding him first?”

He could be hard, she knew. And ruthless. He was undeniably clever. “You’ve got twenty minutes to handle your details before we leave.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Inspector Katherine Farrell was a striking woman. Perhaps forty-five, she had hair of blazing red neatly coiled at the nape of a long, slim neck. Her eyes were moss green, her skin the color of Irish cream. She wore a trim and tailored gray suit military in style that showcased lovely legs. She offered both Eve and Roarke her hand and a cup of tea.

“This would be your first trip to Ireland then, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Yes.”

Though her tidy office was equipped with an AutoChef, Farrell poured the tea out of a white china pot. It was one of her small pleasures. And it gave her time to measure and judge the Yank cop and the man known only as Roarke. “I hope you’ll have time to see some of the country while you’re here.”

“Not on this trip.”

“Pity.” She turned, teacups in hand, a smile on her lips. She found Eve both less and more than she’d expected. Less brittle than she chose to think of American police. And more tough than she expected to find a woman who had married a man with Roarke’s reputation. “And you’re from Dublin originally,” she said to Roarke.

He recognized the speculation in her eyes, and the knowledge. He might not have a criminal record—officially—but he did have a reputation. And memories were long. “I grew up in the shanties in South Dublin.”

“A difficult area, even now.” She sat, crossed her spectacular legs. “And you have businesses—ah, enterprises so to speak, here still.”

“Several.”

“It’s good for the economy. You’ve brought the body of Jennie O’Leary back to be waked and buried.”

“I have. We’ll wake her tonight.”

Farrell nodded, sipped delicately at her tea. “I’ve a cousin who once stayed at the B and B she ran in Wexford. I’m told it was a lovely place. Have you been there?”

“No.” He inclined his head, understanding the question between the questions. “I hadn’t seen Jennie in over twelve years.”

“But you did contact her just before she went to New York and was killed.”

Eve set her cup aside with a click of china on wood. “Inspector Farrell, this homicide and the others are under my jurisdiction. You don’t have the authority to interview Roarke in this matter.”

Tough, Farrell thought again. And territorial. Well, so am I. “All three of your dead were Irish citizens. We have an interest, a keen one, in your investigation.”

“It’s simple enough to answer,” Roarke put in before Eve could fire up again. “I contacted Jenny after Shawn Conroy was murdered. I was concerned for her safety.”

“Hers in particular?”

“Hers, and several others I’d been close to when I lived in Dublin.”

“Let’s just put this on the table.” Eve drew Farrell’s attention back to her, where she wanted to keep it. “I received a transmission, expertly jammed and so far untraceable, from an individual who claimed his game was vengeance sanctioned by God, and he’d chosen me for his opponent. He gave me a Bible quote, and a riddle, and upon following them I discovered the mutilated body of Thomas Brennen in his New York residence. Subsequently I learned that Roarke had known Thomas Brennen when they had both lived in Dublin.”

“I’ve spoken with his widow myself,” Farrell put in. “She said you were kind to her.”

Eve lifted her brows. “We hardly ever kick widows around in the morgue anymore. It’s bad for public relations.”

Farrell drew a breath and watched two tourist trams, bright in their green and white paint, pass her windows. “Point taken, Lieutenant.”

“Good. The following day I received another transmission, another set of clues, and found the body of Shawn Conroy. This pattern, and the fact that the second murder took place in one of Roarke’s empty rental units, indicated that there was a connection to Roarke.”

“And following that you followed the path from yet another transmission and discovered the body of Jennie O’Leary in a hotel which Roarke also owns.”

“That’s correct. A detective from our electronics division subsequently followed the transmission bounce, covering several points, one of which initially indicated that the transmission originated in our home. However, there was an echo which proved this to be false. At this time we are analyzing the echo and are confident that we will pinpoint the exact origin.”

“And at this time your prime suspect is a man in Roarke’s employ, a man who also lived in Dublin at one time. Summerset,” she continued, smiling thinly at Roarke. “We’ve been able to access very little background information on him.”

“You’re a bit behind, Inspector,” Eve said dryly. “Upon further investigation and personality testing, Summerset is no longer prime. Indications are that he was being used to mislead the investigation.”

“Yet the direction of all points back to Dublin, which is why you’re here.”

“I received the cooperation of Roarke and Summerset. I believe that the motives for these crimes have their roots in the rape/murder of Summerset’s minor daughter, Marlena, nearly twenty years ago. She was abducted and held by a group of men who threatened to harm her if Roarke didn’t agree to their demands. However, his agreement was ignored and her body was dumped at the front door of the residence where Roarke, Summerset, and Marlena lived.”

“This happened here, in Dublin?”

“Blood was and is shed,” Roarke said coolly, “even in your tidy streets, Inspector.”

Farrell’s eyes hardened as she swiveled to her computer. “When?”

It was Roarke who gave her the year, the month, the day, and then the hour.

“Marlena Summerset.”

“No. Kolchek. Her name was Marlena Kolchek.” As Summerset’s had been during that period, Roarke thought, but no records of Basil Kolchek exist. Not any longer. Sommerset had come into existence only weeks after Marlenna’s death. “Not all children use their father’s last name.”

Farrell sent him one quiet look, then called for the file.

“This matter was investigated and ruled death by misadventure. Investigating officer . . .” She trailed off, sighed. “Inspector Maguire. You knew him?” she asked Roarke.

“Yes, I knew him.”

“I did not, not personally. But his reputation is not one this department has pride in. You knew the men who murdered this girl.”

“I knew them. They’re dead.”

“I see.” Her gaze flickered. “Their names, please.”

As Roarke listed each, Farrell pulled files, scanned them.

“They were not sterling citizens of our city,” she murmured. “And they died badly. One could say . . . vengefully.”

“One could,” Roarke agreed.

“Men who choose that lifestyle often die badly,” Eve put in. “It’s my belief that due to the link to Marlena’s murder, this killer has set out to avenge one or more of their deaths in the mistaken belief that Roarke was responsible. Those who died in New York also knew Marlena and the true circumstances of her death. Summerset was her father and maintains a close personal relationship with Roarke. I’ve distracted him for the moment, but we have another day or two at best before he kills the next.”

“Do you have any idea who will be next?”

“Nineteen years, Inspector,” Roarke said. “I’ve contacted everyone I can think of who might be a target. But even that didn’t help Jennie.”

“I can access official data on the families of these men,” Eve began, “but it’s not enough. I need a personal take from a professional eye. I need a cop’s view, a cop who knows them, their styles, their minds. I need a workable list of suspects.”

“Do you have a profile on your man?”

“I do.”

Farrell nodded. “Then let’s get to work.”

“Career criminals,” Farrell commented, tapping a slim black pointer against her palm. They’d moved into a small, windowless conference room with a trio of wall screens. She gestured toward the first image. “Ryan here, a bad one, I put him in the nick myself five years back on armed robbery and assault. He’s vicious, but more a bully than a leader. He’s been out for six months—but it’s doubtful he’ll stay that way. He doesn’t fit your profile.”

Across the room Eve had tacked stills to a wide board, victims on one side, possible suspects on the other. Taking Farrell’s word, she removed Ryan.

“O’Malley, Michael.”

“He was in the system the night Conroy was murdered.” Eve frowned at the data beside the image. “Drunk driving.”

“He has a problem with the bottle it seems.” Farrell scrolled down, noted the dozens of violations for drunk and disorderly, driving while intoxicated, disturbing the peace. “And a wife beater as well. A darling man.”

“He used to get pissed-faced then knock around the girl he was courting. Annie, I think her name was.”

“Annie Murphy. And she married him and gets knocked around even today.” Farrell sighed.

“A creep but not the killer.” Eve pulled down his still. “How about charmer number three.”

“Now here’s a likely one. I’ve had dealings with Jamie Rowan, and he’s not a bonehead. Smart, smug. His mother’s family came from money that bought him a fine education. He has a taste for the high life.”

“Handsome son of a bitch,” Eve commented.

“That he is, and well aware of his charms. A gambling man is Jamie, and when those who lose don’t pay quick enough, he has one of his spine crackers pay a visit. We questioned our boy here for accessory to murder just last year. It was one of his men right enough who did the deed on his orders. But we couldn’t stick it.”

“Does he ever crack spines himself?”

“Not that we’ve ever proved.”

“We’ll keep him up, but he looks too cool to me, more of a button pusher. Did you know him, Roarke?”

“Well enough to bloody his eye and loosen a few of his teeth.” Roarke smiled and lighted a cigarette. “We would have been about twelve. He tried to shake me down. Didn’t work.”

“Those are the last three of your main possibles. So now we’re down to—what?” Farrell took a quick count of the stills. “An even dozen. I’m inclined toward Rowan here, or Black Riley. The smartest of the lot.”

“Then we’ll put them at the top. But it’s not just brains,” Eve continued, walking around the conference table. “It’s temperament, and it’s patience. And ego. And it’s certainly his personal religion.”

“Odds are for Catholic if he’s from one of these families. Most are churchgoers, attending Mass like the pious of a Sunday morning, after doing as they please on a Saturday night.”

“I don’t know a lot about religion, Catholic or otherwise, but one of the transmissions he sent was identified as a Catholic Requiem Mass, and the statues he leaves at the scene are of Mary, so that’s my take.” Absently Eve fingered the token in her pocket, pulled it out. “This means something to him.”

“Luck,” Farrell said. “Bad or good. We’ve a local artist who uses the shamrock as her signature on her paintings.” Farrell frowned when she turned it over. “And a Christian symbol. The fish. Well, there I’d say you have a man who thinks Irish. Pray to God and hope for luck.”

Eve slipped the token back in her pocket. “How much luck will you have pulling these twelve in on something for questioning?”

Farrell laughed shortly. “With this lot, if they’re not brought in once a month or so they feel neglected. If you like, you can go have a bit of lunch, and we’ll start a gathering.”

“I’d appreciate it. You’ll let me observe the interviews?”

“Observe, Lieutenant, but not participate in.”

“Fair enough.”

“I can’t stretch that to include civilians,” she said to Roarke. “You might find the afternoon more profitable by looking up some of your old friends and standing them to a pint.”

“Understood. Thank you for your time.”

She took the hand Roarke offered, held it a moment while she looked into his eyes. “I pinched your father once when I was a rookie. He took great exception to being arrested by a female—which was the mildest term he used for me. I was green, and he managed to split my lip before I restrained him.”

Roarke’s eyes went cool and blank. He drew his hand free. “I’m sorry for that.”

“You weren’t there as I recall,” Farrell said mildly. “Rookies rarely forget their first mistakes, so I remember him quite well. I expected to see some of him in you. But I don’t. Not a bit. Good day to you, Roarke.”

“Good day to you, Inspector.”

By the time Eve got back to the hotel, lunch had worn off and jet lag was fuzzing her mind. She found the suite empty, but there were a half dozen coded faxes waiting on the machine. She added more coffee to her overburdened system while she scanned them.

She yawned until her jaw cracked, then put through a call to Peabody’s palm ’link.

“Peabody.”

“Dallas. I just got in. Have the sweepers finished with the white van found abandoned downtown?”

“Yes, sir. Wrong trail. That van was used in a robbery in Jersey and dumped down on Canal. I’m still pursuing that lead, but it’s going to take more time to eliminate vehicles. The cabdriver was a wash. He didn’t even know his tags had been lifted.”

“McNab make any progress on the jammer?”

Peabody snorted, then sobered. “He claims to be making some headway, though he phrases all of it in electro-ese and I can’t make it out. He had a great time with some e-jockey of Roarke’s. I think they’re in love.”

“Your snotty side’s showing, Peabody.”

“Not nearly as much as it could be. No transmissions have come through, so our boy’s taking a break from mayhem. McNab is staying here at your home office tonight in case there’s a send. I’m staying, too.”

“You and McNab are staying in my office tonight?”

Her mouth moved perilously close to a pout. “If he’s staying, I’m staying. Besides, the food’s superior.”

“Try not to kill each other.”

“I’m showing admirable restraint in that particular area, sir.”

“Right. Is Summerset behaving himself?”

“He went to some art class, then out for coffee and brandy with his lady friend. I had him shadowed. It was all very dignified according to the report. He got back about twenty minutes ago.”

“See that he stays in.”

“I’ve got it covered. Any progress there?”

“That’s debatable. We have a list of potentials, which was shorted by half during interviews. I’m going to take a closer look at six,” she said, rubbing her tired eyes. “One’s in New York, and one’s supposed to be in Boston. I’ll run them when I get in tomorrow. We should be back by noon.”

“We’ll keep the home fires burning, Lieutenant.”

“Find that damn van, Peabody.” She disengaged the ’link and ordered herself not to wonder, or worry, about where Roarke could be.

He knew better than to go home. It was foolish and fruitless and irresistible. The shanties had changed little since he’d been a boy trying to crawl his way out of them. The buildings were cheaply constructed, with roofs sagging, windows broken. It was rare to see a flower bloom here, but a few hopeful souls had scratched out a stamp-sized garden at the doorstep of the six-flat building where he’d lived once.

But the flowers, however bright, couldn’t overcome the odor of piss and vomit. And they couldn’t lighten the air that lay thick with despair.

He didn’t know why he went in, but he found himself standing inside the dim lobby with its sticky floors and peeling paint. And there were the stairs his father had once kicked him down because he hadn’t made his quota lifting wallets.

Oh, but I had, Roarke thought now. What was a kick and tumble compared to the pounds he’d secreted away? The old man had been too drunk, and often too stupid, to have suspected his whipping boy of holding back any of the take.

Roarke had always held back. A pound here, a pound there could make a tidy sum for a determined boy willing to take his licks.

“He’d have given me his fist in my face in any case,” he murmured and gazed up those battered stairs.

He could hear someone cursing, someone else weeping. You would always hear cursing and weeping in such places. The odor of boiled cabbage was strong and turned his stomach so he sought the thick air outside again.

He saw a teenage boy in tight black pants and a mop of fair hair watching him coolly from the curb. Across the street a couple of girls chalking the cracked sidewalk for hopscotch stopped to watch. He walked passed them, aware there were other eyes following him, peering out of windows and doorways.

A stranger in good shoes was both curiosity and insult.

The boy called out something vile in Gaelic. Roarke turned, met the boy’s sneering eyes. “I’m going back in the alley,” he said, using the same tongue, found it came more easily to his lips than he’d expected, “if you’ve a mind to try your luck on me. I’m in the mood to hurt someone. Might as well be you as another.”

“Men have died in that alley. Might as well be you as another.”

“Come on then.” And Roarke smiled. “Some say I killed my father there when I was half your age, sticking a knife in his throat the way you’d slaughter a pig.”

The boy shifted his weight, and his eyes changed. The sneering defiance turned to respect. “You’d be Roarke then.”

“I would. Steer clear of me today and live to see your children.”

“I’ll get out,” the boy shouted after him. “I’ll get out the way you did, and one day I’ll walk in fine shoes. Damned if I’ll come back.”

“That’s what I thought,” Roarke sighed and stepped into the stinking alley between the narrow buildings.

The recycler was broken. Had been broken as long as he could remember. Trash and garbage were strewn, as always, over the pitted asphalt. The wind whipped his coat, his hair, as he stood, staring down at the ground, at the place where his father had been found, dead.

He hadn’t put the knife in him. Oh, he’d dreamed of killing the man; every time he’d taken a beating by those vicious hands he’d thought of pounding back. But he’d only been twelve or so when his father had met the knife, and he’d yet to kill a man.

He’d crawled out of this place, out of this pit. He’d survived, even triumphed. And now, perhaps for the first time, he realized he’d changed.

He’d never again be like the mirror image of himself who had challenged him from the curb. He was a man grown into what he had chosen to be. He enjoyed the life he’d built for itself now, not simply for its opposition to what had been.

He had love in his heart, the hot-blooded love for a woman that could never have rooted if the ground had remained stony.

After all these years he discovered that coming back hadn’t stirred the ghosts, but had put them to rest.

“Fuck you, bloody bastard,” he murmured, but with outrageous relief. “You couldn’t do me after all.”

He turned away from what had been, set his direction on what was, and what would come. He walked, content now, through the rain that began to fall as soft as tears.

Eve had never been to a wake before, and it surprised her that, given Roarke’s usual style of doing things, he’d chosen to hold it in the Penny Pig.

The pub was closed to outside traffic, but crowded just the same. It seemed Jennie had left behind a lot of friends, if no family.

An Irish wake, Eve was to discover, meant pretty much what an Irish pub meant. Music, conversation, and drinking great quantities of liquor and beer.

It made her think of a viewing she’d attended only the month before, one that had led to more death and violence. There the dead had been laid out in a clear side-viewing casket, and the room had been heavy with red draperies and flowers. The mood had been sorrow, the voices hushed.

Here, the dead were remembered in a different manner.

“A fine girl was Jennie.” A man at the bar raised his glass, and his voice over the noise of the crowd. “Never watered the whiskey or stinted when pouring it. And her smile was as warm as what she served you.”

“To Jennie then,” it was agreed, and the toast was drunk.

Stories were told, often winding their way from some virtue of the dearly departed and into a joke on one of those present. Roarke was a favored target.

“There’s a night I remember,” Brian began, “years back it was, when our Jennie was just a lass—and a fine figure of one was she—that she was serving the beer and the porter. That was when Maloney owned the place—God rest his thieving soul—and I was tending bar for a pittance.”

He paused, took a drink, then puffed into life one of the cigars Roarke had provided. “I had an eye for Jennie—and what right-minded young lad wouldn’t—but she had none for me. ’Twas Roarke she was after. On that evening, we had a fair crowd in, and all the young bucks were hoping to get a wink from young Jennie. I gave her all me best love-starved looks.”

He demonstrated with a hand over his heart and the heaviest of sighs so his audience hooted with laughter and cheered him on.

“But to me she paid no mind at all, for her attention was all for Roarke. And there himself sat, perhaps at the table where he’s sitting where he is tonight. Though he wasn’t dressed so fine as he is tonight, and I’d wager a punt to a penny that he didn’t smell so fresh either. Though Jennie sashayed by him a dozen times or more, and leaned over, oh, leaned over close in a way that made my heart pound wishing I were exposed to such a fine and lovely view, and she would ask so sweetly could she fetch him another pint.”

He sighed again, wet his throat, and went on with it. “But Roarke, he was blind to the signals she was sending, deaf to the invitation in that warm voice. There he sat with the girl of my dreams offering him glory, and he kept noting figures in a tattered little book, adding them up, calculating his profits. For a businessman he ever was. Then Jennie, for a determined girl was she when her mind was set, and it was set on Roarke, asked him please would he give her a hand for just a moment in the back room, for she couldn’t reach what she needed on the high shelf. And him being so tall, and strong with it, could he fetch it down for her.”

Brian rolled his eyes at that while one of the women leaned over the booth where Roarke sat with Eve and good-naturedly pinched his biceps. “Well, the boy wasn’t a cad for all his wicked ways,” Brian continued, “and he put his book away in his pocket and went off with her into the back. A frightful long time they were gone I’m after telling you, with my heart broken to bits behind Maloney’s bar. When come out they did, with hair all mused and clothes askew, and a bright-eyed look about them, I knew Jenny was lost to me. For not a bloody thing did he carry back for her from the high shelf in the back room. All he did was sit again, give her a wicked, quick grin . . . and take out his book and count his profits.

“Sixteen years old we were, the three of us, and still dreaming about what our lives might be. Now Maloney’s pub is mine, Roarke’s profits too many to count, and Jennie, sweet Jennie, is with the angels.”

There were a few tears at the end of it, and conversation began again in murmurs. Bringing his glass, Brian walked over, sat across from Roarke. “Do you remember that night?”

“I do. It’s a good memory you brought back.”

“Perhaps it was ill-mannered of me. I hope you didn’t take offense to it, Eve.”

“I’d need a heart of stone to do that.” Maybe it was the air, or the music, or the voices, but they made her sentimental. “Did she know how you felt about her?”

“Then, no.” Brian shook his head, and there was a warm gleam in his eye. “And later, we were too much friends for else. My heart always leaned toward her, but it was in a different way as time passed. It was the thought of her I loved.”

He seemed to shake himself, then tapped a finger on Roarke’s glass. “Well now, you’re barely drinking. Have you lost your head for good Irish whiskey living among the Yanks?”

“My head was always better than yours, wherever I was living.”

“You had a good one,” Brian admitted. “But I remember a night. Oh, it was after you’d sold off a shipment of a fine French bordeaux you’d smuggled in from Calais—begging your pardon, Lieutenant darling. Are you remembering that, Roarke?”

Roarke’s lips moved into a smirk, and his hand brushed its way down Eve’s hair. “I smuggled more than one shipment of French wine in my career.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt, but this night in particular, you kept a half dozen bottles out, and were in a light and sharing frame of mind. You pulled together a game—a friendly one for a change—and we sat and drank every drop. You and me and Jack Bodine and that bloody fool Mick Connelly who got himself killed in a knife fight in Liverpool a few years back. Let me tell you, Lieutenant darling, this man of yours got drunk as six sailors in port and still won all our money.”

Roarke picked up his glass now and savored a sip. “I recall being a bit light in the pocket the next morning when I woke up.”

“Well.” Brian grinned hugely. “Get drunk with thieves and what does it get you? But it was good wine, Roarke. It was damn good wine. I’ll have them play one of the old tunes. ‘Black Velvet Band.’ You’ll sing?”

“No.”

“Sing?” Eve sat up. “He sings?”

“No,” Roarke said again, definitely, while Brian laughed.

“Prod him enough, and keep his glass full, and you’d get a tune out of him.”

“He hardly even sings in the shower.” She stared thoughtfully at Roarke. “You sing?”

Struggling between amusement and embarrassment, he shook his head and lifted his glass. “No,” he said again. “And I don’t plan to get drunk enough to prove myself a liar.”

“Well, we’ll work on that some.” Brian winked and rose. “For now then I’m going to have them play a reel. Will you dance with me, Eve?”

“I might.” She watched him walk off to liven up the music. “Getting drunk, singing in pubs, and tickling barmaids in the back room. Hmmm.” She shot a long, speculative look at the man she married. “This is very interesting.”

“You do the first, the others come easy.”

“I might like to see you drunk.” She put a hand on his cheek, glad to see the sadness had faded from his eyes. Wherever he had gone that afternoon was his secret, and she was satisfied that it had done him good.

He leaned forward to touch his lips to hers. “So I could tickle you in the back room? There’s your reel,” he added when the music brightened.

Eve glanced over, saw Brian coming back her way with neat, bouncing little steps. “I like him.”

“So do I. I’d forgotten how much.”

Sunshine and rain fell together and turned the light into a pearl. In the churchyard stood ancient stone crosses, pitted from age and wind. The dead rested close to each other, intimates of fate. The sound of the sea rose up from beyond rocky cliffs in a constant muted roar that proved time continued, even here.

There wasn’t a single airbike or tram to spoil the sky where clouds layered over the blue like folded gray blankets. And the grass that covered the hills that rose up toward that sky was the deep emerald of hopes and dreams.

It made Eve think of an old video, or a hologram program.

The priest wore long traditional robes and spoke in Gaelic. The burying of the dead was a ritual only the rich could afford. It was a rare sight, and a crowd gathered outside the gates, respectively silent as the casket was lowered into its fresh pit.

Roarke rested his cheek on the top of Eve’s head, gathering comfort as the mourners made the sign of the cross. He was putting more than a friend into the ground, and knew it. He was putting part of himself, a part he’d already thought long buried.

“I need to speak with the priest a moment.”

She lifted a hand to the one he’d laid on her shoulder. “I’ll wait here.”

As he moved off, Brian stepped up to her. “He’s done well by Jennie. She’ll rest here—have the shade of the ash in the summer.” With his hands comfortably at his sides, he looked out over the churchyard. “And they still ring the bells in the belfry of a Sunday morning. Not a recording, but the bells themselves. It’s a fine sound.”

“He loved her.”

“There’s nothing quite so sweet as the first love of the young and the lonely. You remember your childhood sweetheart?”

“I didn’t have one. But I understand it.”

Brian laid a hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze. “He couldn’t have done better than you, even if you did make the unfortunate mistake of becoming a cop. Are you a good one, Lieutenant darling?”

“Yeah.” Something in the way he’d asked had her looking over, into his face. “It’s what I’m best at.”

He nodded, and his thoughts seemed to drift as he shifted his gaze. “Christ knows how much money Roarke’s passing the priest in that envelope.”

“Do you resent that? His money?”

“No indeed.” And he laughed a little. “Not that I don’t wish I had it as well. He earned it. Always was the next game, the next deal with our lad Roarke. All I wanted was the pub, and since I have my heart’s desire, I suppose I’m rich as well.”

Brian looked down at the simple black skirt of her suit, the unadorned black pumps Eve wore. “You’re not dressed for cliff walking, but would you take my arm and stroll along that way with me?”

“All right.” There was something on his mind, she thought, and decided he wanted privacy to share it.

“Do you know, I’ve never been across that sea to England,” Brian began as he walked slowly over the uneven ground. “Never had the wanting to. A man can go anywhere, on- or off-planet, and in less time than it takes to think of it, but I’ve never been off this island. Do you see those boats down there?”

Eve looked over the cliffs, down into the restless sea. Hydro-jetties streamed back and forth, skimming the waves like pretty stones. “Commuters and tourists?”

“Aye, rushing over to England, rushing over here. Day after day, year after year. Ireland’s still poor compared to its neighbors, so an ambitious laborer might take a job over there, ride the jetties, or the airbus if he’s plumper in pocket. It’ll cost him ten percent of his wages for the privilege of living in one country and working in another, as governments always find an angle, don’t they, for nipping into a man’s pocket. At night, back he comes. And where does it get him, this rushing over and back, over and back for the most of his life?” He shrugged. “Me, I’d as soon stay in one spot and watch the parade.”

“What’s on your mind, Brian?”

“Many things, Lieutenant darling. A host of things.”

As Roarke walked toward them he remembered that the first time he’d seen Eve they’d been at a funeral. Another woman whose life had been stolen. It had been cold, and Eve had forgotten her gloves. She’d worn a hideous gray suit with a loose button on the jacket. He slipped a hand into his pocket now, idly fingering the button that had fallen off that baggy gray jacket.

“Are you flirting with my wife, Brian?”

“I would if I thought I stood a chance with her. The fact is I’ve something that will interest you both. I had a call early this morning, from Summerset.”

“Why would he call you?” Roarke demanded.

“To tell me you wanted me in New York, urgently, and at your expense.”

“When did it come in?” Eve was already pulling out her palm ’link to contact Peabody.

“Eight o’clock. It’s a matter of dire importance that can’t be divulged except face-to-face. I’m to fly over this very day, and check in to the Central Park Arms, where I’ll have a suite, and wait to be contacted.”

“How do you know it was Summerset?” Roarke asked.

“By God, Roarke, it looked like him, sounded like him. Stiffer, older, but I wouldn’t have questioned it. Though he wouldn’t make conversation, and ended the call abruptly when I pressed him.”

“Peabody. Slap yourself awake there.”

“What?” Peabody, puffy-eyed and disheveled, yawned. “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. Awake.”

“Kick McNab out of whatever bed he’s in and have him check the mainframe on the ’links. I need to know if there’s been a transmission to Ireland—it would have been at, shit, what’s the time difference here?—like three A.M.”

“Kicking him out of bed immediately, Lieutenant.”

“And contact me the minute you have the answer. I need to take your ’link log into evidence,” she told Brian as she stuffed the palm ’link back in her pocket. “We’ll dupe it for Inspector Farrell, but I need the original.”

“Well, I thought you might.” Brian took out a disc. “Anticipating that, I brought it with me.”

“Good thinking. What did you tell the man who called you?”

“Oh, that I had a business to run, that I couldn’t just be traipsing off across the Atlantic on a whim. I tried to draw him out, asked after Roarke here. He only insisted that I come, straight off, and Roarke would make it worth my while.” He smiled thinly. “A tempting offer. First-class transpo and accomodations, and twenty thousand pounds a day while I’m away from home. A man would have to be mad to say no to that.”

“You’ll stay in Dublin.” Roarke’s voice was sharp, edged with fury, and put Brian’s back up.

“Maybe I’ve a mind to go to New York City and give this murdering bastard a taste of Brian Kelly.”

“You’ll stay in Dublin,” Roarke repeated, eyes narrowed and cold, fists clenched and ready. “If I have to beat you unconscious first, then that’s fine.”

“You think you can take me down, do you?” Primed for a fight, Brian started to strip off his topcoat. “Let’s have a go.”

“Stop it, you idiots.” Eve stepped between them, prepared to deck both if necessary. “You’re staying in Dublin, Brian, because the only thing this bastard’s getting a taste of is me. I’ll have your travel visa blocked, and if you try to leave the country you’ll spend some quality time in lockup.”

“Travel visa be damned—”

“Shut up. And you,” she continued, swinging to Roarke. “Step back. Nobody’s beating anyone unconscious unless it’s me. A couple days in Ireland and all you can think of is punching somebody. Must be the air.”

Her ’link beeped. “That’s Peabody. Now, the two of you remember: People who act like assholes get treated like assholes.”

She stalked away to take the call. Brian’s face broke out in a wide grin as he slapped Roarke on the back. “That’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Delicate as a rose, my Eve. Fragile and quiet natured.” He grinned himself when he heard her curse, loud and vicious. “A voice like a flute.”

“And you’re sloppy in love with her.”

“Pitifully.” He remained silent a moment, then spoke quietly. “Stay in Dublin, Brian. I know you can get around a blocked visa as easily as crossing High Street, but I’m asking you to do this. It’s too soon after burying Jennie for me to risk losing another friend.”

Brian heaved out a breath. “I wasn’t thinking of going until you ordered me not to.”

“The son of a bitch sent me flowers,” Eve fumed as she stalked back. “Hey.” When Roarke grabbed her lapels, she slapped at his hands and scowled.

“Explain.”

“A couple dozen roses just arrived—with a note that hopes I’ll be back on my feet and ready for the next match soon. Something about a novena—whatever that is—being said in my name for my full and speedy recovery, too. Peabody’s called a bomb unit, just in case, and she’s holding the delivery boy, but he looks genuine. No direct transmission from our ’links this morning. McNab needs Brian’s disc to run it for bounces.” When his hands relaxed slightly, she put hers over them. “I’ve got to go back. . . . Now.”

“Yes, we’ll go straight back. Do you need a lift back to Dublin, Brian?”

“No, go on. I’ve my own ride. Take a care, Roarke,” he said and wrapped his arms around him. “And come back.”

“I will.”

“And bring your lovely wife.” While Eve blinked in surprise, Brian gathered her up in a bear hug, then kissed her long and lavishly. “Godspeed, Lieutenant darling, and you keep our lad here on the narrow if not the straight.”

“Watch your back, Brian,” Roarke called out as they walked away.

“And the rest of me as well,” Brian promised, then turned to watch the fast boats streak across the water.

It was barely eight A.M. on the East Coast when Eve settled in to her office. She eyed the young, gawky delivery boy coolly while he sat fidgeting in the chair across from her desk.

“You get a call to deliver roses before six A.M. and that doesn’t seem weird to you, Bobby?”

“Well, ma’am—sir—Lieutenant, we get that sometimes. We got this twenty-four-hour delivery service because people want the convenience. This one time I delivered a fern to the East Side at three A.M. This guy, see, he’d forgotten his lady’s birthday, and she’d given him grief, and so he—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve brushed it off. “Tell me again about the order.”

“Okay, sure. No problem.” His voice bobbed up and down like a cork on a restless sea. “I’m on call, see, for the midnight-to-eight shift. What happens is anybody who calls in to the shop, the transmission gets bounced to my beeper. I read the order on the screen, then I gotta go in, put the order together, and get it where it’s going. I got a master for the flower shop so I can get in when it’s closed. My aunt owns the joint, so she, like, trusts me, and I’m going to school on the three-day-week thing, so it gives me some pocket credit.”

“Officer Peabody has your beeper.”

“Yeah, I handed it over. No perspiration, no debate. You want it, you got it.”

“And you, personally, put the flowers in the box.”

“Oh yeah. It’s no whoop. You just dump in some greenery, coupla sprigs of those little white flowers, then lay on the roses. My aunt keeps the boxes and tissues and ribbons all together so we can slap the orders together fast. The officer, she, like, called my aunt and verified. Do I need a lawyer?”

“No, Bobby, you don’t need a lawyer. I appreciate you waiting until I could talk to you.”

“So, like, I could go.”

“Yeah, you can go.”

He got up, grinning shakily. “I never really, like, talked to a cop before. It’s not so bad.”

“We hardly ever torture our witnesses these days.”

He paled, then laughed. “That’s, like, a joke, right?”

“You bet. Beat it, Bobby.”

Eve shook her head, then signaled for Peabody to come in. “McNab get anything off the beeper?”

“The order was shot in on a public ’link, from Grand Central. It was keyed in, no voiceprint—and the order was paid for via electronic transfer of cash, point of order scrambled. We couldn’t trace it with a fleet of bloodhound droids.”

“I didn’t figure he’d slip up again, not so soon. The van?”

“Nothing solid yet. I’m working on the shoes, too. Computer estimates a size eight. That’s small for a man’s shoe. That style hit the market only six months ago—high-end price range. It’s the epitome of air tread for the stylish jock. So far, I’m down to six hundred pair of size eights sold in the city.”

“Keep running it. And the coat?”

“I’ve only got about thirty purchases for the same three-month period. No matches yet. And none on the statue.”

“McNab?”

Seconds later, he stuck his head in the doorway. “Yo.”

“Full progress and status report.”

“Let’s start with the wand.” He made himself at home by sitting on Eve’s desk. “I like our chances there. That e-jock of Roarke’s knows his shit. Down at Trident Security and Communications—that’s Roarke’s gig—they’ve been working on a jammer of this style and power for over a year. A. A. says they’ve nearly worked out the bugs.”

“A. A.?”

“That’s the jock. Plenty of brain cells there. Anyway, he projects they’ll have a model under wraps within six months—four if they get lucky. Rumor is that several other e-firms are working on the same deal. One of those firms is Brennen’s. The take from the industrial espionage people is that Brennen’s is the closest competition.”

“Does anyone have a prototype?”

“A. A. showed me one. It’s fairly icy, but only hits the mark as of now at extreme close range. The remote capability’s giving them some grief. It’s still got some major power fluctuation.”

“So how did our man get his hands on one that doesn’t give him grief?”

“Good question. I’m thinking he’s put some time in at R and D himself.”

“Yeah, I’d agree with that. We’ll run the six most likely from Inspector Farrell’s shakedown and see if any of them pop.”

“And I wonder if the unit he used is a one-shot.”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Only good for one jam at a time? What would you do, recharge it? Toss it? Reconfi-gure?”

“Recharge or recon, I’d say. I’m working with A. A. on it.”

“Good, keep at it. Any luck with the echo?”

“I can’t lock it. Driving me bat-shit. But I did scrape the layers off the disc you brought back from the Emerald Isle. Projected image. Hologram.”

“A holo? You’re sure?”

“Don’t I look sure?” He let his cocky smile go when Eve only stared coolly at him. “Yeah, it was a holo. Damn good one, but I enhanced, did heat and light testing. The image was projected.”

“Good.” It was one more stone to weigh on Summerset’s side. “Any hits yet on the analysis of the security discs on the Luxury Towers?”

“They’re whining in EDD. Backlog. I used your name and got them to promise we’d have results within the next forty-eight.”

Feeney, Eve thought, where the hell are you? “What else have you got?”

“The transmission had the same echo as the others. Exact match.”

“Even better. Now find the source.” She rose. “It’s time for me to put in a public appearance. Let’s get this jerk now that I’m up for another round. Peabody, you’re with me.”

“My favorite place, Lieutenant.”

“Sucking up noted.” She pulled her palm ’link as she started out, coded in for Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

“Hey, Dallas, you look pretty good for an invalid.”

“Get this. Lieutenant Eve Dallas has recovered from her injuries and is reporting back to duty. She remains in charge of the investigation involving the murders of Brennen, Conroy, and O’Leary. She is confident a suspect will be in custody shortly.”

“Hold it, let me get my recorder.”

“That’s all you get, pal. Put it on.” She clicked off as she jogged down the stairs. There, draped across the newel post, was a new and butter-smooth leather jacket of golden brown. “He doesn’t miss a trick,” Eve murmured as she picked it up.

“Man oh man.” Unable to resist, Peabody stroked a hand down the sleeve as Eve shrugged into it. “Like a baby’s bottom.”

“It had to cost ten times what my old one did, and I’ll have it banged up in a week. I don’t know why he—Shit, where’s Roarke?” She turned to the house computer. “Locate Roarke.”

Roarke is not on the premises at this time.

“Well, hell,” Eve muttered. “Where the hell did he go so fast? He damn well better be out buying some country and not poking into this.”

“Does he really buy countries?” Peabody wanted to know as she hurried outside after Eve.

“How the hell do I know? I stay out of his business, which is more than he does for me. Central Park Arms.” She swore, suddenly sure that’s where he’d gone. Then she stopped, stared at the empty space in front of the steps. “I don’t have a vehicle,” she remembered. “Goddamn it, I don’t have a ride.”

“Auto requisition hasn’t come through. You can make a personal order.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll only take a week or two. Shit.” Jamming her hands in new, silky pockets, she jogged to the end of the house.

The garage attachment melded with the main structure. The massive doors were wood with thick brass fittings. The windows, arched and majestic, were sunscreened to keep the finish on the vehicles housed there from fading. Inside the temperature would be kept, year-round, at a comfortable seventy-two degrees.

Eve uncoded the locks, identified herself through voice and palm print. The doors swung gracefully open.

So did Peabody’s mouth. “Holy cow.”

“It’s excessive,” Eve said, sniffing. “It’s ridiculous and such a clichéd man-thing.”

“It’s frigid,” Peabody said reverently.

Vehicles were housed in individual bays, on two levels. Sports cars, limos, air cycles, all-terrains, sedate sedans, and sleek solo-riders. Colors ranged from flashy neon shades to classic blacks. Peabody stared dreamily at a tandem-style air cycle and imagined herself riding the skies, wind in her hair, with some muscled hunk behind her.

She snapped out of it when she saw Eve heading toward a discreet compact model in industrial gray.

“Dallas, how about this one?” Hopefully, Peabody gestured up to a snazzy electric blue sportster, its silver wheels gleaming, its narrow grille a piece of automotive art.

“That’s a fuck-me car, and you know it.”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but it’s got to be fast, and really efficient. It’d be loaded, too.” She smiled winningly.

“Everything in here’s loaded.”

Peabody danced forward when Eve reached for the button to release the sedan. “Come on, Dallas, live a little. Don’t you want to see how she moves? And it’s only temporary. You’ll be back in some departmental clunker before you know it. It’s a 6000XX.” Her voice came perilously close to a whine. “Most people live their whole lives without even touching one. Just one ride. What could it hurt?”

“Don’t beg,” Eve muttered. “Jesus.” But she gave in and lowered the sportster to the scrubbed tile floor.

“Oh, look at the interior. It’s real leather, isn’t it? White leather.” Unable to control herself, Peabody opened the door of the car and breathed deep. “Just smell it. Oh, oh, check the controls. It’s even got an airjet gauge. We could be on the beach in New L.A. in under three hours in this baby.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Peabody, or it’s back to the sedan.”

“No way.” Peabody all but dived inside. “You’re not getting me out with a hydro-lift until I get a ride.”

“I wouldn’t think a woman raised by Free-Agers would be so shallow and materialistic.”

“I had to work on it, but I’ve almost got it down.” She smiled happily when Eve slipped in beside her. “Dallas, this rocks. Can I try the music system?”

“No. Strap in. We’ll look for your dignity later.” But because the car called for it, Eve engaged ignition and took off like a rocket.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the Central Park Arms.

“Did you see the way this honey handled the turns? You took that last one at sixty and there wasn’t even a shimmy. Imagine what she’d do in the air. Why don’t we try it when we leave. Man, I think I had an orgasm rounding Sixty-second.”

“I don’t need to know about that.” Eve climbed out, tossed her key code to the doorman. When she flashed her badge, the hand he’d held out for a tip retreated. “I want that vehicle kept close. I don’t want to wait more than thirty seconds for it when I come out.”

Without waiting for an answer, she swung through the auto-doors and crossed the mosaic tiles of the lobby toward the massive front desk.

“You have a suite registered to a Brian Kelly,” she said, holding up her badge.

“Yes, Lieutenant, scheduled for arrival and occupancy this afternoon. Penthouse B, Tower Level.”

“Clear me through.”

“I believe that suite is occupied at the moment. However, if you’d like to wait until—”

“Clear me through,” she repeated. “Now.”

“Right away. The private elevator is down this corridor and to the left. It’s clearly marked. Your key code will access both the elevator and the doors, parlor and bedroom.”

“Any transmissions, messages, deliveries come in for that suite, send them directly up.”

“Of course.”

The clerk winced as she strode off, then quickly rang Penthouse B. “I beg your pardon, sir, but a Lieutenant Dallas and a uniformed officer are on their way up. Excuse me? Ah, yes, sir, of course. I’ll see to it right away.”

Baffled, the clerk hung up, then contacted room service and ordered coffee, tea cakes, and fresh fruit for three.

Outside Penthouse B, Eve drew her weapon. At her signal, Peabody flanked the opposite side of the door. Eve slid her key code toward the lock, gave her aide a quick nod.

They went in low and fast.

She hissed at Roarke, who continued to smile and lounge on the silk-covered sofa pit. “I don’t think the weapon’s necessary, darling. I’ve ordered coffee, and the service here is very swift and efficient.”

“I ought to give you a jolt, just for the hell of it.”

“You’d be sorry later. Hello, Peabody, you look a bit windblown. Very attractive.”

Flushing, she brushed at her straight black hair. “Well, I put the sky roof down for a minute on the XX.”

“Sexy little ride, isn’t it? Well, shall we discuss how to lay the trap now, or wait for the coffee?”

Resigned, Eve shoved her weapon back in its harness. “We’ll wait for the coffee.”

“We’re nearly set up here, Commander. If he calls, we’ll be ready.”

“If he calls, Lieutenant, and if he follows the same pattern he used to abduct O’Leary.”

“He used the same pattern when he contacted Brian Kelly this morning.” Beneath the range of the ’link monitor, she jerked a hand so that McNab would stop the chatter. Christ, the man ran his mouth at light speed. “We can take him down here, Commander. All he has to do is move in this direction.”

“You better hope he does, and quickly, Dallas, or both of us are going to get our butts singed.”

“I planted the bait. He’ll take it.”

“Contact me the minute you hear from him.”

“You’ll be the first,” she murmured as the screen went blank. “You guys want to keep it down? This isn’t the damn party suite.”

McNab and two EDD drones were chirping away as they set up equipment in the bedroom that was the temporary command center. Eve worried that she’d thrown this task force together too quickly, but time was the enemy. There were tracers and bypass units, three sets of porta-links, all with headsets and voice mufflers. Recorders were set to clock on with the first beep of the first ’link. McNab had already interfaced it with her office unit.

She’d had all the equipment brought from Central in a delivery van. If her man had the hotel under surveillance, all he would have seen was yet another commercial vehicle pulling into the hotel’s rear dock.

No uniforms, no black and whites.

Six cops were on surveillance in the lobby posing as bellstaff, clerks, maintenance. A detective from her squad had taken over for the doorman. She had two more in the kitchen as line chefs, another two covering the penthouse floor as housekeeping staff.

The man power and equipment were eating a moon-sized hole in the departmental budget. If it went wrong, there would be hell to pay, and she’d be the one to pay it.

She wasn’t going to let it go wrong.

Restless, she moved out into the spacious parlor. The bank of windows was privacy screened there, as were the bedroom windows. Only Roarke, as owner of the hotel, and his manager were aware of the infiltration of police. At two P.M., one hour after the flight from Dublin landed at Kennedy, another cop would check in to the hotel as Brian Kelly.

It was going to work. All he had to do was call Eve’s ’link.

Why the hell didn’t he call?

Roarke came in from the second bedroom and saw her frowning at the screened windows. “You’ve covered all the details, Eve.”

“I’ve gone over it and over it. He can’t wait long to move on Brian. He won’t risk Brian contacting you on his own and finding out it’s all a scam. On his call to Jennie he got her to promise she wouldn’t try to contact anyone, that she wouldn’t speak to anyone unless it came through you. But Brian wouldn’t commit, wouldn’t promise anything.”

“And if our man knows him at all, he’d know Brian tends to do as he chooses.”

“That’s right, so he’ll arrange for the meet quickly. He’s already got the place where he’ll kill him set up. And he’s not going to want to take chances. Brian’s a tough, muscular man in his prime. And he’s street smart. He’d put up a hell of a fight.”

“He’d have to be taken by surprise,” Roarke agreed, “caught off guard.”

“Exactly. My guess is he plans to do it all right here. Brian’ll be expecting a driver, a messenger, a liaison for you, so he’ll open the door. He would have to get a tranq in him then and there, quick, quiet.”

“Lieutenant,” Roarke said and held out a hand, and when Eve automatically put hers in it, he smiled and squeezed. “If I’d had a minipopper in my hand, you’d be tranqed just that fast and easy. They were popular in certain unsettled areas during the twenties, only they were most often laced with strychnine rather than a dozer. Shaking hands became quite unfashionable for several years.”

“You’re a fount of the most disturbing trivia.”

“Wonderful icebreaker at parties.”

“He should have called by now.” She spun away to pace. “With each one he’s narrowed the time between the murder and the earliest possibility of discovery. He wants me to get close, really close. It makes him feel more superior. It’s more of a rush when he knows I’m right behind him, while the blood’s still fresh.”

“He may be planning to call from here, once he’s locked in his prey for this round.”

“I’ve thought of that. It won’t matter. We’ll still get him. He’ll have to call this room. The cop who’s posing as Brian for check-in is a good match in coloring and build. McNab’s already added the jazz to trip the voice into Brian’s tone over the ’link. And he’s got the video fuzzy. But he’s not going to move until he calls me. He wants to make sure I’m ready.”

She looked at her wrist unit, swore. “Jackison’s going to check in as Brian in fifteen minutes. Where is that son of a—”

The second the bedroom ’link beeped, she was streaking inside. “Back off,” she ordered. “All porta-links into the next room. No chatter. Hologram backdrop, McNab.”

“Engaged.” He nodded as an imaged reproduction of her office flickered on around her. “Sitting pretty, Dallas.”

“Trace this bastard,” she ordered and answered. “Dallas, Homicide.”

“So glad you’re feeling better, Lieutenant.”

It was the same voice, the same swimming colors on screen. “Did you miss me? Sending me flowers was such a nice touch, especially since blowing me up didn’t quite work out for you.”

“You were so . . . discourteous in your statement to the press. I found your lack of manners very rude.”

“You know what I find rude, pal? Taking someone’s life before they’ve finished using it. That kind of thing really ticks me off.”

“I’m sure we could debate the value of our personal annoyances for quite a while, but I know how desperately you’re trying to tape this transmission, with your inferior equipment and your undereducated technicians.”

“I know a couple e-detectives who would find that statement very rude.”

His laughter came through the speaker, genuine and amused. And, she thought as her ear cocked, young.

“Oh, under different circumstances I’m sure I could be very fond of you, Lieutenant. If not for your deplorable lack of taste. What do you see in that Irish street rat you married?”

“He’s great in bed.” Hoping he had clear video, she leaned back and smiled. “I’ve got an expert’s profile here that says you’re likely lacking in that arena. Maybe you should try some Stay-Up. It’s available at your local pharmacy everywhere.”

His breathing hitched once clearly through the speakers. “I am pure of heart and body, sanctified.”

“Is that another word for impotent?”

“You bitch. You don’t know anything about me. Do you think I want to lie with you, is that it? Maybe I will, when this is over, maybe God will demand it. ‘Better to spill seed in the belly of a whore than on the ground.” ’

“Have trouble jacking off, too? That’s rough. Maybe if you tried to keep your mother out of your head when you’re working on yourself you’d finish off and have a cheerier personality.”

“Don’t you speak of my mother.” His voice went ragged and thin, wavering on a high note.

Bingo, Eve thought. Mommy equals female authority figure.

“What’s she like? Is she still yanking your chain, pal, or is she at home, keeping the lights burning without a clue how you spend your free time?” She thought of the ritual she’d witnessed just that morning in a little church near the cliffs. “Do you still go to Mass with her every Sunday? Is that where you go to find your vengeful god?”

“The blood of my enemies flows like tainted wine into Hell. You’ll know such pain before I kill you.”

“You already tried once. You missed. Why don’t you come closer. Take me on, one on one. Do you have the balls for it?”

“When the time comes. I won’t be seduced by the words of a harlot to stray from the path.”

His voice broke, shuddered, making Eve tilt her head as if to catch the nuance. Was he crying?

“No time like the present.”

“My mission isn’t completed. It isn’t over. I say when, I tell you when. The fourth damned soul meets God’s judgment today. Two hours.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. “Two hours is all you’ve got to find the pig and save him from slaughter. ‘By his own iniquities the wicked man will be caught, in the meshes of his own sin he will be held fast; He will die from lack of discipline, through the greatness of his folly he will be lost.” ’

“Proverbs again? There’s never any variety with you.”

“All that is necessary for life is found in the Bible. He’s walking into my arms, a squealing pig into the land of sleek and pampered dogs and underpaid nannies.”

“That’s not much of a clue. Am I getting too close for you to play a fair game?”

“The game’s fair enough, but here’s another: The sun sets behind, and before it drops to night, the next Judas will pay dearly for his betrayal. Two hours. Starting now.”

“Give me good news, McNab.” Eve demanded when the transmission ended.

McNab looked up, his green eyes shining. “I got him.”

Eve rose slowly, disengaging the hologram herself. “Don’t toy with me, McNab.”

“Transmission source is sector D, grid fifty-four.”

Eve strode over to the chart, scanned quickly. “Son of a bitch, the Luxury Towers is in that grid. The fucker’s in there. He’s working out of the building were he did the first murder.”

“Do we move on him there?” Peabody demanded.

Eve held up a hand to halt the questions until she could think it through. “He said I had less than two hours. He doesn’t rush through his work, so he’ll want at least one of those hours in here. He’ll be contacting this room any minute. Did Jackison get in?”

“He’s in the next room.”

“All right, let’s give our boy a little time. He’s already got his tools packed. He doesn’t leave anything to the last minute. He’ll get his transpo, and he won’t break any traffic laws getting here. He’s on a timetable. We need a second team over at the Luxury Towers, but I don’t want them moving in. If he’s working with anyone and they stay behind, they could tip him off.”

She pulled out her communicator, contacting Whitney to report and outline strategy for the next stage. Her blood was cool, her mind clear as she began snapping out orders.

She broke off when the room fax beeped. “He’s made contact, Commander. I’m reading it now. He’s giving instructions for the mark to expect a uniformed driver within fifteen minutes. He wants the mark to wait in the room. This indicates the hit is meant to go down here, as anticipated. Mark is requested to release the elevator when signaled by ’link from the lobby. Three beeps. Transmission’s ended. He’ll be moving now.”

“A second team will stake out the Luxury Towers. I can give you two detectives from the Homicide Division and three officers.”

“In civilian attire, Commander. And I need at least one man from EDD to run a trace sweep.”

“You already have three there, Dallas. You’re straining the resources.”

She set her teeth, wishing desperately to be in two places at once. “I’ll send McNab to coordinate with the second team.”

“I’ll squeeze out a van with the necessary equipment. Keep this frequency open.”

“Yes, sir. McNab.”

Insult radiated from him. “You’re kicking me now, when it’s going down?”

“I need you to find his hole.”

“He’s coming here. We can scoop him up.”

“I need you to find his hole,” she repeated, “because God help us if he gets past us and crawls back in it. You find it, McNab, and you block it off. That’s an order, Detective.”

Steaming, he grabbed his coat. “Homicide figures all EDD’s good for is ghost work. Fine when you don’t have the answers, but when you do it’s back to the recorders.”

“I haven’t got time for temper tantrums. See that the other e-men here are fully briefed, then turn it over.” She brushed by him and into the parlor. “Everybody out of this room but Jackison. Take your positions. Weapons on low stun. We want him coherent.”

She lifted her eyebrows at Roarke. “Civilians, in the spare room.” She picked up one of the remote monitors. “You can watch.”

“I’m sure it would be entertaining. Lieutenant, you’ve just shorted yourself one e-man. I’ll take his position. Bend the rules a little,” he said before she could object. “It’ll do you more good than having me twiddle my thumbs.”

She had reason to know he was better with the equipment than the two men she had left. “First bedroom,” she decided. “You’re better off where I can keep an eye on you anyway. Jackison, stay clear of the door. When he rings in, wait for my signal to answer. Peabody, I want you at the door of the second bedroom. Use the security peep. Keep alert.”

She spoke into her communicator as she walked back into the control room. “Team A, in position. Team B. Team C. It’s going down here. Observe but do not approach or delay any uniformed drivers. Suspect will employ house or palm ’link on arrival and use penthouse elevator. Repeat, observe only. No one moves on him. We want him up here. When he’s boxed, you’ll get my signal and close in on this sector.”

“I love it when you talk cop,” Roarke murmured in her ear.

“No civilian chatter.” Eve planted herself in front of the monitors, scanning each to satisfy herself that all her troops were in position. “He’s coming,” she murmured. “Any minute now. Come on, you little prick, walk into my arms.”

She saw McNab exit the elevator into the lobby. Still steamed, she thought, noting his grim face and stiff posture. He was going to have to learn the value of teamwork. She watched him scan the lobby, and did so herself.

A droid walked a pair of silky, long-haired dogs across the colorful tiles. A woman in a severe black business suit sat on the circular bench surrounding the central fountain and snarled into a palm ’link. A bellman guided an electric cart loaded with luggage toward the main doors. A woman came through them, leading a toy poodle on a silver leash. Both woman and dog were sleekly groomed, with matching silver bows decking their hair. Behind her came a domestic droid loaded down with shopping bags and boxes.

Rich tourist, Eve thought. Early Christmas shopping.

Then she saw him. He came in directly behind the droid, wearing the long dark coat, a chauffeur’s cap pulled low, sunshades concealing his eyes. “He’s in.” She barely breathed it. “Possible target entering through main doors. Male, five-ten, black coat, gray hat, sunshades. He’s carrying a black valise. Team leaders copy?”

“Copy that, Lieutenant. In sights. Suspect is taking palm ’link from left coat pocket, moving left of fountain now.”

Then it all went wrong. The poodle started it. Eve saw that for herself. The little dog began to bark manically, broke from her mistress and streaked, yapping and snarling, toward the pair of Afghans.

A vicious little battle ensued, full of noise and fury. In her rush to save her poodle, the woman with the silver ribbons raced over the tiles and shoved past the businesswoman who’d risen to watch the commotion, nearly sending her into the fountain.

The businesswoman’s palm ’link went flying and cracked directly between the surprised eyes of a cop in bellman’s gear. He went down like a felled tree.

There were screams and curses, a major crash when one of the participants rammed a table holding a duet of crystal vases. Three bellmen dashed to assist, the first to arrive receiving a slash of canine teeth for his trouble. One of the Afghans bounded clear and raced toward the main doors and escape.

The dog caught McNab at the back of the knees and sent him headlong into the door he’d just been approaching. Outside it, Eve saw one of her men reach under his doorman’s coat for his weapon.

“Keep your weapons out of view. Goddamn it, don’t draw your weapons. It’s a fucking dogfight.”

But she saw, because her attention was focused on the target throughout the thirty-second battle, the exact moment they were made. The palm ’link was shoved back in his pocket, his stance went stiff with shock, and he bolted.

“He’s made us. Suspect is proceeding on foot to the south entrance. Block south entrance,” she ordered as she ran from the suite and toward the elevator. “Repeat. Block the south entrance. Suspect’s rabbiting, consider him armed and dangerous.” She didn’t bother to glance over when Roarke pushed into the elevator with her.

“He’s nearly to the doors,” Roarke told her, and she saw now that he’d had the foresight to grab up one of the minimonitors.

“Ellsworth, your location’s hot.”

“I see him, Dallas. I’ve got him.”

The instant the elevator doors opened, she was streaking across the lobby. Ellsworth was inside the south doors, and out cold. “Tranq’d him. Jesus.” She pulled her weapon and went through the doors.

“Suspect is out of controlled area. I’ve got an officer down at the south entrance. Suspect is on foot—”

She heard the scream as she raced for the corner. He was dragging a woman out of a car. Even as Eve reached the curb and brought up her weapon, he’d tossed her onto the street and had dived behind the wheel.

Pivoting, she pounded to the sportster she’d parked at the entrance.

“I’ll drive.” Roarke beat her to the car by a stride. “I know the car better.”

With no time to argue, she jumped into the passenger seat. “Suspect’s jacked a vehicle, is heading east on Seventy-fourth in a white minijet, N-Y-C license C-H-A-R-L-I-E. That’s Charles Abel Roger Loser Ice Even. This is Dallas in pursuit. I need ground and air support. He’s got a four-block lead, now approaching Lex.”

Roarke shoved the sportster into turbo, rocketed.

“Make that three blocks,” she murmured, eyes straight ahead when they swung around a commuter tram with a layer of paint to spare.

“He didn’t boost a snail,” Roarke commented, zigzagging through traffic without a single tap for the brakes. “Those minijets have muscle if he knows how to use it. But he shouldn’t be able to outrun us in the long haul.”

As he approached a red light, Roarke gauged the timing, punched for power, and streaked his way through the crossing traffic, leaving tire squeals and blasting horns in his wake.

“Not if we live through it. Suspect is turning south on Lexington, heading downtown. Where is my goddamn air support?” she barked into the communicator.

“Air support is being deployed.” Whitney’s words sliced through like shards of glass. “Ground units heading in from east and west, should join your pursuit at Forty-fifth and Lex.”

“I’m in a civilian vehicle, Commander,” she told him, then finished with a description. “We’re less than two blocks behind him now and closing. Suspect crossing Fiftieth.”

She barely hissed when a maxi-bus lumbered across their path. Roarke punched for vertical, sending the car in a long sweeping rise that had Eve’s stomach pitching. They leapfrogged over the bus and dived for the street.

But the bus had blocked their view just long enough. “He’s turned off. Damn it. Which way?”

“Right,” Roarke decided. “He was shifting to the right lane before the fucking bus.”

“Suspect believed to now be traveling west on Forty-ninth. Ground and air support adjust direction to pursue.”

The light changed as they reached the corner. Roarke readied to whip for the turn. New Yorkers being what they were, pedestrians surged forward into the street as the light beamed yellow and, in defiance of the electric blue bullet bearing down on them, didn’t give an inch.

“Idiots, assholes.” Eve barely had time to finish the thought before Roarke was airborne again and skimming down the sidewalk. “Don’t kill anyone, for Christ’s sake.”

He nearly nipped the outer edge of a glide-cart umbrella, terrorized a trio of Hasidic Jews carrying their briefcases of gems to market. A Bosc pear heaved by the cart operator sailed past Eve’s window.

She caught sight of the fishtailing rear of the minijet as it rounded the corner on Fifth Avenue. The glide-cart on that corner wasn’t as lucky. She saw the unit upend and the operator go sprawling.

“We’re losing ground here. He’s on Fifth now.” She checked the skies and ground her teeth when she spotted media copters rather than cops. “Commander, I need my air support.”

“A hitch at Control. Support delayed. Deployment in five minutes.”

“That’s too late, too goddamn late,” she murmured, and felt little satisfaction when she heard the scream of sirens approaching from the rear.

“We’ll take the long shot,” Roarke decided. His smile was as sharp and deadly as a laser when he punched the sportster into sharp vertical, into full-speed nose lift that had the blood draining out of Eve’s face and her fingers digging hard into the buttery leather of her seat.

“Oh Christ, I hate this.”

“Just hang on. We go up and diagonal, we’ll cut his lead.”

And over twenty-story buildings at approximately a hundred miles an hour.

The street dropped away as they rose up into the arena of tourist blimps and air tram commuters. Eve got a much closer look at the New York City Tourist Board’s pride and joy than she cared to. The monotonous recording touting the joys of the Diamond District blared in her ears.

“There!” She had to shout over the noise, pointed due west. “Blue minijet. He’s caught in a jam on Fifth, between Forty-sixth and Forty-fifth.” Then she spotted another, half a block ahead of the first. “Shit, there are two of them. Take us down, park it on the sidewalk if you have to. All units, two blue minijets on Fifth, both stopped. One between Forty-sixth and Forty-fifth, the second between Forty-fifth and Forty-fourth. Block southbound traffic on Fifth at Forty-third.”

Her stomach tripped over her throat as Roarke took them into a dive. He leveled off ten feet above street level, set down with barely a shimmy in a maxi-bus lane directly across from the northernmost minijet.

Eve leaped out, aimed her weapon at the driver. “NYPSD. Out of the car, keep your hands where I can see them.”

The driver was male, midtwenties. He was wearing a lime green Day-Glo jacket and matching pegged pants. Sweat poured down his face as he got out of the car. “Don’t stun me, for God’s sake, I’m just a runner, that’s all. Just making a living.”

“In the position.” She reached out, spun him around. “Hands on the roof of the car.”

“I don’t want my wife to know about this. I want a lawyer,” he demanded as she patted him down. “I’ve only been doing runs for six months. Give me a fucking break.”

She dragged her restraints from her pocket, dragged his arms behind his back. Even as she snapped them on, she knew he wasn’t her man.

“Move one inch from this spot and I’ll zap you unconscious.”

She started off at a jog, then slowed as she watched Roarke walk back toward her from the other car. “All I got is an illegals runner with the brains of a toadstool.”

“The other car’s empty,” he told her. “He’s ditched it.” Jaw set, he scanned the street crowded with vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Three criss-crossing sky-glides were jammed with people. Grand Central was a crosstown block away. “We lost him.”

Two hours later, Eve was in the Tower, explaining the failure of the operation to Chief Tibble.

“I take full responsibility for the unsatisfactory outcome of the operation, sir. The performance of the officers involved in the task force is not to blame.”

“Fucking circus.” Tibble tapped a huge fist lightly on the surface of his desk. “Dogfights, injured civilians, the primary officer hot-rodding around and over the city in a souped-up, two-hundred-thousand-dollar sports jet. The damn media flybys caught you shooting across town in it. That’s going to look just dandy for the departmental image on screen.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Eve said stiffly. “My department-issue unit was recently destroyed and has yet to be replaced. I opted to utilize a personal vehicle until my new unit is issued. Departmental procedure allows for this contingency.”

His fist stopped pounding as he narrowed his eyes at her. “Why the hell hasn’t your unit been replaced?”

“The automatic requisition was not processed, for reasons I can’t explain, Chief Tibble. My aide applied again today for a replacement, and was told that it would take approximately a week to never.”

He let out a long breath. “Idiot paper pushers. You’ll have your replacement by oh eight hundred, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir. There’s no question that the operation today was unsatisfactory. However, Detective McNab has pinpointed the Luxury Towers as the source of today’s transmission. I’d like to join the sweep and search team deployed there.”

“How many angles of this investigation do you intend to handle personally, Lieutenant?”

“All of them, sir.”

“And have you considered that your objectivity might be in question in this matter? That you’ve begun to pit your ego against the killer’s. Are you investigating a series of homicides, Lieutenant, or are you playing his games?”

She accepted the slap, agreed that she deserved it, but she wouldn’t back off. “At this point in time, sir, I don’t believe I can do one without doing the other. I realize that my performance in this matter has been substandard. It won’t continue to be.”

“I’d like to know how the hell I’m supposed to give you a dressing-down when you keep beating me to it.” He pushed away from the desk and rose. “Consider your wrist officially slapped. Privately, I’ll tell you that I don’t find your performance in this matter substandard. I’ve watched the recordings of the operation. You command well, Lieutenant, with authority and without hesitation. Your strategy to entrap this perpetrator can’t be faulted. Damn poodle,” he said under his breath. “And you were denied air support due to some foul-up at control—a foul-up that will be fully investigated. Consider yourself officially supported.

“Now . . .” He lifted a small clear globe filled with glinting blue fluid, turned it so that the tiny enclosed sea ebbed and flowed. “The media will no doubt enjoy our embarrassment today. We’ll just take that on the chin. Will he contact you again?”

“He won’t be able to stop himself. He’s likely to have a period of silence. He’ll sulk, have a temper fit, and he’ll attempt to find some way to harm me physically. I’d say he’d consider that I cheated, and it’s his game. Cheating would be a sin, and he’ll want God to punish me. He’ll be scared, but he’ll be pissed, too.”

She hesitated, then decided to lay out her thoughts. “I don’t believe he’ll return to the Luxury Towers. Whatever he is, Chief, he’s smart. He’ll know that if we could get as close as we did today, it’s likely we’ve begun to track his transmissions. He made us in the lobby today, so he’s got sharp instincts when it comes to cops. He walked into us at the hotel and we blew it. But if we can find his equipment, if we can find his hole, we’ll find him.”

“Then find his hole, Dallas, and bury it.”

She swung by her office to make copies of all audio and video discs from the failed operation. She intended to study every second of every disc.

“I told you to go on home,” she said when she saw Roarke waiting for her.

He rose, walked over, and rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. “How much skin did Tibble leave on your hide?”

“He barely stripped any, considering.”

“This wasn’t your fault.”

“Fault doesn’t matter, responsibility does. And this was mine.”

Understanding, he rubbed her shoulders. “Want to go out and kick some poodles?”

She let out a short laugh. “Maybe later. I’ve got to get my record copies then I’m heading over to join the search and sweep team.”

“You haven’t eaten in hours,” he pointed out.

“I’ll grab something at a QuickMart.” Disgusted, she scrubbed her hands over her face. “Goddamn it, Roarke, we were inches away. Inches. Did he see Baxter go for his weapon through the door? Did one of the team look too hard in his direction? Did he just smell us?”

“Why don’t you let me look at the records, with the eye of a veteran cop-spotter?”

“It couldn’t hurt.” She turned to her computer, ordered dupes of all operational files. “We should have plenty of full views of him on the lobby file. There’s not much of his face, but maybe you’ll spot something that clicks. You’ve got to know him, Roarke.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be home.” She handed him the copies. “But don’t wait up.”

She grabbed a cheese phyllo and an energy bar at a QuickMart and settled for a tube of Pepsi rather than their notoriously poisonous coffee. She carried the miserable meal with her into the second-floor conference room where McNab was heading the electronic sweep.

“Anything?”

“Plenty of hits on mega-links, laser faxes. The building’s lousy with high-end electronics. We’re checking floor to floor, but there’s nothing on the scale of what our guy plays with.”

Eve set the bag down, then reached out and turned McNab’s face toward her with a firm thumb to his chin. There was a bruising knot on his forehead and a long thin scrap just above his right eye. “Get the MTs to look at that ugly face of yours?”

“Just a bump. Damn dog came at me like an Arena Ball tackle.” He shifted in his chair so that the gold rings in his ears jangled. “I’d like to apologize for my insubordination during the operation, Lieutenant.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were pissed and you still are.” She pulled out her tube of Pepsi, broke the safety seal. “You were wrong, and you still are. So stuff the apology. Don’t ever question an order from a superior officer during an operation, McNab, or you’ll end up skulking in some little dark room listening to sex noises for a private security hack instead of rising through the ranks of the illustrious EDD.”

While his temper bobbed up and down, he meticulously manipulated his scanner, noting the location of a dual communication unit on floor eighteen.

“Okay, maybe I’m still a little steamed, and maybe I know I was over the line. I’m lucky if I get out of my cube at Central once a month. This was the closest I’ve come to action, then you yanked me.”

Looking at him, at that young, smooth, eager face, she felt incredibly old and jaded. “McNab, have you ever participated in hand-to-hand other than in training?”

“No, but—”

“Have you ever discharged your weapon at anything other than a heat target?”

His mouth went sulky. “No. So I’m not a warrior.”

“Your strengths are right here.” She tapped a finger on his scanner, then pulled out her energy bar. “You know as well as I do how many applicants wash out of the EDD program every year. They only take the top. And you’re good. I’ve worked with the best,” she said, thinking of Feeney, “so I know. This is where I need you to take this fucker down.”

Then none too gently, she tapped her finger on the swollen bruise on his forehead. “And action mostly just hurts like a bitch.”

“Guys are going to rag me for weeks. Getting taken down by a dog.”

“It was a pretty big dog.” Sympathetic now, Eve took out the phyllo and gave it to him. “Really big teeth. Lorimar took a bite in the ankle.”

“Yeah?” Somewhat cheered, McNab bit into the bread and cheese. “I hadn’t heard.” A series of beeps had him frowning at the scanner. “Lots of goodies on nineteen, east wing apartment.” He shifted to his communicator. “Blue team, check on nineteen twenty-three. It looks like some rich kid’s entertainment center, but it’s loaded.”

“I’ll go check on the door-to-doors,” Eve said. “You get any interesting hits, pass them on to me.”

“You first, Dallas. Thanks for the food. Say, ah, where’s Peabody?”

Eve lifted a brow as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Overseeing the breakdown of equipment in the penthouse at the Arms. She doesn’t like you, McNab.”

“I know.” He flashed a grin. “I find that really attractive in a woman.” He turned back to his scanner, humming as he went through the complicated task of separating the beeps into known components.

At midnight, she ordered in a new crew, sent McNab home for eight hours off, and packed it in. It didn’t surprise her to find Roarke up, in his office, enjoying a glass of wine while he studied the recordings.

“I had the first team wrap for the night. They were getting punchy.”

“You look a bit punchy yourself, Lieutenant. Shall I pour you a glass of wine?”

“No, I don’t want anything.” She walked over, noted that he paused the recording at the point where McNab made abrupt contact with the stationary panel of the main doors. “I don’t think he’d consider that suitable for framing.”

“No luck locking in on his communication center?”

“McNab’s worried he’s shut it down.” She rubbed at the stiffness at the base of her neck. “So am I. He could have done it by remote while he was on the run, or contacted someone he’s working with. Mira’s profile indicates he’d want constant praise and attention during the game, so it’s possible he’s got a partner—likely a female, strong personality. Authority figure.”

“Mother?”

“That would be my first guess. But a remote’s just as likely as him having Mommy by his side. He wants to believe he’s running the show, so he probably has his own place.”

She stepped forward, closer to the screen, staring hard at the image of the man in the long coat and chauffeur’s cap. “It’s like a costume,” she murmured. “Another part of the game. He’s dressing up. It’s concealing, but it’s also, I don’t know, dramatic. Like in a play, and he’s the star. But right here, you can see that we’ve thrown him a cue he wasn’t expecting. See the shock, the panic in the body language. His weight’s off balance because he took a step back. Instinctive retreat. His free hand’s coming up, a defensive gesture. I bet his eyes are moon wide with shock behind the sunshades.”

Something caught her, made her frown and step even closer. “Can’t see what the hell he’s looking at. You can’t see where his eyes are focused. Just the angle of his head. Is he looking at Baxter going for his weapon on the other side of the glass? Or is he looking at McNab crash headfirst into the panel?”

“From his angle, you’d see both.”

“Yeah. Baxter look like a cop going for his stunner to you? Couldn’t he be a doorman, alerted by the commotion, reaching for his security beeper?”

“I’d go for cop,” Roarke told her. “Look at the way he moves.” He ordered the recorder to rewind thirty seconds, then play. The room erupted with noise so he muted audio. “Watch—it’s a textbook cop move. The spin, knees bent, body braced, the right hand sweeping inside the coat at the armpit. Doormen wear beepers on their belts, so his grab’s too high for that.”

“But it happened fast, look how fast.”

“If he knows cops, has had many dealings with them, it could have been enough. McNab doesn’t look anything like a cop, doesn’t move like one. The only way that would have tipped him is if he recognized Ian, knew him to be a cop.”

“McNab doesn’t do much field work, as he complained to me tonight. But they’re both electronics jocks, so it’s not impossible they’ve brushed up against each other. Damn it, I should have thought of that before I sent him out.”

“You’re Monday morning quarterbacking, darling Eve.”

“What?”

“We really have to do something about your lack of interest in sports other than baseball. It’s useless to second-guess yourself here. I watched you run that operation, and you did it with a cool and steady hand.”

“I still fumbled.” She smiled thinly. “How’s that for sports?”

“The fat lady has yet to sing,” he said and laughed at her confused stare. “Meaning the game isn’t over. But tonight is. You’re going to bed.”

She’d been about to say the same, but it was always hard to resist arguing. “Says who?”

“The man you married for sex.”

She ran her tongue around her teeth, hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “I just said that to needle a sexually repressed, homicidal maniac.”

“I see. So you didn’t marry me for sex.”

“The sex is an entertaining element.”

“An element you’re too tired to explore tonight.”

Because her eyes were drooping, she narrowed them. “Says who?”

He had to laugh, slipping an arm around her waist to walk with her to the elevator so she wouldn’t have to climb stairs. “Darling Eve, you would argue with the devil himself.”

“I thought I was.” She yawned, let herself lean on him a little. In the bedroom, she stripped, let her clothes lay where they fell. “They’re doing a full scan on the car he left in front of the hotel,” she murmured as she crawled into bed. “It’s a rental—charged to Summerset’s secondary credit account.”

“I’ve shifted all my accounts and numbers.” He lay beside her. “I’ll see that the same is done with Summerset’s in the morning. He won’t find it as easy to access now.”

“No latents on the scan so far. Gloves. Swept some strands of hair. Might be his. Couple foreign carpet fibers. Coulda come off his shoes. Running them.”

“That’s fine.” He stroked her hair. “Turn it off now.”

“He’ll shift targets. Didn’t get his points today.” When her voice thickened, he turned so she could curl against him. “It’s gonna be soon.”

Roarke thought she was right. But the target wouldn’t be her, not for now. For now she was curled up warm against him, and asleep.

Patrick Murray was drunker than usual. In the normal scheme of things, he avoided sobriety but didn’t care to stumble or piss on his hands. But tonight, when the Mermaid Club closed its doors at three in the morning, he had done both, more than once.

His wife had left him. Again.

He loved his Loretta with a rare passion, but could admit he too often loved a cozy bottle of Jamison’s more. He’d met his darling at that very club five years before. She’d been naked as the wind and swimming like a fish in the aquatic floor show the club was renowned for, but it had been—for Pat—love at first sight.

He thought of it now as he tripped over the chair he’d been about to upend on the table directly in front of him. Too many pulls of whiskey blurred his vision and hampered him in his maintenance duties. It was his lot in life to mop up the spilled liquor and bodily fluids, to scour the toilets and sinks, to be sure the privacy rooms were aired so they didn’t smell like someone else’s come the following day.

He’d hired on at the club to do just that five years and two months before, and had been struck by Cupid’s arrow when he’d seen Loretta execute a watery pirouette in the show tank.

Her skin, the color of barrel-aged scotch, had gleamed so wet. Her twisty curls of ebony hair had flowed through the virulently dyed blue water. Her eyes behind their protective lenses had gleamed a brilliant lavender.

Pat righted himself, and the chair, before reaching in his pocket for the mini bottle of whiskey. He drained it in a swallow, and though he wobbled, he tucked it neatly in the nearest recycle slot.

He’d been twenty-seven when he’d first set eyes on the magnificent Loretta, and it had been only his second day in America. He’d been forced to leave Ireland in a hurry, due to a bit of a brushup with the law and a certain disagreement over some gambling debts. But he’d found his destiny in the city of New York.

Five years later, he was scraping the same floor clean of unmentionable substances, pocketing the loose credits dropped by patrons who were often more drunk than Pat himself, and mourning, once again, the loss of his Loretta.

He had to admit she didn’t have much tolerance for a man who liked his liquor by the quart.

She was what some would call the giant economy size. At five-ten and two hundred fiery pounds, she made nearly two of Patrick Murray. He was a compact man who’d once had dreams of jockeying thoroughbreds on the flat, but he’d tended to miss too many morning exercise rounds due to the inconvenience of a splitting head. He was barely five-five, no more than a hundred and twenty pounds even after a dip in the aquatic show floor tank.

His hair was orange as a fresh carrot, his face splattered with a sandblast of freckles of the same hue. And Loretta had often told him it was his sad and boyish blue eyes that had won over her heart.

He’d paid her for sex the first time, naturally. After all, it was her living. The second time he’d paid her fee he’d asked if perhaps she might enjoy a piece of pie and a bit of conversation.

She’d charged him for that as well, for the two hours spent, but he hadn’t minded. And the third time he’d brought her a two-pound box of near-chocolates and she’d given him the sex for nothing.

A few weeks later they’d been married. He’d stayed almost sober for three months. Then the wagon had tipped, he’d fallen off, and Loretta had lowered the boom.

So it had been, on and off that wagon, for five years. He’d promised her he’d take the cure—the sweat box and shots down at the East Side Substance Abuse Clinic. And he’d meant to. But he’d gotten a little drunk and gone off to the track instead.

He still loved the horses.

Now she was talking divorce, and his heart was broken. Pat leaned on his string mop and sighed at the glinting waters of the empty tank.

Loretta had done two shows tonight. She was a career woman, and he respected that. He’d gotten over his initial discomfort when she’d insisted on keeping her sex license up to date. Sex paid better than sweeping, even better than entertainment, and they sometimes talked of buying a place in the suburbs.

She hadn’t spoken to him that evening, no matter how he’d tried to draw her out. When the show ended, she’d climbed down the ladder, wrapped herself in the striped robe he’d given her for her last birthday, and swished off with the other water beauties.

She’d locked him out of their apartment, out of her life, and, he was afraid, out of her heart.

When the buzzer sounded from the delivery entrance, he shook his head sadly. “Where’d the time go?” he wondered. “Morning already.”

He made his bleary way into the back, fumbled twice with the code before getting it right, and hauled open the steel-enforced door. He puzzled a moment, standing framed there, with the security light beeping and the black-coated figure smiling in at him.

“It’s still dark, isn’t it?” Pat said.

“It’s always darkest before the dawn, so they say.” He stepped forward, offering a gloved hand. “Do you remember me, Paddy?”

“Do I know you? Are you from home?” Pat took the offered hand and never even felt the slight pinch as he pitched forward.

“Oh, I’m from home, Paddy, and I’ll be sending you there.” He let the unconscious man slide to the floor before turning and carefully recoding the locks.

It was easy enough to drag a man of Pat’s size from the back room into the main lounge. Once there, he set his valise on a table, carefully unpacked what he would need.

He tested the laser—one quick shot to the ceiling—and smiled in approval. The shackles were lightweight and fashioned from a material approved by NASA II. The ’link was heavier, loaded as it was with its maxi-battery and interfaced jammer. He found a handy outlet behind the bar and quickly set up his communications.

Humming a little, he turned the tank system to drain. It sounded like one huge and slightly clogged toilet flushing, he thought, amused, then walked back to kick Pat sharply in the ribs.

Not a stir, not a whimper.

With a sigh he bent down, efficiently checking vital signs. The man was stinking drunk, he realized. And he’d used too much of the tranq. Vaguely irritated by the miscalculation, he took a pressure syringe filled with amphetamine and jabbed it against Pat’s limp arm.

There was barely a stir, hardly a whimper.

The anger built quickly, until he shook with it. “Wake up, you bastard.” Rearing back, he slapped Pat’s face, front handed, then back, over and over. He wanted him awake and aware for all of it. When the slaps didn’t work, he used his fists, pummeling until blood spurted and soaked his gloves.

Pat only moaned.

His breathing was ragged now, his eyes beginning to sting with tears. He only had two hours, for God’s sake. Was he supposed to work miracles? Was he supposed to think of everything?

Had God abandoned him after all, for his failures?

If it hadn’t been for Dallas, he’d have finished with the pig Brian by now, and Pat would have waited another day or two. Another day or two to observe more closely his habits and patterns and he wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to put him under.

He heard a crash, blinked dully. He realized he’d thrown a chair and broken the mirror behind the bar.

Well, so what? It was just a filthy sex club in a filthy city. He’d like to destroy it, to smash every glass, set fire to it, watch it burn.

Christ Himself had destroyed the marketplace, hadn’t he? In righteous anger at the moneylenders, the harlots and sinners.

But there wasn’t time. That wasn’t his mission.

Pat Murray was his mission tonight.

Resigned, he picked up the laser. He’d just have to remove the eye while Pat was unconscious. It didn’t matter, he decided, and bent to his work. There would be plenty of fun after that. More than enough entertainment.

It pleased him that he removed the eye so neatly, so efficiently. Like a surgeon. The first time he’d been sloppy. He could admit that now. His hand had shaken, and nerves had screamed. Still he’d done it, hadn’t he, as he’d been bidden. He’d finished what he started. And he would finish it all. Finish them all.

He took a moment to slip the organ into a small bottle of clear fluid. He would have to leave this one behind, of course. He’d accepted that too. If the plan was to move forward, he wouldn’t be able to add Pat Murray’s eye to his collection.

It was enough to have taken it. An eye for an eye.

Pat began to moan again as he dragged him to the tank. “Ah, now you wake up, you drunken sinner.” Sucking in his breath, he heaved Pat over his shoulder and, with the shackles dangling over his arm, climbed the ladder.

He was proud that he was strong enough to do this, carry a grown man on his back. He hadn’t always been so fit. He’d been sickly as a child, puny and weak. But he’d been motivated to change that. He’d listened to what he was told, did what was necessary. He’d exercised both body and mind until he was ready. Until he was perfect. Until the time was right.

Inside the empty tank he laid Pat down, took a small diamond bit drill from his pocket. He hummed a favorite hymn as he punched the small holes into the tank floor. He fit the shackles onto clamps, tested them by standing and pulling with all his strength. Satisfied they wouldn’t give, he turned to remove Pat’s clothing.

“Naked we’re born and naked we die,” he said cheerfully, then locked the shackles over Pat’s thin ankles. He studied the battered face, noted the slight flicker of the eyelid. “How loud will you scream for mercy, I wonder?”

He slipped a token from his pocket, then dropped it with a clink on the floor of the tank. The statue of the Virgin Mother was kissed reverently then affixed to the floor facing the sinner.

“Do you remember me, Paddy?”

There was red-hot pain and stomach cramping nausea as Pat swam toward consciousness. He groaned with it, whimpered, then screamed.

“Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus, what is it?”

“Retribution.”

Sobbing, Pat pushed a hand to his face, trying to cover the worse part of the agony. And he found what had been done to him and wailed. “My God, my eye, my God, I’ve lost my eye.”

“It’s not lost.” Now he laughed, laughed so hard he had to hold his sides. “It’s on the table out there.”

“What’s happening? What’s done?” Desperate and cold sober, Pat dragged at the shackles. Pain boiled through him like acid. “You want money, they don’t leave anything after closing. I don’t have the code for the lock box. I’m just the janitor.”

“I don’t want money.”

“What do you want? What have you done to me? Oh, sweet Mary. What do you want?”

“Don’t use her name.” Fired again, he struck Pat hard in the face with a balled fist. “I don’t want her name in your filthy tongue. Use it again, and I’ll cut it out of your sinful mouth.”

“I don’t understand.” Pat wept it. The blow had knocked him to his knees. “What do you want from me?”

“Your life. I want to take your life. I’ve waited fifteen years and it’s tonight.”

Tears swam out of the eye he had left and the pain was a hideous thing. But still he swung out, tried to grab a leg. When his fingers swept air, he tried again, cursing now, threatening, weeping.

“This would be fun, but I have a schedule.” He moved to the ladder, climbed nimbly while Pat’s pleas and threats echoed up to him. “It’ll take nearly an hour for the water to cover your head at the speed I’ll use. An hour,” he repeated, grinning at Pat through the glass wall as he climbed down. “You’ll be nearly insane by then. The water will rise, inch by inch. Ankles, knees, waist. You’ll be straining against the shackles until your ankles are raw and bleeding and burning but it won’t help. Waist, chest, neck.”

Still smiling he turned to the controls, adjusting until the water poured through the side channels.

“Why are you doing this, you bloody bastard?”

“You have nearly an hour to think about that.”

He knelt, crossed himself, folded his hands, and offered a prayer of celebration and gratitude.

“You’re praying? You’re praying?” Struggling to focus, Pat stared at the statue of the Virgin as the water rose over her robes. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “Dear Mother of God.” And he prayed himself, as fiercely, as fervently as he ever had in his life. If she would intercede on his behalf, he would swear by her mercy never to lift a bottle to his lips again.

For a silent five minutes, the supplicates, one in the tank, one outside it, mirrored each other.

Then one rose lightly and smiled. “It’s too late for prayers. You’ve been damned since you sold a life to a devil for profit.”

“I never did. I don’t know you.” The water licked slyly at his knees, urging Pat to struggle up. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

“No, you’re just one ahead of schedule.” Because he had time before he needed to make the necessary calls, he went behind the bar and helped himself to a soft drink as Pat shouted and begged for mercy. No spirits had ever passed his lips.

“I hope you remember me before you’re dead, Pat. I hope you remember who I am and who I come from.”

He broke the seal on the tube, carried it around the bar. Humming again, he set a chair directly in front of the tank and took his seat. And, sipping, watched the show.

It was exactly five A.M. when the ’link woke her. She shot up, fully alert, heart roaring in her chest. It took only an instant to realize it wasn’t the ’link signal that had her pulse racing, but the dream it had interrupted.

And she knew it was him.

“Block video, set trace.” She held a hand behind her to nudge Roarke back. “Dallas.”

“You thought you could win by cheating, but you were wrong. All you did was postpone fate. I’ll still kill Brian Kelly. A different time, a different place.”

“You screwed up, pal. I could see you sweating when you realized we were waiting for you. We knew exactly what you were going to do, and how you planned to do it.”

“You didn’t stop me. You couldn’t get near me.”

“We’re so close you feel our breath on the back of your neck.”

“Not so close. ‘Who scream? Who shriek? Who have strife? Who have anxiety? Who have wounds for nothing? Who have black eyes? Those who linger long over wine, those who engage in trails of blended wine.’ I’m watching a man die. He’s dying now. Do you want to hear who screams and shrieks?”

Quickly he switched off the filter and opened the ’link to the room.

Screams and sobs exploded through Eve’s speaker and iced her blood. “Now who’s cheating?” she demanded. “You’re going to kill him, then give me a clue. That’s what you did with Brennen. What kind of game is it if you don’t take any risks?”

“He’s not dead yet. I think you have almost, almost enough time.”

She was already out of bed and dragging on clothes. “Where’s the clue?”

“I’m even going to make this one easy for you. Dine and dance and watch the naked mermaids. It’s after hours, but come on in. The water’s fine. He’s starting to gurgle, Lieutenant. Don’t take too long.”

Sick of him, she cut the transmission herself. “It’s a club,” she said to Roarke as she strapped on her weapon harness.

“The Mermaid Club. Naked water dancers.”

“Then that’s our best shot.” She stepped into the elevator with him. “He’s going to drown this one.” She looked at Roarke as she pulled out her communicator to call in. “You don’t own the Mermaid Club, do you?”

“No.” His eyes were hard. “But I used to.”

The sun was breaking over the East River as they shot southward through the still-slumbering uptown. Clouds scooted over the light, moving lazily, making it the thick color of powder.

Roarke chose to keep the car on manual, and avoided Broadway with its never-ending party and unfriendly traffic. He could feel Eve’s frustration riding with them like a third passenger crowding the car.

“It isn’t possible to outguess a madman.”

“He’s got a pattern, but it’s coming apart. I can’t get the threads of it.” Think, think, think, she ordered herself as they bulleted through the change-of-shift traffic in midtown. “Do you know who owns the Mermaid Club?”

“Not personally. It was something I picked up years ago. One of my first downtown properties. Actually I won it in a dice game, kept it a couple of years, then sold it off at a tidy profit.” Spotting a loaded commuter tram stalled across Seventh, he whipped west and headed crosstown.

“Has to be the owner or someone who works there.” Eve pulled out her personal palm computer. Her teeth snapped together when Roarke hit one of the potholes neglected by the city’s road and infrastructure teams. “Silas Tikinika? Ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Then he’s probably sleeping peacefully tonight. I’ll run employees.”

“We’re nearly there,” Roarke told her. “We’ll know soon enough.”

The animated mermaid, naked but for her glossy green tail, was dark and still over the safety grilled window. He pulled up at the all but empty curb. It was rare for people in this ugly little section of town to have personal transportation. Without the auto-shield and security feature on Roarke’s car, it wouldn’t be waiting when he came out.

He caught a glimpse of a couple of street ghosts hovering in a doorway two buildings down. They drifted out in the murky dawn, then faded back at the scream of approaching sirens.

“I’m not waiting for the backup,” she told Roarke, pulling both her weapon and her master code. Then she reached down, tugged a stunner from her boot. “Take my clinch piece—and make sure it disappears when the uniforms get here.” Her eyes held his for one quick moment. “You take the left.”

Wild light and wilder music met them when they went through the door. Eve swung right, sweeping. Then sprinted forward with a shout of warning for the man clinging to the ladder on the side of the show tank.

“Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I’ve got to get him out.” Summerset’s knuckles scraped metal as he slid down a rung. “He’s drowning.”

“Get the hell out of my way.” She all but dragged him off the ladder and threw him at Roarke. “Find the drain switch, for God’s sake. Hurry.” Then she was scrambling up, and diving in.

Strings of blood swam in the water like exotic fish. The man who was bolted to the floor of the tank was blue around the lips, his single eye open and staring. She could see both his fingers and ankles were raw from fighting the shackles. She grabbed his battered face, fit her mouth over his, and gave him her breath.

Lungs burning, she pushed off, fought her way to the surface, and sucked in more air. Without wasting the breath on words, she dived again. Her gaze flicked briefly to the face of the Madonna, its carved eyes watching tortured death with absolute serenity.

Eve shuddered once, then fought for life.

On her third trip up, she thought the surface was closer, and swimming down, she turned her head and got a watery view of Roarke coming up the ladder.

He’d taken time to pull off his shoes and jacket. When he reached the floor of the tank, he yanked her arm, jerked a thumb for her to go up. So they worked in tandem, one drawing in air, the other giving it while the water swirled down.

When she could stand, her head above water, she coughed violently. “Summerset,” she managed.

“He won’t go anywhere. For God’s sake, Eve.”

“I haven’t got time to argue about it. Can you pick the locks on the restraints?”

Dripping, still gasping for air, he stared at her. Then he dug in his pocket for his penknife. “Here come your men.”

“I’ll deal with them. See what you can do down there.”

She flipped her wet hair out of her eyes as four uniforms charged inside the club. “Dallas,” she shouted. “Lieutenant Eve. Get some med-techs here, fast. Resuscitation equipment. Drowning victim. I don’t know how long he was under, but there’s no pulse. And someone turn that goddamn music off. Glove up. I want this scene preserved as much as possible.”

The water was down to her knees now, and the air was making her shiver in her wet clothes. Her muscles ached from supporting the dead weight of the victim. She saw Roarke finesse the lock on the first shackle and shifted to adjust.

The minute the second ankle was free, she laid the body down in the few remaining inches of water and, straddling it, began pumping his chest.

“I want a CPR kit in here, some blankets.” The last word echoed as the music shut abruptly off. Now she could hear her ears ringing. “Come on, come on, come back,” she panted, then leaned forward and forced air into his mouth.

“Let me do it.” Roarke knelt beside her. “You’ve got a crime scene to secure.”

“The MTs.” She continued to count the chest pumps in her head. “They’ll be here any minute. You can’t stop until they get here.”

“I won’t stop.”

At her nod, he placed his hands over hers, picked up her rhythm. “Who is he, Roarke?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced up briefly as Eve got to her feet. “I just don’t know.”

It was a great deal harder climbing out of the tank than it had been getting in, Eve realized. She was winded by the time she reached the lip. She took a moment to catch her breath, to draw it into lungs that felt seared and scraped. Then she swung her leg over and started down.

Peabody was waiting at the bottom. “The MTs were right behind me, Dallas.”

“He’s pretty far gone. Don’t know if they can bring him back.” She looked through the glass, watched Roarke working steadily. “Take the uniforms. Form two teams and do a search. You won’t find him, but look anyway. Secure all doors. Engage recorders.”

Peabody looked over Eve’s shoulder to where Summerset stood, hands at his sides, watching Roarke from the far end of the tank. “What are you going to do?”

“My job. You do yours. I want this scene secured and a sweep team ordered. Do you have a field kit with you?”

“I don’t have a detective kit, just my street and scene bag.”

“I’ll use that.” She took the bag Peabody offered. “Get started,” she ordered, then signaled the emergency medical team that rushed in. “Inside the tank. Drowning victim, no pulse. CPR in progress for approximately ten minutes.”

She turned away, knowing there was nothing more she could do there. Water squelched in her boots, dripped from her hair and face as she walked over to Summerset. Because her leather jacket weighed on her like a stone, she stripped it off and slammed it on the table.

“Goddamn it, Summerset, you’re under arrest. Suspicion of attempted murder. You have the right to—”

“He was alive when I got here. I’m almost sure he was alive.” His voice sounded thin and thoughtful. Eve recognized the symptoms of shock in it, and in his glassy eyes. “I thought I saw him move.”

“You’d be smart to wait until I’ve told you your rights and obligations before you make any statement.” She lowered her voice. “You’d be real smart to say nothing, not a fucking thing, until Roarke rounds you up his fancy lawyers. Now be smart and shut up.”

But he refused the lawyers. When Eve walked into the interview room where he was being guarded by a uniform, Summerset sat stiffly and continued to stare straight ahead.

“I won’t need you,” she told the guard. She came around the table and sat when the guard left the room. She’d taken time to change into dry clothes, warm up her system with coffee; and she had checked with the medical team that had brought the man identified as Patrick Murray back to life, and the doctors who were fighting to keep him that way.

“It’s still attempted murder,” she said conversationally. “They brought Murray back from the dead, but he’s in a coma, and if he makes it he may be brain damaged.”

“Murray?”

“Patrick Murray, another Dublin boy.”

“I don’t remember a Patrick Murray.” His bony fingers moved through his disordered hair. His eyes looked blindly around the room. “I would—I would like some water.”

“Sure, fine.” She rose to fill a pitcher. “Why aren’t you letting Roarke set up the lawyers?”

“This isn’t his doing. And I have nothing to hide.”

“You’re an idiot.” She slammed the pitcher in front of him. “You don’t know how bad it can be once I turn the recorder on and start on you. You were at the scene of an attempted murder, caught by the primary investigator climbing out—”

“In,” he snapped. Her tone had torn away the mists that kept closing in on his mind. “I was going into the tank.”

“You’re going to have to prove that. I’m the first one you’re going to have to convince.” She raked both hands through her hair in a gesture of fatigue and frustration that made Summerset frown. Her eyes, he noted, were reddened from the water, and deeply shadowed.

“I can’t hold back with you this time,” she warned him.

“I expect nothing from you.”

“Good. Then we start even. Engage recorder. Interview with subject Summerset, Lawrence Charles, in the matter of the attempted murder of Patrick Murray on this date. Interview conducted by primary, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Commence oh eight fifteen. Subject has been Mirandized and has waived counsel and representation at this time. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“What were you doing in the Mermaid Club at six-thirty in the morning?”

“I received a transmission at about six-fifteen. The caller didn’t identify himself. He told me to go there, immediately and alone.”

“And you always go to sex clubs when some anonymous guy calls you up at dawn and tells you to?”

Summerset sent her a withering look, which cheered her a bit. He wasn’t down yet, she decided.

“I was told that a friend of mine was being held there, and that she would be harmed if I didn’t obey instructions.”

“What friend?”

He poured the water now, drank one small sip. “Audrey Morrell.”

“Yeah, she was your alibi for Brennen’s killing. That didn’t pan out too well for you. Sure you want to use her again?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Lieutenant. The transmission came in. It will be on the log.”

“And we’ll check that. So this anonymous caller tells you to get over to the Mermaid Club—you knew where it was?”

“No, I didn’t. I am not in the habit of patronizing such establishments,” he said so primly she had to stifle a snort. “He provided the address.”

“Damn considerate of him. He tells you to get there or your girlfriend’ll be in dire straights.”

“He said—he indicated that he would do to her what had been done to Marlena.”

A jolt of pity, of understanding, of great regret thudded through her. But she couldn’t offer it. “Okay, you’ve got a cop in the house, but you don’t bother to tell this cop of a possible abduction and/or assault.”

His eyes were dark and cold on hers, but she saw the fear riding just behind the pride. “I am not in the habit of depending on the police department.”

“If your story’s clean, you wouldn’t be sitting here if you had.” Their eyes held as she leaned forward. “You’re aware that there have been three murders and that you were under suspicion for those three murders. Though the evidence is circumstantial, and your testing results were negative, you weren’t sitting on a garden bench there.”

She wanted to shake him for being stupid, for disliking her so intensely he hadn’t asked for help even when she would have had no choice but to give it. “Now, you claim to have gotten an anonymous call and end up on the scene of an attempted murder.”

“It isn’t a claim, it’s a fact. I couldn’t risk someone else I cared for being hurt.” It was as much as he could bear to give, that one reminder of his daughter. “I wouldn’t risk it. When the transmission came through, I acted as I thought I had to act.”

It would have been easier if she hadn’t understood. She eased back again. “The scene and method of this attempted murder follows the same pattern as the three more successful murders.”

She reached down into the bag she’d brought in and took out a small glass jar. It wasn’t Patrick Murray’s eye that floated in it. The surgeons had hope they could reattach it. But the simulation carried the same impact.

She watched as Summerset stared at the small, floating organ, then turned her head away.

“Do you believe in an eye for an eye?”

“I thought I did.” His voice trembled, then he steadied it. “I don’t know what I believe.”

Saying nothing, she reached down again and picked out the statue of the Madonna. “The Virgin. Marlena was innocent. She was pure.”

“She was fourteen. Only fourteen.” Tears swam in his eyes, paining them both. “I have to believe she’s at peace. To survive I have to believe. Do you think I could do what’s been done here, in her name?” He closed his eyes, desperate for control. “She was gentle, and unspoiled. I won’t answer any more questions about her. Not to you.”

She nodded and rose. But before she turned he caught the pity dark and deep in her eyes. He’d opened his mouth without any idea what he would say, when she spoke again.

“Are you aware that electronics play a primary part in said crimes, and that your incoming log is worth squat?”

Again he opened his mouth, closed it again. What kind of woman was it, he wondered, who could go from melting compassion to whiplash in less than a blink. This time he took a deeper drink. “The transmission came in, just as I’ve said.”

Steady again, Eve came back, sat. The image of Marlena was ruthlessly blocked from her mind. “Did you attempt to contact Audrey Morrell and access her status?”

“No, I—”

“How did you travel to the Mermaid Club?”

“I took my personal vehicle and, following the instructions I was given, parked near the side entrance of the club on Fifteenth Street.”

“How did you get in?”

“The side door was unlocked.”

“What happened then?”

“I called out. No one answered, but the music was very loud. All the lights were on. I went into the lounge area. I saw him right away, in the tank. He—I think he was moving. I thought I saw his lips move. His eye—his eye was gone and his face was battered.”

He began to lose color as he spoke, as the image played back in his head. “Water was still going into the tank. I didn’t know how to shut it off. I started up the ladder, thinking I could pull him out. Then you came in.”

“How were you going to pull him out when he was cuffed to the tank floor?”

“I didn’t see that. I didn’t see. I only saw his face.”

“You knew Patrick Murray in Dublin?”

“I knew a number of people. I don’t remember a Patrick Murray.”

“Okay, let’s try this again.”

She worked him for two hours, and worked him hard. His story never shifted by an inch. When she stepped out of Interview, she signaled to Peabody. “Check and see if my new vehicle’s come through and what slot I’ll find it in. Let me know, then meet me there in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir. He held up,” she commented. “If I got hammered that hard in Interview, I’d probably confess just to get some peace.”

He’d held up, she thought, but he’d looked ten years older when she’d finished with him. Old and ill and fragile. Her stomach rolled with guilt. “The only thing he did this morning was win a stupidity prize,” Eve muttered as she marched down the corridor.

She found Roarke, as she’d expected, waiting in her office. “I’m getting you ten minutes with him. Talk him into letting you lawyer him. I don’t care how you do it.”

“What happened? What was he doing there?”

“I don’t have time. He’ll tell you. I’ve got some legwork, shouldn’t take more than an hour. Then I’m going home, with Peabody. We have to do a search. Technically, I don’t need a warrant to sweep his quarters as it’s on your property. But you could make it sticky.”

“I’ve no intention of making this sticky. I want this put away as much as you do.”

“Then do us all a favor—stay away from the house, and see that he stays away once your lawyers spring bail, until after three this afternoon.”

“All right. Do you have an ID on the victim?”

“He’s alive, barely, and his name is Patrick Murray. He was the floor scraper at the club. I’ve got to contact his wife.”

“Pat Murray. Jesus, I didn’t recognize him.”

“But you knew him.”

“More professionally than personally. He liked to gamble, I provided games.” His recollection was vague and misty. “He sold me a tip on where I could find Rory McNee. He must have told someone about it. I certainly didn’t, and we weren’t friends. The fact is he often ran numbers and minor errands for O’Malley and the others. I never thought of him.” He lifted his hand, let it fall. “The tip was a dead end, so I never thought of him.”

“Someone did. Doesn’t matter if the tip was bogus or not. He sold it to you and that makes him a traitor. Which makes him a target.” Her communicator beeped. “Dallas.”

“Got your vehicle, Lieutenant, garage section D, level three, slot 101.”

“On my way. I’ve got to go,” she said to Roarke. “Call the lawyers.”

He managed to smile a little. “I did that an hour ago. They should be convincing a judge to grant bail about now.”

Because she was in a hurry, Eve took the motor glide to section D—or as far as section C, where it broke down. She jumped off without bothering to swear and covered the next level at a fast clip. She located slot 101 and found Peabody gawking at a slick new Sunspot with an angled-down hood, converto-roof, and deflector fins, front and rear.

“I thought you said 101.”

“I did.”

“Where’s my replacement vehicle?”

“This is it.” Peabody turned with wide eyes. “Right here. This one.”

Eve only snorted. “Nobody in Homicide gets one of these muscle jobs—not even the captains.”

“Serial plates match. I checked the key code.” She held out a thin metal plate that could be used by the operator if the code was forgotten. “It works. I started to call in to Vehicular Requisitions, then figured why be stupid.”

“Well.” Eve pursed her lips, whistled lightly. The color might have been an unfortunate pea green, but everything else about it was prime. “Wow. Somebody screwed up, but we might as well enjoy it while we can. Get in.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm.” Peabody scooted under the upward-opening door and wiggled down until her butt settled comfortably. “Nice seats. You can program initial for your voiceprint.”

“We’ll play with it later.” Eve engaged the ignition manually and lifted a brow in approval at the big cat purr of the engine. “Not one hiss or hiccup. This could be the beginning of a fine new partnership. I hope the security shield and jacking deflectors are operational.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yeah.” Eve backed up, swung around, and headed down the levels. “We’re going back to the Mermaid Club to search out a couple of street ghosts I spotted this morning. Car like this—cop plates or not—someone’s going to try to boost it.”

“It comes with full shields, deflectors, and a thievery deterrent—graduating electrical shocks.”

“That ought to work,” Eve mused. When she reached for her car ’link, Peabody shook her head.

“That’s a hands-free. You just tap the second button down on your wheel stem to engage.

“I love technology.” Eve did so and watched the ’link screen go to holding blue. “Audrey Morrell, Luxury Towers, New York City. Search number and contact.”

Searching . . . Number is on public list. Contacting . . .

An efficient two beeps later, Audrey’s face came on screen. There was a smear of bright yellow paint on her right cheek and a distracted look in her eyes. “Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Morrell.”

“Oh, yes, Lieutenant.” Audrey lifted a hand dotted with cerulean blue to her hair. “What can I do for you?”

“Could you tell me where you were between five and seven A.M. this morning?”

“Here, here in my apartment. I didn’t get up until just after seven o’clock. I’ve been in all morning working. Why?”

“Just routine. I’d like to set up a follow-up interview with you. Tomorrow morning, at your residence if that’s convenient.”

“Well, I, yes, I suppose so. At nine if it won’t take more than an hour. I have a private lesson here at ten-thirty.”

“Nine’s fine. Thank you. Transmission concluded.” Eve pulled up at the rear of a line of traffic waiting for the light. “Whoever called Summerset this morning had to know that he’s got a thing for Artsy Audrey—as tough as it is to imagine that dried-up stick having a thing for anyone.”

“I’ve been giving it some thought.”

“And?”

“It can’t be one person acting alone—not if we proceed with the belief that Summerset is innocent. It’s not just the murders, but the setup. The killer has to know Summerset’s routine, and he has to be certain he doesn’t deviate from it. Someone’s got to be staking him out, following him, while the killer acts. And the killer, according to profile, requires praise, attention, and rewards. Someone has to be giving them to him.”

“That’s good, Peabody.”

Peabody said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “But you already knew all that.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s good. Half of detective work is following logic, and you followed it.”

“What’s the other half?”

“Following illogic.” She pulled up in front of the Mermaid Club, noted the police seal on the door was blinking red and the security grilles on the windows were still down and locked.

“Street ghosts don’t walk much in daylight,” Peabody commented.

“The car will lure them out.” Eve stepped onto the street, waited until Peabody stood on the sidewalk. “Engage all tampering deflectors and security measures.”

The locks had barely slammed home when she caught the slight movement in the doorway just across from her. “I’ve got fifty credits for information,” she said without bothering to raise her voice. Street ghosts heard everything they wanted to hear. “If I get it, my aide and I won’t have to follow through on a tip we got that there are illegal substances in the building.”

“It’s twenty credits just to ask. Thirty more for an answer.”

“Fair enough.” She dug in her pocket, pulled a single twenty chip out.

The figure that came toward her was gray. Skin, hair, eyes all the same dust tone as the street sweeping coat he wore. His voice was whisper soft, and the fingers that plucked the credit from Eve’s palm did so without touching flesh.

“Do you know Patrick Murray, the floor scraper?”

“Seen him, heard him, don’t know him. Dead now though.”

“No, he’s not quite dead.” Like you, she thought, he’s in some half world. But Patrick still had a chance to come all the way back. “Did you see anybody go in the club after hours this morning?”

“Seen him.” The ghost’s gray lips split open over gray teeth in a horrid smile. “Heard him. Don’t know him.”

“What time?”

“There is no time. Just day, just night. One came when it was more night than day. One came when it was more day than night.”

“Two?” Her eyes sharpened. “You saw two different people go in, at two different times.”

“First one rang in, second didn’t.”

“What did the first one look like?”

“One head, two arms, two legs. Everyone looks the same to me. Nice coat. Thick and black.”

“Was he still here when the second man came?”

“They passed like ghosts.” He smiled again. “One goes out, the other goes in. Then you came.”

“You got your coffin up there?” She jerked a thumb at the building.

“I should be in it now. It’s too day out here.”

“You keep it there.” She passed him another thirty credits. “If I need you and come back, there’ll be another fifty for you.”

“Easy money,” he said and faded back.

“Get me a name on him, Peabody. Run the building for tenants.”

“Yes, sir.” She climbed back in the car. “Two men. That backs Summerset’s story.”

“Our killer doesn’t know enough about ghosts to have covered himself there. All he had to do was pass over money and promise more.”

“Those types give me the creeps.” Peabody punched in the request, waited for her ppc to search and find. “You’d think they could walk through walls, the way they look.”

“You fix on Tranquility for a few years, you’d look the same. File all the names in case our ghost decided to load up his coffin and find another graveyard. Then contact McNab, have him meet us at the house.”

“McNab?”

“Don’t be pissy,” Eve ordered, engaging wipers as a thin, wet snow began to fall. “I need Summerset’s ’link logs checked.” She engaged the car ’link again and contacted the hospital for an update on Murray.

“He could come out of it,” she said as she drove through the gates of her home. “There’s more brain wave activity, and he responded to VR stimulus. His wife’s with him.”

She barely stopped the car when she noted another vehicle scooting down the drive behind her. Her initial annoyance at the interruption faded when she recognized the car.

“Feeney.”

He got out of his car, his skin pink from the Mexican sun, his clothes rumpled, his wiry red hair topped by an incredibly silly straw hat.

“Hey, kid.” He dragged a box out of the car and, nearly staggering under its weight, carried it toward her. “Just got back, and the wife wanted me to bring you over a little thank-you for lending us the place. Some place.”

He rolled his eyes. “Peabody, you gotta tag Dallas for a couple weeks there. It’s a frigging Mex palace right on a damn cliff. You can be lying in bed, reach out the window and pluck a mango right off the tree. Got a pool the size of a lake and a droid to do everything but zip your fly in the morning. You going to let me in? This thing weighs fifty pounds if it weighs an ounce.”

“Sure. I didn’t think you were coming back till . . .” She trailed off when she reached the door and realized today was the day he was due back. “I lost track.”

He dumped the box on a table in the foyer, rolled his shoulders. “So, what’s new?”

“Nothing much. I got three homicides and an attempted, connected. Mutilations. Guy contacted me personally, set it up as a game with religious overtones. Last victim’s in a coma, but will probably pull through. Roarke knew all the victims back in Dublin and Summerset just bounced to the top of the suspect list.”

Feeney shook his head. “Never changes. I tell you I never turned on the screen for two weeks for anything but sports and—” He stopped and his droopy eyes went wide. “Summerset?”

“I’ll fill you in while we do the search. McNab’s on his way over.”

“McNab.” Feeney danced after her, ditching his straw hat and his vacation mood as he went. “EDD’s working with you on this?”

“Our guy’s an electronics and communications whiz. He’s got a high-end jammer among his toys. McNab’s been cutting through the layers, and he managed to nail the source. But we haven’t found his hole.”

“McNab. The boy’s good. I’ve been bringing him along.”

“You can talk techno-jazz when he gets here. Right now I’ve got a straight search—and a ’link log to verify.” She paused at the entrance to Summerset’s quarters. “You want in, or do you want to go back and find your party hat?”

“I’ll just call the wife and tell her I won’t be home for supper.”

Eve grinned. “I missed you, Feeney. Damned if I didn’t.”

He grinned wickedly. “The wife took six hours of video. She wants you and Roarke to come over for dinner next week, and the show.” Wiggling his brows, he turned to Peabody. “You come too.”

“Oh, well, Captain, I wouldn’t want to horn in on—”

“Stow it, Peabody. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer too. That’s chain of command.”

“Another incentive,” Peabody decided, “for increasing my rank. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“No problem. Recorder on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Feeney, Captain Ryan; Peabody, Officer Delia entering quarters of Summerset, Lawrence Charles, standard search for evidence.”

She’d never been inside Summerset’s private domain. It was just one more surprise. Where she’d expected the stark and utilitarian, straight edges and minimal style, was a lovely living area with soft, blending tones of blue and green, pretty trinkets on tables of honey-hued wood, generous, giving cushions, and an air of welcome.

“Who’d have figured it?” Eve shook her head. “You look at this and picture a guy who enjoys life, even has friends. Feeney, take the communications center, will you. Peabody—That’ll be McNab,” she said when the buzz sounded from the recessed house monitor on the south wall. “Clear him through, Peabody, then I want you to start in here. I’ll take the bedroom.”

Four rooms spread out from the living area like ribs of a fan. The first was an efficient office and control center where Feeney rubbed his hands together and dived into the equipment. Opposite that was an equally efficient kitchen that Eve ignored for now.

Two bedrooms faced each other, but one was doubling now as an artist’s studio. Eve pursed her lips, studied the watercolor still life in progress on the easel. She knew it was fruit because she saw the huge bowl with overflowing grapes and glossy apples on the table under the window. On the canvas, however, the fruit was having a very bad season.

“Don’t quit your day job,” she murmured and turned in to his bedroom.

The bed was big, with an elaborate pewter headboard that twisted into vines and silvery leaves. The duvet was thick and spread neatly over the mattress without a wrinkle. The closet held two dozen suits, all black, all so similar in style they might have been cloned. Shoes, again black, were housed in clear protective boxes and ruthlessly polished.

That’s where she started, checking pockets, searching for anything that would signal a false wall.

When she came out fifteen minutes later, she could hear Feeney and McNab happily chirping about mainframes and signal capacitors. She went through the bureau drawer by drawer and shut down any threatening shudder that she was pawing through Summerset’s underwear.

She’d been at it an hour, and was just about to call Peabody in to help her flip the mattress when she looked at the single watercolor over a table decked with hothouse roses.

Odd, she thought, all the other paintings—and the man had an art house supply of them—were in groupings on the walls. This one stood alone. It was a good piece of work, she supposed, moving closer to study the soft strokes, the dreamy colors. A young boy was the centerpiece, his face angelic and wreathed with smiles, his arms loaded with flowers. Wild flowers that spilled over and onto the ground.

Why should the kid in the painting look familiar? she wondered. Something about the eyes. She moved closer yet, peering into that softly painted face. Who the hell are you? she asked silently. And what are you doing on Summerset’s wall?

It couldn’t be Summerset’s work, not after the canvas she’d seen in his studio. This artist had talent and style. And knew the child. Eve was almost certain of that.

For a better look, she lifted it from the wall and carried it to the window. Down in the corner she could see a sweep of writing. Audrey.

The girlfriend, she mused. She supposed that’s why he’d hung it separately, underplanting it with fresh roses. Christ, the man was actually love struck.

She nearly rehung the painting, then laid it on the bed instead. Something about the boy, she thought again, and her heart picked up in pace. Where have I seen him? Why would I have seen him? The eyes. Damn it.

Frustrated, she turned the painting over and began to pry it from its gilded frame.

“Find something, Dallas?” Peabody asked from the doorway.

“No—I don’t know. Something about this painting. This kid. Audrey. I want to see if there’s a title—a name on the back of the canvas. Hell with it.” Annoyed, she reached up to tear off the backing.

“Wait. I’ve got a penknife.” Peabody hurried over. “If you just slit the backing up here, you can reseal it. This is a nice, professional job.” She slipped the tip of her knife under the thin white paper, lifted it gently. “I used to do the backings for my cousin. She could paint, but she couldn’t turn a screw with a laser drill. I can fix this when—”

“Stop.” Eve clamped a hand on Peabody’s wrist when she spotted the tiny silver disc under the backing. “Get Feeney and McNab. The fucking painting’s bugged.”

Alone, Eve lifted the painting out of its frame and, turning it, looked down in the signature corner. Below Audrey’s name, deep in the corner that had been covered by the frame, was a green shamrock.

“They could keep an eye on him during his personal time,” Eve said as she drove hard to the Luxury Towers. “Odds are Feeney and McNab will find another couple paintings of hers through his quarters, wired.”

“Shouldn’t Roarke’s bug eaters have tapped them?”

“Feeney’ll find out why they went undetected. You got anything on her yet?”

“No, sir. All I get from the run is that she’s forty-seven, born in Connecticut. She studied at Julliard, did three years at the Sorbonne in Paris, another two at the art colony on Rembrandt Station. She teaches privately and donates instruction time at Culture Exchange. She’s lived in New York for four years.”

“She’s connected. He’s diddled with her records. I’ll eat Feeney’s ugly new hat if she’s from Connecticut. Run the females on the Irish link. All female relatives on the six men who did Marlena. Put it on the monitor so I can see.”

“Take a minute.” Peabody opened Eve’s file, found the labeled disc, and inserted it. “Display females only, with full data.”

Eve pulled over a block from the Luxury Towers as the faces began to run. “No.” She shook her head, signaling Peabody to go on to the next, and the next. She cursed under her breath, snarled at a glide-cart operator who slid up to try to hawk his wares. “No, damn it. She’s in here, I know it. Wait, hold on, go back one.”

“Mary Patricia Calhoun,” Peabody read off. “Née McNally, widow of Liam Calhoun. Resides Doolin, Ireland. Artist. Her tax-exempt number’s up to date. Age forty-six, one son, also Liam, student.”

“It’s the eyes, just like the kid in the painting. She’s changed her hair, brown from blond, had some face work done. Longer, thinner nose now, more cheekbone, less chin, but that’s her. Split screen, display image of Liam Calhoun, son.”

The picture popped, joining mother and son. “That’s him, from the painting.” She stared hard into the older and no less angelic face, the bright and brilliant green eyes. “Got you, bastard,” she murmured, then shot back into traffic.

The doorman from their first visit paled when he saw them. It only took a jerk of Eve’s thumb to have him moving aside.

“They must have planned this for years, starting with her.” Eve stepped to the center of the glass elevator. “He’d have been about five when his father died.”

“Before the age of reason,” Peabody commented.

“Right. And she’d have given him the reason. She gave him the mission, the motive. She turned him into a killer. Her only son. Maybe the tendencies were there, heredity and genetics, but she exploited them, used them. Dominated him. That’s what Mira said. A dominating female authority figure. Toss in religion and lean it toward vengeance, add in a good brain for electronics, and the training, you can make yourself a monster.”

Eve rang the bell, then laid a hand on the butt of her weapon. Audrey opened the door, offered a hesitant smile. “Lieutenant. I thought we’d agreed on tomorrow morning. Have I mixed up times again?”

“No, change of plan.” She stepped in, careful to block the door as she scanned the living area. “We have some questions for you, Widow Calhoun.”

Audrey’s eyes flickered, then went dead cold, but her voice remained smooth. “I beg your pardon?”

“This round’s mine. We made you, and your only begotten son.”

“What have you done to Liam?” Audrey curled her hands into claws and leaped forward, aiming for the eyes. Eve dipped under the swipe, pivoted, and wrapped an arm tight around Audrey’s neck. She was half Eve’s size and no match for a choke hold.

“Her Irish is up, Peabody? Did you hear it? Connecticut, my butt.” With her free hand, Eve reached into her back pocket for her restraints. “It’s a musical accent, isn’t it?”

“My personal favorite.” She took Audrey’s arm once Eve had clapped on the cuffs.

“We’re going to have a nice long chat, Mary Pat, about murder, about mutilation, about motherhood. The three M’s, you know?”

“If you’ve harmed a hair on my boy’s head, I’ll pull out your heart and eat it.”

“If I’ve harmed him.” Eve lifted her brows, and beneath them her eyes were iced. “You doomed him the first time you tucked him in with a bedtime story of revenge.”

Disgusted, she turned away, pulled out her communicator. “Commander, there’s been a break in the case. I require a search and seizure warrant for the premises and personal effects of Audrey Morrell.” She paused. “Also known as Mary Patricia Calhoun.”

They found Liam’s hole behind a false wall in a converted pantry. Along with the equipment was a small table covered with a cloth of white Irish lace. Candles sat on it, surrounding a beautifully sculpted marble statue of the Mother of God. Above her, her Son hung from the golden cross.

Is that how she’d wanted Liam to see themselves? Eve wondered. As saints and sufferers? As divine mother and sanctified child? And Audrey herself as the untouched, the wise, the chosen.

“I bet she’d bring him a nice cup of tea and a sandwich with the crusts cut off while he was baiting traps in here. Then pray with him before she sent him off to kill.”

Feeney barely heard Eve’s comment as he ran reverent hands over the equipment. “Have you ever seen the like of this, Ian McNab? This oscillator? What a beauty. And the cross-transmitter with multitask options. Nothing like this on the market.”

“There will be, by next spring,” McNab told him. “I saw this unit down at Roarke’s R and D division. More than half of these components are his, and nearly half of them aren’t on the market yet.”

Eve grabbed his arm. “Who’d you talk to down at Roarke’s? Who’d you work with. Every name, McNab.”

“Only three techs. Roarke kept it low-key, didn’t want the whole department to know there was a cop sniffing around. Suwan-Lee, Billings Nibb, and A. A. Dillard.”

“Suwan, female?”

“Yeah, tidy little Oriental dish. She was—”

“Nibb?”

“E-lifer. Knows everything. The teams joke that he was around when Bell called Watson.”

“Dillard?”

“Smart. I told you about him. Got great hands.”

“Fair, green eyes, about twenty, five-ten, a hundred sixty?”

“Yeah, how did you—”

“Christ, Roarke’s been paying the son of a bitch. Feeney can you get this equipment up and running, fully analyzed?”

“You bet.”

“Let’s go, Peabody.”

“Are we going to interview Mary Calhoun?”

“Soon enough. Right now we’re going to give A. A. Dillard his fucking pink slip.”

A. A. had missed his shift. It was the first such incident, she was told by Nibb, the department manager. A. A. was a model employee, prompt, efficient, cooperative, and creative.

“I need to see all his files, personnel, works completed, works in progress, status reports, the whole shot.”

Nibb—who wasn’t quite old enough to have known A. G. Bell, but who had celebrated his centennial the past summer, crossed his arms. Behind a thick white moustache, his mouth went hard.

“A great deal of those records include confidential material. Research and development in the electronics field is highly competitive. Cutthroat. One leak and—”

“This is a murder investigation, Nibb. And I’m hardly going to sell data to my husband’s competitors.”

“Nonetheless, Lieutenant, I can’t give you files on works in progress without the boss’s personal consent.”

“You have it,” Roarke said as he walked up.

“What are you doing here?” Eve demanded.

“Following my nose—correctly, I see. Nibb, get the lieutenant everything she requested,” he added, then drew Eve aside. “I reviewed the recording of the dustup in the lobby of the Arms again, then ran it through an analysis procedure we’re working on here. Not to be technical, it assessed angles, distances, and so forth. The probability quotient that the killer was focused on McNab rather than the cop outside was very high.”

“So you asked yourself who might be connected to you, on some level, who would make McNab as a cop.”

“And the answer was someone in this department. I’ve just run a personnel scan. A. A. most closely fits the physical description.”

“You’d make a halfway decent cop.”

“I see no reason to insult me. I’d just accessed A. A.’s home address when the word came through we had cops sniffing. I assume our noses had caught the same scent.”

“What’s the address? I want some uniforms to pick him up.”

“Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. I doubt you’ll find him nibbling his lunch there.”

“That’s sloppy of your personnel department, Roarke.”

His smile was not amused. “Believe me, they’ll be so informed. What have you got?”

“He’s Liam Calhoun, the son. And I’ve got his queen, Roarke. I’ve got his mama.” She filled him in, watching as his eyes grew darker, colder. “Feeney and McNab are working on the equipment we found in Audrey’s apartment. And they’ll analyze the bugs we took from Summerset’s quarters. Where is he now? Summerset.”

“Home. Bail was set and paid.” His jaw set. “They put a bracelet on him.”

“The charges will be dropped—and it’ll come off. I’ll take care of it as soon as I get to Central. Whitney’s meeting me to observe the interview with the mother.”

“I believe you’ll find we manufacture the bugs here, and we’re testing a new shield coat that protects them from detection from currently marketed scanners. I’ve been bankrolling his game all along. Wonderfully ironic.”

“We’ve got him pinned, Roarke. Even if he’s been tipped somehow and he’s running, we’ll have him. We’ve got his mother. Every indication is he can’t and won’t function without her. He’ll stay close. I’ll take the data from here back to Central and key it in under my name and Feeney’s only. You have a right to that protection under the law.” She blew out a breath. “I’m going straight into Interview, and odds are it’s going to be a long haul. I’ll be home late.”

“Obviously I have quite a bit of work to do here. I’ll probably be later. I spoke to the head of Pat Murray’s medical team. He’s regained consciousness. At this point he isn’t able to speak or move his legs, but they believe with proper treatment, he’ll make a full recovery.”

She knew Roarke would be paying for that proper treatment, and touched his arm briefly. “I’ve got two uniforms on his room. I’ll get over there myself tomorrow.”

“We’ll go.” He spotted Nibb bringing a box of disc files. “Good hunting, Lieutenant.”

In hour five of the interview with Audrey, Eve switched from coffee to water. The simulated caffeine the station house offered its weary cops tended to eat stomach lining on continued use.

Audrey insisted on tea by the gallon, and though she sipped it hour after hour with delicacy, her polish was wearing thin. Her hair was losing its shape and starting to straggle. It was damp and sticky at the temples from sweat. Cosmetics were fading, leaving her skin overly pale, her mouth thin and hard without the softening color. The whites of her eyes were beginning to streak with red.

“Why don’t I encapsulate for this session? When your husband was killed—”

“Was murdered,” Audrey interrupted. “Murdered in cold blood by that street-rat bastard Roarke, murdered over a little harlot so that I lived a widow and my son lived without a father all his life.”

“So you wanted your son to believe. You fed him that, day after day, year after year, twisting his mind, darkening his heart. He was to be your tool for vengeance.”

“I told him nothing but God’s truth from the day he was born. I was to be a nun, to go through my life without knowing a man. But Liam Calhoun was sent to me. An angel called me to him, and so I laid with him and conceived a son.”

“An angel,” Eve repeated and leaned back.

“A bright light,” she said her eyes gleaming. “A golden light. So I married the man who was only an instrument to create the boy. Then he was murdered, his life taken, and I understood the purpose of his son. He wasn’t born to die for sins, but to avenge them.”

“You taught him that. That his purpose in life was to kill.”

“To take what had been taken. To balance the scales. He was a sickly boy. He suffered to purify himself for his mission. I dedicated my life to him, to teaching him.” Her lips curved. “And I taught him well. You’ll never find him. He’s too smart. A fine mind has my boy. A genius, he is. And a soul as white as new snow. We are,” she said with a chilling smile, “beyond you.”

“Your son’s a killer, a sociopath with a god-complex. And you made sure he got a good education, in the area you’d decided would be most useful.”

“His mind was his sword.”

And what of his soul? Eve wondered. If there were such things, what had she done to his soul? “You took nearly fifteen years to train him, to mold him, before you set him loose. You’re a clever woman yourself, Mary Pat.”

“Audrey, my name is Audrey now. It says so on all my records.”

“He fixed that for you, too. Created Audrey for you. You had money, plenty of it to pour into your project. And you had patience, patience enough to wait, to plan, to fine down the details. He doesn’t have as much patience as you, Audrey. What do you suppose he’ll do now, without you to guide him?”

“He’ll be fine. He’ll finish what he’s begun. He was born for it.”

“You think you programmed him that well? I hope you’re right because when he comes in for the next round, I’ll break him. He’s got more equipment stashed, hasn’t he? Not far from here.”

Audrey smiled, sipped her tea. “You’ll never find him in your big, filthy city. Your Sodom and Gomorrah. But he’ll know where you are, you and your lover with the bloody hands. I did my part, God is my witness to that. I sacrificed, I offered it all up when I let that fool Summerset touch me. Not too much touching, for Audrey’s a dignified woman, and I wanted the man to keep coming back. He wanted me, oh yes, he did. Quiet evenings in his quarters, listening to music and painting.”

“And you planting bugs.”

“Easy enough, he was blind where I was concerned. I told him the painting I gave him belonged on that wall in the bedroom, and so he put it there. And we could watch him, know what he did and when he did it. He made a fine pawn for my Liam.”

“Did you tell Liam to rig my car?” Eve smiled when she saw Audrey’s lips thin. “I didn’t think so. You’re too subtle for such things, and you didn’t want me taken out so early. He did that on his own. He’s got a trigger that slips if you’re not right there to control it. You’re not there now.”

“He did penance for that. He won’t stray from the path again.”

“Won’t he? Or will he screw up now, walk right into my hands? It could get ugly, Audrey. He could be killed. You could lose him. If you tell me where he is, I can take him alive. I can promise you that he won’t be hurt.”

“Do you think I want him living out his life in a cage, in an institution?” She rose out of her seat, leaning forward. “I’d rather he die, like a man, a martyr, with righteous vengeance in his heart, with the blood of his father at last at peace. Honor thy father and mother. The wisest of the commandments, for they bring you life. He won’t forget it. He won’t forget it, I promise you. He’ll be thinking of it when he finishes what he started.”

“There’s no moving her,” Eve said to Whitney when Audrey was removed to a cell. “She won’t give him up even to save him, and she’ll cheer if he dies finishing what she started.”

“She’ll be tested, most likely live out her life in a facility for people with violent tendencies and mental defectives.”

“She’s not as crazy as she pretends, and it’s not enough. The kid might have had a chance. You never know, he might have become something else without her ugly mothering.”

“There’s no changing the past. Go home, Dallas. You’ve done all you can do tonight.”

“I’ll just check in with Feeney first.”

“No need. He and McNab have that situation under control. If they break through and locate his other cache of equipment, they’ll contact you. Go home, Lieutenant,” he repeated before she could make an excuse. “You’ve got to be running on empty by now. Refuel, start again in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” It was after nine P.M. in any case, she thought as she headed down to the garage. She’d go home, eat, find out what Roarke had uncovered on his end. Maybe if they ran names again with Roarke’s equipment they’d find a few probable locations.

It was a big city for someone who wanted to hide. And if he didn’t yet know about his mother . . . Eve engaged the ’link. “Nadine Furst, Channel 75.”

“This is Nadine Furst, I’m not in this location, please leave a message or contact me via e-mail or fax.”

“Transfer call to home residence. Damn it, Nadine, what are you doing taking a night off?”

“Hello. This is Nadine. I’m unavailable right now. If you’d—”

“Shit. Nadine, if you’re screening, pick up. I’ve got a ratings buster for you.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Nadine’s face popped on screen. “Working late, Dallas?”

“Later than you.”

“Hey, humans occasionally take an evening off.”

“We’re talking about reporters, not humans. You’ll want to get this on air tonight. Police have made an arrest in the matter of the recent series of homicides. Mary Patricia Calhoun, also known as Audrey Morrell, is in custody tonight as an accessory to the murders of Thomas X. Brennen, Shawn Conroy, and Jennie O’Leary. She is also charged with accessory before and after the fact in the attempted murder of Patrick Murray.”

“Hold it, hold on, I’ve barely got my recorder going.”

“First and last chance,” Eve said without sympathy. “Authorities are looking for her son, Liam Calhoun, in connection with these crimes. Call Public Relations at Cop Central if you want pictures of the alleged murderers.”

“I will. I want a one-on-one with the mother tonight.”

“Keep believing in miracles, Nadine. It’s real sweet.”

“Dallas—”

Eve ended transmission and smiled into the dark. If Nadine was up to par, the broadcast would play within thirty minutes.

By the time she pulled through the gates and headed toward home her eyes were burning with fatigue, but her system was wired. She could put in another couple of hours on hard data, she decided. Just needed some food, maybe a quick shower, at most a power nap.

She left her car in front and, rolling the kinks out of her neck and shoulders, walked up the steps. In the foyer, she shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it over the newel post. And sighed. She’d have preferred avoiding Summerset, but he deserved to know that he was completely off the hook. Normally he would have simply materialized, scowl first.

“Sulking somewhere,” Eve muttered and turned to the house screener. “Locate Summerset.”

Summerset is in the main parlor.

“Sulking all right.” She blew out a breath. “You heard me come in, bone ass. Much as I prefer the cold shoulder to your usual raft of complaints . . .” she began as she strode toward the parlor.

Then she stopped. The hand that itched for her weapon rose slowly up, until she held both in plain sight, palms out.

“A self-starter. I appreciate that.” Liam smiled from behind the chair where Summerset was secured with cord. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, moving the thin silver tool he held a hairbreadth from Summerset’s right eye.

“No, but it looks efficient.”

“Laser scalpel. One of the finest medical tools currently in use. I’ve only to engage it to destroy his eye. And with him, a whoremonger, I’d keep going until I’d sliced right through the brain.”

“I don’t know, Liam, his brain’s pretty small. You might miss it.”

“You don’t even like him.” His grin widened as Summerset simply closed his eyes. For an instant, he was a young, attractive man with sparkling eyes and a smile full of charm and promise. “That was part of the fun I enjoyed the most. You worked so hard on his behalf, and you must hate him as much as I do.”

“Nah. I’m more ambivalent, really. Why don’t you ease back on the laser? Unless you’re into droids, good help’s really hard to find these days.”

“I need you to take out your weapon, Lieutenant, using your thumb and index finger. Put it on the floor, moving very carefully, then kick it over here. I can see you hesitate,” he added. “I should tell you I’ve adjusted this particular instrument. Its range is extended.” Amused, he turned it, aimed it at her head. “It’ll reach you, I promise, and go through your brain instead.”

“I hate doctors.” She took out her weapon. But as she crouched down as if to lay it on the floor, she flipped it into her hand. A beam shot out from the scalpel, sending a line of fire burning across her biceps. Her fingers went numb, and the stunner clattered to the floor.

“I’m afraid I anticipated that. I do know you well.” He crossed the room as he spoke, picking up her weapon as Eve fought to rise over the pain and focus. “I’m told the pain from a laser incision is excruciating. We recommend anesthesia.” He laughed and stepped back. “But you’ll live. You may want to bind up that arm. You’re getting blood all over the floor.” Willing to oblige, he leaned over and ripped the sleeve of her shirt, dropped it into her lap. “Try that.”

He watched her fumble to wrap it around the wound. Listened to her labored breathing as she fought to tie it with one hand and her teeth. “You’re a tenacious opponent, Lieutenant, and fairly clever. But you’ve failed. You were doomed to fail from the beginning. Only the righteous triumph.”

“Spare me the religious crap, Liam. Under all that holy talk, it’s all just a game to you.”

“Make a joyful noise, Lieutenant. Enjoying God’s work is a tribute to His powers, not a sin.”

“And you’ve enjoyed this.”

“Very much. Every step you took, every move you made brought us here, tonight, where it was always meant for me to be. God’s will.”

“Your god’s an asshole.”

He struck her across the face, backhanded. “Don’t dare blaspheme. Don’t ever deride God in my presence, you whore.” He left her curled on the floor and picked up the glass of wine he’d poured while waiting for her. “Jesus drank the fruit of the grape while sitting among his enemies.” He sipped, calmed. “When Roarke arrives, the circle will be complete. I have the power of the Lord in my hands.” He grinned down at the two weapons. “And the technology of the ages.”

“He isn’t coming.” Summerset’s voice was slurred from the drugs Liam had pumped into him. “I told you he isn’t coming.”

“He’ll be here. He can’t keep away from his harlot.”

Eve clamped down on the pain and managed to get to her knees. When she looked into Liam’s face, she knew it was far too late for him. The madness his mother had planted in the child had rooted deep in the man.

“How the hell did you let this Bible-thumping fuckhead into our house?”

“Do you want me to hurt you again?” Liam demanded. “Do you want more pain?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I thought he was the police,” Summerset said wearily. “He was driving a cruiser, wearing a uniform. He said you’d sent him.”

“Couldn’t break the security field here, could you, Liam. Just a little over your head.”

“With time I would have.” His face went sulky, like a child’s denied a favored treat. “There’s nothing I can’t do. But I’m tired of waiting.”

“You missed the last two times, didn’t you?” Eve forced herself to her feet, clamped her teeth together as the pain sang through her. “You didn’t get Brian, and you didn’t finish Pat Murray. He’s going to make a full recovery, and he’ll point across the courtroom at you at your trial.”

“They were simply tests of my commitment. God always tests His disciples.” But he pressed his fingers to his lips, rubbed them there. “It’s almost over now. It’s the last round, and you lose.” Eyes bright as a bird’s, he cocked his head. “You might want to sit down, Lieutenant. You lost some blood, and you’re looking very pale.”

“I’ll stand. Aren’t you going to tell me your game plan? That’s how it works. What’s the point in ending it if you don’t brag first?”

“I don’t consider it bragging. I’m honoring my father, avenging his death. Point by bloody point. When I’m done here, I’ll go back for Kelly and Murray and one more. Suffocation, drowning, then poison. Six sinners for the six martyred, and three to make nine for the novena. After that, he’ll rest in peace.”

He set the laser down to run a finger down the folds of the veil of the Virgin Mother he’d placed on a table. “The order’s changed, but God understands. Tonight, Roarke will walk into his own private hell. His longtime companion, his trusted friend, dead. His whore, his slut cop, dead. It will look as if they did away with each other. A terrible fight right here in his own home, a fight for life, for death. For a moment, just for a moment, he’ll believe that.”

He smiled at Eve. “Then I’ll step out and he’ll know the truth. The pain will be worse then, unbearable, excruciating. He’ll know what it is to lose, to have all that matters stolen from him. He’ll know that by his own evil he brought the angel of death into this house. The avenging sword.”

“Angel. Avenging Angel.” She had to risk it, play on his madness. “A. A.? Is that where you got your cover? We know all about you. Everything. How you infiltrated Roarke’s company, worked on his equipment. Stole from him.” She stepped closer, keeping her eyes steady on his. “We know where you came from, where you’ve been. We found your hole. Your picture’s on the news right now. Right next to your mother’s.”

“You’re lying. Lying whore.”

“How do I know who you are? How do I know about A. A.? And the dinky little room in your mother’s apartment where you kept your equipment. And the other place, downtown.” It has to be downtown, she told herself. “The bugs your mother planted in Summerset’s quarters. We played the game, Liam, and we beat you. What we didn’t find out, Audrey filled in. Right before I locked her in a cage.”

“You’re lying!” He screamed it, and rushed her.

Braced and ready, Eve met the attack, using her uninjured arm to block the blow, her elbow jabbing into his stomach. She got her foot under him, threw her weight into the move, and sent them both tumbling to the floor. She ignored the eye-searing pain when he fell on her injured arm; slamming her fist up, she connected with bone. But she’d miscalculated the strength rage would bring him.

It was she who screamed when he dug his fingers into her wound, and the room swam blackly. When her vision cleared he had her weapon on her throat, where firing it even at midsetting could be fatal.

“You lying cunt bitch. I’ll cut out your tongue for your lies.”

“Turn on the screen.” She wanted to curl up, hide from the agony screaming in her arm. “See for yourself. Go ahead, Liam, turn it on. Channel 75.”

When he released his grip on her arm she had to swallow a sob. He bounded off her, raced to the recessed unit. “She’s lying, she’s lying. She doesn’t know anything.” He talked to himself in a sing-song tone as he switched on the viewing screen. “Hail Mary, full of grace. She’s going to die. They’re all going to die. The valley of the shadow of death, but they’ll fear. God will destroy them, all of them, through me. It’s for me.”

“You have to stop this.” Summerset strained against his bonds as Eve crawled to him. “Get out. He’s mad. You can get out while he’s involved with the screen. He doesn’t even know where he is now. You can get out. He’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“I’d never make it to the door.” Her wound was bleeding again, dripping through the makeshift bandage. “I have to keep him focused on me. As long as he is, he’s not interested in you. I have to keep him busy, distracted, and he might not hear Roarke come in.” She dragged herself up to her knees. “If he doesn’t hear Roarke, he’ll have a chance.”

“Audrey’s his mother?”

“Yeah.” She gained her feet. “She’s responsible for all of it.” She looked over as Liam screamed at the images on the screen. “For everything. For him.” She steadied herself, bearing down when her knees threatened to fold under her. “Liam, I’ll take you to her. You want to see your mother, don’t you? She asked to see you. You want to see her, don’t you? I’ll take you.”

“Did you hurt her?” Tears began to leak from his eyes.

“No, of course not.” She took a shaky step forward. “She’s fine. She’s waiting for you. She’ll tell you what to do next. She always tells you what to do, doesn’t she?”

“She always knows. God speaks through her.” He started to lower the weapon, as if it were forgotten. “She’s blessed,” he whispered. “And I’m her only son. I’m the light.”

“She wants you now.” One more step, Eve thought. Just one more. She only had to get the stunner away from him.

“She told me God’s plan.” The weapon came up again, and Eve froze. “To kill you. God demands the sacrifice. Him first,” he said with a sly smile as he shifted the weapon toward Summerset.

“Wait—” Instinctively Eve stepped between, and took the hit.

The jolt sizzling through her nervous system dropped her. Her body forgot how to breathe, her eyes forgot how to see. Even pain was gone. She never felt him kick her, bruising ribs as he screamed and cursed and stormed through the room.

“You try to spoil everything. Everything!” He ranted as he shoved over a table and its beautiful old Ming vase. “Cheater. Whore. Sinner. Even your weapon’s inferior. Look at this—pitiful. You have to manually increase power. Just as well, just as well, why kill you all at once?”

“She needs a doctor,” Summerset said. His breath was ragged, his arms and wrists raw and trembling from struggling with his bonds. “She needs medical attention.”

“I could have been a doctor, the way my uncle wanted, but it wasn’t God’s plan. My mother knew that. She knew that. My father loved me, he provided for me. Then he was taken from us. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I am his vengeance.”

Shuddering with pain, Eve rolled onto her side. If she was going to die, by Christ she would have the last word. “You’re nothing but a pathetic and defective tool used by a woman who cared more about herself than her own son. Now both of you are going to spend the rest of your lives in a cage.”

“God will show me a sign. He’ll direct my path.” Liam walked over and stood above her, weapon aimed down and on full power. “As soon as I send you to Hell.”

Eve kept her eyes open and kicked upward with what strength she had left. The blow caught him at the knees, sent him staggering back. She pushed herself up, hoping for one last grab at the weapon. But the whine of a stunner came from the doorway, shooting Liam back against the wall.

His body jittered in a death dance she’d seen before. The nervous system went into overdrive, sent the dying body shaking like a puppet, then shut down.

He was sliding to the floor when Roarke rushed across the room.

“Game over,” Eve said dully. “Amen.”

“Oh God, Eve, look at you. You’re a mess.”

Little white dots circled in front of her eyes so that she barely saw Roarke face as he dropped beside her. “I almost had him.”

“Of course.” Even as he gathered her up, rocked her, she fainted. “Of course you did.”

When she came to she was on the sofa, with Summerset efficiently treating her arm. “Get the hell away from me.”

“This needs tending. You’re badly injured, but Roarke seems to believe you’ll be more cooperative here than at a health center.”

“I have to call this in.”

“Another few moments won’t matter. The boy won’t be less dead.”

She closed her eyes, too tired and battered to argue. Her side was screaming, and whatever Summerset was doing to her arm was just one more small torture.

His hands were as gentle as a mother’s with an infant, but he knew he hurt her. “You saved my life. You stepped in front of me. Why?”

“It’s my job, don’t take it personally. It wasn’t set on full power anyway. Oh shit.” The moan escaped her clenched teeth. “Ten years I’ve been a cop. First time I took a stunner hit full body. Christ, it really hurts, everywhere, all at once. Where’s Roarke?”

“He’ll be right here.” Instinctively he stroked her hair back from her damp face. “Don’t squirm. It’ll only cause you more discomfort.”

“Nothing could.” She opened her eyes again, looked into his. “I fired the weapon that killed Liam Calhoun. I fired it before Roarke came in. Do you understand?”

Summerset studied her for a long moment. Pain swam in her eyes, must have been screaming through her system. But she thought of Roarke. “Yes, Lieutenant. I understand.”

“No, you didn’t kill him,” Roarke corrected. “Summerset, I expect you to give a clear and truthful statement. You’re not going through Testing for this, Eve. Not for this. Here, you need to sit up a bit to drink this.”

“You shouldn’t have had the weapon. It’ll complicate—Where did you get the weapon?”

“You gave it to me.” He smiled as he eased her up, his arm supporting her neck. “Your clinch piece. I never gave it back.”

“I forgot.”

“I hardly think the authorities are going to give me any trouble about it. Drink this.”

“What is it? I don’t want it.”

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s just a soother—mild, I promise. It’ll help the pain.”

“No, I—” She choked a bit when Roarke simply poured some of the tranq down her throat. “I have to call this in.”

Roarke sighed. “Summerset, would you contact Commander Whitney and tell him what’s happened here tonight?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then gathered up the bloody cloth. “I’m very obliged to you, Lieutenant, and I regret that you were injured performing your duties.”

When he walked out she pursed her lips. “I’ll have to get blasted more often. He didn’t even sneer at me.”

“He told me what happened. And that you’re the most courageous and foolish woman he’s ever known. At the moment, I have to agree.”

“Yeah, well, we lived. I’ll take the rest of that soother now that he’s gone. The arm’s some better, but my side’s killing me.”

“You took a kick.” Gently, Roarke lifted her higher so that he could sit down with her resting against him. “My brave and foolish cop. I love you.”

“I know. He was only nineteen.”

“Evil isn’t the exclusive territory of adults.”

“No.” She closed her eyes as the pain eased away toward numbness. “I wanted to take him alive. You wanted him dead. He swung the tide in your favor.” She turned her head. “You’d have killed him anyway.”

“Do you want me to deny it?” He lowered his lips to her brow. “Justice, Eve, is weak and thin without the underpinning of retribution.”

She sighed, rested her head, closed her eyes again. “What the hell are we doing together anyway?”

“Leading lives that are often too interesting. Darling Eve, I wouldn’t change a moment.”

She looked around the wreckage of the lovely room, at the wasted boy on the floor. And felt Roarke’s lips brush over her hair. “Me either.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

Holiday in Death

J. D. Robb

Table of Contents

HOLIDAY IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN : 978-1-1012-0369-9

A BERKLEY BOOK®

Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

First edition (electronic): July 2001

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

—YEATS

Nobody shoots at Santa Claus.

—ALFRED EMANUEL SMITH

She dreamed of death.

The dirty red light from the neon sign pulsed against the grimy window like an angry heart. Its flash turned the pools of blood glistening on the floor from dark to bright, dark to bright, slicing the filthy little room into sharp relief, then damning it to shadows.

She huddled in the corner, a bony girl with a tangle of brown hair and huge eyes the color of the whiskey he drank when he had the money for it. Pain and shock had turned those eyes glassy and blind and her skin the waxy gray of corpses. She stared, hypnotized by the blinking light, the way it blipped over the walls, over the floor. Over him.

Him, sprawled on the scarred floor, swimming in his own blood.

Small, feral sounds rumbled in her throat.

And in her hand the knife was gored to the hilt.

He was dead. She knew he was dead. She could smell the ripe, hot stink of it pouring out of him to foul the air. She was a child, only a child, but the animal inside her recognized the scent—both feared it and rejoiced over it.

Her arm was screaming where he’d snapped the bone. The place between her legs burned and wept from this last rape. Not all the blood splattered over her was his.

But he was dead. It was over. She was safe.

Then he turned his head, slowly, like a puppet on a string, and pain washed away in terror.

His eyes fixed on hers as she babbled, scrambled back deeper into the corner where she’d crawled to escape him. And the dead mouth grinned.

You’ll never be rid of me, little girl. I’m part of you. Always. Inside you. Forever. Now Daddy’s going to have to punish you again.

He pushed to his hands and knees. Blood fell in fat, noisy drops from his face, from his back, slid obscenely from the rips in his arms. When he gained his feet and began to shamble through the flow of blood toward her, she screamed.

And screaming, woke.

Eve covered her face with her hands, held one tight over her mouth to hold back the mindless shrieks that tore at her throat like shards of hot glass. Her breath heaved so painfully in her chest she winced with every exhale.

The fear followed her, breathed cold down her spine, but she beat it back. She wasn’t a helpless child any longer, she was a grown woman, a cop who knew how to protect and defend. Even when the victim was herself.

She wasn’t alone in some horrible little hotel room, but in her own house. Roarke’s house. Roarke.

And concentrating on him, on just his name, she began to calm again.

She’d chosen the sleep chair in her home office because he was off planet. She’d never been able to rest in their bed unless he was with her. The dreams came rarely if at all when he slept beside her, and all too often chased her in sleep when he didn’t.

She hated that area of weakness, of dependence, almost as much as she’d come to love the man.

Turning in the chair, she comforted herself by gathering up the fat gray cat who curled beside her, watching her out of narrowed, bicolored eyes. Galahad was accustomed to her nightmares, but he didn’t care to be wakened by them at four in the morning.

“Sorry,” she muttered as she rubbed her face against his fur. “It’s so damn stupid. He’s dead, and he’s not coming back. The dead don’t come back.” She sighed and stared into the dark. “I ought to know.”

She lived with death, worked with it, waded through it, day after day, night after night. In the final weeks of 2058, guns were banned, and medical science had learned how to prolong life to well beyond the century mark.

And man had yet to stop killing man.

It was her job to stand for the dead.

Rather than risk another trip into nightmares, she ordered the lights on and climbed out of the chair. Her legs were steady enough, and her pulse had leveled to nearly normal. The sick headache that tagged onto the coattails of her nightmares would fade, she reminded herself.

Hoping for an early breakfast, Galahad leaped off behind her, then ribboned through her legs as she moved into the kitchen area.

“Me first, pal.” She programmed the AutoChef for coffee, then set a bowl of kibble on the floor. The cat attacked it as if it were his last meal, and left her to brood out the window.

Her view was the long sweep of lawn rather than the street, and the sky was empty of traffic. She might have been alone in the city. Privacy and quiet were gifts a man of Roarke’s wealth could easily buy. But she knew beyond the beautiful grounds, over the high stone wall, life pumped. And death followed it greedily.

That was her world, she thought now as she sipped the potent coffee and worked the stiffness of a still-healing wound out of her shoulder. Petty murders, grand schemes, dirty deals, and screaming despair. She knew more of those than of the colorful swirl of money and power that surrounded her husband.

At times like this, when she was alone, when her spirits were low, she wondered how they had ever come together—the straight-arrow cop who believed unwaveringly in the lines of the law, and the slick Irishman who’d tangled with and over those lines all of his life.

Murder had brought them together, two lost souls who’d taken different escape routes to survive and, despite logic and sense, had found each other.

“Christ, I miss him. It’s ridiculous.” Annoyed with herself, she turned, intending to shower and dress. The blinking light on her tele-link signaled a muted incoming. Without a doubt who was transmitting, she leaped at it and unblocked the silent code.

Roarke’s face popped on screen. Such a face, she thought, watching as he lifted one dark eyebrow. Poetically handsome, with black hair falling long and thick to frame it. The clever, perfectly sculpted mouth, the strong bones, the shocking intensity of brilliant blue eyes.

After nearly a year, just the sight of that face could send her blood humming.

“Darling Eve.” His voice was like cream over strong Irish whiskey. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Because I’m awake.”

She knew what he’d see as he studied her. There was so little she could hide from him. He’d see the shadows of a bad night hounding her eyes, the paleness of her skin. Uncomfortable, she shrugged and pushed a hand through her short, disordered hair. “I’m going into Cop Central early. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”

He saw more than she realized. When he looked at her, he saw strength, courage, pain. And a beauty—in those sharp bones, that full mouth, those steady brandy-colored eyes—she was delightfully oblivious to. Because he also saw weariness, he changed his plans.

“I’ll be home tonight.”

“I thought you needed a couple of more days up there.”

“I’ll be home tonight,” he repeated and smiled at her. “I miss you, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah?” However foolish she considered the warm thrill, she grinned at him. “I guess I’ll have to make some time for you when you get here.”

“Do that.”

“Is that why you were calling—to let me know you’d be back early?”

Actually, he’d intended to leave a message that he’d be delayed another day or two—and to try to convince her to join him for the weekend on the Olympus Resort. But he only smiled at her. “Just wanted to inform my wife of my travel plans. Go back to sleep, Eve.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But they both knew she wouldn’t. “I’ll see you tonight. Uh, Roarke?”

“Yes?”

She still had to take a bracing breath before she said it. “I miss you, too.” She cut the transmission even as he smiled at her. Steadier, she took her coffee with her as she went out to prepare for the day.

She didn’t exactly sneak out of the house, but she was quiet about it. Maybe it was barely five in the morning, but she didn’t doubt Summerset was around somewhere. She preferred, whenever possible, to avoid Roarke’s sergeant-major—or whatever term you’d use for a man who knew everything, did everything, and poked his bony nose into what Eve considered her private business entirely too often.

Since her last case had shoved the two of them closer together than either was comfortable with, she suspected he’d been avoiding her as carefully as she had him for the past couple of weeks.

Reminded of it, she rubbed a hand absently just under her shoulder. It still troubled her a bit in the morning, or after a long day. Taking a full blast from her own weapon was an experience she didn’t want to repeat in this or any other lifetime. Somehow worse was the way Summerset had poured meds down her throat afterward, when she’d been too weak to knock him on his ass.

She closed the door behind her, took one deep breath of the frigid December air, then cursed viciously.

She’d left her vehicle at the base of the steps mostly because it drove Summerset crazy. And he’d moved it because it pissed her off. Grumbling because she hadn’t bothered to bring along the remote for the garage door or her vehicle, she trooped around the house, boots crunching on frosted grass. The tips of her ears began to sting with cold, her nose to run with it.

She bared her teeth and punched in the code with gloveless fingers, then stepped into the pristine and blissfully warm garage.

There were two gleaming levels of cars, bikes, sky-scooters, even a two-passenger minicopter. Her city-issue vehicle in pea-green looked like a mutt among sleek, glossy hounds. But it was new, she reminded herself as she slid behind the wheel. And everything worked.

It started like a dream. The engine purred. At her command, the heat began to whir softly through the vents. The cockpit glowed with lights, indicating the initial check run, then the bland voice of the recording assured her all systems were in operational order.

She’d have suffered the tortures of the damned before she would admit she missed the capriciousness and outright crankiness of her old unit.

At a smooth pace, she glided out of the garage and down the curved drive toward the iron gates. They parted smoothly, soundlessly, for her.

The streets in this exclusive neighborhood were quiet, clean. Trees on the verge of the great park were coated in a thin sheen of glittery frost like a skinsuit of diamond dust. Deep inside its shadows, chemi-heads and spine crackers might be finishing up the night’s work, but here, there were only polished stone buildings, wide avenues, and the quiet dark before dawn.

She was blocks away before the first billboard loomed up, spitting garish light and motion into the night. Santa, red-cheeked and with a manic grin that made her think of an oversized elf on Zeus, rode through the sky behind his fleet of reindeer and blasted out ho, ho, hos, while warning the populace of just how many shopping days they had left before Christmas.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You fat son of a bitch.” She scowled over as she braked for a light. She’d never had to worry about the holiday before. It had just been a matter of finding something ridiculous for Mavis, maybe something edible for Feeney.

There’d been no one else in her life to wrap gifts for.

And what the hell did she buy for a man who not only had everything, but owned most of the plants and factories that made it? For a woman who’d prefer a blow with a blunt instrument to shopping for an afternoon, it was a serious dilemma.

Christmas, she decided, as Santa began to tout the variety of stores and selections in the Big Apple Sky Mall, was a pain in the ass.

Still, her mood lifted as she hit the predictably snared traffic on Broadway. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, there was a party going on. The people glides were jammed with pedestrians, most of whom were drunk, stoned, or both. Glide-cart operators shivered in the cold while their grills smoked. If a vender had a spot on this street, he held it in a tight, ready fist.

She cracked her window a sliver, caught the scent of roasting chestnuts, soy dogs, smoke, and humanity. Someone was singing out in a strident monotone about the end of the world. A cabbie blasted his horn well over noise pollution laws as pedestrians flowed into the street on his light. Overhead the early airbuses farted cheerfully, and the first advertising blimps began to hawk the city’s wares.

She watched a fistfight break out between two women. Street LCs, Eve mused. Licensed companions had to guard their turf here as fiercely as the vendors of food and drink. She considered getting out and breaking it up, but the little blonde decked the big redhead, then darted off into the crowd like a rabbit.

Good thinking, Eve thought approvingly, as the redhead was already on her feet, shaking her head clear and shouting inventive obscenities.

This, Eve thought with affection, was her New York.

With some regret, she bumped over to the relative quiet of Seventh, then headed downtown. She needed to get back into action, she thought. The weeks of disability had made her feel edgy and useless. Weak. She’d ditched the recommended last week off, had insisted on taking the required physical.

And, she knew, had passed it by the skin of her teeth.

But she’d passed, and was back on the job. Now if she could just convince her commander to get her off desk duty, she’d be a happy woman.

When her radio sounded, she tuned in with half an ear. She wasn’t even on call for another three hours.

Any units in the vicinity, a 1222 reported at 6843 Seventh Avenue, apartment 18B. No confirmation available. See the man in apartment 2A. Any units in the vicinity . . .

Eve clicked on before Dispatch could repeat the signal. “Dispatch, this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’m two minutes from the Seventh Avenue location. Am responding.”

Received, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Please report status upon arrival.

“Affirmative. Dallas out.”

She glided to the curb, flicked a glance up at the steel-gray building. A few lights glimmered through windows, but she saw only darkness on the eighteenth floor. A 1222 meant there’d been an anonymous call reporting a domestic dispute.

Eve stepped out of her vehicle, and slid an absent hand over her side where her weapon sat snug. She didn’t mind starting out the day with trouble, but there wasn’t a cop alive or dead who didn’t dread a domestic.

There seemed to be nothing a husband, wife, or same sex spouse enjoyed more than turning on the poor bastard who tried to keep them from killing each other over the rent money.

The fact that she’d volunteered to take it was a reflection of her dissatisfaction with her current assignments.

Eve jogged up the short flight of stairs and looked up the man in 2A.

She flashed her badge when he spoke through the security peep, shoved it into his beady little eyes when he opened the door a stingy crack. “You got trouble here?”

“I dunno. Cops called me. I’m the manager. I don’t know anything.”

“I can see that.” He smelled of stale sheets and, inexplicably, of cheese. “You want to let me into 18B?”

“You got a master, don’t you?”

“Yeah, fine.” She sized him up quickly: short, skinny, smelly, and scared. “How about filling me in on the occupants before I go in?”

“Only one. Woman, single woman. Divorced or something. Keeps to herself.”

“Don’t they all,” Eve muttered. “You got a name on her?”

“Hawley. Marianna. About thirty, thirty-five. Nice looker. Been here about six years. No trouble. Look, I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. It’s five-fucking-thirty in the morning. She’s done any damage to the unit, I want to know about it. Otherwise, it’s none of my never-mind.”

“Fine,” Eve said as the door clicked shut in her face. “Go back to your hole, you little weasel.” She rolled her shoulders once, then walked across the corridor to the elevator. As she stepped inside, she pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’m at the Seventh Avenue location. Building manager is a wash. I’ll report back after interviewing Hawley, Marianna, resident of 18B.”

Do you require backup?

“Not at this time. Dallas out.”

She slipped the communicator back into her pocket as she stepped out into the hallway on eighteen. A quick glimpse up showed her security cameras in place. The hall was church quiet. From the building’s location and style, she pegged most of the residents as white collar, middle income. Most wouldn’t stir from their beds until after seven. They’d grab their morning coffee, dash out to the airbus or subway stop. More fortunate ones would just plug into the office from their home station.

Some would have children to see off to school. Others would kiss their spouses good-bye and wait for their lovers.

Ordinary lives in an ordinary place.

It flipped through her mind to wonder if Roarke owned the damn building, but she pushed the idea aside and stepped up to 18B.

The security light was blinking green. Deactivated. Instinctively she stepped to the side of the door as she pushed the buzzer. She couldn’t hear its muffled echo and decided the unit was soundproofed. Whatever went on inside, stayed inside. Vaguely annoyed, she took out her master code and bypassed the locks.

Before entering, she called out. Nothing worse, she mused, than scaring some sleeping civilian into coming at you with a homemade stunner or a kitchen knife.

“Ms. Hawley? Police. We have a report of trouble in your unit. Lights,” she ordered, and the overheads in the living area flashed on.

It was pretty enough in a quiet way. Soft colors, simple lines. The view screen was programmed to an old video. Two impossibly attractive people were rolling around naked on a bed scattered with rose petals. They moaned theatrically.

There was a candy dish on the table in front of the long misty-green sofa. It was filled to brimming with sugar-dashed gumdrops. Silver and red candle pillars were grouped beside it, burned artistically down to varying heights.

The entire room smelled of cranberry and pine.

She saw where the pine scent originated. A small, perfectly formed tree lay on its side in front of a window. Its festive lights and sweet-faced angel ornaments were smashed, its boughs snapped.

At least a dozen festively wrapped boxes were crushed under it.

She reached for her weapon, drew it, and circled the room.

There was no other obvious sign of violence, not there. The couple on the view screen reached simultaneous climax with throaty, animal moans. Eve sidestepped past it. Listened, listened.

Heard music. Quiet, cheerful, monotonous. She didn’t know the tune, but recognized it as one of the insidious Christmas ditties that played everywhere for weeks during the season.

She swept her weapon over a short corridor. Two doors, both open. In one she could see a sink, a toilet, the edge of a tub, all in gleaming white. Keeping her back to the wall, she slid toward the second door, where the music played on and on.

She smelled it, fresh death. Both metallic and fruity. Easing the door all the way open, she found it.

She moved into the room, swinging right, then left, eyes sharp, ears alert. But she knew she was alone with what had been Marianna Hawley. Still she checked the closet, behind the drapes, then left the room to search the rest of the apartment before she relaxed her guard.

Only then did she approach the bed.

2A had been right, she thought. The woman had been a looker. Not stunning, not an eye-popper, but a pretty woman with soft brown hair and deep green eyes. Death hadn’t robbed her of that, not yet.

Her eyes were wide and startled, as the dead’s often were. Against the dull pallor of her cheeks careful and subtle color had been applied. Her lashes were darkened, her lips painted a festive cherry red. An ornament had been pinned to her hair just above the right ear—a small glittery tree with a plump gilded bird on one of its silver branches.

She was naked but for that and the sparkling silver garland that had been artistically wrapped around her body. Eve wondered, as she studied the raw bruising around the neck, if that was what had been used to strangle her.

There was more bruising on the wrists, on the ankles, indicating the victim had been bound, and had likely had time to struggle.

On the entertainment unit beside the bed, the singer suggested she have herself a merry little Christmas.

Sighing, Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dispatch, this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I have a homicide.”

“Heck of a way to start the day.” Officer Peabody stifled a yawn and studied the victim with dark cop’s eyes. Despite the atrociously early hour, Peabody’s uniform was crisp and pressed, her dark brown bowl-cut hair ruthlessly tamed.

The only thing that indicated she’d been rudely roused out of bed was the sleep crease lining her left cheek.

“Heck of a way to end one,” Eve muttered. “Prelim on scene indicates death occurred at twenty-four hundred hours, almost to the minute.” She shifted aside to let the team from the Medical Examiner’s office verify her findings. “Indications are cause of death was strangulation. The lack of defensive wounds further indicate the victim didn’t struggle until after she was bound.”

Gently, Eve lifted the dead woman’s left ankle and examined the raw skin. “Vaginal and anal bruising indicate she was sexually molested before she was killed. The unit’s soundproofed. She could have screamed her lungs out.”

“I didn’t see any signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle in the living area except for the Christmas tree. That looked deliberate to me.”

Eve nodded, slanted Peabody a look. “Good eye. See the man in 2A, Peabody, and get the security discs for this floor. Let’s see who came calling.”

“Right away.”

“Set a couple of uniforms on the door-to-door,” Eve added as she walked over to the tele-link by the side of the bed. “Somebody turn that damn music off.”

“You don’t sound like you’re in the holiday spirit.” Peabody hit the off button on the sound system with a clear sealed finger. “Sir.”

“Christmas is a pain in the ass. You finished here?” she demanded of the ME’s team. “Let’s turn her over before she’s bagged.”

The blood had found its lowest level, settling in the buttocks and turning them a sickly red. Bowel and bladder had emptied, the waste of death. Through the seal coat on her hands, Eve felt the waxy-doll texture of the skin.

“This looks fresh,” she murmured. “Peabody, get this on video before you go down.” Eve studied the bright tattoo on the right shoulder blade as Peabody moved in to document it.

“My True Love.” Peabody pursed her lips over the bright red letters that flowed in old-fashioned script over the white flesh.

“Looks like a temporary to me.” Eve bent lower until her nose all but brushed the curve of shoulder, sniffed. “Recently applied. We’ll check where she gets body work done.”

“Partridge in a pear tree.”

Eve straightened, lifted a brow at her aide. “What?”

“In her hair, the pin in her hair. On the first day of Christmas.” Because Eve continued to look blank, Peabody shook her head. “It’s an old Christmas song, Lieutenant. ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ The guy gives his true love something on every day, starting with a partridge in a pear tree on the first day.”

“What the hell is anybody supposed to do with a bird in a tree? Stupid gift.” But a sick suspicion churned in her gut. “Let’s hope this was his only true love. Get me those tapes. Bag her,” she ordered, then turned once more to the bedside ’link.

While the body was being removed, she ordered all incoming and outgoing transmissions for the previous twenty-four hours.

The first came in at just past eighteen hundred hours—a cheerful conversation between the victim and her mother. As Eve listened, studied the mother’s laughing face, she thought of how that same face would look when she called and told the woman her daughter was dead.

The only other transmission was an outgoing. Good-looking guy, Eve mused as she studied the image on screen. Midthirties, quick smile, soulful brown eyes. Jerry, the victim called him. Or Jer. Lots of sexual byplay, teasing. A lover then. Maybe her true love.

Eve removed the disc, sealed it, and slipped it into her bag. She located Marianna’s daybook, porta-’link, and address book in the desk under the window. A quick scroll through the entries netted her one Jeremy Vandoren.

Alone now, Eve turned back to the bed. Stained sheets were tangled at the foot. The clothes that had been carefully cut off the victim and tossed to the floor were bagged for evidence. The apartment was silent.

She let him in, Eve mused. Opened the door to him. Did she come in here with him voluntarily, or did he subdue her first? The tox report would tell her if there were any illegals in the bloodstream.

Once he had her in the bedroom, he tied her. Hands and feet, likely hooking the restraints around the short stump of post at each of the four corners, spreading her out like a banquet.

Then he’d cut off her clothes. Carefully, no hurry. It hadn’t been rage or fury or even a desperate kind of need. Calculated, planned, ordered. Then he’d raped her, sodomized her, because he could. He had the power.

She’d struggled, cried out, probably begged. He’d enjoyed that, fed on that. Rapists did, she thought, and took several deep, steadying breaths because her mind wanted to veer toward her father.

When he was done, he’d strangled her, watching, watching while her eyes bulged. Then he’d brushed her hair, painted her face, draped her in festive silver garland. Had he brought the hairpin with him, or had it belonged to her? Had she amused herself with the tattoo, or had he decorated her body himself?

She moved into the neighboring bathroom. White tile sparkled like ice, and there was a faint under-scent of disinfectant.

He cleaned up here when he was finished, Eve decided. Washing himself, even grooming, then wiping down and spraying the room to remove any evidence.

Well, she’d put the sweepers on it in any case. One lousy pubic hair could hang him.

She’d had a mother who loved her, Eve thought. One who’d laughed with her, making holiday plans, talking about sugar cookies.

“Sir? Lieutenant?”

Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw Peabody in the center of the hallway. “What?”

“I have the security discs. Two uniforms are initiating door-to-doors.”

“Okay.” Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “Let’s seal the place up, take everything to Central. I have to inform the next of kin.” She shouldered her bag, picked up her field kit. “You’re right, Peabody. It’s a heck of a way to start the day.”

“Did you run the ’link number on the boyfriend?”

“Yes, sir. Jeremy Vandoren, lives on Second Avenue, he’s an account exec for Foster, Bride and Rumsey on Wall Street.” Peabody glanced at her notebook as she relayed the rest. “Divorced, currently single, thirty-six. And a very attractive specimen of the male species. Sir.”

“Hmm.” Eve slipped the security disc into her desk unit. “Let’s see if the very attractive specimen paid a call on his girlfriend last night.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“Can I get you some coffee?”

Eve’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the video. “If you want coffee, Peabody, just say so.”

Behind Eve’s back, Peabody rolled her eyes. “I want coffee.”

“Then get some—and get some for me while you’re at it. Victim arriving home at sixteen forty-five. Pause disc,” Eve ordered and took a good look at Marianna Hawley.

Trim, pretty, young, her shining brown hair covered with a bright red beret that matched the long swirl of her coat and the slick shine of her boots.

“She’d been shopping,” Peabody commented as she set the mug of coffee at Eve’s elbow.

“Yeah. Bloomingdale’s. Continue scan,” Eve said and watched as Marianna shifted her bags, dug out her key card. Her mouth was moving, Eve noted. Talking to herself. No, she realized, Marianna was singing. Then the woman shook back her hair, shifted her bags once again, stepped inside the apartment, and shut the door.

The red lock light blinked on.

As the disc continued, Eve saw other tenants coming and going, alone, in couples. Ordinary lives, moving forward.

“She stayed in for dinner,” Eve stated, looking now with her mind’s eye, through the door, inside the apartment.

She could see Marianna moving around the rooms, wearing the simple navy slacks and white sweater that would later be cut from her body.

Turn the viewing screen on for company. Hang up the bright red coat in the front closet, put the hat on the shelf, the boots on the floor. Tuck away the shopping bags.

She was a tidy woman who liked pretty things, preparing for a quiet evening at home.

“Fixed herself some soup at about seven, according to her AutoChef.” Eve drummed short, unpainted nails on the desk as she continued the scan. “Her mother called, then she called the boyfriend.”

While she clicked off the time frame in her mind, she saw the elevator doors open. Her brows winged up, disappearing under the fringe of bangs on her forehead. “Well, ho ho ho, what have we here?”

“Santa Claus.” Grinning, Peabody leaned over Eve’s shoulder. “Bearing gifts.”

The man in the red suit and snowy white beard carried a large box wrapped in silver paper and trimmed with an elaborate bow of gold and green.

“Hold it. Pause. Enlarge sector ten through fifty, thirty percent.”

The screen shifted, the section Eve designated separating, then popping out. Nestled in the center of the fancy bow was a silver tree with a plump gilded bird.

“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch, that’s the thing that was in her hair.”

“But . . . that’s Santa Claus.”

“Get a grip on yourself, Peabody. Continue scan. He’s going to her door,” Eve muttered, watching as the cheerful figure carried his glossy burden to Marianna’s apartment. He pressed her buzzer with a gloved finger, waited a beat, then threw back his head and laughed. Almost instantly, Marianna opened the door, her face glowing, her eyes sparkling with delight.

She scooped back her hair with one hand, then opened the door wider in invitation.

Santa tossed one quick glance over his shoulder, looked directly at the camera. Smiled, winked.

“Freeze video. The bastard. Cocky bastard. Print hard copy of image on screen,” she ordered while studying the round, ruddy-cheeked face and sparkling blue eyes. “He knew we’d view the discs, see him. He’s enjoying it.”

“He dressed up as Santa.” Peabody continued to gape at the screen. “That’s disgusting. That’s just . . . wrong.”

“What? If he’d dressed up as Satan it would have been more appropriate?”

“Yes—no.” Peabody moved her shoulders, shuffled her feet. “It’s just . . . well, it’s really sick.”

“It’s also really smart.” Eyes flat, Eve waited while the image printed out. “Who’s going to shut the door in Santa’s face? Continue scan.”

The door closed behind them, and the hallway remained empty.

The timer running along the bottom of the screen marked at twenty-one thirty-three.

So, he took his time, Eve mused, nearly two and a half hours. The rope he’d used to tie her, and anything else he might have needed, would have been in that big shiny box.

At eleven, a couple got off the elevator, laughing, a little drunk, arm in arm as they passed Marianna’s door. Oblivious to what was going on inside.

Fear and pain.

Murder.

The door opened at half past midnight. The man in the red suit stepped out, still carrying his silver box, a smile wide, almost fierce, on his red-cheeked face. Once more he looked directly at the camera, and now there was madness glowing in his eyes.

He was dancing as he got on the elevator.

“Copy disc to file Hawley. Case number 25176-H. How many days of Christmas did you say there were, Peabody? In the song?”

“Twelve.” Peabody soothed her dry throat with coffee. “Twelve days.”

“We’d better find out if Hawley was his true love, or if he has eleven more.” She rose. “Let’s talk to the boyfriend.”

Jeremy Vandoren worked inside a small box in a hive of small boxes. His stingy cubicle held a workstation just big enough to accommodate his computer and phone system and a three-wheeled chair. Pinned to the flimsy walls were printouts of stock reports, a theater schedule, a Christmas card showcasing a well-endowed woman wearing strategically placed snowflakes, and a photo of Marianna Hawley.

He barely glanced up when Eve stepped inside; he held up a hand to hold her off and continued to work the keyboard of his computer manually while talking rapidly into a headset.

“Comstat’s at five and an eighth, Kenmart’s down three and three-quarters. No, Roarke Industries just took a leap up six points. Our analysts look for it to go up another two by end of day.”

Eve raised a brow and tucked her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She was standing here waiting to talk murder, and Roarke was making millions.

It was just weird.

“Done.” Vandoren hit another key and had a tangle of mysterious figures and symbols swimming onto the screen. She let him fiddle another thirty seconds, then pulled her badge out of her pocket and held it in front of his face.

He blinked twice, then turned and focused on her. “I’ve got that. You’re set. Absolutely. Thanks.” With a puzzled smile—slightly nervous around the edges—Vandoren swiveled the mike of his headset to the side. “Um, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”

“Jeremy Vandoren?”

“Yeah.” His deep brown eyes slid past her, brushed over Peabody, then slid back. “Am I in trouble?”

“Have you done something illegal, Mr. Vandoren?”

“Not that I can remember.” He tried a smile again, bringing a small dimple to life at the corner of his mouth. “Not unless that candy bar I stole when I was eight’s come back to haunt me.”

“Do you know Marianna Hawley?”

“Marianna, sure. Don’t tell me Mari’s nicked a candy bar.” Then abruptly, like a light winking off, the smile disappeared. “What is it? Has something happened? Is she all right?”

He was out of his chair, his eyes scanning over the top of the cubicle as if he expected to see her.

“Mr. Vandoren, I’m sorry.” Eve had never found a good way to relay the news, so she settled on relaying it quickly. “Ms. Hawley is dead.”

“No, she’s not. No,” he said again, turning those dark eyes back to Eve. “She’s not. That’s ridiculous. I just talked to her last night. We’re meeting for dinner at seven. She’s fine. You’ve made a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake. I’m sorry,” she repeated as he only continued to stare at her. “Marianna Hawley was murdered last night in her apartment.”

“Marianna? Murdered?” He continued to shake his head slowly, as if the two words were foreign. “That’s definitely wrong. That’s just wrong.” He whirled around, fumbled to his desk ’link. “I’ll call her right now. She’s at work.”

“Mr. Vandoren.” Eve put a firm hand on his shoulder and nudged him into his chair. There was no place for her to sit, so she eased a hip on the desk so their faces could be more on level. “She’s been identified through fingerprints and DNA. If you can manage it, I’d like you to come with me and do a visual confirmation.”

“A visual. . .” He sprang up again, his elbow rapping Eve’s shoulder and causing the still healing wound to sing. “Yeah, I’ll come with you. Damn right I will. Because it’s not her. It’s not Marianna.”

The morgue was never a cheerful place. The fact that someone in either an optimistic or macabre frame of mind had hung red and green balls from the ceiling and draped ugly gold tinsel around the doorways only succeeded in added a kind of smirking grin over death.

Eve stood at the viewing window as she had stood too many times before. And she felt, as she had felt too many times before, the hard jerk of shock punch through the man beside her as he saw Marianna Hawley lying on the other side of the glass.

The sheet that covered her to the chin would have been hastily draped. To hide from friends, family, and loved ones the pitiful nakedness of the dead, the slices in the flesh left by the Y incision, the temporary stamp on the instep that gave that body a name and number.

“No.” In a helpless gesture, Vandoren pressed both hands to the barrier. “No, no, no, this can’t be right. Marianna.”

Gently now, Eve laid a hand on his arm. He was shaking badly, and the hands on the glass had balled into fists and were pounding in short, light beats. “Just nod if you can identify her as Marianna Hawley.”

He nodded. Then he began to weep.

“Peabody, find us an empty office. Get him some water.” Even as Eve spoke, she found herself engulfed by him, his arms coming around her, his face pressed into her shoulder. His body bowed down to her by the weight of his grief.

She let him hang on, signaling the tech behind the glass to raise the privacy shield.

“Come on, Jerry, come with me now.” She kept a supporting arm around him, thinking she’d rather face a stunner on full than a grieving survivor. There was no help for those left behind. No magic, no cure. But she murmured to him as she led him down the tiled hall to the doorway where Peabody stood.

“We can use this one,” Peabody said quietly. “I’ll get the water.”

“Let’s sit down.” After helping him to a chair, Eve pulled the handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit coat and pressed it into his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, as she always did. And felt the inadequacy of it, as she always did.

“Marianna. Who would hurt Marianna? Why?”

“It’s my job to find out. I will find out.”

Something in the way she said it had him looking over at her. His eyes were red and desolate. With an obvious effort he drew in a deep breath. “I— She was so special.” He groped in his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. “I was going to give this to her tonight. I’d planned to wait until Christmas Eve—Marianna loved Christmas—but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t wait.”

His hands trembled as he opened the box to show Eve the bright flash of diamond on the engagement ring. “I was going to ask her to marry me tonight. She would have said yes. We loved each other. Was it . . .” Carefully he closed the box again, slipped it back in his pocket. “Was it a robbery?”

“We don’t think so. How long have you known her?”

“Six months, almost seven.” He stared at Peabody as she came in and held out a cup of water. “Thank you.” He took it, but didn’t drink. “The happiest six months of my life.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through Personally Yours. It’s a dating service.”

“You use a dating service?” This from Peabody with more than a little surprise.

He hunched his shoulders, sighed. “It was an impulse. I spend most of my time on work and wasn’t getting out much. I was divorced a couple years ago, and I guess it made me nervous with women. Anyway, none of the women I met . . . Nothing clicked. I saw an ad on screen one night, and I thought, what the hell. Couldn’t hurt.”

He did drink now, one small sip that had his throat working visibly as he swallowed. “Marianna was the third of the first five matches. I went out with the first two—drinks, just drinks. There was nothing there. But when I met Marianna, everything was there.”

He closed his eyes, struggled for composure. “She’s so . . . wonderful. So much energy, enthusiasm. She loved her job, her apartment, she got a kick out of her theater group. She does community theater sometimes.”

Eve noted the way he switched back and forth, past and present tense. His mind was trying to accustom itself to what was, but it wasn’t quite ready yet.

“You started dating,” she prompted.

“Yes. We’d agreed to meet for drinks. Just drinks—to scope each other out. We ended up going to dinner, then going for coffee. Talking for hours. Neither one of us saw anyone else after that night. It was just it, for both of us.”

“She felt the same way?”

“Yeah. We took it slow. A few dinners, the theater. We both love the theater. We started spending Saturday afternoons together. A matinee, a museum, or just a walk. We went back to her hometown so I could meet her family. The Fourth of July. I took her to meet mine. My mother made dinner.”

His eyes unfocused as he stared at something only he could see.

“She wasn’t seeing anyone else during this period?”

“No. We’d made a commitment.”

“Do you know if anyone was bothering her—an old boyfriend, a former lover? Her ex-husband?”

“No, I’m sure she would have told me. We talked all the time. We told each other everything.” His eyes cleared, the brown hardening like crystal. “Why do you ask that? Was she—Marianna . . . Did he . . . Oh God.” On his knee his hand balled into a fist. “He raped her first, didn’t he? The fucking bastard raped her. I should have been with her.” He heaved the cup across the room, sending water splashing as he lurched to his feet. “I should have been with her. It would never have happened if I’d been with her.”

“Where were you, Jerry?”

“What?”

“Where were you last night, between nine-thirty and midnight?”

“You think I—” He stopped himself, holding up a hand, closing his eyes. Three times he inhaled, exhaled. Then he opened his eyes again, and they remained clear. “It’s all right. You need to make sure it wasn’t me so you can find him. It’s all right. It’s for her.”

“That’s right.” And studying him Eve felt a new well of pity. “It’s for her.”

“I was home, my apartment. I did some work, made some calls, did a little Christmas shopping via computer. I reconfirmed the dinner reservations for tonight because I was nervous. I wanted—” He cleared his throat. “I wanted it to be perfect. Then I called my mother.” He lifted his hands, rubbed them hard over his face. “I had to tell somebody. She was thrilled, excited. She was crazy about Marianna. I think that was about ten-thirty. You can check my ’link records, my computer, anything you need to do.”

“Okay, Jerry.”

“Have you— Her family, do they know?”

“Yes, I spoke with her parents.”

“I need to call them. They’ll want her to come home.” His eyes filled again, and he continued to look at Eve as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’ll take her back home.”

“I’ll see that she’s released as soon as possible. Is there someone we can call for you?”

“No. I need to go tell my parents. I need to go.” He turned toward the door, and spoke without looking back. “You find who did this. You find who hurt her.”

“I will. Jerry, one last thing.”

He rubbed his face dry and turned back. “What is it?”

“Did Marianna have a tattoo?”

He laughed, a short, harsh sound that seemed to scrape out of his throat. “Marianna? No. She was old-fashioned, wouldn’t even go for temporaries.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“We were lovers, Lieutenant. We were in love. I knew her body, I knew her mind and her heart.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She waited until he’d gone out, until the door clicked quietly closed behind him. “Impressions, Peabody?”

“Guy’s heart’s ripped right out of his chest.”

“Agreed. But people often kill the ones they love. Even with ’link records, his alibi’s going to be shaky.”

“He doesn’t look a thing like Santa Claus.”

Eve smiled a little. “I guarantee the person who killed her won’t either. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to pose for the camera. Padding, change the eye color, makeup, beard, and wig. Any damn body can look like Santa.”

But for now, she had to go with the gut. “It’s not him. Let’s check out where she worked, find her friends and enemies.”

Friends, Eve thought later, Marianna appeared to have in volume. Enemies, she seemed to have none.

The picture that was being painted was one of a happy, outgoing woman who liked her work, was close to her family but enjoyed the pace and excitement of the city.

She had a tightly knit group of female friends, a weakness for shopping, a deep love of theater, and according to all sources had been in an exclusive and happy relationship with Jeremy Vandoren.

She was dancing on air.

Everyone who knew her loved her.

She had an open, trusting heart.

As she drove home, Eve let the statements made by friends and associates play back in her mind. No one found fault with Marianna. Not once had she heard one of those sly, often self-congratulatory remarks the living made of the dead.

But there was someone who thought differently, someone who had killed her with calculation, with care, and, if the look in those eyes was any indication, with a kind of glee.

My True Love.

Yes, someone had loved her enough to kill her. Eve knew that kind of love existed, bred, festered. She’d been the recipient of that hot and twisted emotion. And survived it, she reminded herself and engaged her ’link.

“Got the tox report on Hawley yet, Dickie?”

The long-suffering and homely face of the chief lab tech filled the screen. “You know how things get clogged up here during the holidays. People whacking people right and left, technicians putzing around with Christmas and Hanukkah shit instead of doing their jobs.”

“Yeah, my heart’s bleeding for you. I want the tox report.”

“I want a vacation.” But muttering, he shifted and began to call something up on his computer. “She was tranq’d. Over-the-counter stuff, pretty mild. Given her weight, the dosage wouldn’t have done much more than make her stupid for ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Long enough,” Eve murmured.

“Indications are a pressure injection, upper right arm. Likely felt like she’d just downed a half dozen Zombies. Results: dizziness, disorientation, possibly temporary loss of consciousness, and muscular weakness.”

“Okay. Any semen?”

“Nope, not one little soldier. He condomized or her BC killed them. We still need to check on that. Body was sprayed with disinfectant. Traces of it in her vagina, too, which would have killed off some of the warriors. We got nothing off her. Oh—one more. The cosmetics used on her don’t match what she had in her place. We’re not finished with them yet, but prelim indicates they’re all natural ingredients, meaning high dollar. Odds are he brought them with him.”

“Get me brand names as soon as you can. It’s a good lead. Nice job, Dickie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Happy fucking holidays.”

“Same to you, Dickhead,” she muttered after she logged off. And rolling some of the tension out of her shoulders, she headed through the iron gates toward home.

She could see the lights in the windows beaming through the winter dark—tall windows, arched windows in towers and turrets—and the long sweep of the main floor.

Home, she thought. It had become hers because of the man who owned it. The man who loved her. The man who’d put his ring on her finger—as Jeremy had wanted to do with Marianna.

She turned her wedding band with her thumb as she parked her car in front of the main entrance.

She’d been everything, Jerry had said. Even a year before she wouldn’t have understood that. Now she did.

She sat where she was a moment, dragged both hands through her already disordered cap of hair. The man’s grief had wormed its way into her. That was a mistake; it wouldn’t help and could possibly hinder the investigation. She needed to put it aside, to block out of her mind the devastation of emotion she’d felt from him when he’d all but collapsed in her arms.

Love didn’t always win, she reminded herself. But justice could, if she was good enough.

She got out of her car, left it where it was, and started up the steps to the front door. The minute she was inside, she peeled out of her leather jacket and dropped it carelessly over the elegant newel post banking the curve of stairs.

Summerset slipped out of the shadows and stood, tall, bony, eyes dark and disapproving in a pale face. “Lieutenant.”

“Leave my vehicle exactly where it is,” she told him and swung toward the stairs.

He sniffed, an audible sucking of air through his nose. “You have several messages.”

“They can wait.” She kept climbing and began to fantasize about a hot shower, a glass of wine, and a ten-minute nap.

He called after her, but she’d already stopped listening. “Bite me,” she said absently, then opened the door to the bedroom.

Everything inside her that had wilted, bloomed.

Roarke stood in front of the closet, stripped to the waist, his beautiful back muscles rippling subtly as he reached in for a fresh shirt. He turned his head, and the full power of that face struck her. The poet’s mouth curved, the rich blue eyes smiled as he shook back his glorious mane of thick black hair.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

“I didn’t think you’d be back for a couple of hours anyway.”

He laid the shirt aside. She hadn’t been sleeping well, he thought. He could see the fatigue, the shadows. “I made good time.”

“Yeah, you did.” Then she was going to him, moving fast, almost too fast to see the quick light of surprise, the deepening of pleasure in his eyes. His arms were open for her when she got there.

She drew in his scent, deeply, ran her hands up his back, firmly, then turned her face into his hair and sighed, once.

“You did miss me,” he murmured.

“Just hold on for a minute, okay?”

“As long as you like.”

Her body fit with his; somehow it simply fit like one piece of a puzzle interlinking with another. She thought of the way Jeremy Vandoren had showed her the ring, the glinting promise of it.

“I love you.” It was a shock to feel the raw tears in her throat, an effort to swallow them back. “I’m sorry I don’t tell you often enough.”

He’d heard the tears. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, to rub gently at the tension he felt knotted there. “What is it, Eve?”

“Not now.” Steadier, she drew back, framed his face with her hands. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re home.” Her lips curved as she leaned in and slanted them over his.

Warmth, welcome, and the underlying shimmer of passion that never seemed fully sated. And with it, sheltered in it, she could for a little while push everything outside but this.

“Were you changing clothes?” she asked against his mouth.

“I was. Ummm. A little more of that,” he murmured and nipped at her bottom lip until she shivered.

“Well, I think it’s a waste of time.” To prove it, she slipped her hands between their bodies and unbuttoned his trousers.

“You’re absolutely right.” He pressed the release on her shoulder holster and shoved it aside. “I love disarming you, Lieutenant.”

In a quick move that had his brow arching, she twisted and had him pressed against the closet door. “I don’t need a weapon to take you, pal.”

“Prove it.”

He was already hard when her hand curled around him. The blue of his eyes deepened with dark, dangerous lights flickering in them.

“You haven’t been wearing your gloves again.”

She smiled, sliding her chilly fingers up and down the length of him. “Is that a complaint?”

“No, indeed.” His breath was clogging. Of all the women he’d known she was the only one who could leave him breathless with so little effort. He skimmed his hands up to cup her breasts, rubbed his thumbs gently over the nipples before unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

He wanted her under him.

“Come to bed.”

“What’s wrong with here?” She lowered her head, bit his shoulder. “What’s wrong with now?”

“Not a thing.” This time he moved fast, hooking a foot behind hers to throw her off balance, then tumbling with her to the floor. “But I’ve a mind to take you instead of the other way around.”

His mouth clamped on her breast, sucking hard. Words strangled in her throat, images exploded in her brain, and her hips arched to him.

He knew her, better, he often thought, than she knew herself. She needed heat, the potent flood of it, to drown out whatever was troubling her mind. Heat he could give her, and he would pleasure them both with wave after wave.

She was thin. The weight she’d lost during her recovery couldn’t be spared on her slim frame and had yet to be put back in place. But he knew she didn’t want gentle strokes now. So he drove her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, until her breath was ragged and her heart slammed against his seeking mouth and hands.

She writhed under him, her hands in his hair fisted tight, her breasts bared for him with the long tear-shaped diamond he’d once given her resting in the shallow valley between.

He licked his way down her torso, over ribs, along the firm, flat belly, scraping teeth against the narrow line of hip as she began to buck. He tugged her trousers lower, exposing the soft curls between her thighs.

When he swept his tongue over her, into her, the orgasm struck like a lightning bolt. Blood pumped under her skin, brought a dew of sweat to the surface. She was half in, half out of the closet, surrounded by the scent of him, trapped in it and glorying.

She felt his fingers dig into her hips, lifting her, spreading her, taking her. Her own helpless moan echoed as he urged her up again. And flying, there was nothing left inside her but the driving need to mate.

She reached for him, panting his name as her hands slid off his shoulders, around his back, as her legs lifted to hook around his waist.

He glided into her, one smooth stroke of homecoming. His body shuddered once as she tightened around him, trapped him as she was trapped. His mouth crushed down on hers, feeding there as her hips began to pump.

Fast and hard, with their eyes on each other now. Thrust, retreat, and thrust, breathing each other’s air. Closer, still closer with the good, solid slap of flesh against flesh.

She watched his eyes go opaque an instant before he rammed himself home. Her body erupted, shattered beneath his. When he lowered his head, pressed his face to her throat, she once more turned hers into his hair. Once more breathed in his scent.

“It’s good to be home,” he murmured.

She had her shower, her glass of wine, then what she considered the ultimate in decadence: dinner in bed with her husband.

“Tell me about it.” He waited until she’d relaxed, until she’d eaten. Now he poured her another glass of wine and watched the shadows come back into her eyes.

“I don’t want to bring my work home.”

“Why not?” He smiled, refilled his own glass. “I do.”

“It’s different.”

“Eve.” He skimmed a finger over the slight dent in her chin. “We are, both of us, very much defined by what we do for a living. You don’t—you can’t leave your work outside the door any more than I can. It’s inside you.”

She leaned back against the pillows, looked up through the sky window at the dark winter sky. And told him.

“It was cruel,” she said at length. “But that’s not it, really. I’ve seen things that were more cruel. She was innocent—there was something about her space, her walk, about her face, I don’t know, but she had an innocence. I know that’s not really it, either. Innocence is often destroyed. I know what it’s like—not to be innocent; I don’t remember being innocent. But I know what it’s like to be destroyed.”

She cursed under her breath and set the wine aside.

“Eve.” He took her hand, waiting until she turned her gaze to his. “A rape-murder might not be the best way for you to get back into active duty.”

“I might have passed on it.” It shamed her to admit it, enough that she looked away again. “If I’d known, I’m not sure I would have taken the call.”

“You can still pass it to someone else in your division. No one would blame you for it.”

“I’d blame me. I’ve seen her now. I know her now.” Eve closed her eyes, but only for a moment. “She’s mine now. I can’t turn my back on that.”

Eve pushed at her hair, ordered herself to focus. “She looked so surprised and happy when she opened the door. Like a kid might. Oh boy, a present. You know?”

“Yes.”

“The way the bastard looked at the camera before he went in. The big smile, the cagey little wink. And after, doing his victory dance into the elevator.”

Her eyes fired up as she spoke of it, as she shoved herself straighter in the bed. Not just cop’s eyes now, Roarke thought. But the avenging angel.

“There was no passion, just sheer delight.” She closed her eyes again, bringing that image back, clearly, and when she opened them again, the fire was banked, smoldering deep. “It made me sick.”

Annoyed with herself, she picked up the wine again, sipped once. “I had to tell the parents. I had to watch their faces when I did. And Vandoren, watching him go to pieces, seeing him try to understand that his world had just fallen apart. She was a nice woman, a nice simple woman who was happy in her life, about to get engaged, and she opens the door to someone who’s symbolically a figure of innocence. Now she’s dead.”

Because he knew her, he took her hand, unballing the fist she’d made. “It doesn’t make you less of a cop because it touches you.”

“Too many of them touch you and the edges get blurred. You get closer to the limit, to the time you know you’re not going to be able to face another of the dead.”

“Did it ever occur to you to take a break?” When her brows drew together, he only smiled. “No, of course not. You’ll face the next, Eve, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are.”

“I might be facing one sooner than I’d like.” She linked fingers with the hand that held hers. “Was she the one, Roarke? His true love? Or are there eleven more?”

Eve circled the parking deck at the sky mall a second time. And ground her teeth.

“Why aren’t these people at work? Why don’t they have lives?”

“For some,” Peabody said solemnly, “shopping is life.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve passed a section where cars were stacked like poker chips, six high in their slots. “Screw this.” She whipped the wheel, threaded through the stacks, skinning by bumpers close enough to have Peabody closing one eye. “You know, you can buy anything you want right on screen in the privacy of your own home. I don’t get this.”

“Screen shopping doesn’t give you the same buzz.” Peabody braced a hand on the dash as Eve jerked to a stop in the fire lane right outside of Bloomingdale’s. “You can’t use the senses, or your elbows to jab people out of the way. There’s no sport in screen shopping.”

With a snort, Eve engaged her On Duty sign and stepped out of the car. Immediately her ears were assaulted with a blast of music. Christmas carols pumped, full blast, into the air. She decided that people ran inside, ready to buy anything, just to escape the noise.

Though the temperature in the computer-controlled environment hovered at a pleasant seventy-two, a light, synthetic snow swirled in the enormous dome. The windows of the department store were filled with costumed droids. Santas and elves labored away in a workshop, reindeer flew or danced on rooftops, young, golden-haired children with angelic faces unwrapped bright packages.

Behind another window, a teenage boy, decked out in the latest fashion trend of black unisuit and neon checked overshirt, did circles and flips on his new Flyer 6000 airskate—this year’s hot-ticket item. A push of the button beside the glass would engage the recording of his excited voice hawking the skate’s options and virtues, as well as its price and location in the store.

“I’d like to try one of those suckers,” Peabody said under her breath as she followed Eve to the door.

“Aren’t you a little old for toys?”

“It’s not a toy, it’s an adventure,” Peabody said, reciting the tag line for the airskate.

“Let’s get this over with. I hate these places.”

The doors slid smoothly open and greeted them with a soothing promise: Welcome to Bloomingdale’s. You’re our most important customer.

Inside, the music continued to play, but at a lower volume. But the voice level rose, dozens of people speaking at once making a cacophony of sound that rose up and up, to echo off the ceiling, where angels soared in graceful circles.

It was a palace of consumption, with merchandise displayed temptingly on twelve glossy floors.

Droids and staff swept through the crowds modeling fashions, accessories, the hair- and body-styles that could be purchased in the salons. The electronic map just inside the door stood ready to guide customers to their heart’s desire.

Licensed child, pet, and elderly care facilities were located handily on the main level for those who didn’t care to shop with Junior, Fido, or Grandpa underfoot.

Mini-carts to carry customers, their purchases, or both were available for a small rental fee. Hourly or daily rates available.

A droid with hair in snaking, flame-colored ropes approached with a small crystal bottle.

“Keep that thing away from me,” Eve ordered.

“I’d like some.” Obligingly, Peabody tilted back her head so the droid could spritz some perfume on her throat.

“It’s called Do Me,” the droid purred. “Wear it, and prepare to be ravished.”

“Hmm.” Peabody angled her head toward Eve. “What do you think?”

Eve took one sniff, shook her head. “It’s not you.”

“Could be me,” Peabody muttered, trudging after her.

“Let’s try to keep our focus here.” Eve took Peabody’s arm as her aide paused at a cosmetic counter where a woman was being painted with sparkling gold from the neck up. “Let’s hit the men’s department, see if we can find out who waited on Hawley day before yesterday. She used credit so they’d have her address.”

“I could finish up my Christmas shopping in about twenty minutes.”

“Finish it?” Eve turned back as they stepped on the people guide going up.

“Sure, I’ve only got a couple of little things left.” Peabody pursed her lips, then bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the grin. “Haven’t started yet, have you?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“What are you getting Roarke?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Eve said again and jammed her hands in her pockets.

“They’ve got great clothes here.” Peabody nodded toward the display droids as they turned left on the glide toward Men’s Casual Wear.

“He’s got a closet the size of Maine full of clothes already.”

“Have you ever bought him any?”

Eve felt her shoulders hunch defensively and straightened her spine. “I’m not his mother.”

Peabody paused by a droid modeling a dull silver silk shirt and black leather trousers. “He’d look good in this.” She fingered the sleeve. “Of course, Roarke would look good in anything.” She wiggled her brows at Eve. “Guys really love having a woman buy them clothes.”

“I don’t know how to buy clothes for somebody else. I barely know how to buy them for myself.” When she caught herself trying to imagine Roarke’s face and body in place of the droid’s, she hissed out a breath. “And we’re not here to shop.”

Scowling, she strode straight to the first checkout counter, then slapped her badge on it under the nose of the clerk.

He cleared his throat and tossed his long black hair over his shoulder. “Is there something I can do for you, Officer?”

“Lieutenant. You had a customer a couple of days ago, Marianna Hawley. I want to know who waited on her.”

“I’m sure I can check on that for you.” His eyes, a trendy gold, shifted right, then left. “Lieutenant, would you mind putting your identification away, and perhaps, uh, buttoning your jacket over your weapon. I believe our customers would be more at ease.”

Saying nothing, Eve jammed her shield back in her pocket, then hitched her jacket over her side arm.

“Hawley,” he said, obviously relieved. “Would you know if her transactions were made with cash, credit, or store accounts?”

“Credits. She bought two men’s shirts—one silk, one cotton—a cashmere sweater and jacket.”

“Yes.” He stopped running the scan on his register. “I remember. I waited on her myself. An attractive brunette of about thirty. She was selecting gifts for her partner. Ah . . .” He closed his eyes. “Shirts in fifteen and a half, thirty-one-inch sleeves. Sweater and jacket, forty-two chest.”

“Good memory,” Eve commented.

“It’s my job,” he said, opening his eyes to smile. “Remembering customers, their tastes and needs. Ms. Hawley had excellent taste, and the foresight to bring along a wallet hologram of her young man so that we could program a color chart for him.”

“Did she deal with anyone but you?”

“Not in this department. I gave her my full time and attention.”

“You have her address on record?”

“Yes, of course. As I recall I offered to have her purchases sent, but she said she wanted to take them with her. She laughed and said that it added to the fun. She enjoyed her shopping experience very much.” His eyes clouded. “Does she have a complaint?”

“No.” Eve looked him in the eye and knew in her gut she was wasting her time. “She isn’t complaining. Did you notice anyone hanging around while she was shopping, talking to her, watching her?”

“No. We were quite busy, though. Oh, I hope she wasn’t accosted in the parking area. We’ve had a number of incidents in the last few weeks. I don’t know what’s wrong with people. It’s Christmas.”

“Um-hm. You sell Santa suits?”

“Santa suits?” He blinked. “Yes, that would be in Seasonals and Novelties, sixth floor.”

“Thanks. Peabody, check it out,” Eve ordered as she turned away. “Get names and locations for anyone buying or renting a suit in the last month. I’m going down to Jewelry, see if anyone can make the hairpin. Meet me there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowing her aide, Eve laid a warning hand on her arm. “In fifteen minutes. Any longer, and I bust you down to mall guard.”

Peabody moved her shoulders as Eve strode off. “She’s so strict.”

• • •

Having to elbow her way to a spot at the counter on the third floor didn’t improve Eve’s mood. Beneath the glass was an ocean of sparkling body accessories, from earrings to nipple rings. Gold, silver, colored stones, elaborate shapes, varying textures all vied for attention under the glass.

Roarke was always buying her things to drape around her neck, pin to her ears. She didn’t get it. Absently she fingered the diamond under her shirt. But he seemed to enjoy seeing her wear the things he chose for her.

Because she was running out of patience, and being roundly ignored by the staff manning the counter, she simply leaned over and snagged a clerk by the collar.

“Madam.” Outraged, the clerk scorched her with a hot blue scowl.

“Lieutenant,” she corrected, pulling out her shield with her free hand. “Got a minute for me now?”

“Of course.” He eased back, straightened his needle-thin silver tie. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you sell anything like this?” She opened her bag and took out the sealed pin.

“I don’t believe that’s one of ours.” He stooped until his gaze was level with the pin. “Very nice work. Festive.” He leaned back. “We won’t be able to take this as a return unless you have a receipt. I don’t recognize it as being of our stock.”

“I’m not looking to return it. Got any ideas where it might have come from?”

“I’d suggest a specialty shop. The craftsmanship appears to be quite fine. There are six jewelers in the mall. Perhaps one of them will recognize it.”

“Great.” She dropped it back in her bag and blew out a breath.

“Is there something else I can do for you?”

Eve shifted her feet and scanned the display under her nose. A set of three chained ropes with clashing colored stones the size of her thumb caught her eye. It was ridiculously flashy, edging toward tacky. And just screamed Mavis.

“That,” she said and pointed.

“Ah, you’d like to see the Heathen Neck Ornament. Very unique, very—”

“I don’t want to see it. I’ll take it. Just wrap it up, and make it fast.”

“I see.” Training kept him from goggling. “And how would you like to pay for that?”

Peabody marched up just as Eve was accepting the festive red and silver bag. “You shopped,” she said accusingly.

“No, I bought. There’s a difference. The pin didn’t come from here. The guy seemed to know his stuff and was pretty definite. I don’t want to waste any more time here.”

“Doesn’t look like you wasted it,” Peabody muttered.

“We’ll run the pin through the computer. I’ll see if Feeney’s got time to do a trace.”

“What did you buy?”

“Just something for Mavis.” She caught Peabody’s pout as they walked through the doors. “Don’t worry, Peabody, I’ll get you something.”

“Really?” She brightened immediately. “I’ve already got your present. It’s wrapped and everything.”

“Show-off.”

Cheered now, Peabody hopped into the car. “Want to guess what it is?”

“No.”

“I’ll give you a hint.”

“Pull yourself together. Start running the names you got on the Santa suits, see if you get a hit on anyone with a sheet.”

“Yes, sir. Where are we heading?”

“Personally Yours.” She sent Peabody a sidelong glance. “And you’re not doing any shopping there either.”

“Spoilsport. Sir,” Peabody added dutifully and began to run the names on her hand unit.

In the heart of midtown, towering over Fifth Avenue in polished black marble, was a palace of pleasure. The exterior was a sleek spear ringed on the upper floors with gilded balconies and silvered glides. Sheer glass tubes slid up and down at the four corners of the compass.

Inside there were salons for body sculpting, mood enhancement, sexual orientation. Without leaving the premises a client could be buffed, polished, molded, remodeled, or sexually satisfied in the manner of their choice.

Several gyms were outfitted with the newest equipment for those who preferred a little do-it-yourself. For those who chose a more passive road to fitness and beauty, licensed consultants were available to wield laser and toning tubes to rid a client of those pesky extra pounds and inches.

One floor was dedicated to the holistic approach, which included everything from chakra balancing to coffee enemas. As she scanned those particular offerings, Eve wasn’t certain whether to laugh or shudder.

Mud baths, algae scrapes, injections of the placenta of sheep raised on Alfa Six, tranquility sessions, VR trips, vision adjustments, face-lifts, tucks, and morphs—all could be done on the premises, with a number of package deals offered.

Once your body and mind were perfected, you were invited to explore the possibility of finding the right mate for the new you with the trained staff of Personally Yours.

The firm encompassed three floors of the building, with its staff uniformed in simple black suits with small red hearts embroidered on the breasts. With the path of beauty on the doorstep, attractive faces and bodies were every bit as much a part of the dress code.

The lobby area was done in Grecian temple, with small musical ponds glinting with the flash of goldfish, and white marble columns decked with trailing vines separating areas. The seating arrangements were low to the tiled floor, cushy and plentiful. A check-in desk was discreetly tucked between fanning palms.

“I need information on one of your clients.” Eve held up her badge and watched the receptionist’s eyes flicker with nerves.

“We’re not allowed to give out client information.” The woman bit her lip and brushed her fingers over the tiny heart that was tattooed under her eye like a pretty red tear. “All our services are strictly confidential. We guarantee to protect our clients’ privacy.”

“One of your clients isn’t worried about privacy anymore. This is police business. I can have a warrant transmitted in about five minutes, or you can give me what I need and avoid having the department go over every file.”

“If you’d just wait a moment.” The receptionist indicated the closest seating area. “I’ll get the manager for you.”

“Fine.” Eve turned away as the receptionist slipped on a headset.

“It smells great in here,” Peabody commented. “The whole building smells great.” She took in a deep sniff of air. “They must pump something through the air vents. Nice and soothing.” She settled her rump on one of the golden cushions near a tinkling fountain. “I want to live here.”

“You’re annoyingly chipper these days, Peabody.”

“The holidays do that to me. Wow, look at that.” She swiveled her head, her eyes lighting appreciatively as a man with a stream of streaked blond hair swaggered in. “Now, why would a guy who looked like that need a dating service?”

“Why does anybody? It’s creepy.”

“I don’t know, could save time, trouble, wear and tear.” Peabody leaned forward to look around Eve and keep the man in view. “Maybe I should try it out. I could get lucky.”

“He’s not your type.”

Peabody’s face clouded exactly as it had when Eve had rejected the perfume. “How come—I like looking at his type.”

“Sure, but try to have a conversation with him.” Eve dipped her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “Guy’s in love with himself and figures every woman who gets a load of him has to go moony-eyed—just like you’re doing. He’d bore you to death in ten minutes because all he’d talk about is himself—how he looks, what he does, what he likes. You’d just be his latest accessory.”

Peabody considered, watching as the gold-tipped Adonis posed at the check-in counter. “Okay, so we won’t bother to talk. We’ll just have sex.”

“He’d be a lousy lay—wouldn’t give a damn if you got off or not.”

“I’m getting off just looking at him.” But she sighed when he took out a small silver-backed mirror and examined his face with obvious delight. “It’s times like this I hate it when you’re right.”

“Look at this,” Eve said under her breath. “These two are so polished I need my sunshades.”

“Ken and Barbie on the town.” At Eve’s blank look, Peabody sighed again. “Man, you didn’t have a Barbie doll. What kind of kid were you?”

“I was never a kid,” Eve said simply and turned back to greet the magnificent couple gliding her way.

The woman was slim-hipped and full-breasted as the current fashion demanded. Her silvery blond hair fell in a straight streaming waterfall over her shoulders to flick across the big, beautiful breasts as she walked. Her face was smooth and white as alabaster, with deep-set eyes of rich emerald-green surrounded by long lashes dyed to match those jewel-like irises. Her mouth was full and red, curved in a polite smile of greeting.

Her companion was every bit as dazzling, her twin in coloring, with his moonlight hair swept back into a long braid twined with thin gold ribbon. His shoulders were wide, his legs long.

Unlike the rest of the staff, they weren’t dressed in black, but wore slim white skinsuits. The woman had draped a transparent red scarf cleverly over her hips.

She spoke first, in a voice as soft and silky as the scarf. “I’m Piper, and this is my associate, Rudy. What can we do for you?”

“I need data on one of your clients.” Once again, Eve took out her badge. “I’m investigating a homicide.”

“A homicide.” The woman put a hand to her heart. “How dreadful. One of our clients? Rudy?”

“We’ll certainly cooperate in any way we can.” He spoke quietly in a creamy baritone. “We should discuss this upstairs, in private.”

He gestured toward the clear tube of an elevator guarded by enormous white azaleas in full bloom. “You’re sure the victim was one of our clients?”

“Her lover met her through your service.” Eve stepped directly to the middle of the tube and ignored the view as they whisked up. Heights had never appealed to her.

“I see.” Piper sighed. “We have an excellent success rate in matching couples. I hope it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel that ended in tragedy.”

“We haven’t determined that.”

“I can’t believe that could be it. We screen very carefully.” Rudy gestured toward the opening of the tube as the elevator stopped.

“How?”

“We’re connected to ComTrack.” As he spoke, he escorted them down a quiet corridor in hospital white with soft, dreamy watercolors in gold frames and banquets of fresh flowers in clear vases. “Every applicant is put into the system. We look at marital history, credit ratings, criminal records, of course. Our applicants must also take the standard personality test. Any violent tendencies are rejected. Sexual preferences and desires are recorded, analyzed, and matched.”

He opened the door to a large office done in blinding whites and screaming reds. The window wall was filtered against both the glare of the sun and the noise of sky traffic.

“What’s your percentage of deviants?”

Piper’s perfect mouth thinned. “We don’t consider personal sexual preferences deviant unless the partner or partners involved object.”

Eve merely lifted her brows. “Why don’t we use my definition instead? Bondage, S and M? You get any in here who like to doll up their partner after sex?”

Rudy cleared his throat and moved behind a wide, white console. “Certainly some applicants look for what we might call adventurous sexual experiences. As I said, those preferences would be matched with like applicants.”

“Who did you match up with Marianna Hawley?”

“Marianna Hawley?” He glanced at Piper.

“I’m better with faces than names.” She turned to the wall screen as Rudy fed the name into the computer. Seconds later, Marianna smiled out at them, her eyes bright and alive.

“Oh yes, I remember her. She was charming. Yes, I very much enjoyed working with her. She was looking for a companion, someone fun who she could enjoy art—no, no, it was theater, I believe.” She tapped one perfectly shaped nail against her bottom lip. “She was a romantic, rather sweetly old-fashioned.”

It seemed to come to her all at once, and Piper’s hand dropped limply to her side. “She’s been murdered? Oh, Rudy.”

“Sit down, dear.” He came gracefully around the console to take her hand, pat it, to lead her to a long sofa with deep air cushions. “Piper becomes very personally involved with our clients,” he told Eve. “That’s why she’s so marvelous at her work. She cares.”

“So do I, Rudy.”

Though her voice was flat, his eyes flicked over her face and whatever he saw had him nodding. “Yes, I’m sure you do. You suspect that someone in our system, someone she might have met through our service, killed her.”

“I’m investigating. I need names.”

“Give her whatever she needs, Rudy.” Piper patted her fingers under her eyes to dry tears.

“I’d like to, but we have a responsibility to our clients. We guarantee privacy.”

“Marianna Hawley was entitled to privacy,” Eve said shortly. “Someone raped her, sodomized her, and strangled her. I’d say they pretty much violated her privacy. I doubt any of your clients would enjoy sharing in that experience.”

Rudy took a deep breath. His face was paler now, if that was possible, so that his eyes seemed to burn against a field of glossy white. “I trust you’ll be discreet.”

“You can trust I’ll be good,” Eve said in return and waited for him to call up the list of matches.

Sarabeth Greenbalm wasn’t having a good day. First off she hated working the afternoon shift at the Sweet Spot. The clientele from noon to five consisted primarily of junior execs looking for a long lunch and cheap thrills. With the emphasis on cheap. The climbing-the-corporate-ladder crowd didn’t have a lot of money to toss to a stripper.

They just liked to gawk and hoot.

Five hours of hard work had netted her just under a hundred in cash and credit chips, and a half a dozen drunken propositions.

None of which included marriage.

Marriage was Sarabeth’s Holy Grail.

She wasn’t going to find a rich husband in the afternoon set of a strip club. Even a high-class club like the Sweet Spot. There was potential in the night hours, when the VPs and CEOs sauntered in, bringing important clients for an hour or two of titillation. She could make a thousand easily, and when you added in some lap dancing, double that. But the best was collecting business cards.

Sooner or later one of those corporate suits with their big, white smiles and perfectly manicured and grabby hands was going to put a ring on her finger for the privilege of groping her.

It was all part of the career plan she’d carefully mapped out when she’d moved from Allentown, Pennsylvania, to New York City five years before. Stripping in Allentown had been a dead-end situation, netting her just enough per week to keep her from becoming another sidewalk sleeper. Still, moving to New York had been risky. There was more competition for the same recreation dollar.

Younger competition.

The first year she’d worked two shifts, three if she could still stand. She’d worked as a roamer, sliding from club to club and shelling out the hard-line forty percent of take to the managers. It had been a gruesome year, but she’d earned her nest egg.

The second year she’d focused on nailing a regular spot at an upscale club. It had taken nearly all of those twelve months, but she’d carved her niche at the Sweet Spot. During her third year she’d fought her way up the food chain to shift headliner, cagily investing her profits. And, she admitted, she had wasted nearly six months considering the cohabitation offer of the club’s head smasher.

She might have done it, too, if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself sliced into six separate pieces in a bar fight at a dive where he’d been moonlighting because Sarabeth had insisted he needed a bigger bank account if he wanted her to sleep with him on a permanent basis.

She’d decided to consider it a lucky escape. Now, well into year four, she was forty-three years old and running out of time.

She didn’t mind naked dancing. Hell, she was a damn good dancer and her body—she studied it as she turned in front of her bedroom mirror—was her meal ticket.

Nature had been generous, gifting her with high, full breasts that hadn’t required augmentation. So far. A long torso, long legs, a firm ass. Yes, she had all the necessary weapons.

She’d had to put money into her face, and considered it a good investment. She’d been born with thin lips, a short chin, and a heavy forehead. But a few trips to a beauty enhancement center had fixed that. Now her mouth was full and ripe, her chin sassily pointed, and her brow high and clear.

Sarabeth Greenbalm looked, in her opinion, damn good.

The problem was she was down to her last five hundred, the rent was due, and some overeager bozo in the lunch crowd had ripped her best G-string before she could slither out of it.

She had a headache, her feet hurt, and she was still single.

She should never have plunked down the three thousand for Personally Yours. In retrospect what had seemed like a clever investment now appeared to be good money down the sewer. Losers used dating services, she thought as she tugged on a short purple robe. And losers attracted losers.

After meeting the first two men on her match list, she’d gone straight down to Fifth Avenue and asked for her money back. The blond ice queen hadn’t been so friendly then, Sarabeth thought now. No refunds, no way, no how.

With a philosophical shrug, Sarabeth walked from the bedroom into the kitchen—a short walk in an apartment barely bigger than the communal dressing room at the Sweet Spot.

The money was gone, a write-off. And a lesson had been learned: She had to depend on herself, and herself only.

The knock on her door interrupted her hopeful scan of the limited offerings of her AutoChef. Absently she tugged her robe closed, then beat a fist on the wall. The couple next door fought like cats and fucked like minks most every night. Her pounding wouldn’t change the noise level by a decibel, but it made her feel better.

She turned one suspicious brown eye to the security peep, then grinned like a girl. Hurriedly she disengaged the locks and swung the door wide.

“Hey there, Santa.”

His eyes twinkled merrily. “Merry Christmas, Sarabeth.” He shook the big silver box he carried, then winked at her.

“Have you been good?”

Captain Ryan Feeney sat on the end of Eve’s desk and munched on candied almonds. He had the lived-in, vaguely morose face of a basset hound and a wiry thatch of russet hair sprinkled with thin, steely threads of silver. There was a rust-colored splotch on his rumpled shirt—a memory of the bean soup he’d had for lunch—and a small nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving that morning.

He looked harmless.

Eve would have gone through any door with him. And had.

He’d trained her, and taught her. Now as captain of the Electronic Detective Division, he was an invaluable resource to her.

“Wish I could tell you the bauble was a one of a kind.” He popped another nut into his mouth. “Still there’s only a dozen stores in the city that sell it.”

“And how many do we have to trace?”

“Forty-nine of them were sold in the last seven weeks.” He scratched his chin, worrying at the tiny scab. “The pin runs about five hundred. Forty-eight were credit deals, only one cash transaction.”

“That would be him.”

“More than likely.” Feeney pulled out his memo book. “The cash deal was at Sal’s Gold and Silver on Forty-ninth.”

“I’ll check it out, thanks.”

“Nothing to it. Got anything else? McNab’s willing and able.”

“McNab?”

“He liked working with you. The boy’s good and sharp and you could toss him any grunt work.”

Eve considered the young detective with his colorful wardrobe, sharp mind, and smart mouth. “He gives Peabody the fish eye.”

“You don’t think Peabody can handle him?”

Eve frowned, tapped her fingers, shrugged. “Yeah, she’s a big girl, and I could use him. I contacted the victim’s ex-husband. He’s relocated in Atlanta. His alibi for the period in question looks fairly solid, but it wouldn’t hurt to look closer. See if he booked any travel to New York, made any calls to the victim.”

“McNab can do that in his sleep.”

“Tell him to stay awake and do it.” She reached for a disc file, handed it over. “All the data I have on the ex is here. I’ll be running the names of the matches from Personally Yours. I’ll pass those to him after I’ve taken a look.”

“Don’t understand places like that.” Feeney shook his head. “In my day you met women the old-fashioned way. You picked them up in a bar.”

Eve lifted an eyebrow. “Is that how you met your wife?”

He grinned suddenly. “It worked, didn’t it? I’ll pass this on to MacNab,” he said as he rose. “Aren’t you off the clock, Dallas?”

“Yeah, just. I think I’ll run those names before I head out.”

“Suit yourself. Me, I’m out of here.” He started for the door, stuffing his bag of nuts into his pocket. “Oh, we’re looking forward to the Christmas party.”

She was already focused on her computer and barely glanced over. “What party?”

“Your party.”

“Oh.” She searched her mind, found it blank as far as parties went. “Yeah, great.”

“Don’t know a thing about it, do you?”

“I must.” And because it was Feeney, she smiled. “It’s just in another compartment. Look, if you see Peabody out in the bullpen, tell her she’s off duty.”

“Will do.”

Party, she thought with a sigh. Every time she turned around, Roarke was giving a party or dragging her off to one. The next thing she knew Mavis would pounce on her about getting her hair done, having face and body work, trying a new outfit designed by her lover Leonardo.

If she had to go to a damn party, why couldn’t she just go as she was?

Because she was Roarke’s wife, she reminded herself. And as such she was expected to attend social functions looking slightly better than a cop with murder on the brain.

But that was . . . whenever it was. And this was now.

“Computer, list matches through Personally Yours for Hawley, Marianna.”

Working . . .

Match one of five . . . Dorian Marcell, single, white, male, age thirty-two.

While the computer listed his statistics, Eve studied the image on screen. A pleasant face—a shy look around the eyes. Dorian liked art, theater, and old videos, claimed to be a romantic at heart looking for a mate for his soul. His hobbies were photography and snowboarding.

Nothing special about Dorian, she thought, but they would see what he’d been up to on the night Marianna had been murdered.

Match two of five . . . Charles Monroe, single, white, male—

“Whoa, whoa, hold it. Stop.” With a half laugh Eve peered at the face on screen. “Well, Charles, fancy meeting you here.”

It was a fine face smiling back at her, and she remembered it. She’d met Charles Monroe nearly a year before while investigating another murder—the case that had brought her and Roarke together. Charles was a licensed companion, slick and charming. And what, she wondered, was a well-heeled LC doing in dating service?

“Trolling, Charlie? Looks like you and I are going to have to have another talk. Computer go to third match.”

Match three of five, Jeremy Vandoren, divorced—

“Lieutenant.”

“Computer pause. Yeah?” She glanced over as Peabody hovered at the door.

“Captain Feeney said you’re finished with me for the day.”

“Right. I’m just running some names before I go.”

“He, uh, mentioned that you were going to use McNab for some of the e-work.”

“That’s right.” Eve angled her head, then kicked back in her chair as Peabody struggled to keep her face controlled. “You got a problem with that?”

“No—that is . . . Dallas, you don’t really need him. He’s such a pain in the ass.”

Eve smiled cheerfully. “He’s not a pain in mine. I guess you’ll just have to work on making your ass a little tougher, Peabody. But buck up, he’ll do most of what I give him over in EDD. He won’t be around here much.”

“He’ll find a way,” Peabody muttered. “He’s such a show-off.”

“He does good work. And anyway—” She broke off as her communicator beeped. “Shit, I should have gotten out of here on time.” She pulled it out. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.” Commander Whitney’s wide, stern face filled the small screen.

“Sir.”

“We have a homicide that appears to be connected to the Hawley case. There are uniforms on the scene now. I want you as primary. Report to 23B West One Hundred and Twelve, apartment 5D. Contact me at my home office after you’ve confirmed the status.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” She spared Peabody a glance as she rose and grabbed her jacket. “You’re back on duty.”

The uniform standing guard at Sarabeth’s door had eyes that told Eve she’d seen the likes of what was inside before, and expected to see it again.

“Officer Carmichael,” Eve began, scanning the nameplate. “What have we got?”

“White female, early forties, dead at scene. Apartment’s in the name of Sarabeth Greenbalm. No sign of forced entry or struggle. There’s no video security in this building other than on the main door. My partner and I were on our cruise when Dispatch sent the call at sixteen thirty-five. A 1222 anonymous report at this address. We responded, arriving at sixteen forty-two. The entrance door and the door of the reported unit were unsecured. We entered and found the deceased. We then secured the scene and alerted Dispatch of a suspicious death at this location.”

“Where’s your partner, Carmichael?”

“Locating the building manager, sir.”

“Fine. Keep this hallway clear. Stand until relieved.”

“Sir.” Carmichael slid her eyes over Peabody as they passed. Among the uniforms Peabody was regarded as Dallas’s pet, with varying degrees of envy, resentment, and awe.

Feeling a combination of all three from Carmichael, Peabody twitched her shoulders as she followed Eve through the door.

“Recorder on, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Dallas and aide, on scene at 23B West One Hundred Twelve Street, apartment of Sarabeth Greenbalm.” As she spoke, Eve took a can of Seal-It from her field kit and sprayed her hands and boots before handing it off to Peabody. “Victim, yet to be identified, is white female.”

She approached the body. The bedroom area was no more than an alcove off the main room, the bed a narrow bunk style that could be folded up to afford more room. It had plain white sheets and a brown blanket worn at the edges.

He’d used red garland this time, wrapping it around her boa style from neck to ankle so that she resembled a festive mummy. Her hair, a shade of violet Eve imagined Mavis would admire, had been neatly brushed and styled into an upswept cone.

Her lips, slack in death, had been painted a rich purple, her cheeks a tender pink. Pale gold glitter shadow had been carefully applied to her eyelids all the way to the brow line.

Pinned to the garland just at the center of her throat was a circle of glossy green. Within it two birds, one gold, one silver, nested, beak to beak.

“Turtledoves, right?” Eve studied the brooch. “I looked up the song. The second day his true love gives him two turtledoves.” Gently, Eve pressed a hand to the painted cheek. “She’s fresh. I’d bet it hasn’t been more than an hour since he finished her.”

Stepping back, she took out her communicator to contact Whitney and request a Crime Scene team.

It was nearly midnight when she got home. Her shoulder was throbbing a little, but she could ignore that. What annoyed her was the fatigue. It came too quickly and too intensely these days.

She knew what the department’s orifice poker would say about it. Not enough recovery time. She’d been entitled to another ten days injury leave. Her return to full duty had been too soon.

Because it tended to sour her mood to think of it, she blocked it out.

She’d forgotten to eat, and the minute she stepped inside the warmth of the house the first pangs of hunger hit. Just need a candy bar, she told herself and scrubbed her hands over her face before turning to the scanner near the door.

“Where is Roarke?”

Roarke is in his home office.

Figures, she decided as she started up the stairs. The man didn’t seem to need sleep like a normal human. She imagined he’d look as fresh as he had when she’d left him that morning.

He’d left his door open, so it only took one quick glance inside to confirm her suspicions. He sat at the wide, glossy console, scanning screens, giving orders into his ’link while his laser fax hummed behind him.

And he looked sexy as sin.

She thought if she could get her hands on that candy bar, she might just have the energy to jump him.

“Don’t you ever quit?” she demanded as she stepped into the room.

He glanced over, smiled, then turned back to his ’link. “All right, John, see that those alterations are made. We’ll go over this in more detail tomorrow.” He broke transmission.

“You didn’t have to stop,” she began. “I just wanted to let you know I was home.”

“I was entertaining myself while I waited for you.” He angled his head as he studied her face. “Forgot to eat, didn’t you?”

“I’m hoping for a candy bar. Got any?”

He rose and moved across the polished floor to the AutoChef. Moments later he took out a thick green bowl, steaming with soup.

“That’s not a candy bar.”

“You can feed the child after you take care of the woman.” He set the soup on a table, then poured himself a brandy.

She walked over, sniffed the soup. Nearly drooled. “Smells pretty good,” she decided and sat down to devour. “Did you eat?” she asked with her mouth full, and nearly groaned with joy as he set a plate of hot bread on the table. “You have to stop taking care of me.”

“It’s one of my little pleasures.” He sat beside her, sipping brandy, watching the hot food put color back in her cheeks. “And yes, I’ve eaten—but I wouldn’t say no to a bit of that bread.”

“Umm.” Obligingly, she broke a hunk in half and passed it to him. It was sort of homey, she decided. The two of them sharing soup and bread after a long day.

Just like, well, normal people.

“So . . . Roarke Industries rose, what, eight points yesterday?”

His brow winged up. “Eight and three-quarters. Have you developed an interest in the stock market, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe I’m just keeping an eye on you. Your stock goes down, I might have to dump you.”

“I’ll bring that point up at the next shareholders’ meeting. Do you want some wine?”

“Maybe. I’ll get it.”

“Sit, eat. I haven’t finished taking care of you yet.” He rose and selected a bottle already open and chilling in the cold box cabinet.

While he poured, she scraped the last of the soup from the bowl, barely resisting licking it clean. She felt warm, settled. Home. “Roarke, are we having a party?”

“I imagine. When?”

“I don’t know when.” A line formed between her eyebrows as she looked up at him. “If I knew when, why would I ask? Feeney said something about our Christmas party.”

“December twenty-third. Yes, we’re having a party.”

“Why?”

“Darling Eve.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head before he sat again. “Because it’s the holidays.”

“How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I believe I did.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you have your date book handy?”

Grumbling, she tugged it out of her pocket and plugged in the date. There, clear as crystal, was the information, followed by her initials to indicate she’d logged it in herself.

“Oh.”

“The trees are being delivered tomorrow.”

“Trees?”

“Yes. We’ll have a formal one in the parlor, several in the ballroom upstairs. But I thought we’d have a smaller, more personal one in our bedroom. We’ll decorate that one ourselves.”

Her brows shot high. “You want to decorate a tree?”

“I do.”

“I don’t know the first thing about it. I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree before.”

“Neither have I, or not in years. It’ll be our first.”

The warmth that moved through her now had nothing to do with a hot meal or vintage wine. Her lips curved. “We’ll probably make a mess of it.”

He took the hand she held out to him. “No doubt. Feeling better?”

“A lot, yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me about tonight?”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Yeah, I do.” She released his hand and rose because she would think more clearly on the move.

“He got another one,” she began. “Same MO. Outside security cameras tagged him. The Santa suit, the big silver box with the fussy bow. He left her a pin, two birds in a circle.”

“Turtledoves.”

“Right—or close enough. I don’t know what a damn turtledove looks like. No sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. I imagine the tox report will show she was tranq’d. She’d been restrained, probably gagged as the unit wasn’t soundproofed. There were some fibers on her tongue and in her mouth, but he didn’t leave whatever he gagged her with behind.”

“Sexually assaulted?”

“Yes, same as the first. There was a fresh temp tattoo on her right breast. My True Love. And he’d wrapped her up in red garland, painted her face, brushed her hair. The bathroom was the cleanest place in the apartment. I’m guessing he scrubbed it down himself after he was done cleaning himself up. She’d only been dead an hour by the time I got there. The anonymous call came in from a pay slot a half a block from her house.”

He could see the frustration working back into her. Rising, he took her glass and his own. “Who was she?”

“A stripper, lap dancer, worked at the Sweet Spot—an upscale club on the West Side.”

“Yes, I know where it is.” When she turned, eyes narrowed, he handed her the wine. “And yes, it happens to be one of my properties.”

“I really hate when that happens.” When he only grinned at her, she blew out a breath. “Anyway, she had the afternoon shift, got off just before five. From what we can tell, she went straight home—she ran a scan on her AutoChef at six, just about the time the outside camera picked up this bastard going into the building.”

Eve stared into her wine. “I’d say she missed dinner, too.”

“He’s working quickly.”

“And having a jolly old time with it. Looks to me like he wants to make his quota by New Year’s. I need to run her ’link, her finances, her personal records. I’ve got to check out the pin. I’m getting nowhere with the Santa suit or the garland. How the hell do I connect a sweet administrative assistant to a lap dancer?”

“I know that tone.” With that he turned and moved to his console. “Let’s see what we can do.”

“I didn’t say anything about you running scans.”

He flicked a glance in her direction. “It was implied. What was her name?”

“It was not implied. Sarabeth—one word, no h—Greenbalm.” She walked over to stand with him behind the console. “I was simply running through my thoughts out loud. The address is 23B West One Hundred and Twelve.”

“Got it. What do you want first?”

“I can run her ’link in the morning. Go with either personal or financial.”

“Financial would take you longer, let’s start with that.”

“No showing off,” Eve warned, then laughed when he snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her against his side.

“Of course I’m going to show off. Subject, Sarabeth Greenbalm,” he began, then nuzzled at Eve’s throat. “Residing West One Hundred and Twelve.” His hand slid up to cup her breast. “All financial records, latest transactions first.”

Working . . .

“Now,” he murmured, and turned Eve until their bodies meshed. “I should just have enough time to . . .” His mouth swooped down, drawing deeply from hers and sending the top of her head spinning somewhere near the lofty ceiling.

Data complete.

“Well.” He nipped her bottom lip. “Maybe not quite enough time. Your data, Lieutenant.”

She cleared her throat, exhaled. “You’re good.” Exhaled again. “I mean you’re really good.”

“I know.” And because she was just a bit off balance yet, he sat, pulling her until she tumbled into his lap.

“Hey, I’m working here.”

“Me, too.” Swiveling her to face front, he began to nibble at the back of her neck. “I’ll work on this, you work on that.”

“I can’t while you’re . . .” She hunched her shoulders, stifled a chuckle, and tried to concentrate on the data on screen. “Rent’s her biggest expense, followed by clothes. She’s got most of them marked costume for taxes. Stop it!” She slapped at the clever fingers that had already unbuttoned her blouse to the navel.

“You don’t need your shirt to read data,” he said reasonably and began sliding it off her shoulders.

“Look, pal, I’m still wearing my clutch piece, so—” She sprang to her feet, making him mutter an oath. “Shit, shit. There it is. Son of a bitch. There’s the link.”

Resigned, he tucked away thoughts of seducing her and turned his attention to the screen. “Where?”

“There. Three thousand to Personally Yours by electronic transaction, six weeks ago.”

Her eyes were hot now, not with passion but power, as she swung around to face him. “She and Hawley used the same dating service. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a connection. I need her matches,” she murmured, then catching Roarke’s inquiring look, she shook her head. “No, we’ll do it the right way. By the book. I’ll go in tomorrow and get them.”

“It wouldn’t take me long to access.”

“It’s not legal.” She struggled to keep her face stern when that grin of his beamed at her. “And it’s not your job. But I appreciate it.”

“How much?”

She stepped back, stood between his legs, and looked down at him. “Enough to let you finish taking care of me.” She sat, straddling him. “After I take care of you, that is.”

“How about . . . ” He fisted a hand in her hair and brought her mouth within a breath of his, “we take care of each other?”

“That’s a deal.”

Settled in her home office with weak winter sunlight dribbling through the window wall at her back, Eve organized her data. She intended to feed a report to her commander by midmorning and had several blanks she wanted to fill in first.

“Computer engage. Detail data on dating service enterprise known as Personally Yours located on Fifth Avenue in New York.”

Working . . . Personally Yours, established 2052 in Fifth Avenue location, owned and operated by Rudy and Piper Hoffman.

“Stop, confirm. Business in question is owned by Rudy and Piper Hoffman?”

Affirmative. Rudy and Piper Hoffman, fraternal twins, age twenty-eight. Residence 500 Fifth Avenue. Continue scan on Personally Yours?

“No, search and report, full data on owners.”

Searching . . .

While her computer juggled its chips, she rose to get a cup of coffee. Fraternal twins, she thought as the AutoChef filled her request. Brother and sister. She’d tagged them as lovers. And now, thinking back, remembering the way they’d touched, moved together, the looks exchanged, she wondered if both she and the computer were right.

It was a thought that didn’t sit well in her gut.

A movement in the adjoining doorway caught the corner of her eye an instant before Roarke stepped into full view.

“Good morning. You’re up and about early.”

“I want to get my prelim report to Whitney first thing.” She took her coffee from the AutoChef, shook back her hair. “You want a cup of this?”

“Yes, I do.” He took hers, smiling when she frowned at him. “I’ll be in meetings most of the day.”

“What else is new,” she muttered and programmed the unit for a second cup of coffee.

“But you can reach me, if you need.”

She grunted, then glanced over as her computer signaled data search was complete. “Good. Okay, I’ve got—” She yelped in surprise as he grabbed the front of her shirt and tugged. “Hey, what— Hold data,” she called out and shoved at her husband.

“I like the way you smell in the morning.” He leaned in and sniffed at her hair as he spoke.

“It’s just soap.”

“I know.”

“Get ahold of yourself.” But damn it, he had her blood up and pumping fast. “I’ve got work,” she muttered even as her arms came around him.

“So do I. I miss you, Eve.” He set his cup aside so he could hold her, just hold her.

“I guess we’ve both been busy the last couple of weeks.” It felt so good to lean against him and just be. “I can’t back off this case now.”

“I don’t expect you to.” For the pleasure of it, he rubbed his cheek against hers. “I wouldn’t want you to.” But it was the last case, what it had done to her, that weighed on his mind and his heart. “I’m content to steal a moment here and there.” He eased back, brushed his lips over hers. “I’ve always had a good hand at stealing . . . whatever.”

“You’re not supposed to remind me.” And, smiling, she framed his face with her hands.

From the doorway, Peabody watched them. It was too late to step back, too soon to step forward. Though they were only standing, his hands on Eve’s shoulders, hers on his cheeks, Peabody found it a wrenchingly intimate moment that had her face heating and her heart sighing with envy.

At a loss, she did the only thing she could think of and worked up the fake, faintly embarrassed cough of the intruder.

Roarke ran his hands down Eve’s arms, and smiled toward the doorway. “Good morning, Peabody. Coffee?”

“Um, yeah. Thanks. Uh . . . it’s pretty cold out.”

“Really?” Roarke said as Eve moved back toward her desk.

“Yeah, it’s not supposed to get up to freezing. We might get some snow flurries this afternoon.”

“What are you, the National Weather Service?” Eve demanded, then took a good look at her aide. Peabody’s face was flushed, her eyes soft, her hands busily plucking at her brass buttons. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Thanks,” she said when Roarke brought her a cup of coffee.

“You’re welcome. I’ll leave you to work.”

When he walked through the adjoining doorway and closed it off, Peabody sighed. “I don’t know how you can remember your name when he looks at you the way he does.”

“If I forget it, he reminds me.”

Though she heard the wry humor in Eve’s voice, Peabody stepped closer. “What’s it like?”

“What?” Glancing up, Eve caught the intensity in her aide’s eyes and shrugged uncomfortably. “Peabody, we’ve got work here.”

“Isn’t that what it’s about?” Peabody interrupted. “Isn’t what you’ve got what those two women were looking for?”

Eve opened her mouth, then shut it again. She glanced toward the connecting doors, saw that Roarke had closed them, but hadn’t engaged locks on either side. “It’s more than you think it can be,” she heard herself say. “It changes everything, and fixes everything that matters. Maybe you’re never going to be the same, and maybe part of you is always afraid of what will happen if . . . but he’s always going to be there. All you have to do is reach out, and he’s going to be there.”

Surprised at herself, she slipped her hands into her pockets. “Can you find that by pumping data into a computer system and letting it run personality and lifestyle matches? I don’t know. But we’ve got two dead women who thought it was worth a try. Pull up a chair, Peabody, and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll run a full search of Jeremy Vandoren. Instincts aside, we need to confirm or eliminate. Once we have full data on all five matches on the Hawley list, we’ll pay another visit to Personally Yours.”

“Detective McNab, reporting for duty.”

Eve looked over and saw Ian McNab swagger into the room. He had a big, satisfied grin on his pretty face, a knee-length vest in eye-searing fuchsia over his Christmas-green jumpsuit, and a striped ribbon of both colors binding back his long sweep of glinting gold hair.

Feeling Peabody stiffen like a flagpole beside her, Eve nearly sighed.

“How’s it going, McNab?”

“It’s going good, Lieutenant. Hey there, Peabody.” He winked cockily then set a hip on the desk. “Captain Feeney said you could use me on this Santa case. I’m here to serve. Got anything to eat?”

“See what’s in the AutoChef.”

“Mag. Working for you, Dallas, has rocking benefits.” He wiggled his brows suggestively at Peabody then walked over to forage breakfast.

“If you were going to use that pinhead,” Peabody muttered under her breath, “why can’t he work out of EDD?”

“Because I wanted to irritate you, Peabody. It’s my main goal in life. Since you’re here, McNab,” Eve continued, “you can take over these searches. Peabody and I need to go out in the field.”

“Just line them up,” he said, taking a huge bite of a blueberry Danish. “I’ll knock them back.”

“When you’ve finished stuffing your face,” Eve said mildly, “run the names in the Hawley file—all data.”

“Took care of the ex last night,” he said with his mouth full. “Can’t find any break in his alibi so far.”

“Okay.” She appreciated the fast return, but decided not to mention it and have Peabody pouting all day. “I’ll be sending you another list from the field—run those names, then do a cross-check between the lists. Take a good look at the Hoffman twins, Rudy and Piper. I want anything that pops. And run this.”

She turned back to her computer, called up the evidence file, and shot out a hologram of the second brooch. “I want to know who made this piece, how many were manufactured, where they were sold, how many were sold, and to whom. Cross-check that with the first pin found on Hawley’s body. You getting this, McNab?”

“Sir.” He swallowed hastily, then tapped a finger to his temple. “Every bit.”

“You get me a name that matches both lists and the bauble, and I’ll see to it you’ve got fresh Danishes every morning for the rest of your life.”

“That’s a hell of an incentive.” He wiggled his fingers. “Let me at it.”

“Let’s ride, Peabody.” Eve rose, grabbed her bag. “Don’t bother Roarke, McNab,” she warned and headed out.

“Looking good, She-body,” McNab called just as Peabody hit the doorway. She snarled, hissed, stomped out, and left him feeling gratified.

“EDD’s full of detectives with class, you know,” Peabody complained as they trooped downstairs. “How come we’re stuck with the one asshole in the division?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Eve snagged her jacket off the newel post, and swung it on as they walked outside. “Christ, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

“You really ought to have a warmer coat, Lieutenant.”

“I’m used to this one.” But she slid into the car quickly. “Heat, for God’s sake,” she ordered. “Seventy-five degrees.”

“I love this unit.” Peabody snuggled into the seat. “Everything works.”

“Yeah. But it lacks character.” Still Eve glanced down with pleasure as her ’link signaled an incoming. “Catch this,” she told Peabody. “Screen incoming,” she ordered as she drove through the gates.

“Dallas? Dallas? Damn it.” The attractive and irritated face of ace screen reporter Nadine Furst came on screen. “I just missed you at home. Summerset said you’re on route somewhere. Answer the damn ’link, will you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hell, those city-issue units you cops drive never work.”

Peabody and Eve exchanged cheerful grins while Nadine continued to mutter. “I guess she got wind of the case.”

“Sure she did,” Eve confirmed. “Now she wants to hit me up for information for her midmorning report, and she’ll hound me for a one-on-one for the noon edition.”

“Dallas, I need more data on these women who were killed. Are the cases linked? Come on, Dallas, be a pal. I need to bump up my midmorning.”

“Told you,” Eve said complacently as she twisted through traffic.

“Get in touch, will you? We can set up a one-on-one. I’m on deadline here.”

“My heart bleeds.” Eve yawned as Nadine signed off.

“I like her,” Peabody commented.

“So do I. She’s fair, she’s accurate, and she’s good at what she does. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to take time out to give her ratings a goose. If I avoid her for a couple of days, she’ll be digging on her own. Let’s see what she can feed us for a change.”

“You’re sneaky, Lieutenant. I like that about you. But about McNab—”

“Live with it, Peabody,” Eve suggested and whipped up and into a second-level parking slot on the curb on Fifth.

Inside she went directly to a tube, stepped in, hooked her thumbs in her pockets, and tolerated the ride up to the office level of Personally Yours.

Manning the greeting desk was a young god with shoulders the size of mountains, skin the color of rich Swiss chocolate, and eyes like antique gold coins.

“Stop vibrating,” Eve muttered, and Peabody only grunted in response.

“Tell Rudy and Piper Lieutenant Dallas and aide are here.”

“Lieutenant.” His smile was dreamy and slow. “I’m sorry, but Rudy and Piper are in client consultations.”

“Tell them I’m here,” Eve repeated. “And that they’re minus another client.”

“Of course.” He gestured to the waiting area to the left. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Feel free to order up some refreshment while you wait.”

“Don’t keep me waiting long.”

He didn’t. Within five minutes, and before Peabody could weaken enough to order up something called a Raspberry Cream Froth, both Rudy and Piper stepped into the lobby area.

They were in white again, ankle dusters this time, with Piper jazzing hers up with a blue silk sash. Each wore a single gold hoop in the right ear—one the mate of the other.

It made Eve’s skin crawl.

“Lieutenant.” Rudy spoke, keeping a hand on Piper’s shoulder. “We’re a bit rushed this morning. Our schedule’s very full.”

“It just got fuller. You want to do this here, or in private?”

The faintest hint of irritation flickered in Rudy’s exotic eyes, but he gestured gracefully toward the hallway leading to their offices.

“Sarabeth Greenbalm,” Eve began the minute the door shut at her back. “She was found murdered yesterday. She was one of yours.”

“Oh God, oh my God.” Instantly Piper collapsed in a wide white chair and covered her face with her hands.

“Hush now.” Rudy ran a hand over Piper’s hair, caressed the back of her neck. “You’re certain she was a client?”

“Yes. I want her matches. Which one of you worked with her?”

“I would have.” Piper dropped her hands in her lap. The deep green eyes glinted with threatening tears, her pale gold mouth trembled. “I work with the female applicants, Rudy with the male unless otherwise requested. In general we find that people are more comfortable discussing romantic and sexual needs with a member of the same sex.”

“Okay.” Eve kept her eyes on Piper’s face and tried not to notice the way her hand crept up until it was swallowed by her brother’s.

“I remember her. Sarabeth. I remember her because she was dissatisfied with the first two matches. She wanted a full refund.”

“Did she get one?”

“We have a firm policy against refunds once the client has begun to explore the matches.” Rudy gave his sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then walked to his console.

“I see. Neither of you mentioned that you owned the company.”

“You didn’t ask,” Rudy said simply as he called up the data Eve had requested.

“Who besides the two of you would have access to client data?”

“We have thirty-six consultants,” Rudy began. “After the initial screening, which Piper and I deal with personally, applicants are assigned to the consultant who most suits their needs. Our consultants are screened, trained, and licensed, Lieutenant.”

“I want their names, full data.”

His eyes shuttered, seemed to frost. “I can’t agree to that. That kind of invasion into the privacy of our staff is insulting.”

Eve angled her head. “Peabody, request a warrant, search and seizure of all records, personnel and client lists, for Personally Yours. Log in reports on the Hawley and Greenbalm cases, and request warrant be issued directly to me through my communicator. And put a rush on it.”

“Right away, Lieutenant.”

“Rudy.” Rubbing her hands together, Piper rose. “Is this necessary?”

“I think it is.” He held out a hand, taking hers when she crossed to him. “If our records are to be part of a police investigation, I want it all to be documented. I apologize for what might seem like a lack of cooperation and compassion, Lieutenant Dallas, but I have a great many people to protect.”

“So do I.” When the communicator beeped, Piper jolted. “Excuse me.” Eve turned her back to them and slipped it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”

“We tagged the makeup used on Hawley.” Dickie scowled out of the screen. “Brand name’s Natural Perfection. High-dollar shit, like I figured.”

“Nice work, Dickie.”

“Yeah, it cost me overtime, and I got Christmas shopping to do. Prelim indicates the stuff on Greenbalm was the same brand. You gotta buy this crap through salons or an enhancement center. Can’t get it in regular stores, even high-end ones, or off screen.”

“Good, that’ll make it easier to trace. Who manufactures?”

His scowl transformed into a wide, wicked grin. “Renaissance Beauty and Health, a division of Kenbar, which is an arm of Roarke Industries. Don’t you know what your old man’s up to, Dallas?”

“Hell” was all Eve said, and she cut the transmission before she turned around. “Any of the salons in this building sell Natural Perfection products?”

“Yes.” Piper leaned against Rudy in a way that made Eve’s stomach roll over. “That line is showcased in All Things Beautiful on the tenth level.”

“Are you connected with the salon?”

“It’s a separate business, but we maintain relationships with all the salons and shops in the building.” Rudy moved to the console, opened a compartment, and selected a glossy, foldout brochure and attached disc. “Packages including salon work and gift certificates are available with consults here,” he said as he offered Eve the material.

“All Things Beautiful,” he continued, “is the most exclusive salon in the building. They also offer packages which include a consult with us in their Diamond Day plan.”

“Handy.”

“It’s good business” was Rudy’s response.

“Warrant approved, Lieutenant.” Peabody tucked her own communicator away again. “Processing transmission now.”

“Feed all that data to McNab,” Eve ordered Peabody when they were in the tube again.

“All of it?”

Eve didn’t spare much sympathy despite Peabody’s wide, shocked eyes. “All. Start with the matches on Greenbalm, then give him personnel. Go from there into client list, go back one year. I have a feeling our man is living pretty much in the present.”

“That’s going to take twenty or thirty minutes.”

“Then find yourself a quiet spot and get started. I get off here. Meet me in the salon when you’ve finished uploading data.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And buck up, Peabody. Pouting’s not attractive.”

“I’m not pouting,” Peabody said with some dignity. “I’m gritting. As in my teeth.” She sniffed audibly as the tube whooshed shut again.

The salon level smelled of forests and meadows. The sound system piped in soft, tinkling music of lyres and flutes. Underfoot was a carpet the color and consistency of crushed rose petals. The walls were dull silver and drenched with the slowly streaming flow of water that fed into a narrow canal that circled the entire floor. Palm-sized swans in pastel hues glided over its surface.

There were six salons in all, each with glass-fronted archways arbored with exotic vines. Eve recognized the reproduction of the Immortal blossom that had been trained to spiral up a thin, gilded curve that haloed the entrance of All Things Beautiful.

Figures, she thought. That particular bloom had caused her quite a bit of trouble once upon a time.

The doors parted fluidly as she approached. Inside, the lobby area was wide and sumptuous, with deep, cushioned scoop chairs in pale greens. Each was fitted with its own mini-screen and communication system. Statuary and sculpture ran to bronze nudes.

Small serving droids scooted here and there, carrying refreshments, reading material, VR goggles, and whatever else clients ordered for their amusement while they were beautified.

Two of the chairs were occupied by women who chatted absently and sipped something that looked like seafoam while they waited for their treatments. Both wore plush shell-pink robes with the salon’s name discreetly etched on the lapel.

“May I help you, madam?” The woman behind a U-shaped console gave Eve’s battered jeans, scarred boots, and untidy hair a slow, measuring study out of glittering silver eyes. The eyes matched the S-shaped streaks snaking through her wedge of triangular magenta hair. “I assume you’re looking for our Complete Woman package?”

Eve smiled pleasantly. “Is that a dig?”

The woman blinked with a flurry of silver lashes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind, sister. I want to talk about your Natural Perfection line.”

“Yes, of course. It’s the very best cosmetic and enhancement line money can buy. I’ll be happy to arrange for a consultant to speak with you. Would you care to make an appointment?”

“Yeah.” Eve slapped her badge on the console. “Now would be good.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can see that. Get me whoever runs this place.”

“Excuse me a moment.” The woman shifted on her high stool and spoke softly into her ’link. “Simon, could you come up front please?”

With her thumbs in her front pockets, Eve rocked back on her heels and studied the elegant bottles and tubes in the revolving display behind the console. “What’s all that?”

“Personalized scents. We feed your personality and physical traits into a program and create a scent that is uniquely you. The container is your choice. Each is one of a kind and, once selected, will never be made again.”

“Interesting.”

“They make thoughtful gifts,” she arched a razor-thin brow, “but are quite exclusive and expensive.”

“Really?” Irritated by the sarcasm, Eve sent her a tawny, slitted stare. “I want one.”

“Naturally the purchase must be prepaid before programming.”

Seriously riled, Eve imagined grabbing a handful of that stiff, streaked hair and rapping the perfect, sneering face firmly against the console. She took one step forward as hurried footsteps sounded on the floor behind her.

“Yvette, what seems to be the problem? I’m swamped back there.”

“She’s the problem,” Yvette said with a thin smile, and Eve turned and got a full blast of the magnificent Simon.

The eyes caught her first. They were a pale, almost translucent blue framed by thick dark lashes and thin ebony brows that each peaked to a ruler-sharp point in the middle. His hair was a brilliant ruby red, swept high off his forehead and temples and styled to tumble in a snowfall of springy curls to the middle of his back.

His skin had the dull gold sheen indicating mixed-race heritage or complexion dyes. His mouth was painted a deep bronze, and riding along his prominent left cheekbone was a white unicorn with gold horn and hooves.

He swept back the electric-blue cape draped over his shoulders. Beneath he wore a skinsuit of chartreuse and silver stripes with a deeply scooped neckline. A tangle of gold chains gleamed against his impressive chest. He angled his head, sending the long gold dangles in his ears dancing as he set one hand on one slim hip and studied Eve.

“And what can I do for you, dear heart?”

“I want—”

“Wait, wait!” He threw up both hands, palms out, revealing a chain of hearts and flowers tattooed there. “I know that face.” With a dramatic toss of his head, he circled Eve and gave her a whiff of his scent.

Plums, she thought. The guy smelled like plums.

“Faces,” he continued while Eve’s eyes narrowed, “are, after all, my art, my business, my stock and trade. I’ve seen yours. Oh yes indeed, I have.”

Abruptly, he grabbed Eve’s face between his hands and leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “Look, pal—”

“Roarke’s wife!” He squealed it, then planted a loud, juicy kiss on her mouth, leaping back before she could follow through with the urge to punch him. “That’s who you are! Darling,” he crooned, turning with his hands crossed over his heart to the receptionist. “Roarke’s wife is in our humble salon.”

“Roarke’s wife?” Yvette went bright red, then lost all color. “Oh,” she muttered and looked ill.

“Sit, you must sit and tell me everything you desire.” He scooped an arm around Eve’s shoulders and began to nudge her toward a chair. “Yvette, be a lamb and cancel all my consultations. Dear lady, I am yours. Where shall we begin?”

“You can begin by stepping back, ace.” She shrugged off his arm, and with some regret pulled out her badge instead of her weapon. “I’m here on police business.”

“Oh my, oh my goodness.” Simon patted his hands to his cheeks. “How could I have forgotten? Roarke’s wife is one of New York’s finest. Forgive me, dear heart.”

“The name is Dallas, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Of course.” Then he smiled sweetly. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. My enthusiasm . . . I tend to emote. Seeing you here, I lost my head, if you will. You see, you’re on our top ten wish list, along with Madam President and Slinky LeMar—the video Queen,” he added when Eve’s eyes remained narrowed. “It’s excellent company.”

“Right. I need your client list for the Natural Perfection line.”

“Our client list.” He laid a hand on his heart again, and sat. He touched the video screen and had the menu popping on. “A sparkling lemon. Please, Lieutenant, allow me to offer you some refreshment.”

“I’m fine.” But because he looked chastised and didn’t appear to be planning on grabbing her again, she sat across from him. “I need the list, Simon.”

“Is it permissible to ask why?”

“I’m investigating a homicide.”

“A murder.” He whispered it, leaned closer. “I know it’s dreadful, but I find that terribly exciting. I’m an avid fan of mystery and detective videos.” He offered that sweet smile again, and despite herself Eve softened.

“This is a little different than a video, Simon.”

“I know, I know. It’s horrid of me. Ghoulish. But I can’t imagine how a line of cosmetics and enhancements figure into a . . .” His eyes went wide and bright. “Poison? Was it poison? Someone added poison to the lip dyes. The victim prepared herself for a glorious night on the town—perhaps she used Radical Red, or no, no, Bombshell Bronze, then—”

“Get a grip on yourself, Simon.”

His lashes fluttered, his color went bright, then he chuckled warmly. “I should be spanked.” Without glancing over, he scooped a tall, slim glass of pale yellow liquid from the serving droid that zipped to his chair. “Of course, we’ll cooperate, Lieutenant, in any way we can. I should warn you that our client list is quite extensive. If you could give me specific products, we could whittle it down considerably.”

“Give me the whole shot for now, then I’ll see what I can do.”

“At your command.” He rose, bowed, then waltzed behind the console. “Yvette, give dear Lieutenant Dallas some samples while I perform this little task for her. There’s a lamb.”

“I don’t need any samples.” Eve smiled thinly at Yvette. “But I want the scent we were talking about.”

“Absolutely.” The receptionist nearly knelt at Eve’s feet. “Would this be for yourself?”

“No, it’s a gift.”

“And a very thoughtful one.” Yvette took a personal palm computer out of her pocket. “Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Could you give me three of her strongest personality traits? As in bold or shy or romantic.”

“Intelligent,” Eve said, thinking of Dr. Mira. “Compassionate. Thorough.”

“Very good. Now something of the physical?”

“Medium height, slender, brown hair, blue eyes, light complexion.”

“That’s very nice,” Yvette said. For a police report, she thought in disgust. “What color brown is her hair? How does she wear it?”

Eve hissed between her teeth. This Christmas shopping was tough stuff. Doing her best, she focused and described the city’s top profiler and shrink.

By the time Peabody walked in, she was choosing the bottle and waiting for Simon to generate hard copy and disc.

“You shopped again.”

“No, I bought again.”

“Should we have this delivered to your home or office, Lieutenant?”

“Home.”

“Would you like it gift wrapped?”

“Hell. Yeah, yeah, wrap it up. Simon, how about that data?”

“Just coming, Lieutenant dear.” He looked up, beamed at her. “I’m so happy we could help you in that matter.” He slipped the papers and disc into a gold foil shopping bag. “I added some samples. I think you’ll find them perfect. Naturally.” He chuckled at his own joke as he passed the bag to Eve. “And I hope you’ll keep me informed. Please come back, any time, any time at all. I’d love to work on you.”

An ocean of humanity swamped Fifth Avenue. People swarmed on the sidewalks, the people glides, clogged the intersections and crowded at display windows, all in a flurry to get into stores and buy.

Some, already burdened like pack mules with shopping bags, elbowed and shoved their way through the waves of pedestrians to fight the hopeless fight for a cab.

Overhead advertising blimps encouraged the masses toward a shopping frenzy with competing announcements of sales and products no consumer could live without.

“They’re all insane,” Eve decided as she watched a mini-stampede toward a maxibus heading downtown. “Every one of them.”

“You bought something twenty minutes ago.”

“In a civilized and dignified manner.”

Peabody shrugged. “I like crowds at Christmastime.”

“Then I’m about to make you very happy. We’re getting out.”

“Here?”

“It’s as close as we’re going to get in a vehicle.” Eve nosed her car through the stream of people and inched it toward the curb at Fifth and Fifty-first. “The jeweler’s just a few blocks down. We’ll make better time on foot.”

Peabody shoehorned her way out, and caught up with Eve’s long strides on the corner. The wind rushed down the street like a river through a canyon and turned the tip of her nose pink before they’d managed a block.

“I hate this shit,” Eve muttered. “Half these people don’t even live here. They come in from all over hell and back to clog the streets every damn December.”

“And drop a nice ton of money in our economy.”

“Cause delays, petty crime, traffic accidents. You try to get uptown at six o’clock some night. It’s ugly.” Scowling, she walked through the roasting meat–scented steam of a corner glide-cart.

A shout had her flicking her glance to the left in time to see a scuffle. She lifted a brow in mild interest as a street thief on airskates toppled a pair of women, snatched what bags he could reach, snagged both purses, and skimmed away through the crowd.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him.” Eve noted his grin of triumph as he weaved through the crowds of people, gaining speed as they leaped out of his path.

He ducked, swiveled, dodged, then veered around toward Eve’s right. Their eyes met for one brief second, his bright with excitement, hers flat and level. She pivoted and took him out with one short-armed, back-fisted punch. Had there been less of a crowd, she thought he would have sailed nicely for ten feet or so. Instead he barreled back into a group of people, upended with his skates still humming and facing the sky.

Blood gushed out of his nose. His eyes rolled back white.

“See if you can get a beat cop in here to take care of this jerk.” Eve flexed her fingers, rolled her shoulder, then absently put one booted foot on the thief’s midriff as he began to moan and squirm. “You know what, Peabody? I feel a lot better now.”

• • •

Later, Eve thought busting the thief had been the high point of her day. She didn’t learn squat from the jeweler. Neither he nor his sour-faced clerk remembered anything about the customer who’d paid cash for the partridge pin. It was Christmas, the jeweler had complained, even while his clerk rang up sales with the speed and precision of an accounting droid. How was he supposed to remember one transaction?

Eve suggested he think harder, and contact her when his memory cleared. Then ended up buying a copper ear chain for Mavis’s lover, Leonardo—much to Peabody’s disgust.

“You catch some transpo, go back to the house, and work with McNab.”

“Why don’t you just punch me in the face with a bare fist?”

“Handle it, Peabody. I’m going into Central. I’ll need to give Whitney an update, and I want to see Mira, start her working on a profile.”

“Maybe you’ll pick up a few more Christmas presents on the way.”

Eve stopped by her car. “Was that sarcasm?”

“I don’t think so. It was too direct for sarcasm.”

“Find me a match on those lists, Peabody, or we start interviewing lonely hearts.”

Eve left Peabody elbowing her way toward Sixth to catch a maxibus uptown. She engaged her ’link as she headed in the opposite direction, and set up the two meetings.

She scanned the incoming, listened to Nadine’s harried voice, and decided to give the reporter a break. “Stop whining, Nadine.”

“Dallas, Christ, where have you been?”

“Keeping the city safe for you and yours.”

“Look, there’s just enough time to plug something into my noon report. Give me a line here.”

“I just busted a mugger on Fifth.”

“Don’t be droll, I’m up against the wall. What’s the connection between the two murders?”

“Which two murders? We got a lot of bodies this time of year. Christmas brings out that wacky holiday spirit.”

Nadine snarled audibly. “Hawley and Greenbalm. Come on, Dallas. Two women strangled. I’ve got that much. You’re primary on both. I hear there was sexual molestation. Will you confirm?”

“The department will not confirm or deny at this time.”

“Rape and sodomy.”

“No comment.”

“Damn it, why the hardball?”

“I don’t have any breathing room right now. I’m trying to stop a killer, Nadine, and I just can’t be too worried about the ratings for Channel 75.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“I guess we are, and because of that when I’ve got something to give, you’ll get it.”

Nadine’s eyes brightened. “First, exclusive?”

“Don’t keep tying up my ’link.”

“A one-on-one, Dallas. Let me set it up. I can be at Cop Central by one.”

“No. I’ll let you know when and where, but I don’t have time for you today.” And time, Eve thought, was the biggest factor. No one she knew researched as fast or as deep as Nadine Furst. “You’re not seeing anybody in particular these days, are you, Nadine?”

“Seeing anyone—as in dating or sleeping with? No, not in particular.”

“Ever try one of those dating services?”

“Please.” Nadine’s eyelashes fluttered as she lifted her hand to examine her manicure. “I think I can find my own men.”

“Just a thought. I hear they’re popular.” Eve paused and watched Nadine’s eyes narrow and glitter. “You might want to give it a try.”

“Yeah, I might do that. Thanks. Gotta run. I’m on in five.”

“One thing. Do I have to buy you a Christmas present?”

Nadine’s brows went up, her lips curved in a wide smile. “Absolutely.”

“Damn, I was afraid of that.” Frowning, Eve broke transmission and steered into the garage at Cop Central.

On the way to Whitney’s office, she snagged an energy bar and a tube of Extra-Zing Coke from a vending machine. She wolfed down the bar, chugged the soft drink, and as a result stepped into Whitney’s office feeling slightly ill.

“Status, Lieutenant?”

“I have McNab from EDD working with my aide at my home office, Commander. We have the lists from Personally Yours for each victim. We’re hoping to get a match. We’re still working on the jewelry he left with the victims, and have the brand and projected source for the enhancements he used.”

He nodded. Whitney was a powerfully built man with a smooth, dark complexion and tired eyes. Through the window at his back, Eve could see the city—the constant flow of air traffic around the spears of buildings; people moving around offices behind other windows. She knew if you stepped up to that window, you could look down and see the street below. All the people rushing to or away. All the lives that needed protecting.

As always she thought she preferred her cramped office and limited view.

“Do you know how many tourists and out-of-state consumers come into the city in the weeks before Christmas?”

“No, sir.”

“The mayor gave me the estimated number this morning when he called to inform me the city couldn’t afford a serial killer scaring away holiday dollars.” His smile was thin and humorless. “He didn’t seem, at that point, to be overly concerned with residents of the city being raped and strangled, but with the distressing side effects such events could cause if the media plays the Santa killer angle.”

“The media isn’t aware of that angle at this time.”

“How long before it leaks?” Whitney leaned back, kept his eyes level and on Eve’s.

“Maybe a couple of days. Channel 75 has already been tipped that they’re sexual homicides, but their data is patchy at this point.”

“Let’s see if we can keep it that way. How long before he hits again?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.” No way to stop it, she thought, and saw by Whitney’s face he understood.

“The dating service is the only connection you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir. At this time. There’s no indication that the victims knew each other. They lived in different parts of the city, moved in widely different circles. They weren’t of a type, physically.”

She paused, waiting, but Whitney said nothing. “I’m going to consult with Mira,” Eve continued. “But in my opinion he’s already established a pattern and a goal. He wants twelve on or before the end of the year. That’s less than two weeks, so he has to move quickly.”

“So do you.”

“Yes, sir. The source of his victims has to be Personally Yours. We’ve tagged the cosmetics used on the victims. Sources of purchase for them in the city are fairly limited. We have the pins he left at both sites.” Then she exhaled. “He knew we could trace the cosmetics; he left the pins deliberately. He feels secure that his tracks are covered. If we don’t find a match within the next twenty-four hours, our best defense might be the media.”

“And tell them what? If you spot a fat man in a red suit, call a cop?” He pushed back from his desk. “Find a match, Lieutenant. I don’t want twelve bodies under my tree this Christmas.”

Eve pulled out her communicator as she left Whitney’s office. “McNab, make me happy.”

“I’m doing my best, Lieutenant.” He gestured with what appeared to be a slice of pineapple pizza. “I’ve pretty well eliminated the ex-husband of the first victim. He was at an arena ball match with three friends on the night of the murder. Peabody’s going to check on the three pals, but it looks solid. No transpo to New York was issued under his name. He hasn’t been to the east coast in over two years.”

“One down,” Eve said as she hopped a glide. “Give me more.”

“None of the names on Hawley’s list match any on Greenbalm’s, but I’m checking finger- and voiceprints to make sure nobody tried to pull a fast one there.”

“Good thinking.”

“And two on Hawley’s list look clear so far. Need to follow up, but they’re alibied. I’m just going into Greenbalm’s now.”

“Run the names on the cosmetics first.” She dragged a hand through her hair as she stepped off the glide and squeezed into an elevator. “I should be back within two hours.”

She got off the elevator, crossed a small lobby area, and entered Mira’s offices. There was no one at the reception desk, and Mira’s door stood open. Poking her head in, Eve saw Mira reviewing a case file on video and nibbling on a thin sandwich.

It wasn’t often she caught Mira unaware, Eve mused. Mira was a woman who saw almost everything. Too much, Eve often thought, when it came to herself.

She wasn’t sure what had caused the bond to form between them. She respected Mira’s abilities—though they sometimes made her uncomfortable.

Mira was a small, cleanly built woman with soft sable hair waving elegantly around a cool, attractive face. She habitually wore slim suits in quiet colors. Eve supposed that Mira represented all she, Eve, thought a lady should be: self-contained, quietly elegant, well spoken.

Dealing with mental defectives, violent tendencies, and habitual perverts never seemed to ruffle Mira’s composure or her compassion. Her profiles of madmen and murderers were invaluable to the New York Police and Security Department.

Eve hesitated at the door just long enough for Mira to sense her. The psychiatrist turned her head, and her blue eyes warmed when they met Eve’s.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Your assistant isn’t at her station.”

“She’s at lunch. Come in, close the door. I was expecting you.”

Eve glanced at the sandwich. “I’m cutting into your break.”

“Cops and doctors. We take our breaks where we find them. Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thanks.” The energy bar wasn’t sitting well in her stomach, which made her wonder just how long it had been since the vending machine had been serviced.

Despite Eve’s refusal, Mira rose and ordered tea from the AutoChef. It was a ritual Eve had learned to live with. She’d sip the faintly floral-tasting brew, but she didn’t have to like it.

“I’ve reviewed the data you were able to transmit, and the copies of your case reports. I’ll have a complete and written profile for you tomorrow.”

“What can you give me today?”

“Probably little you haven’t gleaned for yourself.” Mira settled back in one of the blue scoop chairs similar to those in Simon’s salon.

Eve’s face, she noted, was a bit too pale, a bit too thin. Mira hadn’t seen her since Eve’s return to duty, and her doctor’s eye diagnosed that the return had been rushed.

But she kept that opinion to herself.

“The person you’re looking for is likely a male between the ages of thirty and fifty-five,” she began. “He’s controlled, calculating, and organized. He enjoys the spotlight and feels he deserves to be the focus of attention. He may have had some aspirations toward acting or a connection to the field.”

“He showed off for the camera, played to it.”

“Exactly.” Mira nodded, pleased. “He employed costumes and props, and not just, in my opinion, as tools and disguises. But for the flair of it, and the irony. I wonder if he sees his cruelty as irony.”

She took a breath, shifted her legs, and sipped at her tea. If she’d believed Eve would actually drink the cup she’d given her, Mira would have added some vitamins to it. “It’s possible. It’s a stage, a show. He enjoys that aspect very much. The preparation, the details. He’s a coward, but a careful one.”

“They’re all cowards,” Eve stated and had Mira tilting her head.

“Yes, you would see it that way, because to you the taking of a life is only justifiable in defense of another. For you murder is the ultimate cowardice. But in this case, I would say he recognizes his own fears. He drugs his victims quickly—not to save them pain but to prevent them from fighting, and perhaps overcoming him physically. He needs to set the stage. He puts them in bed, restrains them before cutting off their clothes. He doesn’t strip them in a rage, and he makes certain they’re bound before he goes to the next step. Now they’re helpless, now they’re his.”

“Then he rapes them.”

“Yes, when they’re bound. Naked and helpless. If they were free they would reject him. He knows this. He’s been rejected. But now he can do as he wishes. He needs them awake and aware for this so that they can see him, so they know he has the power, so they struggle but can’t escape.”

The words, the images, had Eve’s already uneasy stomach pitching. Memories danced too close to the surface. “Rape’s always about power.”

“Yes.” Because she understood Mira wanted to reach out and take Eve’s hand. And because she understood, she didn’t. “He strangles them because it’s personal, an extension of the sexual act. Hands to the throat. It’s intimate.”

Mira smiled a little. “How much of this had you already concluded?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re confirming my take on him.”

“All right then. The garland is trimming. Props again, show, irony. They’re gifts from himself to himself. The Christmas theme may have some personal meaning to him, or it may simply be the symbolism.”

“What about the destruction of Marianna Hawley’s tree and ornaments?” When Mira only cocked a brow, Eve shrugged. “Breaking the symbol of the holiday in the tree, the eradication of purity in the angel ornaments.”

“It would suit him.”

“The pins and tattoos.”

“He’s a romantic.”

“A romantic?”

“Yes, he’s very much the romantic. He brands them as his love, he leaves them a token, and he takes the time and the trouble to make them beautiful before he leaves them. Anything less than that would make them an unworthy gift.”

“Did he know them?”

“Yes, I would say he did. Whether they knew him is another matter. But he knew them, he’d observed them. He’d chosen them and for the length of time he had them, they were his true love. He doesn’t mutilate,” she added, leaning forward. “He decorates, enhances. Artistically, perhaps even lovingly. But when he is finished, he is done. He sprays the body with disinfectant, erasing himself. He washes, scrubs, erasing them from him. And when he leaves, he is jubilant. He’s won. And it’s time to prepare for the next.”

“Hawley and Greenbalm were nothing alike physically, nor in their lifestyles, their habits, or their work.”

“But they had one thing in common,” Mira put in. “They were both, at one time, lonely enough, needy enough, interested enough, to pay for help in finding a companion.”

“Their true love.” Eve set her untouched tea aside. “Thanks.”

“I hope you’re well.” Aware that Eve was braced to rise and leave, Mira stalled. “Fully recovered from your injuries.”

“I’m fine.”

No, Mira thought, not quite fine. “You only took what, two or three weeks off to recover from serious injuries.”

“I’m better off working.”

“Yes, I know you think so.” Mira smiled again. “Are you ready for the holidays?”

Eve didn’t squirm in her chair, but she wanted to. “I’ve picked up a couple of presents.”

“It must be difficult finding something for Roarke.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something perfect. No one knows him better than you.”

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.” And because it was in the back of her mind, she spoke without thinking. “He’s getting into all this Christmas stuff. Parties and trees. I just figured we’d hand each other something and be done with it.”

“Neither of you have the memories of childhood everyone’s entitled to—of anticipation and wonder, of Christmas mornings with pretty boxes stacked under the tree. I’d say Roarke intends to start making those memories, for the two of you. Knowing him,” she added with a laugh, “they won’t be ordinary.”

“I think he’s ordered a small forest of trees.”

“Give yourself a chance at that anticipation and wonder, as a gift for both of you.”

“With Roarke you don’t have a choice.” She did stand now. “I appreciate the time, Dr. Mira.”

“One last thing, Eve.” Mira got to her feet as well. “He’s not dangerous at this point to anyone other than the person he’s focused on. He won’t kill indiscriminately or without purpose and planning. But I can’t say when that might change, or what might trigger a shift in pattern.”

“I’ve got some thoughts on that. I’ll be in touch.”

Peabody and McNab were bickering when she walked into her home office. They sat side by side at her workstation snarling at each other like a couple of bulldogs over the same bone.

Ordinarily it might have amused Eve, but at the moment it was only one more irritation. “Break it up,” she snapped and had both of them shooting to attention with grim, resentful faces. “Report.”

When they both began to talk at once, she seethed for approximately five seconds then bared her teeth. That shut both of them up. “Peabody?”

Risking one smug sidelong glance at her nemesis, Peabody began. “We have three matches with the cosmetics. Two from Hawley’s list and one from Greenbalm’s. One from each bought the works, from skin care to lash dye. The second from Hawley’s purchased eye and brow pencils and two lip dyes. We got a hit on what was used on Greenbalm’s mouth. That’s Cupid’s Coral. All three purchased that shade.”

“Problem.” McNab lifted a finger like an instructor halting an overzealous student. “Both Cupid Coral lip dye and Musk Brown lash enhancer are routinely given as samples. In fact,” he gestured to the counter where the samples Eve had been given were lined up, “you have both here.”

“We can’t track every stupid sample,” Peabody said with a dangerous edge to her voice. “We have three names, and a place to start.”

“The Fog Over London eye smudger used on Hawley is one of the pricier products and it isn’t given out as a sample. You only get it as a separate or when you buy the whole shot in the deluxe package. We follow the smudger, we’ll be closer to the mark.”

“And maybe the son of a bitch lifted the smudger when he was buying the rest of the stuff.” Peabody turned on McNab. “You want to track every shoplifter in the city now?”

“It’s the only product we can’t trace so far. So it’s the one we have to find.”

They were nose to nose when Eve stepped forward and gave them both a shove. “The next one who speaks, I’m taking down. You’re both right. We interview the matches, and we look for the eye gunk. Peabody, get the names, go down to my vehicle, and wait for me.”

Peabody didn’t have to speak, not when a ramrod-stiff spine and hot eyes could say volumes. The minute she stalked out, McNab shoved his hands in his pockets. But when he opened his mouth, he caught the warning glint Eve shot him, and closed it again.

“You run Personally Yours again, client and personnel, find who on there bought that smudger, and see how many more of the products used on the victims you can match.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Say yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Good. While you’re at it, McNab, see if you can wiggle into Piper and Rudy’s credit account. Let’s find out what brand of enhancements they use.” She waited, brows still high. One thing McNab wasn’t was slow.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“And stop pouting,” she ordered as she strode out.

“Females,” McNab muttered under his breath, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spotted Roarke standing in the open doorway between the offices, grinning at him.

“Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?” Roarke stepped in.

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“Ah, but you’ll be a hero, won’t you, if you can match your product with the right name.” He strolled over, scanned the lists and documents that they both knew were official business, and none of his. “I find I have an hour or two free. Want some help?”

“Well, I . . .” McNab glanced toward the door.

“Don’t worry about the lieutenant.” Roarke pleased himself and sat at the computer. “I can handle her.”

Donnie Ray Michael wore a ratty brown bathrobe and a silver nose ring with an emerald cabochon. His eyes were a bleary hazel, his hair the color of butter, and his breath ferocious.

He studied Eve’s badge, expelling air in a yawn that nearly knocked her flat, then scratched his armpit.

“What?”

“Donnie Ray? Got a minute?”

“Yeah, I got plenty of minutes, but what?”

“I’ll tell you after we come in, and you gargle with a gallon or two of mouthwash.”

“Oh.” He went slightly pink and stepped back. “I was asleep. Wasn’t expecting visitors. Or cops.” But he waved them inside, then disappeared down a short hallway.

The place was as tidy as your average pigsty, with clothes, empty and half-empty take-out containers, overflowing ashtrays, and a litter of computer discs strewn over the floor. In the corner beside a threadbare sofa was a music stand and a brightly polished saxophone.

Eve caught a drift in the air of very old onions and the shadow of an illegal usually consumed by smoking. “If we decide a search is in order,” Eve told Peabody, “we’ve got probable cause.”

“What, suspicion of toxic waste?”

“There’s that.” Eve toed what might have been underwear aside. “He’s been pumping Zoner, probably as a bedtime soother. You can just smell it.”

Peabody sniffed. “I just smell sweat and onions.”

“It’s there.”

Donnie Ray walked back in, his eyes slightly clearer, his face red and damp from a quick splash. “Sorry about the mess. Droid’s year off. What’s this about?”

“Do you know Marianna Hawley?”

“Marianna?” His brow wrinkled in thought. “I dunno. Should I?”

“You matched with her through Personally Yours.”

“Oh, the dating gig.” He kicked clothes out of the way then dropped into a chair. “Yeah, I gave that a shot a few months back. I was in a drought.” He smiled a little, then shrugged. “Marianna. Was she a big redhead—no, that was Tanya. We hit it off pretty well, but she moved to Albuquerque for Christ’s sake. I mean what rocks there?”

“Marianna, Donnie Ray. Slim brunette. Green eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, now I get her. Sweet. We didn’t click, too much like, well, a sister. She came to the club where I was blowing and heard me, we had a couple of drinks. So?”

“You ever watch the screen, read the paper?”

“Not when I’ve got a steady gig. I’m booked with a group downtown at the Empire. Been doing the ten-to-four slot for the last three weeks.”

“Seven nights on?”

“No, five. You blow seven nights, you lose the edge.”

“How about Tuesday night?”

“I’m off Tuesday. Mondays and Tuesdays are clear.” His eyes were focused now and just beginning to go wary. “What’s the deal?”

“Marianna Hawley was murdered Tuesday night. You got an alibi for Tuesday from nine to midnight?”

“Oh, shit. Shit. Murdered. Jesus H.” He sprang up, stumbling over debris as he paced. “Man, that bites. She was a sweetheart.”

“Did you want her to be your sweetheart? Your true love.”

He stopped pacing. Eve found it interesting that he didn’t look frightened or angry. He looked sorry. “Look, I had a couple of drinks with her one night. A little talk, tried to convince her to take a harmless roll, but she wasn’t into it. I liked her. You couldn’t help but like her.”

He pushed his fingers against his eyes, then ran them back into his hair again. “That was, hell, six months ago, maybe more. I haven’t seen her since. What happened to her?”

“Tuesday night, Donnie Ray.”

“Tuesday?” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. Hell, who remembers? I probably did a few clubs, some hanging. Lemme think a minute.”

He closed his eyes, blew out a couple of breaths. “Tuesday I went down to Crazy Charlie’s and heard this new band.”

“Did you go with anybody?”

“A few of us started out together. I don’t know who ended up at Crazy’s. I was pretty wasted by then.”

“Tell me, Donnie Ray, what did you buy the full product line of Natural Perfection for? You don’t look like the type to paint up.”

“What?” He looked baffled, then dropped into the chair again. “What the hell is Natural Perfection?”

“You ought to know. You spent over two thousand on the line. Cosmetics, Donnie Ray. Enhancements.”

“Cosmetics.” He shoved his hands through his hair until it stood up in buttery spikes. “Oh shit, yeah. The jazzy stuff. My mother’s birthday. I bought her the works.”

“You spent two large on your mother’s birthday?” With doubt obvious in her eyes, Eve glanced around the cramped, messy room.

“My mother’s the best. The old man ditched us when I was a kid. She worked like three dogs to keep a roof over my head, and to pay for music lessons.” He nodded toward the sax. “I make good money blowing. Fucking good. Now I’m helping to pay for the roof over her head, in Connecticut. A decent house in a decent neighborhood. This . . . ” he gestured to encompass the room, “it don’t matter a damn to me. I’m hardly here except to flake out.”

“How about I call your mother, right now, and ask her what her boy Donnie Ray gave her for her last birthday?”

“Sure.” Without hesitation he jerked a thumb toward the ’link on a table by the wall. “Her number’s programmed. Just do me a favor, okay? Don’t tell her you’re a cop. She worries. Say you’re doing a survey or something.”

“Peabody, ditch the uniform jacket and call Donnie Ray’s mom.” Eve moved out of transmission range and sat on the arm of a chair. “Rudy at Personally Yours do your profile?”

“No, well, I talked to him first. I got the feeling everybody does. Like an audition. Then some joker did the consult. What do you like to do for entertainment, what do you dream about, what’s your favorite color. You take a physical, too, to make sure you’re clean.”

“They didn’t turn up traces of Zoner.”

He had the grace to look abashed. “No. I was clean.”

“I bet your mother would want you to stay that way.”

“Ms. Michael received a complete line of Natural Perfection Cosmetics and Enhancers from her son on her birthday.” Peabody shrugged back into her uniform jacket, then gave Donnie Ray a smile. “She was really happy with the gift.”

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“She’s the best.”

“That’s what she said about you,” Peabody told him.

“I got her diamond earrings for Christmas. Well, they’re really just chips, but she’d get a large charge.” He was eyeing Peabody with interest now, having seen her without the stiff jacket. “You ever get down to the Empire?”

“Not yet.”

“You ought to drop in. We really blow.”

“Maybe I will.” But she caught Eve’s owlish look and cleared her throat. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Michael.”

“Do your mother a favor,” Eve said as they headed for the door. “Shovel out this garbage heap and lay off the Zoner.”

“Yeah, sure.” And Donnie Ray gave Peabody a suggestive wink before he closed the door.

“It’s unseemly to flirt with suspects, Officer Peabody.”

“He’s not really a suspect.” Peabody glanced over her shoulder. “And he was really cute.”

“He’s a suspect until we confirm his alibi. And he’s a pig.”

“But a really cute pig. Sir.”

“We’ve got two more interviews to conduct, Peabody. Try to control your hormones.”

“I do, Dallas, I do.” She sighed as she climbed back into the car. “But it’s so nice when they control me.”

Spending most of the day doing interviews without making a crack in a case didn’t put Eve in the best of moods. Finding McNab packed and gone when she returned to her home office darkened her mood a bit more.

She considered it fortunate for his future well-being that he’d left her a memo, and a nibble.

“Lieutenant. Logged off at sixteen forty-five. List of names and products under case file, subhead E for Evidence Two-A. Couple of pops might interest you. I got hits on both Piper and Rudy on the smudger, another on Piper for the lip dye. By the way, the two of them are rolling in credits. Not that they’d give Roarke a run, but they aren’t hurting. Interesting, too, all their assets are held jointly, down to the last penny. Report also in file.”

All their assets held jointly, Eve mused. Her impression had been that Rudy manned the business end of things. It had always been Rudy who’d made the decisions, gone to the console when she’d been there.

It followed that he handled the money, too.

He had the control, Eve decided. He had the power.

And the opportunity, the access.

“One other hit on smudger,” McNab’s voice continued. “Two on lip dye, with Charles Monroe popping on both. Missed him first pass because he put another name on the credit slip for the mailing list of new products and specials. Profile on Monroe included.”

Eve frowned as the memo ended. Her instincts might have been steering her toward Rudy, but it looked as though she was going to pay Charles Monroe a visit.

Glancing over, she saw the light over the door that adjoined Roarke’s office was on. If he was busy, it was as good a time as any to check on a more personal matter.

She moved quietly, using the stairs rather than the elevator, keeping an eye out for Summerset as she lengthened her strides toward the library.

The walls of the two-level room were lined with books. It always baffled her that a man who could buy a small planet at the snap of a finger preferred the weight and bulk of a book rather than the convenience of reading on screen.

One of his quirks, she supposed, though she could appreciate the rich smell of leather from the bindings, the glossy look of the spines as they marched along the dark mahogany shelves.

There were two generous seating areas, more leather in the wood-trimmed deep burgundy sofas and chairs, jewels of colors on glass lamp shades, the sheen of brass, the shine of old wood in cabinets deeply carved by craftsmen from another century.

Drapes were open to the night around a wide window seat dressed with thick pillows in tones that picked up the multi-hues of the lamps. Enormous and ancient rugs with intricate patterns over a red-wine background stretched over the wide and polished chestnut planks of the floor.

She knew a full-range multitask computer system was hidden behind the antique cabinet. But everything in view in the room spoke of age and wealth and a taste for both.

She didn’t come here often, but she knew Roarke did. She might find him sitting in one of the leather chairs in the evening, his long legs stretched out, a brandy by his elbow and a book in his hands. Reading relaxed him, he’d told her. And she knew it was a skill he’d taught himself as a boy in the slums of Dublin when he’d found a tattered copy of Yeats in an alley.

She crossed to the cabinet and opened the doors rich with inlays of lapis and malachite. “Engage,” she ordered and cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. “Search library, all sections, for Yeats.”

Yeats, Elizabeth; Yeats, William Butler?

Her brows came together, her hand scooped through her hair. “How the hell do I know? It’s some Irish poet.”

Yeats, William Butler, confirmed. Searching stacks . . . The Wanderings Of Oisin, Section D, shelf five. The Countess of Cathleen, Section D—

“Wait.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shift search. Tell me what books by this guy aren’t in the library.”

Adjusting . . . Searching . . .

He probably had every damn thing anyway. Stupid idea, she decided, and jammed her hands in her pockets.

“Lieutenant.”

And nearly jumped out of her boots. She whirled around and stared at Summerset. “What? Damn it, I hate when you do that.”

He merely continued to eye her blandly. He knew she hated when he came up on her unawares. It was one of the reasons he so enjoyed doing it. “May I help you find a book—though I didn’t realize you read anything but reports and the occasional disc on aberrant behavior.”

“Look, pal, I’ve got a perfect right to be in here.” Which didn’t explain why being found in the library made her feel like a sneak. “And I don’t need your help.”

All works by subject author, Yeats, William Butler, are included in library. Do you require locations and titles?

“No, damn it. I knew it.”

“Yeats, Lieutenant?” Curious, Summerset moved into the room, closely followed by Galahad, who padded over to Eve, scissored between her legs, then deserted her to leap onto the window seat and stare out at the night as if he owned it.

“So what?”

He only raised his eyebrows. “Was there a play you were interested in, a collection, a particular poem?”

“What are you, the library police?”

“These books are quite valuable,” he said coolly. “Many are first editions and quite rare. You’ll find all of Yeats’s work in the disc library as well. That method, I’m sure, would suit you better.”

“I don’t want to read the damn thing. I just wanted to see if there was something he didn’t have, which is stupid because he has every damn thing, so what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“About what?”

“Christmas, you moron.” Incensed, she turned back to the computer. “Disengage.”

Summerset pursed his lips and followed the train of thought. “You wished to purchase a volume of Yeats for Roarke as a Christmas gift.”

“That was the idea, which turns out to suck.”

“Lieutenant,” he said as she started to storm out.

“What?”

It annoyed him when she did or said something that touched him. But it couldn’t be helped. And he owed her for risking, nearly losing, her life to save his. That simple fact, Summerset knew, made them both uncomfortable. Perhaps he could even the scales, by a small weight.

“He does not own, as yet, a first edition copy of The Celtic Twilight.”

The mutinous glare faded, though some suspicion remained. “What is it?”

“It’s a prose collection.”

“By this Yeats guy?”

“Yes.”

A part of her, a small, nasty part, wanted to shrug and walk away. But she jammed her hands in her pockets and stuck. “The search said he had everything.”

“He owns the book, but not in a first edition. Yeats is particularly important to Roarke. I imagine you know that. I have a connection to a rare book dealer in Dublin. I could contact him and see if it can be acquired.”

“Bought,” Eve said firmly. “Not stolen.” She smiled thinly when Summerset’s spine snapped stiff. “I know something about your connections. We keep it legal.”

“I never intended otherwise. But it won’t come cheap.” It was his turn to smile, just as thinly. “And there will, no doubt, be a charge for securing the acquisition in time for Christmas, as you’ve waited until the eleventh hour.”

She didn’t wince, but she wanted to. “If your connection can find it, I want it.” Then because she couldn’t figure a way around it, she shrugged. “Thanks.”

He nodded stiffly, and waited until she’d left the room before he grinned.

This, Eve thought, was what being in love did to you. It made you have to cooperate with the biggest annoyance in your life. And, she thought sourly as she took the elevator to the bedroom, if the skinny son of a bitch actually pulled it off, she was going to owe him.

It was mortifying.

Then the elevator doors opened, and there was Roarke with a half smile on his lost angel face, his eyes impossibly blue with pleasure.

What was a little mortification?

“I didn’t know you were home yet.”

“Yeah, I was . . . doing stuff.” She cocked her head. She knew that look. “Why are you looking so smug?”

He took her hand, drew her into the room. “What do you think?” he asked and gestured.

Centered in the deeply recessed window on the far side of the raised platform that held their bed was a tree. Its boughs fanned out into the room and rose up and up until the tip all but speared the ceiling.

She blinked at it. “It’s big.”

“Obviously you haven’t seen the one in the living area. It’s twice this tall.”

Cautious, she moved closer. It had to be ten feet. If it toppled, she mused, while they were sleeping, it would drop like a stone on the bed and pin them like ants. “I hope it’s secure.” She sniffed. “Smells like a forest in here. I guess we’re going to hang stuff on it.”

“That’s the plan.” He slipped his arms around her waist, drew her back against him. “I’ll deal with the lights later.”

“You will?”

“It’s a man’s job,” he told her and nipped at her neck.

“Who says?”

“Women throughout the ages who were sensible enough not to want to deal with it. Are you off duty, Lieutenant?”

“I thought I’d get some food, then run a few probability scans.” His mouth was cruising up to her earlobe. She thought he could do the most interesting things to an earlobe. “And I want to see if Mira sent through her profile.”

Her eyes were already half shut as she angled her head to give him fuller access to the side of her neck. When his hands slid up to cup her breasts, her mind went wonderfully foggy.

“Then I’ve got a report to write and file.” His thumbs flicked over her nipples and sent a spear of heat lancing straight to her gut.

“But I probably have an hour to spare,” she muttered, and turning, she fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers.

A sound of pleasure hummed in his throat and his hands glided down her back. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He bit her bottom lip. “Wherever I take you.”

Circling her, he guided her back into the elevator. “Holo-room,” he ordered, then backed her into the corner and cut off her question with one long, mind-numbing kiss.

“Something wrong with the bedroom?” she asked when she could breathe again.

“I have something else in mind.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he drew her out. “Engage program.”

The large, empty room, with its stark black mirrored walls, shimmered, shifted. She smelled smoke first, fragrant, faintly fruity, then the tang of some spicy scented flower. The lights dimmed and wavered. Images formed.

A crackling fire in a big stone hearth. A window wide as a lake with a view of steel-blue mountains and deep, feathery snow that gleamed icily in the moonlight. Urns of hammered copper filled to bursting with flowers in whites and rusty hues. Candles, hundreds of candles, white as the snow, burning with flickering flames out of polished brass holders.

Under her feet the mirrored floor became wood, dark, nearly black, with a dull sheen.

Dominating the room was an enormous bed with head- and footboards fashioned of complicated curves and loops of thin, sparkling brass. Spread over it was a cover of dull gold that looked thick enough to drown in, and dozens of pillows in shades of precious gems.

Scattered over all were white rose petals.

“Wow.” She looked toward the window again. The view, those towering peaks, the miles of white, did something odd to her throat. “What are those?”

“A simulation of the Swiss Alps.” One of his greatest delights was watching her reaction to something new. The initial wariness that was the cop, the slow bloom of pleasure that came from the woman. “I’ve never managed to take you there in reality. A holographic chalet is the next best thing.”

Turning, he picked up a robe that was draped over a chair. “Why don’t you put this on?”

She reached for it, frowned. “What is it?”

“A robe.”

She shot him a bland look. “I know that. I meant what’s it made of? Is this mink?”

“Sable.” He stepped forward. “Why don’t I help you?”

“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” she murmured as he began unbuttoning her shirt.

His hands skimmed over her bare shoulders as he brushed the shirt aside. “It seems I am. In a mood to seduce my wife. Slowly.”

Need was already kindling, spreading. “I don’t need seduction, Roarke.”

He laid his lips on her shoulder. “I do. Sit.” He nudged her down so he could tug off her boots. Then, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned over and took her mouth again.

Just mouth to mouth, warm and soft, a skillfully tender sliding of lips and tongue, a cleverly gentle scrape of teeth. Her muscles quivered, then went lax. Feeling her surrender was his own seduction.

Drawing her to her feet, he unhooked her trousers. “The wanting of you never stops.” His fingers skimmed over her hips; the trousers pooled at her feet. “The loving of you never peaks. There’s always more.”

Undone, she leaned against him, her face buried in his hair. “Nothing’s the same for me since you.”

He held her a moment, for the simple pleasure of it. Then, reaching down, he lifted the robe and draped the soft pelt over her shoulders. “For either of us.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

And her arms reached out for him.

She knew what it would be like. Overwhelming, unsettling. Glorious. She’d come to crave each separate sensation he could bring her, to crave the feel of him against her the way she did air or water.

Without thinking of it, and unable to survive without it.

There was nothing she couldn’t give, or take, when their bodies came together. Sunk deep in the feather bed she met his mouth eagerly, reveling in the slow burn of her blood. Sighing, she tugged at his shirt, helping him shrug it aside so flesh could meet flesh.

The long and lovely slide of it. A slow roll, a low moan. The silk of the petals, the satin of the spread, the ripple of muscle under her hands—all tangled together in an exotic mix of textures.

The quick, bounding leap of the heart. A delicious shiver, a soft sigh. The flicker of candlelight, the spill of the moon, the shifting shimmer from the fire melded into one sumptuous glow.

She tasted and was tasted. She touched and was touched. Aroused and was aroused. And trembled her way up the long curve of a peak as smooth as polished silver.

He felt her rise up, shudder, then slide lazily down again. Their limbs tangled as they rolled over the bed, to touch again, to adjust the fit of bodies. He could see the lights flicker over her face, her hair, in her eyes, the rich brandy of them. Eyes he could watch go glassy as he nudged her, inch by inch, toward that peak again.

Her hands, strong, capable, and beautifully familiar, moved over him, a grip, a caress. Quiet sounds of pleasure hummed in her throat, sighed into his mouth, whispered over his skin.

His breath began to quicken, and need became a thunder in the blood. Warmth turned to heat and heat to a dangerous flash.

Then she was rising over him, her body slim and silvered in the shift of light and shadow. Her moan was long, a throaty sound of greed as she lowered to him, enclosed him, took him in. When his fingers dug into her hips, she arched back into a gleaming curve, rocking, rocking, with her eyes golden brown slits, her breath rushing between parted lips.

She tightened around him when the orgasm slashed through her, then curled into him when he reared up, when his mouth fixed hungrily on her breast.

Lost now, captured, he pushed her back so both her mind and body went spinning. And he drove into her, one wild animal thrust after another, with a sudden pounding greed that ripped her past control. Her fingers wrapped around the thin, curving tubes of the headboard, gripping hard as if to anchor herself, a scream of mindless pleasure strangling in her throat as he pushed her knees back to go deeper.

When her body erupted beneath him, his mouth swooped down to hers. And he let himself go.

She was covered with rose petals and nothing else. Those slim, disciplined muscles were as lax as the melted candlewax pooled fragrantly beneath the white tapers.

As her breathing slowed to normal, Roarke nibbled at her shoulder, then he rose to get the robe and draped it over her.

Her response was a grunt.

Both amused and pleased that that was the best she could do, he moved to the far corner of the room and ordered the jet tub to fill at one hundred and one degrees. He popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, set it back in its bucket of ice, then snatched his limp wife off the bed.

“I wasn’t asleep.” She said it quickly and with the slurred tone that told him that’s just what she’d been.

“You’ll blame me in the morning if I let you sleep and you don’t do your probability scan.” With this, he dumped her in the hot, frothing water.

She yelped once, then moaned in sheer, sensual delight. “Oh God. I want to live here, right here in this tub, for about a week.”

“Arrange for some time off and we’ll go to the Alps for real and you can soak in a tub until you turn into one big pink wrinkle.”

It was exactly what he wanted—to take her away, to see that she was completely healed and recovered. And he imagined he had as much chance of doing so as he had of convincing her to kiss Summerset on the mouth.

The image of that even made him grin.

“Joke?” she asked lazily.

“Oh, it would be a delightful one.” He handed her a flute and, taking his own, climbed in to join her.

“I have to get to work.”

“I know.” He let out a long breath. “Ten minutes.”

The combination of hot water and icy champagne was just too good to refuse. “You know, before you, my breaks used to consist of a cup of bad coffee and a . . . a cup of bad coffee,” she decided.

“I know, and they still do entirely too often. This,” he said and sank a little deeper, “is a much superior way to recharge.”

“Hard to argue.” She lifted her leg, examined her toes for no particular reason. “I don’t think he’s going to give me much time, Roarke. He’s working on a deadline.”

“How much do you have?”

“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”

“You’ll get more. I’ve never known a better cop. And I’ve known more than my share.”

She frowned into her wine. “It’s not out of rage, not yet. It’s not for profit. It’s not, that I can find, for revenge. He’d be easier to track if I had a motive.”

“Love. True love.”

She cursed softly. “My true love. But you can’t have twelve true loves.”

“You’re being rational. You’re thinking a man can’t love more than one women with equal degrees of fervor. But he can.”

“Sure, if his heart is in his dick.”

With a laugh, Roarke opened one eye. “Darling Eve, it’s often impossible to separate the two. For some,” he added, mistrusting the quick glint in her eye, “physical attraction most usually proceeds the finer emotions. What you may not be considering is that he might very well believe each of them the love of his life. And if they didn’t agree, the only way he can convince them is to take their lives.”

“I have considered it. But it isn’t enough to give me a full picture. He loves what he can’t have, and what he can’t have he destroys.” She jerked her shoulder. “I hate all the goddamn symbolism. It muddles things up.”

“You have to give him points for theatrical flare.”

“Yeah, and I’m counting on that to be what trips him up. When it does, I’m tossing jolly old St. Nick in a cage. Time’s up,” she announced and rose out of the water.

She’d just flicked a towel from a heated bar when she heard the muffled beep on her communicator. “Shit.” Dripping, she dashed across the room to snatch up her trousers and pull it from the pocket.

“Block video,” she muttered. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DAS at 432 Houston. Apartment 6E. Report to scene immediately as primary.”

“Dispatch.” She dragged a hand through her damp hair. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia as adjutant.”

“Affirmative. Dispatch out.”

“DAS?” Roarke picked up the robe to drape it over her again.

“Dead at scene.” She heaved the towel aside and, bending, tugged on the trousers. “Damn it, goddamn it, that’s Donnie Ray’s apartment. I just interviewed him today.”

Donnie Ray had loved his mother. That was the first thing Eve thought of as she looked at him.

He was on the bed, draped in green garland that sparkled with gold flecks. His buttery hair had been carefully styled to flow against the pillow. His eyes were shut so that lashes, lengthened and dyed a deep, antique gold lay against his cheeks. His lips matched the tone perfectly. Around his right wrist, just over the raw and broken skin, was a thick bracelet with three pretty birds etched into hammered gold.

“Three calling birds,” Peabody said from behind her. “Shit, Dallas.”

“He changed sexes, but he’s keeping to pattern.” Eve’s voice was flat as she shifted aside so that the body would be in full view for the record. “There’s bound to be a tattoo on him, and probable signs of sexual abuse. Ligature marks hands and feet, as with previous victims. We need any security discs from the hallway and the outer building.”

“He was a nice guy,” Peabody murmured.

“Now he’s a dead guy. Let’s do the job.”

Peabody stiffened, the slightest of movements that had her shoulders going straight as a ruler. “Yes, sir.”

They found the tattoo on his left buttock. If that and the clear signs of sodomy affected her, Eve didn’t let it show. She did the preliminary, had the scene secured, ordered the initial door-to-doors, and had the body bagged for transport.

“We’ll check his ’link,” she told Peabody. “Get his date book, any data you can find on Personally Yours. I want the sweepers in here tonight.”

She moved down the short hall to the bathroom, pushed the door open. Walls, floor, and fixtures sparkled like the sun. “We can assume our man cleaned this. Donnie Ray wasn’t too concerned about cleanliness being next to godliness.”

“He didn’t deserve to die this way.”

“Nobody deserves to die this way.” Eve stepped back, turned. “You liked him. So did I. Now put it away, because it doesn’t do a damn thing for him now. He’s gone, and we have to use what we find here to help us get to number four before we lose another.”

“I know that. But I can’t help feeling. Jesus, Dallas, we were in here joking with him a few hours ago. I can’t help feeling,” she repeated in a furious whisper. “I’m not like you.”

“You think he gives a damn what you feel now? He wants justice not grief, not even pity.” She marched into the living area, kicking away scattered cups and shoes to vent a little of her frustration.

“Do you think he cares that I’m pissed off?” She whirled back, eyes blazing. “Being pissed off doesn’t do anything for him, and it clouds my judgment. What am I missing? What the hell am I missing? He leaves it all here, in front of my face. The son of a bitch.”

Peabody said nothing for a moment. It wasn’t, she thought, the first time she’d mistaken Eve’s cool professionalism for a lack of heart. After all the months they’d worked together, she realized she should know better. She drew a deep breath.

“Maybe he’s giving us too much, and it’s scattering our focus.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed, and the fists she’d jammed in her pockets relaxed. “That’s good. That’s very good. Too many angles, too much data. We need to pick a channel and zoom in. Start the search here, Peabody,” she ordered as she pulled out her communicator. “It’s going to be a long night.”

She stumbled home at four A.M. riding on the high-octane, low-quality faux caffeine of Cop Central coffee. Her eyes felt sticky, her stomach raw, but she thought her mind was still sharp enough to do the job.

Still, she jerked and had a hand on her weapon when Roarke came into her home office a few paces behind her.

“What the hell are you doing up?” she demanded.

“I might ask the same, Lieutenant.”

“I’m working.”

He lifted a brow and took her chin in his hand to study her face. “Overworking,” he corrected.

“I ran out of real coffee in my AutoChef, had to drink that sewage they brew at Central. A couple of hits of the good stuff and I’ll be fine.”

“A couple of hours unconscious, you’ll be better.”

Though it was tempting, she didn’t shove his hand away. “I’ve got a meeting at oh eight hundred. I have to prep.”

“Eve.” He shot her a warning glance when she hissed at him, then calmly laid his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not going to interfere with your work. But I will remind you that you won’t do your job well if you’re asleep on your feet.”

“I can take a booster.”

“You?” And he smiled when he said it, making her lips twitch.

“I may have to hit the departmental-approved drugs before it’s over. He’s not giving me any time, Roarke.”

“Let me help.”

“I can’t use you every time it gets tough.”

“Why?” His hands began to knead the tension out of her shoulders. “Because I’m not on the departmental-approved list?”

“That would be one.” The shoulder massage was relaxing her a bit too much. She felt her mind drift, and wasn’t able to snap it back to clarity again. “I’ll take two hours downtime. Two hours to prep should be enough. But I’ll crash in here.”

“Good idea.” It was simple enough to guide her to the sleep chair. Her bones were like rubber. He slipped down with her, ordered the chair to full recline.

“You should go to bed,” she murmured, but turned her body into his.

“I prefer sleeping with my wife when the opportunity arises.”

“Two hours . . . I think I have an angle.”

“Two hours,” he agreed, and shut his eyes when he felt her go limp.

“There’s something I should tell you.” Roarke waited until Eve scooped up the last of an egg-white omelette, and smiled at her as he topped off her coffee. “About the Natural Perfection beauty products.”

She only stared at him as she swallowed. “You own the company.”

“It’s a line of a company that’s part of an organization that’s a branch of Roarke Industries.” He smiled again as he sipped his coffee. “So, in a word, yes.”

“I already knew it.” She jerked a shoulder, gaining some satisfaction at seeing his eyebrows lift at her careless reaction. “I actually thought I might get through a case without you being connected.”

“You really have to get over that, darling. And since I do own it,” he continued as she bared her teeth at him, “I should be able to help you track the products used on the victims.”

“We’re stumbling along there on our own.” She pushed away from the little table and paced to her desk. “Logically, the products were purchased at the location where the victims were chosen. Going on that assumption, I can whittle down the choices to a short list. Those enhancements are obscenely expensive.”

“You get what you pay for,” Roarke said easily.

“Lip dye at two hundred credits a tube for Christ’s sake.” She shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I don’t set the price.” Now he grinned at her. “I just manage the profit.”

A couple of hours of sleep and a hot meal had recharged her, he noted. She wasn’t pale now, or quite so heavy-eyed. He rose, walking to her to skim his thumbs over the faint shadows under her eyes. “Would you like to sit in on a board meeting and lobby for a price adjustment?”

“Ha ha.” When he brushed his lips over hers, she struggled to keep her own from curving. “Go away, I need to focus.”

“In a minute.” He kissed her again, nudging a sigh out of her. “Why don’t you tell me about it? It’ll help you to think out loud.”

She sighed again, leaned for a moment, then drew back. “There’s an ugliness to this because he’s using something that symbolizes hope and innocence. This kid last night . . . damn it, he was harmless.”

“The others were women. What does it tell you?”

“That he’s bisexual. That his idea of true love crosses genders. The male victim was raped, just as the women were, bound like them, marked like them, and painted up like them after he’d finished.”

She moved away, idly picking up her coffee to drink. “He’s getting them from Personally Yours, obviously scanning their videos and personal data. He might have dated the women, but not Donnie Ray. Donnie was straight hetero. The shift makes me think he hasn’t met any of the victims face-to-face, at least not in a romantic sense. It’s all fantasy.”

“He chooses people who live alone.”

“He’s a coward. Doesn’t want any real confrontation. He tranqs them right off, gets them restrained. It’s the only way he can be sure he’ll have the power, the control.”

Her thoughts veered back and settled once again on Rudy. Setting the coffee down again, she dragged a hand through her hair. “He’s smart, and obsessive. He’s even predictable on several levels. That’s how I’ll nail him.”

“You said you had an angle.”

“Yeah, a couple of them. I have to run them by the brass. I’ve got to dodge Nadine for a while. I can’t give her the Santa suit. We’ll have people whipping up on every store and street corner Santa in the city.”

“There’s an image,” Roarke murmured. “Serial Santa Strangles Singles . . . Details at noon. Nadine would love that lead.”

“She’s not getting it. Not until I don’t have a choice. I’m toying with leading the Personally Yours connection. It’ll keep her off my back and get the word out to anyone who’s used the service. And Rudy and Piper will scream harassment.” Her smile spread slow and wicked. “It would be worth it. Couple of protocol droids—I need to shake them up.”

“You don’t like them.”

“They give me the creeps. I know they’re fucking each other. Sick.”

“You don’t approve?”

“They’re brother and sister. Twins.”

“Oh, I see.” However worldly he was, Roarke found himself mirroring his wife’s reaction. “That’s very . . . unattractive.”

“Yeah.” The thought of it ruined her appetite and had her pushing the plate of flaky croissants aside. “He’s running the show, and her. Right now, he’s top of my list. He has access to every client file, and if I can confirm the incest, we add a bent toward deviant sexual behavior. I need someone inside.” She drew a deep breath as she heard bootsteps marching down the hallway. “And there she is now.”

Both Eve and Roarke turned as Peabody stepped into the doorway. She looked from one to the other, rolled her shoulders as if shrugging off something vaguely uncomfortable. “Something wrong?”

“No, come in.” Eve jerked a thumb toward a chair. “Let’s get started.”

“Coffee?” Roarke offered. He’d already figured out what Eve had in mind for her aide.

“Yeah, thanks. McNab isn’t here yet?”

“No. I’ll brief you first.” Eve shot Roarke a look, waited.

“I’ll just get out of your way.” He passed Peabody a cup, turned and kiss his wife despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that she scowled at him, then walked into his adjoining office and shut the door.

“Does he always look like that in the morning?” Peabody wanted to know.

“He always looks like that period.”

Peabody sighed deeply. “Are you sure he’s human?”

“Not always.” Eve angled a hip on the corner of her desk and studied Peabody carefully. “So. . . want to meet some guys?”

“Huh?”

“Want to broaden your social circle, meet some men who share similar interests?”

Certain Eve was joking, Peabody grinned. “Isn’t that why I became a cop?”

“Cops make lousy life partners. What you need, Peabody, is a service like Personally Yours.”

Sipping coffee, Peabody shook her head. “Nope. I did a dating service a few years back, right after I moved into the city. Too regimented. I like picking up strange men in bars.” When Eve only continued to stare at her, Peabody slowly lowered her cup. “Oh,” she said as realization struck. “Oh.”

“I’d have to clear it with Whitney. I can’t put a uniform undercover without the commander’s okay. And before you agree, I want you to know just what you’d be getting into.”

“Undercover.” Despite the fact that she had been a cop long enough to know better, the phrase conjured up images of excitement and glamour.

“Get the stars out of your eyes, Peabody. Christ.” Eve straightened, scooped both hands through her hair. “I’m talking about putting your ass on the line here, using you as bait, and you’re grinning like I’ve just given you a present.”

“You think I’m good enough for it. You trust me to handle it. That’s a pretty good present.”

“I think you’re good enough,” Eve said, dropping her arms. “I think you can handle it because you know how to follow orders, exactly. And that’s what I’d expect. Following orders to the letter. No grandstanding. If I get it cleared, and if I can get the fucking budget to stretch enough for the consultant fee for that place, you’ll go in.”

“What about Rudy and Piper? They’re not off the suspect list, and they’ve seen me.”

“They saw a uniform. People like that don’t pay attention to who’s wearing it. We’ll get Mavis and Trina to deck you out.”

“Cool.”

“Get a grip, Peabody. We’ll work out a cover, an identity. I’ve gone over the victims’ videos and personal data. We’ll cull out the similarities and work them into your profile. The idea is to tailor make you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

McNab stood in the doorway. His face was flushed with a fury that had his eyes glittering, his mouth tight, and his hands fisted at his side. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

“Detective,” Eve said mildly. “Your opinion is noted.”

“You’re going to stick her like a worm on a line and drop her into the pool? Goddamn it, Dallas. She’s not trained for undercover.”

“Mind your own business,” Peabody snapped as she lunged to her feet. “I know how to handle myself.”

“You don’t know squat about undercover.” McNab strode forward, turning on his heel so that they were nose to nose. “You’re a goddamn aide, a button pusher, next up from a droid.”

Eve saw the intent flash in Peabody’s eyes and managed to shove between them before her aide’s fist plowed into McNab’s nose. “That’s enough. Your opinion is noted, McNab, now shut up.”

“The son of a bitch isn’t going to stand there and call me a droid and get away with it.”

“Suck it in, Peabody,” Eve warned, “and sit down. Both of you sit the hell down and try to remember who’s in charge before I put the pair of you on report. The last thing I need on this case is a couple of hotheads. If you can’t maintain, you’re off.”

“We don’t need Detective Data Bank,” Peabody muttered.

“We need what I say we need. And we need inside information and bait. Bait,” she added, shifting her eyes from face to face, “of both sexes. You up for it, McNab?”

“Wait a minute. Wait.” Peabody was out of her chair again, as rattled as Eve had ever seen her. “You want him to go under, too? With me?”

“Yeah, I’m up for it.” McNab smiled thinly at Peabody as he agreed. It would be the perfect way to keep an eye on her—and keep her out of trouble.

“This is going to be mag!” Mavis Freestone danced around Eve’s home office in thigh-high boots. The material was clear and snug, molding her legs and showing them off while she balanced on their three-inch glittery red heels. The heels matched the slither dress that barely met the top of the boots.

Her hair was the exact same glittery Christmas red and fell in Medusa-like coils to her shoulders. She had a tiny heart tattoo under the peak of her left eyebrow.

“You’re on the departmental payroll.” Eve knew the reminder that this was official business was wasted. But she felt obliged to get it in as Mavis beamed at Peabody out of newly toned grass-green eyes.

“Pays shit.” This was from Trina. The beauty consultant circled Peabody as a sculpture might with a flawed piece of marble—with interest, caution, and faint derision.

Trina was wearing eyebrow rings today, a fact that made Eve wince when she looked at the tiny gold hoops pinned to the outer line. Her hair, a deep plum purple, was slicked up in a foot-high cone. Her choice of outfit was a somewhat conservative black jumpsuit with the holiday touch of naked Santas dancing over each breast.

And this, Eve thought as she pressed her fingers to her eyes, this was the pair she’d convinced Whitney to budget into the case account.

“I want to keep it simple,” she told them. “I just don’t want her to look like a cop.”

“What do you think, Trina?” Mavis leaned over Peabody’s shoulder, pulling at her own curls so they lay over Peabody’s cheeks. “This color’d rock on her. Festive, right? Holiday time. And wait till you see the wardrobe I got Leonardo to lend us.” She bounced back, grinning. “There’s this peekaboo skinsuit that’s really you, Peabody.”

“Skinsuit.” Peabody paled, thinking of bulges. “Lieutenant.”

“Simple,” Eve said again, ready to desert her aide.

“What do you use on your skin?” Trina demanded, taking a firm hold of Peabody’s chin. “Sandpaper?”

“Um—”

“You got pores like moon craters here, girlfriend. You need a full facial treatment. I’m starting with a peeler.”

“Oh God.” Panicked, Peabody tried to jerk her chin free. “Listen—”

“Are those tits yours or enhanced?”

“Mine.” Instantly, Peabody crossed her arms over her chest and grabbed her own breasts before Trina could. “They’re mine. I’m really happy with them.”

“They’re good tits. Okay, strip. Let’s have a look at them, and the rest of you.”

“Strip?” Peabody swiveled her head until her terrified eyes latched onto Eve’s. “Dallas, Lieutenant. Sir?”

“You said you could handle undercover, Peabody.” After one sympathetic shudder, Eve turned and started out. “You’ve got two hours with her.”

“I need three,” Trina called out. “I don’t rush my art.”

“You got two.” Firmly Eve shut the door on Peabody’s shocked squeak.

It seemed best all around, Eve thought, if she stayed as far away from what was happening to her aide as possible. She decided to pay a visit to an old friend.

Charles Monroe was a licensed companion, as slick and attractive a prostitute as Eve had encountered, on or off the force. He’d once helped her with a case—and then offered her his services for free.

She’d taken the help, and politely refused the offer.

Now she pressed the buzzer outside his elegant apartment in a high-priced midtown building. A building Roarke owned, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

When the security beam blinked green, she lifted a brow, aiming a look at the peephole and holding up her badge in case Charles had forgotten her.

When he opened the door, he proved she needn’t have worried about his memory. “Lieutenant Sugar.” He caught her off guard with a strong hug and a quick, slightly too intimate kiss.

“Hands off, pal.”

“I never got to kiss the bride.” He winked at her, a sleepy-eyed, handsome man with an elegant face. “So how do you like being married to the richest man in the universe?”

“He keeps me in coffee.”

Charles cocked his head, studied her. “You’re in love with him, all the way. Well, good for you. I see the two of you on screen now and then. At some glitzy do. I wondered how it was with you. Now I see, and I have to assume you’re not here to take me up on that offer I made some months back.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, come on in.” He stepped back, gesturing. He wore a black unisuit that showed off a very well-disciplined body. “Want a drink? I doubt my blend of coffee compares to what Roarke can supply. How about a tube of Pepsi?”

“Yeah, fine.”

She remembered his kitchen. Neat, spartan, clean lined. A great deal like its tenant. She took a seat while he took two tubes out of the cold box and poured each into a tall clear glass. He rolled the tubes, slipped them into the recycle slot, then sat down across from her.

“I’d drink to old times, Dallas, but . . . they sucked.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got some new times for you, Charles. They suck, too. Why is a successful LC using a dating service? Before you answer,” she continued, lifting her glass, “I’ll inform you that using such services for professional solicitations is illegal.”

He blushed. She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but his strong, handsome face colored painfully and his gaze dropped to his glass. “Jesus, do you know everything?”

“If I knew everything, I’d know the answer. Why don’t you give it to me?”

“It’s private,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t be here if it was. Why have you gone to Personally Yours for consults?”

“Because I want a woman in my life,” he snapped. His head came up, and now his eyes were dark and angry. “A real woman, not one who buys me, all right? I want a goddamn relationship, what’s wrong with that? In my line of work, they don’t happen. You do what you’re paid to do, and you do it well. I like my job, but I want a personal life. There’s nothing illegal about wanting a personal life.”

“No,” she said slowly, “there’s not.”

“So I lied about what I do on the form.” He moved his shoulders restlessly. “I didn’t want to match up with the kind of woman who’d get some purient thrill out of dating an LC. You going to arrest me for lying on a fucking dating video?”

“No.” And she was sorry, sincerely, to have embarrassed him. “You matched up with a woman. Marianna Hawley. Do you remember her?”

“Marianna.” He struggled to regain his composure, drank deeply of the iced drink. “I remember her video. Pretty woman, sweet. I contacted her, but she’d already met someone.” Now he smiled, shrugged again. “Just my luck. She was exactly the type I was looking for.”

“You never met her?”

“No. I went out with the other four from my first match list. Hit it off with one of them. We saw each other off and on for a few weeks.” He blew out a breath. “I decided if it was going to go anywhere, I had to tell her what I really did. And that,” he finished, toasting Eve with his glass, “was the end of that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, there are more where she came from.” But his cocky smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Too bad Roarke took you out of the running.”

“Charles, Marianna is dead.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you caught the news lately?”

“No. I haven’t been watching any screen. Dead?” Then his eyes sharpened, focused in on Eve. “Murdered. You wouldn’t be here if she’d died quietly in her sleep. She was murdered. Am I a suspect?”

“Yeah, you are,” she said because she liked him enough to be straight with him. “I’m going to want to do a formal interview, just to keep it all official. But tell me now, can you clear yourself for last Tuesday night, for Wednesday, and for last night?”

He stared at her for a long time, just stared with eyes dull with horror. “How do you do what you do?” he demanded. “Day in and day out?”

She met those eyes levelly. “I could ask you the same thing, Charles. So let’s not get into career choices. Can you alibi?”

He broke the stare, pushed away from the table. “I’ll get my book.”

She let him go, knowing she could trust her gut on this one. He wasn’t a man who had murder inside him.

He came back carrying a small, elegant date book. Opening it, he plugged in the dates she’d asked for. “Tuesday, I had an overnight. Regular client. It can be verified. Last night I had a theater, late supper, and seduction here. The client left at two-thirty A.M. Got thirty minutes overtime out of it. And a handsome tip. Wednesday I was home, alone.”

He slid the book across the table to her. “Take the names, check it out.”

She said nothing, merely copied the names and addresses into her own book. “Sarabeth Greenbalm, Donnie Ray Michael,” she said at length. “Either ring for you?”

“No.”

She looked at him then, steadily. “I’ve never seen you use enhancements. Why did you purchase lip dye and eye smudger from the Natural Perfection line at All Things Beautiful?”

“Lip dye?” He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh, I picked them up for the woman I was seeing. She asked me to get her a couple of things since I was going into the salon for the styling that came with my package.”

Obviously confused, he smiled a little. “And why, Lieutenant Sugar, should you care if I buy lip dye?”

“Just another detail, Charles. You did me a favor once, so I’m doing you one. Three people who used the services of Personally Yours are dead, killed in the same manner and by the same hand.”

“Three? God.”

“In less than a week. I’m not going to give you many details, and what I do give can’t be passed on to anyone. It’s my opinion that he’s using the data from Personally Yours to select his victims.”

“He’s killed three women in less than a week.”

“No.” Eve leveled her gaze. “The last victim was a man. You’re going to want to watch your step, Charles.”

When he understood, the edge of resentment faded. “You think I could be a target?”

“I think anyone in the Personally Yours data bank could be a target. At this point I’m concentrating on the victims’ match list. I’m telling you not to let anyone in your apartment you don’t know. Anyone.” She drew another breath. “He dresses up like Santa Claus and carries a large gift-wrapped box.”

“What?” He set down the glass he’d just lifted. “Is this a joke?”

“Three people are dead. It’s not very funny. He gets them to let him inside, he drugs them, restrains them, and he kills them.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “This is bizarre.”

“If this guy comes to your door, keep it secured and call me. Stall him if you can, let him go if you can’t. Don’t, under any circumstances, open your door. He’s smart, and he’s deadly.”

“I won’t be opening the door. The woman I was seeing—from the service—I need to tell her.”

“I’ve got your match list. I’ll tell her. I need to keep this out of the media as long as I can.”

“I’d rather the press didn’t get ahold of the story of the lonely-hearts LC, thanks very much.” He grimaced. “Can you get to her right away, to Darla McMullen? She lives alone, and she’s . . . naive. If Santa came knocking, she’d open the door and offer him milk and cookies.”

“She sounds like a nice woman.”

“Yeah.” Now his eyes were bleak. “She is.”

“I’ll go see her.” Eve rose. “Maybe you ought to call her again.”

“No good.” He rose and worked up a smile. “But you be sure to let me know if you decide to ditch Roarke, Lieutenant Sugar. My offer’s open-ended.”

• • •

The heart, Eve thought as she drove, was a strange and often overworked muscle. It was hard to connect the sophisticated, smooth-talking LC with the quiet, intellectual woman she’d just left. But, unless her instincts were way off, Darla McMullen and Charles Monroe were halfway in love.

They just didn’t know what to do about it.

On that score, they had her full sympathy. Half the time, she didn’t know what to do about the impossible feelings she had for her own husband.

She made three more stops on the way back to her home office, doing interviews with people on the match lists, giving them the basic and specific warning and instructions she had written up and had approved by the commander.

If Donnie Ray had been warned, she thought, he might still be alive.

Who was next in line? Someone she’d spoken with, or someone she’d missed? Driven by that, she accelerated and blew through the gates toward home. She wanted Peabody and McNab to sign up with Personally Yours and get their profiles in before the end of the business day.

She saw Feeney’s vehicle parked in front of the house. The sight made her hope her campaign to add him to the investigative team had been successful. With Feeney and McNab doing the e-work, she’d be freed up for the streets.

She headed straight up to her home office, wincing when she heard the blast of music—if it could be called music—searing the air of the hallways.

Mavis had one of her video clips on screen. She sang along with herself, screaming out lyrics that seemed to have something to do with ripping out her soul for love. Feeney sat behind Eve’s desk, looking bemused and slightly desperate. Roarke stood behind a chair, looking completely comfortable and politely attentive.

Knowing her chances of being heard over the din were nil, Eve waited until the last notes clashed out and Mavis, flushed with effort and pleasure, giggled and took her bows.

“I wanted you to see the rough cut right away,” she said to Roarke.

“It looks like a winner.”

“Really?” Obviously delighted, Mavis rushed him, threw her arms around his neck, and squeezed. “I just can’t believe it’s really happening. Me, cutting a disc for the top recording company on the planet.”

“You’re going to make me lots of money.” He kissed her forehead.

“I want it to work. I really want it to work.” When she spotted Eve, Mavis grinned. “Hey! Did you catch any of the cut?”

“The tail end. It was great.” And because it was Mavis, she meant it. “Feeney, are you on?”

“Officially assigned.” He leaned back in her chair. “McNab’s doing his prelim consult at Personally Yours. We profiled him as a computer droid for one of Roarke’s companies. His data’s been inputted, and his new ID is in place.”

“Roarke’s company?”

“Seemed logical.” Feeney grinned at her. “You got weight, you use it. Appreciate your help, boy-o.”

“Anytime,” Roarke told him, then smiled at his wife. “We cut a few corners as you’re in a bit of a hurry. Peabody’s profiled as a security guard at one of my buildings. Feeney thought it would be simplest to keep the profiles somewhat in line with truth.”

“Oh yeah, let’s keep it simple.” But blowing out a breath, she nodded. “Good enough. You own half the damn city anyway, and nobody’s going to question it, or find any holes in your personnel files if you had your hand in it.”

“Exactly.”

“Where’s Peabody?”

“Trina’s just finishing her.”

“I need her now. She’s got to get over here and put in her app, get the consult going. She looked okay, for God’s sake. How long does it take to primp her up and put some street clothes on her?”

“Trina had some mag ideas,” Mavis assured her with such enthusiasm Eve’s blood chilled. “Wait till you see. Oh yeah, Trina wants you to plug in a session before your party. She wants to glam you some for it, since it’s the holidays.”

Eve merely grunted. She had no intention of being glammed—now or ever.

“Sure, right. Where the hell . . .” Her voice trailed off as she heard them coming. She turned toward the doorway and blinked. Gaped.

“I have to say,” Trina announced, “I’m good.”

Peabody snorted, flushed, then smiled hesitantly. “Okay, so do you think I’ll pass the audition?”

Her bowl-cut hair had been sheened and fluffed into a dark halo. Her face glowed with deep color smudged around her eyes to accent their shape and size, and her lips were dyed a soft coral pink.

Her body, which appeared so sturdy in a uniform, took on lusher, more feminine curves in a sweeping ankle duster of deep pine green. A tangle of chains in jewel hues were draped around her neck. Peeking out between the layers was a small, wistful tattoo of a gold-winged fairy.

Peabody had selected the tattoo herself after Trina had caught her up in the spirit of things. She hadn’t flinched when the quick, capable hands had cupped her left breast to apply the temp. By that time she’d begun to enjoy the sensation of being remade.

But now, as Eve stared at her, Peabody began to shift her feet—they were clad in toothpick heels that matched the wings of her mystical tattoo. “It doesn’t work?”

“You sure as hell don’t look like a cop,” Eve decided.

“You look beautiful.” Amused by his wife’s reaction, Roarke stepped forward and took both of Peabody’s hands. “Absolutely delicious.” So saying, he kissed her fingers and had Peabody’s susceptible heart stuttering.

“Yeah, really? Wow.”

“Get over it, Peabody. Feeney, you’ve got twenty minutes to brief her on her profile. Peabody, where’s your stunner, your communicator?”

“Here.” Still flushed, she slipped a hand into a hidden pocket in the hip of the dress. “Handy, huh?”

“It’s not going to replace uniforms,” Eve said, then pointed to a chair. “You need to commit the data Feeney’s going to give you to memory. Record it. You can replay it on the drive over. We can’t afford any slipups. I want you in by end of day, and on match lists by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” But Peabody fingered the material of the dress lovingly as she walked over to sit with Feeney.

“You’re next,” Trina said, running a quick, assessing hand through Eve’s hair.

“I don’t have time for a treatment.” Eve backed up. “Besides, you just did me a few weeks ago.”

“You don’t get regular treatments, you ruin my work. She makes time before the party, or I’m not responsible for how she looks,” Trina warned Roarke.

“She’ll make time.” And to placate her, he took her arm, steering her out as he praised her brilliance with Peabody.

Finding Nadine Furst lazily filing her nails at Eve’s desk wasn’t the welcome Eve was looking for when she arrived at Cop Central.

“Get your butt out of my chair.”

Nadine merely smiled sweetly, tucked her nail file away in her enormous calf-colored bag, and uncrossed her smooth legs. “Hello, Dallas. So good to see you. Doing a lot of work out of your home office these days? I can’t blame you.” As she rose, Nadine skimmed her sharp cat’s eyes over the cramped, dingy, dusty room. “This place is a dump.”

Saying nothing, Eve marched directly to her computer, checked the last log-on time, then did the same with her ’link.

“I didn’t touch anything.” Nadine added just enough insult to her voice for Eve to be sure the reporter had considered it.

“I’m busy, Nadine. I don’t have time for the media. Go chase an MT van or harass one of the droids in Booking.”

“You might want to make time.” Still smiling, Nadine moved to the only other chair in the office and daintily crossed her legs again. “Unless you want me to go on air with what I’ve got.”

Eve jerked a shoulder—and found that her muscles had tensed as she sat—stretched out her own denim-covered legs, and crossed her battered boots at the ankles. “What you got, Nadine?”

“Singles seeking romance find violent death. Personally Yours: dating service or death list? Ace homicide lieutenant, Eve Dallas, investigating.”

Nadine watched Eve’s face as she spoke. She gave Eve full points—her eyes didn’t flicker—but Nadine was gut sure she had her full attention.

“You want me to go on with a no comment from the investigating officer on that lead?”

“The investigation is proceeding. A task force has been formed. The NYPSD is pursuing all leads.”

Nadine leaned forward, slipping a hand into her bag to turn on her recorder. “Then you confirm that the murders are connected.”

“I’m not confirming anything with your recorder on.”

Irritation flickered over Nadine’s pretty, triangular face. “Give me a break here.”

“You turn that recorder off, put it here on my desk in plain view, or I’ll give you a break. I’ll confiscate it and anything else you have in that suitcase you’re hauling around. Recording devises aren’t permitted in official areas of Cop Central without authorization.”

“Christ, you’re strict.” Annoyed, Nadine took out her mini, plunked it on the desk, then set her bag aside. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.” Because Nadine had said the words, Eve nodded. Nadine could be irritating, tenacious, and a general pain in the ass, but she had integrity. There was no need to search the bag for another recorder.

“The homicides under my investigation were committed by the same person. Personally Yours appears to be the source of the victims. You can go on air with that.”

“The dating service.” All traces of annoyance faded as Nadine smiled. Eve’s subtle hint had nudged her into research on every dating service in the city. She would be able to plug in the correct data and flesh out her report with the flick of a couple of buttons.

“That’s right.”

“What can you give me on it?”

“Most of my notes are on my office unit.” But Nadine pulled out her PPC and called up data. “You have all the standard already: owners, length of time in business, requirements. They do some pricey ads on our station. Shelled out . . . a cool two mil last year on screen ads. Our credit checks showed they can afford it, that’s less than ten percent of their gross.”

“Romance is profitable.”

“Damn right. I did an informal poll at the station. About fifteen percent of the talent and crew have used services. Informing the public takes a toll on the personal life,” she added lightly.

“Anybody you like use Personally Yours?”

“Probably.” Nadine cocked her head. “I like a lot of people, being the friendly, sociable sort. Should I be worried about them?”

“All three victims used the dating service, two knew each other casually through it. As yet, we’ve found no other connection among them.”

“So . . . your guy’s trolling for lonely hearts.” And that was a hell of a lead, Nadine decided, already running copy in her head.

“We suspect that Personally Yours is his source.” Eve wanted that one element hammered in. She didn’t intend to give Nadine much more. “The task force, formed today, is pursuing all avenues of investigation.”

“Leads?”

“Are being checked out. I’m not giving you specifics on this, Nadine.”

“Suspects?” Nadine said doggedly.

“Interviews are under way.”

“Motive?”

Eve considered a moment. “They’re sexual homicides.”

“Ah. Well, that would fit. You got a bisexual killer? One of the victims was male, two were female.”

“I can’t confirm or deny the killer’s sexual preferences.” She thought of Donnie Ray, and guilt scraped along her stomach. “The victims have admitted the killer into their homes. There was no sign of forced entry in any case.”

“They opened the door to him? They knew him?”

“They thought they did. You can advise your viewing audience to think twice before opening their door to anyone they don’t know on a personal level. I can’t give you any more without compromising the investigation.”

“He’s killed three times in less than a week. He’s in a hurry.”

“He has a program,” Eve said. “That’s not for on air. He has a schedule, a pattern, and that’s how we’ll get him.”

“Give me a quick one-on-one remote, Dallas. I can have a camera in here in ten minutes.”

“No. Not yet,” she added before Nadine could bitch about it. “You’ve got more than I’ve given anyone. Take it and be grateful. I’ll give you a one-on-one if and when I can. I’d be more inclined if, after you corner Piper and Rudy, you tell me what you get.”

Nadine arched a brow. “Quid pro quo. Fine. I’m heading over there now. Once I—” She broke off, her mouth dropping open as Peabody rushed in the door.

“Dallas, you wouldn’t believe— Hi, Nadine.”

“Is that you, Peabody?”

Though Peabody struggled to maintain a casual air, her lips twitched up in a smile. “Yeah, I just had a little work done.”

“A little. You look fabulous. Is that one of Leonardo’s designs? It’s just absolutely mag.” She was up, circling Peabody.

“Yeah, it’s one of his. It really works on me, doesn’t it?”

“Peabody, you rock.” Laughing, Nadine stepped back. Then her smile began to sharpen; her eyes narrowed. “You let your aide play dress-up in the middle of a murder investigation?” Nadine began, turning to Eve. “I don’t think so. I’d say what we have here is a very slick undercover scam. Trying the wonders of computer dating, Peabody?”

“Close the door, Peabody.” At Eve’s flat command, Peabody inched in and shut the door at her back. “Nadine, if you leak this, I’ll cut you off. I’ll see to it that there isn’t a cop here at Central who gives you the day of the week much less a story lead. Then I’ll get nasty.”

Nadine’s fox-sly smile faded. Her eyes went dark and dull. “You think I’d fuck with your investigation? You think I’d go on with data that could put Peabody in a jam? Go to hell, Dallas.” She scooped up her bag and swung toward the door. But Eve was quicker.

“I put her ass on the line.” Furious with herself, Eve yanked the purse out of Nadine’s hands and tossed it. “I made the call, and if anything goes wrong, it’s on me.”

“Dallas—”

“Shut up,” she snapped at Peabody. “If it hurts your feelings to know just how far I’d go to protect her cover and this case, that’s too damn bad.”

“Okay.” Nadine took a deep breath and reeled in her own temper. It was a rare thing for her to detect even a shadow of fear in Eve’s eyes. “Okay,” she repeated. “But you should remember Peabody’s a friend of mine. And so are you.”

She bent down to pick up her bag, shouldered it. “Nice hair, Peabody,” she said before she opened the door and walked out.

“Fuck” was all Eve could think to say. Turning, she stepped to the stingy window and stared out at miserable air traffic.

“I can handle this, Dallas.”

Eve stared hard at an airbus that blatted fiercely at an advertising blimp in its airspace. “I wouldn’t have put you on if I didn’t think you could handle it. But the fact remains I’m the one who put you on. And you’ve got no undercover experience.”

“You’re giving me a chance to get some. I want to make detective. I won’t get the grade without undercover work on my record. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Eve stuck her hands in her back pockets. “I know that.”

“Uh . . . I know my ass is a little bigger than it ought to be—even though I’m working out—but I know how to cover it.”

With a half laugh, Eve turned back. “Your ass is fine, Peabody. Why don’t you sit on it and give me your report?”

“It went great.” Grinning now, Peabody dropped into a chair. “I mean frigid. They didn’t have a clue I was a cop, that I’d been in there just a couple days ago. I got the royal treatment.” She fluttered her newly darkened and lengthened lashes.

Eve cocked her head. “If you’ve got that out of your system, Officer, I’d like your report.”

“Sir.” Peabody straightened in the chair, sobered. “As ordered, I reported to the subject location, requested a consult. After a brief interview I was escorted to a lounge where Piper continued the interview personally. The data I offered was logged on her personal palm computer. I was offered refreshment.” A quick flicker of amusement lighted in her eyes. “I accepted, believing this to be in character. Dallas, they have hot chocolate. I mean the genuine stuff, and sugar cookies. Christmas style. I ate three reindeer before I got ahold of myself.”

“Keep that up and you’ll need a tarp to cover your ass.”

“Yeah.” But Peabody sighed in memory. “I indicated that I wanted to proceed immediately. Gave her a line about not wanting to be alone during the holidays. She was very sympathetic, personable. I can see why people who go in there trust her to fix them up. She wanted to pass me off to a consultant, but I balked. Said how I was so comfortable with her, and that this process was somewhat embarrassing for me. I offered to pay more, if necessary, to have her stick with me.”

“Good thinking.”

“She was sweet about it. Patted my hand. She walked me through the video herself, even coached me a little. Rudy came into it toward the end because she had a meeting to go to. He didn’t make me either. He flirted with me.”

“In what way?”

“In an automatic way. It was just part of the job, if you ask me. Approving smiles, compliments, hand holding. He is way not my type,” she added, “but I played along. He offered me more hot chocolate, but I managed to resist. I also got a tour of the place, was shown a club area they have where matches can meet if they feel awkward about making the connection outside. Very tasteful, leaning toward elegant. They’ve got a small coffee shop, too, for the same purposes. That’s casual. There were several couples linking up in there.” She wrinkled her nose. “I saw McNab getting the run-through, too.”

“Then we’re in, and on schedule. What about your match list?”

“I can go in tomorrow morning. They prefer you come in person rather than arranging for a transmission on a first go. They screened me in about an hour. Roarke’s new data held up, and from what I could see, they really dig. If I was going into this for real, I’d feel safe.”

“Okay, you get the match list, go through the routine. But you set up meets outside.” She considered a moment. “We’ll use one of Roarke’s places—medium-sized club or bar. We’ll put a couple cops on the inside. I’ll need to stay out. If Rudy or Piper are in on this, they’d make me. We’ll get a surveillance vehicle. I want you to set up at least two, try for three, of the meets tomorrow night. We can’t sit on this.”

She glanced at her wrist unit, tapped her fingers. “Let’s find an empty conference room. I need to pull in McNab and Feeney for an update. I want this to go smooth.”

“If McNab starts on me, I’m flattening him.”

“Wait till the case is closed,” Eve advised. “Then flatten him.”

She could see the lights from the end of the long drive the minute she was through the gates. At first, Eve wondered if the house was on fire, they were so bright and brilliant. As she sped closer, she saw the outline of a tree in the wide window of the front parlor. It was alive with white light, shimmering and glowing, sparking like little flames off the branches ladened with shiny globes of red or green.

Dazzled, she parked her car and jogged up the steps. Heading straight for the parlor, she stopped under the archway and stared. The tree had to be twenty feet high, at least four feet across. Miles of silver garland were artfully draped to set off the hundreds of colored balls. Atop, nearly brushing the ceiling, was a crystal star, each point pulsing with light. Beneath was a blanket of white that stood in for snow. She couldn’t begin to count the elegantly wrapped gifts stacked there.

“Jesus, Roarke.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

He came in silently behind her, made her jolt before she turned to shake her head at him. “Where the hell did you get it?”

“Oregon. It has a treated root ball. We’ll donate it to a park after the New Year.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “Them, I should say.”

“Them? You have more of these?”

“There’s one a bit bigger than this in the ballroom.”

“Bigger?” she managed.

“Another in Summerset’s quarters, and the one in our bedroom. I thought we’d trim that one tonight.”

“It’ll take days to trim one of these.”

“It only took the crew I hired four hours to do this one.” And he laughed. “Ours is more manageable.” He turned his head to brush his lips over her forehead. “I need to share this with you.”

“I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

She looked back at the tree and couldn’t for the life of her determine why it made her nervous. “I’ve got work,” she began, and would have stepped away. But he shifted, laid his hands on her shoulders, and waited for her eyes to meet his.

“I don’t intend to interfere with your work, Eve, but we’re entitled to a life. Our life. I want an evening with my wife.”

Her brows came together. “You know I hate it when you say ‘my wife’ in that tone.”

“Why do you think I do it?” He laughed when she tried to shrug his hands away. “I’ve got you, Lieutenant, and I’m keeping you.” Knowing how quickly she could counter a move, he scooped her off her feet. “Get used to it,” he advised.

“You’re going to piss me off.”

“Good, then we’ll have sex first. It’s such an adventure to make love with you when you’re annoyed with me.”

“I don’t want to have sex.” She might have, she thought irritably, if he wasn’t so damn smug about it.

“Ah, a challenge and an adventure. It just gets better.”

“Put me down, you jackass, or I’ll have to hurt you.”

“And now threats. I’m definitely getting excited.”

She refused to laugh. And when he stepped into the bedroom, she was braced and ready for a bout. Later, she would think Roarke knew her thought process entirely too well.

He dropped her on the bed, then dived onto her before she could shift into offensive mode. With one hand he handcuffed her wrists and drew her hands over her head.

She shot him one hot, narrow-eyed look. “I won’t go down easy, pal.”

“God, I hope not.”

She scissored her legs, clamped them around his waist, and managed to buck until they rolled. Galahad, who’d been enjoying a nap on the pillow, gave one ferocious hiss and leaped off.

“Now you’ve done it.” Eve grunted as he rolled on top of her again. “You annoyed the cat.”

“Let him find his own woman,” Roarke muttered, then crushed his mouth to Eve’s.

He felt the pulses in her wrists give two quick, hard bumps, felt the head-to-toe shudder her body gave beneath his, but she didn’t yield, wasn’t ready to, he thought. There were times, he knew, Eve liked a hot, fast war.

By God, he was in the mood for one himself.

He bit her bottom lip, triumphing on the moan she couldn’t quite swallow. With his free hand he released her weapon harness, tugged it down her shoulder. Then, because he could, because heat was already pouring off her in waves, he hooked a hand in the opening of her skirt and ripped it down the center.

Now her body strained toward his, demanding, daring, even as she twisted under him in an attempt to evade or take control.

“Christ, I want you. It’s never enough.” His mouth clamped onto her breast.

No, never enough, was her last clear thought. She cried out, her strong body bowing up as those fierce pulls and tugs on her breast vibrated through her like wild music set to a furious beat.

Heat seemed to roar from her center out.

Freed, her hands dragged at his shirt, ripping at the silk until she found flesh with her fingers, with her mouth, with her teeth.

Rolling again, they yanked at clothes, tormented skin with greedy nips and bruising strokes. When she reached for him, closed her fist around him, he was iron hard and smooth as satin.

“Now, now, now.” She arched her hips, and came violently the instant he drove into her.

He held there, buried deep, panting as he blinked his vision clear to look at her. The fire that blazed in the hearth across the room shot flashes of light and shadow over her face, glinted into her hair, flickered in her eyes, which had gone dark and blind with what they brought to each other.

“It’s me who has you.” He drew back, thrust again. “Always.” He shifted, lifted her hips with his hands. “Go up again,” he demanded and began to destroy her with long, hard strokes.

She fisted her hands in the bedclothes as if to anchor herself. In the firelight she could see him over her, dark hair gleaming, eyes too blue to be real, muscles sleek, skin pale gold and dewed with sweat.

Need rose like a flood, and pleasure swamped her. Her vision blurred, turning him into a shadow, gilded at the edges. She heard herself choke out his name as her body shattered.

“And again.” He lowered himself, taking her mouth with his, linking his fingers with hers, pounding his body into hers. “Again,” he managed, as his blood rioted. “With me.”

And it was “Eve” he said, just “Eve,” when he emptied himself into her.

She lost track of time as she lay under him, firelight dancing on the ceiling. She wondered vaguely if it could be normal to need someone this much, to love to the point of pain.

Then he turned his head, his hair brushing her cheek, his lips brushing her throat. And she wondered why she should care.

“I hope you’re satisfied.” Her mutter wasn’t as snippy as she’d hoped it would be, and she caught herself stroking a hand down his back.

“Mmmm. I seem to be.” He nuzzled her throat again before lifting his head and looking down at her. “It seems to be mutual.”

“I let you win.”

“Oh, I know.”

The twinkle in his eyes had her snorting. “Get off me, you’re heavy.”

“Okay.” He obliged, then scooped her up again. “Let’s take a shower, then we can do the tree.”

“Just what is this obsession you have with trees?”

“I haven’t decorated one in years—not since Dublin when I lived with Summerset. I want to see if I can still do it.” He stepped into the shower with her, and she clamped a hand over his mouth, knowing his baffling preference for cold showers.

“Water on, at one hundred degrees.”

“Too hot,” he mumbled against her hand.

“Live with it.” And she sighed long and deep when the hot water began to pulse out from all directions. “Oh yeah, this is good.”

Fifteen minutes later she stepped out of the drying tube with her muscles warmed and limber, her mind clear and alert.

Roarke toweled off—another of his habits she couldn’t understand. Why waste time rubbing yourself with cotton when a quick spin in the drying tube took care of it? She was reaching for her robe when she noticed it wasn’t the one she’d left hanging there that morning.

“What’s this?” She took down the long flow of scarlet.

“Cashmere. You’ll like it.”

“You’ve bought me a million robes. I don’t see . . .” But her voice trailed off as she slipped it on. “Oh.” She hated it when she lost herself in something as shallow as textures. But this was soft as a cloud, warm as a hug. “It’s pretty nice.”

He grinned, belting a black robe in the same material. “Suits you. Come on, you can fill me in on the case while I tackle the lights.”

“Peabody and McNab are in. They’ll have their match lists by tomorrow.” She wandered back into the bedroom, and spotted the silver bucket with champagne; a silver tray with canapés was waiting. What the hell, she decided, and stuffed something glorious into her mouth as she poured two flutes. “Your covers for them passed screening.”

“Of course.” From a large box, Roarke took a long string of tiny lights.

“Don’t get cocky, we’ve got a long way to go. Nadine was in my office when I got to Central,” Eve added, and set Roarke’s champagne on the table by the bed. “She got a load of Peabody so I had to fill her in more than I wanted. Off the record.”

“Nadine is one of those rare reporters you can trust.” Roarke studied the tree, the lights, and decided to dive straight in. “She won’t leak sensitive data.”

“Yeah, I know. We got into that a bit.” Frowning, Eve circled the tree while Roarke worked. She had no idea if he knew what he was doing. “If Piper and Rudy hadn’t seen me, I’d have done the inside work myself.”

Roarke lifted an eyebrow as he secured the first string and took out another. “I might have some mild objection to my wife dating strange men.”

She went back to the tray, took another pretty canapé at random. “I wouldn’t have slept with any of them . . . unless the job called for it.” She grinned at him. “And I would have thought of you the whole time.”

“It wouldn’t have taken very long—since I’d have cut off his balls and handed them to you.”

He kept stringing lights as she choked on her wine. “Jesus, Roarke, I’m only kidding.”

“Mmm-hmm. Me, too, darling. Hand me another string of these.”

Not at all sure of him, Eve pulled out another string of lights. “How many of these are you going to use?”

“As many as it takes.”

“Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “What I meant—before—was I’ve done undercover before, Peabody’s green.”

“Peabody’s had good training. You should trust her. And yourself.”

“McNab’s still kicking about it.”

“He’s smitten with her.”

“He really— What?”

“He’s smitten with her.” Roarke stepped back, pursed his lips. “Tree lights on,” he ordered, then nodded, satisfied as the tiny diamond points blinked on. “Yes, that’ll do it.”

“What do you mean, smitten? Like he’s got a case on her? McNab? No way.”

“He’s not sure he likes her, but he’s attracted.” Wanting to see his work from another angle, Roarke walked over, picked up his wine, and sipped as he studied. “Ornaments, next.”

“He irritates the hell out of her.”

“I believe you felt the same way about me initially.” He toasted his wife in the glow of tree and fire lights. “And look where we ended up.”

Eve stared at him for a full ten seconds, then sat heavily on the side of the bed. “Oh Christ, this is perfect. This is just perfect. I can’t have the two of them working together like this if there’s a thing there. Annoyance I can deal with; sexual shit, no way.”

“Sometimes you have to let your children go, darling.” He opened another box, chose an antique porcelain angel. “You put the first one on. It’ll be our little tradition.”

Eve stared at it. “If anything happens to her—”

“You won’t let anything happen to her.”

“No.” She let out a breath, and rose. “No, I won’t. I’m going to need your help.”

He reached out, stroked a fingertip over the shallow dent in her chin. “You have it.”

She turned, picked her branch, and hung the angel. “I love you. I guess that’s turning out to be our little tradition, too.”

“It’s my favorite.”

Late, very late, when the tree lights were off and the fire burned low, she lay awake. Was he out there, now? Would her ’link beep, announcing another body, another soul lost because she was too many steps behind?

Whom did he love now?

The snow started to spit out of the sky at dawn. No pretty postcard snow, but thin, mean needles that hissed nastily as they hit pavement. By the time Eve settled in her office at Cop Central, there was a slick layer of ugly gray over the city streets, sidewalks, and glides that would certainly keep the MTs and traffic cops busy.

Outside her window, two weather copters from rival channels dueled in a war to pass the bad news to viewers and report on the latest fender bender or pedestrian spill.

All they had to do, Eve thought bad-temperedly, was open their own fucking doors and see for themselves.

It was going to be a lousy day.

Keeping her back to the arrow-slit view of her window, she fed data into her computer with little hope that she’d get a decent probability match.

“Computer, probability program. Using known data, analyze and compute. List in order of probability which names most likely to be targeted by True Love killer.”

Working . . .

“Yeah, you do that,” she muttered. While her machine whined and clunked, she took copies of photos confiscated from Personally Yours and, rising, fixed them to a board over her desk.

Marianna Hawley, Sarabeth Greenbalm, Donnie Ray Michael. Faces smiling hopefully. Putting their best side forward. The lonely, looking for love.

The desk clerk, the stripper, and the sax blower. Different lifestyles, different goals, different needs. What else did they have in common? What was she missing that linked them all to a killer?

What did he see when he looked at them that attracted and enraged? Ordinary people, living ordinary lives.

Probability percentages even for all subjects.

Eve glanced over at her machine and snarled. “The hell with that. There has to be something.”

Insufficient data for further analysis. Current pattern is random.

“How the hell am I supposed to protect two thousand people, for Christ’s sake?” She closed her eyes, reeled in her temper. “Computer, eliminate all subjects who live with a companion or family member. Recalibrate remaining.”

Working . . . Task complete.

“Okay.” Rubbing her fingers over her eyes, she nodded. All three victims had been white, she thought. “Eliminate all subjects not Caucasian. Recalibrate remaining.”

Working . . . Task complete.

“Number remaining?”

Six hundred twenty-four subjects remaining . . .

“Shit.” She turned back to study the photos. “Eliminate all subjects over the age of forty-five and under the age of twenty-one.”

Working . . . Task complete.

“Okay, all right.” She began to pace as she thought it through. Grabbing her hard-copy file, she pushed through paperwork. “First-timers,” she muttered. “They were all first-timers. Eliminate all subjects with repeated consults from Personally Yours. Recalibrate remaining.”

Working . . .

This time the machine bogged and rattled. Eve gave it an impatient smack with the heel of her hand.

“Piece of shit,” she muttered, and set her teeth as the machine whined again.

Task . . . complete.

“Don’t you start stuttering on me. Number remaining?”

Two hundred six names remaining.

“Better. Much better. Print amended list.”

While her machine chewed and spit out data, Eve turned to her ’link and contacted EDD. “Feeney, I’ve got just over two hundred names. I need them checked out. Can you run them? See how many have left the city, how many got themselves matched or married, died in their sleep, are on vacation at Planet Disney?”

“Shoot them over.”

“Thanks.” She glanced up as she heard a stream of whistles and catcalls from the detective’s bull pen. “It’s a priority,” she told him and logged off just as a flushed and flustered Peabody walked in.

“Jesus, you’d think those morons hadn’t seen me out of uniform before. Henderson offered to leave his wife and kids for a weekend with me in Barbados.”

But, from the gleam in her eye, Peabody didn’t appear to be too displeased by the reaction.

Eve frowned. Her aide’s face was painted and polished, her hair fluffed. Her legs were showcased in a short, snug skirt and stiletto-heeled boots, both the color of ripe raspberries.

“How the hell do you walk in that getup?” Eve wanted to know.

“I practiced.”

Eve inhaled deeply, then blew out air. “Sit down, let’s go over the plan.”

“Okay, but it takes me a couple of minutes to get down in this skirt.” Cautious, Peabody braced a hand on the edge of the desk and began to lower her butt.

“You going to do squats or sit the hell down?”

“Just a second.” She sucked in air, winced a little. “Little tight in the waist,” she managed as she eased down.

“You should have thought of your internal organs before you poured yourself into that thing. You’ve got an hour before you’re due at Personally Yours. I want you to—”

“What the hell are you doing in that?” McNab stopped at the doorway, his eyes bugged out as they skimmed along Peabody’s legs.

“My job,” she said with a sniff.

“You’re just asking to get hit on. Dallas, make her wear something else.”

“I’m not a fashion consultant, McNab. And if I were”—Eve took the time to study his baggy red and white striped trousers and butter-yellow turtleneck—“I might have something to say about your wardrobe choices.”

At Peabody’s snicker, Eve narrowed her eyes. “Now, children, you may be aware that we’re working multiple homicides at this time. If you can’t be friends, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit your playground time this afternoon.”

Peabody immediately squared her shoulders, and though she slid a sneering look toward McNab, she was wise enough to say nothing.

“Peabody, I want you to convince Piper to stick with you through the consult. McNab, you take Rudy. Once you have the match lists, you’ll browse through the retail areas. Make yourselves obvious.”

“Do we have a budget for purchases?” McNab wanted to know, and at Eve’s bland stare, he shrugged and dipped his hands into the wide pockets of his trousers. “It’d make more of an impression if we bought some things. Chatted up the clerks.”

“You’ve got two hundred credits apiece departmental funds. Anything over, it’s your worry. McNab, we know Donnie Ray used the salon to buy enhancements for his mother. Make sure you spend time there.”

“He could use a month,” Peabody said under her breath, then folded her lips innocently when Eve scowled at her.

“Peabody, Hawley used credits in the salon and in Desirable Woman, lingerie place on the floor above. Check it out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll both need to contact as many names on your match lists as possible. Set up meets. I want this to start tonight. Arrangements are being made to use the Nova Club on Fifty-third. The earlier in the evening, the better to start. Try for the first meet at four—then book the rest an hour apart. Get in as many as you can. We don’t know if he hit last night. We may have gotten lucky. But he won’t wait.”

She glanced over at the photos again. “We’ll have cops inside. Feeney and I will be out on the street, in constant contact. You’ll both be wired. Neither of you are to leave with anyone. If you have to take a pee, you signal and one of the inside cops goes with you.”

“It isn’t his pattern to hit in a public place,” Peabody pointed out.

“I don’t take chances with my people. You follow the steps, no deviations, or you’re out. Get Feeney and me the match lists as soon as you have them. Any member of the staff at Personally Yours or in any of the outlets shows undo interest in you, you report. Questions?”

Eve lifted her eyebrows as both of them shook their heads. “Then get started.”

She didn’t grin when Peabody levered herself, with some difficulty, out of the chair. But she wanted to. McNab rolled his eyes and showed his teeth as she marched by him and out of the office.

“She’s green,” he said to Eve.

“She’s good,” Eve countered.

“Maybe, but I’m keeping my eye on her.”

“I can see that,” Eve muttered as he strode out.

She turned back to the photos. They haunted her, those three faces. What had been done to them crawled inside her and refused to let go.

Too close, she reminded herself. Too focused on what and not enough on why.

She closed her eyes a moment, rubbed them as if to erase the images of her own memories.

Why these three? she asked herself again and moved closer to study the cheerfully smiling face of Marianna Hawley.

Office professional, she mused, trying out the same system that she’d used to select Mira’s scent. Reliable, old-fashioned, romantic. Pretty in a safe, comfortable sort of way. Close family ties. Interested in theater. A tidy woman who enjoyed pretty things around her.

Hooking her thumbs in her pocket, she turned her gaze to Sarabeth Greenbalm. The stripper. A loner who was careful with money and collected business cards. Reliable, too, in her chosen career. Lived sparely, horded her take-home pay and calculated her tips. No apparent hobbies, friends, or family connections.

And Donnie Ray, she mused, the boy who’d loved his mother and had blown sax. Lived like a pig and had a smile like an angel. Puffed a little Zoner but never missed a gig.

And suddenly she had it, staring at the three faces of victims who never met.

The theater.

“Oh yes! Computer, bring up Personally Yours, data on Hawley, Marianna; Greenbalm, Sarabeth; Michael, Donnie Ray. Tile on screen, highlight professions and hobbies/interests.”

Working . . . On screen, requested subjects. Hawley, Marianna, administrative assistant, Foster-Brinke. Hobbies and interests, theater. Member West Side Community Players. Other interests—

“Stop, continue next subject.”

Greenbalm, Sarabeth, dancer . . .

“Stop. And Donnie Ray, sax player.” She took a minute, letting it process in her own mind. “Computer, run probability scan on killer selecting current subjects due to mutual connection or interest in theater and entertainment.”

Working. . . . With current data, probability index is ninety-three point two percent.

“Good, damn good.” And huffing out a breath, she answered her communicator’s beep. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the couple at 341 West Eighteen, unit 3. Possible assault attempt. Probability incident linked to current homicide investigations, ninety-eight point eight percent.”

Eve was already up and snagging her jacket. “On my way, Dallas, out.”

“It was just weird.” The woman was tiny, as delicate as the fairies that danced on the tiny white glass tree centered in the wide window of the old rehabbed loft. “Jacko gets too up about things.”

“I know what I know. That flake was wrong, Cissy.”

Jacko scowled as he tightened his arm around the woman’s shoulder. He’d have made four of her, Eve thought. He had to be six-three and two-fifty. An arena ball player’s build, a face tough as mountain rock. Scars dug in at the lantern jaw and over the right eyebrow.

She was pale as a moonbeam, he dark as midnight. His big hand swallowed hers.

The loft had been sectioned off into three main areas. Eve got a peek at the bedroom suite through the opening in wavy glass walls the color of peaches. The bed was enormous and unmade.

In the living area the long U-shaped sofa could have fit twenty people comfortably. Jacko took up space for three.

What she could see indicated easy money, feminine taste, and masculine comfort.

“Just tell me what happened.”

“We told the policeman last night.” Cissy smiled, but her eyes were shadowed with obvious annoyance. “Jacko insisted on calling them. It was just a silly prank.”

“Hell it was. Look.” He leaned forward, his tight scalp curls bobbing a bit. “This guy comes to the door, dressed like Santa Claus, carrying this big box all wrapped and ribboned. Does the ho-ho, merry Christmas deal.”

Anticipation curled in Eve’s gut, but she spoke coolly. “Who opened the door?”

“I did.” Cissy fluttered her hands. “My daddy lives in Wisconsin. He usually sends me something fun for Christmas if I can’t get out for the holidays. I can’t take the time this year, so I thought he’d arranged for Santa to drop in. I still think—”

“That guy wasn’t from your daddy,” Jacko said dampeningly. “She goes to let him in. I’m in the kitchen. I hear her laughing, and I hear this guy’s voice—”

“Jacko’s much too jealous for his own good. It hurts our relationship.”

“Bullshit, Cissy. You can’t tell a guy’s making you until he’s got his hand up your skirt. Jesus.” Obviously disgusted, Jacko hissed out a breath. “He’s moving in on her when I walk out.”

“Moving in?” Eve repeated while Cissy pouted.

“Yeah, I could see it. He’s moving in, got this big smile, this gleam in his eyes.”

“Twinkle,” Cissy muttered. “Santa’s eyes are supposed to twinkle for Lord’s sake, Jacko.”

“They sure as hell stopped twinkling when he saw me. He went statue, just stood there, gaping at me. Scared the ho-ho right out of him, I tell you. Then he takes off, like a fucking rabbit.”

“You yelled at him.”

“Not until after he started to run.” Jacko threw up his enormous hands in frustration. “Yeah, damn right I yelled then, and I took off after him. Would’ve had his ass, too, if Cissy hadn’t gotten in the way. But by the time I shook her off and got out to the street, he was gone.”

“Did the uniform who took the initial call take the security discs?”

“Yeah, he said it was routine.”

“That’s right. What did he sound like?”

“Sound like?” Cissy blinked.

“His voice. Tell me what his voice was like.”

“Um . . . It was jolly.”

“Jesus, Cissy, do you practice being stupid? It was put on,” Jacko said to Eve while Cissy, obviously insulted, sprang up and flounced—Eve could think of no other word for it—into the kitchen. “You know that fake cheer. Deep, rumbling. He said something like . . . ‘Have you been good little girl? I’ve got something for you. Only for you.’ Then I stepped out and he looked like he’d swallowed a live trout.”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Eve asked Cissy. “There was nothing about him, under the costume, under the makeup, that looked familiar? Nothing about his voice, the way he moved?”

“No.” She walked back in, rigidly ignoring Jacko and sipping from a glass filled with fizzy water. “But it was only a couple of minutes.”

“I’m going to have you review the discs, take a look at them when we enlarge and enhance. If there’s anything familiar, I want to know.”

“Isn’t this a lot of trouble for something so silly?”

“I don’t think so. How long have the two of you lived together?”

“On and off for a couple years.”

“A lot of off lately,” Jacko mumbled.

“If you weren’t so possessive, if you didn’t punch every man who looks at me sideways,” Cissy began.

“Cissy?” Eve held up a hand, hoping to forestall the domestic dispute. “What do you do for a living?”

“Me, I’m an actor—teach acting when I can’t land a part.”

There’s one, Eve mused.

“She’s terrific.” With obvious and shameless pride, Jacko grinned at Cissy. “She’s rehearsing for a play off-Broadway right now.”

“Way off,” Cissy said, but she moved back to Jacko with a smile and sat beside him again.

“It’s going to be a huge hit.” He kissed one of her pretty hands. “Cissy beat out twenty other women at the auditions. This one’s her big break.”

“I’ll be sure to watch for it. Cissy, have you used the services of Personally Yours?”

“Um . . .” Her gaze skidded away. “No.”

“Cissy.” Eve put all cop in her voice, in her eyes, and leaned forward. “Do you know the penalty for lying during an interview?”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

“What’s Personally Yours?” Jacko wanted to know.

“A computer dating service.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Cissy! For Christ’s sake.” Furious, Jacko shoved off the couch, rattling knickknacks as he stomped around the living room. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“We broke up!” All at once the little fairy managed to outshout the giant. “I was mad at you. I thought it would be fun. I thought it would teach you a lesson, you dummy. I’ve got a perfect right to see who I want when I want when we aren’t cohabitating.”

“Think again, honey.” He swung back, black eyes glinting.

“See, see?” Cissy jabbed a finger at him as she appealed to Eve. All the flirty softness in her eyes had turned to flint. “This is what I put up with.”

“Calm down, both of you. Sit,” Eve ordered. “When did you have your consult, Cissy?”

“About six weeks ago,” she mumbled. “I went out with a couple of guys—”

“What guys?” Jacko demanded.

“A couple of guys,” she repeated, ignoring him. “Then Jacko came back around. He brought me flowers. Pansies. I caved. But I’m rethinking that decision.”

“That decision might have saved your life,” said Eve.

“What do you mean?” Instinctively Cissy cringed into Jacko. His arm came back around her.

“The incident last night matches the pattern of a series of homicides. In the other cases, the victims lived alone.” Eve glanced at Jacko. “Lucky for you, you don’t.”

“Oh God, but . . . Jacko.”

“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. I’m here.” He all but folded her into his lap as he stared at Eve. “I knew that guy was off. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what I can. Then I need both of you to come down to Cop Central, review the disc, make another report, and tell me everything you can remember, Cissy, about your experience at Personally Yours.”

“The witnesses are giving the investigation their full cooperation.” Eve stood in Commander Whitney’s office. Too wired to sit, she barely resisted pacing as she gave him her report.

“The woman’s shaken, can’t give us much to go on. The man’s holding it together. Nothing about the perpetrator is familiar to either. I’ve interviewed both of the matches Cissy Peterman dated. Both are alibied for at least one of the murders. I think they’re clear on this.”

Lips pursed, Whitney nodded and began to scan the hard copy of Eve’s report. “Jacko Gonzales? The Jacko Gonzales? Number twenty-six with the Brawlers?”

“He plays professional arena ball, yes, sir.”

“Well, hell.” Whitney’s faced creased in one of his rare smiles. “I’ll say he plays. He’s a killer out there. Scored three goals his last game and took out two defensive blocks.”

He cleared his throat as Eve only watched him. “My grandson’s a big fan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Too bad Gonzalez didn’t get his hands on this guy. He wouldn’t be walking, I promise you.”

“I got that impression, Commander.”

“Ms. Peterman’s a fortunate woman.”

“Yes, sir. The next one might not be. This threw him off schedule. He’s bound to hit again. Tonight. I ran this by Dr. Mira. Her opinion is he’ll be angry, emotionally distraught. To me that means he might be sloppy as well. McNab and Peabody have three meets each set up for tonight. Everything’s in place there. I have their lists and reports.”

She hesitated, then decided to speak her mind. “Commander, what we’re doing tonight is a necessary step. But he’s going to be out there while we’re on this surveillance. He’s going to move.”

“Unless you’ve got a crystal ball, Dallas, you’ve got to take the steps.”

“I’ve got a probability list of victims down to just over two hundred. I think I’ve found another connection, the theater, that can carve that number down. I’m hoping with the new data Feeney can get us a short list of probables. The potential victims need to be protected.”

“How?” Whitney spread his hands. “You know as well as I do the department can’t spare that many officers.”

“But if he fines it down—”

“If he quarters it, I can’t spare them.”

“One of those people is going to die tonight.” She stepped forward. “They need to be warned. If we go to the media, put out an alert, whoever he’s targeted might not open the damn door.”

“If we go to the media,” Whitney said coolly, “we start a panic. How many street-corner Santas ringing their bells for charity get assaulted as a result? Or killed. You can’t play trade the victim here, Dallas. And,” he added before she could speak, “if we go to the media, we risk scaring him off. He goes under, we might never find him. Three people are dead, and they deserve better.”

He was right, but knowing it didn’t ease her gut. “If Feeney fines down the list to a workable number, we can contact each name. I’ll put together a team to make the calls.”

“It’ll leak, Lieutenant, and we’ll be back to panic.”

“We can’t just leave them open this way. The next one he kills is on us.” On me, she thought, but knew better than to say it. “If we do nothing to alert the victim, it’s on us. He knows we’ve got his pattern. He knows we’ve got the number of targets. And he knows we can’t do anything but juggle names and wait for him to hit again. He loves it. He performed for the security camera at Peterman’s. Stood in the damn foyer and posed. If Gonzales had been out making goals last night, she’d be dead. That’s four in a week, and it’s too damn many.”

He heard her out, his face calm and set. “It’s a hell of a lot easier where you’re standing, Lieutenant. Maybe you don’t think so, but it’s a hell of a lot easier on that side of the desk. I can’t give you what you want. I can’t let you stand in front of every victim and take the hit the way you stood in front of Roarke’s man a few weeks ago.”

“This has nothing to do with that.” Battling frustrated fury, she set her teeth. “That incident is closed, Commander. And my current investigation is against the wall. Information is already leaking to the media. Another one dies, it’s going to blow up in our faces.”

Whitney’s eyes flattened. “How much have you given Furst?”

“No more than I had to, and most of that off the record. She’ll hold back. But she’s not the only reporter with a good nose, and not many of them have her integrity.”

“I’ll take that matter up with the Chief. That’s the best I can do. You get me Feeney’s amended list, and I’ll ask for individual contacts. I can’t authorize the budget for that kind of operation, Dallas. It’s out of my control.”

He leaned back, studying her. “Come up with something tonight on this surveillance. End this thing.”

• • •

Eve found Feeney scanning the monitor in her office. “Good, you saved me a trip to EDD.”

“Heard you had Jacko Gonzales in.” He glanced wistfully over her shoulder. “Guess he’s gone, huh?”

“I’ll get you his autographed hologram, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah? Appreciate it.”

“I need you to run these names and data.” She pulled out a copy of a disc. “My machine’s stuttering again and it takes me too damn long. I need victim probability whittled down as far as it’ll go.” She dragged open a drawer, pawing through and ignoring the vague headache behind her eyes. “Just the top fifty, okay? I can push Whitney into contacting fifty. God help the others. Where the goddamn hell is my candy bar?”

“I didn’t take it.” Feeney jostled his bag of nuts. “McNab was in here. He’s a known candy thief.”

“Son of a bitch.” Desperate for fuel, she snagged Feeney’s bag and downed a handful of nuts. “I had the security disc from Peterman’s enhanced and enlarged, but I figure you can do better. I want the frame of him when he’s most himself—when he’s turned to run. You can see the panic.”

She jabbed at the AutoChef hoping for coffee to wash down the nuts. “I’ve got photos of the match lists, the personnel at Personally Yours. You got the equipment to scan them, see how many might pop as far as facial shapes, eye shape, that kind of thing. Even with enhancements, something’s got to come through. Most of his mouth’s hidden by the beard.”

“We can do most-likely shapes on that if we have a good enough image.”

“Yeah. Build isn’t going to work, but height should. See how close you can come to height. From the images he didn’t appear to be wearing lifts, so I think we can get close. The gloves screw up the shape of his hands.”

She gulped coffee, eyes narrowing. “Ears,” she said abruptly. “Would he have bothered to change the shape of his ears? How much of them show?”

She leaped to her machine, called up the program, the file, the images. “Shit, nothing, nothing, nothing. Here!” Scanning through she came up with a side view. “That’s good, that’s pretty damn good. Can you work with it?”

Feeney nibbled, considered. “Yeah, maybe. The hat covers the top of the ear, but maybe. Nice call, Dallas. It would’ve slipped by me. We’ll work feature by feature, see what jumps. It’s not going to be quick. Something this complex is going to take days. Maybe a week.”

“I need the bastard’s face.” She closed her eyes, concentrated. “We’ll go back, work the jewelry angle again, the disinfectant, the cosmetics. The tattoos were hand drawn. Maybe we can shake out something there.”

“Dallas, two-thirds of the salons and clubs in the city have freehand tattoo artists.”

“And maybe one of them knows that design.” She blew out a breath. “We’ve got two hours before the meets at Nova. Let’s do what we can.”

The one thing that really irritated Peabody was that McNab was on her match list. It didn’t matter that it was most likely due to the fact that her profile and his had been altered to fit those of the victims’.

It just griped her.

She didn’t like working with him, with his ridiculous clothes, cocky grins, and know-it-all attitude, but figured she was stuck as long as Eve found him an asset.

There was no one on the force Peabody admired as much as Eve Dallas, but she figured even the smartest of smart cops could make one mistake. Eve’s, in Peabody’s opinion, was McNab.

She could see him across the snazzy little bar. He and the six-foot blonde he’d matched with were directly in her line of vision. A deliberate move on McNab’s part, Peabody imagined, just to annoy her while they worked.

If he hadn’t been there, she might have been able to enjoy the quietly elegant atmosphere. The bar had pretty silver-topped tables, pale blue privacy booths, and clever art prints of New York street scenes decorating the warm yellow walls.

Classy, she thought, glancing over at the long, shiny bar with sparkling mirrors and tuxedo-decked servers. But you’d expect classy from something that belonged to Roarke.

The padded chair where she sat was designed for comfort; the drinks were glorious. The table was equipped with hundreds of musical and video selections and individual headsets if a customer wanted entertainment while he or she waited for a friend or enjoyed a quiet, solitary drink.

Peabody was sorely tempted to try out the headset, as her first match was a blistering bore. The guy’s name was Oscar and he was a teacher who specialized in physics on at-home screens. So far, he’d mostly been interested in sucking down rippers and bad-mouthing his recent ex-wife.

She was, Peabody was told, a nonsupporting, self-centered bitch who was frigid in bed. After fifteen minutes, Peabody was fully on the bitch’s side.

Still, she played the game, smiling and chatting while she crossed Oscar off her mental lists of suspects. The guy had a serious problem with alcohol, and their man was too clear-headed to spend his time with the awesome hangovers a few rippers produced.

Across the room, McNab erupted with delighted laughter that ran along Peabody’s nerve endings like a dull razor. While Oscar guzzled the last of his third ripper, she glanced over, and caught the quick, eyebrow wiggle McNab sent her.

It made her want to do something cool and mature. Like sticking out her tongue.

With great relief, she parted ways with Oscar, making vague plans to hook up again.

“When they sell iced rippers in hell,” she muttered and winced as she heard Eve’s voice in her earpiece.

“Maintain, Peabody.”

“Sir.” Peabody hissed the word, covering it by lifting her own virgin blitzer. She sighed, noting by her wrist unit that she had ten minutes before the next meet.

“Goddamn it!”

Peabody jolted when Eve’s voice exploded in her ear. “Sir?” she said again, choking.

“What the hell is he doing here? Damn it!”

Baffled, one hand sliding down to where her weapon was snug inside her left boot, Peabody scanned the room. And caught herself grinning widely as Roarke strolled in.

“Now, that’s a match made in heaven,” Peabody murmured. “Why can’t I get one of those?”

“Don’t talk to him,” Eve ordered in a snap. “You don’t know him.”

“Okay, I’ll just stare and drool, like every other woman in the place.”

She chuckled out loud at Eve’s snarling string of curses, and the couple at the next table glanced over. Peabody cleared her throat, lifted her drink again, and settled back to admire her lieutenant’s husband.

He walked by the bar, and the bartenders came to attention like soldiers on parade for the general. He stopped by a table to speak briefly with a couple. Leaned down to brush his lips over the woman’s cheek, then moved to the end of the bar to lay a friendly hand on a man’s shoulder.

Peabody wondered if he moved just that beautifully in bed, then flushed. It was a damn good thing, she decided, that the wire wasn’t transmitting her thoughts to the surveillance van.

Outside, Eve scowled at the screen that projected the view from the microcamera in Peabody’s collar button. She watched Roarke work the room, very casual, very easy, and vowed to pound him into dust at the first opportunity.

“He’s got no business walking into an operation,” she said to Feeney.

“It’s his place.” Feeney hunched his shoulders, an automatic defense against a marital tiff.

“Right, he came by to check the liquor levels at the bar. Fuck.” She dragged both hands through her hair, then made low, feral sounds in her throat as she watched Roarke wander over to Peabody’s table.

“Enjoying your drink, miss?”

“Um, yeah, I . . . Shit, Roarke” was the best Peabody could manage.

He only smiled, leaned down. “Tell your lieutenant to stop swearing at me. I won’t get in her way.”

Peabody’s eye twitched as Eve’s voice exploded in her ear. “Uh, she suggests you get your fancy ass out of here. She’ll, um, kick it for you later.”

“Looking forward to it.” Still smiling, he lifted Peabody’s fingers, kissed them. “You look fabulous,” he told her, then strolled away while the equipment in the van reported a sharp spike in her blood pressure and pulse rate.

“Down, Peabody,” Eve warned.

“I can’t control an involuntary physical reaction to outside stimuli.” Peabody blew out a breath. “Sure does have a fancy ass. Respectfully, sir.”

“Match Two approaching. Pull it together, Peabody.”

“I’m ready.”

She glanced toward the door, her company smile ready. One of the perks for the operation, as far as she was concerned, had just walked in. She remembered him from her first visit to Personally Yours. The trim bronzed god who’d caught her attention—then given his own to his pocket mirror.

He was going to be a pleasure to look at for the next hour.

He posed at the door, head up, profile turned to the room as he scanned tables. His eyes, a tawny gold that matched his hair, flickered, then settled on Peabody. His mouth turned up as he gave a quick, practiced head toss to allow his hair to flow. He crossed directly to her table.

“You must be Delilah.”

“Yes.” Great voice, she thought with an inward sigh. Better in person that on his video profile. “And you’re Brent.”

Across the room it was McNab’s turn to scowl. The man preening for Peabody was all plastic, he decided, with a thick layer of spray gloss. Probably just her type.

Asshole had his face tailor-made, McNab decided. Body, too. He doubted there was an inch on the man that hadn’t been paid for.

And just look! Just look at the way she’s fawning all over him, McNab thought in disgust, tinged with a vicious dose of jealousy. The woman was practically lapping up every word the guy dropped through his collagen-enhanced lips.

Women were so pitifully predictable.

His gaze slid over as Roarke stopped by the table. “She’s looking particularly appealing tonight, isn’t she?”

“Most guys find it appealing when a woman has half her tits out of her shirt.”

Roarke grinned, enjoying himself. McNab’s eyes were on fire and his fingers were beating a rapid and angry tattoo against the tabletop. “But obviously you’re above such things.”

“Wish I were above them,” McNab muttered as Roarke moved on. “Those are some superior tits.”

“Keep your eyes off Peabody’s tits,” Eve ordered. “Your second match is at the door.”

“Yeah.” McNab glanced over at a tiny redhead in a spangled skinsuit. “I’m on it.”

Inside the van, Eve frowned at the screen. “Give me the run on the guy with Peabody, will you, Feeney? Something about it seems off to me.”

“Brent Holloway, commercial model. Works for Cliburn-Willis Marketing. Thirty-eight, twice divorced, no kids.”

“Model?” Her eyes narrowed. “On screen? That’s sort of like entertainment, right?”

“Shit. You haven’t watched much commercial screen lately. Nothing entertaining about those ads, you ask me. He’s originally from Morristown, New Jersey. New York resident since 2049. Current address Central Park West. Income in middle eighties. Shows nothing on yellow sheets—no arrests. Got a mountain of traffic violations.”

“We saw him—Peabody and me—at Personally Yours on our first trip there. How many consults has he had?”

“This is his fourth match group this year.”

“Okay, why does a guy who looks like that, has credits, a strong career, and a high-dollar address become a dating service addict? Four match groups in a year, five matches per group. That’s twenty women, and nothing sticks. What’s wrong with him, Feeney?”

Feeney pursed his lips and studied the screen. “From my view he looks like a conceited asshole.”

“Yeah, but a lot of women aren’t going to care about that. He’s got looks and bucks. Something should’ve stuck.” She drummed her fingers on the narrow console. “No complaints to the service pop out?”

“Nope. His sheet there’s clean, too.”

“Something’s off,” she said again an instant before she watched her aide rear back and plow a fist directly in Brent Holloway’s perfect nose. “Jesus Christ. Jesus, did you see that?”

“Busted it,” Feeney said placidly as he studied the quick gush of blood. “Nice short-armed jab.”

“What the hell was she thinking? What the hell’s going on? Peabody, have you lost your mind?”

“Son of a bitch stuck his hand up me under the table.” Flushed and furious, Peabody was on her feet, hands fisted. “Bastard’s talking about the new play at the Universe and he grabs my crotch. Pervert. You pervert, get up.”

“McNab, stay the hell where you are!” Eve shouted as McNab surged to his feet with murder in his eyes. “Stay the hell where you are, or you’re off. That’s an order. A goddamn order! Maintain. Peabody, for Christ’s sake, put that guy down.”

Even as Eve was pulling the hair out of her head, Peabody hauled Holloway to his feet and hit him again. She’d have gone for three, even though his gold eyes were rolling back white, if Roarke hadn’t stepped through the excited crowd and pulled the rubber-legged Holloway back.

“Was this man bothering you, miss?” Coolly, Roarke hauled Holloway out of reach, kept his eyes level on Peabody’s glinting ones. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll take care of it. Please, let me get you another drink.” With one hand on Holloway, he lifted Peabody’s glass with his free one, sniffed. “Blitzer, virgin,” he ordered and all three bartenders rushed to comply as he dragged the now struggling Holloway to the door.

“Get your fucking hands off me. That bitch broke my nose. My face is my living, for Christ’s sake. Stupid cunt. I’m suing her crazy ass off. I’m reporting—”

The minute they were outside, Roarke slammed him against the side of the building. Holloway’s head hit the wall with a sound reminiscent of pool balls cracking on the break.

The gold eyes rolled back white a second time.

“Let me give you a clue: This is my place.” Roarke accented the information by rapping Holloway’s head against the bricks again, while, in the van, Eve could only watch and swear. “Nobody paws a woman in my place and walks away on his own legs. So unless you want to try crawling with your limp dick in your hand, you’ll start moving now and thank Jesus only your nose is broken.”

“The bitch asked for it.”

“Oh, now then, that was the wrong thing to say. Entirely.”

“His Irish comes out when he’s pissed. Listen to the music of it,” Feeney said sentimentally as Eve only continued to make violent sounds in her throat.

On what might have been a sigh, Roarke hammered a fist into Holloway’s stomach, kneed him handily in the balls, and let him drop.

He flicked one glance toward the van with what certainly was a quick and wicked grin, then strolled back inside.

“Nice tidy job,” Feeney decided.

“Let’s call a cruiser to pick up that stupid bastard and get him to a health center.” Eve rubbed her eyes. “This is going to look wonderful on the report. McNab, Peabody, maintain positions. Do not—repeat—do not break cover. Christ. When this little party is over, report to my home office so we can try to salvage something.”

At just past nine, Eve paced her home office. No one spoke. They knew better. But Roarke gave Peabody’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“We hit six meets between you, so that’s something. The last two, one for each of you, is scheduled tomorrow noon. Peabody, you’ll report this . . . incident with Match Two to Piper in the morning. Play it up. I want to see how they handle it. His sheet with them is clear up to now. We have recordings on all meets, but I want both of you to work up individual reports. When we’ve finished the debriefing tonight, you’ll both go home and stay there, keeping your communicators open at all times. Both Feeney and I will be monitoring.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant.” Bracing herself, Peabody got to her feet. She swallowed hard, but kept her chin lifted. “I apologize for my outburst during the operation. I realize my behavior could compromise the investigation.”

“The hell with that!” McNab exploded out of his chair. “You should’ve broken his fucking legs. The son of a bitch deserved—”

“McNab,” Eve said mildly.

“The hell with it, Dallas. The bastard got what he deserved. We should—”

“Detective McNab.” Eve snapped off the words and moved forward until they were toe to toe. “I don’t believe your opinion in this matter was requested. You’re now off duty. Go home and cool off. I’ll see you in my office at Central at oh nine hundred.”

She waited while he fought the war between training and instinct. In the end he turned on his heel and stormed out without another word. “Roarke, Feeney, would you give me a moment with my aide?”

“Glad to,” Feeney said under his breath, more than happy to desert the field. “Got any Irish, Roarke? It’s been a long day.”

“I think we can find you a glass.” He sent Eve one quiet look before guiding Feeney out of the room.

“Sit down, Peabody.”

“Sir.” Peabody shook her head. “I let you down. I promised you I would handle myself and the responsibilities you gave me. Then I broke at the first turn. I realize you have every right and reason to take me off the investigation, at least the undercover op, but I’d like to respectfully request another chance.”

Eve said nothing, let Peabody wind down. Her aide was still sheet-pale, but her hands were steady, her shoulders straight. “I don’t believe I mentioned any plans to remove you from the undercover op, Officer. But I did tell you to sit down. Sit down, Peabody,” she said more gently, then turned away to dig up a bottle of wine.

“I understand that when you’re under you have to keep to your cover, to handle any curves without breaking.”

“I didn’t see you break your cover, just that asshole’s nose.”

“I didn’t think, I just reacted. I understand during that kind of op you have to think at all times.”

“Peabody, even an LC has the right to protest if some jerk grabs her crotch in a public place. Here, have a drink.”

“He stuck his fingers in me.” Her hand did shake now as Eve pressed the glass into it. “We were just sitting there talking and all of a sudden I feel him jam his fingers in me. I know I was flirting, and I let him get a good look at my boobs so maybe I deserved—”

“Stop it.” Eve’s control wavered enough for her to put her hands on Peabody’s shoulders and shove her into a chair. “You didn’t deserve it, and it pisses me off to hear you think it. The son of a bitch didn’t have any right to touch you that way. Nobody has a right to push themselves on you that way.”

To hold you down, to tie your hands, to hammer himself into you when you’re begging him to stop. And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The sickness rose up, all but gagging her, until she turned, laid her hands on her desk, and ordered herself to breathe.

“Not now,” she murmured. “For Christ’s sake.”

“Dallas?”

“It’s nothing.” But she had to stay as she was, hands braced, for another moment. “I’m sorry you were put in that kind of position. I knew something was off about him.”

Peabody lifted her glass with both hands. She could still feel the sudden sharp shock of Holloway’s fingers digging into her. “He passed their screening.”

“And now we know their screening isn’t as good as they claim.” She drew a deep breath and, steadier, turned back. “I want you to hit Piper with this in the morning, in person. Go in, demand to see her. A little hysteria wouldn’t hurt; you can threaten to sue or go to the press. I want her to get it full in the face. Let’s see what shakes. Can you do it?”

“Yeah.” Appalled that tears were perilously close, Peabody sniffed. “Yeah, the way I’m feeling, it’ll be easy.”

“Keep your communicator open. We can’t use anything you get on the inside, but I want you in constant contact. You can delay your report on tonight until tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to have Feeney take you home, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Eve waited a beat. “Peabody?”

“Sir?”

“Damn good punch. Next time, though, follow it through with a groin shot. You want to completely disable, not just annoy.”

Peabody let out a long sigh, then managed a half smile. “Yes, sir.”

• • •

Because she wanted the position of command, Eve sat behind her desk and waited for Roarke. She knew he’d walk Feeney and Peabody out, probably add a few comfort strokes for Peabody. Which would set the poor woman up for sweaty, erotic dreams if Eve knew her aide.

Better, she thought, than ugly nightmares about groping hands and helplessness.

And that, she realized, was part of her problem with this case. Sexual homicides, bondage, the gleeful cruelty in the name of love. Too close to home. Too close to the past she’d spent most of her life running from.

Now it was hitting her in the face. Each time she looked at a victim, she saw herself.

And she hated it.

“Get past it,” she ordered herself. “And find him.”

She looked over as Roarke walked in, kept her eyes on him as he crossed the room. He poured two glasses of the wine she’d gotten out for Peabody, set one on her desk, then took the other with him and sat in the chair facing her.

He sipped, took out one of his increasingly rare cigarettes, lighted it. “Well,” he said and left it at that.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

He drew in smoke, blew it out in a thin, fragrant stream. “At which point?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Roarke.”

“But I do it so well. Easy, Lieutenant.” He lifted his glass in salute as she growled low in her throat. “I didn’t infringe on your operation.”

“The point is you had no business being near the scene.”

“Pardon me, but I own the scene.” There was arrogance in his tone now, and a dare. “I often drop in on my properties. Keeps the employees on their toes.”

“Roarke—”

“Eve, this case is choking you. Do you think I can’t see it?” His composure cracked just enough to have him rising to pace.

Feeney was right, she thought fleetingly, the Irish came out when he was pissed.

“It disturbs your sleep—what little you allow yourself. It haunts your eyes. I know what you go through.” He turned back, temper alive in those wonderfully blue eyes. “Christ, I admire you. But you can’t expect me to stand back and pretend I don’t see, don’t understand, and not do whatever it is I can do to ease what’s inside you.”

“It isn’t about me. It can’t be about me. It’s about three dead people.”

“They haunt you, too.” He crossed to the desk and sat on the edge close to her. “That’s why you’re the best cop I’ve ever run up against. They’re not names and numbers to you. They’re people. And you have the gift—or curse—of being able to imagine too well what they saw and felt and prayed for in those last minutes of life. I won’t back away.”

He leaned forward, a quick move that caught her unguarded, and gripped her chin. “Damn it. I won’t back away from what you are or what you do. You’ll take me, Eve, every bit as fully as I take you.”

She sat very still, absorbing his words, searching his eyes. She could never resist the things she found in his eyes. “Last winter,” she began slowly, “you pushed yourself into my life. I didn’t ask for you. I didn’t want you.”

His brow cocked, an irritated challenge. “Thank God you didn’t give a damn what I asked for or what I thought I wanted,” she murmured and watched the dare slide into a smile.

“I didn’t ask for you either. A ghra.”

My love. She knew what it meant, in the tongue of his birth, and couldn’t stop her heart from opening to it. To him. “Since then I’ve rarely had a case that hasn’t tangled you into it. I didn’t want it to be that way. I’ve used you when it was expedient. That bothers me.”

“It pleases me.”

“I know it.” She sighed and, lifting a hand, curled her fingers briefly around his wrist. His pulse beat there, strong and steady. “You get too close to pieces of me I don’t like to look at, then I don’t have any choice but to look at them.”

“You look at them with or without me, Eve. But maybe with me they won’t hurt you so much. I look back,” he said and surprised her enough to have her eyes flicking up to his, holding there. “And it’s easier, those moments are easier to stand since you. You can’t ask me, can’t expect me not to stand with you when your moments close in.”

She stood now, taking her wine and moving away from him. He was right, she thought. What she too often saw as dependence should have been accepted as unity.

And she could tell him.

“I know what they felt. I know what went through them—the fear, the pain, the humiliation. Each one of them when they were helpless and naked and he was raping them. I know what their bodies felt, what their minds felt. I don’t want to remember what it’s like to be torn into that way. Ripped, invaded. But I do. Then you touch me.”

She turned back, realizing she’d never really given him this. “Then you touch me, Roarke, and I don’t. I don’t feel that. I don’t remember that. It’s that simple. It’s just . . . you.”

“I love you,” he murmured. “Outrageously.”

“So you’re here when you should be off planet seeing to your business.” She shook her head before he could speak, could slide some smooth excuse by her when she knew better. “You were there tonight, knowing I’d be pissed off, because you thought there might be a chance I’d need you. You’re here right now ready to argue with me just to take my mind off what’s ripping at it. I know you, damn it. I’m a cop. I’m good at knowing people.”

He only smiled. “Busted. So what?”

“So . . . thanks. But I’ve been on the job eleven years now and I can handle myself. On the other hand . . .” She studied her wine, then took a long swallow. “It sure gave me a nice feeling to watch you beat the puss out of that creep who jumped Peabody. I had to sit there in the fucking van. Couldn’t risk getting out to smear him onto the pavement myself and blow cover. So it felt pretty good to watch you do it for me.”

“Oh, it was absolutely my pleasure. Is she all right?”

“She will be. He shook her—that’s the human part. She’ll take a hot shower, a tranq if she’s smart, and sleep it off. The cop part will maintain. She’s a good cop.”

“She’s a better one because of you.”

“No, don’t put that on me. She’s what she is.” Uncomfortable with that topic, she shot him a cool stare. “I bet you hugged her, stroked her hair, and gave her a kiss good night.”

That gorgeous eyebrow lifted again. “And if I did?”

“Her little heart’s still pitty-patting over it, which is just fine. She’s got a thing for you.”

“Really?” He grinned widely. “How . . . interesting.”

“Don’t play with my aide. I need her focused.”

“How about you unfocus for just a little while, and I see if I can make your heart pitty-pat?”

She ran her tongue around her teeth. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot on my mind. It’d be a lot of work.”

“I enjoy my work.” With his eyes on hers, he stubbed out his cigarette, set down his glass. “And I’m damned good at it.”

She was facedown on the bed, naked and still vibrating, when the call came in. She grunted, blocked video, and answered. Thirty seconds later, she was rolling over and looking for her clothes. The call had been for her response to an anonymous tip on a domestic dispute. The address was all too familiar.

“That’s Holloway’s place. It’s not a 1222. He’s dead. It followed pattern.”

“I’ll go with you.” Roarke was already out of bed and reaching for his trousers.

She started to protest, then shrugged. “Okay. I have to tag Peabody for this, and she might not handle it well. I’m counting on you to give her the strokes because I’m going to have to be hard on her to keep her in line.”

“I don’t envy your job, Lieutenant,” Roarke said as he dressed in the dark.

“Right now, neither do I.” She dug out her communicator and called Peabody.

Brent Holloway had lived well, and died badly. The furnishing of his town house spoke of a man who was ruled by both trends and comfort. A lake-sized sofa dominated the living area and was pooled with triangular black pillows that appeared wet to the touch. A view screen was recessed in the ceiling above. In a cabinet, shaped like a well-endowed female from neck to knee, was an expansive collection of porn discs, some legal, some bootlegged.

A silver serving bar stretched across one wall and was stocked with expensive liquor and cheap illegal drugs.

The kitchen was fully automated, soulless, and appeared to have been used rarely. There was an office with a high-end computer system and holophone and a playroom equipped with VR and a mood tube. A servant droid stood in the corner, shut down and blank-eyed.

Holloway was in the master suite, stretched over a water-to-air mattress, trussed in sparkly silver garland and staring blindly at his own reflection in the mirrored canopy. The tattoo had been painted low on his belly, and four plump birds flew on the silver choke chain around his neck.

“Looks like he’d been to a health center,” Eve commented. His nose was only slightly swollen. Whatever bruising there might have been was expertly concealed with cosmetics.

Roarke stood back, knowing he wasn’t permitted in the room. He’d seen her work before. Competent, thorough, with a gentleness under the professional moves as she tended the dead.

He watched her run the standard field test to establish time of death, recording it herself until Peabody and the Crime Scene techs arrived.

“Ligature marks, both wrists, both ankles indicate victim was restrained prior to death. Death occurred twenty-three fifteen. Bruising on throat indicates cause of death to be strangulation.”

She glanced up as the buzzer sounded.

“I’ll let her in,” Roarke said.

“Okay. Roarke?” She hesitated only a moment. He was here, after all, and he was able. “Can you reactivate the droid? Bypass the programmed commands?”

“I think I could handle that.”

“Yeah.” There was very little he couldn’t do to bypass security systems. She tossed him a can of Seal-It. “Coat your hands. I can’t have your prints on it.”

He gave the can a mild look of distaste, but carried it with him.

She turned back to the body, continuing her work. She could hear the muted conversation in the other room as Roarke spoke to Peabody. Moving to the doorway, she waited.

Peabody was back in uniform, her recorder pinned to her lapel, her hair ruthlessly slicked down in its usual straight bowl around her face. And her face was pale, her eyes horrified.

“Oh shit, Dallas.”

“Tell me if you can’t deal with it. I have to know now before you go in.”

She’d asked herself the same question over and over since she’d received the call. Because she still wasn’t sure of the answer, she kept her eyes on Eve’s. “It’s my job to handle it. I know that.”

“I tell you what your job is. There’s a droid. You can work that. You can check the ’links, the security discs. You can start the door-to-doors.”

It was an out. She hated herself for wanting to take it. Wanting to do anything but step inside the room. “I prefer to work the scene. Sir.”

Eve studied her another moment, then nodded. “Engage your recorder.” She turned and walked back to the side of the bed. “The victim is Holloway, Brent, ID established by investigating officer. Preliminary on body recorded by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Subsequent record by Peabody, Officer Delia. Time and apparent cause of death established.”

Peabody’s stomach jittered when she forced herself to study the body. “It’s just like the others.”

“Apparently. Sexual molestation has not yet been established, nor has the victim been tested for drugs. The exposed skin shows signs of disinfectant. I can still smell it.”

She took a visor out of her field kit, fit it over her head, adjusted the power on the eyepieces. “Crime Scene techs are late,” she muttered. “Lights out,” she commanded, and the spotlight beams trained on the bed went dark.

“Yeah, he’s been sprayed down. The brushstrokes on the tattoo coincide with those on previous victims. It’s damn good freehand,” she added, with her nose all but pressing on Holloway’s belly. “What have we got here? Give me the tweezers, Peabody. I got hair or fiber here.”

Without looking back, Eve held out a hand, felt the small metal tool when Peabody passed it. “It’s white, doesn’t look man-made.” Holding up the thin strand, she studied it through the magnified visor. “He’s got several of these on him. I need a bag.” Even as she said it, Peabody was holding one out. “I’d guess Santa’s beard is shedding, and he wasn’t as careful cleaning up after himself this time.”

Carefully Eve plucked white strands from the body, bagged them. “He just made his first mistake. Take the visor.” Eve pulled it off. “Check the bathroom, every corner. Pull the drains and bag the contents. I want everything. Lights on,” she added. “Missing Cissy last night shook him, Peabody. He’s getting sloppy.”

By the time Eve turned the room over to the Crime Scene team, she’d found more than a dozen hairs, and minute traces of fiber. Her eyes were dark with purpose when she found Roarke with the droid in the playroom.

“Did you get it on?”

“Of course.” Staying comfortably in the body-mold chair, he gestured toward the droid. “Rodney, this is Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.” The droid was short and squat, with a homely face and a clipped voice. Obviously Holloway hadn’t wanted any competition, even in his electronics.

“What time were you disengaged tonight?”

“At ten oh three, shortly after Mr. Holloway returned for the evening. He prefers that I remain off unless he requires my services.”

“He didn’t require them tonight.”

“Apparently not.”

“Did he have any visitors from the time he returned and you were disengaged?”

“No. If I may say, Mr. Holloway didn’t appear to be in the mood for companionship this evening.”

“How so?”

“He appeared upset,” the droid claimed, then folded his lips.

“Rodney, this is a police investigation. You’re required to answer my questions fully.”

“I don’t understand. Has there been a burglary?”

“No, your employer is dead. Did anyone come to the door before Holloway returned?”

“I see.” Rodney took a moment, as if adjusting his circuits to the news. “No, there were no visitors this evening. Mr. Holloway had an outside engagement. He returned home at nine fifty. He was angry. He swore at me. I noticed he had some facial bruises and I asked if I could be of assistance. He suggested that I fuck myself, which is a function I am not programmed to perform. He ordered me to go to hell, which was not possible, then countermanded that order with one to come into this room and shut down for the night. I was programmed to reengage at seven A.M.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Eve could see Roarke grinning. She ignored him. “Your employer has illegal drugs and pornographic materials on the premises.”

“I am not programmed to comment on those matters.”

“Did he entertain sexual partners here?”

“Yes.”

“Male or female?”

“Both, occasionally at the same time.”

“I’m looking for a man, approximately six feet tall. I believe he has long hands, long fingers. He’s likely Caucasian. Over thirty years of age, but probably not more than fifty. He has some artistic talent, and interest in theater.”

“I’m sorry.” Rodney inclined his head politely. “That is insufficient data.”

“You’re telling me,” Eve muttered.

Eve waited until the body was bagged and removed. “There’s more to this guy than we have on record,” she said to Roarke. “Look around here, you can see. He had money, and liked to spend it on his face and body. He liked to look at himself.” Her gaze scanned the room, noting mirrors on nearly every surface. “He uses a dating service, claiming to be straight hetero, but his droid says he was bi. The dating service screens better than the Candidate Control Division out of East Washington, but he slips all this by them. He finger rapes Peabody on their first meet. If he did it once, he did it before, but he gets by with it.”

She paced the living room while Roarke said nothing. Nothing was required, he knew. She was using him as a bounce for her thoughts. “Maybe he’s connected to either Rudy or Piper. A lover. Or he’s helping to fund the place, or he’s got something on them so they let it all slide. This guy wasn’t a lonely heart, he was a pervert. They had to know it. At least one of them had to know it.”

She paused by the cabinet, empty now of the discs already taken into evidence. “Some of those were homemade jobs. I wonder who we’ll find doing nasty things with Holloway.”

She looked back at Roarke. They were alone for the moment, but Peabody would be back shortly. She struggled with the decision, then thought of four body bags. “I have to go in with this. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

He knew her very well. He moved close, touched a hand to her cheek. “Do you want to ask, or do you want me to just do it and tell you after it’s done?”

She blew out a breath. “I’ll ask.” She jammed her hands in her pockets as she did. “You can dig beneath the surface of what Holloway put on record. You can find out in hours what it would take Feeney days. He can’t cut the corners you can. I don’t have days. I don’t want this bastard to give me another body to be bagged.”

“I’ll call you when I have something.”

He was making it simple, and that only made it worse. “I’ll transmit his file when I get into Central,” she began, then shut her mouth firmly when he grinned.

“No point in wasting time when I can get it myself.” Leaning down, he kissed her. “I enjoy helping you.”

“You just like screwing Compuguard and running illegal programs.”

“There is that added benefit.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed briefly at the tension there. “If you work until you fall on your face, I’m going to be annoyed.”

“I’m still standing. I need the car and I don’t have time to take you back home.”

“I think I can manage to get there.” He kissed her again before starting toward the door. “Oh, by the way, Lieutenant, you have an appointment with Trina at six tonight. She and Mavis will come to the house.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll entertain them if you’re running a bit late.” Ignoring her next curse, he slipped outside.

She ended with a hiss, then gathered her field kit, called to Peabody, and sealed the scene. “I want to run the hair and fiber to the lab and light a fire under Dickhead,” she said as they climbed into her vehicle. “We’ll push the ME, too, though I don’t think we’re going to find out anything from the postmortem that we don’t already know.”

She slid a sidelong glance at her aide as she drove. “It’s going to be a long day, Peabody. You might want to take some approved ups to get through. You can requisition some Alert-All.”

“I’m okay.”

“I need you sharp. I want you transformed and under by nine. You have to pull off your bit with Piper. We’ll hold the release of Holloway’s name as long as possible.”

“I know what to do.” Peabody stared out the window, watching the night sweep by. There was a lone glide-cart on the corner at Ninth, the operator warming himself in the steam from his grill.

“I’m not sorry I broke his goddamn nose,” she said abruptly. “I thought I would be. I thought when I saw him there, saw what had been done to him, that I’d be sorry.”

“One doesn’t have anything to do with the other.”

“I thought it would. I thought it should. I was afraid to go in that room. But once I was in there, doing the job, I didn’t feel all the stuff I thought I would.”

“You’re a cop. A good one.”

“I don’t want to be the kind who stops feeling.” She turned her head, studied Eve’s profile. “You’re not. They’re not just slabs to you, they’re people. I don’t want to stop remembering they’re people.”

Eve glanced right and left as she approached a red light, then seeing her way clear, breezed through it. “You wouldn’t be working with me if I thought you would.”

Peabody took a long, slow breath and felt her stomach settle. “Thanks.”

“Since you’re grateful, contact Dickhead. Tell him I want his skinny ass in the lab within the hour.”

Peabody grimaced, shifted in her seat. “I don’t know if I’m that grateful.”

“Make the call, Peabody. If he balks, I’ll take over and bribe him with a case of Roarke’s Irish beer. Dickie’s got a weakness for it.”

It took two cases and a threat to tie his tongue around his neck, but at three A.M. Dickie was in his labcoat and testing hair and fiber.

Eve paced the lab, barking into her communicator as the assistant ME claimed a holiday backup on autopsies. “Look, you little drone, I can call Commander Whitney and fry your ass. This is Priority One. You want me to let it drop to the media that my investigation was delayed because some AME wanted to read his Christmas cards instead of doing a cut?”

“Come on, Dallas, I’m working a double. I got stiffs stacked like bricks in the drawers here.”

“Put my brick on the table and have the report to me by oh six hundred or I’m coming over there and I’m going to show you what a Y cut feels like.”

She cut transmission and turned around. “Gimme, Dickie.”

“Don’t crowd me, Dallas. You don’t scare me. I don’t see no Priority One tab on this evidence.”

“There will be by nine.” She walked over and gave his hair a hard quick yank. “I haven’t had my fucking coffee, Dickie. You don’t want to mess with me here.”

“Jeez, get some then.” Behind his microgoggles, his eyes were as big as an owl’s. “I’m running the damn stuff, aren’t I? You want it quick or you want it right?”

“I want it both.” Because she was desperate, she walked over and ordered a cup of the lab sludge pretending to be coffee and forced down a swallow.

“Hair’s human,” he called out. “Treated with a salon fixer and an herbal disinfectant.”

That perked Eve up enough to have her drinking more coffee as she crossed to him. “What kind of fixer, what’s it for?”

“To preserve color and texture. It’ll keep the white from yellowing or getting stiff. Two of your samples have some adhesive on one end. These hairs likely came from a wig. A good, expensive one. This is real human hair, and that puts it high-end. I’ll have to run more to tag the adhesive. Might be able to get you a brand name on the fixer after some more tests.”

“What about the fibers, the stuff Peabody got from the drains?”

“I haven’t done it yet. Jesus, I’m not a droid.”

“Okay.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I need to go to the morgue, make sure Holloway’s on the table. Dickie.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. He was a pain in the ass, but he was the best. “I need everything you can get me, and I need it fast. This guy’s taken out four, and he’s already looking for number five.”

“I’ll get it to you a hell of a lot faster if you stop breathing down my neck.”

“I’m leaving. Peabody.”

“Sir.” Peabody jerked from her doze in a lab chair and blinked blindly.

“We’re moving,” Eve said shortly. “Dickie, I’m counting on you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know I don’t think I got my invite to your big party tomorrow night.” He smiled thinly. “Musta gotten lost.”

“I’ll make sure we find it. After you give me what I need.”

“You got it.” Pleased, he turned back and bent over his work.

“Greedy little bastard. Here.” Eve pushed the coffee into Peabody’s hand as they headed back out to the car. “Drink this. It’ll either wake you up or kill you.”

Eve badgered the AME until she had confirmed cause of death. She stood over his shoulder until he’d run the tox test and reported the over-the-counter tranq in Holloway’s system.

Back at Central she ordered Peabody to the cramped area commonly known as the Resort. It consisted of one dark room with three two-level bunks.

While her aide slept, Eve settled into her office and wrote up the reports. She transmitted the necessary copies, and fueled herself with more coffee and what might have been a cranberry muffin from the vending machine.

It was still shy of dawn when her ’link beeped and Roarke’s image swam onto her screen.

“Lieutenant, you’re pale enough to see through.”

“I’m solid enough.”

“I have something for you.”

Her heart bumped once. He’d know to say nothing more on a logged call. “I’m going to try to swing home shortly. Peabody’s down for a couple of hours more.”

“You need to go down yourself.”

“Yeah. I’ve about done all I can here. I’m coming in.”

“I’ll wait up for you.”

She broke the call, and left a brief memo for Peabody, should she wake before Eve returned. Once she was in her car and headed out, she put in another call to the lab.

“Anything more for me?”

“Jesus, you’re relentless. Tagged your fiber. It’s a sym-poly blend, trade name Wulstrong. Simulated wool, commonly in coats and sweaters. This was dyed red.”

“Like a Santa suit?”

“Yeah, but not one of your bell-ringing suits. Those poor bastards can’t afford this kind of weight and quality. This is good shit, next best thing to real wool. The manufacturers claim it’s better—warmer, more durable, and blah blah blah. That’s bullshit, ’cause nothing’s better than genuine. But this is good, pricey. Just like the hair. Your guy isn’t worried about spending credits.”

“Good. Nice work, Dickie.”

“You find my invitation, Dallas?”

“Yeah, it fell behind my desk.”

“Those things happen.”

“Get me the results of the drain lift, Dickie, and I’ll have it messengered over.”

She watched dawn flirt with the eastern sky as she turned toward home.

She knew where to find Roarke. In a room that shouldn’t have existed, manning equipment that she shouldn’t know about. She ignored the knee-jerk reaction, a cop’s reaction, as she approached the room and laid her palm on the plate.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

Her palm- and voiceprints were analyzed quickly, and she was cleared inside.

He’d left the curtains open on the wide glass. The glass itself was treated. No one could see inside. The room was large, the floor a fancy marble, the walls accented with art—but for one, which was dominated by several screens.

All but one screen was blank now. On that, Roarke ran stock reports while he sat behind the slick U-shaped console toying with an unregistered computer.

“You were faster than I figured.”

“There weren’t that many layers to go through.” He gestured to a chair beside him. “Sit down, Eve.”

“Were they thin enough that I can slide it through? Indicate I found it myself without falsifying my report?”

His cop, Roarke thought fondly, would always worry about such niceties. “If you’d know just where to look, just what to question—which I imagine you would have, given another day or two. Sit,” he repeated, and this time took her hand and pulled her into the chair.

He’d tied his hair back—which always made her want to tug it free of the thin leather band. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his black sweater. She found herself looking at his hands, thinking about his hands. Gorgeous, clever hands. She realized she was drifting and snapped herself back.

When she blinked her vision clear, his face was close, and one of those gorgeous, clever hands held her chin, his thumb brushing over the shallow dent in its center. “Nearly went out, didn’t you?”

“I was just . . . thinking.”

“Uh-huh. Thinking. I’m going to make a trade with you, Lieutenant. I’ll give you what I’ve found if, in exchange for it, you’ll be here at six tonight. You’ll take a soother—”

“Hey, I’m not bargaining for information.”

“You are if you want the information. I can wipe it.” He reached out a hand and let it hover over some controls she couldn’t identify. “You’ll be here, take a soother,” he repeated, “and let Trina give you a full treatment.”

“I haven’t got time for a stupid haircut.”

It wasn’t the hair styling he was thinking of, but the body massage and relaxation program he was going to arrange. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ve got four murder discs on my desk.”

“Right at this moment, I don’t give a damn if you have four hundred. Whatever your priorities, you happen to be mine. That’s my price. Do you want the data?”

“You’re as bad as Dickhead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She snorted out a laugh at the insult in his voice, then rubbed her hands over her face. She really hated when he was right. She was running on fumes. “Okay, I’ll take the deal. What did you find?”

He frowned at her for a moment, then dropped his hand and turned to the screen wall. “Save data on screen four, screen off. Holloway file up, on all screens. Our friend here had a costly ID change four years ago. Under his birth name . . .”

“John B. Boyd. Shit.” She got to her feet and walked closer to the screens to read the first of several police reports. “Sexual offender, rape charges. Dropped by victim. Coerced sexual partnership, convicted. Six months psych treatment and community service. Bullshit. Possession of illegal sexual paraphernalia, pleaded out. Voluntary treatment for sexual obsessions. Treatment complete, records sealed. Fuck that. This guy was twisted and the system let him slide.”

“He had money,” Roarke pointed out. “It’s easy to buy your way out of mid-level sex charges. He slithered his way clear, then ends up sodomized and strangled. Irony, Eve, or justice?”

“He should have gotten his justice in the courts,” she snapped. “I don’t give a damn about irony. Would Personally Yours have found this during screening?”

“I would have.” He moved his shoulders. “It depends on how deep they go, but as I said, it was only a few layers down. Any full-security screen would have popped it. Sealing the records only protects him from a standard employee or credit screen.”

“Did you get his financials?”

“Of course. Subject financials, screen six. You can see he did very well monetarily at his work. Had a decent broker who invested well. He liked to spend, but he had it to spend. There are, however, several reasonably good deposits which are over and above his modeling fees or investment dividends. Ten thousand at three-month intervals over a two-year period.”

“Yeah.” Again, she stepped closer to the screen. “I see them. Were you able to trace?”

“I wonder why I tolerate these small insults.” He only sighed when she turned back and scowled at him. “Naturally. They were e-transfers, swung through a variety of sources in a decent attempt to conceal the original source. However, all of them bounce back to one location.”

She nodded her head. “Personally Yours.”

“You’re an excellent detective.”

“So, he was blackmailing them. Or one of them. Do you have initials of the name authorizing transfer?”

“The account is under both names. It could have been either Piper or Rudy. Their account uses a passcode rather than a signature.”

“Okay, it gives me enough to bring them into Interview and cook them awhile.” She drew a long breath. “I’m going to let Peabody have a go at them first, shake them up. Then I’ll move in.”

“Just make sure you’re home by six.”

Impatient, she turned back to him. The morning was breaking, light slipping through the treated glass and accenting her pale cheeks and shadowed eyes. “I made the deal. I’ll keep it.”

“Of course you will.” If he had to go down to Cop Central and carry her out personally.

Eve decided the best strategy was to hit her targets hard and clean while they were already bruised. If Peabody played it right, Rudy and Piper would be shaken, working frantically to avoid bad publicity and a potential lawsuit brought by a horrified client.

And when Peabody moved out, Eve thought, she would move in.

At nine thirty she was in the salon, showing Holloway’s picture to the reception clerk. If it went as timed, she would be finishing up when Peabody came in and gave her the go signal.

“Sure, I know Mr. Holloway. He had a regular once a week, and a standing monthly.”

“Once a week for what?”

“Hair style, facial, manicure, massage, and aroma-relax.” Yvette, friendly and helpful now, leaned over the counter and let out a little sigh as she studied Holloway’s picture again. “This guy’s got a mag shell, and he knew how to maintain. Once a month he got the works, full day of treatments.”

“Same consultant?”

“Oh sure, he wouldn’t settle for anybody but Simon. A few months ago, Simon took a vacation. Mr. Holloway pitched a big one right here in the wait area. We gave him a free spin in the mood tube and a Deluxe O to chill him down.”

“Deluxe O?”

“O for orgasm, honey. Privacy room, with his choice of VR, holo, or droid LC. We aren’t set up for human licensed companions, but we have all the alternatives. The Deluxe runs five hundred, but it was worth it to take him down. You gotta keep your regulars happy. A client like Holloway drops like five thousand a month in here, not counting product purchases.”

“And there’s nothing like a Deluxe Orgasm to keep the customer satisfied.”

“You got it.” She grinned, grateful that Eve didn’t appear to hold grudges. “So, did he do something?”

“You could say that. But he won’t be doing it again. Simon around?”

“He’s back in Studio Three. You don’t want to go back there,” she began when Eve turned.

“Yes, I do.”

Eve walked down a short hallway and through frosted glass doors etched with silhouettes of perfect human forms.

There were muted voices and music, the sounds of water splashing tunefully, birds chirping, breezes blowing. She could smell eucalyptus, rose, musk.

Pastel-colored doors lined both sides. Through an open one she could see a long padded table and complicated equipment, tubes, mirrors, a small computer station. All of which reminded her uncomfortably of a health center.

As she continued down, another door opened and a consultant in a white uniform led a woman covered from head to toe in green glop toward another area.

“Studio Three?”

“Corridor to the left, the door’s marked.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve watched while the consultant drew her client away, telling her that ten minutes in the Desert Room would make her a new woman.

It took all Eve’s willpower not to shudder.

When the corridor forked, she saw the large bubbling spa framed with miniature weeping cherry trees. Three women were already relaxing in it, breasts bobbing cheerfully on the surface of the sugar-pink froth.

Another woman drifted alone, submerged to the chin in the thickened green fluid of a sensory tube. Just beyond it, in what Eve supposed was the wet area, was a narrow pool called the Plunge, where the sharply blue water was held at a temperature of thirty-six degrees. Even looking at it made her teeth chatter.

She turned left. After a quick knock on the Easter-egg-blue door marked Three, she stepped in. It was a toss-up who was more surprised, herself, Simon, or McNab, who reclined in a relaxation chair with his face coated with what appeared to be black mud.

“This is a treatment area.” Hands flapping, Simon rushed to block her way. “You’re not allowed in here while I’m consulting. Out, out, out.”

“I need to talk to you. It’ll only take a couple minutes.”

“I’m working here.” Simon spread his hands, sending a few blobs of mud sailing.

“Two minutes,” she said and had to clamp down on the urge to laugh as McNab rolled his eyes dramatically behind Simon’s back.

“Out, out,” he said again, snagging a towel. “I do apologize,” he said to McNab. “Your slather needs to set in any case. Please, just relax, let your mind rest. I’ll just be a moment.”

“No problem,” McNab muttered.

“No, no, shh!” With a benign smile, Simon tapped a finger to his lips. “No talking. Let your face relax completely, let your mind empty. This is your time. Now, close your eyes, imagine all impurities flowing out. I’ll be just outside.”

His smile fell away the minute he shut the door and looked at Eve. “I won’t have you disturbing my clients.”

“Sorry. But one of your clients was really disturbed last night. He won’t be coming in for his standing monthly anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Holloway. Brent Holloway. He’s dead.”

“Dead? Brent?” Simon leaned back against the glossy wall. The hand he hadn’t quite wiped clean pressed against his heart. “But I saw him only a few days ago. There must be a mistake.”

“I saw him this morning, in a drawer at the morgue. There’s no mistake.”

“I can’t . . . breathe.” Cape fluttering, Simon dashed down the hall. Eve found him in a plush waiting area, collapsed on a silk settee, his head between his knees.

“I didn’t know you were that close.”

“I’m his—was his consultant. No one, not even a spouse, is more intimate.”

She tried to think of intimacy with Trina and had to block off another shudder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Simon. You want something. Water?”

“Yes, no. Oh dear God.” He lifted his head and reached out with a trembling hand to engage the pop-up refreshment screen on the table beside him. His face was a sickly gray framed by the brilliant red of his hair. “I need a soother. Camomile, chilled.” Then he leaned back, shut his eyes. “How did it happen?”

“We’re investigating. Tell me about him, tell me who he was involved with.”

“He was a very exacting man. I respected that. He knew precisely how he wanted to appear, and was dedicated to maintaining his face, his body. Oh God.” He snagged the tall, slim glass from the server droid the minute it scooted in. “I’m sorry, dear heart. Give me just a moment.”

He drank deeply, taking slow, even breaths between sips. Some of the color that had washed away from his face came back. “He never missed an appointment, and sent me many referrals. He appreciated my work.”

“Did he hook up with anyone around here on a personal level? Stylists, consultants, other clients?”

“Our staff isn’t permitted to date the clientele. As to other clients, I don’t recall him mentioning any. He enjoyed women. He had a varied and satisfying sexual life.”

“He told you about that?”

“What is discussed between consultant and client is absolutely sacred.” Simon sniffed once, then set his empty glass aside.

“Did he go for men, too?”

Simon’s mouth flattened. “He never mentioned an interest in same-sex relationships. I don’t feel comfortable with these questions, Lieutenant.”

“Holloway’s not real comfortable now either.” She waited a beat, saw Simon pause, take it in, then nod.

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. I apologize. It’s just such a shock.”

“Did any of your male staff members show an interest in him, a romantic or sexual interest?”

“No. At least . . . I honestly never noticed any signals or vibrations, if you will. Such behavior is soundly discouraged here. We’re professionals.”

“Right. Who have you got on staff who does freehand tattoos?”

He sighed long and loud. “We have several consultants who are excellent freehand body artists.”

“Names, Simon.”

“Ask Yvette at the desk. She’ll give you what you need. I must get back to my client.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I can’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. Lieutenant . . .” Simon dropped his hands back into his lap, and his eyes were dark and damp. “Brent had no family. What will happen to his . . . What will happen to him?”

“The city will take care of it, if there’s no one.”

“No, that wouldn’t be right.” He pressed his lips together, then pushed himself to his feet. “I’d like to make the arrangements if that’s allowed. It would be the last thing I could do for him.”

“We can work it that way. You’ll have to come down to the morgue, fill out the paperwork.”

“To the . . .” His mouth trembled, but he drew in a breath and nodded. “Yes, I will.”

“I’ll let them know to expect you.” Because he looked so devastated, she added, “You won’t have to see him, Simon. We’ve done an ID already. You just make the application, and they’ll release the body to whatever mortuary or memorial center you choose.”

“Oh.” His breath came out in a rush. “Thank you. My client’s waiting,” he said dully. “He hasn’t been caring for his skin. Fortunately, he’s young, so there’s a great deal I can do to help. It’s our obligation to present an attractive appearance. Beauty soothes the soul.”

“Yeah. Go take care of your client, Simon. I’ll be in touch.”

She headed back out and was just taking the printout of names from Yvette when Peabody came in. She looked flushed and hollow-eyed. But she gave Eve a quick nod before turning to the desk clerk.

“I have a chit from Personally Yours,” she began. “For the Diamond Day Plan.”

“Oh, that’s our very best.” Yvette beamed at her. “And, honey, you look exhausted. This is just what you need. We’ll fix you right up.”

“Thanks.” She wandered off, ostensibly to study the glass cabinet full of colorful bottles that guaranteed beauty and vitality with regular use. In a fast whisper, she gave Eve her report.

“They were both shaken, tried to cover it. Worked on convincing me I’d misinterpreted.” She bit back a snort. “Went into placate-the-client mode, like it was programmed. Promised to look into the matter right away, offered me a free second consult and this deal here. I saw the brochure. The Diamond Day goes for five thousand. I didn’t let them off the hook. Told them I was going to take the day to calm down before I spoke to my lawyer.”

“Good work. Talk to as many of the consultants as you can while you’re getting slathered and rubbed. Bring up Holloway’s name. I want reactions, gossip, opinions. Make sure you get some male consultants in there.”

“Anything for the job, sir.”

“Ms. Peabody?”

Peabody turned, and thought her mouth must have hit her shoes as she stared at the polished golden god. “I’m uh . . . Yes?”

“I’m Anton. I’ll be assisting you with your herbal detox. If you’d like to come with me now?”

“Oh yeah.” Peabody managed to shoot Eve one sidelong eyeroll before Anton took her hand and gently led her away.

Hoping for the best, Eve tucked the printout in her bag and headed up to the office level of Personally Yours.

“Rudy and Piper are unavailable,” the receptionist announced with just enough snip in her voice to put Eve’s back up.

“Oh, they’re going to want to become available.” She slapped her badge on the counter. “Trust me.”

“I’m aware of who you are, Lieutenant. Rudy and Piper aren’t available. If you’d care to make an appointment, I’d be happy to schedule one for you.”

Eve leaned companionably on the counter. “Ever hear the term obstruction of justice?”

The woman’s eyes flickered. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Here’s what we’ve got. You clear me through to your bosses now, or I take you down to Cop Central and charge you with obstruction, for impeding an officer, and for being basically stupid. You got ten seconds to decide how you want to play it.”

“Excuse me.” The woman turned, switched on her headset, and murmured into it quickly. Her face was stiff when she turned back. “You’re to go right in, Lieutenant.”

“There, that wasn’t such a tough choice, was it?” Pocketing her badge, Eve strode back through the glass doors, and met Rudy and Piper at the doorway of their office.

“Was it necessary to bully our receptionist?” Rudy demanded.

“Yeah. You got a reason for wanting to dodge me this morning?”

“We’re very busy.”

“You’re about to get busier. You’ll have to come with me.”

“Come with you?” Piper put a hand on Rudy’s arm. “Why? Where?”

“To Cop Central. Brent Holloway was murdered last night, and we have a lot to talk about.”

“Murdered?” Piper swayed and might have fallen if Rudy’s arm hadn’t whipped up to support her. “Oh God. Oh dear God. Like the others? Was it like the others? Rudy.”

“Hush now.” He drew his sister closer while his eyes held Eve’s. “It isn’t necessary to go into Central.”

“Well, that’s where we disagree. Your choice is to come voluntarily, or for me to call a few uniforms up here and have you escorted.”

“You can’t possibly have cause to arrest either one of us.”

“You’re not being arrested or charged at this time. But you’re required to come in, upon demand, for formal interview.”

With Piper trembling against him, Rudy let out a careful breath. “I’m going to contact our attorneys.”

“You can do that downtown.”

“Okay, we keep them separated,” Eve said to Feeney as they studied Piper through the glass. Piper sat at the little scarred table in Interview A, rocking herself as one of the attorneys murmured to her. “We could double team them, but I think we can get more done if we each take one. You want her or Rudy?”

Feeney considered, lips pursed. “I’ll start with him. I say we switch off, toss them out of balance once they get used to the rhythm. If either of them shake enough, then we go in double.”

“Good enough. Did McNab check in?”

“Just did. He’s about finished at the salon. He’ll be in and have his report up before we’re done here.”

“Tell him to stand by. If we get enough here, we may be able to juggle a warrant for their computer system. If he can work on their machine, he might dig something out.”

Otherwise, she thought, she was going to have to ask Roarke to work his magic again.

“Buzz when you want to switch,” she told Feeney.

“Same goes.”

Eve pulled open the door of the interview room and stepped inside. The lawyer immediately got to his feet, puffed out his chest, and went into the expected song and dance.

“Lieutenant, this is an outrage. My client is overwrought, emotionally distressed. You have no cause to demand this interview at this time.”

“You want to block it, get a court order. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, ID 5347BQ, interviewer. Subject Piper Hoffman. Initial date and time. Interviewer has requested representation. Attorney is present. These proceedings are being recorded. Subject Hoffman has been read the revised Miranda. Do you understand your rights and obligations, Ms. Hoffman?”

Piper looked at her lawyer, waited for him to nod.

“Yes.”

“You knew Brent Holloway?”

She jerked her head into a nod.

“Let the record show interviewee answered in the affirmative. He was a client of your service, Personally Yours.”

“Yes.”

“Through that service, you matched the deceased with female clients.”

“That’s—that’s the purpose, to match couples with common interests and goals, to afford them an opportunity to meet and explore relationships.”

“Romantic and/or sexual relationships?”

“The tone of the relationships is up to each individual couple or client.”

“And these clients are screened before their application is accepted, before they pay the fee, before they are put on any match lists.”

“Carefully screened.” Piper seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the avenue of questioning. She straightened a bit, skimmed back her silvery hair with long fingers. “It’s our responsibility to see that our clientele meets certain standards.”

“Do those standards include sexual offenders? Convicted sexual offenders?”

“Certainly not.” She went prim, head lifting, mouth firming.

“That’s your company policy?”

“A very firm policy.”

“But you made an exception for Brent Holloway.”

“I—” The hands Piper had folded neatly on the table clenched to whiten the knuckles. “I don’t know what . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stared helplessly at her lawyer.

“My client has explained her company’s policy in this area, Lieutenant. Please move on.”

“Brent Holloway was convicted of sexual coercion, was charged more than once with sexual molestation, harassment, perversions.” Eve spoke briskly as every ounce of color in Piper’s cheeks drained. “You’ve established for the record that your clientele is screened carefully, you’ve explained your policy in this area. I’m asking you why you exempted Holloway from this policy.”

“We—I—we didn’t.” Her hands began to twist, and something like fear moved into her eyes. “We have no record of that information on Brent Holloway.”

“Maybe you recognize the name John B. Boyd.” Because her eyes were trained on Piper’s face, she saw it. The flicker of knowledge, the shadow of guilt. “Your system is top of the line. So you told me. It would be your responsibility to do a search for this kind of information on an applicant. Is your company irresponsible or inept, Ms. Hoffman?”

“I don’t like the tone of that question,” the lawyer protested.

“So noted for the record. Your answer, Piper?”

“I don’t know what happened.” Her breath came quickly now, and both hands were crossed over her beautiful breasts. “I don’t know.”

Oh yes, Eve thought. Yes, you do, and he scared the hell out of you.

“Four clients of your service are dead. Four. Each one of them came to you, and each one of them was terrorized, raped, and strangled.”

“It’s a terrible, terrible coincidence. Just a coincidence.” Piper began to shake, with her breath hitching out in little forced gasps. “Rudy said so.”

“You don’t believe that.” Eve said it softly as she leaned closer. “You don’t believe that for a minute. They’re dead.” Brutally, she laid four photos on the table. The crime scene shots were vivid and cruel. “These don’t look coincidental, do they?”

“Oh God. Oh God.” She covered her face with her hands. “Don’t, don’t, don’t. I’m going to be ill.”

“That was uncalled for.” Red-cheeked with fury, the lawyer sprang up.

“Murder’s uncalled for,” Eve tossed back and got to her feet. “I’ll give your client a few minutes to compose herself. Record, off.” She turned her back and walked out.

As she watched through the glass, she buzzed Feeney’s communicator.

“I’ve got her on the edge,” she said when he joined her. “You can push her over. I’d go in light, sympathetic, be her uncle.”

“You always get to be the bad cop,” Feeney complained.

“I’m better at it. Pat her hand, then ask her why they were paying Holloway off. I didn’t get there yet.”

“Okay. Rudy’s holding tight. He’s got a snippy attitude you ask me. Arrogant little putz.”

“Good. I’m in the mood to kick some putz.” Since it was there, she reached into Feeney’s bag of nuts and popped a handful. “She claims they didn’t know about Holloway’s record. She’s lying, but that might get us into their system. I’ll try for the warrant before I hit Rudy.”

She took time for that and one quick jolt of coffee before going into Interview B. “Record on,” she ordered. “Interview continuing with Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Initialize time and date.”

She sat, smiled at Rudy and the lawyer at his side. “Well, boys, let’s get started.”

She ran him through a pattern similar to what she’d used on Piper. Rather than paling and shaking, Rudy seemed to go stiffer, harder.

“I’d like to see my sister,” he said abruptly, interrupting her rhythm.

“Your sister is being interviewed.”

“She’s delicate. Her emotions are very close to the surface. This entire ugly business will damage her.”

“I’ve got four people a lot more damaged, ace. Are you worried what Piper has to say in there? I talked to her just a bit ago.” Instinct had her leaning back, shrugging a shoulder. “She’s not holding up real well. She’ll do better once you clear things up.”

Eve watched his hands fist and wondered what Mira would conclude about his violence potential.

“She should be allowed to rest.” He bit off the words, his exotic green eyes flat as a cat’s. “To have a soother and a meditation break.”

“We’re not big on meditation breaks around here. And she’s got her lawyer in there, just like you’ve got yours. I guess you’re pretty close, being twins.”

“Naturally.”

“Holloway ever make a move on her?”

Rudy’s mouth thinned. “Of course not.”

“On you maybe?”

“No.” He reached for his glass of water with a steady hand.

“Why were you paying him off?”

The water slopped toward the rim before he hastily set it down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Regular payments, ten thousand each, over a two-year period. What did he have on you, Rudy?”

His eyes stormy, he whirled to his lawyer. “They have no right to access financial records, do they?”

“Certainly not.” The lawyer leveled his shoulders, hooking a hand pompously in his lapel, where trendy medallions dangled. “Lieutenant, if you’ve searched my client’s financials without probable cause and proper warrant—”

“Did I say that?” Eve only smiled. “I don’t have to explain how I came by certain information that pertains to this homicide. You won’t find a departmental search of financials. But you paid him, didn’t you, Rudy?” She swung back, hitting low and fast. “You paid him time after time, let him blackmail you into putting him on match lists when you knew he was a sexual deviant. How many clients did you have to placate, or pay, or intimidate to keep the wraps on it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his hand wasn’t quite so steady now as he picked up the water in front of him. Dark red streaks of emotion began to burn along the milk-white skin.

Eve knew if she’d had him on a truth tester, the graft would have cracked through the screen.

“Yes, you do. And I bet it wouldn’t be too tough for me to dig out a couple of your clients who Holloway jumped during one of those nice, polite meets you recommend. Once I do, I can charge you and your sister for soliciting, for fraud, for accessory to several types of sex crimes.” She shot a look over. “And your lawyer knows I can make at least some of that stick, and it’ll stick long and hard enough to put your business in the sewer, to put your face, and Piper’s, on every screen in the city for newsflashes.”

“We can’t be held responsible. She can’t be held responsible for what that . . . that deviant did.”

“Rudy.” The lawyer held up a hand, then laid it on Rudy’s shoulder. “I’d like a moment to confer, Lieutenant.”

“No problem. Record off. You got five,” she warned and left them alone.

With her eyes on them through the glass, she pulled out her communicator. “McNab.”

While she waited for response, she rocked back and forth on her heels, judging the body language inside the room. Rudy had his arms crossed, his fingers digging into his biceps. The lawyer was hunched over, talking fast.

“McNab. I’m heading in, Dallas.”

“Then head back. I’m getting a warrant to put you into the system at Personally Yours. Wait for it.”

“Can I take a six-eight? Grab some lunch?”

“Hit a glide-cart on the way back. I want you in place the minute the authorization comes in.” She heard his sigh and smiled thinly. “How was the facial, McNab?”

“Great. I got cheeks like a baby’s ass. And I saw Peabody naked. Well, mostly. She was coated with green shit, but I got the picture.”

“Just put that picture out of your mind and get ready to dig.”

“I can do both. Hell of a picture. She’s really pissed, too.”

Eve did her best not to grin back at him, and shut him off before she lost the battle.

“Time’s up, pal,” she murmured and walked back into Interview. After resetting the record, she sat down, lifted a brow. Sometimes silence worked a subject better than hammering.

“My client wishes to make a statement.”

“That’s what we’re here for. So, what do you have to say, Rudy?”

“Brent Holloway was extorting money from my company, through me. I did my best to protect my clients, but he was blackmailing me and part of what he demanded was regular consultations and matches. He was, in my opinion, difficult and irritating, but not dangerous to the women we matched him with.”

“That’s your professional opinion?”

“Yes, it is. We advise all our clients to meet their matches in a public place. Any who agreed to meet him privately subsequent to that were making their own decision. All clients sign a waver.”

“Uh-huh, so you figure that covers your ass, ethically speaking. I’m pretty sure the courts may have a different view. But let’s get to the meat first. What did he have on you?”

“It’s not relevant.”

“Oh yeah, it is.”

“It deals with my personal life.”

“It deals with homicide, Rudy. But if you don’t want to tell me about it, I’ll go back and talk to your sister.” She started to rise, but Rudy’s hand flew out and gripped her arm.

“Leave her alone. She’s delicate.”

“One of you will talk to me. Your choice.”

His fingers tightened on her arm, dug in hard before he released it and sat back. “Piper and I have a unique and special relationship. We’re twins. We’re connected.” He kept his eyes level. “We’re matched.”

“You and your sister have a sexual relationship.”

“It’s not for you to judge,” he snapped. “Nor do I expect you to understand the bond between us. No one can. And though what we have together isn’t strictly illegal, society disapproves.”

“Incest isn’t a pretty word, Rudy.” The image of her father, his face red with effort, his eyes hard with purpose, flashed into her mind. Under the table she clenched her hands into fists and forced the image, and the sickness it caused, back.

“We’re matched,” he said again. “For most of our lives we refused to act on what was in our hearts. We tried to be with other people, to live separate lives. And we were miserable. Are we supposed to be unhappy, unfulfilled, because people like you say it’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter what I say, or what I think. How did Holloway find out?”

“It was in the West Indies. Piper and I had taken a vacation. We’d been careful. We’re discreet. We understand that we’d lose clients if they knew. We’d gone away where we could have a little time alone together, to be free to be together openly as any other couple can. Holloway was there. He didn’t know us, nor we him. We had registered under different names.”

He paused, sipped his water. “A few months later he came in for a consult. It was just . . . fate. I didn’t even recognize him at first. But after his screening, when the data on him showed up and we refused his application, he reminded us where we’d met, and how.”

Rudy stared into his water, shifted the glass from hand to hand. “He was very clear as to how it would be handled, what he wanted. Piper was destroyed, terrified. We both believe very strongly in the service we provide. You see, we know just what it means to be matched with someone who fills your life, who makes the difference in it. We’re dedicated to helping others find what we have.”

“Your dedication’s earned you a nice fat portfolio.”

“Making a profit doesn’t negate the worth of the service. You live well, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “Does that negate the worth of your marriage?”

Walked into that one, she told herself, but only lifted her eyebrows. “Let’s talk about you and how you handled Holloway.”

“I wanted to stand against him, but she couldn’t.” He closed his eyes. “He managed to get her alone, to threaten her. He even tried to induce her to . . .”

He opened his eyes again, and they were brimming with fury. “He wanted her. His kind, they want what belongs to someone else. So we paid, we did everything he demanded. Still, if he came in and caught her alone, he would touch her.”

“You must have hated him for that.”

“Yes. Yes, I hated him for that. For everything, but most of all for that.”

“Enough to kill him, Rudy?”

“Yes,” he said evenly before his lawyer could stop him. “Yes, enough to kill him.”

“We don’t have enough to charge him.”

She knew it. Damn it, she knew it, but Eve went to battle with the assistant prosecuting attorney anyway.

“He’s got the means, he’s got the opportunity, and God knows he had a motive with Holloway. He had access to the enhancements used on all four victims,” she continued before APA Rollins could speak. “He knew all of them.”

“You don’t even have a decent circumstantial case against him.” Carla Rollins held her ground. She was barely five-two, despite the skyscraper heels she habitually wore. Her eyes were the color of blackberries, exotically slanted in a round face. Her complexion was creamy and smooth, her figure neat, her hair a ribbon-straight ebony that fell precisely one inch above her slim shoulders.

She looked, and sounded, like a child care professional, and had a core as tough as moon rock. She liked to win, and didn’t see a victory in The State v. Hoffman.

“You want me to bag him when he’s got his hands around the next victim’s throat?”

“That would be handy,” Rollins said evenly. “Barring that, get me a confession.”

Eve paced the length of Whitney’s office. “I can’t get you a confession if we spring him.”

“So far all he’s guilty of is banging his sister,” Rollins said in her soft, sweet voice. “And paying blackmail. Maybe we could cook him on illegal and unlicensed solicitation since he knew Holloway’s predilections, but it’s a stretch. I can’t give you murder, Dallas, without more evidence or a confession.”

“Then I need to sweat him longer.”

“His lawyer’s called for a humane break. We can’t hold him any longer today,” she added as Eve snorted. “You can pick him up again tomorrow, after the standard twelve hours out.”

“I want a bracelet on him.”

This time Rollins sighed. “Dallas, I don’t have cause to order a security bracelet on Hoffman at this time. At this point he’s only a suspect, and not a solid one at that. He’s entitled, under the law, to his privacy and freedom of motion.”

“Christ, give me something.” Eve dragged both hands through her hair. Her eyes were burning from lack of sleep, her stomach raw from caffeine. Her still-healing wound was throbbing. “I want him tested and profiled. I want Mira to do him.”

“It’ll have to be voluntary.” Rollins held up one delicate hand before Eve could swear at her. She was used to cops swearing at her, and it didn’t particularly bother her. But she was thinking, and didn’t want the interruption. “I might be able to convince his attorney it’s in his best interest. Cooperation in this area would influence the PA’s office not to pursue the solicitation charges.”

Satisfied with the idea, Rollins rose. “Clear it with Mira, and I’ll see what I can do. But spring him, Dallas, within the hour.”

Whitney waited until Rollins breezed out, then shifted in his chair. “Sit down, Lieutenant.”

“Commander—”

“Sit,” he repeated and jabbed a finger at the chair across from his desk. “I’m concerned,” he began when she took her seat.

“I need more time to squeeze him. McNab’s working the system at Personally Yours. We could have something by the end of the day.”

“You concern me, Lieutenant.” He leaned back as Eve frowned. “You’ve been on this case nearly twenty-four/seven for more than a week.”

“So has the killer.”

“It’s unlikely the killer is still recovering from life-threatening wounds received in the line of duty.”

“My health chart’s clear.” She heard the edge of resentment in her own voice and took a careful breath. If she couldn’t maintain with Whitney, she’d only prove his point. “Your concern is appreciated, sir, but unnecessary.”

“Is it?” He lifted his brows as his sharp eyes scanned her face. Pale, shadowed, running up fast on exhaustion, was his considered opinion. “Then you’re willing to go down to the clinic and take a physical?”

The resentment bounced back, all but vibrating down to the fingers she fought not to curl into fists. “Is that an order, Commander Whitney?”

He could make it so. “I’ll give you a choice, Dallas. Take the physical, abide by the results, or go off duty until oh nine hundred tomorrow.”

“I don’t consider those viable options at this time.”

“One or the other, or I take you off the case.”

She nearly sprang from the chair. He saw her bunch and brace then vibrate. But she stayed in her seat. Color rushed into her face, but it didn’t stay long. “He’s killed four times, and I’m the only one who’s close to knowing him. You take me off, we lose time. And we lose people.”

“It’s your choice, Dallas. Go home,” he said more quietly. “Get a decent meal and some sleep.”

“And while I’m doing that, Rudy walks.”

“I can’t hold him, I can’t bracelet him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t put a tag on him.” Now Whitney smiled a little. “He’ll be watched. And tomorrow, we’ll hold a press conference. You called that right, Dallas. The mayor and the chief will bare the brunt of it, but you’ll get flack.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know. We’ll release as many details as we can to alert the public.” He lifted his hand, rubbing the back of his neck. “Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.” He let out a short laugh. “Go home, Dallas. You’re going to need to be fresh tomorrow.”

She went because the alternatives were unacceptable. She couldn’t back off from the case, and she couldn’t risk a departmental physical. Whatever she said out loud, she had a suspicion she wouldn’t pass one at the moment.

She ached all over, enough to warn her she was going to have to break down and take a painkiller to get through. Worse, she couldn’t quite focus, not now that she was in the car and heading home. Her head insisted on floating somewhere inches above her shoulders.

When she nearly clipped a glide-cart while making the turn onto Madison, she shifted into auto and let the program guide her through traffic.

Okay, so maybe she needed a nap and a little fuel. But being off duty didn’t mean she couldn’t run some more scans and searches; it didn’t mean she couldn’t work on her own from her home office.

She needed more coffee and something solid in her stomach, that was all.

And she nearly nodded off as the car slid through the gates and up the drive toward the house.

The lights in the windows blazed against the dark and made her eyes smart. Her head pounded like the back beat in one of Mavis’s more enthusiastic numbers. Her shoulder thrummed.

When she stepped out of the car, her legs felt rubbery and disconnected. Because she felt weak, her mood was foul as she pushed through the grand front door.

And there was Summerset.

“Your guests have already arrived,” he announced. “You were expected twenty minutes ago.”

“Kiss my ass” was her best suggestion as she stripped off her jacket and deliberately dropped it over the newel post.

“The prospect holds no appeal for me. One moment of your time, however, Lieutenant.” He simply stepped in front of her before she could head up the stairs.

“Life’s too short to spend a moment with you. Out of the way or I’ll take you out.”

She looked ill, he thought, and her threat lacked its usual bite. “The book you requested for Roarke has been located,” he said stiffly, but his eyes were narrowed as he studied her face.

“Oh.” She braced a hand on the newel post as she tried to get through the fog in her brain to think. “Fine. Good.”

“Shall I order it to be shipped?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s the idea.”

“You’ll need to transfer the price, plus shipping, to the book searcher’s account. As the book searcher knows me, he’s agreed to send the item immediately and trust that you’ll transfer the appropriate funds within twenty-four hours. I noted the details on your E-mail.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll take care of it.” She had to swallow pride. “Thank you.” And she turned toward the stairs. Looked up. She thought it would be like climbing a mountain, but she couldn’t swallow another gulp of pride and take the elevator while he was watching.

“You’re quite welcome,” he murmured, then stepped away to the in-house screen while she moved up the steps. “Roarke, the lieutenant is home and on her way up.” He hesitated, then sighed. “She looks unwell.”

She was going to take a hot shower, fuel up, and get to work. Eve calculated she could at least run a probability scan on Rudy with the data she had. If it clicked, she might be able to pressure the PA into slapping a surveillance bracelet on him.

But when she stepped into the bedroom, Roarke was already waiting.

“You’re late.”

“I hit traffic,” she said as she unhooked her weapon harness.

“Strip.”

She knew she was punchy, but she was pretty sure this was a first. “Well, that’s real romantic, Roarke, but—”

“Strip,” he said again and picked up a robe. “Put this on. Trina’s set up for you in the pool house.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” She raked her hands through her hair. “Do I look in the mood for a goddamn beauty session?”

“No, you look like you’re in the mood for a goddamn hospital session.” Temper snapping, he tossed down the robe. “Take care of yourself here, or that’s where you’re going.”

Her eyes went dark and dangerous. “Don’t push me. You’re my spouse, not my keeper.”

“A fucking keeper’s just what you need.” He grabbed her arm and, because her reflexes were slow, shoved her into a chair. “Stay down,” he warned in a voice that sizzled with barely restrained fury. “Or I’ll tie you down.”

She gripped the arm of the chair, fingers digging in as he stalked across the room to the recessed AutoChef. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“You. Have you looked at yourself recently? You stand over bodies that have more color than you do right now. There are shadows under your eyes thick enough to hide in. And you’re hurting.” That was what snapped it for him. “Do you think I can’t see it?”

He came back with a tall glass filled with amber liquid. “Drink it.”

“You’re not tranqing me.”

“I can pour it down your throat. I’ve done it before.” He leaned over until their faces were close, and the bitter anger in his eyes made her want to shrink away. “I won’t let you make yourself sick. You’ll drink this, Eve, and you’ll do what I tell you, or I’ll make you. We both know you’re too damn tired to stop me.”

She snatched the glass, and though she thought there would be lovely satisfaction gained from heaving it across the room, she didn’t think she was up to dealing with the consequences. Her eyes burned into his over the rim as she gulped it down.

“There. Happy now?”

“You’ll have something solid later.” He bent down to tug off her boots.

“I can undress myself.”

“Shut up, Eve.”

For form’s sake, she tried to tug her foot free, but he simply held on and pried off her boot. “I want a shower and a meal, and I want you to leave me alone.”

He pulled off the other boot, then started on the buttons of her shirt.

“Did you hear me? I said leave me alone.” The fact that she could hear the petulance in her own voice only added depression to exhaustion.

“Not in this or any other lifetime.”

“I don’t like to be taken care of. It irritates me.”

“Then you’re going to be irritated for quite a while.”

“I’ve been irritated since I met you.” She closed her eyes on that, but thought she caught a flicker of a smile around his mouth.

He undressed her quickly, efficiently, then bundled her into the robe. The limpness of her muscles told him the painkiller he’d added to the nutri-drink he’d made her was already at work. The mild tranq he’d laced it with should have done no more than relax her, but in her current state he imagined it would knock her out very shortly.

All for the best.

Still she slapped at him as he lifted her. “Don’t carry me.”

“I hate to repeat myself, but shut up, Eve.” He walked to the elevator and stepped inside with her.

“I don’t wanna be babied.” Her head spun once, one long, lilting circle that forced her to let it drop on his shoulder. “What the hell was in that drink?”

“All manner of things. Just relax.”

“You know I hate tranqs.”

“I know.” He turned his head, brushed his lips over her hair. “You can give me grief about it tomorrow.”

“Will. I let you push me round, you’ll get used to it. I’m gonna lie down for a minute.”

“That’s right.” He felt her head loll back, and the arm around his neck slid off and dangled as he stepped out into the pool house.

Mavis raced out from under the fanning fronds of a palm. “Jesus, Roarke, is she hurt?”

“I tranqued her.” He moved through the lush flowering plants, skirted the side of the shimmering waters of the pool, and laid his wife on the long, padded table Trina had already set up.

“Man, she’ll be pissed royal when she comes out of it.”

“I imagine so.” Gently, he brushed the untidy hair back from Eve’s forehead. “Not so tough now, are you, Lieutenant?” He bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Don’t worry about the styling, Trina. She needs relaxation therapy.”

“Can do.” Trina, decked out in a flesh-colored skinsuit with a shimmering purple duster, rubbed her hands together. “But since she’s out anyway, why don’t I give her the works? She’s always bitching about treatments. This way she’ll be nice and quiet.”

Roarke lifted a brow at the gleam in the woman’s eye, and laid a protective hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Keep it simple.” Then remembering who he was dealing with, he cleared his throat. He didn’t mind facing his wife’s wrath, but not over his passive agreement to having her hair dyed pink. “Why don’t I order us down some dinner? I’ll just stick around.”

• • •

She heard voices, laughter. All so distant and disconnected. In part of her mind Eve knew she was fogged out by the drug. Roarke would pay for that.

She wished he would hold her again, just hold her in that way that made everything inside her stretch and yearn.

Someone was rubbing her back, her shoulders. The moan of pleasure was trapped in her mind, but it was low and it was long.

She smelled him, just a whiff in passing of the scent that was Roarke.

Then there was water, warm, bubbling, swirling around her. She was floating in it, weightless, mindless as a fetus in the womb. She drifted there, endlessly, feeling nothing but peace.

A flash of heat on her shoulder. A shock. Someone was whimpering inside her head. Then cool, cool liquid over the heat, soothing as a kiss.

And under she went again, sliding down and down until she rocked on the soft bottom and curled there, sleeping deep.

When she surfaced, it was dark. Disoriented, she lay very still, counting her own breaths. She was warm and naked, stretched flat on her stomach under the billowing cloud of the duvet.

Home in bed, she realized, as the last hours of her life slipped in and out of focus. Trying to bring it clear, she rolled over, and her legs tangled with Roarke’s.

“Awake?”

His voice sounded alert—a little skill of his that was a mild irritation to her. “What—”

“It’s nearly morning.”

She was indeed warm, and naked, her skin soft as dewed petals thanks to Trina, and she smelled like the cool juice of hothouse peaches.

“How do you feel?”

She wasn’t entirely sure. Everything in her was so loose and smooth. “I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“Good. Then you’re ready for the final phase of your relaxation program.”

His mouth took hers, whisper-soft, his tongue already sliding in to tangle. Her mind, which had just started to clear, clouded again. This time with pure and healthy lust.

“Hold on. I’m not—”

“Let me taste you.” His mouth skimmed down her throat to nibble and destroy. “Touch you.” His hand glided up to her hip, down, parted her legs. “Have you.”

When he slipped inside her, slowly, she was already hot and ready.

She couldn’t see. The predawn light was like ink. He was a shadow moving over her, a steady, glorious force moving inside her. She tripped over the first peak before she could find the rhythm.

With long, slow, torturous strokes he pleasured them both. Her breathing thickened to match his, her hips lifted and fell until their paces meshed. Now when their mouths met, they swallowed each other’s groans.

Warm, soft waves of sensation cradled her, then swept her up and over silky crests. When she felt his body tense, she enfolded him, wrapping herself around him, welcoming that final thrust that pinned them both to peak.

He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in.

“You are feeling better.” He murmured it, his breath tickling her skin and making her smile.

Then her mind cleared.

“Goddamn it.”

“Uh-oh.” Chuckling, he rolled, taking her with him until her body was sprawled over his.

“You think it’s funny.” She shoved up and away, blowing at her hair as she sat up. “You think it’s a joke? You push me around, bully me into taking some tranq.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to bully you into anything if you hadn’t been ready to drop.” He sat up as well. “Lights, ten percent.” At his order the room filled with a soft glow. “You look good,” he said after a moment’s study of her furious—and rested—face. “Despite her rather extreme personal taste, Trina knows what suits you.”

The way her mouth dropped open and her eyes bugged out had Roarke fighting back a roar of laughter. “You let her work on me while I was out? You sadistic, treacherous son of a bitch.” She might have taken a swing at him, but she was already leaping out of bed toward the mirror.

The relief that she looked normal, fairly much the way she looked every other morning wasn’t quite enough to cut through the temper. “I ought to throw you both in a cage for this.”

“Mavis was in on it, too,” he said cheerfully. She hadn’t moved that quickly or easily in several days, he noted. And her eyes were free of shadows. “Oh, and Summerset.”

Now she had no choice but to sit down. She staggered back to the bed and dropped down on the edge. “Summerset.” It was a horrified croak.

“He worked on your shoulder after I ran a quick diagnostic. The muscles had flamed up. Why the hell don’t you take normal steps to deal with discomfort?”

“Summerset” was all she could say.

“He’s had medical training, as you know. He simply treated your shoulder. How does it feel?”

Maybe it was pain free for the first time in days. Maybe her entire body felt gloriously energized and fresh. That didn’t make Roarke’s methods acceptable.

She pushed off the bed, snagged the robe that was draped over a chair, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. “I’m going to kick your ass.”

“All right.” He got up agreeably and found a robe for himself. “It’ll be a fairer match than it was last night. You want to go at me here, or down in the gym?”

Before the last word was out of his mouth, she sprang. She came in low. He had time to start a pivot, but not to complete it, and ended up sprawled on the bed, his wife on top of him, with her knee planted firmly, worrisomely, between his legs.

“Ah, I’d say you’re back, Lieutenant.”

“Damn right. I ought to knock your balls up to your ears, smart guy.”

“Well, at least we both got one last use of them first.” He grinned and risked serious damage. Then he reached up and feathered his fingers over her cheek. And distracted her just enough to allow him to counter the move. He flipped her over and pinned her down.

“Now, you listen.” The grin was gone. “Whatever it takes is what I’ll do. Whenever it’s needed is when I’ll do it. You don’t have to like it, but you’ll damn well live with it.”

He pushed off, shifting to the balls of his feet when he saw her eyes narrow with purpose. Then he let out a sigh and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Bloody hell. I love you.”

She’d been poised to spring. Those two sentences, said with equal parts frustration and weariness, arrowed straight to her heart. He stood there, his hair tousled from sleep and sex and struggle, his eyes deeply blue and filled with annoyance and love.

Everything inside her shifted, then settled into the pattern she supposed it was fated for. “I know. I’m sorry. You were right.” She tunneled her fingers through her hair, distracted enough not to see the flicker of surprise on his face. “I don’t like your methods, but you were right. I was pushing too hard before I was a hundred percent. You’ve been telling me to recharge for days, and I didn’t want to hear it.”

“Why?”

“I was scared.” It was hard to admit it, even to a man she knew she could tell every secret.

“Scared?” He crossed to her, sat down, and took her hand in his. “Of what?”

“That I wouldn’t be able to go back, not all the way back. That I wouldn’t be strong enough, or sharp enough to be back on the job. And if I couldn’t . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve got to be a cop. I have to do the job. If I can’t—I’ve lost myself.”

“You could have talked to me about this.”

“I wouldn’t even talk to myself about it.” She rubbed her fingers over her eyes, irritated that there were tears brewing behind them. “Since I went back, I’ve been mostly doing paperwork, court dates. This is my first homicide since I got off disability leave. If I can’t handle it . . .”

“You are handling it.”

“Whitney ordered me home last night—either that or he was taking me off the case. I get here and you threaten to pour drugs down my throat.”

“Well.” He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. “That was lousy timing. But I believe, in both cases, it was a matter of wanting you to rest, rather than a criticism of your abilities.”

He took her chin in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the center dent. “Eve, there are times when you are astonishingly unaware of self. You push yourself to the wall on every case. The only difference with this is that you were physically shaky to begin with. You’re the same cop you were when I met you last winter. And occasionally that’s a frightening thought.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on that.” She studied their joined hands. “But I’m not the same person I was last winter.” With her fingers linked with his, she lifted her head, looked into his eyes. “I don’t want to be. I like who I am now. Who we are now.”

“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Because we’re stuck.”

She fisted a hand in his hair to deepen the kiss. “It’s turned out to be a pretty good deal. But . . .” She nibbled lightly at his bottom lip then bit it sharply enough to make him yelp in surprise and pain. “If you ever again let Summerset put his hands on me when I’m out . . .” She rose, breathed deeply, and decided she felt incredible. “I’ll shave you bald in your sleep. I’m starving,” she said abruptly. “Want breakfast?”

He considered her for a moment, then ran a considering hand over his long black hair. He was, fortunately, a very light sleeper. “Yeah. I could eat.”

Armed with the results of the probability scan on Rudy, Eve paced Dr. Mira’s outer office. She needed the weight of Mira’s profile on him to yank him back into Interview and, hopefully, into a cell.

Time was passing. With or without the tag, she expected him to move on to number five that night.

“Does she know I’m out here?” Eve demanded of Mira’s assistant.

Well used to impatient cops, the woman didn’t bother to glance up from her own work. “She’s in a session. She’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

Pumped by refreshed energy, Eve paced to the far wall and eyed with suspicion a dreamy watercolor of some seacoast town. She paced back and scowled at the mini AutoChef. She knew it wouldn’t be stocked with coffee. Mira preferred her patients and associates to sip soothers or tea.

The minute Mira’s door opened, Eve whirled and pounced. “Dr. Mira—” She broke off when she spotted Nadine Furst.

The reporter flushed, then straightened her shoulders and met Eve’s annoyed glare dead on.

“If you start going around me to pump my profiler for data, you’re going to find yourself without a departmental source, and up on charges, pal.”

“I’m here on personal business,” Nadine said stiffly.

“Save the bullshit for your viewing audience.”

“I said I’m here on personal business.” Nadine held up a hand before Mira could interfere. “Dr. Mira counseled me after the . . . incident last spring. You kept me alive, Dallas, but she kept me sane. Now and again I need a little help, that’s all. Now if you’ll get the hell out of my way—”

“I’m sorry.” Eve wasn’t sure if she was more surprised or ashamed, but neither sensation sat well. “It was rough on you. I know what it’s like to carry around bad memories. I’m sorry, Nadine.”

“Yeah, right.” She jerked a shoulder, striding out quickly. Her heels tapped on tile, and the sound echoed away.

“Please come in, Eve.” Mira, her face carefully blank, stepped back, then shut the door behind Eve.

“Okay, I jumped and I shouldn’t have.” She jammed her hands in her pockets to keep from squirming under the air of disapproval Mira created with a quiet look. “She’s been nagging me about this case, and we’ve got a press conference set up in a couple of hours. I figured she was trying to cut some corners.”

“You have difficulty trusting, even after a measure of trust has been established.” Mira sat, smoothed her skirt. “You were also quick with an apology that came from the heart. You are, and always have been, a study of contradictions, Eve.”

“I’m not here on personal business.” Eve’s tone was flat and dismissive, but she glanced back toward the door with concern in her eyes. “Is she okay?”

“Nadine is a strong and determined woman—traits you should recognize. I can’t discuss this with you, Eve. It’s privileged.”

“Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “She’s pissed at me now. I’ll give her a one-on-one and smooth her out again.”

“She values your friendship. Not only the information you give her. Are you going to sit down? I don’t intend to scold you.”

Eve grimaced, then cleared her throat and held out the file she carried. “I have the probability scan on Rudy. With current data he comes out at eighty-six point six percent. That’s high enough to poke at him again, but I can tie him up tighter after you test him. Rollins said Rudy’s lawyer popped to it.”

“Yes, I have him scheduled for this afternoon as you flagged it Priority One.”

“I need to know his head, his violence potential, so I can put him away long enough for me to dig up evidence. I don’t think he’s going to break, or deal. If the sister knows anything, I can work on her. She’ll fold eventually.”

“I’ll give you what I can, as soon as I can. I understand the pressure you and your team are under. However,” she added, tilting her head, “you look well. Rested. The last time I saw you I was a little concerned. I still think you came back to full duty sooner than was wise.”

“You and everyone else.” Then she shrugged. “I feel good. Better. I had a top-level relaxation therapy session last night, and about ten hours sleep.”

“Really?” Mira’s lips curved. “And how did Roarke manage that?”

“He drugged me.” At Mira’s delighted burst of laughter, Eve scowled. “Figures you’d be on his side.”

“Oh, completely. How well you suit each other, Eve. It’s a pleasure to watch what grows between you. I look forward to seeing you both tonight.”

“The party, right.” Whoopee, she thought irritably, but her mouth twitched when Mira laughed again. “Get me that profile, and maybe I’ll be in a party mood.”

But she wasn’t when she walked into her office and found McNab rifling through her desk.

“I don’t keep my candy stash there anymore, ace.”

He straightened so quickly his hip hit the drawer, and shoved it closed on his fingers. His pained yelp greatly lifted Eve’s mood.

“Jesus, Dallas.” Pouting, he sucked his throbbing fingers. “You might as well blast me as scare me to death.”

“I ought to give you a jolt. Stealing a superior officer’s candy bars is no small matter, McNab. I need my candy fix.”

“Okay, okay.” Trying for contrite, he smiled and pulled out her desk chair for her. “Looking good this morning, Dallas.”

“Don’t suck up, McNab. It’s pathetic.” She dropped down in her chair and stretched her legs out, which bumped her boots against the wall. “You want to make points, give me some news.”

“I verified the financials, and found eight complaints lodged against Holloway buried in the FI file.”

“FI?”

“Fuck It file,” he said with a quick grin. “It’s a place businesses stick cranks and other shit they don’t intend to deal with. But all eight women were given free perks, just like Peabody. Salon treatments or free match lists, credit in the boutiques.”

“Who authorized?”

“Both of them, depending. She knew what was up, all right. I got her initials on three of the complaints.”

“Okay, that puts Piper in, but it doesn’t win us a prize. I can use it to squeeze her some.”

“Something else’s a little interesting,” he said and sat down on the corner of her desk.

Eve eyed him balefully. “Interesting enough for me not to kick your ass off my desk?”

“Well, let’s find out. I found a memo on Donnie Ray, dated six months ago and updated the first of December.”

Eve felt a little tickle under her heart. “What kind of memo?”

“From Rudy to the consulting staff. Donnie Ray was not to be put through to Piper. Rudy would do his consults personally, or oversee them. The update was a little slap, restating the original notice and reprimanding some drone who didn’t shield a call.”

“That’s fairly interesting. So he didn’t want Donnie Ray sniffing around Piper. I can use that. Anything on the other two victims?”

“Nothing that popped out.”

She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Medical? Mental or physical treatments?”

“They’re both sterilized.” McNab squirmed on the desk as he imagined the cold tongue of the laser on his own genitals. “They opted out of the reproductive market about five years back.”

“That follows.”

“Piper’s had regular shrink work, weekly sessions at Inner Balance for as long as they have records on file. Last year, she did a month at one of their retreats on Optima II. I hear they do colonics, sleep in mood tubes, and eat nothing but grain noodles.”

“What a party. What about him?”

“Zip.”

“Well, he’s going to get some shrink work this afternoon. Decent job, McNab.” She looked over as Peabody came in. “Good timing. The two of you nail down that last piece of jewelry. I want to know where he bought those four calling birds. He got a little sloppy at the scene; maybe he tripped up with the necklace, too.”

Peabody studiously avoided looking at McNab. “But, sir—”

“I’m going to squeeze Piper, so I can’t take you with me. If you leave the building, either of you, you leave together.” She rose. “If he hasn’t picked out number five by now, he’s looking. I want you both where I can find you.”

“Relax, She-Body,” McNab sneered as Eve headed out. “I’m a professional.”

“Bite me.”

Though Eve managed to swallow a chuckle at her aide’s use of her own standard response to annoyances, she didn’t quite make it over McNab’s cheerful, “Where?”

Eve’s timing was well calculated. If Rudy’s lawyer had any brains, he’d have his client in some locked room being prompted on the upcoming tests. She had, she decided, at least an hour to rattle Piper before she had to get back to Central for the press conference.

This time, the receptionist didn’t bother to stall, but simply cleared her through.

“Lieutenant.” Pale, hollow-eyed, Piper stood at the doorway of the office. “My lawyer informs me that I’m not under any obligation to speak with you, and advises me against it unless it’s in formal interview with my counsel present.”

“You can play it that way, Piper. We can go in right now, or we can stay here, be comfortable, and you can tell me why Rudy didn’t want you dealing with Donnie Ray Michael.”

“That was nothing.” Distress shimmered into her voice as she linked her hands. “That was nothing at all. You can’t make anything bad out of it.”

“Fine. Why don’t you just clear it up for me so we can put it away?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Eve slipped into the room and took a chair. She waited, saying nothing, and let the little war so obvious on Piper’s face play out.

“It was just that Donnie Ray had a little crush on me. That’s all. It was nothing. It was harmless.”

“Then why the staff memos?”

“It was just a precaution. To avoid any. . . unpleasantness.”

“Is there often unpleasantness?”

“No!” Piper shut the door and hurried over. There were spots of agitated color in her cheeks. The silvery hair had been twisted back today, leaving her face unframed, adding a contrast of sophistication and fragility.

“No, not at all. We’re dedicated to helping people find pleasantness, in companionship, romance, often marriage. Lieutenant. . .” She steepled her hands, folded the fingers down. “I could show you dozens of endorsements from satisfied clients. From people we helped to find each other. Love, true love, matters.”

Eve kept her eyes level. “You believe in true love, Piper?”

“Absolutely, completely.”

“What would you do for your true love, to keep him?”

“Whatever I had to do.”

“Tell me about Donnie Ray.”

“He asked me out, a couple of times. He wanted me to hear him play.” She sighed, then seemed to melt into a chair. “He was just a boy, Lieutenant. He wasn’t . . . It wasn’t the way it was with Holloway. But Rudy felt, rightly so, that in order to fulfill our obligation to him as a client, it would be best if contact with me was eliminated.”

“Were you interested in hearing Donnie Ray play?”

A smile ghosted around her mouth. “I might have enjoyed that, if that was all. But it was clear that he had hopes for more. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I can’t bear to bruise a heart.”

“And what about yours? How does your relationship with your brother sit on your heart?”

“I can’t—won’t discuss that with you.” She sat straight again, folded her hands.

“Who made the decision that you’d be sterilized, Piper?”

“You go too far.”

“Do I? You’re twenty-eight years old.” She pushed because she’d seen Piper’s lips tremble. “And you’ve eliminated the chance to have children because you can’t risk conceiving one with your own brother. You’ve been in therapy for years. You’ve been cut off from developing a relationship with another man. You conceal the relationship you do have, paid a blackmailer to insure it continued to be concealed because incest is a dark and shameful secret.”

“You can’t possibly understand.”

“Oh yes, I can.” But she’d been forced, Eve reminded herself. She’d been a child. She’d had no choice. “I know what you’re living with.”

“I love him! If it’s wrong, if it’s shameful, if it’s wretched, that doesn’t change. He’s my life.”

“Then why are you afraid?” Eve leaned forward. “Why are you so afraid that you’ll cover for him even when you wonder if he’s killed? Anything for true love? You let Holloway prey on your clients, and that makes you the same as a pimp for an unlicensed whore.”

“No, we did our best to find him like-minded women.”

“And when you didn’t, and they complained, you paid them off,” Eve finished. “Is that what you wanted to do, or was it Rudy?”

“It was business. Rudy understands the business better than me.”

“Is that how you live with it? Or maybe neither one of you could live with it anymore. Was he with you the night Donnie Ray was killed? Can you look at me and swear he was with you all that night?”

“Rudy couldn’t hurt anyone. He couldn’t.”

“Are you so sure, so sure, you’ll risk another death? If not tonight, then tomorrow.”

“Whoever is killing these people is insane—vicious, cruel, and insane. If I thought it could be Rudy, I couldn’t live. We’re part of each other, so it would be in me the way it’s in him. I couldn’t live.” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t stand any more of this. I won’t talk to you. If you accuse Rudy, you accuse me, and I won’t talk to you.”

Eve rose, but paused by the chair for a moment. “You’re not half of a whole, Piper, whatever he’s told you. If you want a way out, I know someone who can help you.”

Though she felt it was a useless attempt, she took one of her own cards and noted Dr. Mira’s name and number on the back. She left it on the arm of the chair and walked away.

Her emotions were in upheaval when she got into her car. She took a moment to settle them, then glanced at her wrist unit. Not much time, she mused, but enough.

She used her personal porta-’link rather than her car unit and tagged Nadine.

“What do you want, Dallas? I’m under the gun here. The press conference is in an hour.”

“Meet me at the D and D, bring your crew. Fifteen minutes.”

“I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can.” Eve broke transmission and drove downtown.

She’d picked the Down and Dirty Club partly for sentiment, partly because it would be fairly private on a midweek afternoon. And the proprietor was a friend who would see that she wasn’t hassled.

“What you doing here, white girl?” Crack, all six and a half feet of him, grinned at her. His face was dark and homely, his scalp recently shaved and oiled to a mirror gleam. He sported a vest of peacock feathers, leathers so snug she wondered his balls weren’t bruised, and shin-breaking boots in cherry red.

“Got a meet,” she told him and did a quick scan of the club. It was mostly empty, but for the six dancers practicing a routine on stage and a scatter of customers who—being what they were—marked her as a cop in the time it takes to pick a tourist’s pocket in Times Square.

She imagined several ounces of illegals would shortly be swimming into New York’s sewer system.

“You bringing more cops into my place?” He glanced over as two skinny dealers made a beeline for the johns. “Somebody’s business gonna suffer tonight.”

“I’m not here for a bust. I got press coming. Got a privacy room we can use?”

“You got Nadine coming down? Now, she be fine. You use room three, honeypot. I look out for you awhile.”

“Appreciate it.” She glanced over her shoulder as the door opened, letting in sunlight, Nadine, and a camera operator. “It won’t take long.”

Eve pointed toward the room and strode over and in without waiting for Nadine’s assent.

“You frequent such interesting places, Dallas.” Wrinkling her nose, Nadine stared at the stained walls and rumpled bed—the only piece of furniture the room could boast.

“You liked the place well enough, as I recall. Enough to strip down to your undies and dance on stage.”

“I was impaired at the time,” Nadine said with some dignity when her operator snickered. “Shut up, Mike.”

“You got five minutes.” Eve sat on the side of the bed. “You can either hit me with questions or I’ll give you a straight statement. I’m not going to give you more than what we’ll release at the press conference, but you’ll have it on a good twenty minutes before anyone else. I’m also giving you the go-ahead to use data already discussed.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Eve said quietly, “we’re friends.”

“Step outside a minute, Mike.” Nadine waited until he’d finished grumbling and had closed the door behind him. “I don’t want any pity favors.”

“That’s not what this is. You kept the deal, holding information until I cleared it. I’m keeping my end. That’s professional. I trust you to report the truth. That’s professional. I like you, even when you’re irritating. That’s personal. Now, do you want the one-on-one or not?”

Nadine’s smile bloomed slowly. “Yeah, I want it. I like you, Dallas, and you’re always irritating.”

“Give me a quick rundown of your take on Rudy and Piper.”

“Charming, absolutely. They can spout their company line like champs. Every button I pushed, they came back with the perfect reaction. Well programmed.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Oh, he is. No question. He’s a little overprotective of her for a brother, if you ask me. And it’s mildly creepy the way they dress alike down to their lip dye. But it’s probably a twin thing.”

“Did you interview any of the staff?”

“Sure, picked a few consultants at random. They’ve got a very slick operation going there.”

“Gossip about the owners?”

“Nothing but praise. I couldn’t elbow out one spiteful sentence.” She cocked a brow. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking for a killer,” Eve said flatly. “Let’s get this going.”

“Fine.” Nadine reached back, rapping her knuckles on the door to signal Mike. “Straight statement with follow-up questions.”

“One or the other.”

“Don’t be so pissy. Start with the statement.” Nadine glanced at the bed, calculating the varied body fluids that might have been spent there, and opted to stand.

An hour later, Eve listened to Chief of Police and Security Tibble run nearly the identical statement she’d given Nadine. He had a more impressive style, she mused, shivering a bit in the cold, as he’d chosen to give the statement on the steps of the Tower, where his offices spanned the top of the building.

Air traffic had been rerouted for the thirty-minute event so that only a scatter of sky-cams and traffic choppers disturbed the sky overhead.

Eve was certain he already knew she’d gone on-air with the data. He could slap her down for it. But as she had not been officially barred from preceding him with a statement, it would be a waste of time.

Eve knew Tibble rarely wasted anything.

She respected him, and respected him more when he managed to give a complete statement while withholding vital pieces of evidence they would need for trial.

As questions began to bullet out of the crowd of reporters, he held up both hands. “I’ll turn questions over to the primary investigating officer, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”

He turned, then bent down to her ear. “Five minutes, and don’t give them any more than they already have. Next time, Dallas, wear a goddamn coat.”

She huddled in her jacket and stepped forward.

“Do you have any suspects?”

Eve didn’t sigh, but she wanted to. She hated facing the media. “We’re questioning several individuals in connection with these cases.”

“Were the victims sexually assaulted?”

“The cases are being handled as sexual homicides.”

“How are they connected? Did the victims know each other?”

“I’m not free to discuss that area of the investigation at this time.” She held up a hand to cut off the vicious barrage. “We are, however, treating the cases as connected. As Chief Tibble stated, the investigation, thus far, points to one killer.”

“Santa Claus is coming to town,” some comedian called out, and set off a wave of laughter in the crowd.

“Yeah, make a joke of it.” Temper warmed her blood and made her forget her hands were freezing. “That’s easy enough when you haven’t seen what he leaves behind. When you haven’t had to tell mothers and partners that the person they loved is dead.”

The crowd fell quiet enough that she heard the swish of copter blades overhead. “I imagine the person responsible for this misery, for these deaths, will get a big charge out of being played up in the media. Go ahead and give him what he wants. Make the murder of four people small and foolish, and turn him into a star. But inside Cop Central we know what he is. He’s pathetic, even more pathetic than you. I’ve got nothing more to say.”

She turned, ignoring the shouts, and all but bumped into Tibble.

“Inside one moment, Lieutenant.” He took her arm, steering her quickly through guards and through the reinforced doors. “Well done,” he said briefly. “And now that we’re done with that annoying spectacle, I have to play politics with the mayor. Go do your job, Dallas, and get me this son of a bitch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find some gloves, for Christ’s sake,” he added as he stalked away.

Eve jammed one hand in her pocket to warm it, and took out her communicator with the other. She tried Mira first, and was told the doctor was still in testing. She put in the next call to Peabody.

“Anything pop on the necklace?”

“We got a possible. Baubles and Bangles on Fifth. Their jeweler designed and made the necklace. This was a one of a kind—commissioned. They’re checking records now, but the clerk said she thought she remembered the customer coming in personally to pick it up. They’ve got security cameras.”

“Meet me there. I’m on my way.”

“Lieutenant?”

She glanced over and into the hollow eyes of Jerry Vandoren. “Jerry, what are you doing here?”

“I heard about the press conference. I wanted . . .” He lifted his hands, then helplessly let them fall. “I wanted to hear what you had to say. I listened. I want to thank you . . .”

He trailed off again, looking around as if he’d turned a corner and found himself on another planet.

“Jerry.” She took his arm, guiding him away before the reporters scented fresh meat and pounced on him. “You should go home.”

“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I dream about her every night. Marianna’s not dead when I dream about her.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Then I wake up, and she is. Everyone says I need grief counseling. I don’t want to be counseled out of my grief, Lieutenant Dallas. I don’t want to stop feeling what I feel for her.”

It was out of her element, she thought, this raw desperation that looked to her for an answer. But she couldn’t turn away from it. “She wouldn’t want you to go on hurting. She loved you too much for that.”

“But when I stop hurting, she’ll really be gone.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. “I wanted—just to say I appreciated what you said out there. That you weren’t going to let them turn this into a joke. I know you’ll stop him.” The plea swam in his eyes. “You will stop him, won’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m going to stop him. Come on.” Gently, she led him toward a side exit. “Let’s get you a cab. Where did you say your mother lived?”

“My mother?”

“Yeah. Go see your mother, Jerry. Go stay with her for a while.”

He blinked at the sunlight when they stepped outside. “It’s almost Christmas.”

“Yeah.” She signaled to a uniform leaning against his cruiser. A better bet, she decided, than a cab. “You go spend Christmas with your family, Jerry. Marianna would want you to.”

Eve had to put Jerry Vandoren and his grief out of her mind and focus on the next step. After fighting through traffic, she parked illegally in front of the jewelry store, switched her On Duty sign to active, then bulled her way through the crowd jamming the sidewalk.

Eve imagined it was the kind of place where Roarke might breeze in, have a glitter catch his eye, and drop a few hundred thousand.

The shop was all pink and gold, like the inside of a seashell. Music, the quiet, deep sort that made her think of churches, hummed in the rarified air.

The flowers were fresh, the carpet thick, the guard at the door discreetly armed.

Because he gave her jacket and boots a sneer of disdain, she badged him. It gave her a petty pull of satisfaction to see the sneer vanish.

She breezed by him, her battered boots silent on the shell-pink carpet. A quick scan showed her a woman wrapped in miles of mink seated on a thickly padded chaise, debating over diamonds or rubies; a tall man with silvered hair with a topcoat folded neatly over his arm, perusing gold wrist units; two more guards; and a giggling blonde being treated to a shopping spree by a pouchy man old enough to be her grandfather. He obviously had more money than sense.

She tagged the security cameras, little pinhole lenses tucked in the carved molding that framed a coffered ceiling. A fluid spiral of stairs arched to the right. Or if madam was too weary from carting around pounds of gold and stones, she was welcome to use the shining brass elevator.

Only the weight of the diamond between her breasts prevented Eve from a sneer of her own. It was faintly embarrassing to know that Roarke could buy everything in the place, and the building it was housed in.

She approached a beveled glass counter where bracelets studded with colored gems were artfully draped, and sized up the clerk behind the counter. He didn’t appear particularly thrilled to see her. He was as polished as his wares, but his mouth was pinched, his eyes bored, and his voice, when he spoke, dripped with sarcasm.

“May I help you, madam?”

“Yeah, I need the manager.”

He sniffed, inclining his head so that the lights gleamed on his gilt hair. “Is there a problem?”

“That depends on how quickly you get me the manager.”

Now his mouth drew in as if something not quite fresh had landed on his tongue. “One moment. And please, don’t touch the display case. It’s just been cleaned.”

Little bastard, Eve thought mildly. She managed to put half a dozen fingerprints on the sparkling glass by the time he came back with a slim, attractive brunette.

“Good afternoon. I’m Ms. Kates, the manager. May I help you?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” Because the woman’s smile was a great deal warmer than her clerk’s, Eve held her badge at counter level and blocked it from the clientele with her back. “My aide called in earlier regarding a necklace.”

“Yes, I spoke with her. Shall we talk in my office?”

“Fine.” She glanced around as Peabody and McNab came in. Saying nothing, she signaled them to follow.

“I remember the necklace distinctly,” Kates began as she led them into a small, feminine office. She gestured toward two high-backed chairs before taking a seat behind a desk. “My husband designed it, on commission. I haven’t been able to reach him, I’m sorry, but I believe I can give you any information you need.”

“You have the paperwork on it?”

“I do. I looked up the disc and printed out a hard copy for you.” Efficiently, she opened a file, checked the contents, then passed it to Eve. “The necklace was done in fourteen-carat gold, interlinked chain, choker length, with four stylized birds. A charming piece.”

It hadn’t looked so charming, Eve mused, wrapped around Holloway’s bruised neck.

“Nicholas Claus,” she murmured, reading the customer’s name. She supposed he’d thought of it as irony. “Did you get ID?”

“It wasn’t necessary. The customer paid in cash, a twenty percent deposit on order, the remainder on completion.”

Kates folded her hands. “I recognize you, Lieutenant. Am I to assume this necklace is part of a murder investigation?”

“You can assume that. This Claus, he came in personally?”

“Yes, three times that I recall.” Kates lifted her folded hands, tapped her fingers against her mouth, then lowered them again. “I spoke to him myself on his first visit. About average height, I suppose, perhaps a little taller. Slender, but not thin. Graceful,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Very well presented. Dark hair, rather long, with silver streaks. I remember him as very elegant, very polite, and very specific about his needs.”

“Give me his voice.”

“His voice?” Kates blinked a moment. “I . . . Cultured, I’d say. Faintly accented. European, I suppose. Quiet. I’m sure I’d recognize it again. I remember taking a call from him and knowing who it was the minute he spoke.”

“He called in?”

“Once or twice, I think, to check on the progress of the necklace.”

“I’m going to need your security discs, and your ’link logs.”

“I’ll get them for you.” She got immediately to her feet. “It may take a little time.”

“McNab, give Ms. Kates a hand with that.”

“Sir.”

“He had to know we’d check,” Eve said to Peabody when they were alone. “He left the necklace at the scene, a one of a kind he commissioned himself. He had to know we’d track it here.”

“Maybe he didn’t think we’d move this fast, or that Kates would have such a good memory.”

“No.” Dissatisfied, Eve rose. “He knew. This is just where he wants us to be. It’s another show. He played a role here, and he doesn’t look like the man we’re going to see on those discs any more than he looks like Santa Claus.”

She paced to the door, back again. “Different props, different costume, different stage, but it’s just his show. He covered his ass, Peabody, but he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. The voice prints from the ’link logs are going to nail him.”

“Jesus, Dallas.” Feeney shrugged the shoulder she was leaning over. “Stop breathing down my neck.”

“Sorry.” She leaned back one stingy inch. “How long does it take to program the print into this thing?”

“Twice as long as it would if you weren’t nagging on me.”

“Okay, okay.” She backed off, stalked to the window of the conference room. “It’s sleeting,” she said more to herself than him. “Traffic’s going to be ugly later.”

“Traffic’s always ugly this time of year. Too many damn tourists. I tried to do a little shopping last night. Wife wants this sweater thing. People are like wolves on a dead deer out there. I’m not going back.”

“Video shopping’s easier.”

“Yeah, but the fucking circuits are jammed. Everybody and his cousin’s on trying to scoop up bargains. I don’t come up with a dozen pretty boxes under the tree for her, I’m bunking in the den till spring.”

“A dozen?” Mildly horrified, she swung back around. “You have to buy her more than one?”

“Man, Dallas, are you green in the marriage area.” He snorted, working manually on the programming. “One present don’t mean dick. Quantity, pal. Think quantity.”

“Great, terrific. I’m sunk.”

“You got a couple of days left. And here we are.”

Her shopping dilemma cleared from her mind as she rushed back. “Run it.”

“I’m getting to it. Here’s our man on the ’link.”

Is Mr. or Mrs. Kates available?

“I cut out the other voices. That’s your pauses,” Feeney explained.

Good morning, Ms. Kates. This is Nicholas Claus. I wondered how the work on my necklace is progressing.

“I can run the rest, but that’s enough for a match.”

“The accent’s vague,” Eve mused. “He doesn’t put a lot on it. That’s smart. You got Rudy in there?”

“Coming up. This is from the interview tape. Just him.”

We advise all our clients to meet their matches in a public place. Any who agreed to meet him privately subsequent to that were making their own decision.

“Now we got prints. This baby computes everything: pitch, inflection, cadence, tonal quality. Don’t matter a damn if you disguise your voice. It’s as reliable as fingerprints and DNA. You can’t fake it. Shift to Subject A, graft style, on screen and on audio.”

Working . . .

Eve listened to the ’link call, watched the lines of color skim and jump along the screen. “Split the screen,” she told him, “put the interview blurb up under that one.”

“Just hold on.” Feeney ordered the function, then pursed his lips. “Got a problem here.”

“What? What’s wrong with it?”

“Meld prints on screen,” he ordered, then sighed as the points and valleys clashed. “They don’t match, Dallas. They aren’t even close. You got two different voices here.”

“Shit.” She tunneled her fingers through her hair. Because she could see it for herself, her stomach started to burn. “Let me think. Okay, what if he used a distorter on his end of the ’link?”

“He could mess it up a little, but I’d still get match points. Best I can do is run a scan, search for any electronic masking, clean it out if I find it. But I’ve seen enough of these to know when I’m looking at two different guys.”

He sighed and sent her one of his mournful looks. “Sorry, Dallas. This sets things back a ways.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes. “Run the scan anyway, will you, Feeney? How about the feature-by-feature from the videos?”

“It’s coming—coming slow. I can run Rudy’s ear shape, eye shape against it.”

“Let’s go that route, too. I’m going to check with Mira, see if the profile’s done.”

To save herself time, Eve called Mira’s office. The doctor was gone for the day, but a preliminary report had been transmitted to Eve’s office ’link. She headed over, trying to pick apart the voice prints as she went.

The guy was smart, she mused. Maybe he’d figured on a voice print analysis. Anticipated it and found a way around it. What if he’d had someone else call the jeweler’s?

And that was reaching, she admitted. But it wasn’t impossible.

She heard what she would have sworn was a giggle, and stepped inside her office to see Peabody chatting amiably with Charles Monroe.

“Peabody?”

“Sir.” Peabody sprang instantly to her feet and to attention. “Charles, ah, Mr. Monroe has some . . . wanted to . . .”

“Restrain your hormones, Officer. Charles?”

“Dallas.” He smiled, rising from his seat on the arm of her one pathetic chair. “Your aide kept me company, charmingly, while I waited for you.”

“I bet. What’s the deal?”

“It might be nothing, but—” He shrugged. “One of the women from my match list got in touch a couple of hours ago. It seems her date for a jaunt upstate this weekend hit a snag. She thought I might like to substitute, though we didn’t really connect before.”

“That’s fascinating, Charles.” Impatient to get on with her work, Eve dropped into a chair. “But I don’t feel qualified to give you advice on your social life.”

“I can handle that on my own.” As if to prove it, he winked at Peabody and had her going rosy pink with pleasure. “I was toying with the idea of taking her up on it, but knowing how things can go, I chatted her up awhile to get a feel for it.”

“Is there a point to this?”

He leaned forward. “I like my moment in the sun, Lieutenant Sugar.” Both of them ignored Peabody’s gasping snort at the term. “She started unloading. She’d had a big bustup with the guy she’d been seeing. Dumped all the crap on me. She caught him cheating on her with some redhead. Then she tells me how he thought he could make up for it by having Santa bring her a present last night.”

Eve sat up slowly, and now her attention focused in. “Keep going.”

“I thought that would do it.” With satisfaction, Charles leaned back. “She says the doorbell rings about ten last night, and when she looks out there’s Santa with a big silver box.” He shook his head. “I have to tell you, with what I knew, my heart just about stopped. But she’s rambling on about how she wouldn’t give the cheating bastard the satisfaction of opening the door. She didn’t want his pitiful makeup gift.”

“She didn’t let him in,” Eve murmured.

“And I figure that was why she was alive to call me and bitch.”

“You happen to know what she does for a living?”

“She’s a dancer. Ballet.”

“Yeah, that works,” Eve murmured. “I need a name and address. Peabody?”

“Ready.”

“Cheryl Zapatta, she’s on West Twenty-eighth. That’s all I’ve got.”

“We’ll find her.”

“Look, I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I told her. Your one-on-one with Nadine Furst had just run, so I figured it was out. I told her to turn on her screen, and I filled her in.” He blew out a breath. “She panicked. Big time. Said she was getting out. I don’t know if you’re going to find her for a while.”

“If she’s scrambled, we can get an order to enter and search. You did the right thing, Charles,” Eve said after a moment. “If she hadn’t heard the report, she might have had a change of heart and opened the door the next time. I appreciate you coming in.”

“Anything for you, Lieutenant Sugar.” He got to his feet. “Can you let me know what happens?”

“Watch your screen,” Eve advised.

“Yeah. Uh, would you mind showing me the way out, Officer?” He sent a killer smile at Peabody. “I’m a little turned around.”

“Sure. Lieutenant?”

“Go ahead.” Eve waved them away, then dived into Mira’s report. Engrossed and frustrated, she didn’t notice that it took Peabody twenty minutes to show Charles to his choice of people glide or elevator.

“She’s cleared the son of a bitch.” Eve sat back, scrubbing her face over her hands when Peabody came back in. “I’ve got nothing to hang on him.”

“Rudy?”

“His personality index doesn’t fit the profile. His capacity for physical violence runs low on the scale. He’s devious, intelligent, obsessive, possessive, and sexually limited, but in the doctor’s opinion, he isn’t our man. Damn it. His lawyer gets a copy of this, I won’t be able to touch the little creep.”

“Are you still looking at him for it?”

“I don’t know what I’m looking at.” She tried to keep her head and her temper clear. “We go back and we start over. From the beginning. We reinterview, starting with the first victim.”

At eight forty-five, Eve charged up the steps. She was already irked, as Summerset had greeted her in the foyer with his bilious stare and the comment that she had precisely fifteen minutes to make herself presentable before guests began to arrive.

It didn’t help to race into the bedroom and find Roarke showered and dressing. “I’ll make it,” she blurted out and dashed into the bath.

“It’s a party, darling, not an endurance test.” He wandered in behind her, mainly for the pleasure of watching her strip. “Take your time.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to walk in late and give that butt-face another reason to complain about me. Shower, all heads full, one-oh-one degrees.”

“You aren’t required to meet Summerset’s approval.” He leaned idly against the wall to watch her. She showered as she did nearly everything: quickly and efficiently, no wasted time or moves. “In any case, people traditionally arrive late for affairs like this.”

“I’m just running a little behind.” She hissed as shampoo ran into her eyes and stung. “I lost my prime suspect, and I’m starting from scratch.” She sprang out, took a step toward the drying tube, then stopped. “Shit, am I supposed to put that glop on my hair when it’s wet or when it’s dry?”

Having a fairly good idea which glop she referred to, Roarke plucked a tube from the shelf and poured a dab in his palm. “Here, allow me.”

The way his hands moved through her hair made her want to purr, but she eyed him narrowly. “Don’t mess with me, pal. I don’t have time for you.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Enjoying himself, he chose another tube and poured a generous pool of body lotion into his hands. “I’m simply helping you get ready,” he began as he slid his slickened hands over her shoulders, her breasts. “Since you seem frazzled.”

“Look—” Then she closed her eyes and sighed when his hands slithered down to her waist, slipped over her butt. “I think you missed a spot.”

“Careless of me.” He lowered his head, sniffed at her throat. And bit. “Want to be very, very late?”

“Yeah. But I’m not going to.” She wiggled away and leaped into the drying tube. “But don’t forget where you left off.”

“A pity you didn’t get here twenty minutes ago.” Having decided that watching her wasn’t going to help his blood cool, he strolled back into the bedroom.

“I just have to gunk up my face some.” She whipped out of the tube and dashed for the mirror without bothering with a robe. “What am I supposed to wear to something like this?”

“I have it.”

She stopped fumbling ineptly with her lash dye and scowled. “Do I pick out your clothes?”

“Eve, please.”

She had to laugh. “Okay, bad example, but I don’t have time to think of another one.” Solving the problem of hairstyle by skimming her fingers briskly through what she had, she turned into the bedroom to see Roarke studying what she supposed some people would call a dress.

“Get out of here. I’m not wearing that.”

“Mavis brought it by the other night. Leonardo designed it for you. It’ll look very good on you.”

She frowned at the fluid panels of silver held together on the sides by thin sparkling straps. The straps were repeated at the shoulders, catching a drape of fabric in the front and much, much lower in the back.

“Why don’t I just go naked and save time?”

“Let’s see how it looks.”

“What do I wear under it?”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “You’re wearing it.”

“Jesus Christ.” With ill grace, she stepped into it, wiggled it up.

The material was soft as a waterfall and clung like a lover, the seductive side slashes exposing smooth skin and slender curves.

“Darling Eve.” He took her hand, turning it over to nuzzle the palm in one of the gestures he used to turn her legs to putty. “Sometimes you take my breath away. Here, try these.”

He took a pair of diamond drop earrings from the dresser and handed them to her.

“Were these already mine, or what?”

Now he grinned. “You’ve had them for months. No more presents until Christmas.”

She fastened them on, and decided to take it philosophically when he selected her shoes. “There’s no place in this thing to keep my communicator. I’m on call.”

“Here.” He offered her the ridiculously small evening bag that matched the shoes.

“Anything else?”

“You’re perfect.” He smiled when he heard the beep that signaled the first car arriving at the gate. “And prompt. Let’s go down so I can show off my wife.”

“I’m not a poodle,” she muttered and made him laugh.

Within an hour, the house was full of people and music and light. Scanning the ballroom, Eve could only be grateful Roarke never expected her to have any input into the preparations.

There were huge tables groaning under silver platters of food: honied ham from Virginia, glazed duck from France, rare beef from Montana; lobster, salmon, oysters harvested from the rich beds on Silas I; an array of fresh vegetables picked only that morning and cleverly arranged in patterns. Desserts that would tempt a political prisoner from a hunger strike surrounded a three-foot tree fashioned out of sinfully rich cake and hung with gleaming marzipan ornaments.

She wondered that it could still amaze her what the man she had married could conjure.

A soaring pine decorated with thousands of white lights and silver stars stood at either end of the ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed not the nasty sleet that hissed over the city, but a hologram of a dreamy snowscene where couples skated on a silver pond and young children raced down a gentle slope on shiny red sleds.

Such details, she thought, were so utterly Roarke.

“Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?”

She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab.

He went red, then white, then red again. “Christ! Lieutenant. Sir.”

“Your hand’s on my ass, McNab. I don’t think you want it to be there.”

He snatched it away as if scorched. “God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn’t recognize you. I mean . . .” He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she’d allow him to keep in his pocket. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought . . . You look . . .” Words failed him.

“I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve.” Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab’s panicked eyes. “Weren’t you, Ian?”

“Yeah. That is . . .”

“And if I believed he’d realized it was your ass he was fondling, I’d just have to kill him. Right here.” Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab’s snazzy red tie. “Right now.”

“Oh, I’d have already taken care of that myself,” Eve said dryly. “You look like you could use a drink, Detective.”

“Yes, sir. I could.”

“Roarke, why don’t you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her.”

“Delighted.” Roarke draped an arm around McNab’s shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed.

It took longer than Eve liked to make her way across the room. It amazed her how much people wanted to talk at parties. And about nothing in particular. That was delay enough, but she caught sight of Peabody, looking very un-Peabody-like in sweeping evening pants of dull gold and a trim sleeveless jacket. Her bare arm was tucked comfortably through Charles Monroe’s.

Mira, Eve decided, could wait. “Peabody.”

“Dallas. Wow, the place looks amazing.”

“Yeah.” Eve shifted her gaze and pinned Charles with angry eyes. “Monroe.”

“Fabulous home you’ve got, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t recall your name on the guest list.”

Peabody colored, stiffened. “The invitation said I was free to bring a date.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, keeping her eyes on Charles’s. “A date?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice as a flicker of hurt clouded his eyes. “Delia is aware of my profession.”

“Are you giving her the cop’s standard discount?”

“Dallas.” Horrified, Peabody stepped forward.

“It’s all right.” Charles tugged her back. “I’m on my own time, Dallas, and hoping to spend a pleasant evening with an attractive woman whose company I enjoy. If you’d rather I leave, it’s your house, your call.”

“She’s a big girl.”

“Yes, she is,” Peabody murmured. “Just a second, Charles,” she added, then gripped Eve’s arm and tugged her aside.

“Hey!”

“No, you hey.” Fury bubbled into her voice as Peabody boxed Eve into a corner. “I don’t have to clear my personal time or relationships with you, and you have no right to embarrass me.”

“Wait a minute—”

“I’m not done.” Later, Peabody would recall the look of speechless shock on Eve’s face, but at the moment she was too revved to notice or react to it. “What I do off duty has nothing to do with the job. If I want to take on table dancing in my personal time, it’s my business. If I want to pay six LCs to fuck me blind on Sundays, it’s my business. And if I want to have a civilized date with an interesting, attractive man who for some reason wants to have one with me, it’s my business.”

“I was only—”

“I’m not done,” Peabody said between clenched teeth. “On the job, you’re in charge. But that’s where it ends. If you don’t want me here with Charles, then we’ll leave.”

As Peabody turned on her heel, Eve snagged her wrist. “I don’t want you to leave.” Her voice was quiet, controlled, and stiff as a petrified board. “I apologize for stepping into your personal life. I hope it doesn’t spoil your evening. Excuse me.”

Hurt, unbelievably hurt, she walked away. Her stomach was still jittering with it when she found Mira. “I don’t want to take you away from the party, but I’d like a few minutes. In private.”

“Of course.” Concerned by the dark eyes and pale cheeks, Mira reached out. “What is it, Eve?”

“In private,” she repeated, and ordered herself to bury her feelings as she led the way out. “We can talk in the library.”

“Oh.” The minute she stepped inside, Mira clasped her hands in sheer pleasure. “What a marvelous room. Oh, what absolute treasures. Not enough people appreciate the feel and the smell of a real book in their hands any longer. The delight of curling into a chair with the warmth of one instead of the cool efficiency of a disc.”

“Roarke’s into books,” Eve said simply and shut the door. “The testing on Rudy. I question some of your findings.”

“Yes, I thought you might.” Mira wandered through, admiring, then settled onto a soft leather chair, smoothing the skirt of her rose-pink cocktail suit. “He’s not your killer, Eve, nor is he the monster you want him to be.”

“It has nothing to do with what I want.”

“His relationship with his sister disturbs you on a deep and personal level. She isn’t like you, though; she isn’t a child, she isn’t defenseless, and while I do believe he has an unhealthy measure of control over her, she isn’t being forced.”

“He uses her.”

“Yes, and she him. It’s mutual. I agree that he is obsessive when it pertains to her. He is sexually immature. The very thing that eliminates him from your lists, Eve, is the fact that I strongly believe he is impotent with anyone but his sister.”

“He was being blackmailed and the blackmailer is dead. A client was hitting on his sister; that client is dead.”

“Yes, and I admit that with that evidence I was prepared to find him capable of those murders. He isn’t. He has some potential for physical violence. When roused, when threatened. But it’s a flash, it’s immediate. It isn’t in his makeup to plan, to orchestrate, to complete the kind of killings you’re dealing with.”

“Then we just turn him loose?” Eve walked away. “Let him go?”

“Incest is against the law, but it has to be proven to be coerced. This isn’t the case. I understand your need to punish him, and to, in your mind, release his sister from his hold.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Oh, I know that, Eve.” Because it hurt her heart to watch, she reached up to take Eve’s hand and stop the restless pacing. “Don’t keep punishing yourself.”

“I focused on him because of this. I know I did.” Suddenly weary, she sank down beside Mira. “And because I did, I might have missed something, some detail, that would have led to the killer.”

“You followed very logical, very clear-cut steps. He had to be eliminated from the list.”

“But I took too long to do it. And every time my gut told me I was looking at the wrong man, I ignored it. Because I kept seeing myself. I’d look at her and I’d think, way back in my mind, I’d think, That could be me. If I hadn’t killed the son of a bitch, that could be me.”

She lowered her head into her hands, then dragged them back through her hair. “Christ, I’m messing up. All over the damn place.”

“How?”

“There’s no point in getting into this.”

Mira merely stroked Eve’s hair. “How?”

“I can’t even seem to handle a perfectly ordinary holiday. Just the thought of trying to figure out what to do, what to buy, how to act makes my stomach ache.”

“Oh, Eve.” Laughing lightly, Mira shook her head. “Christmas drives nearly everyone half crazy with just those problems. It’s absolutely normal.”

“Not for me, it isn’t. I never had to worry about it before. I didn’t have so many people in my life.”

“Now you do.” Mira smiled, indulged herself by stroking Eve’s hair again. “Who do you want to get rid of?”

“I think I just managed to kick Peabody out.” Disgusted, Eve shot to her feet again. “She comes in with an LC. Oh, he’s basically okay, but he’s a goddamn whore, a great looking, slick, amusing one.”

“It disturbs you,” Mira suggested, “that you like him on one level and despise him for what he does for a living.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about Peabody. He says he wants a real relationship, and she’s got stars in her eyes over him and she’s majorly pissed at me because I said something about it.”

“Life’s messy, Eve, and I’m afraid you’ve gone and carved yourself out a life, with all the conflicts and problems and hurt feelings that entails. If she’s angry with you, it’s because there’s no one she admires or respects more.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Being loved is a heavy responsibility. You’ll mend your fences with her, because she matters to you.”

“I’m getting damn crowded with people who matter.”

The house screen across the room blinked on. Summerset’s pinched face filled it. “Lieutenant, your guests are inquiring about you.”

“Fuck off.” She smiled thinly as Mira swallowed a laugh. “At least that’s one person I don’t have to worry about mattering. But I shouldn’t have busted up your evening.”

“You haven’t. I enjoy talking with you.”

“Well . . .” Eve started to stick her hands in her pockets, remembered she didn’t have any, and sighed. “Would you mind hanging out here for a minute? There’s something I want to get from my office.”

“All right. May I look through the books?”

“Sure, help yourself.” Not wanting to take the time to go out and down the stairs, Eve slipped into the elevator. She was back in less than three minutes, but Mira was already cozied into a chair with a book.

“Jane Eyre.” She sighed as she set it aside. “I haven’t read it since I was a girl. It’s so wrenchingly romantic.”

“You can borrow it if you want. Roarke wouldn’t mind.”

“I have my own copy. I just haven’t taken the time. But thank you.”

“I wanted to give you this. It’s a couple of days early, but . . . I might not see you.” Feeling ridiculously awkward, she held out the elegantly wrapped box.

“Oh, how sweet of you.” With obvious delight, Mira clasped the box in her hands. “May I open it now?”

“Sure, that’s the deal, right?” She shifted her feet, then rolled her eyes as Mira delicately untied the fussy bow and painstakingly unfolded the corners on the paper.

“Drives my family crazy, too,” she said with a laugh. “I just can’t bear to rip in; then I save the paper and ribbon like a pack rat. I have a closet full of it which I constantly forget to reuse. But . . .” She trailed off as she opened the lid and found the bottle of scent inside. “Why, it’s lovely, Eve. It has my name etched on it.”

“It’s this personalized sort of fragrance. You give the guy physical and personality traits, then he creates an individual fragrance.”

“Charlotte,” Mira murmured. “I wasn’t sure you knew my first name.”

“I guess I heard it somewhere.”

Mira blinked at sentimental tears. “It’s wonderfully thoughtful.” She set the bottle down and turned to draw Eve into a hug. “Thank you.”

Swamped with warmth, and embarrassment, Eve let herself be held. “I’m glad you like it. I’m pretty new at this kind of thing.”

“You did very well.” She drew back, but caught Eve’s face in her hands. “I’m so fond of you. Now I need the powder room because another of my Christmas traditions is to weep a little over my gifts. I know where it is,” she added, patting Eve’s cheeks lightly. “You go dance with your husband and drink a little too much champagne. The world outside will still be there tomorrow.”

“I need to stop him.”

“And you will. But tonight, you need your life. Go find Roarke and take it.”

Eve did what the doctor ordered. It wasn’t such a bad deal, she decided, getting a little light-headed, swaying in Roarke’s arms to some sort of dreamy music in a room filled with color and scent and light.

“I can live with it,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

She smiled as his lips skimmed her ear. “I can live with it,” she repeated, drawing back enough to look at his face. “All the Roarke stuff.”

“Well.” His hands stroked up her back, then down again. “That’s good to know.”

“You got a whole bunch of stuff, Roarke.”

“I do, indeed, have a whole bunch of stuff.” And a wife, he thought with an amused glint in his eyes, who was heading toward drunk.

“Sometimes it’s spooky. But not now. Now it’s pretty nice.” Sighing, she rubbed her cheek against his. “What kind of music is this?”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s sexy.”

“Twentieth century, primarily the nineteen forties. It was called Big Band. That’s a hologram of Tommy Dorsey’s band doing this little number. ‘Moonlight Serenade.”’

“That’s a million years ago.”

“Almost.”

“How do you know all that stuff anyway?”

“Maybe I was born out of my time.”

She sighed in his arms as the music swelled. “No, you hit your time just right.” She tilted her head on his shoulder so she could watch the room. “Everybody looks happy. Feeney’s dancing with his wife. Mavis is sitting on Leonardo’s lap in the corner over there with Mira and her husband. They’re all laughing. McNab’s hitting on every woman in the room, and giving Peabody the hairy eyeball while he sucks down your Scotch.”

Idly, Roarke glanced over, lifted a brow. “Trina’s got him now. Jesus, she’ll eat that boy alive.”

“He doesn’t look worried about it.” She leaned back again. “It’s a nice party.”

The music changed, a quick beat bouncing out. Eve’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, look at Dickhead. What’s he doing?”

Grinning, Roarke slipped a hand around Eve’s waist, turning so they were hip to hip. “I believe it’s called jitterbug.”

Stunned, she watched the lab chief tug and pull Nadine Furst around the room, spinning her out, whipping her back. “Yeah, I can see why. I can never get him to move that fast in the lab. Whoa!” Her eyes widened as Dickie shoveled Nadine through his legs. Nadine let out a burst of laughter as her feet hit the floor again, and the crowd roared with approval.

Eve found herself grinning, leaning companionably against Roarke. “Looks like fun.”

“Want to try it?”

“Oh no.” But she laughed and began to tap her foot. “Watching’s just fine.”

“Is that mag or what?” Mavis bounced over, pulling Leonardo after her. “Who’da thought Nadine could move like that? Frigid party, Roarke. It’s iced.”

“Thanks. You’re looking festive, Mavis.”

“Yeah. We call it my gay apparel.” She laughed and did a quick twirl to show off the multicolored panels that fluttered from breast to ankle. The movement parted them, revealing flashes of skin that had been dusted with gold and matched her hair, which fountained out from a wild topknot.

“Leonardo thought yours should be more refined,” she told Eve.

“No one shows off my designs as well as you and Mavis.” Towering over them, Leonardo smiled his gorgeous smile. “Merry Christmas, Dallas.” He bent down to kiss her cheek. “We have something for you, both of you. Just a token.”

He took a package from behind his back and put it in Eve’s hands. “Mavis and I are having our first Christmas together, thanks in a large part to you.” His gold eyes misted.

Because she couldn’t think of what to say, Eve set the package on one of the banquet tables and began to unwrap it.

Inside was a box of carved and polished wood, its brass hinges gleaming. “It’s beautiful.”

“Open it up,” Mavis prompted, all but bouncing. “Tell them what it means, Leonardo.”

“The wood’s for friendship, the metal for love.” He waited until Eve opened the lid to reveal the two silk-lined compartments within. “One part is for your memories, the other for your wishes.”

“He thought of it.” Mavis squeezed Leonardo’s big hand. “Isn’t he mag?”

“Yeah.” Eve managed to nod. “It’s great, really great.”

Understanding his wife, Roarke touched a hand to her shoulder, then stepped forward to extend the other to Leonardo. “It’s a lovely gift. A perfect one. Thank you.” And with a smile he kissed Mavis. “Both of you.”

“Now you can make a wish together on Christmas Eve.” Delighted, Mavis threw her arms around Eve, held hard, then swung back to Leonardo. “Let’s dance.”

“I’m going to get sloppy,” Eve murmured when her friends moved off.

“It’s the season for it.” He lifted her chin, smiled into her swimming eyes. “I love watching you feel.”

Riding the emotion, she cupped a hand around the back of his neck and drew his mouth down to hers. A long, warm kiss that soothed rather than excited.

She was smiling when she drew back. “That’s the first memory for our box.”

“Lieutenant.”

Eve turned, clearing her throat as she looked at Whitney. Embarrassment fluttered as she thought of him catching her with her eyes wet and her mouth still soft from Roarke’s. “Sir.”

“I’m sorry to disrupt things.” He offered Roarke an apologetic glance. “I’ve just received word that Piper Hoffman has been attacked.”

The cop snapped back into place. “Do you have her location?”

“She’s on her way to Hayes Memorial Hospital. Her condition is unknown at this time. Is there a private place I can fill you and your team in on known details?”

“My office.”

“I’ll take the commander down,” Roarke said. “Get your people.”

“She was attacked in the living quarters above Personally Yours,” Whitney began. Out of habit, he’d placed himself behind the desk, but he didn’t sit. “At this time, it’s believed she was alone. The responding uniform reports that it appears her brother walked in during the assault. The assailant fled.”

“Was the witness able to ID?” Eve demanded.

“Not as yet. He’s at the hospital with his sister. The scene has been secured. I’ve ordered the uniforms to leave it undisturbed and await your arrival.”

“I’ll take Feeney. We’ll go to the hospital first.” She caught Peabody’s quick jolt of shock, but kept her eyes on Whitney. “I don’t want to break Peabody’s and McNab’s cover at this time. I prefer for them to remain here, in contact, until I move on the scene.”

“It’s your call,” Whitney said simply, and it was one he agreed with.

“We’ve got witnesses this time, and he’s on the run. He’s scared. He can’t be sure he wasn’t made. And, if Piper stays alive, this makes his third miss.” She turned to her team. “I’ve got to change out of this thing. Feeney, I’ll be downstairs in five minutes. Peabody, contact the hospital and see what you can find out on the victim’s status. McNab, I’ll have a uniform bring you the security discs. I want them run before we get back.”

“Dallas,” Whitney said as she strode to the elevator, “let’s cage this bastard in.”

“One of these days,” Feeney said as they walked down the hospital corridor, “I’m going to leave one of your parties with my wife.”

“Cheer up, Feeney. We might’ve just caught the break that will put this away and give you a nice cozy Christmas.”

“Yeah, there’s that.” Someone moaned behind an opened door as they passed, and had Feeney hunching his shoulders. “Too many broken bodies around here to suit me. The way the roads are tonight, they’ve probably been hauling in traffic accidents all night.”

“Cheerful thought. There’s Rudy. I’ll take him. See if you can find her attending and an update.”

One look at the man slumped in a chair with his head in his hands and Feeney couldn’t have been happier to be somewhere else. “He’s all yours, kid.”

They parted ways, with Eve going straight ahead until she stopped in front of Rudy.

He lowered his hands slowly, staring at her boots first, then gradually lifting a face dominated by devastated eyes. “He raped her. He raped her and he hurt her. He tied her up. I heard her crying. I heard her begging and crying.”

Eve sat beside him. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. I think—he must have heard me come in. He must have heard me. I ran into the bedroom, and I saw her. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Stop.” Snapping out the order, she took his wrists to drag his hands away from his face again. “That won’t help her. You came in and heard her. Where had you been?”

“Shopping. Christmas shopping.” A single tear slid out of his eye and down his cheek. “She’d seen a sculpture, a fairy at a pond. She left hints around the apartment. A little sketch of it, the address of the gallery. Everything’s been so confused that I hadn’t had time to buy it until tonight. I never should have left her alone.”

She could check on the gallery, the timing, and be certain, Eve thought. Be certain the man who’d put Piper in the hospital wasn’t sitting beside her. She knew, she knew better than to let anyone in. Why would she have let her attacker in?

“Was the door secured when you got there?”

“Yes. I coded in. Then I heard her crying, calling out. I ran in.” His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, fisted his hands. “I saw her on the bed. She was naked, her hands and feet tied. I think—I’m not sure—but I think I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A movement. Or maybe I just sensed it. Then someone shoved me, and I fell. My head.”

Absently he lifted a hand to the side of his head. “I hit it on something, the footboard? I don’t know. I might have been out for a few seconds. It couldn’t have been long because I heard him running away. I didn’t go after him. I should have, but she was lying there, and I couldn’t think of anything but her. She wasn’t crying anymore. I thought . . . I thought she was dead.”

“You called for MTs, an ambulance?”

“I untied her first, covered her. I had to. I couldn’t stand . . . Then I called. I couldn’t wake her up. I couldn’t. She never woke up. And now they won’t let me see her.”

This time when he covered his face with his hands, Eve let him weep. Spotting Feeney, she rose and met him halfway.

“She’s in a coma,” he began. “Doctors figure it for extreme shock rather than physical. She was raped, sodomized. Wrists and ankles abraded. A couple of bruises. They did a tox. She was tranq’d—same over-the-counter shit. The tattoo’s on her right thigh.”

“They got a prognosis?”

“They say they can’t do anything. Lots of medical mumbo, but basically, the girl’s closed herself up. She’ll come back when and if she wants to.”

“Okay, we’re useless here. Let’s put a uniform on her door, and another on the brother.”

“You still looking at him, Dallas?”

She glanced back, watching him sob. The stir of pity surprised her. “No, but we’ll put one on him anyway.”

She took out her communicator, and sent out the orders as they headed toward the elevator.

“Guy’s pretty busted up,” Feeney commented. “Wonder if he’s crying over his sister, or his lover.”

“Yeah, it’s a puzzle all right.” She stepped into the elevator and requested the street level. “So, how did our man know she’d be alone tonight? He wouldn’t have tried her if he’d thought Rudy was with her. Not his style. He knew she was alone.”

“Someone she knew. Could’ve been watching the place. Could’ve called and checked.”

“Yeah, he knew her. Knows them both. And I don’t think she was one of his true loves.” She stepped out into the lobby, turned toward the doors. “She breaks pattern there. Piper isn’t on any of the match lists. He went for her to keep us focused on Rudy. Here’s how it plays for me.”

She paused while they climbed into the car, Eve taking the wheel. “He knows we’ve had Rudy into Interview, that I like him for the murders. He’s got a couple to make up anyway, since he missed with Cissy and the ballet dancer. He’s smart enough to know if he gets Piper, we’re going to run Rudy again. It just follows. This wasn’t for love, it was for insurance.”

Feeney leaned back, reaching into his pocket for his nut bag before remembering his wife hadn’t let him carry it to the party. He huffed once. “He knows her, she knows him. Maybe that’s how he got in.”

“She wouldn’t have opened the door to a stranger, and she sure as hell wouldn’t have opened it up to some guy in a Santa suit. We need McNab to run those discs.”

“You know what I think, Dallas. I don’t think we’re going to find any discs.”

Feeney was on the mark. The uniform on the scene reported that the security cameras had been shut off from the main control at nine fifty.

“No sign of forced entry,” Eve said after an examination of the locks and palm plate. “She goes to the door, looks out, and sees a familiar face. Opens right up. We won’t find any internal security discs either.”

She stepped into the apartment. A white tree festooned with crystal ropes and balls stood in front of the windows that faced Fifth. There were stacks of prettily wrapped gifts under it and a single white dove where traditionalists would have put a star or an angel.

There were shopping bags scattered from just inside the doorway to the first arch off the main room’s right. She could see Rudy coming in, hearing his sister, dropping the bags on the run. Following the trail, she crossed the soft white carpet and moved through a second seating area set up for screen viewing.

More white. Soft fabric chairs in ecru, tables with glossy surfaces in ivory tones. Clear bowls and urns were overflowing with white flowers.

It was, Eve thought, like stepping into a cloud.

Smothering.

Beyond the sitting area was a fitness room, equipped with sunken spa, air weights, a mood tube, and a multi-setting treadmill.

“Bedrooms are at the far end,” she pointed out. “Even at a run it would take Rudy several seconds to get in from the front door.”

She turned into a large bedroom. The privacy screen was drawn over the window, letting the night in, and keeping prying eyes out.

Along one wall was an enormous white counter where hundreds of colorful bottles and pots and tubes were arrayed. A queen of vanities, Eve mused, scanning the triple mirror and ring of lights. Two padded chairs, she noted, side by side.

They even painted their faces together.

The bed was heart shaped, which made her want to roll her eyes. Scrolling chrome tubes framed it like icing on the side of a cake. Roped restraints dangled from four points.

“He didn’t take his toys away with him.” Eve crouched down to examine the opened silver box on the floor. “We’ve got all kinds of goodies, Feeney. Here’s the pressure syringe.” She tapped it with a sealed finger. “The tattoo works, and this is pretty special.”

There was a box inside the box. It was simulated wood, about two feet in length. When she opened the lid, three tiers shuffled out. It was neatly packed with Natural Perfection enhancements.

“I don’t know much about this kind of shit, but this doesn’t look like civilian stuff. It looks like a pro’s.”

“Ho, ho, ho.” Feeney bent down and picked up a snowy white beard. “Maybe he came dressed for the party after all.”

“I say he got her down, then dressed himself up. Habit.” Eve leaned back on her heels. “He gets in, tranqs her. Once he’s got her in here, restrained, he takes the time to deck himself out. He does the tattoo, makes up her face the way he wants it, all the while neatly storing his tools away. No mess. When she comes around enough to know what’s going on. . .”

Eyes narrowed, Eve stared at the bed, brought the scene into her mind. “She comes around. She’s disoriented, confused. She struggles. She knows who he is. It shocks her, scares her, because she knows what he’s going to do. Maybe he talks to her while he’s cutting off her clothes.”

“Looks like this was a robe.” Feeney lifted neat strips of a filmy white material.

“Yeah, she’s home, comfortable, in for the night. She’s probably excited knowing her brother’s out buying her presents. Now she’s naked, terrified, staring up at this face she knows. She doesn’t want to believe it’s happening. You never want to believe it.”

But it happened, she thought as a clammy sweat sprung out on her skin. Couldn’t be stopped.

“He takes off his clothes. My bet is he folds them neatly. He takes off the beard, too. No need for disguises with her.”

So she would see his face, contorted, eyes burning.

“He’s aroused now. It’s really getting him off that she knows who he is. He doesn’t need or want the disguise. Maybe he thinks he loves her after all by now. She belongs to him. She’s helpless. He’s got the power. More power because she calls him by name when she begs him to stop. But he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. He just keeps ramming himself into her. Ripping her, ramming her.”

“Hey, hey.” Shaken, Feeney squatted down, put his hands on Eve’s shoulders. Her eyes had gone glassy, her breath thick and uneven. “Come on, kid.”

“Sorry.” She closed her eyes.

“It’s okay.” He patted her awkwardly. He knew what had been done to her as a child, knew because Roarke had told him. But he wasn’t sure if Eve was aware he knew. Better, he figured, for both of them, if they pretended he didn’t know. “Sometimes you get too close, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” She had to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She could smell the unlovely odor of sex going stale, of sweat. And, she thought, of helpless female terror.

“You want, uh, some water or something.”

“No, I’m okay. I just . . . I hate sex crimes like this. Let’s bag this stuff and finish going through. We might get lucky here and pick up some prints.” Steadier, she got to her feet. “Then we’ll see what the sweepers can suck up. Wait.” Abruptly, she put her hand on Feeney’s arm. “Something’s missing.”

“What?”

“Five, this is five—what is it?” She juggled the song through her mind. “Where are the five golden rings?”

They did a thorough search, every room, but found nothing that fit the pattern of jewelry left at the scene. Eve’s blood went cold.

“He took it with him. He still needs number five. But he doesn’t have his tools. I’m going to check the salon downstairs, see if he broke into it. Can you finish here and call the sweepers?”

“Yeah. Watch your back, Dallas.”

“He’s gone, Feeney. He’s back in his hole.”

But she was careful as she made her way down to the store level. She could see no signs of forced entry on the elegant doors of the salon. Beyond the glass, it was black.

Following instinct, she used her master code to disengage the locks. And drew her weapon. “Lights on,” she ordered, then blinked into the sudden glare.

When her eyes adjusted she saw the cash/credit drawer behind the reception counter standing open. And empty.

“Oh yeah, you stopped by.”

She swept the room first, eyes and weapon, then sidestepped toward the display cases. The glass was whole, and she could spot no spaces between the neat lines of products. Moving left, she walked toward the treatment rooms.

Each was empty, and surgically neat.

She uncoded another door and stepped into the staff lounge and locker area. It was, like the rest of the salon, scrupulously clean. Almost obsessively so, she decided as her blood began to hum.

She scanned the lockers, wishing for Roarke’s skill with manual locks. Her master wouldn’t get her into the compartments. She’d need a warrant for that.

The next room was storage. And here the stringent tidiness was broken. Cases of products were upended, bottles and tubes scattered. She imagined he’d rushed in, desperate to replace his supply, furious that he’d panicked and left it behind upstairs.

He’d torn into the boxes, grabbing his choices, stuffing them into a bag, or another box.

Quickly now, she went out to check each consultant’s station. Only one was disturbed, the drawers in the shiny white counter yanked out, rifled through. A thick blob of liquid of some kind had been spilled on the top and left to spread and gel.

Though she already knew, she stuck to routine and searched for the stylist’s license. When she found it, she studied the photo.

“Didn’t keep your area clean this time, Simon? And I’ve got your ass.”

She whipped out her communicator, striding quickly toward the doors to secure the scene. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, all points required on Lastrobe, Simon, last known address 4530 East Sixty-third, unit 35. Subject may be armed and dangerous. Current photo will be transmitted immediately. Pick this guy up, suspicion of sexual homicide, multiple, first degree.”

Dispatch. Acknowledged and authorized.

“Feeney.” Eve shot a transmission to his communicator as she relocked the doors and pulled a crime scene tag out of her kit. “Secure up there. I’m calling Peabody in to handle the sweepers. We’ve gotta ride.”

“Our guy’s a face painter. Jesus.” Feeney shook his head in disgust as Eve drove east like a bullet. “What’s the world coming to, Dallas? Swear to God.”

“Yeah, he painted their faces, their bodies, played with their hair, listened to the stories of their lives, fell in love, and killed them for it.”

“You figure he worked on all of them in that salon?”

“Maybe, but if not, he saw them. Picked them out. He could have accessed the match lists easy enough, gotten data on them.”

“Doesn’t explain the Christmas fetish.”

“It’ll come out once we have him.” She squealed to a stop, fishtailing behind two cruisers already blocking the street. Her badge was in her hand as she jumped out. “You been up?” she shouted through the wind and sleet.

“Yes, sir. Subject doesn’t answer the door. Men are posted on it, and on the rear exit. Windows are dark. No movement spotted.”

“Feeney? The entry warrant come through yet?”

“Still waiting.”

“We’re going in. Hell with it.” She started up, shoving through the grilled doors.

“You muck the case you go in without a warrant,” he reminded her, grumping a bit when she pounded up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.

“I could find the door unsecured.” She sent one hot look over her shoulder as he rushed up behind her. “Couldn’t I?”

“Shit, Dallas. Give me five here. I’ll light a fire under the warrant.”

He was puffing a bit when they reached the third floor, and his rumpled face was bright pink. But he shoved in front of her and stood in front of the door to 35. “Just hold on, damn it. Let’s take him clean. You know the drill.”

She wanted to argue, wanted the sheer, physical satisfaction of kicking the door in. Because it was personal, she thought, certain she felt her own bones vibrating against tensed muscles.

She wanted her hands on him, wanted him to feel fear and helplessness and pain. Wanted it, she realized with a sick jolt, much too much.

“Okay.” With an effort, she pulled herself in. “When we go through the door, if we find him, you take him down, Feeney.”

“Kid, it’s your collar.”

“You take him down. I can’t swear it’ll be clean if I do.”

He studied her face, saw the strain, and nodded. “I’ll take him for you, Dallas.” He yanked out his communicator when it beeped. “Here’s our pass. We’re clean to move. You want high or low?”

Her lips curved, without humor. “You always wanted high in the old days.”

“Still do. Low hurts my knees.” They turned, a unit, drawing that hard breath together, then slamming the door. As hinges popped, she went low, crouching under Feeney’s arm, weapon out.

Guarding each other’s back, they did a full sweep of the room, dimly lit by the backwash of streetlights.

“Tidy as a church,” Feeney whispered. “Smells like a hospital.”

“It’s the disinfectant. I’m calling for lights. I’ll take the left.”

“Go.”

“Lights on,” she ordered then swung left. “Simon? This is the police. We’re armed and warranted. All exits are blocked.” She gestured toward a doorway, received Feeney’s go-ahead nod.

Leading with her laser, she moved in, shoving the door with her elbow so that it bounced against the wall. “He’s been here,” she told Feeney, scanning the disordered room. “Packed up what he could. He’s gone under.”

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Eve began once her team had regrouped in her home office. “He’s good at disguises. We can give his photo to the media, let them blast it every half hour, but he won’t look like his picture. We suspect he has enough cash, loose credits, or alternate ID to travel freely. We’ll put out the traces, but the odds of tagging him that way are slim.”

She rubbed the fatigue out of her eyes and pumped more caffeine into her system. “I want Mira’s take, but mine is that his being interrupted tonight, after the rape, before the payoff, will have him sexually frustrated, on edge, shaken. He’s an obsessively neat individual, but he left his workspace and his living space upended in his rush to get what he needed and get out.”

“Lieutenant.” Though she didn’t raise her hand for attention, Peabody felt as if she should. It was cop to cop and nothing else when Eve looked at her. “Do you think he’s still in the city?”

“The data we’ve been able to gather so far indicates he was born here, raised here. He’s lived here all of his life and it’s unlikely he would seek safety elsewhere. Captain Feeney and McNab will continue to dig for personal data, but for now we assume he’s still in the area.”

“He doesn’t own transpo,” Feeney put in. “Never took any vehicle pilot tests. He has to depend on public for his movements.”

“And public transpo, in, out, and around the city, is at peak usage right now.” This was from McNab, who barely glanced up from his work at the computer. “Only way he’s getting out of the city if he didn’t have prebooked reservations is to sprout wings and fly.”

“Agreed. Added to that, the other targets on his agenda are here. All previous victims have been in the city. Spooked or not, he’s going to be compelled to go for number five. The Christmas holidays are his trigger.”

Eve moved over to the wall screen. “Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 1-H,” she ordered. “We confiscated dozens of video discs with holiday themes from his apartment,” she continued as the first flashed on screen. “This is vintage stuff. Some twentieth-century film—”

“It’s a Wonderful Life,” Roarke said from the doorway. “Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed.” He only smiled pleasantly at Eve’s scowl. “Am I interrupting?”

“This is police business,” Eve told him. Didn’t the man ever sleep?

Ignoring her, Roarke came in and sat on the arm of Peabody’s chair. “You’ve put in a long night. Can I order some food for you?”

“Roarke—”

“Man, I could eat,” McNab said over Eve’s objections.

“There are several other like videos,” she continued, turning back to the screen as Roarke rose and strolled into the kitchen area. “He collected them, and print discs such as A Christmas Carol. In addition, we found a large supply of porn, in both print and video, that follow the theme. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 68-a. For example,” she said dryly when the screen behind her filled.

Roarke stepped back just in time to see a woman, wearing nothing but reindeer antlers and a strap-on tail, purr “Just call me Dancer,” as she took Santa’s waiting dick into her mouth.

“Now, that’s entertainment,” he commented.

“There are more than a dozen of these, another dozen underground snuff films, also vintage, that aren’t quite as cheery. But this one’s the award winner. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 72.”

She flicked a glance at Roarke, then stepped away.

On screen Marianna Hawley struggled against restraints. Her head whipped frantically right and left. She was weeping. Simon stepped into view, still wearing his red suit and beard.

He mugged for the camera, then grinned at the woman in bed. “Have you been naughty or nice, little girl?”

Be quiet, little girl. The smell of candy on his breath with liquor under it. Daddy’s going to give you a present.

The voice came into her mind, like a whisper in the ear. But Eve forced her hands steady and kept her eyes on the screen.

“Oh, I think you’ve been naughty, very, very naughty, but I’m going to give you something nice anyway.”

He turned back to the camera, doing a stylish striptease. He left the wig and beard in place as he began to stroke himself.

“It’s the first day of Christmas. My true love.”

He raped her. It was quick and brutal. While her screams echoed through the room, Eve picked up her coffee. However bitter and foul it felt going down her throat, she swallowed it.

He sodomized her. And she stopped screaming and simply whimpered like a child.

His eyes were glassy when he’d finished, his well-toned chest heaving. He took something out of his enhancement case, swallowed it.

“We believe that he’s ingesting an herb and chemical mix, partly Exotica, in order to maintain an erection.” Eve’s voice was flat, and her eyes stayed on the screen. It was, for her, a responsibility to the dead and a challenge to herself. She would look, she would see. And she would survive it.

Marianna didn’t struggle through the next rape. She’d gone away, Eve knew. Away where it couldn’t hurt any longer. Deep inside where she was all alone in the dark.

She didn’t struggle as Simon began to weep, began to curse her as a whore, wrapping the pretty garland around her neck and yanking it taut until it snapped and he was forced to use his hands.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” McNab’s choked whisper was full of horror and pity. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Now he decorates her,” Eve continued in the same empty voice. “Pretties her face, styles her hair, drapes the garland. You can see as he lifts her here, the tattoo is already in place. He lets the camera linger on her. He wants this. Wants to be able to run this over and over again when he’s alone. See her as he left her. As he made her.”

The screen went blank.

“He didn’t need a record of the cleanup. This disc ran thirty-three minutes and twelve seconds. That’s how long it took him to accomplish this section of his goal. There are other discs of the subsequent murders. All follow the same pattern. He’s a creature of habit and discipline. He’ll find a comfortable place in the city he knows to recuperate, to hide. He won’t go for a flop, but a good hotel, or another apartment.”

“Booking a room this time of year won’t be easy,” Feeney put in.

“No, but it’s where we start looking. Uptown to start. We’ll question his friends and coworkers at start of business tomorrow. We might get a handle on where he’d go. Peabody, you’ll meet me at the salon at nine hundred, in uniform.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The best we can do is get some sleep, for what’s left of the night.”

“Dallas, I can hang with this for another hour. If I could bunk right here, I could get an early roll on it in the morning.”

“All right, McNab. Let’s pack it in for now.”

“I’m for that.” Feeney rose. “I’ll give you a lift home, Peabody.”

“Don’t play with my toys, McNab,” Eve added as she walked out. “I get really cranky.”

“You need a sleep inducement tonight.” Roarke took her arm as they started toward the bedroom.

“Don’t start on me.”

“You don’t need dreams tonight. You need to turn it off for a few hours, if not for yourself, for the sake of that woman we watched being brutalized.”

“I can do my job.” She began to strip the minute she was inside, peeling off her clothes in a rush. She needed a shower, viciously hot water to scrub the stench off her skin.

She left her clothes heaped on the floor, strode directly into the bath, and ordered water at blistering.

He just waited her out. She would, he knew, need to fight it first. Even to fight him and his offer of comfort. That prickly, resistant shell was only one of the aspects of her that fascinated him.

And he knew, as if he’d been inside her head, inside her heart, what she had gone through viewing that disc.

So when she came out, bundled in a robe, her eyes too dark, her cheeks too pale, he simply opened his arms and took her in.

“Oh God, God!” She clung, her fingers digging into his back. “I could smell him on me. I could smell him.”

It tore him to pieces to see her break, to feel her shudders and the quake of her heart against his. “He can’t ever touch you again.”

“He touches me.” She buried her face in his shoulder, filled herself with the scent of him. “Every time he comes into my head he touches me. I can’t stop it from happening.”

“I can.” He picked her up, and sat on the bed to cradle her. “Don’t think any more tonight, Eve. Just hold onto me.”

“I can do my job.”

“I know.” But at what cost? he wondered and rocked her like a child.

“I don’t want drugs. Just you. You’re enough.”

“Then go to sleep. Let go.” He turned his head to kiss her hair. “And sleep.”

“Don’t go away.” She burrowed into him and sighed once, long and deep. “I need you. Too much.”

“Not too much. It can’t be too much.”

She’d put a memory into their box, he thought. Now he put a wish there. One night, or the few hours left in it, she would sleep in peace.

So he held her until she slipped away into dreamless slumber.

And was holding her still when she woke.

They were wrapped around each other, her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. Sometime during the night he’d undressed and slipped them both into bed.

She lay still a moment, studying his face. It seemed impossibly beautiful in the soft light. Strong lines, long thick lashes, that dreamy poet’s mouth. She had an itch to stroke his hair, the silky sweep of it, but her arms were pinned.

She kissed him instead, lightly, as much to thank him as to rouse him enough to allow her to wiggle free. But his hold merely tightened.

“Mmm. Another minute.”

Her brows lifted. His voice was thick, slurry, and his eyes stayed closed. “You’re tired.”

“God, yes.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re never tired.”

“I am now. Quiet down.”

It made her chuckle, that edge of sleepy crossness in his tone. “Stay in bed awhile.”

“Damn right.”

“I have to get up.” She pried an arm free and did stroke his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

“I would if you’d shut up.”

She laughed, then slithered free. “Roarke?”

“Oh Christ!” He rolled in defense and buried his face in the pillow. “What?”

“I love you.”

He turned his head, heavy eyes slitting open with a lazy gleam that had her juices flowing. That, she thought, was the magic of him. That he could make her yearn for sex after what she’d seen, what she’d experienced.

“Well then, come back here. I can probably manage to stay awake long enough.”

“Later.”

His response was a grunt as he pushed his face back into the pillow.

Deciding not to take it the wrong way, she dressed, ordered up coffee, strapped on her weapon. He hadn’t stirred a muscle when she left the room.

She decided to check in with McNab first and found him sprawled out flat in her sleep chair with Galahad draped over his head like fat earmuffs. Both of them snored.

At her approach, the cat slitted one eye open, gave her a bored look, then offered her an irritable meow.

“McNab.” When she got no response from him, Eve rolled her eyes and gave his shoulder a light punch. He only snorted and turned his head.

The slight shift had the cat drooping lower. Galahad retaliated by digging in with his claws. McNab snorted again and smirked in his sleep. “Watch the nails, honey.”

“Jesus.” Eve punched harder. “No sick sex dreams in my chair, pal.”

“Huh? Come on, baby.” His eyes opened, glazed and heavy, then focused on Eve’s face. “Uh, Dallas, what? Where?” He lifted a hand to the weight on his shoulder and closed it over Galahad’s head. “Who?”

“You forgot why, but don’t ask me. Pull it together.”

“Yeah, yeah. Man.” He turned his head again and found himself eyeball to eyeball with Galahad. “This your cat?”

“He lives here. You awake enough to give me an update?”

“Okay, sure.” Struggling to sit up, he ran his tongue around his teeth. “Coffee. I’m begging you.”

Because she shared the addiction, she was sympathetic enough to go into the kitchen and order him a double-sized mug, strong and black.

The cat was in his lap when she came back, kneading McNab’s thighs and watching him as if daring the man to protest. McNab took the mug in both hands and downed half the contents.

“Okay, wow. I dreamed I was off planet on some resort island and making it with this incredibly built mutant with fur instead of skin.” He eyed Galahad again and grinned. “Jesus.”

“I don’t want to know about your prurient fantasies. What have you got?”

“Right. I checked out all the high-end hotels in the city. No single man booked a room last night. I ran the midlevel ones, same results. I got personal data. Disc’s on your desk, marked.”

She went over to pick it up and slipped it into her bag. “Give me the highlights.”

“Our man’s forty-seven, born here in New York. Parents divorced when he was twelve. Mother was custodial parent.” He yawned until his jaw cracked. “Sorry. She never remarried. Worked as an actress, mostly nickel-and-dime productions. She’s got a history of mental illness. In and out of nut palaces—mostly depression. They didn’t do the trick because she offed herself last year. Guess when?”

“Christmas.”

“That’s a bull’s-eye. Simon, he got himself a good education, double majored. Theater and cosmetology. He’s got a degree in both. Did some gigs as makeup producer. Took over the salon two years ago. He never married, shared living digs with his mama.”

He paused to slurp down more coffee. “He isn’t hurting for credits, but his mother’s treatments took big bites out of his accounts. No criminal record. Nothing but standard exams and checkups on the physical end, and no mental work.”

“Copy the personal data to Mira, then see what you can dig up on the father. Stick with the hotel checks. He’s got to go somewhere.”

“Can I get some breakfast?”

“You know where the kitchen is. I’ll be in the field. Keep me updated.”

“Sure. Uh, Dallas, you and Peabody okay?”

Eve lifted her brows. “Why shouldn’t we be?”

“Just seemed like something was off with you.”

“Keep me updated,” she repeated, and left him drinking coffee, scratching the cat’s ears, and puzzling.

Eve decided that her aide had either slept on a board or put extra starch in her uniform. Peabody was stiff and brittle as burned toast.

But she was prompt. Exchanging nods rather than words, they walked into the salon together. Yvette was already behind her console, busily plugging in the day’s schedule.

“You’re getting to be a regular,” she said to Eve. “You ought to let me work in a manicure or something for you.”

“Got an empty treatment room?”

“I’ve got a couple, but no free consultants until two o’clock.”

“Take five, Yvette.”

“Excuse me?”

“Clock off. I need to talk to you. We’ll use one of those empty rooms.”

“I’m really busy.”

“Here or at Cop Central. Let’s go.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” With an irritated huff, Yvette pushed off her stool. “Let me set up the backup droid. We don’t like to use droids. They’re not as personal.”

She scooted around the corner and uncoded a tall cabinet. The droid inside was beautifully groomed and coiffed, outfitted in a smart pastel skinsuit that set off deep gold skin and fiery red hair. When Yvette initialized, the droid opened big, baby blue eyes, blinked thick, weighty lashes, and smiled.

“May I assist you?”

“Take over the reception counter.”

“I’m happy to be of service. You’re looking lovely today.”

“Right.” Obviously annoyed, Yvette turned away. “She’d say that if I had a face covered with warts. That’s the problem with droids. I hope we can make this fast,” she added, clicking her way toward the back. “Simon doesn’t like us to leave our posts except on scheduled breaks.”

“He’s not going to be a problem.” Eve stepped into the treatment room and wished it didn’t remind her of an autopsy suite. “When did you last talk to Simon?”

“Yesterday.” Since she was there, Yvette picked up a massage mitt, slipped it on, and engaged. It hummed low as she ran it over her neck and shoulders. “He had a breast plumper at four, finished up at six. If you need him, he’ll be here any minute. Fact is, he was supposed to open up. Day before Christmas we’re swamped with appointments.”

“I wouldn’t expect him today.”

Yvette blinked and the massage mitt stuttered as her hand jerked. “Is something wrong with Simon? Did he have an accident?”

“Something’s wrong with Simon, but no, he didn’t have an accident. He attacked Piper Hoffman last night.”

“Attacked? Simon?” Yvette bubbled out a laugh. “You’re out of orbit big time, Lieutenant.”

“He’s killed four people, raped and murdered four people, and nearly did the same to Piper last night. He’s gone under. Where would he go?”

“You’re wrong.” Yvette’s hand shook as she ripped off the mitt. “You have to be wrong. Simon’s gentle and sweet. He couldn’t hurt anyone.”

“How long have you known him?”

“I— A couple of years, ever since he took over the salon. You have to be wrong.” Yvette held up her hands, then pressed them to her cheeks. “Piper? You said Piper was attacked? How badly is she hurt? Where is she?”

“She’s in a coma, in the hospital. Simon was interrupted before he’d finished with her, and he ran. He’s been back to his apartment, but he’s not there now. Where would he go?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe this. You’re sure?”

Eve kept her eyes level and cool. “I’m sure.”

“But he adored Piper. He was her consultant, hers and Rudy’s. He did all their work. He called them the Angel Twins.”

“Who else is he close to? Who does he talk to about his personal life? His mother?”

“His mother? She died last year. He was devastated. She had an accident and she died.”

“He told you she had an accident?”

“Yes, she fainted or something, in the bathtub. Drowned. It was awful. They were really close.”

“He talked to you about her?”

“Yeah, we worked together, put in a lot of hours here. We’re friends.” Her eyes filled. “I can’t believe what you’re telling me.”

“You’d better believe it, for your own safety. Where would he go, Yvette? If he’s scared, if he can’t go home. If he needs somewhere to hide.”

“I don’t know. His life was here. The salon, especially after he lost his mother. I don’t think he has any other family. His father died when he was a kid. He didn’t call me. I swear he didn’t.”

“If he does, I want you to contact me immediately. Don’t play games with him. Don’t meet him alone. Don’t open the door if he comes to your place. I need to get into his locker, and interview the rest of the staff.”

“Okay. I’ll fix it. He hasn’t been acting weird or anything.” Yvette dashed a tear from her lashes as she rose. “He was all pumped up about Christmas. He’s a real softie, you know. And last year, losing his mother put a cloud over the holidays for him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s making up for it this time around.” Eve stepped into the staff room, and glanced briefly at a beefy consultant gulping down a mint-green nutri-drink.

“He’s changed the combo,” Yvette murmured. “He’s got it blocked. I can’t open this without his new code.”

“Who’s in charge around here with him gone?”

Yvette blew out a breath. “That would be me.”

Eve drew her weapon, tilted her head. “This’ll open it, but you have to give me assent for forced entry.”

Yvette simply closed her eyes. “Go ahead.”

“On record, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eve adjusted the setting, aimed, and fired at the lock. The gun gave a muffled blast, sparked. Then metal sheered away and crashed to the floor.

“Jesus, Yvette, what the hell?”

“It’s cop business, Stevie.” She waved a hand at the gaping consultant. “You got a nine thirty buffer. Go on and set up for it.”

“Simon’s going to be pissed,” he said with a shake of his head as he left the room.

Stepping to the side so Peabody could get the right angle on record, Eve tapped a finger on the pull. “Shit.” She winced and sucked her fingertip. “Too hot.”

“Try this.” Peabody handed her a neatly folded handkerchief from her pocket. Their eyes met briefly.

“Thanks.” Using the cloth, Eve covered the pull and opened the locker door. “Santa was in a hurry,” she murmured.

The red suit was balled up and shoved into the locker. High, shiny black boots stood on top of it. Reaching down, Eve pulled a can of Seal-It out of her bag, coated her hands. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

There were two cans of disinfectant, a half case of herbal soap, tubes of protective cream, an over-the-counter gadget that promised to destroy germs with high-frequency sound waves. She found another box of tattoo works along with templates for several complicated designs.

“This nails it.” Eve took out a thin sheet with stylized letters:

MY TRUE LOVE

“Bag everything, Peabody, and arrange for a pickup. I want it all in the lab within the hour. I’ll be in that treatment room doing the interviews.”

She didn’t get anything more from the staff. Simon had been loved and appreciated by his people. Eve heard words like compassionate, generous, sympathetic.

And she thought of the horror and pain in Marianna Hawley’s eyes.

The drive to the hospital to check on Piper was made in silence. Though the new vehicle’s climate control pumped out pleasant heat, the air seemed very chilly.

Fine, Eve thought. That was just fine. If Peabody wanted to walk around with a stick up her ass that was her problem. It wouldn’t affect the work.

“Bounce a call to McNab.” Eve stepped into the elevator, stared straight ahead. “See if he’s got any more on possible locations for Simon. Then see if Mira got the personal data.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You call me sir again in that snotty tone, I’m going to belt you.” With this Eve marched off the elevator and left Peabody scowling after her.

“Status on Piper,” Eve said and slapped her badge on the counter at the nurses’ station.

“Patient Piper is sedated.”

“What do you mean sedated? Did she come out of the coma?”

The nurse wore a colorful tunic crowded with spring flowers and a harried expression. “Patient Piper regained consciousness about twenty minutes ago.”

“Why wasn’t I contacted? Her chart was supposed to be flagged.”

“It was, Lieutenant. But Patient Piper regained consciousness at the top of her lungs. She was incoherent, hysterical and violent. We were forced to restrain and sedate at the attending’s recommendation and next of kin’s approval.”

“Where’s the next of kin now?”

“He’s in the room with her, where he’s been all night.”

“Page the attending. Get him up here.” Turning on her heel, Eve strode down the hall and into Piper’s room.

She looked like a fairy sleeping. Pale and blond and pretty. Delicate shadows were under her eyes and a faint flush of pink from the medication traced her cheekbones.

A short distance from the bed, monitors hummed. The room itself was decked out like the parlor of a classy hotel suite. Patients who had the means could afford to heal in class and comfort.

Eve’s first memory of medical treatment had been a horrid, narrow room lined with horrid, narrow beds where women and girls moaned in pain or misery. The walls were gray, the windows black, and the air thick with the stench of urine.

She’d been eight, broken and alone, without even the memory of her own name to comfort her.

But Piper wouldn’t wake to such discomfort. Her brother sat beside the bed, holding her hand, gently, as if it would shatter like thin glass at the wrong pressure.

There were already sweeps and flows of flowers, in baskets, in bowls, in tall, spearing vases. Music, something soothing with strings, played quietly.

“She woke up screaming.” He didn’t look over, but kept his bruised eyes on his sister’s face. “Screaming for me to help her. She made sounds that didn’t even sound human.”

He lifted that long, narrow hand and stroked it over his cheek. “But she didn’t recognize me; she beat at me, at the nurses. She didn’t know who I was, where she was. She thought she was still . . . She thought he was still with her.”

“Did she say anything, Rudy? Did she say his name?”

“She shrieked it.” His face seemed to have lost its texture as well as his color as he lifted his head. It was flat, waxy. “She said his name. ‘Oh please God,’ she said, ‘Simon, don’t. Don’t, don’t, don’t.’ Over and over and over again.”

Pity, for both of them, squeezed her heart. “Rudy, I have to talk to her.”

“She needs to sleep. She needs to forget.” He lifted his other hand and stroked Piper’s hair. “When she’s better, when she’s able, I’m going to take her away. Somewhere warm and sunny and full of flowers. She’ll heal there, away from all this. I know what you think of me, of us. I don’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think of you. She’s what matters.” She moved closer, so that they could face each other on either side of the bed. “Won’t she heal cleaner, Rudy, knowing the man who did this to her is locked away? I need to talk to her.”

“She can’t be made to talk about it. You can’t understand what she’ll feel, what it’s like for her.”

“I can understand. I know what she’s been through. I know exactly what she’s been through,” Eve said, pacing her words while Rudy studied her face. “I won’t hurt her. I want to put this man away, Rudy, before he does what he did to her, and worse, to someone else.”

“I have to be here,” he said after a long moment. “She’ll need me here—and the doctor. The doctor has to stay. If she’s too upset, I want him to sedate her again.”

“All right. But you have to let me do my job.”

He nodded, and shifted his eyes back to Piper’s face. “Will she . . . How long . . . If you know what it’s like for her, how long will it take her to forget?”

Oh Jesus. “She’ll never forget,” Eve said flatly. “But she’ll live with it.”

“This will bring her out gradually.” The doctor was young, with eyes that still held compassion and devotion to his art. He added the medication to the IV himself rather than ordering the pesky task to a nurse or physician’s assistant. “I’m going to keep her down a couple of levels so that she won’t be overly agitated.”

“I need her coherent,” Eve told him, and he flicked those soft brown eyes over her face.

“I know what you need, Lieutenant. Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree to deactivate sedation on a woman in Patient Piper’s condition. But I understand the necessity in this case. Now you understand, she needs to remain as calm as possible.”

He gave his attention to the monitors while keeping his fingers on Piper’s wrist. “She’s steady,” he said, then looked back at Eve. “Recovering, both physically and emotionally, from a trauma of this kind, is a difficult journey.”

“You ever been to the rape wards down in Alphabet City?”

“There aren’t any rape wards in that area.”

“There were up until about five years ago, until they restructured the license requirements and standard fees for street LCs. They were mostly street whores in the wards, mostly young ones, too. Boys and girls fresh off the farm who didn’t know how to handle a john pumped up on Zeus or Exotica. I worked that sector for six miserable months. I know what I’m doing here.”

The doctor nodded, lifted his patient’s eyelid. “She’s coming around. Rudy, let her see you first. Talk to her, reassure her. Keep your voice quiet and calm.”

“Piper.” Rudy put on a hideous excuse for a smile as he leaned over the bed. “Darling, it’s Rudy. You’re okay. You’re with me. You’re absolutely safe. You’re with me. Can you hear me?”

“Rudy?” She slurred the word, keeping her eyes closed but turning her face toward the sound of his voice. “Rudy, what happened? What happened? Where were you?”

“I’m right here now.” A tear trickled down his cheek. “I’ll be right here.”

“Simon, he’s hurting me. I can’t move.”

“He’s gone. You’re safe.”

“Piper.” Eve could read the panic under the sheen of medication in her eyes when she blinked them open. “Do you remember me?”

“The police. The lieutenant. You wanted me to say bad things about Rudy.”

“No, I just want you to tell me the truth. Rudy’s right here. He’s going to stay right here while you talk to me. Tell me what happened to you. Tell me about Simon.”

“Simon.” The lights on the monitors scrambled. “Where is he?”

“He’s not here. He can’t hurt you now.” Gently, Eve took the hand Piper waved as if to ward off a blow. “No one’s going to hurt you. I’m going to keep him very far away from you, but you have to help me. You have to tell me what he did.”

“He came to the door.” Her eyes closed, and Eve could see the rapid movement behind the delicate lids. “Happy to see him. I had his Christmas gift, and he had a big silver box. A present. I thought, Simon’s brought a present for me, and for Rudy. I said, Rudy’s not here. He knew—No, you’re all alone, alone with me. He smiled at me and he—he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Dizzy,” she murmured. “I was so dizzy, and I couldn’t see very well. Have to lie down, feel so strange. I hear him, hear him talking to me, but I don’t understand. I can’t move, can’t open my eyes. I can’t think.”

“Can you remember anything he said then? Anything at all?”

“I was beautiful. He knew how to make me more beautiful. Something cool on my leg, tickling my thigh, and he’s talking to me. He loves me, only me. True love, he wants me to be his true love. I wasn’t the one, but I could be. The others don’t matter. Only me. He keeps talking, but I can’t answer. All the other loves are dead because they weren’t true. Not pure, not innocent. No!” Abruptly she ripped her hand out of Eve’s and tried to roll aside.

“It’s all right. You’re safe. I know he hurt you, Piper. I know how much it hurt you, and you were so afraid. But you don’t have to be afraid now.” Firmly now, Eve took her hand. “Look at me, talk to me. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“He tied me up.” Tears streamed down her face now. “He tied me up on the bed. He took my clothes. I begged him not to. He was my friend. He dressed up. Horrible. There was a camera and he posed and smiled and told me I’d been a bad girl. His eyes, something was wrong with his eyes. I was screaming, but no one could hear me. Where’s Rudy?”

“I’m here.” He choked out the words, pressed his lips to her brow, her temple. “I’m here.”

“He did things to me. He raped me, and it hurt so much. He said I was a whore. Most women were whores, actresses who pretended to be different but were just whores. And most men just used them then left them. I was a whore and he could do whatever he wanted. And he did, he kept hurting me. Rudy, I kept calling for you to make him stop. Make him stop!”

“Rudy came,” Eve told her. “Rudy came and made him stop.”

“Rudy came?”

“Yes, he heard you and he came and he took care of you.”

“He stopped. Yes, he stopped.” She closed her eyes again. “There was shouting and noise and someone’s crying, very hard. Crying for his mother. I don’t remember any more.”

“Okay. You did fine.”

“You’re not going to let him come back?” Her fingers tightened on Eve’s. “You won’t let him find me?”

“No, I won’t let him come back.”

“He put stuff on me,” Piper remembered. “He sprayed something all over me.” She bit her lip. “Into me. His body, it’s been waxed. It’s hairless. He has a tattoo on his hip.”

That was new, Eve mused. He’d had no tattoo in the videos she’d screened. “Do you remember what it looked like?”

“It said, ‘My True Love.’ He showed it to me, wanted me to look at it. He said it was new, permanent, not a temp. Because he was tired of being temporary to everyone he loved. And I was crying, telling him I’d never hurt him. Then he cried, too. He said he knew, he was sorry. He didn’t know what else to do.”

“Can you remember anything else?”

“He said I would always love him, because he’d be my last. And that he’d always remember me, because I’d been his friend.” The glaze had cleared out of her eyes. Now they just seemed weary. “He was going to kill me. He wasn’t Simon anymore, Lieutenant. The man who did this to me, I didn’t know him. He became someone else in that room. And I think it frightened him almost as much as it frightened me.”

“You don’t have to be frightened now. I promise you.” Stepping back, Eve looked over at Rudy. “Let’s step outside a minute and let the doctor examine your sister.”

“I’ll be right back.” He pressed his lips to Piper’s knuckles. “I’m just outside the door. I don’t want to leave her,” he said to Eve as soon as the door closed behind them.

“She’s going to need to talk to someone.”

“She’s talked enough. She told you everything, for God’s sake—”

“She’ll need counseling,” Eve interrupted. “She’ll need treatment. Taking her away isn’t going to help her cope. I gave her a card a couple of days ago, one of mine with a name and number on the back. Contact Dr. Mira, Rudy. Let her help your sister.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again and seemed to make an effort to level himself. “You were very kind to her in there, Lieutenant. Very gentle. And hearing her describe what happened to her, I understand why you were neither kind nor gentle with me when you believed I was responsible for . . . what was done to the others. I’m grateful to you.”

“You can be grateful when I’ve taken him down.” She rocked back on her heels. “You know him pretty well, right?”

“I thought I did.”

“Where would he go? Is there a place, a person?”

“I would have said he’d come to me or Piper. We spent a great deal of time in each other’s company, professionally and personally.” He closed his eyes. “Which explains how he was able to access the match lists. He wouldn’t have been questioned by anyone in the organization. If I had told you that, if I had opened those doors to you freely rather than trying to protect myself and my business, I might have prevented this.”

“Open them now. Tell me about him, his mother.”

“She self-terminated. I don’t know if anyone’s aware of that but me.” Absently, Rudy pinched the bridge of his nose. “He broke down one night and told me. She was a troubled woman, mentally unstable. He blamed his father. There was a divorce when Simon was a child and his mother never got over it. She was certain that her husband would come back one day.”

“Her one true love?”

“Oh God.” Now he covered his face. “Yes, yes, I suppose. She was an actress, not a particularly successful one, but Simon thought she was marvelous, stunning. He worshipped her. But he was often distressed by her behavior. She would slide into a depression and there were men. She used men to bolster her moods. He was the most tolerant of men, but in this area, he was very close-minded. She was his mother and had no right to give herself sexually. He only spoke about it to me once, shortly after her death when he was lost in grief. She’d hanged herself. He found her Christmas morning.”

“It’s a perfect fit.” Peabody sat rigidly in the passenger seat as Eve fought through traffic. “He has a mother complex, and he’s replacing her, punishing her, loving her, every time he picks out a victim. The two males either represent his father, or his own dominant sexual preferences.”

“Thanks for the bulletin,” Eve said dryly, then rapped the wheel with the heel of her hand as she was jammed in once again on all sides. “This fucking Christmas shit! No wonder hospitals and mental clinics do booming business in December.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know what the hell day it is, goddamn it.” She jammed the controls into straight vertical, veered sharply to the left, and zipped across the roofs of stopped cars.

“Uh, the maxibus.”

“I got eyes.” Eve skimmed past the bus with a stingy inch to spare.

“That Rapid Cab’s going to—” Peabody braced and shut her eyes as the cab, obviously in the same mood as Eve, shot up out of the line of traffic.

Eve swore, swerved, skinned bumpers, and hit the siren full blast. “Set it down, you stupid son of a bitch.” She tipped, squeezed over, and dumped her car so that it teetered half on the street, half on the sidewalk in front of a mass of irritated pedestrians.

She slammed out and stalked toward the cab. The driver slammed out and stalked toward her. Peabody could have told him if he wanted to go nose-to-nose with a cop, he’d picked the wrong one.

But, she thought, as she climbed out and elbowed through the crowd, maybe kicking a cabbie’s ass would put Eve in a better mood.

“I signaled. I gotta right to a vertical lift same as you. You didn’t have your lights or siren going, did ya? The city’s gonna pay for that bumper, right? You cops don’t own the road. I ain’t taking the credit dip on the damage here, sister.”

“Sister?”

Peabody actually shuddered at the jagged ice in Eve’s tone. Behind Eve’s back she shook her head with pity for the driver and took out her violation coder.

“Let me tell you something, brother. First thing you do is step back out of my face before I write you up for assault on an officer.”

“Hey, I never laid hands on—”

“I said step back. Let’s see how fast you can assume the position.”

“Jesus, it’s only a skinned bumper.”

“You want resisting?”

“No.” Muttering under his breath, he turned, splayed his legs and laid his hands on the roof of his cab. “Man, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s cut each other a break here. Whaddaya say?”

“I’d say you’d better learn a little respect for cops.”

“Lady, my cousin’s a cop with the four-one.”

Teeth set, Eve whipped out her badge and stuck it in his face. “See that. It says Lieutenant, not sister, not lady. You could ask your cousin the cop with the four-one.”

“Brinkleman,” he muttered. “Sergeant Brinkleman.”

“You tell Sergeant Brinkleman with the four-one to contact Dallas, Homicide, Cop Central, and tell her why his cousin’s an asshole. If he explains this factor to my satisfaction, I won’t pull your license and report the fact that you cut an official vehicle off in air traffic. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. Lieutenant.”

“Now, get the hell out of here.”

Chastised, the driver slunk back into his vehicle, hunched down, and waited patiently for a break in traffic. Because her temper was still on the boil, Eve spun on her heel and jabbed a finger at Peabody. “And you, you want to ride with me any more today, you yank the stick out of your butt.”

“Respectfully, Lieutenant, I was unaware of any foreign object in that region.”

“Your attempt at humor isn’t appreciated at this time, Officer Peabody. If you’re dissatisfied in your position as my aide, you can request reassignment.”

Peabody’s heart clogged in her throat. “I don’t want reassignment. Sir, I’m not dissatisfied in my position.”

Barely muffling a scream, Eve pivoted away and plowed through the pedestrian traffic, earned a few bruises and rude comments, then plowed back. “You keep it up. You keep using that academy tone on me, we’re going a few rounds.”

“You just threatened to ditch me.”

“I did not. I offered you the option of assignment elsewhere.”

Peabody’s voice wavered, so she clamped down. “I felt, and still feel, that you overstepped the boundaries last night in reference to my relationship with Charles Monroe.”

“Yeah, you made that clear.”

“It was inappropriate for my superior officer to criticize my choice of escort. It was a personal matter, and—”

“Goddamn right it was personal.” Eve’s eyes went dark, but not, Peabody noted with shock, in anger. There was hurt. “I wasn’t speaking as your superior officer last night. I never considered myself addressing my aide. I thought I was talking to a friend.”

Shame washed up from Peabody’s toes to the top of her head. “Dallas—”

“A friend,” she barreled on, “who was sloppy-eyed over an LC. An LC who was a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”

“But Charles—”

“Low on the list,” Eve snapped, “but still on it, as he’d been matched with one victim and with one of the attempts.”

“You never believed Charles was the killer.”

“No, I believed it was Rudy, and I was wrong. I could have been wrong about Charles Monroe, too.” And the possibility clawed at her. “Take the vehicle back to Central. Update Captain Feeney and Commander Whitney on the latest data regarding our current case. Advise them that I remain in the field.”

“But—”

“Take the fucking vehicle into Central,” Eve snapped. “That’s an order from a superior officer to her aide.” She turned and pushed her way through the crowd. This time she didn’t come back.

“Oh shit.” Peabody slumped down on the hood of the car, ignoring the bad-tempered horns, the blast of insidious holiday music pouring out of the storefront on the other side of the packed sidewalk. “Peabody, you’re an idiot.”

She sniffed, reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, then remembered Eve hadn’t given it back. Swiping the back of her hand under nose, she climbed into the car and prepared to follow orders.

By the time Eve reached the corner at Forty-first, she’d blown off enough steam to realize she wasn’t going to walk another thirty blocks to the lab to pick on Dickie.

One glance at the jammed humanity crammed onto the overhead people glides convinced her she wasn’t about to go that route, either.

A new wave of pedestrians caught her full in the back and swept her another half block before she could manage to dig in and shove her way clear. She choked on the steam of a glide-cart doing a brisk business on grilled soy dogs, blinked the resulting tears out of her eyes, and dug for her badge.

She clawed her way out to the curb, risked life and limb by stepping directly into the path of an oncoming cab, then slapped her badge on the windshield.

Climbing in, she tried to rub the stress of the last few minutes off her face, then dropped her hands into her lap and met the driver’s miserable eyes in the mirror.

Recognizing Detective Brinkleman from the four-one’s cousin, she let out one short bark of laughter. “It just figures, doesn’t it?”

“It’s been a crap day altogether,” he muttered.

“I hate Christmas.”

“I ain’t too fond of it myself right at the moment.”

“Get me down to Eighteenth. I’ll take it from there.”

“You could walk quicker.”

She took another look at the teeming sidewalk. “Go over and punch it. You get tagged, I’ll handle it with Traffic.”

“You’re the boss, Lieutenant.”

He took off like a lightning bolt, and Eve closed her eyes, admitting that the headache scrambling in her temples wasn’t going to vacate the premises without a chemical shove.

“You going to get grief over the bumper?” she asked him.

“The way these units get banged around? Nah.” He angled over the corner at Eighteenth. “I shouldn’t oughta’ve disrespected you, Lieutenant. This holiday traffic, it can turn you mean.”

“Yeah.” She dug out credits, slipped them through his pay slot. “We’ll call it even.”

“Appreciate it. Anyway, Merry freaking Christmas.”

Her laugh was a little looser as she got out. “Same to you.”

Pedestrian traffic was light in the sector that held crime labs and morgues and holding stations. Not a hell of a lot to buy, she mused as she jogged the half block over.

She turned into the ugly steel building that had been some idiot architect’s vision of high-tech economy, crossed the soulless lobby, and went through the security arch.

The droid on duty nodded to her as she slapped her palm on the plate, recited her name, rank, code, and destination. Cleared, she took the glide down, and frowned when she saw the hallways and offices empty. Middle of the afternoon, middle of the week, she thought. Where the hell was everybody?

She cleared herself into the lab. And found a hell of a party going on.

Music blasted over wild laughter. Someone shoved a cup with a suspicious green fluid swimming inside it into her hand. A woman wearing nothing but a lab coat and microgoggles danced by. Eve managed to snag the sleeve of the coat and spin her back.

“Where’s Dickie?”

“Oh, around and about. I gotta get me a refill.”

“Here.” Eve shoved the cup into her hand and worked her way through bodies and equipment. She spotted Dickie sitting on top of a sample table with his hand well up a drunk technician’s skirt.

At least Eve assumed the tech was drunk. How else could she let those spidery fingers between her legs?

“Hey, Dallas, join the party. Not as classy as your little get-together, but we try.”

“Where the hell are my reports? Where are my results? What the fuck’s going on around here?”

“Hey, it’s Christmas Eve. Lighten up.”

Her hand snapped out, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and yanked him off the table. “I’ve got four bodies and a woman in the hospital. Don’t you fucking tell me to lighten up, you little cross-eyed son of a bitch. I want my test results.”

“Lab closes two o’clock Christmas Eve.” He tried to shove her hand away, but didn’t budge it. “That’s official. It’s after three, hotshot.”

“For Christ’s sake, he’s out there. Did you see what he did to those people? Do you want me to show you the goddamn videos he took while he was doing it? You want to wake up tomorrow morning and find out he did it again because you couldn’t do the job? Can you swallow your Christmas goose over that?”

“Damn it, Dallas. I got next to nothing new anyway. Let go of me.” With surprising dignity, he smoothed down his shirt when she released him. “We’ll take a look in the side lab. No use spoiling everybody’s good time.”

He snaked through the crowd and unlocked the door of a side room. “Jesus, Feinstein, you can’t go banging her in here. Take her into storage like everybody else.”

Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes as a busily copulating couple unlinked, and sputtered as they grabbed discarded clothes. Was everybody insane this time of year? Eve wondered as they darted by giggling like loons.

“We mixed a hell of a brew,” Dickie explained. “All legal stuff, but it’s a punch with real punch.” He dropped down at the computer station and called up the file.

“We got his prints this time, but you already know that. No question on the ID. Same disinfectant traces on scene. The enhancements left behind match those used on the prior victims. The suit and shit you had sent down is consistent with the fibers already identified. You got your guy, Dallas. This goes to court, he’s cooked.”

“What about the sweep? I need something to find him, Dickie.”

“Sweep of scene didn’t turn up anything you wouldn’t expect. The one of his digs? We didn’t get much. This guy’s a clean fanatic. Everything’s been wiped and scrubbed and sucked. But there were fibers again—match the suit, a couple of stray hairs that are consistent with those from the last murder and the beard he left on scene last night. You get him, bring him down, I got plenty to help you lock the cage. That’s all I can give you.”

“Okay. I need you to shoot this to my unit at Central. Copy Feeney.”

Since they both knew he should have already done so, Dickie just jerked a shoulder.

“Sorry I took you away from the fun and games.”

“City’s going to close down in an hour or two anyway, Dallas. People need their holiday. They’re entitled.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a woman spending her Christmas in a hospital bed. She’s entitled, too.”

She went outside to let the cold air clear her head, wished she’d thought to ask Dickie for something potent enough to block the thudding behind her eyes. The light was already going, she realized. These were the long nights, the black month of December where the daylight barely bounced to earth before it bounced away again.

She pulled out her porta-’link and called home. “You’re working,” she said when Roarke picked up his private line and she saw the laser fax behind him spewing out paper.

“Just a bit longer.”

“I’ve got a couple of more things to do. I don’t think I’ll be home for a couple of hours anyway.”

He could see the headache in her eyes. “Where are you heading?”

“I want to do a follow-up on Simon’s apartment. I never did a search-through personally. Maybe the team missed something. I need to look, Roarke.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I sent Peabody off with my vehicle. The apartment’s closer to home. Can you send a car or something to that location?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll call back when I’m done there, let you know when I’ll make it home.”

“Do what you need to do, but take a blocker for that headache, Eve.”

She smiled a little. “I don’t have one. Let’s drink lots of wine after I get home, okay? And make love like animals.”

“Well, I had planned on a quiet evening of trilevel chess, but if that’s what you really want to do . . .”

It felt awfully good, Eve thought as she broke transmission, to really laugh.

So it shouldn’t have surprised her to find not only the car but Roarke there when she got to Simon’s building. “You could’ve sent it with a droid.”

“Did you think I would?”

“No.” She pushed a hand at her hair. “And I don’t think you’re going to agree to wait in the car until I’m done in there either.”

“See how well we know each other.” He reached in the pocket of his gorgeous topcoat, took out a small enameled box, and removed a tiny blue pill. “Open up.”

When she frowned and firmed her lips into an uncooperative line, he only lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a simple blocker, Eve. You’ll think more clearly without the headache.”

“No funny stuff?”

“None. Open.” He took her chin when she opened her mouth, then used his hand to close it again after he’d dropped the pill on her tongue. “Swallow it, there’s a good girl.”

“Bite me.”

“Darling, I’ve thought of nothing else all day. I brought your backup field kit.”

“Well, one of us is thinking clearly. Thanks,” she said when he got it out of the car. “I’ve got him cold,” she added as they started into the building. “Physical evidence, eyewitness, motivation, opportunity, the works.”

“You can add the fact that the enhancement case he left behind in Piper Hoffman’s apartment is a one of a kind. He ordered it custom-made.” Roarke ran a hand over the back of Eve’s neck, rubbing lightly to help the blocker along. “My company offers that option to licensed cosmeticians.”

“Great. Now all I have to do is find him.”

“He hasn’t checked into a hotel.” Roarke smiled at her. “McNab’s been very busy. No hotel, and no private lodging—at least that he could access on a day where no one wants to work.”

“Tell me about it. I walked into an orgy at the lab.”

“And we weren’t invited. That’s insulting.”

“I have a feeling an invite might have included the rare treat of seeing Dickhead naked.” She took out her master and bypassed the police seal and block on the door of 35. “That’s something I really don’t want for Christmas. You gotta seal up if you’re coming in.”

Roarke glanced at the can with a hefty sigh. “Can’t the department use something with a more pleasant odor?” But he coated his hands, his shoes, then waited for Eve to do the same.

“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve entering subject Simon’s personal residence, December twenty-four, sixteen twelve. Investigating officer accompanied by Roarke, civilian, in capacity of temporary aide.”

She entered, ordered lights, then simply stood and studied the room. It wasn’t quite so neat now. The CS team had done its work and left a fine sheen on surfaces while checking for prints and trace evidence. The sweepers had shoved furniture out of place, upended cushions, removed art from the walls. The ’link had been disconnected and taken in.

“Since you’re here,” she said to Roarke, “poke around. Anything that strikes you, call me. I’m going to do the bedroom.”

She’d barely started on the closet when Roarke came in, holding a disc between his thumb and forefinger. “This struck me, Lieutenant.”

“Where the hell did you find that? They should have swept all the discs into evidence.”

“Holiday help, what can you do? It was sealed inside a hologram frame—I assume the woman in the holo was his mother. It seemed the sentimental choice of hiding places.”

“I’ve got nothing to run it on. They took all the electronics. I’ll need to go in and . . .”

Her voice trailed off as Roarke took a slim black case out of his pocket, swiveled the lid, and opened it to reveal a small screen. “New toy,” he said as she frowned at it. “We weren’t able to get all the bugs out for the Christmas market. It’ll be ready for the President’s Day sales.”

“Is it safe? I can’t have that disc damaged.”

“I reworked this unit personally. It’s a little jewel.” He slipped the disc into a slot, lifted a brow again. “Shall I?”

“Yeah, let’s see what we’ve got.”

It was a rambling and rather pitiful video journal. A year in a man’s life when that life shatters into pieces and begins to fall away from the core.

Eve supposed Mira would have called it a cry for help.

He referred to his mother a dozen times or more. His true love, whom he canonized in one entry and vilified in the next.

She was a saint. She was a whore.

The one thing Eve was certain of at the end was that she had been a burden, one that Simon had never shirked, and never understood.

Every Christmas she had reboxed and rewrapped the gold cuff bracelet she had purchased for her husband, engraved with the words “My True Love,” and placed it under the tree for the man who had left her and her young son. And every Christmas she had told her son that his father would be there on Christmas morning.

For a long time, he believed her.

For a longer time, he allowed her to believe.

Then on Christmas Eve the year before, sick of it, revolted by the men she let use her, he’d smashed the box and destroyed her illusion.

And she hanged herself with the pretty garland her son had strung around the tree.

“Not a cheerful seasonal tale,” Roarke murmured. “Poor bastard.”

“A lousy childhood’s not an excuse to rape and murder.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s a root. We grow our own way, Eve, one choice leading to another.”

“And the choices we make we’re responsible for.” She dug out an evidence bag and held it open. After a moment, Roarke ejected the disc and dropped it inside.

Taking out her communicator, Eve called McNab.

“No luck on his hidey-hole, Dallas. I traced the father. He relocated to Nexus Station nearly thirty years ago. Got a second wife, two kids, grandchildren. I’ve got data if you want to contact.”

“What’s the point?” she murmured. “I’ve got a video diary from Simon’s place. The crime scene techs and the sweepers missed it. I’ll transmit to EDD. Go in and file it, will you, McNab? Then you’re off duty. Relay that same status to Peabody. Both of you remain on call as long as subject is at large.”

“That’s affirmative. Hey, he’s got to come out sometime, Dallas. Then we’ll have him.”

“Right. Go hang your stocking, McNab. Let’s hope we all get what we want for Christmas. Dallas out.”

Roarke watched her pocket the communicator. “You’re too hard on yourself, Eve.”

“He’ll have to move tonight. He’ll need to move. And he’s the only one who knows where. And who.” She turned back to the closet. “He’s got his clothes organized—color, fabric. Even more obsessive about it than you.”

“I see nothing obsessive with organizing your wardrobe.”

“Yeah, especially if you own two hundred black silk shirts. Wouldn’t want to pull out the wrong one and make a fashion faux pas.”

“I take that to mean you didn’t buy me a black silk shirt for Christmas.”

She glanced over her shoulder, grimaced. “I kind of messed up on the shopping. I didn’t understand the deal until Feeney pointed out you’re supposed to buy in bulk for a spouse. I’ve just got this one thing.”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Do I get a hint?”

“No, you’re too good at puzzles.” She looked back in the closet. “So puzzle this. You’ve got shirts and trousers here, white to cream to whatever this color is.”

“I’d say taupe.”

“Fine. Then it goes into blues, greens. All of them hung in order. Now there’s a gap, then we pick up browns, grays to black. What color do you suppose is missing?”

“Best guess is red.”

“Right. No other red in here. Maybe he only wore red for special occasions. He had a backup suit, and he took it with him. Something else the sweepers didn’t come up with. The rest of the tokens. Six geese whatever and so on. He’s got them, too. He’ll be ready for the show. But where has he stashed it all? Where’s he keeping it, and himself?”

She circled the room. “There’s no coming back here for him. He knows that. He risked coming back because he’s got to finish, and he can’t finish without his tools, his costume, his props. But he’s too smart, he’s too organized, too fucking anal not to have had a place to go.”

“His life was here, with his mother and the memories,” Roarke pointed out. “And it was at his work.”

She closed her eyes as it struck. “God, he went back to the building. He’s in that building.”

“Then let’s find him.”

Street traffic was vicious, the road skinned with thin icy patches, but the pedestrian jam had whittled down to a trickle. People rushed over the sidewalk, hurrying home to family, to friends. The few who were desperate for the eleventh-hour gift haunted the handful of shops and stores still open.

Streetlights blinked on and offered cold pools of light. Eve watched an animated billboard Santa fly in his sleigh and wish Merry Christmas to all.

And it began to rain ice.

Perfect.

When Roarke pulled to the curb, she got out quickly, slipped out her master code, then hesitated. After a brief internal debate, she bent over and unstrapped a weapon from her ankle holster. “Take my clutch piece. Just in case.”

They stepped out of the cold and into the glow of security lights.

“There were people in and out of the salon, the shops, the health clubs all day. He’d need privacy. There’s probably some empty offices, and we can run a check to save time, but my hunch is he’d use Piper’s apartment. He’d know she’s in the hospital and he’d know Rudy wouldn’t leave her, not even to come back here. It would’ve been safe and quiet. No reason for the cops to go back in after the sweep was done.”

She jabbed the control for the elevator, swore. “Shut down.”

“Would you like me to activate them for you, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He slipped the weapon away and took out a small tool kit. “Just take a moment.” He removed the control plate, flicked a few keys on the mother board with his quick, clever fingers. There was a quiet hum, then the light over the glass doors blinked on.

“Slick work—for a businessman.”

“Thank you.” He gestured, then followed her into the car. “Hoffman apartment.”

I’m sorry. That floor is only accessible with a key code or clearance.

Eve bared her teeth, and started to reach for her master again, but Roarke already had the controls unplated. “Just as quick this way,” he said, and neatly overrode the block.

The elevator rose, smooth and fast and quiet. As it began to slow, Eve shifted, putting her body between Roarke’s and the door.

He narrowed his eyes at her back, waited. When the doors slid open, he bumped her aside, pivoted out, and swept the foyer with his weapon.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” She hissed it at him, leaping out to cover his back.

“Don’t you ever use yourself as a shield for me. I’d say we’re clear here. Ready for the door?”

She was still vibrating with outrage. Something else to deal with later, she decided. “I go low,” she murmured, bypassing the locks. “That’s the way I like it.”

“Fine. On three then. One, two.” They hit the door, smooth as a training program.

Inside the lights blazed, and the recording system had been switched on to play bouncy Christmas tunes. Though the privacy screens had been pulled tight over the windows, the Christmas tree glowed in front of the glass.

She pointed toward the left. On the route to the bedroom she noticed small things. The smears and smudges the sweep would have left had been polished away. The air smelled of flowers and disinfectant.

There was a faint haze of steam over the spa. The water was still hot.

The bedroom was tidied, the bed made, the spills mopped up.

Eve tugged up the spread, swore under her breath. “He put on fresh sheets. The bastard slept in the bed where he raped her.” With fury edging along her stomach, she yanked open the closet. There among the flowing styles Rudy and Piper preferred, several shirts and slacks were neatly hung.

“Making himself right at home.” She crouched down and opened the trim black suitcase lying on the closet floor. “The rest of his props.” Heart thudding, she nudged through the jewelry, muttering the numbers and lyrics. “All the way to twelve—this hair clip with a dozen guys drumming. They’re all here except number five. He’s got that with him.” She rose. “He took himself a nice relaxing bath, dressed in his suit, packed up his tools, and went out. And he’s planning on coming back.”

“So, we wait.”

She wanted to agree. More than she could stand to admit she wanted to be the one to take him down, to look in his face when she did. To know she’d beaten him, and that part of herself she faced in nightmares.

“I’m calling it in. We’ll have a few slobs who’d’ve drawn duty tonight. I’ll need some men on the building, some inside. It’ll take an hour or so to set it up. Then we’ll go home.”

“You don’t want to turn this over to someone else, Eve.”

“No, I don’t. Maybe that’s why I need to. And . . .” She turned back to him, thinking of Mira’s words. “I’m entitled to the life I’ve started to carve out for myself. With you.”

“Then make the calls.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “And let’s go home.”

Peabody filed the last of her paperwork, let out a long, self-pitying sigh, then caught sight of McNab in the doorway. “What?”

“Just passing by. I told you Dallas said you’re off duty.”

“I’m off when my reports are finished and filed.”

He smiled blandly as her machine reported filing complete. “Then I guess you’re off. Hot date with Mr. Slick?”

“You’re really ignorant, McNab.” Peabody pushed away from the desk. “You don’t spend Christmas Eve with a guy you’ve only dated once.” Besides, she thought, Charles had already been booked for the evening.

“Your family’s not around here, are they?”

“No.” Stalling, willing him to leave, she fussed around the desk.

“Couldn’t get home for Christmas?”

“Not this year.”

“Me either. This case has eaten away at my social life. I got no plans, either.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “What do you say, Peabody, want to call a truce, like a Christmas moratorium?”

“I’m not at war with you.” She turned to get her uniform coat from a hook.

“You look a little down.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Well, if you’re not going to spend Christmas Eve with Mr. Slick, why don’t you spend it with a fellow cop? It’s a bad night to be alone. I’ll buy you a drink, some dinner.”

She kept her head lowered as she buttoned her coat. Christmas Eve alone, or a couple of hours with McNab. Neither were very appealing, but she decided alone was worse. “I don’t like you well enough for you to buy me dinner.” She looked up, shrugged. “We split the check.”

“Deal.”

She didn’t expect to enjoy herself, but after a couple of St. Nick Specials, she decided she wasn’t miserable. At least shoptalk was a way to kill a few hours.

She picked at the chicken nibbles she knew were going to go straight to her ass. Her diet could just go to hell. “How can you eat like that?” she asked McNab, watching with hate and envy as he plowed through a double-crust pizza with the works. “Why aren’t you pig fat?”

“Metabolism,” he said with his mouth full. “Mine’s always on overdrive. Want some?”

She knew better. Fighting off the chunkies was a constant personal battle. But she took half a slice and reveled in it.

“You and Dallas straighten things out?”

Peabody swallowed hard and glared. “She talk to you about it?”

“Hey, I’m a detective. I notice shit.”

The two drinks had loosened her tongue just enough. “She’s really pissed at me.”

“You screw up?”

“I guess. So did she,” Peabody said, brow furrowing. “But I screwed up bigger. I don’t know if I can make it right again.”

“You got somebody who’d go to the wall for you and you screw it up, you fix it. In my family we yell, then we brood, then we apologize.”

“This isn’t family.”

He laughed. “Hell it isn’t.” And he smiled at her. “You going to eat all those nibbles?”

She felt something loosen around her heart. The man might be a pain in the ass, she thought, but when he was right, he was right. “I’ll trade you six nibbles for another slice of pizza.”

Eve made an effort to put the surveillance operation out of her mind. She had good, experienced officers in place, electronic scans set up in a four-block radius. The minute Simon entered the perimeter, he’d be tagged.

She couldn’t wonder, couldn’t question, couldn’t think of where he was, what he was doing. If someone else would die. It was out of her control.

Before the night was out, they’d have him. Her case was solid, and he’d go into a cage. Never come out. It had to be enough.

“You said something about wine.”

“Yeah, I did.” It was easier to smile than she’d expected. The simplest of matters to take the glass Roarke handed her.

“And making love like animals.”

“I recall suggesting that.”

It was simpler yet to put the wine aside and jump him.

Peabody stayed out later than she’d intended, enjoyed herself more than she’d imagined. Of course, she thought, as she clomped up the stairs to her apartment, that was probably the result of the liquor and not the company.

Though, she could admit, McNab hadn’t been as much of an asshole as usual.

Now that she was pleasantly oiled, she thought she’d like to bundle into her ratty robe, turn on her tree, and curl up in bed to watch some sappy Christmas special on screen. At midnight, she’d call her parents and they’d all get sloppy and sentimental.

It had turned out to be a halfway decent Christmas Eve after all.

She turned at the top of the stairs and, humming a bit, walked toward her door.

Santa Claus stepped around the corner with his big silver box in hand, and beamed at her out of mad eyes. “Hello, little girl! You’re out late. I was afraid I’d miss giving you your Christmas present.”

Oh, Peabody thought. Oh shit. She had a split second to make up her mind. Run or stand. Her stunner was strapped inside her coat, and her coat was buttoned. But the communicator was in the pocket, within reach.

She opted to stand. Straining for a smile, she slid her hand into her pocket, engaged the unit. “Wow, Santa Claus. I never expected to run into you right here in front of my apartment door. Bearing gifts, too. I don’t even have a chimney.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

Eve groaned, rolled over, and stretched. They’d never made it to the bed, but had torn into each other on the floor. She felt bruised, used, and fabulous.

“That was pretty good for starters.”

Beside her Roarke chuckled and slid a fingertip down her warm, damp breast. “I was just thinking the same thing. But I want my Christmas present.”

“Wasn’t that it?” But she laughed, sat up, and rubbed her hands over her hair. “But next year—”

She broke off as she heard Peabody’s voice coming out of a pile of discarded clothes.

Wow. Santa Claus. I never expected to run into you right in front of my apartment door.

“Oh my God. Oh God.” She was already up, ripping at the clothes, dragging on trousers. “Call it in, call it in. Officer needs assistance. Oh Jesus, Roarke.”

He was pulling on his pants one-handed and snatching his porta-’link with the other. “Let’s move. Go. We’ll call on the run.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Simon told her. “With something very special.”

Stall, stall, stall. “Do I get a hint?”

“Something someone who loves you chose just for you.” He started toward her, and she kept the smile in place as she frantically flipped open the buttons of her coat.

“Yeah? Who loves me?”

“Santa loves you, Delia. Pretty Delia.”

She saw his hand come up, caught a glimpse of the pressure syringe palmed in it. Pivoting, she brought up her elbow to block, fighting to get past the stiff wool to her weapon.

“Naughty!” His breath wheezed out as he slapped her into the wall. She countered with a backhand punch, but it bounced off the box. And now her weapon hand was trapped between her body and the wall.

“Get off me, you son of a bitch.” She swiveled, and kicked back to hook her foot around his ankle, cursing herself for indulging in that last drink. She felt the quick sting of the syringe against her neck even as he went down behind her.

“Damn, oh damn,” she managed, as she stumbled two steps away, then just slid bonelessly down the wall.

“Look what you’ve done. Just look.” He scolded her as he opened her bag, searched through for her key card. “You might have broken something. I’m going to be very angry if you’ve broken any of my things. Now, you be a good girl and let’s go inside.”

He hauled her up first, steering her to the door, where he disengaged the locks, then simply let her drop.

She felt the jolt, but it was distant, as if her body were padded with foam. Her mind was screaming for her to move, the message so loud she imagined herself springing up, but she couldn’t feel her legs.

Dimly, she heard him come in and close the door. “Now, let’s get you into bed. We have a great deal to do. It’s nearly Christmas, you know. There’s my love,” he murmured and carried her into the bedroom as if she were a doll.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about skeleton crews and available units,” Eve shouted into the ’link. “Officer Peabody is down! She’s down, goddamn you.”

Profanity is unacceptable on this channel, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. This offense will be on record. Units are being dispatched. ETA twelve minutes.

“She doesn’t have twelve minutes. If she’s injured, you asshole, I’m personally going to come in and rip out every one of your circuits.”

She pounded her fist into the ’link. “Droids, they put goddamn droids on Dispatch, on the desk, every place, because it’s Christmas. Jesus, Roarke, can’t you get this thing to go any faster?”

He was already up to a hundred and ten, screaming through the vicious curtain of icy rain. But he pushed it.

“Nearly there, Eve. We’ll be in time.”

She was suffering unspeakable agonies listening to Simon’s voice through her communicator. She could picture it too clearly in her mind.

He was securing the restraints, carefully cutting away her clothes.

Eve’s mouth went dry.

Spraying her, inside and out, so she would be clean and perfect.

She was out of the car before Roarke had fully screamed to a stop. Her boots skidded, slid, then she dug in and flew to the door. Because her hands weren’t steady, it took her two tries to bypass the locks.

When she pounded up the steps, Roarke was beside her.

And now at last, in the distance, came the shriek of sirens.

Eve slipped the master through the slot and shoved the door open.

“Police!” Weapon out, she charged the bedroom.

Peabody’s eyes were wide and dazed. Naked and bound, she shivered violently as the cold air rushed through the open window.

“He went out, down the fire escape. He ran. I’m okay.”

Eve hesitated for a heartbeat then dived for the window. “Stay with her,” she called to Roarke.

“No, no.” Shaking her head frantically, Peabody strained against the restraints. “She’ll kill him, Roarke. She means to kill him. Try to stop her.”

“You hold on.” He snatched the blanket off the floor, tossed it over her, then went out the window after his wife.

Her ankles sang as she leaped the last two feet to the ground, and her feet slid out from under her on the slick ground. She went down hard on one knee, then scrambled up. She could see him, heading east in a limping run, his bright red suit like a beacon.

“Police! Stop where you are.” But she was already running after him, knowing she was wasting her breath with the order.

There were a thousand bees buzzing in her head, a thousand of them stinging on her skin. In her gut was a ball of hate so hard and bitter it burned. In a deliberate move, she jammed her weapon into the waist of her slacks. She wanted to take him down with her own hands.

She leaped on him like a tiger on the hunt, sent him skidding on his face and belly over the pavement.

She was clawing at him, pounding on him, but couldn’t feel it. Cursing him between harsh, labored breaths, but couldn’t hear it.

Then she was dragging him onto his back and her weapon was in her hand. At his throat.

“Eve.” Roarke stood where he was, a foot away, and kept his voice quiet.

“I told you to stay with her. Stay out of this.” She stared into the bleeding, weeping face under hers. And God help her, she could see her father.

Her weapon was on full stun—not fatal. Except when pressed directly to a pulse. She jammed it harder against his throat. And wanted to, craved.

“You’ve beaten him. You’ve stopped him.” Suffering with her, Roarke moved closer, crouched down, and looked into her eyes. “Taking that next step, it’s not your way. It’s not who you are.”

Her finger trembled on the trigger. Little bullet points of ice hissed and cracked against the ground, pricked her skin. “It could be.”

“No.” He brushed a gentle hand over her hair. “Not anymore.”

“No.” She shuddered, shifted her weapon. “Not anymore.”

While the man beneath her cried for his mother, she rose. On the pavement, Simon curled into a ball. Hot tears cut through the happy color he’d painted on his face.

And made him pitiful.

Beaten, Eve thought. Destroyed. Over.

“I need you to get a couple of uniforms back here,” she said to Roarke. “I don’t have my restraints.”

“I have mine.” Feeney crossed the pavement. “I still had my communicator tuned for her and McNab. The boy and I got here right behind you.” He held her gaze for a moment. “Good job, Dallas. I’ll take him in for you. You oughta go check on your aide.”

“Yeah, okay.” She wiped blood from her face, unsure if it was Simon’s or her own. “Thanks, Feeney.”

Roarke wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Neither of them had stopped for a coat. Her shirt was soaked through, and she was just starting to shiver. “Around or up?”

“Up.” She glanced at the iron steps above her head. “It’s quicker. “Give me a boost and I’ll pull you up after me.”

He cupped his hands, and lifted when she set her boot in them, then watched as she vaulted agilely onto the platform. “I’ll wait for you out front,” he told her. “You’ll want a little time with her.”

“Yeah, I do.” She stayed there, kneeling in the wind. Her nose was beginning to run, from the cold, from the storm of emotion still beating inside her. “I couldn’t do it, Roarke. I wondered if I could. I was afraid I could. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t.”

“I know it. You’ve grown your own way, Eve.” He reached up and squeezed the hand she held down to him. “Go inside, you’re cold. I’ll be in the car.”

It had been easier, Eve realized, to go out of the window than to talk herself back in. She took a couple of bracing breaths, then pushed up the window and tossed her leg over the sill.

Peabody sat in bed, wrapped in a blanket with a white-faced McNab’s arm around her.

“She’s okay,” he said quickly. “He didn’t . . . She’s just shaken up. I told the uniforms to stay out there.”

“That’s good. We’re under control here, McNab. Go on home, get some rest.”

“I . . . I can bunk on the couch if you want,” he said to Peabody.

“No. Thanks. Really. I’m okay.”

“I’ll just—” He didn’t have a clue what to do or how to do it and rose awkwardly. “Should I report in the morning, to close this out?”

“Day after’s soon enough. Take your Christmas. You earned it.”

He managed a quick grin at Eve. “Yeah, guess we all did. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“He was really nice.” Peabody let out a long breath when he left the room. “He kept everyone out, and got me loose and just let me sit. Closed the window because I was cold. So cold. God.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Do you want me to take you to a health center?”

“No, I’m okay. A little woozy yet. Worse, I guess, ’cause I’d had a few drinks before I got home. You got him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I got him.”

Peabody dropped her hands. She fought to keep her face blank and calm, but her eyes were stark. “Is he alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I thought . . .”

“So did I. I didn’t.”

Abruptly the tears welled up and overflowed. “Oh man. Shit. Here it comes.”

“Okay, let it rip.” Eve sat down, wrapped her arms around Peabody and held on while she cried it out.

“I was so scared, so scared. I didn’t expect him to be that strong. I couldn’t get to my weapon.”

“You should have run.”

“Would you have?” She drew in a shuddering breath, let it out. They both knew the answer. “I knew you’d come to back me up. But when I came out of it, and I was here and . . . I didn’t think you’d be in time.”

“You did good. You stalled and held him off just long enough.” Eve wanted to hang on, to hold on to the sturdiness that was Peabody. Instead she rose. “You want a soother or something? You can take an inducer. He only used over-the-counters.”

“No, I think I’d rather not. Alcohol and tranqs are a bad enough mix without topping it with a soother.”

“I’m going to cut the uniforms loose. Do you want me to call someone to stay with you?”

“No.” The distance was forming, Peabody noted. Inch by inch. “Dallas, I’m sorry. Last night.”

“This isn’t an appropriate time to discuss it.”

Peabody set her jaw, then opened and closed the blanket. “I’m not in uniform, so I’m not speaking as aide to superior officer. That means I can say what the hell I want. I didn’t like the things you said. I still don’t. But I’m glad it mattered enough that you said them. I’m not sorry I jumped you for it, but I am sorry I didn’t see it as a friend’s concern.”

Eve waited a beat. “Okay, but if you ever do hire twelve LCs to fuck you blind, I want details.”

Peabody sniffed, and managed a watery grin. “It’s just a little fantasy of mine. I don’t actually make enough to afford twelve at once. But I did have another little fantasy come true tonight. Roarke saw me naked.”

“Christ, Peabody.” On a shaky laugh, Eve pulled her close again. This time, she held on. “We’re okay.”

She looked so steady, Roarke thought as he watched her stride out of the building. So in charge and in control as she stood in the brisk wind in damp shirtsleeves and issued orders to the uniforms at the door.

There was blood on her hands. He doubted she knew it.

And the wave of love struck him like a fist as she shoved one of those smeared hands through her hair and started toward the car.

“Do you want to stay with her?”

Eve settled into the warmth of the car. “She’s okay. Good cop.”

“So are you.” He tipped her face up, and laid his lips on hers in a soft, sweet, stirring kiss.

She blinked her eyes open, and laid a hand over his. “What time is it?”

“Just about midnight.”

“Okay. Do that again.” She fit her mouth to his, settled in, sighed. “There’s a memory for the box—and a tradition. Merry Christmas.”

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
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Conspiracy in Death

J. D. Robb

Table of Contents

CONSPIRACY IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-0370-5

A Berkley BOOK®

Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Berkley and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

First edition (electronic): July 2001

All men think all men mortal but themselves.
—Edward Young

Let us hob-and-nob with Death.
—Tennyson

prologue

In my hands is power. The power to heal or to destroy. To grant life or to cause death. I revere this gift, have honed it over time to an art as magnificent and awesome as any painting in the Louvre.

I am art, I am science. In all the ways that matter, I am God.

God must be ruthless and far-sighted. God studies his creations and selects. The best of these creations must be cherished, protected, sustained. Greatness rewards perfection.

Yet even the flawed have purpose.

A wise God experiments, considers, uses what comes into His hands and forges wonders. Yes, often without mercy, often with a violence the ordinary condemn.

We who hold power cannot be distracted by the condemnations of the ordinary, by the petty and pitiful laws of simple men. They are blind, their minds are closed with fear—fear of pain, fear of death. They are too limited to comprehend that death can be conquered.

I have nearly done so.

If my work was discovered, they, with their foolish laws and attitudes, would damn me.

When my work is complete, they will worship me.

For some, death wasn’t the enemy. Life was a much less merciful opponent. For the ghosts who drifted through the nights like shadows, the funky-junkies with their pale pink eyes, the chemi-heads with their jittery hands, life was simply a mindless trip that circled from one fix to the next with the arcs between a misery.

The trip itself was most often full of pain and despair, and occasionally terror.

For the poor and displaced in the bowels of New York City in the icy dawn of 2059, the pain, the despair, the terror were constant companions. For the mental defectives and physically flawed who slipped through society’s cracks, the city was simply another kind of prison.

There were social programs, of course. It was, after all, an enlightened time. So the politicians claimed, with the Liberal Party shouting for elaborate new shelters, educational and medical facilities, training and rehabilitation centers, without actually detailing a plan for how such programs would be funded. The Conservative Party gleefully cut the budgets of what programs were already in place, then made staunch speeches on the quality of life and family.

Still, shelters were available for those who qualified and could stomach the thin and sticky hand of charity. Training and assistance programs were offered for those who could keep sane long enough to wind their way through the endless tangled miles of bureaucratic red tape that all too often strangled the intended recipients before saving them.

And as always, children went hungry, women sold their bodies, and men killed for a handful of credits.

However enlightened the times, human nature remained as predictable as death.

For the sidewalk sleepers, January in New York brought vicious nights with a cold that could rarely be fought back with a bottle of brew or a few scavenged illegals. Some gave in and shuffled into the shelters to snore on lumpy cots under thin blankets or eat the watery soup and tasteless soy loaves served by bright-eyed sociology students. Others held out, too lost or too stubborn to give up their square of turf.

And many slipped from life to death during those bitter nights.

The city had killed them, but no one called it homicide.

As Lieutenant Eve Dallas drove downtown in the shivering dawn, she tapped her fingers restlessly on the wheel. The routine death of a sidewalk sleeper in the Bowery shouldn’t have been her problem. It was a matter for what the department often called Homicide-Lite—the stiff scoopers who patrolled known areas of homeless villages to separate living from dead and take the used-up bodies to the morgue for examination, identification, and disposal.

It was a mundane and ugly little job most usually done by those who either still had hopes of joining the more elite Homicide unit or those who had given up on such a miracle. Homicide was called to the scene only when the death was clearly suspicious or violent.

And, Eve thought, if she hadn’t been on top of the rotation for such calls on this miserable morning, she’d still be in her nice warm bed with her nice warm husband.

“Probably some jittery rookie hoping for a serial killer,” she muttered.

Beside her, Peabody yawned hugely. “I’m really just extra weight here.” From under her ruler-straight dark bangs, she sent Eve a hopeful look. “You could just drop me off at the closest transpo stop and I can be back home and in bed in ten minutes.”

“If I suffer, you suffer.”

“That makes me feel so . . . loved, Dallas.”

Eve snorted and shot Peabody a grin. No one, she thought, was sturdier, no one was more dependable, than her aide. Even with the rudely early call, Peabody was pressed and polished in her winter-weight uniform, the buttons gleaming, the hard black cop shoes shined. In her square face framed by her dark bowl-cut hair, her eyes might have been a little sleepy, but they would see what Eve needed her to see.

“Didn’t you have some big deal last night?” Peabody asked her.

“Yeah, in East Washington. Roarke had this dinner/ dance thing for some fancy charity. Save the moles or something. Enough food to feed every sidewalk sleeper on the Lower East Side for a year.”

“Gee, that’s tough on you. I bet you had to get all dressed up in some beautiful gown, shuttle down on Roarke’s private transpo, and choke down champagne.”

Eve only lifted a brow at Peabody’s dust-dry tone. “Yeah, that’s about it.” They both knew the glamorous side of Eve’s life since Roarke had come into it was both a puzzlement and a frustration to her. “And then I had to dance with Roarke. A lot.”

“Was he wearing a tux?” Peabody had seen Roarke in a tux. The image of it was etched in her mind like acid on glass.

“Oh yeah.” Until, Eve mused, they’d gotten home and she’d ripped it off of him. He looked every bit as good out of a tux as in one.

“Man.” Peabody closed her eyes, indulged herself with a visualization technique she’d learned at her Free-Ager parents’ knees. “Man,” she repeated.

“You know, a lot of women would get pissed off at having their husband star in their aide’s purient little fantasies.”

“But you’re bigger than that, Lieutenant. I like that about you.”

Eve grunted, rolled her stiff shoulders. It was her own fault that lust had gotten the better of her and she’d only managed three hours of sleep. Duty was duty, and she was on it.

Now she scanned the crumbling buildings, the littered streets. The scars, the warts, the tumors that sliced or bulged over concrete and steel.

Steam whooshed up from a grate, shot out from the busy half-life of movement and commerce under the streets. Driving through it was like slicing through fog on a dirty river.

Her home, since Roarke, was a world apart from this. She lived with polished wood, gleaming crystal, the scent of candles and hothouse flowers. Of wealth.

But she knew what it was to come from such places as this. Knew how much the same they were—city by city—in smells, in routines, in hopelessness.

The streets were nearly empty. Few of the residents of this nasty little sector ventured out early. The dealers and street whores would have finished the night’s business, would have crawled back into their flops before sunrise. Merchants brave enough to run the shops and stores had yet to uncode their riot bars from the doors and windows. Glide-cart vendors desperate enough to hawk this turf would carry hand zappers and work in pairs.

She spotted the black and white patrol car, scowled at the half-assed job the officers on scene had done with securing the area.

“Why the hell didn’t they finish running the sensors, for Christ’s sake? Get me out of bed at five in the damn morning, and they don’t even have the scene secured? No wonder they’re scoopers. Idiots.”

Peabody said nothing as Eve braked hard behind the black and white and slammed out of the vehicle. The idiots, she thought with some sympathy, were in for an expert dressing down.

By the time Peabody climbed out of the car, Eve had already crossed the sidewalk, with long, purposeful strides, heading for the two uniforms who huddled miserably in the wind.

She watched the two officers’ shoulders snap straight. The lieutenant had that effect on other cops, Peabody mused as she retrieved the field kit from the vehicle. She brought you to attention.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, Peabody decided, with that long, rangy body, the simple and often disordered cap of brown hair that showed hints of blonde, hints of red, hints, Peabody thought, of everything. There were the eyes, all cop, and the color of good Irish whiskey, the little dent in the firm chin below a full mouth that could go hard as stone.

Peabody found it a strong and arresting face, partially, she decided, because Eve had no vanity whatsoever.

Although the way she looked might gain a uniform’s attention, it was what she so clearly was that had them snapping straight.

She was the best damn cop Peabody had ever known. Pure cop, the kind you’d go through a door with without hesitation. The kind you knew would stand for the dead and for the living.

And the kind, Peabody mused as she walked close enough to hear the end of Eve’s blistering lecture, who kicked whatever ass needed kicking.

“Now to review,” Eve said coolly. “You call in a homicide, you drag my butt out of bed, you damn well have the scene secured and have your report ready for me when I get here. You don’t stand here like a couple of morons sucking your thumbs. You’re cops, for God’s sake. Act like cops.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” This came in a wavery voice from the youngest of the team. He was hardly more than a boy, and the only reason Eve had pulled her verbal punch. His partner, however, wasn’t a rookie, and she earned one of Eve’s frigid stares.

“Yes, sir,” she said between her teeth. And the lively resentment in the tone had Eve angling her head.

“Do you have a problem, Officer . . . Bowers?”

“No, sir.”

Her face was the color of aged cherry wood, with her eyes a striking contrast of pale, pale blue. She kept her dark hair short under her regulation cap. There was a button missing on her standard-issue coat and her shoes were dull and scuffed. Eve could have poked her about it but decided being stuck in a miserable job was some excuse not to buff up for the day.

“Good.” Eve merely nodded, but the warning in her eyes was clear. She shifted her gaze to the partner and felt a little stir of sympathy. He was pale as a sheet, shaky, and so fresh from the academy she could all but smell it on him.

“Officer Trueheart, my aide will show you the proper way to secure a scene. See that you pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Peabody.” At the single word, her field kit was in her hand. “Show me what we’ve got here, Bowers.”

“Indigent. Male Caucasian. Goes by the name of Snooks. This is his crib.”

She gestured to a rather cleverly rigged shelter comprised of a packing crate cheerfully painted with stars and flowers and topped by the dented lid of an old recycling bin. There was a moth-eaten blanket across the entrance and a hand-drawn sign that simply said Snooks strung over it.

“He inside?”

“Yeah, part of the beat is to give a quick eye check on the cribs looking for stiffs to scoop. Snooks is pretty stiff,” she said at what Eve realized after a moment was an attempt at humor.

“I bet. My, what a pleasant aroma,” she muttered as she moved closer and the wind could no longer blow the stench aside.

“That’s what tipped me. It always stinks. All these people smell like sweat and garbage and worse, but a stiff has another layer.”

Eve knew the layer all too well. Sweet, sickly. And here, sneaking under the miasma of urine and sour flesh was the smell of death, and she noted with a faint frown, the bright metallic hint of blood.

“Somebody stick him?” She nearly sighed as she opened her kit to take out the can of Seal-It. “What the hell for? These sleepers don’t have anything worth stealing.”

For the first time, Bowers allowed a thin smile to curve her lips. But her eyes were cold and hard, with bitterness riding in them. “Somebody stole something from him, all right.” Pleased with herself, she stepped back. She hoped to God the tight-assed lieutenant got a nice hard shock at what she’d see behind the tattered curtain.

“You call the ME?” Eve asked as she clear-coated her hands and boots.

“First on scene’s discretion,” Bowers said primly, with the malice still bright in her eyes. “I opted to leave that decision to Homicide.”

“For God’s sake, is he dead or not?” Disgusted, Eve moved forward, bending a bit to sweep back the curtain.

It was always a shock, not the hard one Bowers had hoped for. Eve had seen too much too often for that. But what one human could do to another was never routine for her. And the pity that stirred underneath and through the cop was something the woman beside her would never feel and never understand.

“Poor bastard,” she said quietly and crouched to do a visual exam.

Bowers had been right about one thing. Snooks was very, very dead. He was hardly more than a sack of bones and wild, straggly hair. Both his eyes and his mouth gaped, and she could see he hadn’t kept more than half of his teeth. His type rarely took advantage of the health and dental programs.

His eyes had already filmed over and were a dull mud brown. She judged him to be somewhere around the century mark, and even without murder, he’d never have attained the average twenty more years decent nutrition and medical science could have given him.

She noted, too, that his boots, while cracked and scarred, had plenty of wear left in them, as did the blanket that had been tossed to the side of the box. He had some trinkets as well. A wide-eyed doll’s head, a penlight in the shape of a frog, a broken cup he’d filled with carefully made paper flowers. And the walls were covered with more paper shapes. Trees, dogs, angels, and his favored stars and flowers.

She could see no signs of struggle, no fresh bruising or superfluous cuts. Whoever had killed the old man had done so efficiently.

No, she thought, studying the fist-sized hole in his chest. Surgically. Whoever had taken Snook’s heart had very likely used a laser scalpel.

“You got your homicide, Bowers.”

Eve eased back, let the curtain fall. She felt her blood rise and her fist clench when she saw the self-satisfied smirk on the uniform’s face.

“Okay, Bowers, we don’t like each other. Just one of those things. But you’d be smart to remember I can make it a hell of a lot harder on you than you can on me.” She took a step closer, bumping the toe of her boots to the toe of Bowers’s shoes. Just to be sure her point was taken. “So be smart, Bowers, and wipe that fucking sneer off your face and keep out of my way.”

The sneer dropped away, but Bowers’s eyes shot out little bullet points of animosity. “It’s against departmental code for a superior officer to use offensive language to a uniform.”

“No kidding? Well, you be sure to put that in your report, Bowers. And you have that report done, in triplicate, and on my desk by oh ten hundred. Stand back,” she added, very quietly now.

It took ten humming seconds with their eyes warring before Bowers dropped her gaze and shifted aside.

Dismissing her, Eve turned her back and pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’ve got a homicide.”

Now why, Eve wondered, as she hunkered inside the crate to examine the body, would someone steal a so obviously used-up heart? She remembered that for a period after the Urban Wars, stolen organs had been a prize commodity on the black market. Very often, dealers hadn’t been patient enough to wait until a donor was actually dead to make the transfer, but that had been decades ago, before man-made organs had been fully perfected.

Organ donating and brokering were still popular. And she thought there was something about organ building as well, though she paid little attention to medical news and reports.

She distrusted doctors.

Some of the very rich didn’t care for the idea of a manufactured implant, she assumed. A human heart or kidney from a young accident victim could command top prices, but it had to be in prime condition. Nothing about Snooks was prime.

She wrinkled her nose against the stench, but leaned closer. When a woman detested hospitals and health centers as much as she did, the faintly sick smell of antiseptic sent the nostrils quivering.

She caught it here, just a trace, then frowning, sat back on her heels.

Her prelim exam told her the victim had died at 0:2:10, given the outside temperature through the night. She’d need the blood work and tox reports to know if there’d been drugs in his system, but she could already see that he’d been a brew guzzler.

The typical brown refillable bottle used to transport home brew was tucked in the corner, nearly empty. She found a small, almost pitiful stash of illegals. One thin, hand-rolled joint of Zoner, a couple of pink capsules that were probably Jags, and a small, filthy bag of white powder she assumed after a sniff was Grin laced with a whiff of Zeus.

There were telltale spiderwebs of broken blood vessels over his dented face, obvious signs of malnutrition, and the scabs of what was likely some unattractive skin disease. The man had been a guzzler, smoked, ate garbage, and had been nearly ready to die in his sleep.

Why kill him?

“Sir?” Eve didn’t glance back as Peabody drew back the curtain. “ME’s on scene.”

“Why take his heart?” Eve muttered. “Why surgically remove it? If it was a straight murder, wouldn’t they have roughed him up, kicked him around? If they were into mutilation, why didn’t they mutilate? This is textbook work.”

Peabody scanned the body, grimaced. “I haven’t seen any heart ops, but I’ll take your word on that.”

“Look at the wound,” Eve said impatiently. “He should have bled out, shouldn’t he? A fist-sized hole in the chest, for Christ’s sake. But they—whatever it is—clamped, closed off, the bleeders, just like they would in surgery. This one didn’t want the mess, didn’t see the point in it. No, he’s proud of his work,” she added, crab walking back through the opening, then standing to take a deep gulp of the much fresher air outside.

“He’s skilled. Had to have had some training. And I don’t think one person could have managed this alone. You send the scoopers out to canvass for witnesses?”

“Yeah.” Peabody scanned the deserted street, the broken windows, the huddle of boxes and crates deep in the alleyway across the street. “Good luck to them.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Morris.” Eve lifted a brow as she noted she’d hooked the top medical examiner for an on-scene. “I didn’t expect to get the cream on a sidewalk sleeper.”

Pleased, he smiled, and his lively eyes danced. He wore his hair slicked back and braided with a siren red ski cap snugged over it. His long, matching coat flapped madly in the breeze. Morris, Eve knew, was quite the snazzy dresser.

“I was available, and your sleeper sounded quite interesting. No heart?”

“Well, I didn’t find one.”

He chuckled and approached the crate. “Let’s have a look-see.”

She shivered, envying him his long, obviously warm coat. She had one—Roarke had given her a beauty for Christmas—but she resisted wearing it on the job. No way in hell was she going to get blood and assorted body fluids all over that fabulous bronze-colored cashmere.

And she thought as she crouched down yet again, she was pretty sure her new gloves were cozily tucked in the pockets of that terrific coat. Which was why her hands were currently freezing.

She stuffed them in the pockets of her leather jacket, hunched her shoulders against the bite of the wind, and watched Morris do his job.

“Beautiful work,” Morris breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“He had training, right?”

“Oh yes.” Affixing microgoggles over his eyes, Morris peered into the open chest. “Yes indeed, he did. This is hardly his first surgery. Top of the line tools as well. No homemade scalpel, no clumsy rib spreaders. Our killer is one mag surgeon. Damn if I don’t envy his hands.”

“Some cults like to use body parts in their ceremonies,” Eve said half to herself. “But they generally hack and mutilate when they kill. And they like rituals, ambiance. We’ve got none of that here.”

“Doesn’t look like a religious thing. It looks like a medical one.”

“Yeah.” That corroborated her thoughts. “One person pull this off?”

“Doubt it.” Morris pulled out his bottom lip, let it snap back. “To perform a procedure this slick under these difficult conditions he’d need a very skilled assistant.”

“Any idea why they’d take his heart if it wasn’t to worship the demon of the week?”

“Not a clue,” Morris said cheerfully and gestured for her to back up. When they were outside again, he blew out a breath. “I’m surprised the old man didn’t die of asphyxiation in all that stink. But from a visual exam, my guess would be that heart would have very few miles left on it. Got your prints and DNA sample for IDing?”

“Already sealed and ready for the lab.”

“Then we’ll bag him, take him in.”

Eve nodded. “You curious enough to bump him up to the top of your stack of bodies?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He smiled, gestured to his team. “You should wear a hat, Dallas. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

She sneered, but she’d have given a month’s pay for a hot cup of coffee. Leaving Morris to his work, she turned to meet Bowers and Trueheart.

Bowers clenched her teeth. She was cold, hungry, and she bitterly resented the chummy consult she’d witnessed between Eve and the chief medical examiner.

Probably fucking him, Bowers thought. She knew Eve Dallas, knew her type. Damn right she did. A woman like her only moved up the ranks because she spread her legs while she made the climb. The only reason Bowers hadn’t moved up herself was because she refused to do it on her back.

That’s the way the game’s played, that’s how. And her heart began to pound in her chest, the blood to thunder in her head. But she’d get her own, one day.

Whore, bitch. The words echoed in her brain, nearly trembled off her tongue. But she sucked them in. She was, she reminded herself, still in control.

The hate Eve read in Bowers’s pale eyes was a puzzle. It was much too vicious, she decided, to be the result of a simple and deserved dressing down by a superior officer. It gave her an odd urge to brace for attack, to slide a hand down to her weapon. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows, waited a beat. “Your report, Officer?”

“Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything,” Bowers snapped. “That’s the way it is with these people. They stay in their holes.”

Though Eve had her eyes on Bowers, she caught the slight movement from the rookie. Following instinct, she dug in her pocket and pulled out some loose credits. “Get me some coffee, Officer Bowers.”

Disdain turned so quickly to insulted shock, Eve had to work hard to hold off a grin. “Get you coffee?”

“That’s right. I want coffee.” She grabbed Bowers’s hand, dumped the credits into it. “So does my aide. You know the neighborhood. Run over to the nearest 24/7 and get me some coffee.”

“Trueheart’s lowest rank.”

“Was I talking to Trueheart, Peabody?” Eve said pleasantly.

“No, Lieutenant. I believe you were addressing Officer Bowers.” As Peabody didn’t like the woman’s looks, either, she smiled. “I take cream and sugar. The lieutenant goes for black. I believe there’s a 24/7 one block over. Shouldn’t take you long.”

Bowers stood another moment, then turned on her heel and stalked off. Her muttered “Bitch” came clearly on the cold wind.

“Golly, Peabody, Bowers just called you a bitch.”

“I really think she meant you, sir.”

“Yeah.” Eve’s grin was fierce. “You’re probably right. So, Trueheart, spill it.”

“Sir?” His already pale face whitened even more at being directly addressed.

“What do you think? What do you know?”

“I don’t—”

When he glanced nervously at Bowers’s stiff and retreating back, Eve stepped into his line of vision. Her eyes were cool and commanding. “Forget her. You’re dealing with me now. I want your report on the canvass.”

“I . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “No one in the immediate area admits to having witnessed any disturbance in the vicinity or any visitors to the victim’s crib during the time in question.”

“And?”

“It’s just that—I was going to tell Bowers,” he continued in a rush, “but she cut me off.”

“Tell me,” Eve suggested.

“It’s about the Gimp? He had his crib on this side, just down from Snooks, as long as I’ve had the beat. It’s only a couple of months, but—”

“You patrol this area yesterday?” Eve interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was a crib by Snooks’s?”

“Yes, sir, like always. Now he’s got it on the other side of the street, way at the end of the alley.”

“Did you question him?”

“No, sir. He’s zoned. We couldn’t roust him, and Bowers said it wasn’t worth the trouble, anyway, because he’s a stone drunk.”

Eve studied him thoughtfully. His color was back, pumped into his cheeks from nerves and the slap of the wind. But he had good eyes, she decided. Clear and sharp. “How long have you been out of the academy, Trueheart?”

“Three months, sir.”

“Then you can be forgiven for not being able to recognize an asshole in uniform.” She cocked her head when a flash of humor trembled on his mouth. “But I have a feeling you’ll learn. Call for a wagon and have your pal the Gimp taken down to the tank at Central. I want to talk to him when he’s sobered up. He knows you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you stay with him, and bring him up when he’s coherent. I want you to stand in on the interview.”

“You want me to—” Trueheart’s eyes went huge and bright. “I’m assigned to Lite—Bowers is my trainer.”

“Is that how you want it, Officer?”

He hesitated, blew out a quiet breath. “No, sir, Lieutenant, it’s not.”

“Then why aren’t you following my orders?” She turned away to harass the crime scene team and left him grinning after her.

“That was really sweet,” Peabody said when they were back in their vehicle with cups of hot, horrible coffee.

“Don’t start, Peabody.”

“Come on, Dallas. You gave the guy a nice break.”

“He gave us a potential witness and it was another way to burn that idiot Bowers’s ass.” She smiled thinly. “Next chance you get, Peabody, do a run on her. I like to know everything I can about people who want to rip the skin off my face.”

“I’ll take care of it when we’re back at Central. You want hard copy?”

“Yeah. Run Trueheart, too, just for form.”

“Wouldn’t mind running him.” Peabody wiggled her eyebrows. “He’s very cute.”

Eve slanted her a look. “You’re pathetic, and you’re too old for him.”

“I can’t have more than a couple, maybe three years on him,” Peabody said with a hint of insult. “And some guys prefer a more experienced woman.”

“I thought you were still tight with Charles.”

“We date,” Peabody lifted her shoulders, still uncomfortable discussing this particular man with Eve. “But we’re not exclusive.”

Tough to be exclusive with a licensed companion, Eve thought but held her tongue. Snapping out her opinion of Peabody developing a relationship with Charles Monroe had come much too close to breaking the bond between them a few weeks before.

“You’re okay with that?” she said instead.

“That’s the way we both want it. We like each other, Dallas. We have a good time together. I wish you—” She broke off, firmly shut her mouth.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking pretty damn loud.”

Eve set her teeth. They were not, she promised herself, going back there. “What I’m thinking,” she said evenly, “is about getting some breakfast before we start on the paperwork.”

Deliberately, Peabody rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders. “That works for me. Especially if you’re buying.”

“I bought last time.”

“I don’t think so, but I can check my records.” More cheerful, Peabody pulled out her electronic memo book and made Eve laugh.

The best that could be said about the slop served at Cop Central’s Eatery was that it filled the hole serious hunger could dig. Between bites of what was supposed to be a spinach omelette, Peabody accessed data on her palm PC.

“Ellen Bowers,” she reported. “No middle initial. Graduated from the academy, New York branch, in ’46.”

“I was there in ’46,” Eve mused. “She’d have been right ahead of me. I don’t remember her.”

“I can’t get her academy records without authorization.”

“Don’t bother with that.” Scowling, Eve hacked at the cardboard disguised as a pancake on her plate. “She’s been on the force a dozen years and she’s scooping stiffs downtown? Wonder who else she pissed off.”

“Assigned to the one sixty-two for the last two years, spent another couple at the four-seven. Before that, assigned to Traffic. Man, she’s bounced all over, Dallas. Did time in Cop Central in Records, another stint at the two-eight—that’s Park Patrol, mostly on-foot stuff.”

Since even the small lake of syrup Eve had used to drown the pancake didn’t soften it, she gave up and switched to gut-burning coffee. “Sounds like our friend’s had trouble finding her niche or the department’s been shuffling her.”

“Authorization’s required to access transfer documents and/or personal progress reports.”

Eve considered, then shook her head. “No, it feels sticky, and we’re probably done with her, in any case.”

“I’ve got that she’s single. Never married, no kids. She’s thirty-five, parents live in Queens, three sibs. Two brothers and one sister. And, we have my personal take,” Peabody added as she set the PPC aside. “I hope we’re done with her, because she’d really, really like to hurt you.”

Eve only smiled. “That’s gotta be frustrating for her, doesn’t it? Do you have a personal take on why?”

“Not a clue except you’re you and she’s not.” Uneasy, Peabody moved her shoulders. “I’d pay attention, though. She looked like the kind who’d come at you from behind.”

“We’re not likely to run into each other on a regular basis.” Eve filed the matter, dismissed it. “Eat up. I want to go see if this sleeper of Trueheart’s knows anything.”

She decided to use an interview room, knowing the stark formality of that often loosened tongues. One look at the Gimp warned her that while he might be coherent now, thanks to a hefty dose of Sober-Up, his skinny body still jittered and his nervous eyes jumped.

A quick spin through the decontamination tank had likely chased off any parasites and had laid a thin layer of faux citrus over the stink of him.

An addict, Eve thought, with an assortment of vices that had certainly fried a good portion of his brain cells.

She brought him water, knowing most brew hounds suffered from dry mouth after decon. “How old are you, Gimp?”

“Dunno, maybe fifty.”

He looked to be a very ill-preserved eighty, but she thought he was probably close to the mark. “You got another name?”

He shrugged. They’d taken away his clothes and disposed of them. The gray smock and drawstring pants hung on him and were nearly the same color as his skin. “Dunno. I’m Gimp.”

“Okay. You know Officer Trueheart here, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Suddenly, the beaten face glowed with a smile as pure as a baby’s. “Hi! You slipped me some credits, said I should get some soup.”

Trueheart flushed painfully, shifted on his regulation shoes. “I guess you bought brew with it.”

“Dunno.” The smile faded as his busy eyes landed on Eve again. “Who are you? How come I have to be here? I didn’t do nothing. Somebody’s gonna take my stuff if I don’t watch out.”

“Don’t worry about your stuff, Gimp. We’ll take care of it. I’m Dallas.” She kept her voice low and easy, her face bland. Too much cop, she thought, would just spook him. “I just want to talk to you. You want something to eat?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“We’ll get you something hot after we talk. I’m going to turn on the recorder, so we get it all straight.”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“Nobody thinks you did. Engage recorder,” she ordered. “Interview with witness known as the Gimp regarding case number 28913-H. Interviewer Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also attending, Peabody, Officer Delia, and Trueheart, Officer . . . ?” She glanced over.

“Troy.” He flushed again.

“Troy Trueheart?” Eve said with her tongue in her cheek. “Okay.” Then she pinned her gaze on the pitiful man across from her. “Subject witness is not under suspicion for any wrongdoing. This investigator appreciates his cooperation. Do you understand that, Gimp?”

“Yeah, guess. What?”

She didn’t sigh, but was momentarily afraid the detestable Bowers was right about him. “You’re not here because you’re in trouble. I appreciate you talking to me. I hear you moved your crib last night.”

He wet his cracked lips, drank. “Dunno.”

“You used to have it across the street, near Snooks. You know Snooks, don’t you, Gimp?”

“Maybe.” His hand shook, slopping water on the table. “He draws pictures. Nice pictures. I traded him some Zoner for a pretty one of a tree. He makes flowers, too. Nice.”

“I saw his flowers. They’re pretty. He was kind of a friend of yours?”

“Yeah.” His eyes filled and tears spilled over the red rims. “Maybe. Dunno.”

“Somebody hurt him, Gimp. Did you know that?”

Now he shrugged, a hard jerk of the shoulder, and began to look around the room. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but his eyes were glazed with confusion. “How come I have to be in here? I don’t like being inside. I want my stuff. Somebody’s for sure gonna steal my stuff.”

“Did you see who hurt him?”

“Can I keep these clothes?” Cocking his head, he began to finger the sleeve of the smock. “Am I gonna keep ’em?”

“Yeah, you can keep them.” Narrowing her eyes, she went with her gut. “How come you didn’t take his boots, Gimp? He was dead, and they were good boots.”

“I don’t steal from Snooks,” he said with some dignity. “Not even when he’s dead. You don’t steal from your bud, no way, no how. How come you think they done that to him?” Looking genuinely puzzled, he leaned forward. “How come you think they put that big hole in him?”

“I don’t know.” Eve leaned forward, too, as if they were having a quiet, personal conversation. “I keep wondering about that. Was anybody mad at him?”

“Snooks? He don’t hurt nobody. We just mind our own, that’s what. You can panhandle some if the beat droids don’t look your way. We got no fucking beggar’s license, but you can shake some credits loose if the droids aren’t around. And Snooks he sells his paper flowers sometimes, and we get some brew or some smoke and mind our own. No call to put a big hole in him, was there?”

“No, it was a bad thing they did to him. You saw them last night?”

“Dunno. Dunno what I saw. Hey!” He beamed that smile at Trueheart again. “Maybe you give me some credits again, all right? For some soup.”

Trueheart shot a glance at Eve, got her nod. “Sure, Gimp. I’ll give you some before you go. You just have to talk to the lieutenant for awhile more.”

“You liked old Snooks, right?”

“I liked him fine.” Trueheart smiled and, taking the cue from Eve, sat. “He drew nice pictures. He gave me one of his paper flowers.”

“He’d only give them to people he liked,” Gimp said brightly. “He liked you. Said so. Didn’t like that other one and me neither. She’s got mean eyes. Like to kick you in the teeth if she could.” His head bobbed up and down like a doll’s. “What you doing going around with her?”

“She’s not here now,” Trueheart said gently. “The lieutenant is. Her eyes aren’t mean.”

Gimp pouted, studied Eve’s face. “Maybe not. Cop’s though. Cop’s eyes. Cops, cops, cops.” He giggled, guzzled water, eyed Peabody. “Cops, cops, cops.” He all but sang it.

“I feel really bad about old Snooks,” Trueheart continued. “I bet he’d want you to tell Lieutenant Dallas what happened. He’d want it to be you who tells, because you were buds.”

Gimp paused, pulled on his earlobe. “You think?”

“I do. Why don’t you tell her what you saw last night?”

“Dunno what I saw.” Head cocked again, Gimp began to tap the sides of his fists on the table. “People coming around. Don’t see people coming around at night that way. Driving a big black car. Big fucker! Shined in the dark. They don’t say nothing.”

Eve held up a finger, indicating to Trueheart she was taking over again. “How many people, Gimp?”

“Two. Wore long black coats. Looked warm. Had masks on so all you can see over it’s the eyes. I think, Hey! It ain’t fucking Halloween.” He broke himself up, laughing delightedly. “It ain’t fucking Halloween,” he repeated, snorting, “but they got masks on and they carrying bags like for trick or treat.”

“What did the bags look like?”

“One has a nice big black one, shines, too. And the other has something else, it’s white and it makes sloshy noises when he walks with it. They go right into Snooks’s crib like they was invited or something. I don’t hear nothing but the wind, maybe I go to sleep.”

“Did they see you?” Eve asked him.

“Dunno. They got warm coats and good shoes, big car. You don’t go thinking they gonna put a big hole in Snooks?” He leaned toward her again, his homely face earnest, tears trembling again. “If you think that, you’d try to stop them maybe, or go run for the beat droid, ’cause you’re buds.”

He was crying now. Eve leaned over, laid a hand over his, despite the scabs that covered it. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. It’s their fault. What else did you see?”

“Dunno.” His eyes and nose dripped like faucets. “Sleep maybe. Then maybe I woke up and looked out. No car now. Was there a car there? Dunno. It’s getting light out, and I go over to see Snooks. He’ll know maybe if there was a big black car. And I see him, see that big hole in him, and the blood. His mouth’s wide open and his eyes, too. They put a big hole in him, and maybe they want to put one in me so I can’t be there. Can’t do that, no way, no how. So I have to get my stuff away from there. All my stuff right away from there. So that’s what I do, you bet, and then I drink all the rest of the brew I got and go back to sleep. I didn’t help old Snooks.”

“You’re helping him now.” Eve leaned back. “Let’s talk about the two people in the long coats some more.”

• • •

She worked him another hour, tugging him back when he wandered too far for too long. Though she didn’t slide any more information out of him, Eve didn’t consider the hour wasted. He would know her now if she had to hunt him up again. He’d remember her well enough, and remember the meeting hadn’t been unpleasant. Particularly since she ordered him in a hot meal and gave him fifty credits she knew he’d spend on brew and illegals.

He should have been in Psych, she thought, or in a halfway house. But he wouldn’t have stuck. She’d long ago accepted that you couldn’t save everyone.

“You did a good job with him, Trueheart.”

He blushed again, and while she found the trait a bit endearing, she hoped he learned to control it. The other cops would eat him alive before the bad guys had a chance for a nibble.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate you giving me a chance to help with him.”

“You found him,” Eve said simply. “I figure you’ve got plans for yourself out of Homicide-Lite.”

This time he squared his shoulders. “I want a detective shield, when I’ve earned it.”

It was rare to find a uniform rookie without that particular aspiration, but she nodded. “You can start earning it by sticking. I could and would be willing to put in a plug for your transfer—see that you got another beat and another trainer. But I’m going to ask you to stay where you are. You’ve got good eyes, Trueheart, and I’d like you to use them on your beat until we close this case.”

He was so overwhelmed with the offer and the request, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “I’ll stick.”

“Good. Bowers is going to give you grief over this.”

He grimaced. “I’m getting used to it.”

It was an opening to ask him more, to pump him for some details on Bowers. She let it pass, not wanting to put a rookie in the position of ratting on his own trainer. “Fine, then. Go back to your station and write your report. If you come across anything you think might apply to this case, get in touch with either me or Peabody.”

She headed to her office, already issuing orders to Peabody to have the interview disc duped. “And let’s get the rundown on known dealers in that area. We can’t absolutely rule out the illegals connection. I can’t think of a chemi-dealer who offs his deadbeat clients by surgically removing vital organs, but stranger things have happened. We’ll run known cults, too,” she continued as Peabody input the orders into her memo pad. “It feels wrong, but we’ll give it some attention.”

“I can contact Isis,” Peabody suggested, referring to a Wiccan they had dealt with on another case. “She might know if any of the black magic cults have a routine like this.”

Eve grunted, nodded, and caught the glide with Peabody beside her. “Yeah, use the connection. Let’s get that angle eliminated.”

She glanced toward the window wall where the glass tubes she avoided like poison carried cops, clerks, and civilians up and down the outside of the building. Beyond them she saw a pair of air support units scream off to the west, blasting between an advertising blimp and a commuter tram.

Inside, the pulse of the building was fast and strong. Voices, rushing feet, a crowd of bodies with jobs to do. It was a rhythm she understood. She glanced at her wrist unit, oddly pleased to see it was barely nine. She’d been on duty four hours, and the day was just getting started.

“And let’s see if we can get a real ID on the victim,” she continued when they stepped off the glide. “We got his prints and DNA sample. If Morris is into the postmortem, he should at least have an approximate age.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Peabody swung left, heading through the bullpen as Eve turned into her office. It was small, but she preferred it that way. The single window was narrow, letting in little light and entirely too much noise from air traffic. But the AutoChef worked and was stocked with Roarke’s impeccable coffee.

She ordered a mug, then sighed as the rich, strong scent of it tickled her system. Sitting down, she engaged her tele-link with the intention of harassing Morris.

“I know he’s doing a PM,” she said to the assistant who tried to block her. “I have some information for him concerning the body. Put me through.”

She leaned back in her chair, indulged herself with coffee, drummed her fingers against the mug, and waited.

“Dallas.” Morris’s face swam on-screen. “You know how I hate being interrupted when I’ve got my hands in someone’s brains.”

“I have a witness who puts two people on the scene. Big shiny car, nice shiny shoes. One carried a leather bag, the other a white bag that made—I quote—sloshy noises. Ring any bells?”

“I hear a ding,” Morris said, frowning now. “Your witness see what happened?”

“No, he’s a brewhead, slept through most of it. They were gone when he woke up, but according to the time line, he discovered the body. Would that sloshy bag be what I think it would be?”

“Could be an organ transport sack. This is neat, professional work here, Dallas. First-rate major organ removal. I’ve got some of the blood work back. Your victim was given a nice, comfy dose of anesthesia. He never felt a thing. But if what’s left in him is any indication, the heart was next to worthless. His liver’s shot, his kidneys are a mess. His lungs are the color of a coal mine. This is not someone who bothered with anticancer vaccines or regular medical treatments. His body’s full of disease. I’d have given him six months, tops, before he’d have kicked from natural causes.”

“So they took a worthless heart,” Eve mused. “Maybe they figure on passing it off as a good one.”

“If it’s like the rest of him, a first-year med student would spot the condition.”

“They wanted it. It’s too damn much trouble to go through just to kill some sidewalk sleeper.”

Possibilities circled in her mind. Revenge, some weird cult, a black-market scam. Kicks, entertainment. Practice.

“You said it was first-rate work. How many surgeons in the city could handle it?”

“I’m a dead doctor,” Morris said with a ghost of a smile. “Live ones don’t run in the same circles. Snazziest private hospital in New York would be the Drake Center. I’d start there.”

“Thanks, Morris. I can use the final reports as soon as you can manage it.”

“Then let me get back to my brain.” With that, he ended transmission.

Eve turned to her computer, eyes narrowed. It was making a suspicious buzzing noise, one she’d reported twice to the jokers in maintenance. She leaned toward it, teeth bared in threat.

“Computer, you sack of shit, search for data on the Drake Center, medical facility, New York City.”

Working. . . .

It hiccupped, whined, and the screen flashed into an alarming red that seared the eyes.

“Default to blue screen, damn it.”

Internal error. Blue screen is unavailable. Continue search?

“I hate you.” But she adjusted her eyes. “Continue search.”

Searching. . . . The Drake Center of Medicine, located Second Avenue, New York City, established 2023 in honor of Walter C. Drake, credited with the discovery of anticancer vaccine. This is a private facility, which includes hospital and health care clinics, rated Class A by the American Medical Association, teaching and training facilities also rated Class A, as well as research and development laboratories with Class A ratings. Do you wish list of board members on all facilities?

“Yes, on screen and hard copy.”

Working. . . . Internal error.

There was a distinct increase in the buzzing noise, and the screen began to shimmer.

Please repeat command.

“I’m going to eat those maintenance assholes for lunch.”

Command does not compute. Do you wish to order lunch?

“Ha ha. No. List board members on all facilities of the Drake Center of Medicine.”

Working. . . . Health Center Board: Colin Cagney, Lucille Mendez, Tia Wo, Michael Waverly, Charlotte Mira . . .

“Dr. Mira,” Eve murmured. It was a good connection. The doctor was one of the top criminal profilers in the city and affiliated with the New York Police and Security Department. She was also a personal friend.

Eve drummed her fingers, listening to the names of the board of the teaching facilities. One or two vaguely rang a bell, but the ringing became louder when the computer reached the board of the research and development arm.

Carlotta Zemway, Roarke—

“Hold it, hold it.” Her drumming fingers curled into fists. “Roarke? Damn it, damn it, damn it, can’t he stay out of anything?”

Please rephrase question.

“Shut the hell up.” Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes; sighed. “Continue list,” she ordered as her stomach continued to sink. “Print out, then disengage.”

Internal error. Unable to comply with multiple commands at this time.

She didn’t scream, but she wanted to.

After a frustrating twenty minutes of waiting for the data to dribble out, she swung through the detectives’ bullpen and around to the stingy area where aides and adjutants were penned in cubicles the size of a drying tube.

“Peabody, I have to head out.”

“I’ve got data incoming. Do you want me to transfer it to my portable unit?”

“No, you stay here, finish the runs. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. When you’re done with this, I want you to go find a hammer.”

Peabody had taken out her memo book, nearly plugged in the order, when she stopped, frowned up at Eve. “Sir? A hammer?”

“That’s right. A really big, heavy hammer. Then you take it into my office and beat that fucking useless excuse for a data spitter on my desk to dust.”

“Ah.” Because she was a wise woman, Peabody cleared her throat rather than loosen the chuckle. “As an alternate to that action, Lieutenant, I could call maintenance.”

“Fine, you do that, and you tell them that at the very first opportunity, I’m coming down there and killing all of them. Mass murder. And after they’re all dead, I’m going to kick the bodies around, dance on top of them, and sing a happy song. No jury will convict me.”

Because the idea of Eve singing and dancing anywhere made her lips twitch, Peabody bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll inform them of your dissatisfaction with their work.”

“You do that, Peabody.” Turning on her heel, Eve shrugged into her jacket and stalked out.

It would have been more logical for her to hunt up Mira first. As a psychiatrist, a medical doctor, a criminologist, Mira would be a valuable source on the case. But Eve drove uptown to the shimmering spear of a building that was Roarke’s New York headquarters.

There were other buildings in other cities, on and off planet. Her husband had his clever fingers in too many pies to count. Rich pies, she knew, complicated pies. And at one time, very questionable pies.

She supposed it was inevitable that his name would pop up in connection with so many of her cases. But she didn’t have to like it.

She slipped her vehicle into the space Roarke had reserved for her in the multilevel garage. The first time she’d come there, not quite a year before, she hadn’t had such privileges. Nor had her voice and palm prints been programmed onto the security system of the private elevator. Before, she had entered the main lobby with its acres of tiles, its banks of flowers, its moving map and screens, and had been escorted to his offices to interrogate him over a murder.

Now the computerized voice greeted her by name, wished her well, and told her as she stepped in that Roarke would be informed of her visit.

Eve jammed her hands in her pockets, paced the car on its smooth ride to the top of the spear. She imagined he was in the middle of some megadeal or complex negotiation to buy a medium-sized planet or financially strapped country. Well, he was just going to have to hold off on making his next million until she had some answers.

When the doors whispered open, Roarke’s assistant was waiting with a polite smile. As always, she was perfectly groomed, her snow-white hair sleekly styled. “Lieutenant, how nice to see you again. Roarke’s in a meeting. He asked if you’d mind waiting in his office just a few moments.”

“Sure, fine, okay.”

“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?” She led Eve through the glass breezeway where New York rushed by some sixty stories below. “If you haven’t had lunch, I can shift Roarke’s next appointment to accommodate you.”

The quiet deference always made her feel stupid—a flaw, Eve thought, in herself. “No, this shouldn’t take long. Thanks.”

“Just let me know if I can do anything for you.” Discreetly, she closed the doors and left Eve alone.

The office was huge, of course. Roarke liked his space. The sea of windows were tinted to cut the glare and offer a staggering view of the city. He also liked height—a fondness that Eve didn’t share. So she didn’t wander over to the window but paced the ocean of plush carpet instead.

The trinkets in the room were clever and unique. The furnishings sleek and comfortable, in rich shades of topaz and emerald. She knew the ebony slab of desk was just one more power center for a man who exuded power like breath.

Efficiency, elegance, power. He never lacked for any of them.

And when, ten minutes later, he came in through a side door, it was so easy to see why.

He could still stop her heart. Just the look of him: that glorious face, as perfectly sculpted as a Renaissance statue, was highlighted by eyes impossibly blue and a mouth designed to make a woman crave it on hers; his black hair fell nearly to his shoulders, adding just a touch of the rogue; and she knew just how strong and sleek that body was, now elegantly clad in a tailored black suit.

“Lieutenant.” Ireland whispered, silky and romantic, in his voice. “An unexpected pleasure.”

She wasn’t aware she was frowning or that she often did when swamped with the heady combination of love and lust he caused in her. “I need to talk to you.”

His brow lifted as he crossed to her. “About?”

“Murder.”

“Ah.” He had already taken her hands in his, was already leaning down for a long, slow kiss of greeting. “Am I under arrest?”

“Your name popped up during a data search. What are you doing on the board of the Drake Center’s R and D unit?”

“Being an upstanding citizen. Being married to a cop does that to a man.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, felt the tension there, and sighed. “Eve, I’m on all sorts of tedious boards and committees. Who’s dead?”

“A sidewalk sleeper named Snooks.”

“I don’t believe we were acquainted. Sit down; tell me what this has to do with me being on the board of the Drake Center.”

“Possibly nothing, but I have to start somewhere.” Still, she didn’t sit but roamed the room.

Roarke watched her, the restless, nervous energy that seemed to spark visibly around her. And knowing her, he understood all that energy was already focused on finding justice for the dead.

It was only one of the reasons she fascinated him.

“The victim’s heart had been surgically removed while he was in his crib down in the Bowery,” she told him. “The ME claims the procedure required a top-flight surgeon, and the Drake was my first pass.”

“Good choice. It’s the best in the city, and likely the best on the East Coast.” Considering, Roarke leaned back against his desk. “They took his heart?”

“That’s right. He was a brewhead, an addict. His body was worn down. Morris says the heart was no good anyway. The guy would’ve been dead in six months.” She stopped pacing and faced him, tucking her thumbs in his front pockets. “What do you know about organ trading on the black market?”

“It wasn’t something I dabbled in, even in my more . . . flexible days,” he added with a faint smile. “But the advances in man-made organs, the supply still available from accidental deaths, the strides in health care and organ building all have cut the market for street organs down to nothing. That area peaked about thirty years ago.”

“How much for a heart off the street?” she demanded.

“I really don’t know.” His brow winged up, and a smile ghosted around that sexy poet’s mouth. “Do you want me to find out?”

“I can find out myself.” She began to pace again. “What do you do on that board?”

“I’m an adviser. My own R and D department has a medical arm that cooperates and assists Drake’s. We have a contract with the center. We supply medical equipment, machines, computers.” He smiled again. “Artificial organs. Drake’s R and D deals primarily with pharmaceuticals, prostheses, chemicals. We both manufacture replacement organs.”

“You make hearts?”

“Among other things. We don’t deal in live tissue.”

“Who’s the best surgeon on staff?”

“Colin Cagney is the chief of staff. You’ve met him,” Roarke added.

She only grunted. How could she remember all the people she’d met in some social arena since Roarke came into her life? “Wonder if he makes—what did they call them—home calls?”

“House calls,” Roarke corrected with a hint of a smile. “I can’t quite see the distinguished Dr. Cagney performing illegal surgery in a sidewalk sleeper’s crib.”

“Maybe I’ll have a different vision once I meet him again.” She let out a deep sigh and tunneled her fingers through her hair. “Sorry to interrupt your day.”

“Interrupt it a bit longer,” he suggested and indulged himself by crossing to her and rubbing his thumb over her full bottom lip. “Have lunch with me.”

“Can’t. I’ve got more legwork.” But the light friction on her lip made it curve. “So, what were you buying?”

“Australia,” he said then laughed when she gaped at him. “Just a small piece of it.” Delighted with her reaction, he yanked her close for a quick, hard kiss. “Christ, I adore you, Eve.”

“Yeah, well. Good.” It continually left her hot and loose to hear it. To know it. “I gotta go.”

“Would you like me to see what I can find out about organ research at Drake?”

“That’s my job, and I know how to do it. It’d be really nice if you didn’t get mixed up in this one. Just . . . go buy the rest of Australia or something. I’ll see you at home.”

“Lieutenant?” He turned to his desk, opened a drawer. Knowing how she worked, he tossed her an energy bar. “Your lunch, I imagine.”

It made her grin as she tucked it in her pocket. “Thanks.”

When she closed the door behind her, he glanced at his wrist unit. Twenty minutes before his next meeting, Roarke calculated. Time enough.

He took a seat at his computer, smiled a little as he thought of his wife, then called up data on the Drake Center.

Eve discovered it was just as well she hadn’t gone after Mira first. The doctor was out. She shot off a quick E-mail requesting a case consult the following day, then headed down to Drake.

It was one of those block-stretching buildings she’d seen hundreds of times and never paid attention to. Before Roarke, that is. Since then, he had dragged, strong-armed, or carried her into their emergency treatment centers a number of times. When, she thought now, she’d have been perfectly fine with a first aid kit and a nap.

She hated hospitals. The fact that she was going into this one as a cop and not a patient didn’t seem to make a difference.

The original building was an old and distinguished brownstone that had been lovingly, and she imagined expensively, preserved. Structures sheer and white speared up from it, out from it, joined together by the shimmering tubes of breezeways, the circling ring of glides that glinted silver.

There were juts of white that formed what she supposed might be restaurants, gift shops, or other areas where staff or visitors or patients might be allowed to gather and enjoy the view. And delude themselves that they weren’t in a structure full of the sick and suffering.

Because her vehicle’s computer was more reliable than her office unit, she was able to access some general data. The Drake Center was more of a city within a city than a health center. It contained training facilities, teaching facilities, labs, trauma units, surgeries, patient rooms and suites, a variety of staff lounges, and visitor waiting areas as one would expect from a medical center.

But in addition, it held a dozen restaurants—two of which were rated five star—fifteen chapels, an elegant little hotel for the family and friends of patients who wished to remain close by, a small, exclusive shopping arcade, three theaters, and five full-service salons.

There were numerous roving maps and information centers to assist visitors in finding their way to their sector of choice. Trams ran from key parking areas to various entryways, and the slick glass tubes sparkled in the thin winter sunlight as they slid up and down the sides of the mammoth white structure like water.

Impatient, and because it was the section she knew best, Eve pulled her car into the ER lot, twisted it into a street-level space, then snarled at the meter that demanded to know the extent of the injuries she suffered.

This is an emergency only parking area. Your injuries or illness must be verified in order for your vehicle to remain in this parking area. Please state the nature and extent of your injuries or illness and step forward to be scanned.

“I’ve got terminal annoyance,” she shot back and shoved her badge into the view screen. “Police business. Deal with it.”

While the meter squawked, she turned away to stride across the lot toward the hated glass double doors.

The ER was full of wailing, sobbing, and complaining. Patients in different stages of distress huddled in chairs, filled out the forms on the porta-screens, or waited glassy-eyed for their turn.

An orderly was busy mopping up blood or God knew what, keeping the steel gray floor sanitized. Nurses moved briskly in pale blue uniforms. Occasionally doctors zipped through with their long, flapping lab coats and were careful not to make eye contact with the suffering.

Eve located the first map and asked for the surgical wing. The quickest route was the underground tram, so she joined a moaning patient strapped to a gurney, two exhausted looking interns, and a couple who sat close together whispering about someone named Joe and his chances with his new liver.

When she reached the right wing, she took the glide up a level.

The main floor here was quiet as a cathedral and nearly as ornate with its soaring mosaic ceilings and sumptuous tableaus of flowers and blooming shrubbery. There were several seating areas, all with communications centers. Guide droids stood by in pleasant pastel jumpsuits to lend assistance when necessary.

It cost dearly to be opened by a laser scalpel, to have internal organs repaired or replaced in a private facility. The Drake Center had provided a proper welcome area for those who could afford its services.

Eve chose one of a half-dozen reception consoles at random and flashed her badge at the clerk to insure no evasions. “I need to speak with Dr. Colin Cagney.”

“One moment, please, while I locate the doctor.” The clerk wore a stone gray suit and precisely knotted tie. Efficiently, he ran a location search on his board, then offered Eve a polite smile. “Dr. Cagney is on the tenth floor. That’s the Consultation Level. He is currently with a patient.”

“Is there a private waiting area on that level?”

“There are six private waiting areas on ten. Let me see if one is available for you.” He called up another board, sent lights blinking red or green. “Waiting Area Three is available. I’ll be happy to reserve it for you here.”

“Fine. Tell Dr. Cagney I’m waiting to speak with him, and I’m pressed for time.”

“Of course. Take any elevator in bank six, Lieutenant. Good health.”

“Right,” she muttered. Anyone that incessantly polite made her shudder. Whatever training they gave their nonmedical staff must have included personality draining, she decided. Edgy, she rode the car up and searched out the right waiting room.

It was a small, tastefully decorated room with a mood screen set to soft, shifting colors. The first thing she did was turn it off. Ignoring the low sofa and two deep chairs, she roamed the room.

She wanted out. The best substitute was a window overlooking Second Avenue.

There, at least, both street and traffic were predictably snarled and nasty. She watched a medi-copter zoom in and circle on its trajectory to one of the pads. She counted two more, an ambu-jet, and five street ambulances before the door opened behind her.

“Lieutenant.” The doctor had a dazzling smile, his teeth as white and straight as a Navy band. He flashed it as he crossed the room.

It suited, Eve thought, the smooth, pampered face, the patient, intelligent gray eyes under dramatically black brows. His hair was a gleaming white blazed on the left side with a sweeping strip of black.

He didn’t wear a lab coat but a beautifully cut suit the same slate gray as his eyes. His hand, when he took hers, was soft as a child’s and firm as a rock.

“Dr. Cagney.”

“I hoped you’d remember to call me Colin.” The smile spread again as he squeezed and released her hand. “We’ve met a few times at various functions. But I imagine between your business and Roarke’s, you meet seas of people.”

“True enough, but I remember you.” She had, as soon as she’d seen him. His wasn’t a face that slipped the mind. Sharp cheekbones, square jaw, high forehead. And the coloring left an impression. Pale gold skin against black and white. “I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me.”

“Happy to do so.” He gestured toward the chair. “But I hope you haven’t come seeking my professional services. You’re not ill?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s my profession that brings me to you.” Though she’d rather have remained on her feet, she sat. “I’m working on a case. A sidewalk sleeper was murdered early this morning. By someone with excellent surgical skills.”

His eyebrows drew together as he shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“His heart was removed and taken from the scene. A witness described one of the suspects carrying what you call an organ sack.”

“My God.” He folded his hands on his knee. Concern flitted along with confusion in his eyes. “I’m appalled to hear it, but I still don’t understand. You’re telling me his heart was surgically removed and transported?”

“Exactly. He was anesthetized and murdered in his own crib. Two people were seen entering, one carried what sounds very much like a doctor’s bag, the other the transfer sack. The operation was performed by someone very skilled. The bleeders, I think you call them, were clamped off and sealed, the incision was precise. It was not done by an amateur.”

“For what purpose?” Cagney murmured. “I haven’t heard about organ theft, not of this nature, for years. A sidewalk sleeper? Have you determined his state of health before this was done?”

“The ME says he’d have died in his sleep in a matter of months. We don’t believe they took a prime heart out of him.”

With a heavy sigh, he sat back. “I imagine you see all manner of what men do to men in your line of work, Lieutenant. I’ve pieced back bodies that have been torn, broken, hacked. On one level, we get used to it. We must. But on another, it never fails to shock and to disappoint. Men continually find new ways to kill men.”

“And always will,” Eve agreed. “But instinct tells me this man’s death was incidental. They got what they wanted from him. I have to ask, Dr. Cagney, where you were this morning between one and three A.M.?”

He blinked, and his well-formed mouth fell open before he recovered. “I see.” He spoke slowly, sitting up again. “I would have been at home, sleeping with my wife. I’ve no way to prove that, however.” His voice had cooled, his eyes chilled. “Do I require a lawyer, Lieutenant?”

“That’s up to you,” she said evenly. “But I see no reason for one at this time. I will need to speak with your wife at some point.”

Mouth grim now, he nodded. “Understood.”

“Each of our professions runs on routines that are often unpleasant. This is mine. I need a list of the top surgeons in the city, starting with those who specialize in organ transplants.”

He rose at that, paced to the window. “Doctors stand for each other, Lieutenant. There’s pride and loyalty involved here.”

“Cops stand for each other. And when one of them is found to be dirty, it smears us all. I can go through other channels to get the list I need,” she added, rising, “but I’d appreciate your cooperation. A man’s been murdered. Someone decided he shouldn’t be allowed to finish out his time. That pisses me off, Dr. Cagney.”

His shoulders moved as he sighed. “I’ll send you a list, Lieutenant,” he said without turning around. “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

“Thanks.”

She drove back to Cop Central, remembering her energy bar as she swung into the garage. She ate it on the way up to her office, chewing nutrients and chewing over her impressions of Cagney.

He had a face a patient would trust, even fear a bit, she imagined. You would tend to believe his word—medically—was law. She intended to do a run on him, but calculated him in his mid to late sixties. That meant he’d been a doctor for more than half of his life so far.

He could kill. She learned that anyone could under the right circumstances. But could he kill so cold-bloodedly? Would he protect, under the guise of professional loyalty, someone else who had?

She wasn’t sure of the answers.

The light on her computer was blinking green, indicating a new input of data. Peabody, she thought, had been hard at work. After stripping off her jacket, she called it up. It only took five frustrating minutes of grinding noises before the data popped.

Victim identified as Samuel Michael Petrinsky, born 5-6-1961, Madison, Wisconsin. ID number 12176-VSE-12. Parents deceased. No known siblings. Marital status: divorced June 2023. Former spouse Cheryl Petrinsky Sylva, age 92. Three children from marriage: Samuel, James, Lucy. Data available on request in cross file.

No known employment in last thirty years.

What happened to you, Sam? she wondered. Why’d you leave the wife and kids and come to New York to fry your mind and wreck your body on brew and smoke?

“Hell of a way to end up,” she muttered, then asked for the cross-reference on his children. She would have to notify next of kin.

You have performed an illegal function. Please delete request and enter your ID number immediately or all unsaved data will be destroyed.

“You son of a bitch.” Furious, Eve leaped to her feet and punched the side of her computer with a bunched fist. Even as the pain sang in her knuckles, she prepared to punch it again.

“A problem with your equipment, Lieutenant?”

She hissed, set her teeth, and straightened. It was rare for Commander Whitney to visit her office. And not too happy a moment to have him do so when she was beating up departmental property.

“Respectfully, sir, this unit sucks.”

It might have been a smile that flitted into his dark eyes, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I suggest you contact maintenance, Dallas.”

“Maintenance, Commander, is full of morons.”

“And the budget is full of holes.” He stepped in, shut the door at his back, which made Eve’s stomach jitter uneasily. He glanced around, then shook his head. “Your rank entitles you to an office, Dallas. Not a dungeon.”

“This suits me, sir.”

“So you always say. Is that AutoChef stocked with your coffee or the department’s?”

“Mine, sir. Would you like some?”

“I certainly would.”

She turned to order him a cup. The closed door meant he wanted privacy. The request for coffee indicated he wanted to put her at ease.

The combination made Eve nervous. But her hand was steady as she offered him the cup, and her eyes stayed level on his.

His face was wide, tended to be hard. He was a big man with wide shoulders, wide hands, and very often, fatigue darkening his eyes. “You caught a homicide early this morning,” he began, pausing long enough to sip and appreciate the genuine coffee from genuine beans Roarke’s money could buy.

“Yes, sir. The victim has just been identified. I’ll be notifying next of kin.” She shot her computer a vicious look. “When I can drag the data out of that heap. I’ll have an updated report for you by end of day.”

“I have a report from the first officer on-scene on my desk now. Along with a complaint. You and Bowers appear to have bumped heads.”

“I came down on her. She deserved it.”

“She’s filed a complaint that you used abusive and inappropriate language.” When Eve rolled her eyes, he did smile. “You and I both know that kind of a complaint is no more than a nuisance and generally makes the complainant look like a soggy-spined fool. However . . .” His smile faded. “She also claims that she observed your work on-scene as sloppy and careless. That you misused her trainee and threatened her with physical harm.”

Eve felt the blood begin to sizzle hot under her skin. “Peabody recorded the on-scene investigation. I’ll have a copy of it on your desk immediately.”

“I’ll need that to dismiss the complaint officially. Unofficially, I’m fully aware it’s bullshit.”

There were two chairs. Because both of them were battered and creaky, Whitney gave them a dubious look before settling into one. “I’d like to hear your take on this before I act.”

“My investigation will stand, and so will my report.”

He laced his fingers, kept the expression on his wide face bland. “Dallas,” was all he said and had her blowing out a huff of breath.

“I handled it. I don’t believe in running to a superior officer or filing papers over a minor incident between cops.” When he only continued to stare, she jammed her hands in her pockets. “The ranking officer on-scene had not secured the area properly upon my arrival. She was appropriately chastised about the lack of proper procedure. Officer Bowers displayed a marked tendency toward insubordination, which was dealt with, again in my opinion, appropriately. On his own, her trainee indicated to me that on previous scans of the area, there had been another crib beside the victim’s, which had, since the day before, been moved. He had reported same to his trainer and his observation had been dismissed. This observation, when followed up on, netted a witness. I invited the trainee, Officer Trueheart, to join in the interview of this witness, who was known to him. Trueheart, as will be stated in my report, shows excellent potential.”

She paused in her flat recitation, and heat flashed in her eyes for the first time. “I deny all charges but the last. I might very well have threatened Officer Bowers with physical harm and will ask my aide for verification. My regret, at this time, is that I did not follow through with any threat I may have made and knock her on her fat ass. Sir.”

Whitney lifted his brows but managed to conceal amusement. It was a rare thing for his lieutenant to add personal temper to a verbal report. “Had you followed through, Lieutenant, we’d have a nice little mess on our hands. I assume, knowing exactly how thorough you are, that you or your aide has done a run on Officer Bowers. At least a minimal run, and are therefore aware of her record of transfer. She is what we call a problem child. The department tends to move their problem children from area to area.”

He paused a moment, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as if to ease some ache. “Bowers is also a champion filer. Nothing she likes better than to file complaints. She’s taken a strong dislike to you, Dallas, and off the record, I’m warning you that she’s likely to make trouble for you, however she can.”

“She doesn’t worry me.”

“I came down here to tell you that she should. Her type feeds on trouble, on causing trouble for other cops. And she’s aiming for you. She copied Chief Tibble and her department representative on this complaint. Get the on-scene record, and your report, and a carefully worded response to this complaint on my desk before end of day. Use Peabody,” he added with a slight smile, “on the last. She’ll have a cooler head.”

“Sir.” Resentment shimmered in her voice, in her eyes, but she held her tongue.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’ve never had a better cop under my command than you, and my personal response to the complaint will say so. Cops like Bowers rarely go the distance. She’s stumbling her way out of the department, Dallas. This is only a hitch in your stride. Take it seriously, but don’t give it more of your time and energy than necessary.”

“Spending more than five minutes of my time and energy on it when I’ve got a case to close seems excessive. But thank you for your support.”

He nodded, rose. “Damn good coffee,” he said wistfully and set aside the empty cup. “By end of shift, Dallas,” he added as he walked out.

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t kick the desk. She thought about it, but her knuckles were still stinging from bashing them against another inanimate object. Rather than risk hurting herself again, she called Peabody in to deal with the machine and access the contact numbers for Snooks’s next of kin.

She managed to reach the daughter who, though she hadn’t seen her father in nearly thirty years, wept bitterly.

It did nothing to soothe Eve’s mood. The closest she came to cheerful was watching Peabody’s reaction to the complaint filed by Bowers.

“That flat-faced, piss-for-brains bitch!” Red-faced, hands fisted on her hips, Peabody went into full rant. “I ought to go dig her out of whatever hole she’s in and kick her ugly butt. She’s a fucking liar, and worse, she’s a lousy cop. Where the hell does she get off filing some whiny, trumped-up complaint against you? What house was she out of?”

Peabody whipped out her memo book and began to call it up. “I’ll go down there right now and show her just what a complaint feels like when it belts you between the eyes.”

“Whitney said you’d be a cool head,” Eve said with a grin. “I’m so glad to see the commander knows his troops this well.” Then she laughed because Peabody’s eyes were all but bulging out of her head. “Take a couple of breaths, Peabody, before something explodes in your brain. We’ll handle this in an appropriate manner through the proper channels.”

“Then we’ll flatten the bitch, right?”

“You’re supposed to be a good influence.” With a shake of her head, Eve sat down. “I need you to copy the on-scene record to Whitney and to write your own report. Keep it straight and simple, Peabody. Just the facts. We’ll write them independently. I’ll compose a response to the complaint, and when you have that cool head Whitney believes in, you can go over it for me.”

“I don’t know how you can take this so calmly.”

“I’m not,” Eve muttered. “Believe me. Let’s get to work here.”

She got it done, keeping her tone coolly professional throughout. During the final pass of her response, the list she requested from Cagney came through. Ignoring the headache beginning to blaze a trail behind her eyes, she copied all discs pertaining to the case, made what she considered a rational, reasonable call to maintenance—she only called them morons twice—then took everything with her. It was end of shift, and by God, she was going home on time for a change, even if she did intend to work once she got there.

But her temper began to simmer and spike as she drove. Her hands clenched and unclenched on the wheel. She’d worked hard to become a good cop. She’d trained and studied and observed and was willing to work until she dropped to stay a good cop.

Her badge didn’t simply define what she did but who she was. And in some ways, Eve knew, that badge, what it meant, had saved her.

The first years of her life were either gone or a blur of pain and misery and abuse. But she’d survived them, survived the father who had beaten her, raped her, who had damaged her so badly that when she was found broken and bleeding in an alley, she hadn’t even remembered her name.

So she’d become Eve Dallas, a name given to her by a social worker and one she had fought to make mean something. Being a cop meant she wasn’t helpless any longer. More, it meant she was able to stand for those who were helpless.

Every time she stood over a body, she remembered what it was like to be a victim. Every time she closed a case, it was a victory for the dead, and for a young girl without a name.

Now some stiff scooper with an attitude had attempted to put a smear on her badge. For some cops, it would be an annoyance, an irritation. For Eve, it was a deep, personal insult.

A physical woman, she tried to amuse herself by imagining what it would feel like to take Bowers on in a good sweaty match of hand-to-hand. The satisfying sound of bone against bone, the sweet scent of first blood.

All the image managed to do was infuriate her. Her hands were tied in that arena. A superior officer couldn’t go around whipping on a uniform, no matter how much she deserved it.

So she drove through the gates and up the gracious sweep of private road to the stunning house of stone and glass that was Roarke’s. She left her car in front, hoping, really hoping, that tight-assed Summerset said something snotty about it.

She barely felt the cold as she jogged up the steps and opened the tall front door. There she waited, one beat, two. It normally took Roarke’s butler no longer to slide into the foyer and insult her. Today, she wanted him to, craved it.

When the house remained silent, she snarled in frustration. The day, she thought, was going just perfectly. She couldn’t even take a swing at her worst enemy to release some steam.

She really, really wanted to hit something.

She stripped off her leather jacket, deliberately tossed it over the carved newel post. But still, he didn’t materialize.

Bastard, she thought in disgust and stalked upstairs. What the hell was she supposed to do with this barely controlled fury bubbling inside her if she couldn’t hammer Summerset? She didn’t want a round with the sparring droid, damn it. She wanted human contact. Good, violent human contact.

She stepped into the bedroom, intending to sulk in a hot shower before going to work. And there was Roarke. She eyed him narrowly. Obviously, he’d just come in himself and was just hanging his suit jacket in the closet.

He turned, angled his head. The glittering eyes, flushed face, and aggressive stance told him just what kind of mood she was in. He closed the closet door and smiled. “Hello, darling, and how was your day?”

“It sucked. Where’s Summerset?”

Roarke arched a brow as he crossed the room. He could all but see waves of temper and frustration pumping off of her. “He has the evening off.”

“Great, fine.” She swung away. “The one time I actually want the son of a bitch, he’s not here.”

Roarke’s eyebrow stayed lifted as he slanted a look toward the fat gray cat curled on the bed. They shared a brief, silent stare, and Galahad, preferring to avoid violence, leaped to the floor and slinked out the door.

Cautious himself, Roarke ran his tongue around his teeth. “Something I can do for you?”

She whipped her head around, scowled at him. “I like your face, so I don’t want to break it.”

“Lucky me,” Roarke murmured. He watched for a moment as she paced, prowled, kicked halfheartedly at the sofa in the seating area. And muttered to herself. “That’s a lot of energy you’ve got going on in there, Lieutenant. I think I can help you with that.”

“If you tell me to take a goddamn soother, I’m going to—” It was as far as she got before her breath whooshed out and she found herself tackled onto the bed. “Don’t mess with me, ace.” She shifted, bucked. “I’m in a pisser of a mood.”

“So I see.” He barely blocked her elbow, managed to cuff her wrists with one hand, and used his weight to keep her pinned. “Let’s just put all that to good use, shall we?”

“When I want sex, I’ll let you know,” she said between her teeth.

“Okay.” Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his head and bit her lightly on the throat. “While I’m waiting, I’ll just amuse myself a bit. You have a . . . ripe taste when you’re mad.”

“Damn it, Roarke.” But his tongue was doing incredible things to the side of her neck, and the juices stirred by anger began to swim in a different direction. “Cut it out,” she muttered, but when his free hand closed over her breast, her body arched toward him.

“Nearly done.” His mouth skimmed her jaw, then crushed onto hers in the fierce and feral kiss her mood seemed to demand. He tasted temper, the edge of violence, the whip of passion. His body tightened, his own needs flashed. But when he eased back, he gave her a bland smile. “Well, if you’d rather be alone—”

She broke his loosened hold on her hands and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Too late, pal. Now I want sex.”

Grinning, he let her shove him onto his back. She straddled him, planted her hands on his chest. “And I’m feeling mean,” she warned him.

“Well, I did say for better or worse.” He reached up, releasing her weapon harness before he began to unbutton her blouse.

“I said mean.” Her breath was already coming short as her fingers curled into the black silk of his shirt. “How much did this thing cost?”

“I have no idea.”

“Just as well,” she decided and tore it open. Before he could decide whether to laugh or curse, she pounced, her teeth digging into his shoulder. “It’s going to be rough.” Empowered by the taste of flesh, she fisted her hands in his hair. “And it’s going to be fast.”

Her mouth dived to his, taking greedily, driving the kiss toward violence. Glorying in it. She clawed at him, ripping at his clothes as they rolled over the bed.

Wrestling now, hands grappling to take, mouths ravenous. Frantic groans, quick shudders came from both of them as weaknesses were sought out and exploited. They knew each other’s bodies and those weaknesses well.

All the frustrated energy peaked into hunger, a need to take and take quickly, to take all. His teeth on her naked breast, his hands bruising her flesh in their rush to possess, only heightened the appetites. Her own breath was in rags and her mind in tatters as she arched up, pressed sex to sex.

There was a feral sound in her throat as he yanked her up to her knees, as their bodies met, torso to torso, and mouth plundered mouth.

“Now, damn it.” Her nails bit into his back, scraped, slid off skin gone damp with sweat. Desire, of the darkest and most dangerous hue was swirling inside her. She saw something of the same mirrored in Roarke’s brilliant blue eyes as they dragged each other down again.

She rose over him, lowered onto him in two agile motions, and arched her back with a moan, as pleasure lanced through her.

Then it was all speed again. Speed, motion, still more greed. More and more was all she could think as he pounded into her, harder, faster. The orgasm had claws.

He watched her give herself to it, to him, her body bowed back now, gleaming with sweat, her eyes dark and blind to everything but what they brought to each other.

And when she shuddered, when she screamed, he yanked her down, shoving her onto her back. And dragging her hips high, thrusting deep, deeper, drove them both over.

Lazily, Roarke nuzzled Eve’s throat. He loved the dark, rich taste that good, healthy sex brought to her skin. “Feel better now?”

She managed something between a grunt and a moan and made his lips curve. In a slow roll, smooth with practice, he reversed their positions, stroked her back, and waited.

Her ears were still ringing, her body so limp she didn’t think she could fight off a toddler with a water laser. The hands gliding up and down her back were lulling her gently toward sleep. She was teetering on the edge of it when Galahad, deciding all was clear, padded back into the room to leap cheerfully on her naked ass.

“Jesus!” Her jerk of protest caused him to dig for balance with his sharp little claws. She yelped, swatted, bounced, then crawled off Roarke to safety. When she twisted to check for blood, she caught Roarke’s grin and saw the cat now purring maniacally under his long, clever fingers.

There was nothing to do but scowl at both of them. “I guess the two of you think that was funny.”

“We each like to welcome you home in our own way.” Even as her lip curled, he was sitting up, taking her face in his hands. Within that frame, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth sulky, her eyes sleepy. “You look very attractively . . . used, Lieutenant.” His mouth cruised over hers, nibbled, and nearly made her forget she was annoyed with him. “Why don’t we have a shower, then, over dinner, you can tell me what’s upset you.”

“I’m not hungry.” She muttered it. Now that the temper had flashed, she wanted to brood.

“I am.” He simply pulled her off the bed with him.

He let her sulk, let himself speculate, until they were down in the kitchen. Knowing Eve, he decided whatever had put her blood on boil was job-related. She would tell him, he thought as he chose stuffed shells for both of them from the menu of the AutoChef. Sharing her burdens wasn’t a natural act for her, but she would tell him.

He poured wine, then sat across from her at the cozy eating area tucked under the window. “Did you identify your sidewalk sleeper?”

“Yeah.” She ran a fingertip up the stem of the wineglass, then shrugged. “He was one of those post–Urban War dropouts. It’s unlikely anyone will be able to say why he traded an ordinary life for a miserable one.”

“Maybe his ordinary one was miserable enough.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She shrugged it off. Had to. “We’ll release his body to his daughter when we’re done with it.”

“It makes you sad,” Roarke murmured and had her gaze lifting to his.

“It can’t get inside you.”

“It makes you sad,” he repeated. “And the way you channel that is to find who killed him.”

“That’s my job.” She picked up her fork, stabbed one of the shells on her plate without interest. “If more people would do their jobs instead of screwing with people doing theirs, we’d be a hell of a lot better off.”

Ah, he thought. “So, who screwed with you, Lieutenant?”

She started to shrug again, wanted to act as if it didn’t matter a damn. But it came bubbling up her throat and out before she could stop it. “Fucking stiff scooper. Hated me on sight, who knows why.”

“And assuming a stiff scooper is what its colorful name indicates, does he have a name?”

“She. Half-ass Bowers from the one-six-two filed a complaint against me after I gave her a wrist slap for sloppy work. Over ten years on the force, I’ve never had an official complaint on my record. Goddamn it.” She snatched up her wine, gulped.

It wasn’t the temper that had him laying a hand over hers but the sheer unhappiness crowded with it in her eyes. “Is it serious?”

“It’s bullshit,” she tossed back, “but it’s there.”

Roarke turned her hand, palm up, to his, squeezed once. “Tell me about it.”

It spewed out of her with considerably less restraint than the formal oral report she’d given Whitney. But as she snapped the words out, she began to eat without realizing it.

“So,” he said when she’d run down. “Basically, you pissed off a troublemaker who retaliated by filing a whiny complaint—something she appears to have a habit of doing—and your commanding officer is officially and personally in your corner.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She closed her mouth, simmered in silence for a moment because he’d encapsulized it all so neatly. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound.”

It wouldn’t be, Roarke mused, not for Eve. “Maybe not, but the fact is, if anyone put your record against hers, she’d just look like more of an idiot than she does now.”

That cheered her a little. “She put a smear on my record,” Eve continued. “The goons in IAB love to look at smears, and I had to take time away from a case to answer her stupid accusation. Otherwise, I’d have been able to run data scans on the surgeons Cagney sent me. She doesn’t give a damn about the case. She just wanted to take a shot at me because I dressed her down and sent her off for coffee. She’s got no business on the force.”

“Very likely she’s never made the mistake of going after a cop quite so clean and well-respected as you.” He watched her brows draw together at his comment, smiled a little as she squirmed.

“I want to go stomp on her face.”

“Of course,” Roarke said lightly. “Or you wouldn’t be the woman I adore.” He picked up her hand, kissed her fingers, and was pleased to see a reluctant smile soften her lips. “Want to go find her and beat her up? I’ll hold your coat.”

This time she laughed. “You just want to watch two women fight. Why do guys get off on that?”

Eyes deeply blue and amused, Roarke sipped his wine. “The constant hope that during the battle clothes will be ripped away. We’re so easily entertained.”

“You’re telling me.” She glanced down with some surprise at her empty plate. She supposed she’d been hungry after all. Sex, food, and a sympathetic ear. Just more of the wonders, she thought, of marriage. “Thanks. Looks like I do feel better.”

Because he’d put the meal together, she thought it only fair she deal with the dishes. She carried them to the dishwasher, dumped them in, and considered the job done.

Roarke didn’t bother to mention she’d put the plates in backwards and had neglected to give the machine any orders. The kitchen wasn’t Eve’s turf, he thought. And Summerset would deal with it.

“Let’s go up to my office. I have something for you.”

Wary suspicion narrowed her eyes. “I told you after Christmas, no more presents.”

“I like giving you presents,” he said and opted for the elevator rather than the stairs. He trailed a fingertip down the sleeve of the cashmere sweater he’d given her. “I like seeing them on you. But this isn’t that kind of present.”

“I’ve got work. Time to make up.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She shifted her stance as the elevator glided from vertical to horizontal mode. “It’s not a trip or anything? I can’t take off after I lost all those days due to injury last fall.”

The hand he’d laid lightly on her shoulder flexed into a fist before he could control it. She’d been badly hurt a few months earlier, and he didn’t care to be reminded of it. “No, it’s not a trip.” Though he intended to drag her away for at least a couple of days to the tropics as soon as their schedules allowed.

She relaxed at the beach, he thought, the way she seemed to nowhere else.

“Okay, then what? Because I really have to put in a couple of hours.”

“Get us some coffee, will you?” He said it carelessly as he stepped out into his office. And made her grind her teeth. She had to remind herself that he’d let her vent her frustrations, that he’d listened to her side of things. And he’d offered to hold her coat.

But her teeth were still clamped together in annoyance when she set the coffee on his console.

He gave her an absent hum of thanks and was already fiddling with controls. He could have just used voice command, she knew, but he often liked to work his machines—toys, she often thought—manually. Keeping those clever, one-time thief’s fingers nimble, she mused now.

His home office suited him as much as his plush headquarters did. The sleek console with colorful controls and lights was an excellent frame for him when he slid into the deep U to work.

In addition to the jazzy technology, the faxes and communications, the holo options and screens, there was an elegance to the room, the kind that seemed to walk hand in hand with him whether he was in a boardroom or an alley.

The gorgeous tiles of the floor, the expansive windows clear-treated for privacy, the scattering of art and artifact, the streamlined machines and cabinets that would offer exclusive food or drink at the most careless command.

It was, she thought, occasionally disconcerting to look at him in here, while he worked. To see over and over again how gorgeous he was and know he belonged to her. It tended to weaken her at the oddest moments. Because it weakened her now, she made her voice cold and sharp.

“Want dessert, too?”

“Maybe later.” His gaze glanced over her face before he nodded to the opposing wall. “On screens.”

“What?”

“Your list of surgeons, along with personal and professional data.”

She whirled around, then back so quickly she would have knocked his coffee onto his controls if he hadn’t snatched it out of the way in time. “Careful, darling.”

“Damn it, Roarke. Damn it! I told you specifically to stay out of this.”

“Did you?” In direct contrast to hers, his voice was mild and amused. “It would appear I disobeyed.”

“This is my job, and I know how to do it. I don’t want you running names and accessing data.”

“I see. Well.” He passed his hand over something and the screens across the room went blank. “All gone,” he said cheerfully and watched, with delight, as her mouth dropped open. “I’ll just catch up on my reading while you spend the next hour or so accessing the data I already had for you. That makes sense.”

She could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic, so she merely made frustrated sounds. It would indeed take her an hour, minimum, and in all likelihood, she wouldn’t be able to go as deep as he had. “You think you’re so damn smart.”

“Aren’t I?”

She managed to choke back a laugh and folded her arms. “Bring it back. You can bring it back.”

“Of course, but now it’ll cost you.” He angled his head, crooked a finger.

Pride fought with expediency. As always, the job won, but she kept a scowl on her face as she skirted the console and joined him behind it. “What?” she demanded, then swore when he yanked her onto his lap. “I’m not playing any of your perverted games, pal.”

“And I had such hopes.” He passed a hand over the controls again, and the data popped back on the screens. “There are seven surgeons in the city who meet the requirements of your case.”

“How do you know the requirements? I didn’t get that specific when I saw you today.” She turned her head until they were nose to nose. “Did you poke into my case files?”

“I’m not going to answer that without counsel present. Your witness indicated two people,” he continued while she studied him with narrowed eyes. “I’m assuming you’re not ruling out women.”

“Do I poke into your files?” she demanded, jabbing a finger into his shoulder to emphasize each word. “Do I go sneaking around into your stock options or whatever?”

She couldn’t access his files with a homemade boomer, but he only smiled. “My life’s an open book for you, darling.” Since it was there, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently. “Would you like to see the video record of my last board meeting?”

She would have told him to bite her, but he already had. “Never mind.” She turned around again and tried not to be overly pleased when his arms came cozily around her. Still, she leaned back against him and settled in. “Tia Wo, general surgeon with specialty in organ transplant and repair, private practice, affiliated with Drake, East Side Surgery, and the Nordick Clinic, Chicago.”

Eve read the initial data thoughtfully. “Description and visual on-screen. She’s six foot,” Eve noted, “and hefty. Easy for a brewhead to mistake her for a man in the dark, especially if she was wearing a long coat. What do we know about Dr. Wo?”

Responding to her voice command, the computer began to list details while Eve studied the image of an unsmiling woman of fifty-eight with straight, dark hair; cool, blue eyes; and a sharply pointed chin.

Her education had been excellent, her training superior. And her nearly thirty years as an organ plucker had earned her a dazzling annual salary, which she supplemented by endorsing the products of NewLife Organ Replacement, Inc. A manufacturing firm that, Eve noted with barely a sigh, was owned and operated by Roarke Enterprises.

She’d been twice divorced, once from a man, once from a woman, and had held single status for the last six years. She had no children, no criminal record, and only three malpractice suits pending.

“Do you know her?” Eve asked.

“Hmm. Very slightly. Cold, ambitious, very focused. She’s reputed to have the hands of a god and the mind of a machine. As you see, she was president of the American Medical Association five years ago. She is a powerful woman in her field.”

“She looks like she’d enjoy cutting people open,” Eve murmured.

“So I’d imagine. Why else do it?”

She jerked a shoulder and requested the rest of the names. She studied them in turn: data, faces.

“How many of these people do you know?”

“All of them,” Roarke told her. “In a disconnected, social way for the most part. Fortunately, I’ve never required their professional services.”

And his instincts, Eve thought, were as sharp as his health. “Who’s the most powerful here?”

“Power, that would be Cagney, Wo, Waverly.”

“Michael Waverly,” she murmured, calling back his data. “Forty-eight, single, chief of surgery at Drake and current president of the AMA.” She studied the elegant face, the intense green eyes, and the golden mane of hair.

“Who’s the most arrogant?” she asked Roarke.

“I believe that’s a requirement of all surgeons, but if I had to choose degrees, I’d go for Wo again, certainly Waverly, and toss in Hans Vanderhaven—head of research at Drake, another organ plucker affiliated with the top three health centers in the country, with solid connections abroad. He’s about sixty-five and on his fourth marriage. Each successive wife goes down a decade in age. This one’s a former body sculpting model and barely old enough to vote.”

“I wasn’t asking for gossip,” Eve said, rather primly, then caved. “What else?”

“His former wives hate his guts. The last one tried to perform a little impromptu surgery on him with a nail file when she discovered him playing doctor with the model. The AMA’s Morals Board wagged their finger at him over it, and did little else.”

“Those are the ones I’ll look at first,” she decided. “What was done to Snooks took arrogance and power as well as skill.”

“You’re going to run into a lot of walls on this one, Eve. They’ll close ranks on you.”

“I’ve got murder one, with body mutilation and organ theft backing it.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “When the heat’s turned up high enough, people roll over. If one of these slicers knows something, I’ll get it out of them.”

“If you want a more personal look, we can attend the Drake Center’s fund-raiser fashion show and dinner dance at the end of the week.”

She winced. She’d rather have gone bare-knuckled with a Zeus addict. “Fashion show.” She suppressed a shudder. “Whoopee. Yeah, we’ll do that, but I should put in for distress pay.”

“Leonardo’s one of the designers,” he told her. “Mavis will be there.”

The thought of her free-wheeling, uniquely stylish friend at a stuffy medical fund-raiser perked Eve up. “Wait until they get a load of her.”

If it hadn’t been for the Bowers situation, the following day Eve would have opted to work in her home office on a computer that didn’t give her grief. But as a matter of pride, she wanted to be visible at Cop Central when the buzz started.

She spent the morning in court giving testimony on a case she’d closed some months before and arrived at Central just after one. Her first move was to hunt up Peabody. Rather than go straight to her office and put out a call on her communicator, Eve walked through the detective’s bullpen.

“Hey, Dallas.” Baxter, one of the detectives who most enjoyed razzing her, sent her a wink and a grin. “Hope you kick her ass.”

It was, Eve knew, a show of support. Though it cheered her, she shrugged and kept moving. A few other comments were tossed out from desks and cubicles, all running on the same theme. The first order of business when a finger was pointed at one of their own was to break the finger.

“Dallas.” Ian McNab, an up-and-coming detective assigned to the Electronic Detective Division, loitered outside Peabody’s cubicle. He was pretty as a picture with his long golden hair braided back, six silver dangles in his left ear, and a cheerful smile on his face. Eve had worked with him on a couple of cases and knew under the pretty-boy exterior and chatterbox mouth hid a quick brain and steady instincts.

“Things slow in EDD, McNab?”

“Never.” He flashed his grin. “I just did a search and run for one of your boys here, thought I’d harass Peabody before I headed back to where real cops work.”

“Would you get this pimple off my butt, Lieutenant?” Peabody complained, and she did indeed look harassed.

“I haven’t touched her butt. Yet.” McNab smiled. Irritating Peabody was one of his favorite pastimes. “Thought maybe you could use a little E-work on this problem you’ve got.”

Well able to read between the lines, Eve lifted a brow. He was offering to bypass channels and dig into Bowers. “I’m handling it, thanks. I need Peabody, McNab. Shoo.”

“Your call.” He glanced back into the cubicle, leered. “Catch you later, She-Body.” Even as she hissed at him, he swaggered away, whistling.

“Jerk,” was all Peabody could say as she got to her feet. “My reports are filed, Lieutenant. The ME’s findings came in an hour ago and are waiting for you.”

“Shoot everything pertaining to the current homicide down to Dr. Mira. Her office is squeezing me in on a quick consult. Add this,” she said, passing Peabody a disc. “It’s a list of the top surgeons in the city. Clean up as much of the paperwork as you can in the next couple of hours. We’re going back to the scene.”

“Yes, sir. Are you okay?”

“I haven’t got time to worry about idiots.” Eve turned and headed for her office.

And there she found a message from the idiots in maintenance telling her there was nothing wrong with her equipment. She was reduced to scowling as she engaged her tele-link to contact Feeney in EDD.

His comfortably rumpled face filled her screen and helped her ignore the whiny buzz on audio.

“Dallas, what is this pile of shit? Who the hell is Bowers? And why are you letting her live?”

She had to smile. There was no one more reliable than Feeney. “I don’t have time to waste on her. I’ve got a dead sidewalk sleeper missing his heart.”

“Missing his heart?” Feeney’s ragged, rust-colored eyebrows shot up. “Why didn’t I hear that?”

“Must be slipping,” she said easily. “And it’s more fun to gossip about cops squaring off against each other than one more dead sleeper. But this one’s interesting. Let me give you the rundown.”

She told him, in that quick, formal shorthand cops use like a second language. Feeney nodded, pursed his lips, shook his head, grunted. “Life just gets sicker,” he said when she’d finished. “What do you need?”

“Can you do a quick like-crimes check for me?”

“City, national, international, interplanetary?”

She tried a winning smile. “All? As much as you can by end of shift?”

His habitually morose face only drooped a bit more. “You never ask for the little things, kid. Yeah, we’ll get on it.”

“Appreciate it. I’d hit IRCCA myself,” she continued, referring to one of Feeney’s loves, the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity, “but my equipment’s acting up again.”

“Wouldn’t if you’d treat it with some respect.”

“Easy for you to say when EDD gets all the prime stuff. I’m going to be in the field later. If you get any hits, get in touch.”

“If there’s anything to hit, I’ll have it. Later,” he said and disconnected.

She took the time to study Morris’s final report, found no surprises or new data. So Snooks could go home to Wisconsin, she thought, with the daughter he hadn’t seen in thirty years. Was it sadder, she wondered, that he’d chosen to live the last part of his life without anyone, cut off from family, cut off from his past?

Though it hadn’t been a matter of choice, she’d done the same. But that break, that amputation from what had been, had made her who she was. Had it done the same for him, in the most pathetic of ways?

Shaking it off, she coaxed her machine—by ramming it twice with her fist—to spill out the list of dealers and chemi-heads from the area surrounding the crime scene. And a single name made her smile, thin and sharp.

Good old Ledo, she mused, and sat back in her chair. She had thought the long-time dealer of smoke and Jazz had been a guest of the state. Apparently, he’d been kicked three months before.

It wouldn’t be hard to track Ledo down, she decided, and to coax him—in the same manner she’d used with her equipment if necessary—to chat.

But Mira came first. Gathering up what she would need for both interviews, Eve started out of her office. She tagged Peabody en route and ordered her aide to meet her in the garage at the vehicle in one hour.

• • •

Mira’s office might have been a clearinghouse for emotional and mental problems. It might have been a center for the dissemination, examination, and analysis of the criminal mind, but it was always soothing, elegant, and classy.

Eve had never worked out how it could be both. Or how the doctor herself could work day after day with the worst that society spat out and still maintain her calm, unruffled poise.

Eve considered her the only genuine and complete lady she knew.

She was a trim woman with sable-colored hair waving back from a quietly lovely face. She favored slim, softly colored suits and such classic ornamentations as a single strand of pearls.

She wore one today, with discreet pearl drops at her ears, to accessorize a collarless suit in pale pine green. As usual, she gestured Eve to one of her scoop-shaped chairs and ordered tea from her AutoChef.

“How are you, Eve?”

“Okay.” Eve always had to remember to change gears when meeting with Mira. The atmosphere, the woman, the attitude didn’t allow her to dive straight into business. The little things mattered to Mira. And, over time, Mira had come to matter to Eve. She accepted the tea she would pretend to drink. “Ah, how was your vacation?”

Mira smiled, pleased Eve remembered she’d been away for a few days, and had thought to ask. “It was marvelous. Nothing revitalizes body and soul quite so much as a week at a spa. I was rubbed, scrubbed, polished, and pampered.” She laughed and sipped her tea. “You’d have hated every minute of it.”

Mira crossed her legs, balancing her delicate cup and saucer one-handed with a casual grace Eve decided some women were simply born with. The feminine floral china always made her feel clumsy.

“Eve, I’ve heard about this difficulty you’re having with one of the uniforms. I’m sorry for it.”

“It doesn’t amount to anything,” Eve said, then breathed a sigh. This was, after all, Mira. “It pissed me off. She’s a sloppy cop with an attitude, and now she’s put a blotch on my record.”

“I know how much that record means to you.” Mira leaned forward, touched her hand to Eve’s. “You should know that the higher you rise and the more your reputation shines, the more a certain type of person will want to tarnish it. This won’t. I can’t say much, as it’s privileged, but I will tell you that this particular officer has a reputation for frivolous complaints and is not taken seriously in most cases.”

Eve’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve tested her?”

Inclining her head, Mira lifted a brow. “I can’t comment on that.” But she made certain Eve knew the answer was affirmative. “I simply want, as a friend and a colleague, to offer you my complete support. Now . . .” She sat back again, sipped her tea again. “On to your case.”

Eve brooded for a minute before reminding herself that her personal business couldn’t interfere with the job. “The killer has to be trained, and highly skilled, in laser surgery and organ removal.”

“Yes, I read Dr. Morris’s conclusions and agree. This doesn’t, however, mean you’re looking for a member of the medical community.” She held up a finger before Eve could protest. “He could be retired or he could have, as many, many surgeons do, burnt out. Quite obviously he’s lost his way, or he would never have violated the most sacred of oaths and taken a life. Whether or not he’s licensed and practicing, I can’t tell you.”

“But you agree that if not now, at one time he was.”

“Yes. Undoubtedly, based on your findings at scene and Morris’s postmortem, you’re looking for someone with specific skills that require years of training and practice.”

Considering, Eve angled her head. “And what would you say about the type of person who could coldly and skillfully murder an essentially dying man for an essentially worthless organ, then save the next patient under his care on the table in the operating room?”

“I would say it’s a possible type of megalomania. The God complex many doctors possess. And very often need to possess,” she added, “in order to have the courage, even the arrogance to cut into the human body.”

“Those who do, enjoy it.”

“Enjoy?” Mira made a humming sound. “Perhaps. I know you don’t care for doctors, but most have a vocation, a great need to heal. In any highly skilled profession there are those who are . . . brusque,” she said. “Those who forget humility.” She smiled a little. “It isn’t your humility that makes you an excellent cop but your innate belief in your own talent for the job.”

“Okay.” Accepting that, Eve sat back, nodded.

“However, it’s also your compassion that keeps you from forgetting why the job matters. Others in your field and in mine lose that.”

“With cops who do, the job becomes routine, with maybe a little power tweaked in,” Eve commented. “With doctors, you’d have to add money.”

“Money’s a motivator,” Mira agreed. “But it takes years for a doctor to pay back the financial investment in his education and training. There are other, more immediate compensations. Saving lives is a powerful thing, Eve, having the talent, the skill to do so is for some a kind of burst of light. How can they be like others when they’ve put their hands into a human body and healed it?”

She paused, sipped contemplatively at her tea. “And for some among that personality type,” she continued in her soft, soothing voice, “there can and often is the defense of emotional distance. This is not a human under my scalpel, but a patient, a case.”

“Cops do the same.”

Mira looked straight into Eve’s eyes. “Not all cops. And the ones who don’t, who can’t, might suffer, but they make much more of a difference. In this investigation, I think we can agree straight off on some basic points. You are not looking for someone with a personal grudge against the victim. He is not driven by rage or violence. He is controlled, purposeful, organized, and detached.”

“Wouldn’t any surgeon have to be?” Eve asked.

“Yes. He performed an operation, successfully, for his purpose. He cares about his work, demonstrated by the time and effort he took in the operation. Organ removal and transplant is well out of my field, but I am aware that when the donor’s life is not a concern, such a procedure doesn’t require this kind of meticulous care. The careful incision, the sealing of the wound. He’s proud of what he is, very likely past the point of arrogance. He is not afraid of consequences, in my opinion, because he doesn’t believe there will be any. He is above that.”

“He doesn’t fear being caught?”

“No, he doesn’t. Or he feels protected in the event his actions are discovered. I would conclude that he is successful—whether he is now actively practicing or not—secure, devoted to his task, and very likely enjoys some prominence in his circle.”

Mira sipped her tea again, frowned. “I should say they. Your report stated there were two involved. I would think it would be standard practice to bring an anesthesiologist or trained assistant to handle that end of the procedure, or a second surgeon with some knowledge of anesthesia to assist.”

“They didn’t have to worry about the patient surviving, Eve pointed out. “But I’d think he wouldn’t settle for anyone but the best. And it would have to be someone he trusted.”

“Or controlled. Someone he knew was loyal to the purpose.”

Eve lifted her cup, then had to control a wince when she remembered it wasn’t coffee. “What’s the purpose?”

“As to the motive behind taking the heart, I only see two avenues. One is profit, which seems very narrow, given Dr. Morris’s evaluation of the victim’s overall health. The second would be experimentation.”

“What kind of experiments?”

Mira lifted a hand, waved it vaguely. “I don’t know, but I’ll tell you, as a doctor myself, the possibility frightens me. During the height of the Urban Wars, illegal experimentation on the dead and dying was quietly accepted. It wasn’t the first time in history atrocities were commonplace, but one always hopes it would be the last. The justification then was that so much could be learned, other lives saved, but there is no justification.”

She set her tea aside, folded her hands on her lap. “I’m praying, Eve, that this is an isolated incident. Because if it’s not, what you’re dealing with is more dangerous than murder. You could be dealing with a mission, cloaked under a veil of the greater good.”

“Sacrifice the few to save the many?” Eve shook her head slowly. “It’s a stand that’s been taken before. It always crumbles.”

“Yes.” There was something of pity and something of fear in Mira’s quiet eyes. “But never soon enough.”

Most people were creatures of habit. Eve figured a second rate chemi-dealer who enjoyed gobbling up his own products would follow the rule. If memory served, Ledo liked to spend his worthless days fleecing suckers at Compu-Pool or Sexcapades at a nasty little joint called Gametown.

She didn’t think a few years in a cage would have changed his recreational choices.

In the bowels of downtown, the buildings were slicked with filth, the streets scattered with it. After a recycling crew had been attacked, their bones broken and their truck destroyed, the union had crossed this four-block section off the list. There wasn’t a city employee who ventured into what was known as the Square without combat gear and stunners. It was in their contract.

Eve wore a riot vest under her jacket and had ordered Peabody to do the same. It wouldn’t keep them from getting their throats slit, but it would stop a knife to the heart.

“Put your stunner on wide range,” Eve ordered, and though Peabody exhaled sharply, she said nothing.

Her run on cults that linked any knowns to the type of murder they were investigating had turned up nothing. She’d been relieved. Having dealt with that kind of terror and butchery once, Peabody knew she’d live happily never having to deal with it again.

But as they drove into the Square, she thought she’d take a few bloodthirsty Satan worshipers over the residents of this sector any day of the week.

The streets weren’t empty, but they were quiet. Action here waited for dark. The few who loitered in doorways or roamed the sidewalks did so with their eyes sharp and moving, their hands in pockets that held a weapon of choice.

Midway down a block, a Rapid Cab rested on its roof like an upturned turtle. Its windows were smashed, its tires stripped, and several interesting sexual suggestions had already been spray painted over its sides.

“Driver must have been brain damaged to bring a fare down here,” Eve muttered as she swung around the abandoned cab.

“What does that make us?” Peabody asked.

“Tough-ass cops.” Eve grinned and noted that while the graffiti looked very fresh, there were no signs of blood.

Eve spotted two beat droids in full riot gear making their pass in an armored black and white. She flagged them, holding her badge to the window.

“The driver make it out?”

“We were in the vicinity and dispersed the crowd.” The droid in the passenger’s seat smiled just a little. Occasionally some E-man programmed a beat droid with a sense of humor. “We secured the driver and transported him to the edge of the sector.”

“Cab’s a dead loss,” she commented, then forgot it. “You know Ledo?”

“Sir.” The droid nodded. “Convicted illegals manufacturer and distributor.” That faint smile again. “Rehabilitated.”

“Yeah, right. He’s a pillar of the community now. He still hang down in Gametown?”

“It is his known area of amusement.”

“I’m leaving my car here. I want it in one piece when I get back.” She activated all antitheft and vandalism alarms and deterrents, then stepped out and chose her mark.

He was lanky, mean-eyed, and sipping mechanically from a brown brew bottle as he leaned against a scarred steel wall decorated with various suggestions on sexual activities that ran along the same lines as those decorating the overturned cab. Several were misspelled, but the visual aids weren’t bad.

As Peabody fought to keep her heart from blocking her throat, Eve strode up to him, leaned into his face. “You see that car?”

His mouth turned up in a sneer. “Looks like a cop-bitch car to me.”

“That’s right.” She caught his free hand by the wrist, twisting it hard before he could reach into his pocket. “And if I come back and see that anybody’s messed with it, this cop-bitch is going to kick your balls into your throat, then tie them around your neck and choke you with them. You got that?”

He wasn’t sneering now. Color had flooded into his cheeks, rage shined in his eyes. But he nodded.

“Good.” She released him, stepped back, then turned and walked away without looking back.

“Jesus, Dallas, Jesus. Why did you do that?”

“Because now he’s got an investment in making sure we’ve got transpo when we leave. That type doesn’t mess with cops. He just thinks mean thoughts. Usually,” Eve added with a wicked grin as they started down the dirty metal stairs to the underground.

“That’s a joke, right? Ha ha?” Peabody’s fingers twitched over the weapon strapped to her side.

“Watch your back,” Eve said mildly as they plunged into the gloomy, urine-colored light of New York’s underbelly.

Slime, Eve mused, had to breed somewhere. This was ripe ground for it. Below the streets, out of the air, into the deep, dank world of unlicensed whores and doomed addicts.

Every few years, the mayor’s office made noises about cleaning up the underground. Every few years, the talk channels on-screen debated and condemned. Occasionally, a quick, half-assed police and security sweep was employed, a handful of losers picked up and tossed in cages, some of the worst of the joints shut down for a day or two.

She’d been on one of those sweeps during her days in uniform, and she hadn’t forgotten the bowel-loosening terror, the screams, the flash of blades or stink of homemade boomers.

She hadn’t forgotten that Feeney had been her trainer then as she was Peabody’s now. And he’d gotten her through it whole.

Now she kept her pace brisk while her gaze scanned side to side.

Music echoed: harsh, clashing sounds that battered the walls and the closed doors of the clubs. The tunnels weren’t heated, not any longer, and her breath whooshed out in white puffs and vanished into the yellow light.

A used-up whore in a ragged peacoat completed financial transactions with a used-up john. Both eyed her, then Peabody’s uniform before slinking away to get to the heart of the deal.

Someone had built a barrel fire in one of the spit-narrow alleyways. Men huddled around it, exchanging credits for little packs of illegals. All movement stopped when she came to the head of the alley, but she kept walking by.

She could have risked broken bones and blood, called for backup, rousted them. And they or others like them would have been dealing death over the smelly fire by nightfall.

She’d learned to accept that not everything could be changed, not everything could be fixed.

She followed the snake of the tunnel, then paused to study the flashing lights of Gametown. The murky reds and blues didn’t look celebrational, pumping against the sickly yellow overheads. Somehow they looked both sly and hopeless to her, like the aging whore she’d just passed in the tunnels.

And they reminded her of another garish light, pulsing red against the dirty window of the last dirty room she’d shared with her father. Before he’d raped her that final time.

Before she’d killed him and left that beaten young girl behind.

“Sir?”

“I don’t remember her,” Eve murmured as the memories threatened to wash over and drown her.

“Who? Lieutenant? Dallas?” Uneasy with the blank look in Eve’s eyes, Peabody tried to look everywhere at once. “Who do you see?”

“Nobody.” She snapped back, infuriated that her stomach muscles quivered with the memory flash. It happened now and again. Something would trigger those memories and the fear and guilt that swam with them. “Nobody,” she said again. “We go in together. You stay with me, follow my moves. If things get sticky, don’t worry about procedure. Play dirty.”

“Oh, you bet.” Swallowing hard, Peabody stepped up to the door, then through, shoulder to shoulder with Eve.

There were games and plenty of them. Blasts, screams, moans, laughter poured out of machines. There were two holo-fields on this level, with one in use as a skinny kid with vacant eyes paid his shot to do battle with his choice of Roman gladiator, Urban War terrorist, or spine cracker. Eve didn’t bother to watch the first round.

For live entertainment, there was a wrestling pit where two women with enormous man-made breasts shiny with oil grunted and slithered to the cheers of the crowd.

The walls were alive with screens that flashed action from dozens of sporting events, on and off planet. Bets were laid. Money lost. Fists flew.

She ignored them as well, working her way through the areas, beyond privacy tubes where patrons drank and played their games of chance or skill in greedy solitude, past the bar where others sat sulkily, and into the next area where music played low and dark in an edgy backdrop to more games.

A dozen pool tables were lined up like coffins, the border lights flickering as balls clicked or bumped. Half the tables were empty, but for those in use, the stakes were serious.

A black man with his shining bald head decorated with a gold tattoo of a coiled snake matched his skill against one of the house droids. She was tall, beefy, dressed in a pair of neon green swatches that covered tits and crotch. A knife with a pencil-slim blade was strapped, unsheathed, at her hip.

Eve spotted Ledo at the back table, playing what appeared to be round the clock with three other men. From the smug smile on Ledo’s face and the dark expression on the others, it was a safe bet who was winning.

She passed the droid first, watched her finger her sticker in warning or out of habit as the snake tattoo muttered something about cop cunts.

Eve might have made an issue of it, but that would have given Ledo a chance to rabbit. She didn’t want to have to hunt him down a second time.

Conversation dropped off table by table, with the murmured suggestions running from vile to annoyed. In the same kind of second-nature gesture as the droid, Eve flicked open her jacket, danced her fingers over her weapon.

Ledo leaned over the table, his custom-designed cue with its silver tip poised against the humming five ball. The challenge light beeped against the left bank. If his aim was true and he popped that, then sank the ball, he’d be up another fifty credits.

He wasn’t drunk yet, or smoke hazed. He never touched his products during a match. He was as straight as he ever was, his bony body poised, his pale straw hair slicked back from a milk-white face. Only his eyes had color, and they were a chocolate brown going pink at the rims. He was a few slippery steps away from becoming one of the funky-junkies he served.

If he kept up the habit, his eyes wouldn’t stay sharp enough to play the ball.

Eve let him take his shot. His hands were trembling lightly, but he’d adjusted the weight of his cue to compensate. He popped the light, ringing the score bell, then the ball rolled across the table and dropped cleanly into the pocket.

Though he was smart enough not to cheer, the wide grin split his face as he straightened. Then his gaze landed on Eve. He didn’t place her right away, but he recognized cop.

“Hey, Ledo. We need to chat.”

“I ain’t done nothing. I got a game going here.”

“Looks like it’s time out.” She stepped forward, then shifted her gaze slowly to the bulk of muscle that moved into her path.

He had skin the color of copper, and his chest was wide as Utah. A little frisson of anticipation snuck up her spine as she lifted her gaze to his face.

Both eyebrows were pierced and sported gold hoops. His eyeteeth were silver and filed to points that glinted as his lips peeled back. He had a foot on her in height, likely a hundred pounds in weight.

Her first thought was: Good, he’s perfect. And she smiled at him.

“Get out of my face.” She said it quietly, almost pleasantly.

“We got a game going here.” His voice rumbled like thunder over a canyon. “I’m into this fuckface for five hundred. Game’s not over until I get my chance to win it back.”

“As soon as the fuckface and I have a chat, you can get back to your game.”

She wasn’t worried about Ledo running now. Not since the two other players had flanked him and were holding his spindly arms. But the slab of meat blocking her gave her a light body shove and showed his fangs again.

“We don’t want cops in here.” He shoved her again. “We eat cops in here.”

“Well, in that case . . .” She took a step back, watched his eyes glint in triumph. Then, quick as a snake, she snatched up Ledo’s prized cue, rammed the point end into the copper-colored gut. And when he grunted, bent forward, she swung it like a pinch hitter in the bottom of the ninth.

It made a satisfactory cracking sound when it connected with the side of his head. He stumbled once, shook his head violently, then with blood in his eye, came at her.

She shot her knee into his balls, watched his face go from gleaming copper to pasty gray as he dropped.

Stepping out of the way, Eve scanned the room. “Now, anybody else want to try to eat this cop?”

“You broke my cue!” Close to tears, Ledo lunged forward and grabbed for his baby. The handle jerked up and caught Eve on the cheekbone. She saw stars, but she didn’t blink.

“Ledo, you asshole,” she began.

“Hold it.” The man who walked in looked like one of the ladder-climbing execs that raced along the streets overhead and several blocks north. He was slim and stylish and clean.

The thin layer of scum that coated everything else didn’t seem to touch him.

With one hand restraining Ledo, Eve turned, yanked out her badge. “At the moment,” she said evenly, “I’ve got no problem with you. Do you want that to change?”

“Not at all . . .” He flicked his silvery blue eyes at her badge, over her face, let them pass over Peabody, who stood at alert. “Lieutenant,” he finished. “I’m afraid we rarely have any of New York’s finest visit the establishment. My customers were taken by surprise.”

He dropped his gaze to the man who still moaned on the floor. “In a number of ways,” he added. “I’m Carmine, and this is my place. What can I do for you?”

“Not a thing, Carmine. I just want to chat with one of your . . . customers.”

“I’m sure you’d like to have somewhere quiet to chat. Why don’t I show you to one of our privacy rooms?”

“That’ll be just dandy, Carmine. Peabody?” Eve wrenched the cue out of Ledo’s grip and passed it over. “My aide’s going to be walking right behind you, Ledo. If you don’t keep up, she’s likely to stumble and that precious stick of yours might get rammed right up your butt.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Ledo claimed in something close to a wail, but he kept pace with Eve as she followed Carmine through a curtained area to a line of doors.

Carmine opened one, gestured. “Anything else I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Just keep your customers chilled, Carmine. Neither one of us wants NYPSD to order a sweep on this place.”

He acknowledged the warning with a nod, then left them alone as Eve tossed the whining Ledo into the room. “You stand, Peabody. You’re cleared to use your weapon if anyone blinks at you.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody shifted her grip on the cue, set her free hand on her stunner, and put her back to the wall.

Satisfied, Eve stepped inside, closed the door. As amenities went, it was a zero, with its narrow cot, smudged view screen, and sticky floor. But it was private.

“Well, Ledo.” Eve fingered the raw bruise on her cheekbone—not because it stung, though it did. She used the gesture to make Ledo tremble in fear of retribution. “Been awhile.”

“I’ve been clean,” he said quickly, and she laughed, keeping the sound low and sharp.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. You wouldn’t be clean after six days in a decontamination chamber. You know what this does?” She tapped a finger on her facial bruise. “This assaulting an officer deal gives me the right to search you right now, to haul your skinny butt into Central, and to get a warrant to go through your flop.”

“Hey, Dallas, hey.” He held up both hands, palms up. “It was an accident.”

“Maybe I’ll let it go at that, Ledo. Maybe I will—if you convince me you’re in a cooperative mood.”

“Damn straight, Dallas. What d’ya want? Some Jazz, Go Smoke, Ecstasy?” He started to dig in his pockets. “No charge, none whatsoever for you. I don’t got it now, I’ll get it.”

Her eyes turned to bright gold slits. “You take anything out of your pockets but your ugly fingers, Ledo, you’re even more stupid than I figured. And I figured you for a brain the size of a walnut.”

His hands froze, his thin face went blank. Then he tried a manly chuckle, lifting his empty hands clear. “Like you said, Dallas, been a while. I guess maybe I forgot how you stand on shit. No harm, right?”

She said nothing, simply stared him down until the sweat popped out on his upper lip. She’d see he was back in a cage, she mused, at the first opportunity. But for now, she had bigger fish on the line.

“You—you want info? I ain’t your weasel. Never was any cop’s weasel, but I’m willing to trade info.”

“Trade?” she said, coldly.

“Give.” Even his tiny brain began to click in. “You ask, I know, I tell. How’s that?”

“That’s not bad. Snooks.”

“The old man with the flowers?” Ledo shrugged what there was of his shoulders. “Somebody sliced him open, I hear. Took pieces of him. I don’t touch that stuff.”

“You deal to him.”

Ledo did his best to look cagey. “Maybe we had some business, off and on.”

“How’d he pay?”

“He’d beg off some credits, or sell some of his flowers and shit. He had the means when he needed a hit of something—which was mostly.”

“He ever stiff you or any other dealers?”

“No. You don’t give sleepers nothing unless they pay up first. Can’t trust ’em. But Snooks, he was okay. No harm. He just minded his own. Nobody was doing for him that I ever heard. Good customer, no hassle.”

“You work the area where he camped regularly?”

“Gotta make a living, Dallas.” When she pinned him with her stare again, he realized his mistake. “Yeah, I deal there. It’s mostly my turf. Couple others slide in and out, but we don’t get in each other’s way. Free enterprise.”

“Did you see anybody who didn’t look like they belonged down there lately, anybody asking about Snooks or those like him?”

“Like the suit?”

Eve felt her blood jump, but only leaned back casually against the wall. “What suit?”

“Guy came down one night, duded top to bottom. Frigid threads, man. Looked me up.” More comfortable now, Ledo sat on the narrow bed, crossed one stick leg over the other. “Figured at first he didn’t want to buy his stuff in his own neighborhood, you know. So he comes slumming. But he wasn’t looking for hits.”

Eve waited while Ledo entertained himself by picking at his cuticles. “What was he looking for?”

“Snooks, I figure. Dude said what he looked like, but I can’t say that meant dick to me. Mostly the sleepers look alike. But he said how this one drew stuff and made flowers, so I copped to Snooks on that.”

“And you told him where Snooks kept his crib.”

“Sure, why not?” He started to smile, then his tiny little brain began the arduous process of deduction. “Man, shit, the suit cut Snooks open? Why’d he do that for? Look, look, Dallas, I’m clean here. Dude asks where the sleeper flops, I tell him. I mean, why not, right? I don’t know how he’s got in mind to go killing anybody.”

Sweat was popping again as he jumped to his feet. “You can’t bounce it back on me. I just talked to the bastard is all.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Good.” In plea or frustration, Ledo threw out his arms. “A dude. A suit. Clean and shiny.”

“Age, race, height, weight,” Eve said flatly.

“Man, man.” Grabbing hanks of his hair, Ledo began to pace the tiny room. “I don’t pay attention. It was a couple, three nights ago. A white dude?” He posed it as a question, tossing Eve a hopeful look. She only watched him. “I think he was, maybe white. I was looking at his coat, you know. Long, black coat. Looked real warm and soft.”

Moron, was all Eve could think. “When you talked to him, did you have to look up, or down, or straight on?”

“Ah . . . up!” He beamed like a child acing a spelling quiz. “Yeah, he was a tall dude. I don’t get his face, Dallas. Man, it was dark and we weren’t standing in no light or nothing. He had his hat on, his coat all buttoned. It was cold as a dead whore out there.”

“You never saw him before? He hasn’t come around since?”

“No, just that one time. A couple—no three nights back. Just the once.” Ledo swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“You ought to get that tattooed on your forehead, Ledo, then you wouldn’t have to say it every five minutes. I’m done for now, but I want to be able to find you, real easy, if I need to talk to you again. If I have to hunt you up, it’s going to piss me off.”

“I’ll be around.” His relief was so great, his eyes went shiny with tears. “Everybody knows where to find me.”

He started to dash out, then froze like an icicle when Eve clamped a hand on his arm. “If you see the suit again, Ledo, or one like him, you get in touch. You don’t say anything to put the suit off, then you get your ass on your ’link and call me.” She bared her teeth in a smile that made his bowels loosen. “Everybody knows where to find me, too.”

He opened his mouth, then decided that cold look in her eyes meant he shouldn’t attempt to negotiate weasel pay. He bobbed his head three times and sprang through the door when she opened it.

The muscles in Peabody’s gut didn’t unknot until they were back in their vehicle and three blocks east. “Well, that was fun,” she said in a bright voice. “Next, let’s find some sharks and go swimming.”

“You held, Peabody.”

The muscles that had just loosened quivered with pleasure. From Eve, it was the staunchest of cop compliments. “I was scared right down to the toes.”

“That’s because you’re not stupid. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t be riding with me. Now we know they wanted Snooks in particular,” Eve mused. “Not just any sleeper, not just any heart. Him. His. What made him so damn special? Pull up his data again, read it off.”

Eve listened to the facts, the steps of a man’s life, from birth to waste, and shook her head. “There has to be something there. They didn’t pull him out of a damn hat. A family thing maybe. . .” She let the theory wind through her mind. “One of his kids or grandkids, pissed off about the way he dropped out, left them flat. The heart. Could be symbolic.”

“You broke my heart, I’m taking yours?”

“Something like that.” Families, all those degrees of love and hate that brewed in them, confused and baffled her. “We’ll dig into the family, run with this idea for a bit, mostly just to close it off.”

She pulled back up at the scene, scanning the area first. The police sensors were still in place, everything secure. Apparently, there was no one in this neighborhood with the skill or knowledge to bypass them to get to whatever was left in Snooks’s crib.

She spotted the pair of glide-cart vendors on the corner, huddling unhappily in the smoke pouring off the grill. Business was not brisk.

A couple of panhandlers wandered aimlessly. Their beggars’ licenses hung in clear view around their scrawny necks. And, Eve thought, they were likely forged. Across the street, the homeless and the mad crowded around a barrel fire that appeared to let off more stink than warmth.

“Talk to the vendors,” Eve ordered Peabody. “They see more than most. We could get lucky. I want another look at his crib.”

“Ah, I bet they’d talk looser if I were to buy a soy-dog.”

Eve arched a brow as they climbed out of opposite doors. “You must be desperate if you’re willing to risk putting anything that comes from this neighborhood in your mouth.”

“Pretty desperate,” Peabody agreed and squared her shoulders, strode purposefully toward the grill.

Eve felt eyes on her as she uncoded the sensors long enough to pass through. The eyes burned into her back: anger, resentment, confusion, misery. She could feel all of it, every degree of despair and hope that slithered its way across the littered street to crawl over her skin.

She struggled not to think of it.

Pulling back the ratty blanket, she ducked inside the crib, hissed once through her teeth at the lingering stench of waste and death.

Who were you, Snooks? What were you?

She picked up a small bouquet of paper flowers, coated now with the thin layer of dust the crime team sweepers had left behind. They’d have sucked up hair, fibers, fluids, the dead cells the body sloughs off routinely. There would have been grime and muck and dirt to sift through. A scene as nasty as this one would take time. Separating, analyzing, identifying.

But she didn’t think the findings there would lead her to the answers she needed.

“You were careful,” she murmured to the killer. “You were neat. You didn’t leave any of yourself here. Or so you thought.”

Both victim and killer always left something. An imprint, an echo. She knew how to look and listen for it.

They’d come in their fancy car, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter. Dressed warmly, dressed well. They hadn’t crept in, hadn’t attempted to blend.

Arrogance.

They hadn’t rushed, hadn’t worried.

Confidence.

Disgust. They would have felt it, mildly, as they drew the curtain back and the smell hit them. But doctors would be used to unpleasant odors, she imagined.

They wore masks. Surgical masks. And their hands would have been encased in gloves or Seal-It. For protection, for routine, for caution.

They’d used antiseptic. Sterilizing? Routine, she mused, just routine as it wouldn’t have mattered if the patient had suffered from any contamination.

They would have needed light. Something stronger and cleaner than the wavering glow from the candle stub or battery flash Snooks kept on one of his lopsided shelves.

In the doctor’s bag, she imagined. A high-powered minilamp. Microgoggles. Laser scalpel, and other tools of the trade.

Did he wake up then? she wondered. Did he surface from sleep for just a moment when the light flashed? Did he have time to think, wonder, fear before the pressure syringe punched flesh and sent him under?

Then it was all business. But that she couldn’t imagine. She knew nothing about the routine of doctors opening bodies. But she thought it would be just that. More routine.

Working quickly, competently, saying little.

How did it feel to hold a man’s heart in your hands?

Was that routine as well, or did it shoot a thrill of power, of accomplishment, of glory through the mind? She thought it would. Even if it was only for an instant, he or she felt like a god.

A god proud enough to take the time, to use his talents to do the job well.

And that’s what they had left behind, she thought. Pride, arrogance, and cool blood.

Her eyes were still narrowed in concentration when her communicator sounded. Laying the paper flowers aside, she reached for it.

“Dallas.”

Feeney’s mournful face swam on the miniscreen. “I found another one, Dallas. You better come in and have a look.”

“Erin Spindler,” Feeney began, nodding toward the image on the view screen in one of the smaller conference rooms at Cop Central. “Mixed race female, age seventy-eight, licensed companion, retired. Last few years, she ran a small stable of LCs. All street workers. Got slapped regularly with citations. Let some of her ponies’ licenses lapse or didn’t bother with the regulation health checks. She got roused for running scams on johns a few times but slithered clear.”

Eve studied the image. A sharp, thin face, skin faded to yellow paste, eyes hard. Mouth flat with a downward, dissatisfied droop. “What section did she work?”

“Lower East Side. Started out uptown. Looks like she had some class if you go back fifty years. Started using, started sliding.” He moved his shoulders. “Had a taste for Jazz, and that doesn’t come cheap uptown. She went from appointment book whore to pickup by the time she hit forty.”

“When was she murdered?”

“Six weeks ago. One of the LCs found her in her flop down on Twelfth.”

“Was her heart taken?”

“Nope. Kidneys.” Feeney turned and brought straight data on-screen. “Her building didn’t have any security, so there’s no record of who went in and out. Investigator’s report is inconclusive as to whether she let the killer in or he bypassed her locks. No sign of struggle, no sexual assault, no apparent robbery. Victim was found in bed, minus the kidneys. Postmortem puts her dead for twelve hours before discovery.”

“What’s the status of the case?”

“Open.” Feeney paused. “And inactive.”

“What the hell do you mean, inactive?”

“Thought that would get you.” His mouth thinned as he brought up more data. “The primary—some dickhead named Rosswell attached to the one sixty-second—concluded the victim was killed by an irate john. It’s his decision that the nature of the case is unclosable and not worth the department’s time or efforts.”

“The one six-two? Same house as Bowers. Do they breed morons down there? Peabody,” she snapped, but her aide already had her ’link out.

“Yes sir, contacting Rosswell at the one six-two. I assume you’ll want him here as soon as possible for a consult.”

“I want his sorry ass in my office within the hour. Good tag, Feeney, thanks. You get any others?”

“This was the only local that fit like crimes. I figured you’d want to move on it right away. I’ve got McNab running the rest.”

“Let him know I want a call if anything pops. Can you feed this data into my office and home units?”

“Already done.” With the faintest of grins, Feeney tugged on his ear. “I haven’t had much fun lately. Mind if I watch you ream Rosswell?”

“Not a bit. In fact, why don’t you help me?”

He let out a sigh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“We’ll do it in here. Peabody?”

“Rosswell will report in one hour, Lieutenant.” Struggling not to look smug, she pocketed her ’link. “I believe we could say he’s terrified of you.”

Eve’s smile was slow and grim. “He should be. I’ll be in my office; tag me when he gets here.”

Her ’link was ringing when she walked in. She answered absently as she hunted through her drawers for anything that might resemble food.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

She blinked at the screen, then dropped into her chair to continue the search when she saw it was Roarke. “Somebody’s been stealing my candy again,” she complained.

“There’s no trusting cops.” When she only snorted, his eyes narrowed. “Come closer.”

“Hmm.” Damn it, she wanted her candy bar. “What?”

“Where did you get that?”

“Get what? Aha! Didn’t find this one, did you, you thieving bastard.” In triumph she plucked a Gooybar from under a stack of yellow sheets.

“Eve, how did you bruise your face?”

“My what?” She was already ripping it open, taking a bite. “Oh, this?” It was the annoyance, barely audible under that musical voice, that made her smile. “Playing pool with the guys. Got a little rough for a minute. Now there are a couple of cues that won’t ever be quite the same.”

Roarke ordered himself to relax the hands he’d fisted. He hated seeing marks on her. “You never mentioned you liked the game. We’ll have to have a match.”

“Anytime, pal. Anywhere.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ll be late.”

“Oh.” It still jolted her that he so routinely let her know his whereabouts. “Got an appointment?”

“I’m already there. I’m in New L.A.—a little problem that required immediate personal attention. But I will be home tonight.”

She said nothing, knowing he’d wanted to assure her she wouldn’t be sleeping alone, where the nightmares would chase her. “Um, how’s the weather?”

“It’s lovely. Sunny and seventy.” He smiled at her. “I’ll pretend not to enjoy it since you’re not with me.”

“Do that. See you later.”

“Stay out of pool halls, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah.” She watched the screen go blank and wished she didn’t have this vague dissatisfaction that he wouldn’t be there when she went home. In less than a year, she’d gotten much too used to him being there.

Annoyed with herself, she engaged her computer. Her mood was distracted enough that she didn’t bother to smack it when it buzzed at her.

She called up the files from Snooks and Spindler, ordered both images on, split screen.

Used up, she thought. Self-abuse, neglect. It was there on both faces. But Snooks, well, there was a kind of pitiful sweetness in his face. As for Spindler, there was nothing sweet about her. There was some twenty years between them in age. Different sex, different races, different backgrounds.

“Display crime scene photos, Spindler,” she ordered.

The room was a flop, small, crowded, with a single window the width of a spread hand in one wall. But, Eve noted, it was clean. Tidy.

Spindler lay on the bed, on faded sheets that were stained with blood. Her eyes were closed, her mouth lax. She was nude, and her body was no pretty picture. Eve could see that what appeared to be a nightgown was neatly folded and laid on the table beside the bed.

She might have been sleeping if not for the blood that stained the sheets.

They’d drugged her, Eve decided, then undressed her. Folded the gown. Tidy, organized, precise.

How had they chosen this one? she wondered. And why?

In the next shot, the crime scene team had turned the body. Dignity, modesty were cast aside as the camera zoomed in. Scrawny legs on a scrawny body. Sagging breasts, wrinkled skin. Spindler hadn’t put her profits into body maintenance, which was probably wise, Eve mused, as her investment would have been cut short.

“Close-up of injury,” she ordered, and the picture shifted. They had opened her, the slices narrower than Eve had imagined. Nearly delicate. And though no one had bothered to close her back up, they had used what she now knew was surgical freeze-coat to stop the flow of blood.

Routine again, she concluded. Pride. Didn’t surgeons often allow an underling to close for them? The big, important work had already been done, so why not let someone less prominent do a little sewing?

She would ask someone, but she thought she’d seen that on-screen in videos.

“Computer, analyze surgical procedure on both subjects. Run probability scan thereafter. What probability percentage that both procedures were performed by the same person?”

Working . . . analysis will require approximately ten minutes.

“Fine.” She rose, walked to her window to watch the air traffic sputter. The sky had gone the color of bruises. She could see one of the minicopters wavering as it tried to compensate for a gust of wind.

It would snow or sleet before the end of shift, she thought. The drive home would be hideous.

She thought of Roarke, three thousand miles away, with palm trees and blue skies.

She thought of those nameless lost souls struggling to find a little heat around an ugly fire in a rusted barrel and where they would be tonight when the snows came and the wind howled down the streets like a mad thing.

Absently, she pressed her fingers to the window, felt the chill on her skin.

And it came to her, sharp as a slap, a memory long buried with other memories of the girl she had been. Thin, hollow-eyed, and trapped in one of the endless horrid rooms where the windows were cracked and the heat broken so that the wind screamed and screamed against the damaged glass and shook the walls and burst over her skin like fists of ice.

Cold, so cold. So hungry. So afraid. Sitting in the dark, alone in the dark. All the while knowing he would come back. He always came back. And when he did, he might not be drunk enough to just fall on the bed and leave her be.

He might not leave her huddled behind the single ratty chair that smelled of smoke and sweat where she tried to hide from him and the brittle cold.

She fell asleep shivering, watching her breath form and fade in the dark.

But when he got home, he wasn’t drunk enough, and she couldn’t hide from him or the bitterness.

“Chicago.” The word burst out of her, like a poison that burned the throat, and she came back to herself with both hands fisted hard against her heart.

And she was shivering, shivering again as she had in that freezing room during another winter.

Where had that come from? she asked herself as she fought to even her breathing, to swallow back the sickness that had gushed into her throat. How did she know it was Chicago? Why was she so sure?

And what did it matter? Furious now, she rapped one of her fists lightly, rhythmically against the window. It was done, it was over.

It had to be over.

Analysis complete. . . . Beginning probability ratio . . .

She closed her eyes a moment, rubbed her hands hard over her dry lips. This, she reminded herself, was what mattered. What she was now, what she did now. The job, the justice, the answers.

But her head was throbbing when she turned back to her computer, sat in her chair.

Probability ratio complete. Probability that the procedures on both subjects were done by the same person is 97.8%.

“Okay,” Eve said softly. “Okay. He did them both. Now, how many more?”

Insufficient data to compute . . .

“I wasn’t asking you, asshole.” She spoke absently, then, leaning forward, forgot her queasy stomach, her aching head as she began to pick her way through data.

She’d worked through the bulk of it when Peabody knocked briskly and stuck her head in the door. “Rosswell’s here.”

“Great. Good.”

There was a gleam in Eve’s eyes as she rose that had Peabody feeling a stir of pity for Rosswell, and—she was human, after all—a ripple of anticipation for the show about to start. She was careful to hide both reactions as she followed Eve to the conference room.

Rosswell was fat and bald. A detective’s salary would have covered standard body maintenance if he was too lazy or stupid to exercise. It would have covered elementary hair replacement treatment if he had any vanity. But self-image couldn’t compete with Rosswell’s deep and passionate love of gambling.

This love was very one-sided. Gambling didn’t love Rosswell back. It punished him, laughed at him. It beat him over the head with his own inadequacies in the area. But he couldn’t stay away.

So he lived in little more than a flop a block from his station house—and a two-minute walk from the nearest gaming dive. When he was lucky enough to beat the odds, his winnings were funneled back to cover previous losses. He was constantly dodging and making deals with the spine crackers.

Eve had some of these details from the data she’d just scanned. What she saw waiting in the conference room was a washed-up cop, one who’d lost his edge and was simply cruising his way toward his pension.

He didn’t rise when she came in but continued to slouch at the conference table. To establish dominance, Eve merely stared at him silently until he flushed and got to his feet.

And Peabody was right, she noted. Under the show of carelessness, there was a glint of fear in his eyes.

“Lieutenant Dallas?”

“That’s right, Rosswell.” She invited him to sit by jabbing a finger at the chair. Once again, she said nothing. Silence had a way of scraping the nerves raw. And raw nerves had a way of stuttering out the truth.

“Ah . . .” His eyes, a cloudy hazel in a doughy face, shifted from her to Feeney to Peabody, then back. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“It’s about half-assed police work.” When he blinked, Eve sat on the edge of the table. It kept her head above him, forcing him to tip his back to look up at her. “The Spindler case—your case, Rosswell. Tell me about it.”

“Spindler?” Face blank, he lifted his shoulders. “Jesus, Lieutenant, I got a lot of cases. Who remembers names?”

A good cop remembers, she thought. “Erin Spindler, retired LC. Maybe this’ll jog your memory. She was missing some internal organs.”

“Oh, sure.” He brightened right up. “She bought it in bed. Kinda seems funny since she got bought there plenty.” When no one cracked up at his irony, he cleared his throat. “It was pretty straight, Lieutenant. She ragged on her ponies and their johns all the time. Had a rep for it. Kept herself whacked on street Jazz most of the time. Nobody had a good word to say about her, I can tell you. Nobody shed a tear. Figures one of her girls or one of the customers got fed up and did her. What’s the deal?” he asked, lifting his shoulders again. “No big loss to society.”

“You’re stupid, Rosswell, and while that annoys me, I have to figure maybe you were born stupid. But you’ve got a badge, so that means you can’t be careless, and you sure as hell can’t decide a case isn’t worth your time. Your investigation in this matter was a joke, your report pathetic, and your conclusions asinine.”

“Hey, I did my job.”

“The hell you did.” Eve engaged the computer, shot an image on-screen. The neat slice in Spindler’s flesh dominated. “You’re telling me a street pony did that? Why the hell isn’t she raking in seven figures a year at a health center? A john, maybe, but Spindler didn’t work the johns. How did he get to her? Why? Why the hell did he take her kidneys?”

“I don’t know what’s in some lunatic killer’s mind, for Christ’s sake.”

“That’s why I’m going to see to it you’re not working Homicide after today.”

“Wait just a damn minute.” He was on his feet, eyeball to eyeball with her. Peabody gave Feeney a quick glance to gauge his reaction and saw his thin, wicked grin. “You got no cause to go to my boss on this and make trouble for me. I followed the book on this case.”

“Then your book’s missing a few pages.” Her voice was calm, deadly calm. “You didn’t pursue organ replacement or disbursement centers. You didn’t do a run on surgeons, you never attempted contact with black market sources on illegal organ transfer.”

“Why the hell would I?” His toes bumped hers as he leaned forward. “Some sicko cut her open and took some souvenirs. Case closed. Who the hell gives a shit about some worn-out whore?”

“I do. And if you’re not out of my face in five seconds, I’ll write you up.”

It took him three, with teeth grinding audibly, but he shifted away. “I did the job,” he said, with the words bitten off sharp as darts. “You got no cause to poke into my caseload and give me grief.”

“You did a crappy job, Rosswell. And when one of your cases crosses one of mine, and I see just how crappy a job you did, I’ve got plenty of cause. I’ve got a sidewalk sleeper missing a heart. My probability scan tells me the same one who opened him up did Spindler.”

“I heard you screwed up on that one.” He smiled now, panicked enough to challenge her.

“Know Bowers, do you?” She smiled back, so fiercely he began to sweat again.

“She ain’t no fan of yours.”

“Now, that hurts, Rosswell. It really hurts my feelings. And when my feelings get hurt, I like to take it out on somebody.” She leaned down. “Want it to be you?”

He licked his lips. If they’d been alone, he could have backed down easily. But there were two more cops in the room. Two more mouths that could flap. “If you lay hands on me, I’ll file a complaint. Just like Bowers. Being Whitney’s pet won’t save you from an IAB investigation then.”

Her hand curled into a fist. And, oh, she yearned to use it. But she only kept her eyes steady on his. “Hear that, Feeney? Rosswell here’s going to tell teacher on me.”

“I can see you’re shaking in your boots over that, Dallas.” Cheerfully, Feeney moved forward. “Let me punch this fat-assed fucker for you.”

“That’s real nice of you, Feeney, but let’s try to handle this like mature adults first. Rosswell, you make me sick. Maybe you earned that badge years ago, but you don’t deserve it now. You don’t deserve to work the shit and piss detail on body removal. And that’s just what it’s going to say in my report. Meanwhile, you’re relieved as primary on the Spindler case. You’ll turn over all data and reports to my aide.”

“I don’t do that unless I get it straight from my boss.” Saving face was paramount now, but even his valiant attempt to sound disdainful fell far short. “I don’t work for you, Dallas, and your rank, your rep, and all your husband’s money don’t mean squat to me.”

“So noted,” Eve said levelly. “Peabody, contact Captain Desevres at the one six-two.”

“Yes, sir.”

She held her temper, but it cost her. The headache turned up from simmer to boil, and the knots in her stomach grew teeth. It helped a little to watch Rosswell sweat while she meticulously outlined the details, tore his investigation into tattered shreds, and requested the transfer of the case, with all data and reports, to her.

Desevres asked for an hour to review the matter, but everyone knew that was for form’s sake. Rosswell was out, and very likely soon to receive a much pithier dressing down from his own division head.

When she ended transmission, Eve gathered up files and discs. “You’re dismissed, Detective.”

His face bone white with fury and frustration, he got to his feet. “Bowers had it right. I hope she buries you.”

Eve glanced in his direction. “Detective Rosswell, you are dismissed. Peabody, contact Morris at the ME’s office. He needs to be made aware of this connecting homicide. Feeney, can we light a fire under McNab? See what he’s come up with?”

The embarrassment of being ignored washed color, ugly and red, back into Rosswell’s face. When the door slammed behind him, Feeney flashed Eve a grin.

“You sure are making lots of new friends these days.”

“It’s my sparkling personality and wit. They can’t resist it. God, what an ass.” But she sat, struggling to shrug off annoyance. “I’m going to check out the Canal Street Clinic. Spindler used it for her health checks over the last twelve years. Maybe Snooks hit it a couple times. It’s a place to start. Peabody, you’re with me.”

She took the elevator straight down to the garage level and had just stepped through the doors when Feeney tagged her by communicator. “What have you got?”

“McNab hit on a chemi-head named Jasper Mott. Another heart theft, three months back.”

“Three months? Who’s the primary? What are the leads?”

“It wasn’t NYPSD’s deal, Dallas. It was Chicago.”

“What?” The cold came shimmering back to her skin, the image of the long spider crack in window glass.

“Chicago,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” But she stared down the long tube of the garage to where Peabody waited patiently at their vehicle. “Can you get Peabody the name of the primary on it, the necessary data? I’ll have her contact CPSD for the files and status.”

“Sure, no problem. Maybe you should eat something, kid. You look sick.”

“I’m fine. Tell McNab I said good work, and keep at it.”

“Trouble, sir?”

“No.” Eve crossed to her car, uncoded, and climbed in. “We got another one in Chicago. Feeney’s going to send you the details. Put out a request to the primary and his division head for a copy of appropriate data. Copy to the commander. Do it by the book, but do it fast.”

“Unlike some,” Peabody said primly, “I know all the pages. How come a jerk like Rosswell makes detective?”

“Because life,” Eve said with feeling, “often sucks.”

Life definitely sucked for the patients at the Canal Street Clinic. The place was jammed with the suffering, the hopeless, and the dying.

A woman with a battered face breast-fed an infant while a toddler sat at her feet and wailed. Someone hacked wetly, monotonously. A half dozen street LCs sat glassy-eyed and bored, waiting for their regulation checkup to clear them for the night’s work.

Eve waded her way through to the window where the nurse on duty manned a desk. “Enter your data on the proper form,” she began, the edge of tedium flattening her voice. “Don’t forget your medical card number, personal ID, and current address.”

For an answer, Eve took out her badge and held it up to the reinforced glass. “Who’s in charge?”

The nurse’s eyes, gray and bored, flicked over the badge. “That would be Dr. Dimatto today. She’s with a patient.”

“Is there an office back there, a private room?”

“If you want to call it that.” When Eve simply angled her head, the nurse, annoyed, released the coded lock on the door.

With obvious reluctance, she shuffled in the lead down a short hallway. As they slipped through the door, Peabody glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve never been in a place like this before.”

“Consider yourself lucky.” Eve had spent plenty of time in such places. A ward of the state didn’t rate private health care or upscale clinics.

At the nurse’s gesture, she stepped into a box-sized room the doctors on rotation used for an office. Two chairs, a desk barely bigger than a packing crate, and equipment, Eve mused, glancing at the computer system, even worse than what she was reduced to using at Central.

The office didn’t boast a window, but someone had tried to brighten it up with a couple of art posters and a struggling green vine in a chipped pot.

And there, on a wall shelf, tucked between a teetering stack of medical discs and a model of the human body, was a small bouquet of paper flowers.

“Snooks,” Eve murmured. “He used this place.”

“Sir?”

“His flowers.” Eve picked them from the shelf. “He liked someone here enough to give them, and someone cared enough to keep them. Peabody, we just got our connection.”

She was still holding the flowers when the door burst open. The woman who strode in was young, tiny, with the white coat of her profession slung over a baggy sweater and faded jeans. Her hair was short and even more ragged that Eve’s. Still, its honeycomb color set off the pretty rose-and-cream face.

Her eyes were the color of storms, and her voice was just as threatening.

“You’ve got three minutes. I’ve got patients waiting, and a badge doesn’t mean dick in here.”

Eve arched a brow. The opening would have irritated her under most circumstances, but she noted the shadows of fatigue under the gray eyes and the stiffness of posture that was a defense against it.

She’d worked until exhaustion often enough to recognize the signs and sympathize with them.

“We sure are popular these days, Peabody. Dallas,” she said briefly. “Lieutenant, Eve. I need data on a couple of patients.”

“Dimatto, Dr. Louise, and I don’t give data out on patients. Not to cops, not to anyone. So if that’s all—”

“Dead patients,” Eve said as Louise spun toward the door again. “Murdered patients. I’m Homicide.”

Turning back, Louise took a more careful look at Eve. She saw a lean body, a tough face, and tired eyes. “You’re investigating a murder?”

“Murders. Two.” Watching Louise, she held out the paper flowers. “Yours?”

“Yes. So . . .” She trailed off and concern washed over her face. “Oh, not Snooks! Who would kill Snooks? He couldn’t have been more harmless.”

“He was your patient?”

“He wasn’t anyone’s patient, really.” She moved over to an ancient AutoChef and programmed coffee. “We take a medi-van out once a week, do on-site treatments.” The machine made a hissing sound, and swearing, Louise yanked the door open. Inside was a puddle of what appeared to be some offensive body fluid. “Out of cups again,” she muttered and left the door swinging open as she turned back. “They keep cutting our budget.”

“Tell me about it,” Eve said dryly.

With a half laugh, Louise ran her hands up over her face and into her hair. “I used to see Snooks around when it was my rotation on the medi-van. I bribed him into a street exam one night about a month ago. It cost me ten credits to find out he’d be dead of cancer in about six months without treatment. I tried to explain it all to him, but he just didn’t care. He gave me the flowers and told me I was a nice girl.”

She let out a long sigh. “I don’t think anything was wrong with his mind—though I couldn’t bribe him into a psych. He just didn’t give a damn.”

“You have the records of the exam.”

“I can dig them up, but what’s the point? If he was murdered, cancer didn’t get him.”

“I’d like them for my files,” Eve said. “And any records you have on Erin Spindler. She got her health checks here.”

“Spindler?” Louise shook her head. “I don’t know if she was one of mine. But if you want patient records, Lieutenant, you’re going to have to give me more data. How did they die?”

“During surgery, so to speak,” Eve said, and told her.

After the first shock leaped into Louise’s eyes, they went cool and flat. She waited, considered, then shook her head. “I don’t know about Spindler, but I can tell you that there was nothing in Snooks worth harvesting, not even for black market use.”

“Somebody took his heart, and they did a superior job of it. Who’s your top surgical consult?”

“We don’t have outside consults,” Louise said wearily. “I’m it. So if you want to take me in for interview or to charge me, you’ll just have to wait until I finish with my patients.”

Eve nearly smiled. “I’m not charging you, Doctor, at this time. Unless you’d like to confess. To this.” From her bag, Eve took two stills, one of each victim, offered them.

Lips pursed, Louise studied them, breathed out slow. “Someone has magic hands,” she murmured. “I’m good, but I’m not even close to this level of skill. To manage this in a sleeper’s crib, for God’s sake. Under those conditions.” She shook her head, handed the stills back. “I can hate what those hands did, Lieutenant, but I admire their ability.”

“Any opinion on whose hands they might be?”

“I don’t mingle with the gods professionally, and that’s what you’re looking for here. One of the gods. I’ll have Jan get you what you need. I have to get back to my patients.”

But she paused, studying the flowers again. Something came into her eyes that was more than fatigue. It might have been grief. “We’ve eradicated or learned to cure nearly every natural killer of human beings but one. Some suffer and die before their time anyway because they’re too poor, too afraid, or too stubborn to seek help. But we keep chipping away at that. Eventually, we’ll win.”

She looked back over at Eve. “I believe that. We’ll win on this front, but on yours, Lieutenant, there’ll never be full victory. The natural predator of man will always be man. So I’ll keep treating the bodies that others have sliced or hacked or pummelled, and you’ll keep cleaning up the waste.”

“I get my victories, Doctor. Every time I put a predator in a cage, I get my victory. And I’ll get one for Snooks and Spindler. You can count on it.”

“I don’t count on anything anymore.” Louise walked out to where the hurt and the hopeless waited.

I am . . . amused. Great work must be balanced by periods of rest and entertainment, after all. In the midst of mine, I find myself pitted against a woman with a reputation for tenacity. A clever woman, by all accounts, and a determined one with great skill in her chosen field.

But however tenacious, clever, and determined Eve Dallas might be, she remains a cop. I’ve dealt with cops before, and they are easily dispatched in one manner or another.

How absurd that those who impose laws—laws that change as easily and often as the wind—should believe they have any jurisdiction over me.

They choose to call what I do murder. The removal—the humane removal, I should add—of the damaged, the useless, the unproductive is no more murder than the removal of lice from a human body is murder. Indeed, the units I have selected are no less than vermin. Diseased and dying vermin at that.

Contagious, corrupted, and condemned by the very society whose laws would now avenge them. Where were the laws and the cries for justice when these pathetic creatures huddled in their boxes and lay in their own waste? While they lived, they were held in disgust, ignored, or vilified.

These vessels serve a much grander purpose dead than they ever could have achieved alive.

But if murder is their term, then I accept. As I accept the challenge of the dogged lieutenant. Let her poke and prod, calculate and deduce. I believe I will enjoy the bout.

And if she becomes a nuisance, if by some stroke of luck she stumbles too close to me and my work?

She’ll be dealt with.

Even Lieutenant Dallas has her weaknesses.

McNab found another sidewalk sleeper dead in the alleyways of Paris. He’d been missing his liver, but his body had been so mutilated by the feral cats that roamed the slums that most of the physical evidence had been destroyed. Still, Eve put the name into her files.

She took them all home with her, opting to work there until Roarke got back from New L.A. Summerset didn’t disappoint this time, but slipped into the foyer moments after she came through the door.

His dark eyes skimmed over her, his elegant nose wrinkled. “Since you’re quite late, Lieutenant, and didn’t see fit to notify me of your plans, I assume you’ve already had your evening meal.”

She hadn’t eaten since the chewy bar she’d scavenged, but only jerked her shoulders as she shrugged out of her jacket. “I don’t need you to fix my dinner, ace.”

“That’s fortunate.” He watched her sling her jacket over the newel post. An act they both knew she repeated because it annoyed his rigid sense of order. “Because I have no intention of doing so since you refuse to keep me informed of your schedule.”

She cocked her head, giving his tall, skinny body the same once-over he’d given hers. “That’ll teach me.”

“You have an aide, Lieutenant. It would be a simple matter to have her notify me of your plans so the household could maintain some order.”

“Peabody’s got better things to do, and so do I.”

“Your job doesn’t concern me,” he said with a sneer. “This household does. I’ve added the AMA fund-raiser to your calendar. You will be expected to be ready and presentable . . .” He paused long enough to sniff at her scarred boots and wrinkled trousers. “If that’s possible, by seven-thirty on Friday.”

She took one meaningful step forward. “Keep your bony fingers out of my calendar.”

“Roarke requested I make the notation and remind you of the engagement.” Pleased, he smiled.

She decided she’d have a little chat with Roarke about foisting his personal Nazi on her. “And I’m telling you to keep out of my business.”

“I take my orders from Roarke, not you.”

“And I don’t take them from either of you,” she tossed back as she started upstairs. “So bite me.”

They separated, both of them fairly well satisfied with the encounter.

She went straight to the AutoChef in her office kitchen and would have been mortified if she’d known Summerset had planted the thought of dinner in her mind, knowing she would remember to eat out of spite if nothing else. Otherwise, she would most likely have forgotten.

There was a beef and dumpling stew at the top of the menu, and since it was one of her personal favorites, she programmed a bowl. The minute the machine beeped its acceptance of her order, the cat was winding through her legs.

“I know damn well you’ve already had yours,” she muttered. But as soon as she opened the door and the fragrant steam hit the air, Galahad sent up a screeching meow. As much in defense as affection, she spooned some into his dish. He pounced on it as if it were a lively mouse that might escape.

Eve carried the stew and coffee to her desk, eating absently as she engaged her machine and began to review data. She knew what her gut told her, what her instincts told her, but she would have to wait for the transfer of files and pictures to run a probability scan to verify her conclusions.

Her scan of Spindler’s medical records from the Canal Street Clinic had stated that the patient had a kidney disorder, a result of some childhood infection. Her kidneys had been functional but damaged and had required regular treatment.

A bum heart, she mused, and faulty kidneys. She’d bet a month’s pay when she got data on the hits in Chicago and Paris, those organs would prove to be damaged as well.

Specific, she thought. Specific victims for specifically flawed parts.

“You get around, don’t you, Dr. Death?”

New York, Chicago, Paris. Where else had he been, and where would he go next?

He might not be based in New York after all, she speculated. He could be anywhere, traveling the world and its satellites for his pickings. But someone knew him, would recognize his work.

He was mature, she decided, adding her conclusions to Mira’s profile. Educated and trained. It was likely he’d saved countless lives in his career. What had turned him to the taking of them?

Madness? No ordinary madness seemed to fit. Arrogance, yes. He had arrogance and pride and the hands of a god. His work was methodical, and he trolled the same types of areas of his cities to select his specimens.

Specimens, she thought, pursing her lips. Yes, she thought that was how he viewed them. Experiments then, but of what kind, for what purpose?

She’d have to start scraping into the Drake research department.

What link could she find between the health palace of Drake and the ghetto of the Canal Street Clinic? Somehow he’d seen the records, knew the patients. He knew their habits and their flaws.

It was the flaws he was after.

Brows knit, she ordered a search for articles and data on organ transplant and reconstruction.

An hour later, the words were blurring, her head was throbbing. Frustration had risen to top levels as she’d been forced to ask for definitions and explanations of hundreds of terms and phrases.

It would take her forever to access and dissect this medical bullshit, she thought. She needed an expert consultant, somebody who either knew this area already or who could study and relate it to her in layman’s terms. In cop terms.

A glance at her wrist unit told her it was nearly midnight and too late to contact either Mira or Morris. These were the only medical types she trusted.

Hissing in impatience, she began to slog through yet another article, then her brain cleared with a jolt as she read a report from a newspaper article dated 2034.

NORDICK CLINIC FOR HEALTH
ANNOUNCES MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH

After more than two decades of research and study on the construction of artificial organs, Dr. Westley Friend, chief of research for the Nordick Clinic, has announced the center’s successful development and implantation of a heart, lung, and kidneys into Patient X. Nordick, along with the Drake Center in New York, has devoted nearly twenty years to research on developing organs that can be mass-produced to replace and outperform human tissue.

The article continued, detailing the impact on medicine and health. With the discovery of a material the body would easily accept, the medical community was dancing on the ceiling. Though it was rare with in vitro testing and repair for a child to be born with a heart defect, for example, some slipped through. An organ could be built using the patient’s tissue, but that took time.

Now the flawed heart could be quickly removed and replaced with what Friend called a longevity replacement that would continue to perform long after the child had used up his one-hundred-twenty-year average life.

They could, the article continued, be recycled and implanted in other patients in the event of the death of the original owner.

Though research on the reconstructing of human organs was being discontinued at both centers, the work on artificial devices would move forward.

Reconstructing human organs had taken the back burner some twenty years ago, Eve thought. Had someone decided to move it back up again?

The Nordick Center in Chicago. The Drake in New York. One more link. “Computer, search and display data on Friend, Dr. Westley, attached to Nordick Clinic for Health, Chicago.”

Working. . . . Friend, Dr. Westley, ID# 987-002-34RF, born Chicago, Illinois, December 15, 1992. Died, September 12, 2058. . . .

“Died? How?”

Death ruled self-termination. Subject injected fatal dose of barbiturates. He is survived by spouse, Ellen, son, Westley Jr., daughter, Clare. Grandchildren—

“Stop,” Eve ordered. She would worry about personal details later. “Access all data on subject suicide.”

Working. . . . Request denied. Data is sealed.

Sealed, my ass, Eve thought. She’d get around that in the morning. She rose to pace and think. She wanted to know all there was to know about Dr. Westley Friend, his work, and his associates.

Chicago, she thought again and shuddered. She might have to take a trip to Chicago. She’d been there before, she reminded herself. It never bothered her.

But she’d never remembered before.

She shook that off and went in to refill her coffee. She’d linked the two centers, the two cities. Would she find that there was a sister center in Paris as well? And maybe other cities, other places?

It made sense, didn’t it? He’d find his specimen, take his sample, then wouldn’t he want to work in worthy surroundings: top-notch labs—places where he would be known and not questioned?

Then she shook her head. How could he run experiments, do research, or whatever the hell he was doing in the lab of a reputable facility? There had to be paperwork, there would be staff. There had to be questions and procedures.

But he was taking the damn things, and he had a purpose.

She rubbed her tired eyes, gave in enough to sit down in her sleep chair. A five-minute break, she told herself, to give her brain a chance to play with this new information. Just five minutes, she thought again and closed her eyes.

She dropped into sleep like a stone into a pond.

And dreamed of Chicago.

The flight home from the coast had given Roarke time to deal with the last of his business matters. So he arrived home with his mind clear. He imagined he’d find Eve in her office. She tended to avoid their bed when he wasn’t beside her.

He hated knowing nightmares chased her when business kept him from home. Over the last few months, he’d juggled whatever he could to keep his trips to a minimum. For her, he thought as he took off his coat. And for himself.

Now there was someone to come home to, someone who mattered. He hadn’t been lonely before she’d come into his life, certainly hadn’t felt unfulfilled. He’d been content, focused, and his business—the many arms and branches of it—had satisfied him.

Other women had entertained him.

Love changed a man, he decided as he walked to the in-home scanner. After love, everything else took second place.

“Where is Eve?” he asked.

Lieutenant Dallas is in her office.

“Naturally,” Roarke murmured. She’d be working, he thought as he started up the stairs. Unless exhaustion had finally taken over and she’d curled into her sleep chair for one of her catnaps. He knew her so well and found an odd comfort in that. He knew this case would occupy her mind and her heart, all of her time and skills, until it was closed. Until she’d found justice, once again, for the dead.

He could distract her for short bursts of time, ease the tension. And he could—would—work with her. That, too, was a mutual benefit. He’d discovered he enjoyed the stages of police work, the puzzle slowly put together, piece by piece.

Perhaps it was because he’d lived on the other side of the law most of his life that he seemed to have a knack for it. It made him smile, a bit nostalgically, for the old days.

He would change nothing, nothing he had done, for every step of his life had brought him here. And had brought her to him.

He turned down a corridor, one of many in the enormous house that was filled with art and treasures he’d collected—by fair means or foul—over the years. Eve didn’t fully understand his delight in material possessions, he decided. How the acquiring and owning of them, even the giving of them, put more distance between him and the boy from the Dublin alleys who’d had nothing but his wits and his guts to call his own.

He stepped to the doorway where the most precious of treasures was curled, fully dressed, weapon still strapped to her side, in the chair.

There were shadows under her eyes and the mark of violence on her cheek. One concerned him nearly as much as the other, and he had to remind himself yet again that each was a sign of who and what she was.

The cat was sprawled over her lap and woke to stare unblinkingly.

“Guarding her, are you? I’ll take over now.”

The smile that curved his lips as he started forward faded as Eve began to moan. She thrashed once, a sob catching in her throat.

He was across the room in two strides, gathering her up as she struggled and struck out.

“Don’t. Don’t hurt me again.”

Her voice was the thin, helpless voice of a child, and it broke his heart.

“It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re home. Eve, you’re home. I’m here.” It ripped at him that a woman strong enough to face death day after day could be so beaten down by dreams. He managed to shift her until he could sit, draw her onto his lap, and rock. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

She clawed her way out and to the surface. Her skin was clammy and shivering, her breath a harsh burn in her throat. And she smelled him, felt him, heard him. “I’m all right. I’m okay.”

The weakness, the fear snuck out of the dream with her, and left her ashamed. But when she tried to draw back, he wouldn’t let her. He never did. “Just let me hold you.” He spoke quietly, stroking her back. “Hold me back.”

She did, curving herself into him, pressing her face to his throat, holding on, holding until the shuddering stopped. “I’m okay,” she said again, and nearly meant it this time. “It was nothing. Just a memory flash.”

His hand paused, then slid up to soothe the muscles gone to knots at the back of her neck. “A new one?” When she merely jerked a shoulder, he eased her back to look at her face. “Tell me.”

“Just another room, another night.” She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Chicago. I don’t know how I’m so sure it was Chicago. It was so cold in the room, and the window was cracked. I was hiding behind a chair, but when he came home, he found me. And he raped me again. It’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“I guess not. I have to move,” she murmured and rose to pace off the shakiness. “We found another body in Chicago—same MO. I guess that put the memory at the top of my brain. I can handle it.”

“Yes, you can and have.” He rose as well, crossed to her to lay his hands on her shoulders. “But you won’t handle it alone, not anymore.”

It was another thing he wouldn’t allow, and that made her—by turns—grateful and uneasy. “I’m not used to you. Every time I think I am, I’m not.” But she laid her hands over his. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re home.”

“I bought you a present.”

“Roarke.”

The knee-jerk exasperation in her voice made him grin. “No, you’ll like it.” He kissed the shallow dent in her chin, then turned away to pick up the briefcase he’d dropped when he’d come into the room.

“I already need a warehouse for all the stuff you’ve bought me,” she began. “You really need to develop a control button about this.”

“Why? It gives me pleasure.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it makes me . . .” She trailed off, baffled, when she saw what he took out of the briefcase. “What the hell is that?”

“I believe it’s a cat.” With a laugh, he held the doll out to her. “A toy. You don’t have nearly enough toys, Lieutenant.”

A chuckle tickled her throat. “It looks just like Galahad.” She ran a finger down the wide, grinning face. “Right down to the weird eyes.”

“I did have to ask them to fix that little detail. But when I happened to see it, I didn’t think we could do without it.”

She was grinning now, stroking the soft, fat body. It didn’t occur to her that she’d never had a doll before—but it had occurred to Roarke. “It’s really silly.”

“Now, is that any way to talk about our son?” He glanced back at Galahad who’d taken possession of the chair again. His dual-colored eyes narrowed with suspicion before he shifted, lifted his tail in derision, and began to wash. “Sibling rivalry,” Roarke murmured.

Eve set the doll in a prominent position on her desk. “Let’s see what they make of each other.”

“You need sleep,” Roarke said when he saw her frown at her computer. “We’ll deal with work in the morning.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. All this medical stuff is jumbled in my head. You know anything about NewLife replacement organs?”

His brow lifted, but she was too distracted to notice. “I might. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed.”

“I can’t contact anyone until tomorrow, anyway.” Burying impatience, she saved data, disengaged. “I might have to take some travel, go talk to other primaries in person.”

He simply made agreeable noises and led her to the door. If Chicago held bad memories for her, she wouldn’t be going alone.

She woke at first light, surprised by how deeply she’d slept and how alert she was. Some time during the night, she’d wrapped herself around Roarke, legs and arms hooked as if binding him to her. It was so rare for her to wake and not find him already up and starting his day that she savored the sensation of warmth against warmth and let herself drift.

His body was so hard, so smooth, so . . . tasty, she thought, skimming her mouth over his shoulder. His face, relaxed in sleep, was heart stopping in its sheer male beauty. Strong bones, full, sculpted mouth, thick, dark lashes.

Studying him, she felt her blood begin to stir. A low, spreading neediness filled her belly, and her heart began to thud in anticipation and in the knowledge that she could have him, keep him, love him.

Her wedding ring glinted in the light pouring through the sky window over the bed as she slid a hand up his back, nuzzled his mouth with hers. His lips, already warmed, opened with hers for a slow, tangling dance of tongues.

Slow, easy, and no less arousing for its familiarity. The skim and slide of hands over curves, planes, angles well known, only added to the excitement that built, layer by layer, in the clear light of dawn. Even as his heart began to pound against hers, they kept the rhythm loose and lazy.

Her breath caught once, twice, as he cupped her, as he sent her up that long, long curve to a peak that shimmered like wine in sunlight. And his moan mixed with hers.

Every pulse in her body throbbed, every pore opened. The need to take him into her, to mate, was an ache in the heart as sweet as tears.

She arched to him, breathed his name, then sighed it as he slid into her. The ride was slow, slippery, a silky ebb and flow of breath and bodies. His mouth met hers again, with an endless tenderness that swamped her.

He felt her soar again, tighten around him, tremble. Lifting his head, he watched her in the harsh winter light. His heart stumbled, love destroyed him, as he watched the glow pleasure brought to her face, watched those golden brown eyes blur even as they stayed locked on his.

Here, he thought, they were both helpless. And bringing his mouth to hers again, he let himself go.

She felt limber, steady, and very close to cheerful as she showered. When she stepped out, she heard the muted sound of the morning news on-screen and imagined Roarke half listening to the headlines as he studied the stock reports and sipped his first cup of coffee.

It was so married, she thought with a quick snort and jumped into the drying tube. When she came out into the bedroom, it was exactly as she’d imagined. He was drinking coffee in the sitting area, scanning the financial data on the computer, while Nadine Furst gave Channel 75’s take on the news of the day on the screen just over his shoulder.

When she moved by him to the closet, his eyes followed her. And he smiled. “You look rested, Lieutenant.”

“I feel pretty good. I need to get a jump on the day, though.”

“I thought we already did.”

That made her toss a grin over her shoulder. “I should’ve said on the workday.”

“I should be able to help you in that area as well.” He watched her shrug on a plain white shirt, button it briskly. “Last weather update calls for high in the midteens. You won’t be warm enough in that.”

“I’ll be inside mostly.” She only rolled her eyes when he rose, crossed over, and selected a navy pullover in thin, warm wool. Handed it to her. “You’re a nag, Roarke.”

“What choice do I have?” When she dragged the sweater over her head, he shook his own and adjusted the collar of her shirt himself. “I’ll order up breakfast.”

“I’ll catch something at Central,” she began.

“I think you’ll want to take time to have it here so we can discuss a couple of matters. You mentioned NewLife products last night.”

“Yeah.” She remembered only vaguely. She’d been tired and still a little shaken by the dream. “It’s an angle I’ll be looking into later. They’re artificial replacements made from this longevity stuff discovered at the Nordick Clinic, but there may be a connection with the organ thefts I’m dealing with.”

“If there is, we’re both going to be very unhappy about it. I bought out NewLife about five years ago.”

She stared. “Shit, Roarke.”

“Yes, I thought you’d feel that way about it. Though I did tell you one of my companies manufactures artificial organs.”

“And it just had to be NewLife.”

“Apparently. Why don’t we sit down? You can tell me how you worked your way around to NewLife, and I’ll do what I can to get you all the data you need.”

She told herself it was useless to be irritated, as she dragged both hands through her hair. It was certainly unfair to want to snarl at Roarke. So she snatched trousers out of the closet and jammed her legs in.

“Okay, I’m going to try to look at this as a good thing. I won’t get any runaround or a bunch of company bullshit when I need information. But damn it.” She yanked the trousers over her hips and snarled at him anyway. “Do you have to own everything?”

He considered a moment. “Yes,” he said and smiled beautifully. “But that’s really a different matter. Now I want some breakfast.”

He ordered them both a plate of high-protein waffles, some fresh seasonal fruit, and more coffee. When he settled back into his chair, Eve was still standing. Still scowling.

“Why do you have to own everything?”

“Because, darling Eve, I can. Drink your coffee. You won’t be so cross once you do.”

“I’m not cross. What a stupid word that is, anyway.” But she sat, picked up her cup. “It’s a big business, artificial organs?”

“Yes, NewLife also manufactures limbs as well. It’s all quite profitable. Do you want financial statements?”

“I might,” she murmured. “Do you have doctors on the payroll, as consultants?”

“I believe so, though it’s more of an engineering sort of thing.” He moved his shoulders. “We have an ongoing R and D department, but the basic products were refined years before I took over the company. How does NewLife fit in with your investigation?”

“The process for mass-producing artificial organs was developed at the Nordick Center, in Chicago. They have connections to Drake. I have bodies in both cities. I’ve got another in Paris, and I need to see if there’s another health center that connects to these two. NewLife was the product Westley Friend endorsed specifically.”

“I don’t have the information on Paris, but I can get it. Very quickly.”

“Did you know Dr. Westley Friend?”

“Only slightly. He was on the board at NewLife during the takeover, but I never had cause to deal with him otherwise. Do you suspect him?”

“Hard to, since he self-terminated last fall.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ah. From what I can gather from the data I sifted through, he headed the team that developed the process for mass-producing organs. And at the time that was implemented, the research on reconstructing human organs was cut. Maybe someone decided to start it up again, in his own way.”

“Hardly seems cost effective. Organ growing is time consuming and quite expensive. Reconstruction, from the little I know is not considered viable. We can manufacture a heart at somewhere around fifty dollars. Even adding overhead and profit, it can be sold for about twice that. You add the doctor’s take, the health center’s cut of the operation, and still you have yourself a new heart, one guaranteed for a century, for less than a thousand. It’s an excellent deal.”

“Cut out the manufacturer, deal with the subject’s damaged organ, or a donor’s, repair, reconstruct, and the medical end takes all the profit.”

Roarke smiled a little. “Very good, Lieutenant. That’s a clear view of business at work. And with that in mind, I believe you can feel safe that none of the major stockholders of NewLife would care for that scenario.”

“Unless it’s not about money,” she said. “But we’ll start there. I need everything you can give me on the deal you made, who was involved on both sides. I want a list of personnel, concentrating on research and development. And any and all medical consultants.”

“I can get you that within the hour.”

She opened her mouth, waged a small personal war, and lost it. “I could use any underground data you can get me on Friend. His suicide seems very timely and convenient.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah, thanks. In at least two of the cases, he went after flawed organs specifically. Snooks had a messed-up heart, Spindler dinky kidneys. I’m betting we’ll find it’s the same deal with the other two. There has to be a reason.”

Thoughtfully, Roarke sipped his coffee. “If he’s a doctor, practicing, why not confiscate damaged organs that are removed during a legitimate procedure?”

“I don’t know.” And it irritated her that her brain had been too mushy the night before to see that chink in her theory. “I don’t know how it works, but there’d have to be records, donor or next of kin permission, and the medical facility would have to endorse his experiments or research or whatever.”

She drummed her fingers on her knee a moment. “You’re on the board, right? What’s Drake’s policy on—what would you call it? High-risk or maybe radical experimentation?”

“It has a first-class research department and a very conservative policy. It would take a great deal of paperwork, debate, theorizing, justification—and that’s before the lawyers come in to wrangle around, and the public relations people get into how to spin the program to the media.”

“So it’s complicated.”

“Oh.” He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “What isn’t when it’s run by committee? Politics, Eve, slows down even the slickest wheel.”

“Maybe he got turned down at some point—or knows he would—so he’s doing it on his own first.” She pushed her plate away and rose. “I’ve got to get going.”

“We have the Drake fund-raiser tonight.”

Her eyes went grim. “I didn’t forget.”

“No, I see that.” He took her hand, tugging her down for a kiss. “I’ll be in touch.”

He sipped his coffee as she left and knew this was one time she would be on time for a social event. For her, for both of them now, it was business.

As her plans had been to dive straight into work, Eve wasn’t pleased to see IAB waiting in her office. She wouldn’t have been pleased in any case.

“Get out of my chair, Webster.”

He kept his seat, turned his head, and flashed her a smile. She’d known Don Webster since her early days at the academy. He’d been a full year ahead of her, but they’d bumped into each other from time to time.

It had taken her weeks to clue in to the fact that he’d gone out of his way to make certain they’d bumped into each other. She remembered now that she’d been a little flattered, a little annoyed, and then had dismissed him.

Her reasons for joining the academy hadn’t been for socializing and sex but for training.

When they’d both been assigned to Cop Central, they’d bumped into each other some more.

And one night during her rookie year, after her first homicide, they’d had a drink and sex. She’d concluded that it had been no more than a distraction for both of them, and they’d remained marginally friendly.

Then Webster had shifted into Internal Affairs and their paths had rarely crossed.

“Hey, Dallas, looking good.”

“Get out of my chair,” she repeated and walked straight to the AutoChef for coffee.

He sighed, rose. “I was hoping we could keep this friendly.”

“I never feel friendly when the rat squad’s in my office.”

He hadn’t changed much, she noted. His face was keen and narrow, his eyes a cool and pleasant blue. He had a quick smile and plenty of charm that seemed to suit the wavy flow of dark brown hair. She remembered his body as being tough and disciplined, his humor as being sly.

He wore the boxy black suit that was IAB’s unofficial uniform, but he individualized it with a tie of screaming colors and shapes.

She remembered, too, Webster had been a fashion hound as long as she’d known him.

He shrugged off the insult, then turned to close the door. “When the complaint came down, I asked to take it. I thought I could make it easier.”

“I’m not a whole lot interested in easy. I don’t have time for this, Webster. I’ve got a case to close.”

“You’re going to have to make time. The more you cooperate, the less time you’ll have to make.”

“You know that complaint’s bullshit.”

“Sure, I do.” He smiled again and sent a single dimple winking in his left cheek. “The legend of your coffee’s reached the lofty planes of IAB. How about it?”

She sipped, watching him over the rim. If, she thought, she had to deal with this nonsense, best to deal with it through the devil you know. She programmed another cup.

“You were a pretty good street cop, Webster. Why’d you transfer to IAB?”

“Two reasons. First, it’s the most direct route to administration. I never wanted the streets, Dallas. I like the view from the tower.”

Her brow lifted. She hadn’t realized he had ambitions that pointed to chief or commissioner. Taking the coffee out, she handed it to him. “And reason number two?”

“Wrong cops piss me off.” He sipped, closed his eyes in pleasure, sighed gustily. “It lives up to the hype.” He opened his eyes again, studied her.

He’d had a mild thing for her for a dozen years, he thought now. It was just a little mortifying to know she’d never realized it. Then again, she’d always been too focused on the job to give men much attention.

Until Roarke, he mused.

“Hard to picture you as a married woman. It was always business for you. It was always the job.”

“My personal life doesn’t change that. It’s still the job.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He shifted, straightening. “I didn’t take this complaint just for old times’ sake, Dallas.”

“We didn’t have enough old times to generate a sake.”

He smiled again. “Maybe you didn’t.” He sipped more coffee. His eyes stayed on hers and sobered. “You’re a good cop, Dallas.”

He said it so simply it dulled the leading edge of her temper. She turned, stared out the window. “She smudged my record.”

“Only on paper. I like you, Dallas, always did, so I’m stepping out of procedure here to tell you—to warn you—she wants your blood.”

“What the hell for? Because I slapped her down over sloppy work?”

“It goes deeper. You don’t even remember her, do you? From the academy.”

“No.”

“You can bet your excellent ass she remembers you. She graduated with me, we were on our way out when you were coming in. And you shone, Dallas, right from the start. Classes, simulations, endurance tests, combat training. Instructors were saying you were the best to ever come through the doors. People talked about you.”

He smiled again when she glanced over her shoulder, her brows knit. “No, you wouldn’t have heard,” he said. “Because you wouldn’t have been listening. You concentrated on one thing: getting your badge.”

He leaned a hip on her desk, savoring the coffee as he spoke. “Bowers used to bitch about you to the couple of friends she’d managed to make. Muttered that you were probably sleeping with half the instructors to get preferential treatment. I had my ear to the ground even then,” he added.

“I don’t remember her.” Eve shrugged, but the idea of being gossiped about burned a hole in her gut.

“You wouldn’t, but I can guarantee she remembered you. I’m going to stay outside of procedure and tell you that Bowers is a problem. She files complaints faster than a traffic droid writes citations. Most are dismissed, but every now and again, she finds a thread to tug and a cop’s career unravels. Don’t give her a thread, Dallas.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Eve demanded. “She fucked up, I pinned her for it. That’s the whole deal here. I can’t sit around worrying she’s going to make life tough for me. I’m after somebody who’s cutting people open and helping himself to their parts. He’s going to keep doing it unless I find him, and I can’t find him unless I can do my goddamn job.”

“Then let’s get this over with.” He took a microre-corder out of his pocket, set it on her desk. “We do the interview—keep it clean and formal—it gets filed, and we forget this ever happened. Believe me, nobody in IAB wants to see you take heat for this. We all know Bowers.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you investigating her?” Eve muttered, then pursed her lips when Webster smiled, thin and sharp. “Well, maybe the rat squad has some uses, after all.”

The experience left her feeling raw and irritated, but she told herself the matter was now closed. She put a call in to Paris first, and wound her way through red tape until she reached Detective Marie DuBois, primary on the like-crime case.

Since her French counterpart had little English and Eve had no French, they worked through the translation program on their computers. Frustration began to build as twice her computer sent her questions to DuBois in Dutch.

“Hold on a minute, let me send for my aide,” Eve requested.

DuBois blinked, frowned, shook her head. “Why,” the computer animated voice demanded, “do you say I eat dirt for breakfast?”

Eve threw up her hands in disgust. Despite the barrier, her frustration and apology must have shown clearly enough. Marie laughed. “It is your equipment, yes?”

“Yes. Yes. Please, wait.” Eve contacted Peabody, then cautiously tried again. “My equipment is a problem. Sorry.”

“No need. Such problems are, for cops, universal. You are interested in the Leclerk case?”

“Very. I have two like crimes. Your data and your input on Leclerk would be very helpful.”

Marie pursed her lips and humor danced in her eyes. “It says you would like to have sex with me. I don’t think that is correct.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Eve slammed a fist against the machine just as Peabody walked in.

“I take it that wasn’t a love tap.”

“This piece of shit just propositioned the French detective. What’s wrong with my translation program?”

“Let me have a shot.” Peabody came around the desk, began to fiddle as she studied the monitor. “She’s very attractive. Let’s not blame the computer for trying.”

“Ha ha, Peabody. Fix the fucker.”

“Sir. Run systems check, update and clean translation program. Reload.”

Working. . . . .

“It should only take a minute. I’ve got a little French; I think I can explain what’s going on.”

With some fumbling, Peabody called out her schoolgirl French and made Marie smile.

“Oui, pas de quoi.”

“She says, cool.”

System fault repaired. Current program cleaned and reloaded.

“Give it another shot,” Peabody suggested. “No telling how long the repair will hold.”

“Okay. I have two like crimes,” Eve began again, and as quickly as possible outlined her situation and requests.

“I’ll send you copies of my files, once I have clearance,” Marie agreed. “I believe you’ll see that, given the condition of the body at the time of discovery, the missing organ was not considered unusual. The cats,” she added with a curl of her lip, “had dined well on him.”

Eve thought of Galahad and his ravenous appetite, then quickly decided not to go there. “I think we’ll find your victim fits into the profile. Have his medical records been checked?”

“There was no call. The Leclerk case is not a priority, I’m afraid. The evidence was compromised. But now I would like to see also your data on the like crimes.”

“I can do that. Can you give me a list of the top medical care and research centers in Paris, particularly any center that has an extensive organ replacement facility?”

Marie’s brow winged up. “Yes. This is where your investigation is leading?”

“It’s an avenue. And you’ll want to find out where Leclerk got his health checks. I’d like to know the condition of his liver before he lost it.”

“I’ll start on the paperwork, Lieutenant Dallas, and try to push it through so we both have what we need as soon as possible. It was determined that Leclerk was an isolated incident. If this is incorrect, the priority on the case will be changed.”

“Compare the stills of the bodies. I think you’ll want to bump up the priority. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

“You think this guy’s cruising the world for samples?” Peabody asked when Eve disengaged.

“Specific parts of the world, specific victims, specific samples. I think he’s very organized. Chicago’s next.”

Despite the fact that she could dispense with the translator, she had a great deal more trouble with Chicago than she’d had with Paris.

The investigating officer had retired less than a month after the onset of the case. When she asked to speak with the detective who’d taken over, she was put on hold and treated to a moronic advertisement for a CPDS fund-raiser.

Just about the time she decided her brain would explode from the tedium, a Detective Kimiki came on. “Yeah, what can I do for you, New York.”

She explained the situation and her requests while Kimiki looked faintly bored. “Yeah, yeah, I know that case. Dead end. McRae got nowhere. Nowhere to go. We got it open and it’s on his percentage record but it’s been shifted down to unsolved.”

“I’ve just told you I’ve got like crimes here, Kimiki, and a link. Your data is important to my case.”

“Data’s pretty thin, and I can tell you I’m not bouncing this to the top of my list. But you want it, I’ll ask the boss if it can be transferred.”

“Hate to see you work up such a sweat, Kimiki.”

He merely smiled at the sarcasm. “Look, when McRae took early retirement, most of his opens got dumped on me. I pick and choose where I sweat. I’ll get you the data when I can. Chicago out.”

“Putz,” Eve muttered, then rubbed at the tension building at the base of her neck. “Early retirement?” She glanced at Peabody. “Find out how early.”

An hour later, Eve was pacing the corridors of the morgue, waiting to be cleared in to Morris. The minute the locks snicked open, she was through the doors and into the autopsy room.

The smell hit her first, hard, making her suck air between her teeth. The sweet, ripe stink of decomposing flesh blurred the air. She glanced briefly at the swollen mass on the table and grabbed an air mask.

“Jesus, Morris, how do you stand it?”

He continued to make his standard Y cut, his breath coming slow and even through his own mask. “Just another day in paradise, Dallas.” The air filter gave his voice a mechanical edge, and behind the goggles, his eyes were big as a frog’s. “This little lady was discovered last night after her neighbors finally decided to follow their noses. Been dead nearly a week. Looks like manual strangulation.”

“Did she have a lover?”

“I believe the primary is currently trying to locate him. I can say, with relative certainty, she’ll never have another.”

“A laugh riot as always, Morris. Did you compare the Spindler data to Snooks?”

“I did. My report’s not quite finished, but since you’re here, I assume you want answers now. My opinion is the same hands were used on both.”

“I’ve got that. Tell me why the Spindler case was closed.”

“Sloppy work,” he muttered, slipping his clear-sealed hands into the bloated body. “I didn’t do the PM on her, or I’d have clicked to it right away when I saw your body. Of course, if I’d done the PM, I would have had different findings. The examiner who did the work has been reprimanded.” He looked up from his own work and met Eve’s eyes. “I don’t believe she’ll make a similar mistake again. Not to excuse her, but she claims the primary pushed her through, insisted he knew how it went down.”

“However it happened, I need the full records.”

Now Morris stopped and looked up. “Problem there. We can’t seem to locate them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re gone. All her records are gone. I wouldn’t have known she came through here if you hadn’t been able to access the primary’s files. We’ve got nothing.”

“What does your examiner have to say about that?”

“She swears everything was filed properly.”

“Then she’s either lying or stupid or they were wiped.”

“I don’t see her as a liar. And she’s a bit green at the edges, but not stupid. The records could have been inadvertently wiped, but the search and retrieve found nothing. Zip. We don’t even have Spindler on the initial sign in.”

“Purposely wiped then? Why?” She hissed through her breathing tube, jammed her hands in her pockets. “Who has access to the records?”

“All the first-level staff.” For the first time, his concern began to show. “I’ve scheduled a meeting, and I’ll have to implement an internal investigation. I trust my people, Dallas. I know who works for me.”

“How tight’s the security on your equipment?”

“Obviously, not tight enough.”

“Somebody didn’t want the connection made. Well, it’s been made,” she said half to herself as she paced. “That idiot from the one sixty-second is going to have a lot to answer for. I’ve got like cases, Morris, so far in Chicago and Paris. I’m afraid I’m going to find more.”

She paused, turned. “I’ve got a possibility, a strong one, of a connection with a couple of high-class health centers. I’m trying to slog through a bunch of medical articles and jargon. I need a consultant who knows that stuff.”

“If you’re looking at me, I’d be happy to help you. But my field is a different channel. You want a straight—and smart—medical doctor.”

“Mira?”

“She’s a medical doctor,” Morris agreed, “but her field’s also in a different channel. Still, between the two of us—”

“Wait. I think I might have someone.” She turned back to him. “I’ll try her first. Somebody’s screwing with us, Morris. I want you to make disc copies for me of all the data you have on Snooks. Make one for yourself and put it someplace you consider safe.”

A smile ghosted around his mouth. “I already have. Yours is on its way to your home via private courier. Call me paranoid.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She pulled off the mask and headed for the door. But some instinct had her looking back one more time. “Morris, watch your ass.”

Peabody got up from her seat in the corridor. “I finally accessed some data on McRae from Chicago. It’s easier to get the scoop on a psycho than a cop.”

“Protect your own,” Eve mumbled as she strode to the exit door. That was worrying her.

“Yeah, well, our colleague’s barely thirty—only had eight years in. He retires on less than ten percent of his full pension. Another two years, he could’ve doubled that.”

“No disability, no mental fatigue, no admin request to resign?”

“None on record. What I can get.” The wind slapped Peabody in the face with glee as she stepped outside. “What I can get,” she said again once she had her breath back, “is he was a pretty solid cop, worked his way up the ranks, was in line for a standard promotion in less than a year. He had a good percentage rate on closing cases, no shadows on his record, and worked Homicide the last three years.”

“Got any personal data—spousal pressure might’ve pushed him out of the job, money problems, threat of divorce. Maybe he boozed or drugged or gambled.”

“It’s tougher to get personal data. I have to do the standard request and have cause.”

“I’ll get it,” Eve said, slipping behind the wheel. She thought of Roarke and his skills. And his private office with the unregistered and illegal equipment. “When I have it, you’d be better off not asking how I came by it.”

“Came by what?” Peabody asked with an easy smile.

“Exactly. We’re taking a little personal time now, Peabody. Call it in. I don’t want our next stop on the log.”

“Great. Does that mean we’re going to hunt up some men and have disgusting, impersonal sex?”

“Aren’t you getting enough with Charles?”

Peabody hummed in her throat. “Well, I can say I’m feeling a little looser in certain areas these days. Dispatch,” she said into her communicator. “Peabody, Officer Delia, requesting personal time on behalf of Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Received and acknowledged. You are off log.”

“Now, about those men,” Peabody said comfortably. “Let’s make them buy us lunch first.”

“I’ll buy you lunch, Peabody, but I’m not having sex with you. Now, get your mind off your stomach and your glands, and I’ll update you.”

By the time Eve pulled up in front of the Canal Street Clinic, Peabody’s eyes were sober. “You think this goes deep, a lot deeper than a handful of dead street sleepers and LCs.”

“I think we start making a safe copy of all reports and data, and we keep certain areas of investigation quiet.”

She caught sight of a sleepy-eyed brewhead loitering in the doorway and jabbed a finger at him. “You have enough brain cells left to earn a twenty?”

“Yeah.” His bloodshot eyes brightened. “For what?”

“My car’s in the same shape it is now when I come out, you get twenty.”

“Good deal.” He hunkered down with his bottle and stared at her car like a cat at a mousehole.

“You could’ve just threatened to kick his balls into his throat like you did with the guy the other day,” Peabody pointed out.

“No point in threatening the harmless.” She breezed through the doors of the clinic, noted that the waiting area looked very much as it had on her previous visit, and walked straight to the check-in window.

“I need to speak with Dr. Dimatto.”

Jan the nurse gave Eve a sulky look. “She’s with a patient.”

“I’ll wait, same place as before. Tell her I won’t take much of her time.”

“Dr. Dimatto is very busy today.”

“That’s funny. So am I.” Leaving it at that, Eve stood at the security door, lifted a brow and stared down the nurse.

She let loose the same gusty sigh as she had on Eve’s first visit, shoved out of her chair with the same irritable shrug of motion. What, Eve wondered, made so many people resent doing their jobs?

When the locks opened, she stepped in, met Jan’s eyes on level. “Gee, thanks. I can see by your cheerful attitude how much you love working with people.” She could see by Jan’s confused expression it would take a while for the sarcasm to sink in.

Eve went through and settled into the cramped little office to wait for Louise.

It took twenty minutes, and the doctor didn’t look particularly pleased to see Eve again. “Let’s make this fast. I’ve got a broken arm waiting to be set.”

“Fine, I need you as an expert consultant on my case for the medical end of things. The hours suck, the pay’s lousy. There may be some possibility of risk, and I’m very demanding of the people who work with me.”

“When do I start?”

Eve smiled with such unexpected warmth and humor, Louise nearly goggled. “When’s your next day off?”

“I don’t get whole days, but I don’t start my rotation tomorrow until two.”

“That’ll work. Be at my home office tomorrow, eight sharp. Peabody, give her the address.”

“Oh, I know where you live, Lieutenant.” It was Louise’s turn to smile. “Everyone knows where Roarke lives.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight.”

Satisfied, Eve headed back out. “I’m going to like working with her.”

“Do you want me to put in the request and papers to add her as consult?”

“Not yet.” Thinking of wiped records, of cops that didn’t seem particularly interested in closing cases, she shook her head as she climbed back into her vehicle. “Let’s keep this unofficial for awhile yet. Put us back on log.”

Using her best pitiful look, Peabody said only, “Lunch?”

“Hell. All right, but I’m not buying anything in this neighborhood for internal consumption.” A woman of her word, she headed uptown and stopped when she saw a fairly clean glide-cart.

She made do with a scoop of oil fries while Peabody feasted on a soy pocket and vegetable kabob.

Eve put her vehicle on auto, letting it drive aimlessly while she ate. And she thought. The city swirled around her, the bump and grind of street traffic, the endless drone of air commuters. Stores advertised their annual inventory clearance sales with the endless monologue from the blimps overhead or huge, splashy signs.

Bargain hunters braved the frigid temperatures and shivered on people glides as they went about their business. It was a bad time for pickpockets and scam artists. No one stood still long enough to be robbed or conned.

Still, she spotted a three-card monte game and more than one sneak thief on airskates.

If you wanted something badly enough, she mused, a little inconvenience wouldn’t stop you.

Routine, she thought. It was all a routine, the grifters and the muggers and the purse grabbers had theirs. And the public knew they were there and simply hoped they could avoid contact.

And the sidewalk sleepers had theirs. They would shiver and suffer through the winter and hope to evade the lick of death that came with subzero temperatures while it lapped at their cribs.

No one paid much attention if they were successful or not. Is that what he’d counted on? That no one would pay much attention? Neither of her victims had had close family to ask questions and make demands. No friends, no lovers.

She hadn’t heard a single report on the recent killing on any of the news and information channels. It didn’t make interesting copy, she supposed. It didn’t bump ratings.

And she smiled to herself, wondering how Nadine Furst would feel about the offer of a one-on-one exclusive. Munching on a fry, she put a call through to the reporter.

“Furst. Make it fast and make it good. I’m on air in ten.”

“Want a one-on-one, Nadine?”

“Dallas.” Nadine’s foxy face glowed with a smile. “What do I have to do for it?”

“Just your job. I’ve got a homicide—sidewalk sleeper—”

“Hold it. No good. We did a feature last month on sleepers. They freeze, they get sliced. We do our public interest bit twice a year. It’s too soon for another.”

“This one got sliced—sliced open, then his heart was removed and taken from the scene.”

“Well that’s a happy thought. If you’re working a cult angle, we did a feature in that area in October for Halloween. My producer’s not going to go for another. Not for a sleeper. Now, a feature on you and Roarke, on what it’s like inside your marriage, that I could run with.”

“Inside my marriage is my business, Nadine. I’ve got a retired LC who ran ponies. She was sliced open a couple of months back. Somebody took her kidneys.”

The slight irritation in Nadine’s eyes cleared, and they sharpened. “Connected?”

“Do your job,” Eve suggested. “Then call my office and ask me that question again.”

She disengaged and shifted the car back to manual.

“That was pretty slick, Dallas.”

“She’ll dig up more in an hour than six research droids could in a week. Then she’ll call and ask me for an official statement and interview. Being a cooperative kind of woman, I’ll give it to her.”

“You ought to make her jump through a few hoops, just to keep up tradition.”

“Yeah, but I’ll keep the hoops wide and I’ll keep them low. Put us back on log, Peabody. We’re going to check out Spindler’s place, and I want it on record. If anybody has any doubt the connection’s been made, I want them to know it has. I want them to start to sweat.”

The crime scene had been cleared weeks before, but Eve wasn’t looking for physical evidence. She wanted impressions, the lay of the land, and hopefully, a conversation or two.

Spindler had lived in one of the quick-fix buildings that had been tossed up to replace those that had crumbled or been destroyed around the time of the Urban Wars.

The plan had been for fast, temporary housing to be replaced by more solid and aesthetically pleasing structures within the decade, but several decades later, several of the ugly, sheer-sided metal buildings remained in place.

A street artist had had a marvelous time spray painting naked couples in various stages of copulation over the dull gray surface. Eve decided his style and perspective were excellent, as was his sense of place. This particular building housed the majority of street LCs in that area.

There was no outside security camera, no palm plate. If there had ever been such niceties in place, they had long ago been looted or vandalized.

She walked into a cramped, windowless foyer that held a line of scarred mailboxes and a single elevator that was padlocked.

“She had 4C,” Peabody said, anticipating Eve, then looked at the stained stairwell with its swaybacked treads. “I guess we walk up.”

“You’ll work off your lunch.”

Someone had turned their choice of music entertainment up to a scream. The nasty sound of it echoed down the staircase and deafened the ears on the first-floor landing. Still, it was better than the sounds of huffing and puffing they heard through one of the thin doors on the second floor. Some lucky LC was earning her fee, Eve imagined as she headed up.

“I guess we can deduce that soundproofing isn’t one of the amenities of this charming little unit,” Peabody commented.

“I doubt the tenants give a damn.” Eve stopped in front of 4C, knocked. Street hookers worked twenty-four/ seven, but usually in shifts. She thought someone would be around, and unemployed.

“I’m not working till sundown,” came the response. “So blow off.”

In answer, Eve held her badge up to the security peep. “Police. I want to talk to you.”

“My license is up to date. You can’t hassle me.”

“Open the door, or you’ll see just how fast I can hassle you.”

There was a mutter, curse, the rattle of locks. The door opened a slit and a single bloodshot brown eye peered out. “What? I’m not on for hours, and I’m trying to get some sleep here.”

From the look in that single eye, she’d been getting that sleep with a little chemical aid. “How long have you lived in this apartment?”

“A few weeks. So the fuck what?”

“Before that?”

“Across the hall. Look, I got my license, my health checks. I’m solid.”

“Were you one of Spindler’s?”

“Yeah.” The door opened another fraction. The other eye and a hard mouth appeared. “So the fuck what?”

“You got a name?”

“Mandy. So the—”

“Yeah, I got that part. Open up, Mandy, I need to ask you some questions about your former boss.”

“She’s dead. Been dead. Those’re the only answers I got.” But she opened the door. Her hair was short and spiked. Easier, Eve imagined, for her to don one of the many wigs street LCs liked to play with. She was probably no more than thirty, but looked ten years older if you went by the face.

Whatever profit Mandy made obviously went into her body, which was lush and curved, with huge, uptilted breasts that strained against the thin material of a dingy pink robe.

It was, Eve decided, the right investment for a woman in her field. Johns rarely looked at the face.

Eve stepped inside and noted that the living area had been converted so that it accommodated both ends of the business. A curtain was drawn down the center, cutting the room in two. In one half were two beds on casters with rates and services clearly posted on a board between them.

The other half held a computer, a tele-link system, and a single chair.

“Did you take over Spindler’s business?”

“Four of us got together to do it. We figured, hell, somebody’s got to run the stables, and if it’s us, we can cut back on street time.” She smiled a little. “Be like, executives. Trolling for johns in the winter’s murder.”

“I just bet. Were you around the night Spindler was killed?”

“I figure I was around—in and out, you know, depending. I remember business was pretty good.” She took the single chair, stretched out her legs. “Wasn’t so freaking cold.”

“You got your book handy?”

Mandy’s eyes went sulky. “You got no need to poke into my books. I’m being straight.”

“Then tell me what you know, where you were. You remember,” Eve said before Mandy could deny it. “Even in this kind of flop, you don’t get your boss carved open on a nightly basis.”

“Sure I remember.” She jerked a shoulder. “I was catching a break when Lida found her and went nutso. Jesus, she screamed like a virgin, you know? Came screaming and crying and beating on my door. Said how the old bitch was dead and there was blood, so I told her to shut the fuck up and call the cops if she wanted to. I went back to bed.”

“You didn’t come in and check it out for yourself?”

“What for? If she was dead, fine and dandy. If she wasn’t, who cares?”

“How long did you work for her?”

“Six years.” Mandy yawned hugely. “Now I work for me.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I hated her guts. Look, like I said to the other cop, to know her was to hate her. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and I wouldn’t have cared if I did.”

“What cop did you talk to?”

“One of her kind.” She jerked up her chin in Peabody’s direction. “Then one of your kind. They didn’t make a big deal out of it. Why should you?”

“You don’t know my kind, Mandy. But I know yours.” She stepped closer, leaned down. “Woman runs a stable, she keeps some cash around. She deals in cash, and she doesn’t run out at night to make a deposit until the shift’s over. She was dead before that, and I don’t see anything on the report about any cash being found in this place.”

Mandy crossed her legs. “So, one of the cops helped himself. So the fuck what?”

“I think a cop’s going to be smart enough not to take the whole stash. I don’t think there was anything to take once they got here. Now, you either play straight with me, or I’ll take you and your book into interview and sweat it out of you. I don’t give a damn if you took her stash, but I can care about what happened in here that night.”

She waited a beat to make sure Mandy caught the full drift. “To review: Your pal came screaming to your door and told you what was up in here. Now, we both know you didn’t turn around and go back to bed. So let’s try that part again.”

Mandy studied Eve’s face, measured. A woman in her profession who intended to survive until retirement learned to read faces and attitudes. This cop, she decided, would push until she got her answers. “Somebody was going to take the money, so I did. Lida and I split it. Who cares?”

“You went in and looked at her.”

“I made sure she was dead. Didn’t have to go past the bedroom door for that. Not with the blood and the smell.”

“Okay, now tell me about the night before. You said you were in and out, busy night. You know the kind of johns that use this place. Did you see anybody who didn’t fit?”

“Look, I’m not getting tangled up in some cop shit over that old bitch.”

“You want to stay untangled, you tell me who and what you saw. Otherwise, you become a material witness, one who may have compromised the crime scene.” A new and nastier drift, Eve mused, another pause to let it sink in thoroughly. “I can get an order for a truth test out of that, and some time for you in holding.”

“Goddamn it.” Mandy pushed out of the chair, walked over to a minifridge, and found a beer. “Look, I was busy, working my ass off. Maybe I saw a couple guys who looked out of place coming out of the building when I was bringing a john in. I just thought, Fuck it, I got this half-wit to get off, and one of the other girls got these two dudes who looked like they had money enough to tip just fine.”

“What did they look like?”

“Expensive coats. They were each carrying something, like bags. I figured they brought their own sex toys.”

“Men? You’re certain you saw two men?”

“Two of them.” Her lips pursed briefly before she took another slug of beer. “I figured them for men, but I didn’t get a good look because the half-wit was already drooling on me.”

Eve nodded, sat on the corner of the desk. “Okay, Mandy, let’s see if talking all this over again improves your memory.”

Normally, Eve approached splashy social events like medicine. She avoided them whenever possible—which wasn’t often enough now that she was married to Roarke—and when she couldn’t wiggle out, she gritted her teeth, swallowed fast and hard, and tried to ignore the bad taste in her mouth.

But she was looking forward to the fund-raiser for the Drake Center.

This time, she approached the event like a job.

But she was going to miss the comforting weight of her weapon. There was no place to conceal it in the dress she wore. It had seemed appropriate to wear one of Leonardo’s designs, as he would be one of the couturiers spotlighted in the fashion show.

She’d had a lot to choose from. Since Leonardo had come into Mavis’s life—and therefore Eve’s—her wardrobe had expanded dramatically from jeans, trousers, shirts, and one boxy gray suit to include what she considered enough fancy clothes to outfit a theater troupe.

She’d picked the dress out of the closet at random, because she liked the dark copper tone of it. A long, smooth column, it fell straight from its off-the-shoulder neckline to her ankles, which made her consider strapping her clutch piece to her calf.

In the end, she stuck it and her shield in the little evening bag she carried. Just, she told herself, in case.

Weapons seemed out of place in the glitter of the ballroom, in the sweeping sparkle of beautiful people dressed in shimmering clothes and draped with glinting gold and flashing stones. The air was rich with the fragrances of hothouse flowers, of perfumed flesh and hair. And music, a low, elegant throb, played discreetly.

Champagne and other fashionable, exotic drinks were served in crystal glasses by waiters in distinguished black uniforms. Conversation was a sophisticated murmur, punctuated by an occasionally muted laugh.

To Eve’s eye, nothing could have looked more contrived, more staged, or more tedious. She was about to say just that to Roarke when there was a delighted squeal, a flurry of color and movement, and the sharp sound of crystal shattering on the floor.

Mavis Freestone waved a jubilant hand that was stud-ded with rings on every finger, offered a giggling apology to the waiter she’d bumped, and dashed across the ballroom through the perfectly poised crowd on five-inch silver heels designed to show off toenails painted a blistering blue.

“Dallas!” She squealed again and all but launched herself into Eve’s arms. “This is so mag! I didn’t think you’d show. Wait till Leonardo sees you. He’s back in the dressing area having a real case of nerves. I told him to take a chill pill or something or I swear he’s just going to woof all over somebody. Hey, Roarke!”

Before Eve could speak, Mavis had leaped over to hug Roarke. “Man, do you two look frigid! Have you had a drink yet? The tornadoes are killers. I’ve had three.”

“They seem to agree with you.” Roarke couldn’t help but grin. She was small as a fairy, lark happy, and well on her way to being completely drunk.

“Yeah, you bet. I’ve got some Sober-Up with me so I can maintain while Leonardo’s designs hit the ramp. But for now . . .”

She started to snag another glass from a passing waiter, nearly teetered over. Eve simply slid an arm around her shoulders. “For now, let’s check out the eats.”

They made an interesting picture: Roarke, sexy and elegant in suave black tie; Eve, long and lanky in her copper column; and Mavis, in a silver dress that looked wet to the touch and faded into transparency a wink below her crotch, while a temporary tattoo of a grinning lizard slithered up her right thigh. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and was dyed the same eye-popping blue as her nails.

“We get real food after the show,” Mavis commented, but popped a canapé into her mouth.

“Why wait?” Amused by the brilliant shine in Mavis’s eyes, Eve nonetheless piled a plate with finger food, then held it while her friend plowed through.

“Man, this stuff rocks.” She swallowed. “What is it?”

“Fancy.”

With a snorting laugh, Mavis pressed a hand to her stomach. “I better watch it or I’ll be the one woofing. I guess I’ll take my Sober-Up and go back to see if I can hold Leonardo’s hand. He gets so wired up before a show. Really glad you guys are here. Most of these people are, you know . . . drags.”

“You get to go back and hang with Leonardo,” Eve said. “I have to stay out here and talk to the drags.”

“We’ll sit together at dinner, okay? And make fun of them. I mean, some of these outfits!” With a shake of her blue hair, she scampered off.

“We’re releasing her recording and video later this month,” Roarke told Eve. “What is the world going to make of Mavis Freestone?”

“They won’t be able to resist her.” Smiling now, she looked up at Roarke. “So, introduce me to some of the drags. I’m hoping to make somebody very nervous tonight.”

Eve didn’t think of the tedium now. Every new face she met was a potential suspect. Some smiled, some nodded, some lifted eyebrows when they learned she was a homicide cop.

She spotted Dr. Mira, Cagney, and with some surprise, Louise Dimatto. She’d save them for later, Eve decided, and held out her hand to formalize her introduction to Dr. Tia Wo.

“I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I never miss the local news. You’ve been featured quite a bit the last year or so—through your own exploits and your connection with Roarke.”

Her voice was gravel rough but not unpleasant. She looked both stark and dignified in basic black. She wore no jewelry but for a small, gold pin, the ancient medical symbol of two snakes wound around a staff topped by wings.

“I never thought about police work being exploits.”

Wo smiled, a kind of quick reflex that curved the lips up for a brief instant, left the eyes unwarmed, then settled down again. “No offense meant. I often consider the news the highest form of entertainment. More than books or videos, it shows people in their genuine form, reciting their own lines. And I’m quite fascinated with crime.”

“Me, too.” As openings went, it was perfect. “I have one you’d find interesting. I’m investigating a series of murders. The victims are sidewalk sleepers, addicts, street LCs.”

“It’s an unfortunate life for them.”

“An unfortunate death for some. Each of these victims had an organ surgically removed. Quite skillfully removed, stolen from the unwilling donor.”

Wo’s eyes flickered, narrowed. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”

“You will,” Eve said easily. “I’m making connections right now, following leads. You specialize in organ transplants, Dr. Wo.” She waited a bit while Wo’s mouth opened and closed. “I wonder if you might have any theories, from a medical standpoint?”

“Oh, well.” Her wide fingers lifted to toy with her pin. Her nails were trimmed short, left unpainted. “The black market would be a possibility, though the easy availability of artificial organs has cut that venue down dramatically.”

“These weren’t healthy organs.”

“Unhealthy? A madman,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never understood the mind. The body is basic, it is form and function, a machine that can be repaired, tuned, so to speak. But the mind, even when clinically or legally healthy, has so many avenues, so many quirks, so much potential for error. But you’re right, it’s quite fascinating.”

Her eyes had shifted, making Eve smile to herself. She wants to be gone, Eve thought, but hasn’t quite worked out how to ditch me without insulting Roarke—and all his money.

“My wife is a tenacious cop.” Roarke slid a hand over Eve’s shoulder. “She won’t give up until she finds who and what she’s looking for. I suppose you have a lot in common,” he continued smoothly. “Cops and doctors. A demanding schedule and a singular purpose.”

“Yes. Ah—” Wo signaled, lifting one finger.

Eve recognized Michael Waverly from his photo on his data sheet. He was the youngest on her list of surgeons, single, she recalled, and the current president of the AMA.

He was tall enough, she decided, to have had Ledo looking up at him. He was slickly attractive, at ease, and slightly less traditional than his colleagues. His gilded hair curled toward his shoulders, and he wore a black, collarless shirt with dull silver buttons with his formal tux.

His smile was a quick nova flash of power and charm.

“Tia.” Despite her stiff posture, he kissed her on the cheek, then held out a hand to Roarke. “Nice to see you again. We at Drake very much appreciate your generosity.”

“As long as it’s put to good use, it’s my pleasure. My wife,” Roarke said, keeping a possessive hand on Eve’s shoulder. He understood the look of pure male interest in Waverly’s eyes as they settled on her face. And didn’t particularly appreciate it. “Eve Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Lieutenant?” Waverly offered his hand and another potent smile. “Oh yes, I’m sure I knew that. I’m delighted to meet you. Can we assume the city’s safe as you’re free to join us tonight?”

“A cop never assumes, Doctor.”

He laughed, giving her hand a friendly squeeze. “Has Tia confessed her secret fascination with crime? The only thing I’ve ever seen her read other than medical journals are murder mysteries.”

“I was just telling her about one of mine. Of the nonfiction variety.” She outlined the facts, watched a variety of expressions cross Waverly’s face. Mild interest, surprise, puzzlement, and finally understanding.

“You believe it’s a doctor—a surgeon. That’s very difficult to accept.”

“Why?”

“Dedicating yourself to years of training and practice to save lives only to take them for no apparent reason? I can’t fathom it. It’s baffling but intriguing. Do you have a suspect?”

“A number of them. But no prime, as yet. I’ll be taking a close look at the top surgeons in the city at this point.”

Waverly gave a short laugh. “That would include me and my friend here. How flattering, Tia, we’re suspects in a murder investigation.”

“Sometimes your humor falls very flat, Michael.” With anger sparking in her eyes, Wo turned her back on them. “Excuse me.”

“She takes things quite seriously,” Waverly murmured. “Well, Lieutenant, aren’t you going to ask me my whereabouts on the night in question?”

“I have more than one night in question,” Eve said easily. “And that would be very helpful.”

He blinked in surprise, and his smile didn’t shine quite so brightly. “Well this hardly seems the time and place to discuss it.”

“I’ll schedule an interview as soon as possible.”

“Will you?” His voice had dropped several degrees and bordered on cold. “You’re straight to the point, I see, Lieutenant.”

Eve decided she’d insulted him but hadn’t unnerved him. He wasn’t a man who expected to be questioned, she concluded. “I appreciate your cooperation. Roarke, we should say hello to Mira.”

“Of course. Excuse us, Michael. That was smoothly done,” he murmured in Eve’s ear as they moved through the crowd.

“I’ve watched you cut somebody off at the knees politely often enough to get the hang of it.”

“Thank you, darling. I’m so proud.”

“Good. Find me another one.”

Roarke scanned the crowd. “Hans Vanderhaven should suit your mood.”

He steered her through the crowd toward a big man with a gleaming bald head and a natty white beard, standing beside a tiny woman with enormous breasts and a waterfall of gilt-edged red hair.

“That would be the doctor’s newest wife,” Roarke murmured in Eve’s ear.

“Likes them young, doesn’t he?”

“And built,” Roarke agreed, moving forward before Eve could add a pithy comment to his observation. “Hans.”

“Roarke.” His voice was huge, barreling out and echoing through the room. Lively eyes the color of chestnuts landed on Eve, took her measure. “This must be your wife. Enchanted. You’re with the police department?”

“That’s right,” She didn’t much care for the way he took her hand, or the way those eager eyes played over her as he kissed her knuckles. But it didn’t seem to bother the newest Mrs. Vanderhaven, who stood smiling inanely with a glass of champagne in one hand and a diamond the size of Pittsburgh on the other. “My wife Fawn, Roarke and . . .”

“Dallas, Eve Dallas.”

“Oh.” Fawn giggled, batted eyes of Easter egg blue. “I’ve never talked to a policewoman before.”

If Eve had anything to do with it, they weren’t going to change that record by much. She merely smiled, giving Roarke a light but none-too-subtle elbow nudge. Understanding, he shifted toward Fawn and, recognizing type and priorities, began to compliment her on her dress.

Eve turned away from the giggle and gave her attention to Vanderhaven. “I noticed Dr. Wo had a pin like the one you’re wearing.”

He lifted a wide, capable hand to the gold pin on his lapel. “The caduceus. Our little medal of honor. I imagine those in your profession have their own symbols. Now, I don’t imagine you asked Roarke to distract my delightful wife so we could discuss accessories.”

“No. You’re observant, Doctor.”

His eyes sobered, his barrel voice lowered. “Colin told me you were investigating a homicide that involves organ theft. Is it true you believe a surgeon is involved?”

“That’s right, a very skilled one.” So there would be no dancing, no pleasantries. Vanderhaven might have been on her short list of suspects at the moment, but she could find room to be grateful. “I hope I can count on your cooperation. I’ll be scheduling interviews over the next several days.”

“It’s insulting.” He lifted a short, squat glass. From the color and scent, she took it to be whiskey, straight up, rather than one of the elegant party drinks. “Necessary from your viewpoint, I’m sure, but insulting. No surgeon, no doctor would have willfully, uselessly terminated a life as you described to Colin.”

“It’s only useless until we know his motive,” Eve said evenly and watched Vanderhaven’s lips tighten. “The murder was done, the organ taken, and according to several expert sources, the surgical procedure was performed by skilled hands. Do you have another theory?”

“A cult.” He said it shortly, then took a sip of whiskey, took a deep breath. “You’ll pardon me for being sensitive about this issue, but we’re speaking about my community, my family, in a very real way. A cult,” he repeated in a tone that demanded she accept. “With a member or members trained in the medical field, certainly. The days of doctors mining bodies for parts went out with catgut. We have no use for damaged organs.”

She kept her eyes level on his. “I don’t believe I mentioned the organ taken was damaged.”

For a moment he only stared, then blinked. “You’ve said it came from an indigent. It was bound to be flawed. Excuse me. My wife and I should mingle.”

He took the still-simpering Fawn firmly by the elbow and drew her away.

“You owe me.” Roarke grabbed a flute of champagne off a tray and took one long sip. “I’m going to hear that irritating giggle in my sleep.”

“She had a lot of expensive hardware.” Eve considered, angling her head as she studied the glint and glitter of Fawn from across the room. “Is all that stuff she’s wearing real?”

“I don’t have my jeweler’s loupe on me,” he said dryly, “but it appears to be. And I’d estimate she’s draped in, oh, roughly a quarter million or so of first-rate diamonds and sapphires. Nothing a top-flight surgeon couldn’t afford,” he went on, and handed her the flute. “Though he must feel a bit of a pinch having the ex-wives and various children draining some of his fees.”

“Interesting. He was right up front about the case, and pretty steamed about my angle of investigation.” She sipped the champagne, passed the flute back to Roarke. “It sounds to me as if he and Cagney have had a consult about it.”

“That’s understandable. They’re friends as well as colleagues.”

“Maybe Mira can give me some personal data on this group.”

Roarke caught the change in rhythm of the music. “The fashion show’s about to start. We’ll have to mingle with Mira later. She seems to be having a very intense conversation at the moment.”

Eve had seen that for herself. Cagney bent down close, kept one hand on Mira’s arm. He was, Eve noted, doing most of the talking, with a hard, focused look in his eyes that indicated what he said was both vital and unpleasant.

Mira merely shook her head, said little, then, laying a hand on his, patted it once before stepping away.

“He’s upset her.” The almost fierce sense of protection surprised her. “Maybe I should see what’s wrong.”

But then the music flashed, the crowd swirled to insure good views for the fashion display. Eve lost sight of Mira and found herself face to face with Louise.

“Dallas.” Louise nodded coolly. Her hair was styled and sleek, her siren-red dress simply and beautifully cut. The diamonds in her ears didn’t look like simulations. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same goes.” Or to see you, Eve thought, looking polished, perfumed, and prosperous. “You’re a long way from the clinic, Dr. Dimatto.”

“You’re a long way from Cop Central, Lieutenant.”

“I live to socialize,” Eve said so dryly that Louise’s lips twitched.

“About as much as I do, I imagine. I’m Louise Dimatto.” She held out a hand to Roarke. “I’m going to be consulting on a case for your wife. I believe we’ll either be fast friends or hate each other before we’re done.”

Roarke grinned. “Should I lay bets?”

“Haven’t quite figured the odds yet.” She glanced over to watch the first models parade down the runway. “They always make me think of giraffes.”

“Giraffes are more fun to watch,” Eve commented. “Seems to me if Drake took all the bucks they sank into putting this fund-raiser together, they wouldn’t need a damn fund-raiser.”

“Darling, you’re much too logical to understand the purpose of show and beg. The more expensive the event, the higher the donation ticket, and the heartier those involved pat each other on the back after counting the till.”

“And then you add the social connection,” Louise put in, favoring Roarke with a quick smile. “Those prominent in medicine making their entrance, bringing their spouses or lovers, mingling with each other, and various pillars of the community such as Roarke.”

Eve snorted. “Some pillar.”

“I think Louise understands that anyone over a certain financial position automatically becomes a pillar.”

“And his wife attains the same status.”

“Cops make lousy pillars.” Eve shifted her gaze from the display of the hot look for upcoming spring and studied Louise. “So we’ve established why Roarke and I are here, but what about you? How does a doctor doing time at a free clinic rate a ticket to a major event for Drake?”

“By being the niece of the chief of staff.” Louise managed to reach through bodies and snag a flute of champagne. She used it to toast.

“You’re Cagney’s niece?”

“That’s right.”

Friends, colleagues, relatives, Eve thought. An incestuous little group—and such groups tended to band together like mud balls to block outsiders. “And what are you doing working in an armpit instead of uptown?”

“Because, Lieutenant, I do what I want. I’ll see you in the morning.” She nodded to Roarke, then slipped through the crowd.

Eve turned to her husband. “I’ve just taken on a consultant who’s the niece of one of my suspects.”

“Will you keep her?”

“For the time being,” Eve murmured. “We’ll see how it shakes out.”

After the last long-legged model had glided down the silver ramp and the music had subdued to a shimmer to lure couples onto the glossy tiles of the dance floor, Eve tried to identify what form of nutrition was disguised in the arty structure of shape and color on her dinner plate.

Beside her, too excited to eat, Mavis bounced on her seat. “Leonardo’s designs were the aces, weren’t they? None of the others were in the same orbit. Roarke, you’ve got to buy that backless-to-the-butt red number for Dallas.”

“That color wouldn’t suit her.” Leonardo, his huge hand covering both of Mavis’s, looked down at her. His gold-toned eyes shone with love and relief. He was built like a redwood and had the heart, and often the nerves, of a six-year-old approaching the first day of school.

He had indeed, as Mavis had so elegantly put it, woofed before the show.

“Now the green satin . . .” He smiled shyly over at Roarke. “I admit I had her in mind when I designed it. The color and cut are perfect for her.”

“Then she’ll have to have it. Won’t you, Eve?”

Preoccupied with finding out if there was anything resembling meat or one of its substitutes on her plate, she merely grunted. “Is this chicken buried in here or what?”

“It’s Cuisine Artiste,” Roarke told her, and offered her a roll the size of a credit chip. “Where aesthetics often take priority over taste.” Leaning over, he kissed her. “We’ll get a pizza on the way home.”

“Good idea. I should cruise around, see if I can find Mira, and if I can stir anything else up.”

“I’ll cruise with you.” Roarke rose, pulled out her chair.

“Fine. It was a great show, Leonardo. I especially liked that green thing.”

He beamed at her, then tugged her down to kiss her cheek. When she walked away, Eve heard Mavis giggle and tell Leonardo she needed a tornado to celebrate.

Tables with snowy cloths and silver candles were scattered throughout the ballroom. Six enormous chandeliers dripped out of the lofty ceiling to sprinkle muted and silver light. The wait staff moved around and through, pouring wine, removing dishes with an elegant choreography.

Generous drinks had loosened a few tongues, Eve observed. The level of sound was higher now, and the laughter louder.

Table hopping was a popular sport, and Eve noted as they wandered that most of the diners admired their food but didn’t eat it.

“What was this thing, five, ten thousand a plate?” she asked Roarke.

“A bit more, actually.”

“What a scam. There’s Mira, heading out. Must be a pit stop because her husband’s not with her. I’ll go after her.” She cocked her head at Roarke. “Why don’t you play the crowd for me since they’re loosening up some?”

“Love to. Then I want one dance, darling Eve, and pepperoni on my pizza.”

She grinned and didn’t worry about all the eyes watching when he kissed her. “I could go for both of those. I won’t be long.”

She headed directly to the bank of doors Mira had used, turned through the sumptuous foyer, and searched out the women’s lounge.

Chandeliers twinkled light in the dressing area where a attendant droid in snappy black and white waited to assist or provide. The long rose-toned counter held more than a dozen individual lighted mirrors, a tidy and expansive array of decorative bottles filled with scents and creams. There were disposable brushes and combs, hair gels, sprays, and shines.

If madam had lost or forgotten her lip dye or any other enhancement, the droid would be more than happy to open the wall cabinet to provide the guest with a wide choice of the best brands in all the popular shades.

Mira sat at the end of the counter on a skirted chair. She’d switched on her mirror so the lights ringing it glowed, but she had yet to freshen her makeup.

She looked pale, Eve thought. Pale and unhappy. Feeling abruptly awkward and intrusive, she nearly backed out of the room again, but Mira caught the motion, turned, and smiled.

“Eve. I heard you were here.”

“I saw you earlier.” Eve walked down behind the row of chairs. “But then the fashion show started, and we got swallowed up.”

“It was entertaining. There were some lovely pieces, though I must admit Leonardo’s remain unique. Is that one of his you’re wearing?”

Eve glanced down at her skirts. “Yeah. He keeps it pretty simple for me.”

“He understands you.”

“You’re upset,” Eve blurted out and had Mira’s eyes widening in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. A slight headache, that’s all. I wanted to get out of the crowd for a bit.” Deliberately, she shifted to the mirror and began to touch up her lips.

“I saw you earlier,” Eve reminded her, “talking to Cagney. Or he was talking to you. He upset you. Why?”

“This isn’t interview room A,” Mira responded, then closed her eyes in annoyance when Eve jerked back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m not upset, but I am . . . disturbed. And I thought I was disguising it so well.”

“I’m a trained observer.” Eve tried a smile. “You never look ruffled,” she continued. “You just always look perfect.”

“Really?” With a low laugh, Mira stared at her own face in the glass. She saw flaws. A woman’s vanity would always pick out flaws, she mused. But how flattering and unnerving to know a woman like Eve thought her perfect. “And I was just thinking I could use a salon treatment.”

“I wasn’t talking only about how you look but your manner. It’s your manner that’s ruffled tonight. If it’s personal, I’ll butt out, but if it has anything to do with Cagney and the case, I want to know.”

“It’s both. Colin is an old friend.” Her gaze lifted, met Eve’s. “We were once more than friends.”

“Oh.” Ridiculously embarrassed, Eve opened her bag, then realized she hadn’t put anything in it but her badge and gun. She closed it again and picked up the complimentary brush.

“It was a very long time ago, before I met my husband. We remained friends, not particularly close, as years passed. People do tend to drift,” Mira said wistfully. “But we have a history, Eve. I didn’t believe it was relevant to bring it up when you asked me to consult on the case. I still don’t, professionally. But this is difficult for me on a personal level.”

“Look, if you want to back out—”

“No, I don’t. And that’s what I told Colin earlier. He’s understandably upset by your investigation, at knowing that he and many of the surgeons he knows will be suspects until you close the case. He hoped that I would keep him informed of my findings and yours, or failing that, resign from this case.”

“He asked you to pass him confidential data?”

“Not in so many words,” Mira said hastily and shifted to face Eve directly. “You have to understand, he feels responsible for the people who work for him, with him. He’s in a position of authority, and that carries a weight.”

“A friend wouldn’t have asked you to compromise your ethics.”

“Perhaps not, but he’s under a great deal of stress. This matter will put a strain on our friendship, if not a hole through it. I’m sorry for that, I’ll grieve for that. But I carry a weight as well.” Then she drew a deep breath. “As primary, you have—with the information I’ve just given you—the right to ask me to assign another profiler on this case. I’ll understand if that’s what you want to do.”

Eve set the brush down, met Mira’s troubled eyes levelly. “I’m going to have more data for you tomorrow. I’m hoping you can give me a profile by early next week.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I want the best, and that’s you.” She rose quickly, unnerved when she saw tears swim into Mira’s quiet eyes. “Ah, what do you know about the niece? Louise Dimatto?”

“Not a great deal.” Struggling for composure, Mira recapped her lip tube. “She’s always gone her own way. She’s very bright, very dedicated, and very independent.”

“Can I trust her?”

Mira nearly said yes out of pure reflex, then pushed her personal feelings aside. “I would believe so, but as I said, I don’t know her very well.”

“Okay. Ah, do you want me to . . . do anything here?”

The sound Mira made was between a chuckle and a sigh. Eve sounded nearly terrified the answer would be yes. “No. I think I’ll just sit here for a little while, in the quiet.”

“Then I better get back.” Eve started out, then turned. “Mira, if it starts to turn toward him, will you be able to handle it?”

“If it turns toward him, he wouldn’t be the man I thought I knew. The man I once loved. Yes, I will handle it, Eve.”

But when Eve nodded and left her alone, Mira closed her eyes and let herself weep a little.

Instincts, Eve decided the next morning, were one thing. Facts another. A family connection between Colin Cagney and her upcoming consultant was just a little too close for comfort. So, with her hands in her pockets and her back to the window where the thick fall of snow obscured the view, she ordered her computer to run data on Louise Dimatto.

Dimatto, Louise Anne, ID# 3452-100-34FW. Born March 1, 2030, Westchester, New York, Marital status, single. No children. Parents Alicia Cagney Dimatto and Mark Robert Dimatto. No siblings. Current residence, 28 Houston, unit C, New York City. Current position, general practitioner of medicine, Canal Street Clinic. Held position for two years.

Graduate of Harvard Medical School, all honors.

Residency completed at Roosevelt Hospital. . . .

“Financial data,” Eve ordered, and glanced over absently as Roarke walked in.

Working. . . . Salary from Canal Street Clinic, thirty thousand annual . . .

Eve snorted. “She didn’t buy those rocks she was wearing on her ears with a pitiful thirty thousand a year. That’s less than I make, for Christ’s sake.”

Income from trust fund, stock dividends, and interest, approximately $268,000 annual . . .

“That’s more like it. So, with that kind of income, why isn’t she living in some fancy digs uptown?”

“A quarter million doesn’t buy what it used to,” Roarke said easily and moved over to glance at her monitor. “Who are you running, the young doctor?”

“Yeah. She’ll be here in a few minutes. I have to decide whether to kick her or bring her in.” Eve frowned. “A trust fund baby with high connections at Drake, but she puts in miserable time at a free clinic where she treats street people for peanuts. Why?”

Cocking his head, Roarke sat on the edge of her desk. “I know a certain cop who now has what some would call a substantial personal income and high connections at nearly every level of business in any area on or off planet, yet she continues to work the streets, often putting herself at personal risk. For peanuts.” He paused a moment. “Why?”

“The money stuff, that’s your deal,” Eve muttered.

“No, darling, it’s yours. And maybe this is hers. Maybe, like you, this is who she is.”

She considered a moment, shuffling his money and her part of it aside—where she preferred it. “You liked her.”

“On brief first impression, yes. More to the point, you do.”

“Maybe I do.” She paused a moment. “Yeah, I do, but I don’t know what she’ll do if the arrow points at her uncle.” She rolled her shoulders once. “I guess we’ll just have to find out. Computer, file and save all data and disengage.”

“I have the information you asked me for yesterday.” Roarke slipped a disc out of his pocket, slid it into hers. “I don’t know how helpful it’s going to be. “I didn’t see any connection between your case and NewLife. And as for Westley Friend, he didn’t appear to have much of an underbelly. He comes off as a man dedicated to his family and his work.”

“The more you know, the more you can cross off. I appreciate it.”

“Any time, Lieutenant.” Roarke took her hands, slid his up to her wrists, and tugged her closer. It gratified him to feel her pulse trip just a little faster at the contact. “Do I assume you’ll be at this most of the day?”

“That’s the plan. Aren’t you going in to your office?”

“No, I’ll be working here today. It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, right.” The little trickle of guilt had her struggling not to squirm. “We didn’t have, like plans for the weekend, did we?”

“No.” His lips curved, and taking advantage of her momentary distraction, he shifted his hands to her hips. “But I could make some, for after hours.”

“Yeah?” Her body bumped his, and her muscles loosened and throbbed. “What kind of plans?”

“Intimate plans.” He lowered his head to catch and tease her lower lip with his teeth. “Darling Eve, where would you like to go? Or should I surprise you?”

“Your surprises are usually pretty good.” Her eyes wanted to close, her bones wanted to melt. “Roarke, you’re clouding my mind here.”

“Why, thank you.” With a low laugh, he changed angles to rub his lips over hers. “Why don’t I just finish the job,” he suggested and turned up the power and heat of the kiss.

When Louise stepped through the doorway with Summerset just behind her, she stopped abruptly. She supposed she could have—should have—cleared her throat or made some sound. But it was so interesting to watch that shimmer of passion, that ease of joining. And to see the edgy, somewhat abrupt Lieutenant Dallas in a private moment that proved her to be a woman with a heart and needs.

It was really lovely, she decided, the way they were framed in the window with the steady fall of snow behind them, the woman in an almost ruthlessly plain shirt and trousers with a weapon harness strapped to her side, and the man elegantly casual in black. Really lovely, she thought, that they could be so completely lost in each other. Which meant, she supposed, that marriage didn’t always kill passions.

So it was Summerset who cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon. Dr. Dimatto has arrived.”

Eve started to jerk back, then subsided when Roarke merely locked her against him. Whenever she tried to wiggle out of a public embrace, he made an issue of it. She fought with embarrassment, tried to seem casual. All the while, her blood was running as sweet and thick as heated syrup.

“You’re prompt, doctor,” she managed.

“Always, Lieutenant. Good morning, Roarke.”

“Good morning.” Amused at all of them, Roarke loosened his hold on Eve. “Can we offer you something? Coffee?”

“I never turn down coffee. You have an exceptional home,” she added as she continued into the room.

“This place?” Eve’s voice was desert dry. “It’ll do until we find something bigger.”

Louise laughed, set her briefcase aside. The thin light through the window caught the little gold pin on her lapel. Eve lifted a brow. “Dr. Wo had one of those on her dress last night. So did Vanderhaven.”

“This.” Absently, Louise lifted a hand to the pin. “Tradition. Right after the turn of the century, most medical facilities began to give a caduceus pin to doctors who’d completed their internship. I imagine a lot of them end up in a dusty drawer somewhere, but I like it.”

“I’ll let you get down to work.” Roarke handed Louise her coffee, then glanced over at his wife. The gleam in his eye said it all. “I’ll see you later, Lieutenant, and we can firm up those plans.”

“Sure.” Damn it, her lips were still vibrating from his. “We’ll do that.”

Louise waited until he’d gone through a connecting door, shut it. “I hope you won’t take offense if I say that is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“I rarely take offense at the truth. So let’s try for another. Your uncle is one of my suspects. At this time, he is on my short, and can’t be eliminated. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

A line formed instantly and deeply between Louise’s brows. Straight irritation, Eve decided.

“It won’t be a problem because I have every confidence I’ll help you eliminate him very quickly. Uncle Colin and I disagree in many areas, but he is, above all else, dedicated to insuring the quality of human life.”

“That’s an interesting phrase.” Eve came around the desk, sat on the edge. They would have to test each other, she knew, before they could work together. “Not saving lives, maintaining them, prolonging them?”

“There are some who believe that without a level of quality, life is only pain.”

“Is that your belief?”

“For me, life itself is enough, as long as suffering can be relieved.”

Eve nodded, picked up her own coffee, though it had gone cold. “Most wouldn’t say that Snooks, for example, was enjoying any quality of life. He was sick, he was dying, he was indigent. Ending all that for him might have been considered a mercy by some.”

Louise went pale, but her eyes remained steady. “No doctor with ethics, with morals, with a belief in his oaths and his duty, would terminate a patient without consent. First do no harm. This, without question, is a promise my uncle lives by.”

Eve nodded. “We’ll see. I want you to take a look at the data I’ve accessed, then translate it for me in terms someone who didn’t graduate from Harvard Medical can understand.”

Louise’s brows winged up. “You checked up on me.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“No.” Once again, Louise’s face relaxed into a smile. “I was certain you would. It’s nice to be right.”

“Then let’s get started.” Eve called up the data, gestured to the chair behind the monitor, then looked over as Peabody came huffing through the door. “You’re late.”

“Subway—” Peabody held up a hand as she struggled to catch her breath. “Running behind. Weather sucks. Sorry.” She took off her snow-covered coat. “Coffee. Please. Sir.”

Eve merely jerked a thumb in the direction of the AutoChef, then answered the beep of her ’link. “Dallas.”

“Don’t you ever check your messages?” Nadine demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”

“I was out, now I’m in. What?”

“I’m officially requesting a one-on-one regarding the murders of Samuel Petrinsky and Erin Spindler. My information has you as primary on the first and replacement primary on the second.”

It was a game they both knew. Tele-link logs could be checked. “The department has not yet issued a statement on either of those cases. Both are ongoing investigations.”

“Which, according to my research and sources, appear to be linked. You can say nothing and I’ll go on air with what I’ve got, or you can do some damage control by agreeing to an interview before I break the story. Up to you, Dallas.”

She could have wiggled more, often would have. But she thought that was enough for the record. “I’m working at home today.”

“Fine, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No, no cameras in my house.” On that she was firm. “I’ll meet you in my office at Central in an hour.”

“Make it half that. I have a deadline.”

“An hour, Nadine. Take it or leave it.” And with that, she cut transmission. “Peabody, you work with Dr. Dimatto. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Traffic’s ugly, Lieutenant,” Peabody told her, pitifully grateful she wasn’t being dragged out in it again. “The road crews haven’t started clearing yet.”

“Just one more adventure,” Eve muttered and strode out.

She thought she’d get out clean, but the foyer monitor blinked on as she reached for her jacket. “Going somewhere, Lieutenant?”

“Jesus, Roarke, why not just knock me over the head with a blunt instrument. Keeping tabs on me?”

“As often as possible. Wear your coat if you’re going out. That jacket isn’t warm enough for this weather.”

“I’m just going into Central for a couple of hours.”

“Wear the coat,” he repeated, “and the gloves in the pocket. I’m sending one of the four-wheels around.”

She opened her mouth, but he’d already vanished. “Nag, nag, nag,” she muttered, then nearly jolted when he swam back on-screen.

“I love you, too,” he said easily, and she heard his chuckle as the image faded again.

Eyes narrowed, she fingered the jacket, considered taking a stand. But she remembered just how warm and soft the coat was. It wasn’t like she was going to a murder scene, so it seemed petty not to give in, just this once. She wrapped cashmere over her ancient trousers and stepped outside into the blowing snow just as a gleaming silver vehicle rolled smoothly to the base of the steps.

It was, she thought, a honey of a ride. Powerful and sturdy as a jet-tank. She climbed up and in, amused and touched to find the heat already blowing. Roarke never missed a trick. To entertain herself, she programmed it for manual, gripped the gearshift, and shot down the drive.

It rolled over several inches of snow as if she were driving on freshly scrubbed asphalt.

Traffic was snarled and nasty. More than one vehicle was tipped sideways on the street and abandoned. She counted three fender benders in the first four blocks. She steered around them easily, automatically calling the locations of the wrecks in to Dispatch on her communicator.

Even the glide-cart vendors, who would brave almost any weather to make a buck, were taking the day off. Street corners were deserted, the sky overhead too curtained with snow for her to see or hear any air traffic.

It was, she thought, like driving through one of those old glass globes where nothing moved but the snow when it was shaken free.

Clean, she thought. It wouldn’t last, but just now, the city was clean, pristine, surreal. And quiet enough to make her shudder.

She felt something very close to relief after she’d parked in the garage and walked into the noise and confusion of Cop Central.

With more than a half hour to spare before the interview, she locked the door to her office—in case Nadine rushed the mark—and contacted her commander at home.

“I apologize for interrupting your free day, Commander.”

“It’s yours as well, if I’m not mistaken.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Get your boots on, I’ll be out in just a few minutes. Grandkids,” he told Eve with a quick and rare smile. “We’re about to have a snow war.”

“I won’t keep you from it, but I thought I should inform you I’ve agreed to a one-on-one with Nadine Furst. She contacted me this morning at home. She’s dug up some data on the Petrinsky and the Spindler cases. I thought it best to draft an official statement, answer some basic questions, than to let her go on air with speculation.”

“Cooperate, but keep it as short as possible.” The smile that had softened his face when he’d spoken of his grandchildren was gone, leaving it hard and blank. “We can expect other media to demand statements after she goes on air with it. What’s the current status?”

“I’m working with a medical consultant on some data now. I have potential links to two other homicides, one in Chicago, one in Paris. I’ve contacted the primaries in each, and am waiting for data transfer. McNab is still running like crimes. My investigation points to a possible connection with several large medical facilities and at least two, if not more, medical personnel attached to them.”

“Give her as little as possible. Send me a fully updated report today, at home. We’ll discuss this on Monday morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, Eve thought as she leaned back from the ’link, one base covered. Now she would dance the dance with Nadine and see what reaction it caused.

She got up to unlock the door, then sat and killed the waiting time by starting the report for Whitney. When she heard the click of heels coming briskly down the hall, Eve saved the document, filed it, and blanked her screen.

“God! Could it get any worse out there?” Nadine smoothed a hand over her camera-ready hair. “Only the insane go out in this, which makes us lunatics, Dallas.”

“Cops laugh at blizzards. Nothing stops the law.”

“Well, that explains why we passed two wrecked black and whites on the way from the station. I got an update from our meteorologist before I left. He says it’s the storm of the century.”

“How many of those have we had this century now?”

Nadine laughed and began to unbutton her coat. “True enough, but he says we can expect this storm to continue right through tomorrow, with accumulations even in the city of more than two feet. This one’s going to stop New York cold.”

“Great. People will be killing each other over a roll of toilet paper by afternoon.”

“You can bet I’m laying in a supply.” She started to hang her coat on the bent hook beside Eve’s, then stopped with a purr. “Oooh, cashmere. Fabulous. Is this yours? I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“I don’t wear it on duty, which I’m officially not on today. It’d get wrecked in a heartbeat. Now, do you want to talk outerwear fashion, Nadine, or murder?”

“It’s always murder first with you.” But she indulged herself by giving the coat one last, long stroke before she signaled to her camera operator. “Set it up so the audience can see the snow falling. Makes a nice visual and adds to the spirit of dedication of our cop here and your dogged reporter.”

She snapped open a lighted compact, checked her face, her hair. Satisfied, she sat, crossed her silky legs. “Your hair’s a wreck, but I don’t suppose you care.”

“Let’s get it done.” Vaguely annoyed, Eve tunneled her fingers through her hair twice. Damn it, she’d had it dealt with before Christmas.

“Okay, we’re set. I’ll do the bumpers and the teases back at the station, so we’ll just go right into it here. Stop scowling, Dallas, you’ll frighten the viewing audience. This will roll on the noon report, but it’s going to take second to the weather.” And that, Nadine thought philosophically, was the breaks. She took one deep breath, closed her eyes briefly, jabbed a finger at the operator to start tape.

Then she opened her eyes, fixed a solemn smile on her face. “This is Nadine Furst, reporting from the office of Lieutenant Eve Dallas at Cop Central. Lieutenant Dallas, you are primary on a recent homicide, one that involves one of the city’s homeless who was killed a few nights ago. Can you confirm that?”

“I’m primary on the matter of the death of Samuel Petrinsky, street name Snooks, who was murdered some time during the early-morning hours of January twelfth. The investigation is open and ongoing.”

“There were, however, unusual circumstances in the matter of this death.”

Eve looked steadily at Nadine. “There are unusual circumstances in the matter of any murder.”

“That may be true. In this case, however, the victim’s heart had been removed. It was not found at the scene. Will you confirm that?”

“I will confirm that the victim was found in his usual crib, and that his death occurred during what appeared to be a skilled surgical operation during which an organ was removed.”

“Do you suspect a cult?”

“That avenue of investigation is not prime, but will not be dismissed until the facts warrant it.”

“Is your investigation centering on the black market?”

“Again, that avenue will not be dismissed.”

For emphasis, Nadine leaned forward just a little, her forearm resting on her thigh. “Your investigation has been, according to my sources, expanded to include the similar death of one Erin Spindler, who was found murdered several weeks ago in her apartment. You were not primary on that investigation. Why have you assumed that position now?”

“The possible connection between the cases is cause for both cases to be assigned one primary. This streamlines the investigation. It’s simply procedure.”

“Have you, as yet, established a profile of the killer or killers?”

Here, Eve thought was the point where she would walk the shaky line between departmental policy and her own needs. “The profile is being constructed. At this time it is believed that the perpetrator has well-trained medical skills.”

“A doctor?”

“Not all well-trained medical personnel are doctors,” she said briefly. “But that, too, is an avenue of our investigation. The department, and this investigator, will put all efforts into finding the killer or killers of Petrinsky and Spindler. It’s my priority at this time.”

“You have leads?”

Eve waited a beat, just one beat. “We are following any and all leads.”

Eve gave her another ten minutes, circling around and back to the information she wanted aired. There was a connection, there was medical skill, and she was focused on finding the killer.

“Good, great.” Nadine shook her hair back, rolled her shoulders. “I think I’ll snip and edit and work that into a two-parter. I need something to compete with this damn snow.” She sent her operator a warm smile. “Be a sweetheart, would you, and go on down to the van? Shoot that feed to the station. I’ll be right along.”

She waited until he was gone, then turned her sharp eyes to Eve. “Off the record?”

“On or off, I can’t give you much more.”

“You think it’s a doctor, a surgeon. A very skilled one.”

“What I think isn’t what I know. Until I know, the case is open.”

“But we’re not talking cult or black market.”

“Off record, no, I don’t think so. No sacrifice to some bloody god, no quick profit. If money’s part of it, it’s a long-term investment. Do your job, Nadine, and if you find anything interesting, run it by me. I’ll confirm or deny, if I can.”

Fair was fair, Nadine thought. And Eve Dallas could be counted on to deal them straight. “And if I dig up something you don’t have, and pass it along? What will you trade?”

Eve smiled. “You’ll get the exclusive when the case breaks.”

“Nice doing business with you, Dallas.” She rose, tossed one look toward the blind white curtain out the window. “I hate winter,” she muttered and strode out.

Eve took the next hour at Central to refine her report and transmit a copy to Whitney. Even as the transmission ended, an incoming sounded. Marie Dubois had come through.

Preferring to read through the data without distractions, she delayed her trip back home. It was after noon when she filed and saved and copied, tucking the disc into her bag.

The snow was falling faster, heavier, when she drove into it again. As a precaution, she engaged the vehicle’s sensors. She sure as hell didn’t want to run into a stalled vehicle because she was snow blind.

As it was, the sensors kept her from running over the man stretched out facedown in the street and rapidly being buried in snow.

“Shit.” She stopped bare inches before her wheels met his head, and shoving the door open, stumbled out to check his condition.

She was reaching for her communicator to summon a med-tech unit when he sprang up like a rocket and with one rapid backhand to the face, sent her sprawling.

Irritation came as quickly as pain. Do a damn good deed, she thought as she leaped to her feet, get punched in the face.

“You’ve got to be desperate, pal, to try to mug somebody in this weather. And just your luck, I’m a goddamn cop.” She started to reach for her badge, then saw his hand come up. In it was a weapon very similar to the one strapped to her side.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

She knew exactly what it felt like to take a hit from a weapon like the one he held. Since it wasn’t an experience she cared to repeat, she kept her hands in view.

Not a man, she realized now that she got a better look. A droid. One that had been programmed to stop her specifically.

“That’s right. What’s the deal?”

“I’m authorized to give you a choice.”

The snow, she thought, was very likely blurring his vision as much as it was hers. She’d get an opening, by God, and bust his circuits. “What choice? And make it fast before some asshole drives along and kills us.”

“Your investigation into the matter of Petrinsky and/or Spindler is to be dropped within twenty-four hours.”

“Oh yeah?” She shifted her stance, cocking a hip in what would appear to be arrogance. But it brought her just a step closer. “Why would I do something like that?”

“If you do not cooperate with this request, you will be terminated, and your spouse, Roarke, will be terminated. These terminations will not be pleasant or humane. There are certain parties who have complete knowledge of the human body and will use such knowledge to make your deaths very painful. I am authorized to give you full details of the procedures.”

Going with the gut, she stumbled forward. “Don’t hurt my husband.” She let her voice shake, watched with narrowed eyes as the droid shifted the weapon enough to hold out his free hand and stop her forward motion.

It only took an instant.

She slammed her forearm into his weapon hand, disarming him, then, trusting her boots for traction, spun into a vicious back kick. It knocked him back a foot, but not quite long enough to give her time to free her weapon.

The snow cushioned the worst of the fall when he tackled her. They fought in near silence, hampered by the snow. But she tasted blood and cursed roundly when he slipped past her guard and slammed a fist into her mouth.

An elbow to his throat had his eyes rolling back where the knee to the groin did nothing.

“Not anatomically correct, huh?” she panted, rolling with him. “You’re cheaper without balls.” With her teeth gritted, she managed to draw her weapon and press it hard to his throat. “Tell me, you son of a bitch, who’s so economically minded? Who the fuck programmed you?”

“I’m not authorized to give you that information.”

She shoved the weapon harder against his throat. “This authorizes you.”

“Incorrect data,” he said and his eyes jittered. “I am programmed to self-destruct at this time. Ten seconds to detonation, nine . . .”

“Jesus Christ.” She fought her way off, skidding and sliding on the snow as she tried to leap clear of the blast. She barely heard him drone “two, one” as she flung herself down, covered the back of her head with her hands, and braced.

The blast stung her ears, the displaced air whipped over her, and something hot flew overhead, but the thick snow muffled the worst of the explosion.

Wincing, she got to her feet and limped back to where she’d taken him down. She found blackened snow, patches of it still hissing from the flames, and scattered, twisted bits of metal and plastic.

“Damn it, damn it. Not enough left to scrape into a recycle bin.” She rubbed her eyes and trudged back to her vehicle.

The back of her right hand burned, and glancing down, she noted the best part of her glove had been singed away to flesh, and the flesh was raw and red. Disgusted, and just a little dizzy, she tugged both off and flung them down in the snow.

Lucky, she decided, hissing as she pulled herself into the four-wheel. Her hair could have caught a spark and gone up. Wouldn’t that have been an adventure. She called in the incident, reported the debris on the drive home. By the time she got there, the aches and bruises were singing a full chorus. She was snarling as she slammed inside.

“Lieutenant,” Summerset began, then got a look at her. “What have you done? That coat is ruined. You haven’t had it a month.”

“He shouldn’t have made me wear it, should he? Goddamn it.” She yanked it off, furious to see the rips, burns, and stains. Disgusted, she dropped it on the floor and limped her way upstairs.

She wasn’t a bit surprised to see Roarke coming down the upper corridor toward her. “He just couldn’t wait to let you know I ruined that coat, could he?”

“He said you were hurt,” Roarke said grimly. “How bad is it?”

“The other guy’s in pieces that’ll have to be picked up with tweezers.”

He only sighed, took out a handkerchief. “Your mouth’s bleeding, darling.”

“It split open again when I sneered at Summerset.” Ignoring the cloth, she dabbed at the blood with the back of her hand. “Sorry about the coat.”

“Likely it kept certain parts of you from being ripped, so we’ll consider it lucky.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Come on. There’s a doctor in the house.”

“I don’t care much for doctors right now.”

“When have you ever?” But he led her steadily toward her office where Louise continued to work.

“More than ever, then. Nadine had just enough time to get her report on. But there wasn’t enough time for somebody to see it, track me down, program the droid, and send him after me. I made somebody nervous last night, Roarke.”

“Well, since that was your plan, I’d say you’ve had quite a successful day.”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “But I lost my gloves again.”

Late in the afternoon, while the snow continued to fall, Eve sat alone in her office and read over Louise’s simple translation of the medical data that had been gathered.

Basically, artificial organs—the process initially discovered by Friendly and his team and refined over the years—were cheap, efficient, and dependable. The transplant of human organs was not. It was necessary to find a match, to remove from a donor a healthy specimen, to preserve and transport the organ.

The building of organs from the patient’s own tissues was more advantageous, as there was no risk of rejection, but was costly in time and money.

With current medical knowledge, human donors were few and far between. For the most part, healthy organs were harvested—donated or brokered—from accident victims who could not be repaired.

Science, according to Louise, was a two-sided coin. The longer we were able to preserve life, the more rare human donors became. More than 90 percent of successful transplants were artificial.

Certain conditions and diseases could be and were cured, leaving the patient with his original organs in good repair. Others, too far progressed and most usually in cases of the poor or disenfranchised, left the organ too damaged and the body too weak for these treatments. Artificial replacements were the only course of treatment.

Why take what was useless? Eve asked herself. Why kill for it?

She looked up as Roarke came in. “Maybe it’s just another mission, after all,” she began. “Just one more lunatic, this one with a highly honed skill and a personal agenda. Maybe he just wants to rid the world of those he considers beneath him and the organs are nothing more than trophies.”

“There’s no connection between the victims?”

“Snooks and Spindler both had connections to Canal Street, and that’s it. There’s no other link between them, or to hook them to the victims in Chicago and Paris. Except when you look at what they were.”

She didn’t need to bring up the data on Leclerk to refresh her memory. “The guy who bought it in Paris was a chemi-head, late sixties, no known next of kin. He had a flop when he could pay for it, lived on the street when he couldn’t. He used a free clinic off and on, playing the system to get his social program meds when he couldn’t buy a fix. You have to submit to a physical if you want the drugs. Medical records indicate he had advanced cirrhosis of the liver.”

“And that’s what links them.”

“Liver, heart, kidneys. He’s building a collection. It comes out of a health center, I’m sure of it. But whether it’s Drake or Nordick or another one altogether, I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s not only one,” Roarke suggested, and Eve nodded.

“I’ve thought of that. And I don’t like the implications. The guy I’m looking for is highly placed. He feels protected. He is protected.”

She pushed back. “He’s educated, successful, and organized. He’s got a reason for what he’s doing, Roarke. He was willing to kill a cop to protect it. I just can’t find it.”

“Kicks?”

“I don’t think so.” She closed her eyes and brought the image of each victim into her head. “There was no glee in it. It was professional, each time. I bet he got a thrill out of it, but that wasn’t the driving force. Just a happy by-product,” she murmured.

He leaned over, tipped up her face, scanned the bruises. “It’s beating you up. Literally.”

“Louise did a pretty decent job on me. She’s not as annoying as most doctors.”

“You need a change of scene,” he decided. “A distraction so you can come back to this with your mind clear on Monday. Let’s go.”

“Go? Where?” She gestured to the window. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re getting dumped on.”

“So why not take advantage of it?” He tugged her to her feet. “Let’s build a snowman.”

He surprised her, constantly, but this time, she simply gaped. “You want to build a snowman?”

“Why not? I’d thought we’d fly out, spend the weekend in Mexico, but . . .” Still holding her hand, he looked out the window and smiled. “How often do we have an opportunity like this?”

“I don’t know how to build a snowman.”

“Neither do I. Let’s see what we come up with.”

She did a lot of muttering, came up with alternate suggestions that included mindless sex in a warm bed, but in the end, she found herself bundled from head to foot in extreme climate gear and stepping out into the teeth of the blizzard.

“Christ, Roarke, this is crazy. You can’t see five feet.”

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” Grinning, he linked his gloved hand with hers and pulled her down the snow-heaped steps.

“We’ll be buried alive.”

He simply reached down, took a handful, fisted it. “Packs pretty well,” he observed. “I never saw much snow as a boy. Dublin’s for rain. We need a good base.”

Bending down, he began to mound snow.

Eve watched for a moment, amazed at how intent her sophisticated husband, sleek in his black gear, scooped and packed snow.

“Is this an ‘I was a deprived child’ thing?”

He glanced up, one brow lifting. “Weren’t we?”

She picked up a handful of snow, absently patted it onto the mound. “We’ve pretty well made up for it,” she murmured, then frowned. “You’re making it too tall. It should be wider.”

He straightened, smiled, then framed her face with snow-covered hands, kissing her when she squealed. “Pitch in or back off.”

She wiped the snow off her face, sniffed. “I’m going to build my own and he’ll kick your snowman’s butt.”

“I’ve always admired your competitive streak.”

“Yeah, well, be prepared to be amazed.”

She moved off a bit and began to dig in.

She didn’t consider herself artistic, so went with her strengths: muscle, determination, and endurance.

The form she worked on might have been slightly lopsided, but it was big. And when she glanced over at Roarke, she noted with glee that hers had his by a good foot.

The cold stung her cheeks, her muscles warmed with exercise, and without realizing it, she relaxed. Instead of unnerving her, the sheer silence soothed. It was like being in the center of a dream, one without sound, without color. One that lulled the mind and gave the body rest.

By the time she got to the head, she was packing and shaping with abandon. “I’m nearly done here, pal, and my guy is built like an arena ball tackle. Your pitiful attempt is doomed.”

“We’ll see about that.” He stepped back, studied his snow sculpture with narrowed eyes, then smiled. “Yes, this works for me.”

She tossed a look over her shoulder and snorted. “Better bulk him up before my guy chews him up and spits him out.”

“No, I think this is the right shape.” He waited while Eve patted her snowman’s bulging pecs, then trudged through the snow toward him.

Her eyes went to slits. “Yours has tits.”

“Yes, rather gorgeous ones.”

Stunned, Eve clamped her hands on her hips and stared. The figure was sleek and curvy, with enormous snow breasts that had been shaped into wicked points.

Roarke stroked one snowy breast lightly. “She’ll lead your pumped-up slab of beef there around by the nose.”

Eve could only shake her head. “Pervert. Those boobs are way out of proportion.”

“A boy needs his dreams, darling.” He took the snowball in the center of the shoulder blades and turned with a wolfish smile. “I was hoping you’d do that. Now that you’ve shed first blood . . .” He kept his eyes on her as he scooped up snow, balled it.

She dodged left, quickly made another ball, and let it fly with the grace and speed of a major-league infielder. He caught that one on the heart, nodded an acknowledgment of her aim and speed, and went for her.

Snow flew, hard bullets, heavy cannonballs, a barrage of fire. She watched a missile explode in his face and, grinning fiercely, followed up with a trio of body blows.

He gave as good as he got, even causing her to yelp once when she took a hard hit to the side of the head, but she thought she could have taken him, would have taken him, if she hadn’t started to laugh.

She couldn’t stop, and it made her slow and clumsy. As she fought for breath, her arms shook, throwing off her aim. Wheezing, she held up a hand. “Truce! Cease fire.”

Snow splatted high on her chest and into her face. “I can’t hear you,” Roarke said, moving steadily forward. “Did you say, ‘I surrender’?”

“No, damn it.” She fought to snort in air, grabbed weakly for ammo, then let out a laughing scream when he jumped her.

She went down, spilling into the thick cushion of snow with Roarke on top of her. “Maniac,” she managed and concentrated on getting her breath back.

“You lose.”

“Did not.”

“I seem to be on top of things, Lieutenant.” Aware just how tricky she could be, he clamped his hands over hers. “You’re now at my mercy.”

“Oh yeah? You don’t scare me, tough guy.” She grinned up at him. The black ski cap he’d pulled on was crusted white with snow, the glorious hair that spilled out of it wet and gleaming. “I mortally wounded you a half dozen times. You’re a dead man.”

“I think I have just enough life left to make you suffer.” He lowered his head, nipped lightly at her jaw. “And to make you beg.”

His tongue traced her lips and blurred the edges of her mind. “If you’re getting ideas about starting anything out here . . .”

“What?”

“Good,” she said and arched up to find his mouth with hers.

Hot and hungry from the first. With a little sound of greed, she took more. It burst through her, that wild, climbing need she’d only felt with him, for him. Trapped in the swirl of white, she gave herself to it.

“Inside.” He was lost in her. No one else had taken him as deep as she could. “We need to go inside.”

“Put your hands on me.” Her voice was rough, her breath already ragged. “I want your hands on me.”

He was tempted to rip away at the tough, thin suit, to find the flesh beneath. To sink his teeth into it. He yanked her up until they were sitting in the depression of snow, tangled and breathless.

They stared at each other a moment, both stunned at how quickly the mood had changed from playful to desperate. Then her lips curved. “Roarke?”

“Eve?”

“I think we should go in and give these snow people some privacy.”

“Good idea.”

“Just one thing.” She moved into him, slid her arms around him, brought her mouth teasingly close. Then, snake-quick, tugged the collar of his suit out and dumped snow under it.

He was still hissing when she scrambled to her feet.

“Cheat.”

“You can make me pay for it when I’ve got you naked.”

As cold shivered down his back, he pushed himself up. “I’d be delighted.”

They started in the pool, in the fluid curve where with a mere touch of the controls, the water churned and went steamy. There in the pulsing heat, he put his hands on her however he liked, driving them both from edge to edge, yanking them back, time after time just short of full release.

She was dizzy, weak, her body teetering on the brink, when he dragged her to her feet. Water cascaded from them and steamed up in clouds.

“In bed,” was all he said, and he swept her up to carry her from the pool to the elevator.

“Hurry.” She pressed her face against his neck, nipped her teeth into it.

Her heart was raging. She wondered that it didn’t simply burst out of the cage of her ribs and fall into his hands. He already owned it. And her.

Delirious, battered with so much more than the easy lust they could spark off each other with a look, she curled into him. “I love you, Roarke.”

It shot into him. Those words from her were precious and rare. They could weaken his knees, make his heart ache. He strode off the elevator, climbed up to where their bed stood centered under a sky window curtained white with snow. And fell onto the bed with her.

“Tell me again.” His mouth fastened to hers, devoured, swallowed her moan. “Tell me again, while I’m touching you.”

His hands streaked over her, down her, causing her flesh to tremble. She arched under him, wanting him to cover her where the heat throbbed, to pierce her there. To fill her there.

She was slick and hot where his fingers slid, and she cried out when he shoved her blissfully over the edge. But the trembling wouldn’t stop, the need wouldn’t fade. It built again, layer over layer, while the taste of him pulsed through her system like a drug.

“Tell me again.” He drove himself into her in one violent stroke. “Damn it, tell me again. Now.”

She fisted her hands in his hair, needing to anchor herself, fighting to hold on, just to hold on for one moment more. And looked into those wild blue eyes. “I love you. Always. Only. You.”

Then she wrapped herself around him, and gave him the rest of her.

A weekend with Roarke, Eve thought, could smooth out the rough edges of broken glass.

The man was amazingly . . . inventive.

She’d intended to work on Sunday, but before she could roll out of bed, she was being plucked out and carried off to the holo room. The next thing she knew, she was buck naked on a simulation of Crete. It was a little difficult to complain about warm blue water, dusky hills, and baking sun, and when he implemented multifunctions and conjured up a lush, eye-popping picnic, she gave up and enjoyed herself.

New York was buried under two feet of snow. Jet ski patrols were handling any threat of looting, and medi-vac teams were scouting out the snow wrecked. All but emergency and necessary city personnel were ordered to stay home.

So why not spend the day at the beach eating fat purple grapes?

When she woke Monday morning, she was limber, clear-headed, and refueled. She kept one ear tuned to the news on the bedroom screen as she dressed. Reports were that all major streets had been cleared. Although she didn’t believe that for a minute, she thought she could risk taking her own vehicle to Central.

When the ’link beeped, she finished buttoning her shirt, scooped up her coffee, and answered.

“Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to Sleeper Village, Bowery. Reported homicide, Priority One. Uniforms on scene.

“Notify Peabody, Officer Delia. I’ll pick her up en route. I’m on my way. Dallas out.” She broke transmission, exchanged her coffee for her weapon harness. “Goddamn it. He got another one.” Her eyes were flat and cold as she looked at Roarke. “He wanted it on my watch. He’s made it personal.”

“Watch your back, Lieutenant,” Roarke ordered as she strode out. Then he shook his head. “It’s always personal,” he murmured.

It didn’t lift her mood to see the uniforms on scene were Bowers and Trueheart. She fought her way to the curb on the streets that were lumpy and slick with snow. Then gave herself time for one long breath.

“If I look like I’m going to deck her . . .”

“Yes sir?”

“Let me,” Eve snapped and pushed out of the car. Her boots sank into the snow, and she kept her eyes on Bowers as she plowed through it. The sky overhead was as hard and cold as her heart.

“Officer Bowers. Your report?”

“Subject female, undetermined age and identity.” Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Trueheart open his mouth, then shut it again.

“We found her in her crib, as with victim Snooks. However, there is considerable blood in this case. As I am not a medical technician, I cannot verify which piece of her was removed, if any.”

Eve scanned the area. Saw that this time there were more than a dozen faces, pale, thin, with dead eyes staring over the line of police sensors.

“Have you questioned any of these people?”

“No.”

“Do so,” she ordered, then turned to start toward the crib that had been marked with blipping police sensors.

Bowers jerked her head at Trueheart, sending him on his way, but fell into step beside Eve. “I’ve already filed another complaint.”

“Officer Bowers, this is not the time or place to discuss interdepartmental business.”

“You’re not going to get away with calling me at home, threatening me. You stepped way over, Dallas.”

Both baffled and irritated, Eve stopped long enough to study Bowers’s face. There was anger, yes, and resentment, but there was also a sticky kind of smugness in her eyes. “Bowers, I didn’t contact you at home or anywhere else. And I don’t make threats.”

“I’ve got my ’link log as evidence.”

“Fine.” But when Eve started forward again, Bowers grabbed her arm. Eve’s hand curled into a fist, but she managed to keep it from ramming into Bowers’s face. “Officer, we are on record, and you are interfering with my investigation of a reported homicide. Step back.”

“I want it on record.” Bowers shot a glance at the lapel recorder on Peabody’s uniform. Excitement was pumping through her, and the control was slipping greasily out of her hands. “I want it on record that I’ve gone through proper official channels to report your conduct. And that if appropriate action isn’t taken by the department against you, I’ll exercise my right to file suit against both you and the department.”

“So noted, Officer. Now, step back before I start exercising my rights.”

“You want to take a swing at me, don’t you?” Her eyes glittered, her breath began to heave. “That’s how your type handles things.”

“Oh, yeah, I’d love to kick your arrogant ass, Bowers. But I have something a little more pressing to do at the moment. And since you refuse to follow orders, you are relieved of duty as of this moment. I want you off my crime scene.”

“It’s my crime scene. I was first on scene.”

“You’ve been relieved, Officer.” Eve jerked her arm free, took two steps, then swung around, teeth bared, as Bowers made another grab. “You lay hands on me again, and I’ll kick your face in, then I’ll have my aide place you under arrest for interfering with an investigation. We’ve got a personal problem here, fine and dandy. We can handle it later. You can pick the time and place. But it won’t be here; it won’t be now. Get the fuck off-scene, Bowers.”

She waited a beat, straining to hold her own snapping temper in check. “Peabody, notify Bowers’s lieutenant that she has been relieved and ordered from the scene. Request another uniform to be sent to our location to assist Officer Trueheart in crowd control.”

“I go, he goes.”

“Bowers, if you are not behind the sensors in thirty seconds, you will be put in restraints and charged.” Not trusting herself, Eve turned away. “Peabody, escort Officer Bowers back to her vehicle.”

“My pleasure, sir. Horizontal or vertical, Bowers?” she said pleasantly.

“I’m going to take her down.” Bowers’s voice shook with rage. “And you’re going with her.” Already composing her follow-up complaint, Bowers stomped through the snow.

“You all right, Dallas?”

“I’d be better if I could’ve pounded on her a while.” Eve hissed a breath out through her teeth. “But she wasted enough of our time. Let’s do our job.”

She approached the crib, crouched, pulled back the tattered plastic that served as a doorway.

Blood, rivers of it, had spilled, pooled, congealed. Reaching into her field kit, Eve took out Seal-It. “Victim is female, black, age between ninety and one ten. Visible wound in abdomen appears to be cause of death. Victim has bled out. There are no apparent signs of struggle or sexual abuse.”

Eve inched into the crib, ignoring the blood that stained the tips of her boots. “Notify the ME, Peabody. I need Morris. At a guess, I’d say her liver’s gone. Jesus, but he wasn’t worried about being neat this time. The edges of the wound are straight and clean,” she added after she fixed on microgoggles, bent closer. “But there is no clamping as evidenced on other victims. No sealing to prevent bleeding.”

She was still wearing her shoes, Eve noted, the hard, black slip-ons many of the city’s shelters handed out to the homeless. There was a miniplayer beside the thin mattress and a full bottle of street brew.

“No robbery,” she murmured and continued to work. “Time of death, calculating lowest ambient temperature is established on scene at oh two-thirty.” She reached out, found an expired beggar’s license.

“Victim is identified as Jilessa Brown, age ninety-eight, of no fixed address.”

“Lieutenant, can you move your left shoulder? I need to give a full body shot for record.”

Eve shifted to the right, eased in another inch, and felt her boot scrape something under the pool of blood. Reaching down, she closed her sealed fingers over a small object. And drew out a gold pin.

The coiled snakes of the caduceus ran with blood.

“Look what we have here,” she murmured. “Peabody, on record. A gold lapel pin, catch apparently broken, was found near the victim’s right hip. Pin is identified as a caduceus, a symbol of the medical profession.”

She sealed it, slipped it into her bag. “He was very, very sloppy this time. Angry? Careless? Or just in a hurry?” She moved back, let the plastic fall back into place. “Let’s see what Trueheart knows.”

• • •

Eve wiped the blood and sealant from her hands as Trueheart reported. “Mostly they called her Honey. She was well liked, kind of motherly. No one I’ve spoken with saw anything last night. It was rough out here, really cold. The snow finally stopped about midnight, but the winds were vicious; that’s why we’ve got all these drifts.”

“And why we’ll never get any casts worth a damn.” She looked at the trampled ground. “We’ll find out what we can about her. Trueheart, it’s up to you, but if I were in your shoes, I’d request another trainer when I got back to your station. When the dust clears some, I’m going to recommend your transfer to Central, unless you have other ideas.”

“Sir. No. I’m very grateful.”

“Don’t be. They work your butt off at Central.” She turned away. “Peabody, let’s go by Canal Street before we head in. I’d like to see if Jilessa Brown was a patient there.”

Louise was out in the medi-van doing on-site treatments for frostbite and exposure. Her replacement in the clinic looked young enough to have still been playing doctor in the backseat of a souped-up street buggy with the prom queen.

But he told her that Jilessa Brown was not only a patient, but a favorite at the clinic. A regular, Eve mused as she fought traffic and clogged streets on her way to Central. One who’d come in at least once a week just to sit and talk with others in the waiting room, to charm some of the lolly-tape the doctors kept in a jar for children.

She’d been, according to the doctor, a sociable woman with a sweet tooth and a mental defect that had gone untreated during her prime. It had left her speech slurred and her mental capacity on level with an eight-year-old.

She’d been harmless. And she’d been receiving treatments over the last six months for cancer of the liver, advanced stage.

There had been some hope for remission, if not reversal.

Now there would be neither.

Her message light was glowing when she stepped into her office, but she ignored it and tagged Feeney.

“I’ve got another one.”

“So I hear. Word travels.”

“There was a lapel pin at the scene—it’s this medical symbol. I took it by the lab, sat on Dickhead until he verified it was gold. The real thing. Can you run it for me? See if you can find out who sells them?”

“Will do. You talked to McNab?”

“Not yet.” Her stomach hitched. “Why?”

He sighed, and paper rattled as he reached into his bag for his favored almonds. “London, six months ago. Funky-junkie found in his flop. He’d cooked for a few days before they found him. Kidneys were missing.”

“That’s what we had with Spindler, but this scene was a mess. Blood everywhere. He was either in a hurry, or he doesn’t care anymore. I’ll tag McNab and get the details.”

“He’s on his way over there. Send the pin back with him, and I’ll run it.”

“Thanks.” Her ’link beeped incoming the minute she ended transmission. “Dallas.”

“I need you in my office, Lieutenant. Now.”

Bowers was all Eve could think, but nodded briskly. “Yes, Commander. On my way.”

She hailed Peabody on her way out. “McNab’s on his way over with details on a potential victim in London. Work with him on it. Use my office.”

“Yes, sir, but—” She broke off, and decided not to be undignified and complain to her lieutenant’s back. “Hell.” Prepared to spend an irritating hour or so, Peabody gathered her things and hurried toward Eve’s office. She wanted to get there before McNab claimed the desk.

Whitney didn’t keep Eve waiting but cleared her straight through. He was at his desk, his hands folded, his eyes neutral. “Lieutenant, you had another altercation with Officer Bowers.”

“Yes, sir. On record at the scene this morning.” Goddamn it, Eve thought, she hated this. It was like playing tattletale with the school principal. “She became difficult and insubordinate. She laid hands on me and was ordered off scene.”

He nodded. “You couldn’t have handled it differently?”

Biting back a retort, Eve reached into her bag and pulled out a disc. “Sir, this is a copy of the record from the crime scene. You look at it, then tell me if I could or should have handled it differently.”

“Sit down, Dallas.”

“Sir, if I’m to be reprimanded for doing my job, I prefer to be reprimanded while I’m on my feet.”

“I don’t believe I have reprimanded you, Lieutenant.” He spoke mildly, but he rose himself. “Bowers had already filed another complaint before this morning’s little incident. She claims that you contacted her at home Saturday evening and threatened her with physical harm.”

“Commander, I have not contacted Bowers at home or anywhere else.” It was difficult, but she kept her eyes flat and her voice cool. “If and when I have threatened her—after provocation—it’s been face to face, and on record.”

“She’s introduced a copy of a ’link log, on which the caller identifies herself as you.”

Eve’s eyes chilled. “My voice print is on record. I request that it be compared with the print from the ’link log.”

“Good. Dallas, sit down. Please.”

He watched her struggle, then sit stiffly. “I have no doubt the prints won’t match. Just as I have no doubt that Bowers will continue to make trouble for you. I want to assure you that the department will handle this, and her.”

“Permission to speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“She shouldn’t be on the street, she shouldn’t be in uniform. She’s dangerous, Commander. That’s not a personal jab, it’s a professional opinion.”

“And one I tend to agree with, but it’s not always as simple as it should be. Which brings me to another issue. The mayor contacted me over the weekend. It appears he was contacted by Senator Brian Waylan with a request that the investigations, over which you are primary, be reassigned.”

“Who the hell is Waylan?” Eve was on her feet again. “What’s some overfed politician have to do with my case?”

“Waylan is a staunch supporter of the American Medical Association. His son is a doctor and on staff at the Nordick Center in Chicago. It’s his belief that your investigation, and the resultant media, has impinged the medical community. That it may start a panic. The AMA is concerned and willing to fund its own, private investigation into these matters.”

“I’m sure they would, as it’s clear it’s one of their own who’s killing people. This is my case, Commander. I intend to close it.”

“It’s likely that you’ll get little cooperation from the medical community from this point on,” Whitney continued. “It’s also likely that there will be some political pressure brought to bear against the department to shift the nature of the investigation.”

He indulged himself briefly with the faintest of scowls, then his face slipped back into neutral. “I want you to close this case, Dallas, and quickly. I don’t want you distracted by a personal . . . irritant,” he decided. “And so I’m asking you to let the department handle the Bowers situation.”

“I know my priorities.”

“Good. Until further notice, this case, and all related data, are blocked from the media. I want nothing new to leak. Any and all data relating is to be on a need-to-know basis, with full copies encoded to my attention.”

“You believe we have a leak in the department?”

“I think East Washington is much too interested in our business. Put together a team, keep it Code Five from this point,” he ordered, blocking any unsealed interdepartmental reports and adding a media block. “Put this one to bed.”

“I can run a probability scan back in EDD in half the time it’s going to take you to put it through this reject from the ark.”

“You’re not in EDD, McNab.”

“You’re telling me. And if you want a full run on the London victim done right, I should be doing it. I’m the E-detective.”

“I’m the primary’s aide. Stop breathing on me.”

“You smell pretty good, She-Body.”

“You’re not going to have a nose to smell with in about five seconds.”

Eve paused outside her office door and rapped her fists against the sides of her head. This was her team, squabbling like a couple of five-year-olds while Mom was away.

God help her.

They were glaring at each other when she stepped in. Both jerked back, shifted attention to her, and struggled to look innocent.

“Recess is over, kids. Move it into the conference room. I tagged Feeney on my way down. I want all data on all cases streamlined and cross-checked by end of shift. We need to bag this bastard before he adds to his collection.”

After she’d turned on her heel and strode out, McNab broke into a grin. “Man, I love working with her. You think we’ll headquarter in her home office on this one? Roarke’s got the best toys on the block.”

Peabody only sniffed and began to gather discs and files. “We work where the lieutenant says we work.” She rose, bumped into him, and felt her nerves sizzle. She stared dolefully into his cheerful green eyes. “You’re in my way, McNab.”

“I keep trying. So how’s Charlie?”

She counted to ten, then replied, “Charles is fine, and it’s none of your business. Now move your skinny ass.” She gained some pleasure in elbowing him aside as she stomped out.

McNab merely sighed, rubbed his sore gut. “You sure do it for me, She-Body,” he muttered. “Christ knows why.”

Eve paced the conference room. She needed to put Bowers and that situation out of her mind. She was nearly there, she told herself. Just a little more cursing, a little more pacing, and she would have put Bowers in some deep, dark hole. With a few rats for company, she decided, and a single crust of moldy bread.

Yeah, that was a good image. She took two more cleansing breaths and rounded on Peabody as her aide entered. “Death scene stills, on the board. Work up a location map, highlighting each crime scene. Victims’ names referenced with appropriate city.”

“Yes, sir.”

“McNab. Give me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, well—”

“And keep the chatter and editorials to a minimum,” Eve added and made Peabody snicker.

“Sir,” he began, miffed, “I’ve got your top health and research centers in the cities in question. On mainframe, disc and hard copy.” Since the hard copy was handy, he nudged it across the desk. “I cross-checked your short list of docs from New York. You can see there that all of them have an affiliation with at least one of the other centers. My research indicates that there are only three hundred–odd surgeons with organ plucking as a specialty who possess the skill required to have performed the procedure that killed all subject victims.”

He stopped, damn proud of his quick, no-nonsense report. “I’m still running like crimes. The reason for the time lag stems from the filing and investigative avenues pursued in other areas.”

He just couldn’t stand it anymore. He sat on the edge of the desk, crossed his slick green airboots at the ankles. “See, it looks to me like some of the homicide guys either buried the cases because it’s, like, who cares, or figured it was just another weird street crime. They gotta plug it in before IRCCA can pick it up on the first pass. Otherwise, we have to dig, which I’m doing. What I’m hitting mostly is cult and domestic stuff. I’ve got a lot of castrations performed in the home by irate cohabitators or spouses. Man, you wouldn’t believe how many women whack a guy off permanent because he didn’t keep his dick in his pants. Six new eunuchs in North Carolina in the past three months. It’s like an epidemic or something.”

“That’s a fascinating bit of trivia, McNab,” Eve said dryly. “But for now, let’s stick with the internal organs.” She jerked a thumb toward the computer. “Narrow it down. I want one health center per city that fits.”

“You ask, it’s done.”

“Feeney.” Eve’s shoulders relaxed fractionally when he strolled in, carrying his bag of nuts. “What have you got on the pin?”

“Nothing to that one. Three locations in the city carry that design in eighteen carat. The jewelry store at the Drake Center, Tiffany’s on Fifth, and DeBower’s downtown.”

He juggled the bag absently, watching Peabody clip stills to the board. “The eighteen carat runs about five grand. Most of the classier health centers run an account with Tiffany’s on the pin. They buy in bulk to give to graduating interns. Gold or silver, depending on placement. Last year, Tiffany’s moved seventy-one gold, ninety-six silver. Ninety-two percent of those were through direct accounts with hospitals.”

“According to Louise, most doctors have them,” Eve commented. “But not all of them wear them. I saw Tia Wo wearing one, Hans Vanderhaven. And Louise,” she added with a frown. “We’ll have to see if we can find out who’s lost one recently. Keep tabs on the three outlets. Whoever did might want a replacement.”

She tucked her hands in her pockets and turned to the board. “Before we start, you need to know the commander’s put a media block on us. No interviews, no comments. We’re Code Five, so all data pertaining to any of these cases is now on a need-to-know basis. Files are to be encoded.”

“Departmental leak?” Feeney wanted to know.

“Maybe. But there’s pressure, political pressure, coming in from East Washington. Feeney, how much can you find out about Senator Waylan of Illinois without alerting him or his staff of a search?”

A slow smile brightened Feeney’s rumpled face. “Oh, just about anything down to the size of his jockies.”

“I’m betting on fat ass and small dick,” she muttered and had McNab snorting. “Okay, here are my thoughts. He’s collecting,” she began, moving to the board to gesture at the stills. “For fun, for profit, because he can. I don’t know. But he’s systematically collecting defective organs. He removes them from the scene. In at least one case, we know there was a transfer bag, so odds are that pattern holds for all. If he’s careful to preserve the organ, he has to have some place to keep them.”

“A lab,” Feeney said.

“It follows. Private. Maybe even in his home. How does he find them? He’s tagged each one of them ahead of time. These three,” Eve added, tapping a finger on stills, “were all taken out in New York and all had a connection with the Canal Street Clinic. He has access to their data. He’s either associated with the clinic or he has someone on the inside passing him what he wants.”

“Could be a cop,” Peabody murmured and shifted uncomfortably when all eyes turned to her. “Sir.” She cleared her throat. “The beat cops and scoopers know these people. If we’re concerned about a leak in the department, maybe we should consider the leak includes passing data to the killer.”

“You’re right,” Eve said after a moment. “It could be right at our door.”

“Bowers works the sector where two of the victims were taken out.” McNab swiveled in his chair. “We already know she’s a wild hair. I can run an all-level search and scan on her.”

“Shit.” Uneasy, Eve paced to the window, winced against the bouncing glare of sun off snow. If she ordered the search, it would have to go through channels, be put on record. It could, and would in some quarters, smell of harassment.

“We can order it out of EDD,” Feeney said, understanding. “My name goes on the request, it puts it off you.”

“I’m primary,” Eve murmured. So it was duty to the job and to the dead. “The order goes out of here, with my name on it. Send it now, McNab, let’s not piss around.”

“Yes, sir.” He swung back to the computer.

“We’re getting no cooperation from the primary in Chicago,” she went on. “So we turn the heat up there. We wait for the data to come in from London.” She walked back to the board, studied the faces. “But we sure as hell have enough to keep us busy in the meantime. Peabody, what do you know about politics?”

“A necessary evil that on rare occasions works without corruption, abuse, and waste.” She smiled a little. “Free-Agers rarely approve of politicians, Dallas. But we’re terrific at nonviolent protests.”

“Tune up your Free-Ager and take a look at the American Medical Association. See how much corruption, abuse, and waste you can find. I’m going to put a fire under that asshole at CPSD, and check with Morris to see if the autopsy’s finished on Jilessa Brown.”

Back in her office, she tried Chicago first, and when she was again passed to Kimiki’s E-mail, she snarled and opted to go over his head.

“Putz,” she said under her breath and waited to be transferred to his shift commander.

“Lieutenant Sawyer.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD,” she said briskly, measuring her man. He had a long, thin, weary face the color of tobacco, eyes of a deep gray, and a mouth thin as a stiletto from corner to corner. “I’m working on a series of homicides here that appear to link with a case out of your house.”

She continued to watch his face as she detailed information, saw the faint line form between his brows. “One minute, New York.”

He blanked the screen, leaving Eve drumming her fingers on the desk for three full minutes. When he came back on, his face was carefully composed. “I haven’t received a request for data transfer in this matter. The case you refer to has been shifted to inactive and unsolved.”

“Look, Sawyer, I talked to the new primary over a week ago. I made the request. I’ve got three bodies here, and my investigation points to a connection with yours. You want to dump the case, fine, but dump it here. All I’m asking is a little professional cooperation. I need that data.”

“Detective Kimiki is currently on leave, New York. We get our share of dead files here in Chicago, too. I’d say your request just fell through the cracks.”

“Are you going to fish it out?”

“You’ll have the files within the hour. I apologize for the delay. Let me have your ID number and transfer information. I’ll handle it personally.”

“Thanks.”

One down, Eve thought when she finished with Chicago. She caught Morris in his office.

“I’m putting it together now, Dallas. I’m only one man.”

“Give me the highlights.”

“She’s dead.”

“You’re such a joker, Morris.”

“Anything to brighten your day. The abdomen wound was cause of death. Wound was caused by a laser scalpel, again wielded with considerable skill. The victim was anesthetized prior to death. In this case, the wound was left unsealed, and the victim bled out. Her liver was removed. She had herself a ripe case of cancer, which had certainly affected that particular organ. She’s had some treatment for it. There was some scarring that’s typical with an advanced stage, but there was some nice pink tissue as well. The treatment was slowing down the progress, fighting the fight. She might, with regular and continued care, have beaten it back.”

“The incision—does it match the others?”

“It’s clean and it’s perfect. He wasn’t in a hurry when he cut. In my opinion, it’s the same pair of hands. But the rest doesn’t match. There wasn’t any pride in this one, and she wasn’t going to die. She had a good shot of living another ten years, maybe more.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She sat back, closed her eyes to help all the new data shift through her mind. And opened them again to see Webster in her doorway.

“Sorry to disturb your nap.”

“What do you want, Webster? You keep showing up, I’m going to have to call my advocate.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea. You got another complaint against you.”

“It’s bogus. Have you run the voice prints?” The temper she’d managed to lock away beat viciously for freedom. “Goddamn it, Webster, you know me. I don’t make crank calls.”

She pushed herself out of her chair. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much rage she’d been chaining down. It roared through her, ripped at her throat until, for lack of something better, she grabbed an empty coffee mug off her desk and heaved it against the wall.

Webster stood, lips pursed, nodded toward the shards. “Feel better?”

“Some, yeah,” she replied.

“We’ll be running the voice prints, Dallas, and I don’t expect them to match. I do know you. You’re a direct, in-the-face kind of woman. Wimpy ’link threats aren’t your style. But you’ve got a problem with her, and don’t minimize it. She’s screaming about your treatment of her on the crime scene this morning.”

“It’s on record. You screen it, then talk to me.”

“I’m going to,” he said wearily. “I’m going through channels on this, step by step, because it’ll work better for you. Now I see you’ve ordered a search and scan on her. That doesn’t look good.”

“It applies to a case. It’s not personal. I ordered one on Trueheart, too.”

“Why?”

Her eyes went flat and cool. “I can’t answer that. IAB has nothing to do with my dead files, and I’ve been ordered to keep all data pertaining on a need-to-know. I’m Code Five per Whitney’s orders.”

“You’re just going to make this harder on yourself.”

“I’m doing my job, Webster.”

“I’m doing mine, Dallas. Fucking A,” he muttered, and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Bowers just went to the media.”

“About me? For Christ’s sake.”

“It was quite a little rant. She’s claiming departmental cover-up, all kinds of happy shit. Your name tends to bump ratings, and this story’s going to be all over the screen by dinnertime.”

“There is no story.”

“You are the story,” Webster corrected. “Hotshot homicide cop, the cop who took down one of the country’s top politicians a year ago. The cop who married the richest son of a bitch on or off planet—who also happens to have a very shadowy past. You’re ratings, Dallas, and one way or the other, the media’s going to run with this.”

“That’s not my problem.” But her throat was tight and her stomach uneasy.

“It’s the department’s problem. Questions are going to be asked and need to be answered. You’re going to have to figure out when and how to make a statement to defuse this situation.”

“Damn it, Webster, I’m in a media block. I can’t talk to them because too much of it touches on my investigation.”

He gave her a level look, hoping she knew it was friend to friend now. “Then let me tell you, you’re in a squeeze. The voice prints will be compared, and a statement on the results will be issued. The record from the crime scene this morning will be reviewed, and a decision on your conduct and hers will be rendered. Your request for a search and scan will be put on hold pending those decisions. That’s the official line I’m required to give you. Now, on a personal note, I’m telling you, get a lawyer, Dallas. Get the best fucking lawyer Roarke’s money can buy, and put this away.”

“I’m not using him or his money to clean up my mess.”

“You’ve always been a stubborn bitch, Dallas. It’s one of the many things I find attractive about you.”

“Bite me.”

“I did. It didn’t take.” Eyes sober again, he stepped forward. “I care about you—as a friend and a colleague. I’m warning you, she intends to take you under. And not everyone’s going to hold out a hand to keep you from sinking. When you’re in the position you’ve reached—professional and personal—there’s a lot of latent jealousy simmering. This is the kind of thing that pops the lid on it.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Fine.” He shook his head and started out. “I’ll just tell you again: Watch your excellent ass.”

She sat, lowered her head to her hands, and wondered what the hell to do next.

• • •

At the end of her shift, she opted to get the hell out. She took the files with her, including the data Chicago had finally transferred. But she was by God going home on time. A vicious headache kept her company on the drive.

She was snarled in northbound traffic, between Fifty-first and Fifty-second on Madison when Bowers stomped up the stairs from the subway at Delancey. She was, for Ellen Bowers, decidedly cheerful. As far as she was concerned, she’d scalded Eve Dallas’s ass. Fried the bitch, she thought and very nearly skipped down the sidewalk.

It had been so gratifying to stand in front of a camera, have a reporter nod understandingly, while she detailed all the abuse she’d suffered.

Man oh man, it was about fucking time it was her face on-screen, her words being heard.

She’d wanted, oh, she’d wanted to tell them how it had all started years ago, back in the academy when Dallas had walked in and taken over. Fucking taken over. Broken all the records. Yeah, she’d broken them, all right. Broken them by giving instructors blow jobs. Probably gone down on the female supervisors, too. And anybody with any sense knew the slut had been doing Feeney and probably goddamn Whitney for years. God knew what kind of sick sex games she played with Roarke in that big, fancy house.

Her days were over, Bowers decided and treated herself by stopping into a 24/7 and springing for a quart of chocolate chunky ice cream. She’d eat the whole goddamn quart while she wrote her daily report in her private journal.

Bitch thought she could kick Ellen Bowers around and get away with it. Surprise, surprise. All that bouncing around from precinct to precinct, from assignment to assignment had finally paid off.

She had contacts. Damn right. She knew people.

She knew the right people.

This time, the destruction of Eve Dallas would be her springboard to fame, respect, and she’d be the one sitting at a desk in Homicide.

She’d be the one with her face on the screen.

Yeah, yeah, it was about goddamn time, she thought again as black hate crawled into her belly. And when she was done grinding Dallas into dust, she was going to see to it that prick Trueheart paid for his disloyalty.

She knew damn well Dallas had let him fuck her.

That’s the way it was, that’s the way it worked. That’s why she’d never let some slick-talking creep stick his dick into her. She knew what people thought; she knew what people said. Sure she did.

They said she was a troublemaker. They said she was a sloppy cop. They said maybe she had a little blip in the brain somewhere.

They were all assholes, every last one of them, from Tibble right on down to Trueheart.

They weren’t going to slide her quietly out of the department, shake her loose of the job with half pension. She’d fucking own the NYPSD when she was done.

All of them were coming down, all of them, starting with Dallas.

Because it all started with Dallas.

The rage worked under her cheer. It was always there, whispering to her. But she could control it. She’d controlled it for years. Because she was smart, smarter than all of them. Every time some department asshole ordered her to take a personality test, she hushed those whispers with a careful dose of Calm-It and passed.

Maybe she needed higher doses just lately, and it was best if she mixed some Zoner in for a nice soothing cocktail, but she was still in control.

She knew how to get around the assholes and their tests and their questions. And she knew what buttons to push, you bet she did. Her finger was on the trigger now, and it was staying there.

She had an inside track—and nobody knew but her. And now she had a nice, tidy pile of untraceable credits just for doing what she’d wanted to do in the first place: going public.

Her teeth flashed in a smile as she turned the corner and headed down the dark street toward her building. She was going to be rich, famous, powerful, as she was meant to be.

And with a little help from her friend, she’d pin Dallas to the wall.

“Officer Bowers?”

“Yeah?” Eyes narrowed, she turned, peered into the dark. Her hand lowered, hovered near her stunner. “What?”

“I have a message. From your friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Her hand shifted, reached up to pat her container of ice cream. “What’s the message?”

“It’s delicate. We need privacy.”

“No problem.” She stepped forward, thrilled that there might be more she could use. “Come on up.”

“I’m afraid you need to come down.” The droid leaped out of the dark, his eyes colorless, his face blank. He swung the metal pipe once, cracking it against the side of her head before she could suck in air to scream.

The ice cream flew, landed with a splat. Blood smeared the sidewalk as he dragged her across. Her body bounced with muffled bumps on the stairs as he pulled it through the open basement door and down.

Efficiently, he climbed up again, locked the door. He didn’t need the light. He’d been programmed to see in the dark. Quickly, he stripped off the uniform, took her ID, her weapon, and bundled all, including the pipe, in the large bag he’d brought with him. It would be placed in a recycle bin he’d already chosen and sabotaged.

And there in the cold dark, with emotionless skill, he used his hands and feet to break her to pieces.

“Sloppy, half-assed work.” Eve fumed as she paced Roarke’s office. She had to bitch to someone, and he was there. He made sympathetic noises while he scanned an incoming fax and went over the latest progress report from one of his largest interplanetary undertakings, the Olympus Resort.

It occurred to him that the resort could use another personal visit and that his wife could use a vacation. He made a mental note to work it in around their schedules.

“Two different primaries,” she continued, striding around the office. “Two different cops, and both of them fucked up the case. What are they using to train them in Chicago—old videos of the Three Boobs?”

“I think that’s Stooges,” Roarke murmured.

“What?”

He glanced up, focused fully on her, and smiled at the absolute baffled fury on her face. “Stooges, darling. The Three Stooges.”

“What’s the difference, they’re still incompetent knot-heads. Half the paperwork’s missing. There’s no documentation of witness interviews or reports, the postmortem documents are lost. They did manage to ID the victim, but nobody did a background check. Or if it was done, it’s not in the file.”

Roarke made some notations on the fax—a small adjustment that dealt with approximately three quarters of a million and change, and shot it off to his midtown office and his assistant’s attention. “What do you have?”

“A dead guy,” she snapped, “with a missing heart.” She frowned as Roarke rose and walked over to select a bottle of wine from his chill box. “I can see one cop screwing up a case. I don’t like it, but I can see it. But two cops screwing up the same one, it just doesn’t hold. And now both of them are out of touch, so I’m going to have to do some dance with their boss tomorrow.”

She had so much anger and frustration bottled up inside her. “Maybe somebody got to them. Bribed, threatened. Shit. The leak on this might not just be in the NYPSD, it might be all over the damn place.”

“And your interfering senator is from the great state of Illinois, as I recall.”

“Yeah.” Christ, she hated politics. “I have to clear it with the commander, but I should probably dance with this Chicago boss in person.”

Taking his time, Roarke poured two glasses, carried both across the room to stand in front of her. “I’ll take you.”

“It’s cop business.”

“And you’re my cop.” He lifted her hand, curled her fingers around the stem of the glass. “You won’t go to Chicago without me, Eve. That’s personal. Now, drink some wine and tell me the rest.”

She could have argued, for form’s sake. But it seemed like a waste of energy. “Bowers filed a couple more complaints.” She ordered herself to relax her jaw and sip. “She was first on scene this morning, and she caused trouble so I relieved her of duty. It’s on record, and when they review, they won’t be able to fault my actions, but she’s really getting in my face.”

Her stomach muscles began to tighten with tension as she spoke of it, thought of it. “My contact at IAB came down to warn me she’s stirring the pot, that she went to the media.”

“Darling, the world is full of assholes and morons.” He reached up, skimmed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Most are surprisingly recognizable. She’ll end up sinking herself.”

“Yeah, eventually, but Webster’s worried.”

“Webster?”

“The guy I know in IAB.”

“Ah.” Hoping to distract her a little, he cupped a hand at the back of her neck, rubbed. “I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before. And how well do you know him, darling?”

“We don’t run into each other much anymore.”

“But there was a time . . .”

She shrugged, would have shifted, but his fingers tightened just enough to make her eyes narrow. “It was nothing. It was a long time ago.”

“What was?”

“When we got drunk and naked and bounced around on each other,” she said between her teeth. “Happy?”

He chuckled, leaned in to kiss her lightly. “I’m devastated. Now you’ll have to get drunk and naked and bounce around with me to make up for it.”

It wouldn’t have hurt her ego, she realized, if he’d pretended to be just a little jealous. “I’ve got work.”

“Me, too.” He set his glass aside, pulled her against him. “You are such work, Lieutenant.”

She turned her head, told herself she was not going to enjoy the way his teeth scraped along her neck at just the perfect point. “I’m not drunk, pal.”

“Well.” He nipped the glass out of her hand, put it down. “Two out of three works for me,” he decided and pulled her to the floor.

When the blood stopped roaring in her head and she could think again, she told herself she would not let him know she’d enjoyed being ravished on the office floor.

“Well, you had your fun, ace, now get off of me.”

With a little humming sound, he burrowed against her throat. “I love the taste of you. Right here.” As he nibbled, he felt her heart pick up speed again and kick against his. “More?”

“No, cut it out.” Her blood was starting to buzz again. “I’ve got work.” She shoved at him, putting some muscle behind it while she still could. There was a combination of relief and disappointment when he rolled aside.

She scrambled up, grabbed his shirt as it was closest to hand. She sent him a bland look. Christ, was all she could think, the man had such a body. “You going to lie there, naked and smug, all night?”

“I would, but we have work to do.”

“We?”

“Mmm.” He rose and settled for his trousers. “Your missing documents. If they ever existed, I can get them back for you.”

“You can—” She stopped herself, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to know how you could manage that, I really don’t. But I’m going to handle this through the proper channels.”

As soon as she said it, she wanted to bite her tongue. That little statement was going to make it hard to ask him to dig up data, unofficially, on the Westley Friend suicide.

“Up to you.” He shrugged, picked up his wine again. “But I could probably have your data in a couple of hours.”

It was tempting, too tempting. She shook her head. “I’ll just plod along on my own, thanks. That’s my ’link,” she added, glancing back through the open connecting door to her office.

“I’ll transfer it here.” He moved around the desk, tapped a quick series of keys, and had his own ’link beeping. “Roarke.”

“Roarke, damn it, where’s Dallas?”

He kept his gaze on Nadine’s image on-screen, catching the brisk shake of Eve’s head. “Sorry, Nadine, she’s not available right now. Can I do something for you?”

“Turn on your screen, channel 48. Shit, Roarke. You tell her to call me with a rebuttal. I can get it on live the minute she does.”

“I’ll let her know. Thanks.” He disengaged, then looked across the room. “View screen on, channel 48.”

Instantly, the screen filled with Bowers’s face and a spew of venom. “With three separate complaints filed, the department won’t be able to overlook Lieutenant Dallas’s corrupt or abusive behavior any longer. Her thirst for power has caused her to cross lines, to ignore regulations, to slant reports, and to misuse witnesses in order to close cases in her favor.”

“Officer Bowers, those are serious accusations.”

“Each one is fact.” Bowers jabbed a finger toward the perfectly groomed reporter. “And each will be proven through the internal investigation already under way. I’ve assured the Internal Affairs Bureau that I’ll be turning over all documentation in these matters. Including those that prove Eve Dallas has habitually traded sexual favors for information and for promotions within the NYPSD.”

“Why, you slut,” Roarke said easily, and slipped a supportive arm around his wife even as his own blood began to boil. “I’ll have to divorce you now.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“She’s a joke, Eve. A poor and pitiful one. Screen off.”

“No, screen on. I want to hear it all.”

“It’s long been suspected, and will be verified, that Dallas’s husband, Roarke, is involved in a variety of criminal activities. He was, in fact, a prime suspect in a murder investigation early last year. An investigation Dallas was—conveniently—in charge of. Roarke was not charged in that matter, and Dallas is now the wife of a powerful, wealthy man who uses her connections to cover his own illegal activities.”

“She’s gone too far.” Under Roarke’s hand, Eve began to vibrate with rage. “She’s gone too far when she brings you into it.”

His eyes were cool, much too cool, as he studied the face on-screen. “I could hardly be left out.”

“Officer Bowers, by your own admission, Lieutenant Dallas is a powerful, perhaps dangerous, woman.” The on-air reporter couldn’t keep the gleam of delight out of his eyes. “Tell me, why are you risking going public at this time with your suspicions?”

“Someone has to speak the truth.” Bowers lifted her chin, fixed her face in sober lines and shifted slightly so that she stared directly into the camera. “The department may choose to cover up for a dirty cop, but I honor my uniform too much to be a part of it.”

“They’ll hang her for this.” Eve drew in a breath, let it out slowly. “However much sticks to me, she’s just terminated her own career. They won’t transfer her this time. They’ll kick her.”

“Screen off,” Roarke ordered again, then wrapped Eve in his arms. “She can’t hurt you. She can, for the short term, inconvenience and irritate, but that’s all. You can, if you like, sue for defamation. She crossed several steps over from freedom of speech. But . . .” He ran his hands up and down Eve’s back. “Take the advice of someone who’s dodged those slings and arrows before. Let it go.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, to support and to soothe. “Say no more than necessary. Stay above it, and the longer you do, the quicker it’ll pass.”

Closing her eyes, she let him draw her in, cradle her head on his shoulder. “I want to kill her. Just one quick snap of the neck.”

“I can have a droid made up in her likeness. You can kill it as often as you like.”

It made her laugh a little. “It couldn’t hurt. Look, I’m going to try to get some work done. I can’t think about her; it makes me crazy.”

“All right.” He let her go, slipped his hands into his pockets. “Eve?”

“Yeah?” She paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“You could see it if you looked at her closely, looked at her eyes. She’s not quite sane.”

“I did look. And no. No, she’s not.”

Therefore, Roarke mused as his wife closed the door between them, Bowers was that much more dangerous. The lieutenant wouldn’t approve, he thought, but it couldn’t be helped. He would work in his private room that evening, on his unregistered equipment.

And any and all data on Bowers would be in his hands by morning.

It was, Eve thought as she sat in her idling vehicle and studied the crowd blocking the gate leading to the house, infuriating enough to have to dodge reporters when it was job-related, when it was on-scene or at Cop Central.

But it was beyond infuriating to have a three-deep line of reporters screaming questions at her through the ironwork of her own gate. When it was personal. When it had nothing to do with the job.

She continued to sit, watching the temperature of the crowd rise even as the ambient temperature struggled up to begin to melt the snow in steady drips. Behind her, the foolish snow people she and Roarke had built were losing weight rapidly.

She considered various options, including Roarke’s casual suggestion that they implement the electric current on the gate. In her mind she visualized dozens of drooling reporters jittering with the shock and dropping helplessly to the ground with their eyes rolling back white.

But she preferred, as always, a more direct approach.

She turned on the megaphone and started forward at a slow but steady speed.

“This is private property, and I am off duty at this time. Move back from the gate. Anyone coming through the gate will be arrested, charged, and detained for trespassing.”

They didn’t budge an inch. She could see mouths opening and closing, as questions were shot at her like arrows. Cameras were held up, pushed forward with the lenses like eager mouths waiting to swallow her.

“Your choice,” she muttered. She engaged the mechanism for the gate, letting it swing open slowly as she approached.

Reporters hung onto the rungs or stampeded toward the opening. She just kept driving, kept mechanically repeating her warning.

It gave her some satisfaction to watch some of them scramble for cover when they realized she wasn’t going to stop. She glanced balefully at those ballsy enough to grab the handle on the sides of her vehicle and pace her while shouting through the closed window.

The minute she cleared the gate, she slammed it shut, hoping to catch a few fingers in the process. Then, with a thin smile, she punched the accelerator and sent a pair of idiots tumbling clear.

The echoes of their curses were like music that kept her mood elevated all the way downtown.

She headed straight to the conference room when she arrived at Central and, grumbling when she found it empty, sat down to man the computer herself.

She had, by her calculations, an hour to work before she had to head to Drake and keep her first interview appointments.

Peabody had her doctors lined up like arcade ducks. Eve intended to knock them off one at a time before the end of the day. With any luck, she mused, any luck at all, she’d ring a few bells.

She brought up data:

Drake Center, New York
Nordick Clinic, Chicago
Sainte Joan d’Arc, France
Melcount Center, London

Four cities, she thought. Six bodies known.

After hammering her way through the data McNab had accessed, she narrowed her search down to these health and research centers. All had one interesting thing in common: Westley Friend had worked at, lectured at, or endorsed each of them.

“Good work, McNab,” she murmured. “Excellent job. You’re the key, Friend, and you’re another dead man. Just whose friend were you? Computer, any personal or professional connection between Friend, Dr. Westley, and Cagney, Dr. Colin.”

Working. . . .

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she said mildly. “All similar connections between subject Friend and Wo, Dr. Tia; Waverly, Dr. Michael; Vanderhaven, Dr. Hans.” Enough of a list for now, she decided. “Engage.”

Recalibrating . . . working. . . .

“You do that little thing,” she murmured and pushed away from the desk to get a cup of coffee. She winced at the smell instantly. She’d gotten spoiled, she thought, as the sludgy brew sat nastily in the mug. There’d been a day when she’d slugged down a dozen cups of Cop Central poison without a complaint.

Now, even looking at it made her shudder.

Amused at herself, she set it aside and wished to God that Peabody would report in so she could get some decent coffee out of her office.

She was considering making a dash for it herself, when Peabody walked in, closed the door behind her.

“You’re late again,” Eve began. “This is a bad habit. How the hell am I supposed to . . .” She trailed off, focusing on Peabody’s face. Sheet white with eyes huge and dark. “What is it?”

“Sir. Bowers—”

“Oh, fuck Bowers.” Eve snatched up the miserable coffee and gulped. “I don’t have time to worry about her now. We’re working murder here.”

“Somebody’s working hers.”

“What?”

“Dallas, she’s dead.” Peabody took a concentrated breath, in and out, to help slow the rapid thump of her heart. “Somebody beat her to death last night. They found her a couple of hours ago, in the basement of her building. Her uniform, weapon, ID, had all been stripped and taken from the scene. They ID’d her by prints.” Peabody swiped a hand over white lips. “Word is there wasn’t enough left of her face to make her visually.”

Very carefully, Eve set down her cup. “It’s a positive ID?”

“It’s her. I went down and checked after I heard it in the bullpen. Prints and DNA match. They just confirmed.”

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.” Staggered, Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes, tried to think.

Data is complete. . . . Display, vocal or hard copy?

“Save and file. God.” She dropped her hands. “What have they got on it?”

“Nothing. At least nothing I could dig out. No witnesses. She lived alone, so nobody was expecting her. There was an anonymous call reporting trouble at that location. Came in about oh five-thirty. A couple of uniforms found her. That’s all I know.”

“Robbery? Sexual assault?”

“Dallas, I don’t know. I was lucky to get this much. They’re shutting it in fast. No data in, no data out.”

There was a sick ball in her stomach, a slick weight rolling there she didn’t quite recognize as dread. “Do you know who’s primary?”

“I heard Baxter, but I don’t know for sure. Can’t confirm.”

“Okay.” She sat, tunneled her fingers through her hair. “If it’s Baxter, he’ll give me what data he can. Odds are, it’s not connected to ours, but we can’t discount it.” Eve lifted her gaze again. “Beaten to death?”

“Yeah.” Peabody swallowed.

She knew what it was to be attacked with fists, to be helpless to stop them. To feel that stunning agony of a bone snapping. To hear the sound of it just under your own scream. “It’s a bad way,” she managed. “I’m sorry for it. She was a wrong cop, but I’m sorry for it.”

“Everybody’s pretty shaken up.”

“I don’t have much time here.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ll tag Baxter later, see if he can fill in some details. But for now, we’ve got to put this aside. I’ve got the interviews starting in less than an hour now, and I need to be prepared.”

“Dallas, you need to know . . . I heard your name come up.”

“What? My name?”

“About Bowers,” she began, then broke off in frustration as the ’link beeped.

“Hold on. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant, I need you upstairs, immediately.”

“Commander, I’m prepping for a scheduled interview session.”

“Now,” he said briefly and broke transmission.

“Damn it. Peabody, look through the data I just accessed, see what rings, and make a hard copy. I’ll review it on the way to interview.”

“Dallas—”

“Hold the gossip until I have time.” She moved fast, her mind on the upcoming interviews. She wanted to wangle a tour of the center’s research wing. One of the questions that had popped into her mind the night before might be answered there.

Just what did medical facilities do with damaged or diseased organs they removed? Did they study them, dispose of them, experiment on them?

This collector had to have a purpose. If that purpose somehow tied in with legal and approved medical research, it would make more sense. It would give her a handle.

Research had to be funded, didn’t it? Maybe she should be following the money. She could put McNab to work tracing grants and donations.

Distracted, she walked into Whitney’s office. The little ball of dread in her stomach rolled again, hard, when she saw Webster, her commander, and Chief Tibble waiting.

“Sir.”

“Close the door, Lieutenant.” No one sat. Whitney remained standing behind his desk. Eve had a moment to think he looked ill before Tibble stepped forward.

He was a tall man; striking, tireless, and honest. He looked at Eve now with dark eyes that remained steady and gave away nothing. “Lieutenant, I want to advise you that you’re entitled to have your advocate present at this time.”

“My advocate, sir?” She let herself glance at Webster, then back at her chief. “That won’t be necessary, sir. If IAB has more questions for me, I’ll answer them without the buffer. I’m aware there was a media broadcast last night where accusations and statements about my character and professional behavior were attacked. They are groundless. I’m confident any internal investigation would prove them to be so.”

“Dallas,” Webster began, then closed his mouth when Tibble pinned him with a look.

“Lieutenant, are you aware that Officer Ellen Bowers was murdered last night?”

“Yes, sir. My aide just informed me.”

“I need to ask you your whereabouts last evening between eighteen-thirty and nineteen hundred hours.”

She’d been a cop for eleven years and couldn’t remember ever being sucker punched so effectively. Her body jerked before she could control it, her mouth went dry. She heard her own breath catch, then release.

“Chief Tibble, am I to understand I’m a suspect in the murder of Officer Bowers?”

His eyes never wavered. She couldn’t read what was in them. Cop’s eyes, she thought with a quick shimmer of panic. Tibble had good cop’s eyes.

“The department requires verification of your whereabouts during the time in question, Lieutenant.”

“Sir. Between eighteen-thirty and nineteen hundred hours, I was en route from Central to my home. I believe I logged out at eighteen-ten.”

Saying nothing, Tibble walked to the window and stood with his back to the room. Dread was an ache now, which spread in the gut with tiny, scrabbling claws. “Commander, Bowers was causing me difficulties, potentially serious ones, which I handled through proper channels and through proper procedure.”

“That’s documented, Lieutenant, and understood.” He kept his hands behind his back, linked together with frustration. “Proper procedure must be followed. An investigation into the murder of Officer Bowers is under way, and at this time, you are a suspect. It is my belief that you’ll be cleared quickly and completely.”

“Cleared? Of beating a fellow cop to death? Of abandoning everything I believe in and I’ve worked for? And why would I have done this?” Panic had a line of sweat, icy cold, snaking down her spine. “Because she tried to smear me in the department and in the media? For Christ’s sake, Commander, anyone could see she was on self-destruct.”

“Dallas.” This time Webster stepped forward. “You threatened her with physical harm, on record. Call your advocate.”

“Don’t tell me to call my advocate,” she snapped. “I haven’t done anything but my job.” Panic was growing teeth now, edgy and sharp. All she could do was fight it with temper. “You want me in interview, Webster? Fine, let’s go. Right here, right now.”

“Lieutenant!” Whitney whipped the word out, watched her head snap around, the fury in her eyes hot and open. “The department must conduct internal and external investigations into the matter of the death of Officer Bowers. There is no choice.” He let out a long breath. “There is no choice,” he repeated. “While this investigation is open and active, you are suspended from duty.”

He nearly winced when he saw her eyes go from hot and alive to blank and dazed. Nearly cringed when he saw every ounce of color drain out of her face. “It is with regret, Lieutenant, great personal regret, that I ask you to turn in your weapon and your shield.”

Her mind had gone dead, utterly dead, as if some electrical current had been shut off. She couldn’t feel her hands, her feet, her heart. “My shield?”

“Dallas.” He stepped to her, his voice gentle now, his eyes storming with emotion. “There’s no choice. You are suspended from duty, pending the results of the internal and external investigations in the matter of the death of Officer Ellen Bowers. I must ask for your weapon and your badge.”

She stared into his eyes, couldn’t look anywhere else. Inside her head was a scream: dull, distant, desperate. Her joints felt rusty as she reached down for her badge, then over to release her weapon. Their weight in her hand made it shake.

Putting them in Whitney’s was like ripping out her own heart.

Someone said her name, twice, but she was walking out of the room, blind, heading toward the glide fast, her boots clicking on scarred tile. Dizzy, she gripped the rail until her knuckles went white.

“Dallas, goddamn it.” Webster caught up to her, grabbed her arm. “Call your advocate.”

“Get your hand off me.” The words were weak, shaky, and she couldn’t find the strength to pull away. “Get it off and stay away.”

“You listen to me.” He dragged her clear of the glide, pushed her against a wall. “Nobody in that room wanted this. There’s no choice. Goddamn it, you know how it works. We clear you, you get your badge back. You take a few days’ vacation. It’s going to be that simple.”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

“She had diaries, discs.” He spoke quickly, afraid she’d break and run. “She put down all kinds of shit about you.” He was crossing the line and didn’t give a damn. “It has to be looked into and dismissed. Somebody beat her to pieces, Dallas, to fucking pieces. It’ll be all over the media within the hour. You’re tied to her. If you’re not automatically suspended pending, it looks like cover-up.”

“Or it looks like my superiors, my department, my colleagues believe me. Don’t touch me again,” she warned in a voice that shook so badly he stepped back.

“I’ve got to go with you.” He spoke flatly now, furious that his own hands weren’t steady. “To see that you clear only personal items from your office, and to escort you from the building. I need to confiscate your communicator, your master and vehicle codes.”

She closed her eyes, fought to hold on. “Don’t talk to me.”

She managed to walk. Her legs felt like rubber, but she put one in front of the other. God, she needed air. Couldn’t breathe.

Dizzy, she braced a hand on the doorway of the conference room. It seemed to swim in front of her eyes, as if she was looking into water. “Peabody.”

“Sir.” She sprang up, stared. “Dallas?”

“They took my badge.”

Feeney was across the room like a bullet from a gun. He had one hand on Webster’s shirt and the other already fisted and ready. “What kind of bullshit is this? Webster, you prick bastard—”

“Feeney, you have to take the interviews.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, not so much to stop him from laying into Webster, but for support. She didn’t know how much longer she had before she folded. “Peabody’s got . . . Peabody’s got the schedule, the data.”

His fingers uncurled, closed gently over hers, and felt them tremble. “What’s this about?”

“I’m a suspect.” It was so odd to hear the words, hear her own voice float. “In the Bowers’s homicide.”

“That’s a fucking crock.”

“I have to go.”

“Wait just one damn minute.”

“I have to go,” she repeated. She looked at Feeney with eyes dazed with shock. “I can’t stay here.”

“I’ll take you, Dallas. Let me take you.”

She looked at Peabody, shook her head. “No. You’re with Feeney now. I can’t—stay here.”

She bolted.

“Feeney, Jesus.” Eyes swimming, Peabody turned to him. “What do we do?”

“We fix it, goddamn it, son of a bitch, we fix it. Call Roarke,” he ordered and relieved some fury by kicking viciously at the desk. “Make sure he’s there when she gets home.”

Now she pays. Stupid bitch. Now she pays a price she’d consider higher than her own life. What will you do now, Dallas? Now that the system you’ve spent your life fighting for has betrayed you?

Now will you see, now that you’re shivering outside, that the very system you’ve sweated for is meaningless? That what matters is power?

You were nothing more than a drone in a hive that collapses constantly in upon itself. Now you’re less than that.

Because the power is mine, and it is legion.

Sacrifices were made, it’s true. Deviations from the plan were taken. Had to be taken. Risks were weighed, and with them, perhaps a few small mistakes. Any worthy experiment accepts those minor missteps.

Because the results justify all.

I am so close, so very close. Now the focus has switched, the tide turned. The hunter is now the prey of her own kind. They will rip her to pieces as mindlessly as wolves.

It was all so simple to accomplish. A few words in a few ears, debts called in. A flawed and jealous mind used, and yes, sacrificed. And no one will mourn the detestable Bowers any more than the dregs I removed from society will be mourned.

Oh, but they will cry for justice. They will demand payment.

And Eve Dallas will pay.

She’s no longer even the minor irritant she proved herself to be. With her removed, all my skills and energies can go back into my work. My work is imperative, and the glory that will spew from it, my right.

When it’s done, they’ll whisper my name with awe. And weep with gratitude.

Roarke stood in the cold, helpless, and waited for Eve to come home. Word had come through in the middle of his delicate negotiations with a pharmaceutical company on Tarus II. He intended to buy them out, revamp their organization, and link it with his own company based on Tarus I.

He had cut them off without hesitation the instant he’d received the transmission from Peabody. The tearful explanation from the habitually stalwart cop had shaken him. There had been only one thought: to get home, to be there.

And now to wait.

When he saw the Rapid Cab coming up the drive, he felt a hot bolt of fury lance through him.

They’d taken her vehicle. Bastards.

He wanted to race down the steps, rip open the door, to bundle her out and up and carry her away somewhere, somewhere she wouldn’t hurt as he could only imagine she hurt.

But it wasn’t his anger she needed now.

He came down the steps as she got out of the cab. And she stood pale as death in the hard winter light, her eyes dark, glazed, and, he thought, impossibly young. The strength, the tough edge she wore as naturally as her weapon, was gone.

She wasn’t sure she could speak, that the words would push through her throat, it burned so. And the rest of her was numb. Dead.

“They took my badge.” Suddenly it was real, the brutal reality of it punched like a fist. And grief gushed up, hot, bitter, to spill out of her eyes. “Roarke.”

“I know.” He was there, his arms hard around her, holding tight as she began to shake. “I’m sorry, Eve. I’m so sorry.”

“What will I do? What will I do?” She clung, weeping, not even aware that he picked her up, carried her inside, into the warmth and up the stairs. “Oh God, God, God, they took my badge.”

“We’ll straighten it out. You’ll get it back. I promise you.” She was shaking so violently, it seemed her bones would crash together and shatter. He sat, tightened his grip. “Just hold onto me.”

“Don’t go away.”

“No, baby, I’ll stay right here.”

She wept until he feared she’d be ill; then the sobs faded away, and she was limp in his arms. Like a broken doll, he thought. He ordered a soother and took her to bed. She, who would fight taking a painkiller if she were bleeding from a dozen wounds, sipped the sedative he brought to her lips without protest.

He undressed her as he would an exhausted child.

“They made me nothing again.”

He looked down at her face, into eyes, hollow and heavy. “No, Eve.”

“Nothing.” She turned her head away, closed her eyes, and escaped.

She’d been nothing. A vessel, a victim, a child. One more statistic sucked into an overburdened, understaffed system. She’d tried to sleep then, too, in the narrow bed in the hospital ward that smelled of sickness and approaching death. Moans, weeping, the monotonous beep, beep, beep of machines, and the quiet slap of rubber soles on worn linoleum.

Pain, riding just under the surface of the drugs that dripped into her bloodstream. Like a cloud full of thunder that threatened from a distance but never quite split and spilled.

She was eight, or so they’d told her. And she was broken.

Questions, so many questions from the cops and social workers she’d been taught to fear.

“They’ll throw you into a hole, little girl. A deep, dark hole.”

She would wake from the twilight sleep of drugs to his voice, sly and drunk, in her ear. And she would bite back screams.

The doctor would come with his grave eyes and rough hands. He was busy, busy, busy. She could see it in his eyes, in the sharp sound of his voice when he spoke to the nurses.

He didn’t have time to waste on the wards, on the poor and the pathetic who crowded them.

A pin . . . was there a gold pin on his lapel that winked in the lights? Snakes, coiled up and facing each other.

She dreamed within the dream that the snakes turned on her, leaped on her, hissing with fangs that dug into flesh and drew fresh blood.

The doctor hurt her, often, through simple hurry and carelessness. But she didn’t complain. They hurt you more, she knew, if you complained.

And his eyes looked like the snakes’ eyes. Hard and cruel.

“Where are your parents?”

The cops would ask her. Would sit by the bed, more patient than the doctor. They snuck her candy now and then because she was a child with lost eyes who rarely spoke and never smiled. One brought her a little stuffed dog for company. Someone stole it the same day, but she remembered the soft feel of its fur and the kind pity in the cop’s eyes.

“Where is your mother?”

She would only shake her head, close her eyes.

She didn’t know. Did she have a mother? There was no memory, nothing but that sly whisper in her ear that had fear jittering through her. She learned to block it out, to block it all out. Until there was no one and nothing before the narrow bed in the hospital ward.

The social worker with her bright, practiced smile that looked false and tired around the edges. “We’ll call you Eve Dallas.”

That’s not who I am, she thought, but she only stared. I’m nothing. I’m no one.

But they called her Eve in the group homes, in the foster homes, and she learned to be Eve. She learned to fight when pushed, to stand on the line she’d drawn, to become what she needed to become. First to survive. Then with purpose. Since middle childhood, the purpose had been to earn a badge, to make a difference, to stand for those who were no one.

One day when she stood in her stiff, formal uniform, her life had been put in her hands. Her life was a shield.

“Congratulations, Dallas, Officer Eve. The New York Police and Security Department is proud to have you.”

In that moment, the thrill and the duty had burned through her like light in a strong, fierce blaze that had seared away all the shadows. And finally, she’d become someone.

“I have to ask for your badge and your weapon.”

She whimpered in sleep. Going to her, Roarke stroked her hair, took her hand, until she settled again.

Moving quietly, he walked to the ’link in the sitting area and called Peabody.

“Tell me what’s going on here.”

“She’s home? She’s all right?”

“She’s home, and no, she’s far from all right. What the hell have they done to her?”

“I’m at the Drake. Feeney’s running the interviews we’d set up, but they’re running late. I’ve only got a minute. Bowers was murdered last night. Dallas is a suspect.”

“What kind of insanity is that?”

“It’s bogus—everybody knows it—but it’s procedure.”

“Fuck procedure.”

“Yeah.” The image of his face on her screen, the cold, predatory look in those amazing eyes, had her fighting back a shudder. “Look, I don’t have a lot of details. They’re keeping the lid on Baxter—he’s primary—but I got that Bowers had all this stuff about Dallas written down. Weird stuff. Sex and corruption, bribery, false reports.”

He glanced back at Eve when she stirred restlessly. “Is no one considering the source?”

“The source is a dead cop.” She ran a hand over her face. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get her back and get her back fast. Feeney’s going to do a deep-level search on Bowers,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Tell him that won’t be necessary. He can contact me. I already have that data.”

“But how—”

“Tell him to contact me, Peabody. What’s Baxter’s full name and rank?”

“Baxter? Detective, David. He won’t talk to you, Roarke. He can’t.”

“I’m not interested in talking to him. Where’s McNab?”

“He’s back at Central, running data.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Roarke wait. Tell Dallas. . . tell her whatever you think she needs to hear.”

“She’ll need you, Peabody.” He broke transmission.

He left Eve sleeping. Information was power, he thought. He intended for her to have all the power he could gather.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Detective . . .”

“Captain,” Feeney said, sizing up the slickly groomed man in the Italian suit. “Captain Feeney, filling in temporarily for Lieutenant Dallas as primary. I’ll be conducting the interview.”

“Oh.” Waverly’s expression showed mild puzzlement. “I hope the lieutenant isn’t unwell.”

“Dallas knows how to take care of herself. Peabody, on record.”

“On record, sir.”

“So official.” After a slight shrug, Waverly smiled and sat behind his massive oak desk.

“That’s right.” Feeney read off the revised Miranda, cocked a brow. “You get that?”

“Of course. I understand my rights and obligations. I didn’t think I required a lawyer for this procedure. I’m more than willing to cooperate with the police.”

“Then tell me your whereabouts on the following dates and times.” Referring to his notebook, Feeney read off the dates of the three murders in New York.

“I’ll need to check my calendar to be sure.” Waverly swiveled a sleek black box, laid his palm on top to activate it, then requested his schedule for the times in question.

Off duty and clear during first period. Off duty and clear during second period. On call and at Drake Center monitoring patient Clifford during third period.

“Relay personal schedule,” Waverly requested.

No engagements scheduled during first period. Engagement with Larin Stevens, booked for overnight during second period. No engagements scheduled during third period.

“Larin, yes.” He smiled again, with a twinkle. “We went to the theater, had a late supper at my home. We also shared breakfast, if you understand my meaning, Captain.”

“That’s Stevens,” Feeney said briskly as he entered the name in his book. “You got an address?”

All warmth fled. “My assistant will provide you with it. I’d like the police connection to my personal friends kept to a minimum. It’s very awkward.”

“Pretty awkward for the dead, too, Doctor. We’ll check out your friend and your patient. Even if they clear you for two of the periods, we’ve still got one more.”

“A man’s entitled to spend the night alone in his own bed occasionally, Captain.”

“Sure is.” Feeney leaned back. “So, you pop hearts and lungs out of people.”

“In a manner of speaking.” The smile was back, digging charming creases into his cheeks. “The Drake has some of the finest organ transplant and research facilities in the world.”

“What about your connections with the Canal Street Clinic?”

Waverly raised a brow. “I don’t believe I know that facility.”

“It’s a free clinic downtown.”

“I’m not associated with any free clinics. I paid my dues there during my early years. You’ll find most doctors who work or volunteer at such places are very young, very energetic, and very idealistic.”

“So you stopped working on the poor. Not worth it?”

Unoffended, he folded his hands on the desk. Peeking out from under his cuff was the smooth, thin gold of a Swiss wrist unit. “Financially, no. Professionally, there’s little chance for advancement in that area. I chose to use my knowledge and skill where it best suits me and leave the charity work for those who are suited to it.”

“You’re supposed to be the best.”

“Captain, I am the best.”

“So, tell me—in your professional opinion . . .” Feeney reached in his file, drew out copies of the crime scene stills and laid them on the highly polished surface of the desk. “Is that good work?”

“Hmm.” Eyes cool, Waverly turned the photos toward him, studied them. “Very clean, excellent.” He shifted his gaze briefly to Feeney. “Horrible, of course, on a human level, you understand, but you asked for a professional opinion. And mine is that the surgeon who performed here is quite brilliant. To have managed this under the circumstances, with what certainly had to be miserable conditions, is a stunning achievement.”

“Could you have done it?”

“Do I possess the skills?” Waverly nudged the photos back toward Feeney. “Why, yes.”

“What about this one?” He tossed the photo of the last victim on top of the others, watched Waverly glance down and frown.

“Poorly done. This is poorly done. One moment.” He pulled open a drawer, pulled out microgoggles, and slipped them on. “Yes, yes, the incision appears to be perfect. The liver has been removed quite cleanly, but nothing was done to seal off, to maintain a clear and sterile field. Very poorly done.”

“Funny,” Feeney said dryly, “I thought the same thing about all of them.”

“Cold son of a bitch,” Feeney muttered later. He paused in the corridor, checked his wrist unit. “Let’s find Wo, chat her up, see about getting a look at where they keep the pieces of people they pull out. Jesus, I hate these places.”

“That’s what Dallas always says.”

“Keep her out of your head for now,” he said shortly. He was working hard to keep her out of his and do the job. “If we’re going to help her close this, you need to keep her troubles out of your head.”

Face grim, he strode down the corridor, then glanced over as Peabody fell into step beside him. “Make an extra copy of all data and interview discs.”

She met his gaze, read it, and for the first time during the long morning, smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Christ, stop sirring me to death.”

Now Peabody grinned. “She used to say that, too. Now she’s used to it.”

The shadows in his eyes lifted briefly. “Going to whip me into shape, too, Peabody?”

Behind his back, Peabody wiggled her brows. She didn’t think it would take her much time to do just that. She fixed her face into sober lines when he knocked on Wo’s door.

An hour later, Peabody was staring, horrified and fascinated, at a human heart preserved in thin blue gel.

“The facilities here,” Wo was saying, “are arguably the finest in the world for organ research. It was at this facility, though it was not as expansive as it is today, that Dr. Drake discovered and refined the anticancer vaccine. This portion of the center is dedicated to the study of diseases and conditions, including aging, that adversely affect human organs. In addition, we continue to study and refine techniques for organ replacement.”

The lab was as large as a heliport, Feeney decided, sectioned off here and there with thin white partitions. Dozens of people in long coats of white, pale green, or deep blue worked at stations, manning computers, compu-scopes, or tools he didn’t recognize.

It was quiet as a church. None of the open-air background music some large facilities employed whispered through the lab, and when he inhaled, the air tasted faintly of antiseptic. He made certain he breathed through his nose.

They stood in a section where organs were displayed in the gel-filled bottles, the labels attached to the bases.

At the near door, a security droid stood silently, in case, Feeney thought with a sneer, somebody got the sudden urge to grab a bladder and run for it.

Jesus, what a place.

“Where do you get your specimens?” Feeney asked Wo, and she turned to him with a frigid look.

“We do not remove them from live, unwilling patients. Dr. Young?”

Bradley Young was thin, tall, and obviously distracted. He turned from his work at a sheer white counter populated with scopes and monitors and compu-slides. He frowned, pinched off the magni-clip he wore perched on his nose, and focused pale gray eyes.

“Yes?”

“This is Captain Feeney and his. . . assistant,” she supposed, “from the police department. Dr. Young is our chief research technician. Would you explain how we go about collecting our specimens here for research?”

“Of course.” He ran a hand over his hair. It was thin, like his bones, like his face, and the color of bleached wheat. “Many of our specimens are more than thirty years old,” he began. “This heart for example.” He moved across the blinding white floor to the container where Peabody had been standing. “It was removed from a patient twenty-eight years ago. As you can see, there is considerable damage. The patient had suffered three serious cardiac arrests. This heart was removed and replaced with one of the first runs of the NewLife unit. He is now, at the age of eighty-nine, alive, well, and living in Bozeman, Montana.”

Young smiled winningly. He considered that his finest joke. “The specimens were all either donated by patients themselves or next of kin in the event of death, or acquired through a licensed organ broker.”

“You can account for all of them.”

Young just stared at Feeney. “Account for?”

“You got paperwork on all of them, ID?”

“Certainly. This department is very organized. Every specimen is properly documented. Its donor or brokerage information, its date of removal, the condition at time of removal, surgeon, and team. In addition, any specimen that is studied on premises or off must be logged in and out.”

“You take these things out of here?”

“On occasion, certainly.” Looking baffled, he glanced at Dr. Wo, who merely waved a hand for him to continue. “Other facilities might request a specific specimen with a specific flaw for study. We have a loan and a sale policy with several other centers around the world.”

Click, Feeney thought, and took out his book. “How about these?” he asked, and read off Eve’s list.

Again, Young glanced at Wo, and again received a go-ahead signal. “Yes, those are all what we would consider sister facilities.”

“Ever been to Chicago?”

“A number of times. I don’t understand.”

“Captain,” Wo interrupted. “This is becoming tedious.”

“My job’s not filled with high points,” he said easily. “How about giving me the data on the organs you checked in here within the last six weeks.”

“I—I—that data is confidential.”

“Peabody,” Feeney began, keeping his eyes on the suddenly nervous Young, “start warrant procedures.”

“One moment; that won’t be necessary.” Wo gestured Peabody back in a way that had Peabody’s eyes narrowing. “Dr. Young, get the captain the data he requested.”

“But it’s confidential material.” His face set suddenly in stubborn lines. “I don’t have clearance.”

“I’m clearing it,” she snapped. “I’ll speak with Dr. Cagney. The responsibility is mine. Get the data.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Feeney told her.

She turned dark, cold eyes on him when Young left to retrieve the data. “I want you out of this lab and this center as soon as possible. You’re disrupting important work.”

“Catching killers probably doesn’t rate as high on your scale as poking at livers, but we all gotta earn our paycheck. You know what this is?” He took the sealed pin out of his pocket, held it at eye level.

“Of course. It’s a caduceus. I have one very much like it.”

“Where?”

“Where? At home, I imagine.”

“I noticed some of the docs around here wearing one. I guess you don’t wear yours to work.”

“Not as a rule, no.” But she reached up, as if out of habit, running her fingers on her unadorned lapel. “If you’re done with me now, I have a great deal of work.”

“We’re done, for now. But I have a couple of more interviews set for tomorrow. I’d like to see your pin, if you’d bring it in.”

“My pin?”

“That’s right. Someone lost one recently.” He lifted the one he held a little higher. “I need to make sure it wasn’t you.”

She tightened her lips and walked away.

“A lot of steam in that one, Peabody. We’ll take a closer look at her when we get back to Central.”

“She used to be president of the AMA,” Peabody remembered. “Waverly’s current president. The AMA put pressure on East Washington to put pressure on the mayor to put pressure on us to kick the case.”

“Wheels in wheels,” Feeney murmured. “Let’s get this data back and see what rolls out of them. Now, what’s the deal with Vanderhaven?”

“His interview was scheduled next, but he canceled. Professional emergency.” She glanced around to be certain no one was within hearing distance. “I called his office, said I was a patient, and was told the doctor had taken leave for the next ten days.”

“Interesting. Sounds like he doesn’t want to talk to us. Get his home address, Peabody. We’ll pay a house call.”

Roarke was studying data of his own. It had been child’s play for him to slide into Baxter’s computer and access information on Bowers’s murder.

It was a pity that, as yet, there was little information to be had.

But there was plenty, of the vile and hysterical variety, to be found in Bowers’s logs and diaries.

He ran a search on them, using Eve’s name, and found bits and pieces stretching back for years. Comments, accusations when Eve had been promoted to detective, when she received commendations. Roarke raised both eyebrows when he read Bowers’s statement that Eve had seduced Feeney in order to bag him as her trainer. And then the lurid speculation on her affair with her commander to insure she was assigned important cases.

But these, and others that popped from time to time, were mild compared with the diatribes that began on the day Bowers and Eve had clashed over the body of a sidewalk sleeper.

That obsession, Roarke mused, had festered over time until that one moment, that single twist of fate that had burst it and spilled the poison over both of them.

Now one was dead.

He looked toward the screen where he could monitor the bedroom and see his wife sleeping.

And the other broken.

Still scanning, he waved a hand at his communication screen when Summerset came on. “Not now.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but Dr. Mira is here. She’d very much like to speak with you.”

“I’ll be down.” He rose, studied Eve another moment. “System off,” he murmured, and the equipment behind him shifted from a low hum to silence.

He stepped out of the room. The door behind him locked automatically and could only be opened with the palm and voice prints of those authorized. Only three people had ever been inside.

To save time, he used the elevator. He didn’t intend to be away from Eve any longer than necessary.

“Roarke.” Mira sprang up from her chair, hurried across the room to grab both of his hands. Her usual calm face showed strain around the eyes and mouth. “I only just heard. I came right over. I’m so sorry to intrude, but I had to come.”

“You’re never an intrusion.”

She tightened her grip on his hands. “Please. Will she see me?”

“I don’t know. She’s sleeping.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the stairs. “I gave her something. I could kill them for this.” He spoke almost to himself, his voice soft and terrifyingly gentle. “For putting that look I saw on her face. I could kill them for that alone.”

Because she believed him, her hands trembled a little. “Can we sit?”

“Of course. Sorry. My mind isn’t on my manners.”

“I hope they won’t have to be with me. Roarke . . .” She sat in one of the beautifully curved chairs, leaned forward to lay her hand on his again, hoping the contact would help them both. “While others may be outraged or sympathetic or have any variety of reactions to what happened today, you and I are perhaps the only ones who fully understand what this has done to her. To her heart, her sense of self. Her identity.”

“It’s destroyed her.” No, he realized, he couldn’t sit, and rising, stalked to the window to stare out at the cold afternoon. “I’ve seen her face death, her own and others’. I’ve seen her face the misery and fears of her past and the shadows that cover pieces of it. I’ve seen her terrified of her own feelings. But she stood. She gathered herself and she stood up to it. And this, this departmental procedure, has destroyed her.”

“She’ll gather herself again, and she’ll stand up to this. But not alone. She can’t stand up to this alone.”

He turned, faced her. The light streamed through the window behind him; the dangerous blue of his eyes made Mira think of a cold and vengeful angel ready to leap into hell.

“She never has to be alone.”

“What you have with her will save her. Just as it saved you.”

He angled his head, changing the slant of light and the uneasy vision she’d had of him. “That’s an interesting way to put it. But you’re quite right. She did save me, and I’d forgotten I was lost. I love her more than life, and I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

Mira studied her hands a moment, lifted her fingers up, let them fall. “I won’t ask you questions about your methods, or your . . . connections in certain areas. But I will ask if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“How far will discounting Bowers’s accusations go toward getting Eve’s badge back?”

“It will help considerably with IAB. But until the homicide investigation is closed or the suspicion against Eve is dismissed publicly and without prejudice the department walks a firm line.”

“You can test her? Truth test, personality profile, probabilities.”

“Yes, but she has to be willing, and she has to be ready. It’s a difficult process, physically and emotionally. But that, too, would weigh on her side.”

“I’ll speak with her about it.”

“She’ll have to grieve, but don’t let her grieve too long. At some point, she’ll need her anger. It’ll be her most important source of strength.”

She rose, stepped toward him. “I’ve asked to be per-mitted to evaluate Bowers’s emotional and mental state, using the records of the last several weeks, her diaries—the content and tone—interviews with associates and acquaintances. It’ll take time. I have to be very thorough, very careful. Though I’m giving it priority status, I doubt I can furnish the department with a conclusion in less than two weeks.”

“I could take her away,” he considered.

“That might be for the best, even for a few days. But I doubt she’ll go.” She opened her mouth, shut it again.

“What?”

“I know her so well. I have such strong feelings for her. But I’m still a psychiatrist. I believe I know how she’ll react, at least initially. I don’t want you to feel as if I’m overstepping or violating her privacy by . . . analyzing.”

“I know she matters to you. Tell me what to expect.”

“She’ll want to hide. In sleep, in silence, in solitude. She may very well lock you out.”

“She won’t have much luck with that.”

“But she’ll want to, try to, simply because you’re closer to her than anyone ever has been. I’m sorry,” she said and pressed her fingers to her left temple. “Could I trouble you for a little brandy?”

“Of course.” Instinct had him laying a hand on her cheek. “Dr. Mira,” he said very gently, “sit down.”

She felt weak and weepy. Sitting, she steadied herself, waited while Roarke took a decanter from a carved cabinet and poured her a snifter of brandy.

“Thank you.” She took a small sip, let it warm her. “This suspension, the suspicion, the mark on her record is not just a matter of the job and procedure to Eve. Her identity was taken from her once before. She rebuilt it and herself. For her, this has stripped her of it again, of what and who she is. What she needs to be. The longer she closes herself down, closes herself off, the harder it will be to reach her. It may affect your marriage.”

He only lifted a brow at that. “She won’t have any luck with that whatsoever.”

Mira gave a quiet, shaky laugh. “You’re a very stubborn man. That’s good.” She sipped more brandy, studying him. And what she saw eased some of her own worry. “At some point, you may find yourself having to put your sympathy for her situation aside. It would be easier for you to coddle and pamper and let her drift. But I think you’ll recognize the point where she’ll need you to make her take the next step.”

She sighed then, set the brandy aside. “I won’t keep you from her any longer, but if there’s anything else I can do. If she wants to see me, I’ll come.”

He considered her loyalty, her affection, and wondered how they weighed against her duty. He never minded playing the odds. “How long will it take for you to complete a full-level search and scan on Bowers?”

“The paperwork is being rushed through on the orders for it. It shouldn’t take more than another day, perhaps two.”

“I have the data now,” he said simply and waited while she stared at him.

“I see.” She said nothing while he helped her into her coat. “If you transfer the data to my home unit, my personal unit,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. “I assume you have no trouble accessing my personal unit?”

“None whatsoever.”

She laughed just a little. “How very terrifying you are. If you transfer what you have, I’ll begin work on it this evening.”

“I’m very grateful.” He saw her off, then went back upstairs to watch over Eve.

Dreams chased her, memory bumping into memory in a chaotic race. Her first bust and the solid satisfaction of doing the job she’d trained to do. The boy who’d kissed her sloppily when she’d been fifteen and had surprised her because she’d felt no fear or shame, but a mild interest.

A drunken night with Mavis at the Blue Squirrel with so much laughter it hurt the ribs. The mutilated body of a child she’d been too late to save.

The weeping of those left behind and the screams of the dead.

The first time she’d seen Roarke, that dazzling face on-screen in her office.

Then back, always back to a cold room with a dirty red light pulsing against the window. The knife in her hand dripping with blood, and the pain shrieking so wild, so loud, she could hear nothing else. Could be nothing else.

When she woke, it was dark, and she was empty.

Her head throbbed with a dull, consistent ache that was the dregs of weeping and grief. Her body felt hollow, as if the bones had slipped away while she’d slept.

She wanted to sleep again, to just go away.

He moved through the dark, quiet as a shadow. The bed shifted slightly as he sat beside her, found her hand. “Do you want the light?”

“No.” Her voice felt rusty, but she didn’t bother to clear it. “No, I don’t want anything. You didn’t have to stay here, in the dark.”

“Did you think I’d let you wake alone?” He brought her hand to his lips. “You’re not alone.”

She wanted to weep again, could feel the tears beating at the backs of her eyes. Hot, helpless. Useless. “Who called you?”

“Peabody. She and Feeney were here; so was Mira. McNab’s called several times. And Nadine.”

“I can’t talk to them.”

“All right. Mavis is downstairs. She won’t leave, and I can’t ask her to.”

“What am I supposed to say to her? To anyone? God, Roarke, I’m stripped. The next time I go into Central, it’ll be to interview as a murder suspect.”

“I’ve contacted a lawyer. You’ve nothing to worry about there. If and when you agree to interview, it’ll be here, in your own home, on your own terms. Eve.”

He could see her silhouette, the way she turned away from him and stared into the dark. Gently, he cupped her face, turned it toward him. “No one you work with, no one who knows you believes you had anything to do with what happened to Bowers.”

“I don’t even care about that. It’s nothing but form. No physical evidence, no clear motive, and the opportunity is slim. I don’t care about that,” she repeated and hated, hated the way her breath hitched. “They’ll have a cloud but no proof, not enough for the PA, but enough to keep my badge away. Enough to keep me out.”

“You’ve people who care about you who’ll work to see that doesn’t happen.”

“It has happened,” she said flatly. “And nothing can change it. You can’t change it. I just want to sleep.” She shifted away, shut her eyes. “I’m tired. Go down with Mavis, I’m better off alone now.”

He ran a hand over her hair. He’d give her the night to grieve, to escape.

But when he left her alone, she opened her eyes, stared at nothing. And didn’t sleep.

Getting out of bed in the morning seemed like wasted effort.

She shifted, looked up through the glass overhead. The snow was gone and the sky was the dull gray of depression. She tried to think of some reason to get up, get dressed, but could think of nothing, could feel nothing but a low, dragging fatigue.

She turned her head, and there was Roarke in the sitting area, sipping coffee and watching her.

“You’ve slept long enough, Eve. You can’t go on hiding in here.”

“It seems like a good idea right now.”

“The longer it does, the more you’ll lose. Get up.”

She sat up, but drew her knees into her chest and rested her head on them. “I don’t have anything to do, nowhere to go.”

“We can go anywhere you like. I’ve cleared my schedule for a couple of weeks.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Anger struggled to surface but turned pale and listless and faded. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Then we’ll stay home. But you’re not lying in bed with the covers over your head.”

A bubble of resentment worked its way free. “I didn’t have the covers over my head,” she muttered. And what did he know? she thought. How could he know how she felt? But there was enough pride left to have her getting up, dragging on a robe.

Pleased with the small victory, he poured her coffee, topped off his own. “I’ve eaten,” he said casually, “but I don’t believe Mavis has.”

“Mavis?”

“Yes, she stayed last night.” He reached over, pressed a button in the interhouse ’link. “She’ll keep you company.”

“No, I don’t want—”

But it was too late as Mavis’s face swam on-screen. “Roarke, is she awake yet—Dallas!” Her smile broke out, a little wobbly, but there, as she spotted Eve. “I’ll be right there.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Eve said furiously when the screen went blank. “Can’t you understand that?”

“I understand very well.” He rose, laid his hands on her shoulders. It broke his heart as he felt them droop. “You and I went through a large part of our lives without having anyone who mattered or who we mattered to. So I understand very well what it is to have someone.” He leaned forward to press his lips to her brow. “To need someone. Talk to Mavis.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.” Her eyes filled again and burned.

“Then listen.” He squeezed her shoulders once, then turned as the door burst open and Mavis flew in. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, but he doubted either of them heard him as Mavis was already wrapping herself around Eve and babbling.

“Those suck-faced pissheads,” he heard her sob out, and he nearly smiled as he closed the door.

“Okay,” Eve murmured and buried her face in Mavis’s blue hair. “Okay.”

“I wanted to go find Whitney and call him a suck-faced pisshead in person, but Leonardo said it was better to come straight here. I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry.” She reared back so abruptly Eve nearly went down. “What the hell’s wrong with them!” Mavis demanded, throwing her arms out and sending the diaphanous pink sleeves of what might have been a nighty flapping.

“It’s procedure,” Eve managed.

“Well, screw that in the ass sideways. No way they’re going to get away with this. I bet Roarke’s already hired a platoon of hot-shit lawyers to sue their suck-faces off. You’ll own the goddamn city of New York when this is over.”

“I just want my badge.” And because it was Mavis, Eve dropped onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands. “I’ve got nothing without it, Mavis.”

“You’ll get it back.” Shaken, Mavis sat, draped an arm around Eve’s shoulders. “You always make the right thing happen, Dallas.”

“I’m locked out.” Weary, Eve sat back, closed her eyes. “You can’t make things happen when they’re happening to you.”

“You made them happen for me. When you collared me all those years ago, it changed my life.”

It was an effort, but Eve worked up a ghost of a smile. “Which time?”

“The first time—the other couple were just like, you know, slips. You made me wonder if I could be more than a grifter scamming marks, then you made me see I could. And last year when things were bad for me, when it looked like they were going to put me in a cage, you were there for me. You made the right things happen.”

“I had the badge, I had control.” Her eyes went bleak again. “I had the job.”

“Well, now you’ve got me and you’ve got the iciest guy on or off planet. And that’s not all. You know how many people called here last night? Roarke wanted to stay up here with you so I asked Summerset if I could, like, take the calls and stuff. They just kept coming in.”

“How many from reporters wanting a story?”

Mavis sniffed, then got up to call up the menu on the AutoChef. Roarke had given her orders to see that Eve ate, and she intended to follow them. “I know how to ditch the media dogs. Let’s have ice cream.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t need to be hungry for ice cream and—oh yeah there’s a God—chocolate chip cookies. Mag squared.”

“Mavis—”

“You took care of me when I needed you,” Mavis said quietly. “Don’t make me feel like you don’t need me.”

Nothing could have worked more completely. Though she sent one longing look toward the bed, to the oblivion she might find there, Eve sighed. “What kind of ice cream?”

Eve drifted through the day, like someone wandering in and out of sweeps of fog. She avoided her office and Roarke’s, used a headache as an excuse to crawl away for a few hours. She took no calls, refused to discuss the situation with Roarke, and finally closed herself in the library on the pretense of choosing reading material.

She turned on the search screen so anyone monitoring would think she was browsing through, then ordered curtains closed, lights off, and curled on the couch to escape into sleep.

She dreamed of coiled snakes slithering up a gold staff that dripped with blood. And the blood slipped and slid and beaded over paper flowers tucked into a brown glass bottle.

Someone called for help in a voice thin with age.

She stepped into the dream, into a landscape blinding white with snow, wind that stung the eyes and carried the voice away. She ran through it, her boots skidding, her breath puffing out in visible waves, but there was nothing but that wall of cold white.

“Cunt cop.” A hiss in the ear.

“What are you up to, little girl?” Terror in the heart.

“Why’d somebody wanna put a hole in him that way?” A question still unanswered.

Then she saw them, the doomed and the damned, frozen in the snow, their bodies twisted, their faces caught in that shocked insult of death. Their eyes staring at her, asking the question still unanswered.

Behind her, behind that white curtain, came the crack and snick of ice breaking. Of something breaking free with sneaky, whispering sounds that were like quiet laughter.

The walls of white became the walls of a hospital corridor, stretched out like a tunnel with no end in sight, the curves slick as water. It came for her, its footsteps slow with the wet sound of flesh on tile. With her blood roaring in her head, she turned to face it, to fight it, reaching for her weapon. Her hand came up empty.

“What are you up to, little girl?”

The sob ripped at her throat, the fear swallowing her whole. So she ran, stumbling down the tunnel, her breath whistling out in panic. She could smell his breath behind her. Candy and whiskey.

The tunnel split, a sharp right or left. She stopped, too confused by fear to know which way to go. The shambling steps behind her had a scream bubbling in her throat. She leaped right, plunged into silence. Fresh sweat popped onto her skin, rolled down her face. Up ahead a light, dim, and the shadow of shape in it still and quiet.

She ran for it. Someone to help. God, someone help me.

When she reached the end, there was a table, and on the table her own body. The skin white, the eyes closed. And where her heart had been was a bloody hole.

She woke shuddering. On watery legs she got up, lurched toward the elevator. She braced herself against the wall as it took her down. Desperate for air, she stumbled off, hurried outside where the cold bit blood back into her face.

She stayed out for nearly an hour, walking off the horror of the dream, the sticky sweat, the inner shudders. A part of her seemed to stand back, staring in righteous disgust.

Get a hold of yourself, Dallas. You’re pathetic. Where’s your spine?

Just leave me alone, she thought miserably. Leave me the hell alone. She was allowed to have feelings, wasn’t she? Weaknesses? And if she wanted to be left alone with them, it was no one’s business.

Because nobody knew, no one could understand, no one could feel what she felt.

You’ve still got your brain, don’t you? Even if you have lost your guts. Start thinking.

“I’m tired of thinking,” she muttered and stopped to stand in the snow that was going to slush. “There’s nothing to think about and nothing to do.”

Hunching her shoulders, she started back toward the house. She wanted Roarke, she realized. Wanted him to hold her, to make it all go away. To beat the demons back for her.

Tears were surging back, and she struggled against them. They made her tired. All she wanted now was Roarke and to crawl into some warm place with him and have him tell her it was going to be all right.

She stepped inside, the old running shoes she’d put on soaked through, her jeans wet nearly to the knees. She hadn’t stopped for a jacket before going out, and the sudden warmth had her swaying in mild shock.

Summerset watched her a moment, his lips tight, his eyes dark with worry. Deliberately, he fixed his most arrogant expression on his face and slipped into the foyer.

“You’re filthy and wet.” He sniffed derisively. “And you’re tracking water all over the floor. You might show a bit of respect for your own home.”

He waited for the flash of temper, the cold flare of her eyes, and felt the heart she didn’t know he had squeeze when she simply stared at him.

“Sorry.” She looked down blankly at her feet. “I didn’t think.” She laid a hand on the newel post, noticed with a kind of distant interest that it seemed cold enough to snap, and started up the stairs.

Unnerved, Summerset moved quickly to the communication center. “Roarke, the lieutenant has just come in from outside. She wore no outer gear. She looks very bad.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s heading up. Roarke, I insulted her and . . . she apologized to me. Something must be done.”

“It’s about to be.”

Roarke strode out of his office, made straight for the bedroom. The minute he saw her, wet, white, and trembling, fury sprang up to join concern. It was time, he decided, to lead with the fury.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I just went out for a walk.” She sat but couldn’t quite get her frozen fingers to work well enough to peel off her wet shoes. “I needed some air.”

“So you go out without a coat. Making yourself sick’s next in your master plan for dealing with this.”

Her mouth fell open. She’d wanted him, wanted him to comfort and soothe, and he was snapping at her, yanking off her shoes as if she were a child about to be spanked. “I just wanted some air.”

“Well, you seem to have gotten it.” Jesus, he thought, Jesus, her hands were like ice. He yanked back the urge to warm them himself and stood back from her. “Get in the damn shower, boil yourself as you’re prone to.”

Hurt swam into her eyes, but she said nothing. It only infuriated him more when she rose and walked obediently into the adjoining bath.

He closed his eyes when he heard the water running. Let her grieve, Mira had told him. Well, he’d let her grieve long enough. She’d said he’d know the moment to shake her out of it.

If not now, he told himself, when?

He ordered up brandy for both of them, swirled his without interest as he waited for her.

When she came out, wrapped in a robe, he was ready.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk about your options.”

“Options?”

“What you’ll do.” He picked up the second snifter, put it in her hand, then sat comfortably. “With your training and experience, private security is likely the best avenue. I have a number of organizations where your talents would come in very handy.”

“Private security? Working for you?”

He lifted a brow. “I can promise you, your income will be more substantial than it was, and you’ll be kept very busy.” He sat back, draped his arm over the back of the sofa, and appeared blissfully relaxed. “That particular option would free up your time, allow you to travel more freely. You’d be expected to accompany me on a number of business trips, so it would have a number of benefits to both of us.”

“I’m not looking for a damn job, Roarke.”

“No? Well, my mistake. If you’ve decided to retire then, we can explore other options.”

“Options, for God’s sake. I can’t think about this.”

“We could consider making a child.”

The snifter jerked in her hand, brandy sloshing over the rim as she spun around. “What?”

“That got your attention,” he murmured. “I imagined we’d start our family a bit farther down the road, but under the current circumstances, we could easily push it up.”

She wondered why her head didn’t explode. “Are you crazy? A baby? Do you mean a baby?”

“That’s the conventional way to start a family.”

“I can’t—I don’t—” She managed to catch her breath. “I don’t know anything about babies, kids.”

“You have a great deal of leisure time just now. You can learn. Retiring makes you a perfect candidate for professional motherhood.”

“Professional—Jesus.” She was certain she felt all the blood the hot water had stirred back to life in her body drain away again. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Not entirely.” He rose, faced her. “I want a family. It doesn’t have to be now, it doesn’t have to be a year from now, but I want children with you. I also want my wife back.”

“Private security, families.” Her eyes filled and stung again. “Just how much do you want to dump on me when I’m down?”

“I expected better of you,” he said coolly and had the tears drying up.

“Better? Better of me?”

“A great deal better. What have you done the last thirty-odd hours, Eve, but cry and hide and feel sorry for yourself? Where do you expect that to get you?”

“I expected you to understand.” Her voice broke and nearly undid him. “To give me some support.”

“To understand you crawling away, to support your self-pity.” He sipped brandy again. “No, I don’t think so. It gets tiring, watching you wallow in it.”

It stole her breath away, the light disgust in his voice, the disinterest in his eyes. “Just leave me alone then!” She shouted it, tossed the brandy aside so that the glass bounced and rolled as the liquor soaked the carpet. “You don’t know how I feel.”

“No.” Finally, he thought, finally here was her fury. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m a goddamn cop. I can’t be anything else. I busted my ass at the academy because it was the answer. It was the only way I knew to make something of myself. To finally be something that wasn’t another number, another name, another victim the system sucked up and struggled with. I did it,” she said furiously. “I made me so that nothing, nothing that happened before had to matter.”

She whirled away. There were tears again, but these were hot and potent and full of rage. “What I didn’t remember, what I did, none of it could change where I was going. Being a cop, being in control, using the system that had, by God, used me all my fucking life. From the inside, with a badge, I could believe in it again. I could make it work. I could stand for something.”

“Why have you stopped?”

“They stopped me!” She spun back, her hands fisted. “Eleven years, the years that matter, when I trained and I learned and I worked to make a difference somewhere. The bodies stacked up in my mind, the blood I’ve waded through, and the waste. I see it in my sleep, every face of the dead. But it didn’t stop me, never would have stopped me, because it matters too much. Because I can look at them and know what I have to do. And I can live with everything that happened to me, even the things I don’t remember.”

He nodded coolly. “Then fight back, and get what you need.”

“I’ve got nothing. Goddamn it, Roarke, can’t you see? When they took my badge, they took everything I am.”

“No, Eve. They didn’t take what you are unless you let them. They only took your symbols. If you need them,” he continued, stepping to her, “pull yourself together, stop whining, and get them back.”

She jerked away from him. “Thanks for the support.” Her voice cracked like ice under a pick as she turned and walked out of the room.

Driven by temper, she stormed through the house, down to the gym. She stripped off the robe, dragged on a unisuit. Her blood blazing, she activated the combat droid and beat the shit out of it.

Upstairs, Roarke sipped brandy and grinned like a fool as he watched her on a monitor. He imagined she’d replaced the droid’s face with his. “Go ahead, darling,” he murmured. “Pound me into dust.” He winced a little when she jammed her knee hard into the droid’s crotch, felt a sympathetic twinge in his own balls.

“I guess I had that coming,” he decided and made a mental note to order a new combat droid. This one was toast.

It was good progress, he mused after she’d left the mangled droid on the mat, stripped off her sweat-soaked suit, and stomped into the pool house. He counted thirty strong, steady laps when Summerset hailed him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but a Detective Baxter is at the gate. He wishes to see Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Tell him she remains unavailable. No.” On impulse, Roarke shifted gears. He was more than a little tired of doing nothing himself. “Let him in, Summerset. I’ll see him. I have a few words for the NYPSD. Send him to my office.”

“I’ll be happy to.”

Baxter was doing his best not to gawk. His mood was glum, his nerves on edge, and he’d already dealt with the wave of reporters at the gate. Beating on the windows of an official vehicle, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Where was the respect and the good healthy fear for cops these days?

And now he found himself being led through a fucking palace by a stiff-assed butler type. The place was like something out of a video. One of his favorite pastimes had been to razz Eve about the unlimited credit well she’d fallen into with Roarke. Now he had all this new material and didn’t have the heart to use it.

He got another eyeful when he walked into Roarke’s office. The equipment alone was enough to make his eyes want to pop out of his head, and the setting, acres of treated glass, miles of glossy tiles, made him feel shabby in his off-the-rack suit and well-broken-in shoes.

Just as well, he decided. He felt pretty damn shabby all around.

“Detective.” Roarke remained seated behind the desk, the position of power. “Your identification?”

They’d met more than once, but Baxter simply nodded and took out his badge. Couldn’t blame the guy for being tight-assed under the circumstances, Baxter decided. “I need to interview Dallas regarding the Bowers homicide.”

“I believe you were informed yesterday that my wife is unavailable at this time.”

“Yeah, I got the message. Look, it’s got to get done. I’ve got a job to do here.”

“Yes, you have a job.” Not bothering to disguise the threat in his eyes, Roarke got to his feet. Every movement precise, like a wolf stalking prey. “Eve doesn’t, because your department is quick to turn on their own. How the hell can you stand here with that badge in your hand? You come into her home prepared to interrogate her? You son of a bitch, I ought to make you eat that fucking badge and send you back to Whitney on a pike.”

“You’ve got a right to be upset,” Baxter said evenly, “but I’ve got an investigation going, and she’s part of it.”

“Do I seem upset, Baxter?” His eyes glinted like a sword turned edge-up in the sun as he came around the desk. “Why don’t I show you, right now, what I am?” Fast as a lightning strike, Roarke’s fist shot out.

Eve walked in just as Baxter went flying. She had to leap forward to get to Baxter and block his body with hers before Roarke could follow up. “Jesus, Roarke. Are you crazy? Back off, back off. Baxter?” She tapped his cheeks, waited for his eyes to roll back into their proper position. “You okay?”

“I feel like I got hit with a hammer.”

“You must’ve slipped.” She cast aside pride and put the plea in her eyes. “Let me help you up.”

He shifted his gaze to Roarke, then looked back at her. “Yeah, I must’ve slipped. Shit.” He wiggled his aching jaw and let Eve pull him up. “Dallas, I guess you know why I’m here.”

“I think I can figure it out. Let’s get it over with.”

“You don’t speak to him without your lawyers,” Roarke said. “We’ll contact them and get back to you, Detective, as to when it’s convenient for my wife to speak with you.”

“Baxter.” As she spoke, she kept her eyes on Roarke. “Give us a minute here, will you?”

“Sure, yeah, no problem. I’ll just, ah, wait out there.”

“Thanks.” She waited until the door shut. “He’s just doing his job.”

“Then he can do it properly, when you’re suitably represented.”

With a frown, she moved closer, took his hand. “Your knuckles are going to swell. Baxter’s got a head like a rock.”

“It was worth it. It would have been even better if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Then I’d be laying bail for you.” Intrigued, she cocked her head. She’d seen him furious often enough to recognize it simmering in his eyes. “Less than an hour ago, you were telling me to stop whining, and now I walk in and watch you deck the primary on the investigation that’s put me here. Just where the hell do you stand, Roarke?”

“With you, Eve. Always.”

“Why did you kick at me like that?”

“To piss you off.” He smiled a little, cupped her chin. “It worked. You’re going to need some ice on your knuckles as well.”

She linked her aching fingers with his. “I killed your droid.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I pretended it was you.”

“Yes,” he said again. “I know.” He took her hand, curled it into a fist and brought it to his lips. “Want to hit the real thing now?”

“Maybe.” She stepped to him, into him, wrapped her arms tight around him. “Thanks.”

“For?”

“For knowing me well enough to understand what I needed.” She closed her eyes, pressed her face to his neck. “I think I understand you well enough to know it wasn’t easy for you to do.”

His arms came hard around her. “I can’t stand to see you hurt this way.”

“I’m going to get through it. I’m not going to be less than you expect. Or less than I expect of myself. I need you with me.” She let out a breath, eased back. “I’m going to let Baxter back in. Don’t hit him anymore, okay?”

“Can I watch while you hit him? You know how it excites me to see you pound on someone.”

“Let’s see how it goes.”

When Eve let Baxter back into the room, he gave Roarke a long, wary look. “I figure I’d’ve done the same,” was all he said, then turned to Eve. “I’ve got something to say before we go on record.”

“Okay.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, nodded. “Go ahead.”

“This bites.”

Her lips twitched, her shoulders relaxed. He looked a great deal more uncomfortable and unhappy than she felt. “Yeah, it does. So let’s get it over with.”

“You call your lawyer?”

“No.” She shifted her gaze to Roarke’s. “He’s my rep for this little party.”

“Oh fine.” On a sigh, Baxter rubbed his aching jaw. “If he hits me again, I expect you to take him down.” He pulled out his recorder, then just held it gripped in his hand. Misery was all over his face. “Damn it. We go back some way, you know, Dallas.”

“Yeah, I know. Just do the job, Baxter. It’ll be easier all around.”

“Nothing easy about it,” he muttered, then switched the recorder on, set it on the desk. He read off the time and date data, the revised Miranda. “You know the drill, right?”

“I know my rights and obligations.” Because her legs were a little weak, she sat. It was different, she thought dully, so very different to be on this side of the line. “I want to make a statement. Then you can go for the details.”

It was like a report, Eve told herself. Like any of the hundreds of reports she’d written and filed over the years.

Routine.

She would think of it that way, had to think of it that way to keep that icy ball out of her gut. Facts to be recorded. Observations to be made.

But her voice wasn’t quite steady as she began. “When I responded to the scene of the Petrinksy homicide, I didn’t remember Officer Ellen Bowers. Subsequently, I learned we had done some time at the academy together. I don’t remember any encounters, conversations, or interactions with her before the meeting at the crime scene. Her work on-scene was inefficient, her attitude poor. As superior officer and primary on-scene, I reprimanded her for both problems. This incident is on record.”

“We have Peabody’s on-scene records. They’re being evaluated,” Baxter said.

The ball of ice tried to form, but she willed it away. And this time, her voice was stronger. “Bowers’s trainee,” Eve continued, “Officer Trueheart, proved to be observant and to know the residents of the area in question. I requested his assistance in interviewing a witness who was known to him, and his assistance proved helpful. This action on my part was not a personal decision but a professional one. Shortly thereafter, Officer Bowers filed a complaint against me, citing abusive language and other technical infractions. The complaint was answered.”

“Those files and reports are also under evaluation.” Baxter’s voice was neutral, but his eyes signaled her to keep going. Get out her facts, tell her story clearly.

“Officer Bowers was again first on when I reported to the scene in the matter of Jilessa Brown. That incident is also on record and shows Bowers’s insubordinate and unprofessional behavior. Her accusation that I contacted her with threatening remarks will be proved groundless when voice prints are examined. And her subsequent complaint has no base. She was an irritant to me, nothing more.”

She wished she had water, just one quick sip, but didn’t want to stop. “At the time she was killed, I was en route from Central to this location. As I understand it, this time frame gives me little opportunity to have sought Bowers out and to have killed her in the manner determined to have caused her death. My log records can be checked to verify, and I will, if required, submit to truth testing and evaluation so as to aid your investigation and the closing of this case.”

Baxter looked at Eve and nodded. “You’re sure as hell making my job easier.”

“I want my life back.” My badge, she thought, but didn’t say it. Couldn’t. “I’ll do what I have to do to get it.”

“We’ve got to answer motive here. Ah . . .” His gaze shifted briefly, warily, to Roarke. He couldn’t say he cared for—or trusted—the cold, blue stare that answered him. “Bowers’s logs and diaries make certain accusations regarding you and certain members of the NYPSD. Ah . . . trading sex for professional gain.”

“Have you ever known me to trade sex for anything, Baxter?” Her tone was dry, faintly amused. She worked fiercely to make it so. “I’ve managed to resist all your offers over the years.”

His color rose. “Come on, Dallas.” He cleared his throat when Roarke dipped his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “You know all that’s just the usual bull.”

“Yeah, I know that.” He was often a pain in the ass, she thought—not without some affection. He was also a good cop and a decent man. “And this is unusual bull. Straight out, then. I have never offered, traded, or engaged in any sexual behavior in order to receive special treatment in training or on the job. I earned my badge, and when I wore it . . . I respected it.”

“You’ll get it back.”

“We both know there’s no guarantee of that.” Misery came back, swirled in her eyes as they met his. “But my chances are better if you find out who killed her and why. So you’ve got my cooperation.”

“Okay. You say you didn’t remember Bowers from the academy, yet she details a number of incidents about you in various logs over nearly twelve years. Logically, there must have been some contact between you.”

“None that I’m aware of. I can’t explain it, logically or otherwise.”

“She claims knowledge of your misrepresentation of evidence, of mishandling of witnesses, of falsifying reports in order to close cases and enhance your record.”

“Those are groundless accusations. I would demand to see proof.” Temper began to inch up, washing healthy color back into her face and a steely gleam into her eyes. “She could have written any damn thing—that she had a flaming affair with Roarke, had six of his children, and raised golden retrievers in Connecticut. Where’s the proof, Baxter?” She leaned forward, misery replaced by insult. “I can’t do anything but deny, deny, deny. I can’t even face her, because somebody took her out. She can’t be officially interviewed, sanctioned, or reprimanded. Is anybody asking why she was murdered and my butt left swinging when I was investigating a series of deaths certain high levels didn’t want investigated?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. “I can’t discuss departmental business with you, Dallas. You know that.”

“No, you can’t discuss shit with me, but I can speculate.” She pushed out of the chair and began to pace. “Taking my badge doesn’t mean they took my goddamn brain. If somebody wanted to cause me trouble, they didn’t have to look far. Bowers fell right into their laps. Push her obsession, or whatever the hell it was she had for me, twist her up with it, then take her out in a brutal manner so the finger can point in my direction. I’m not only off the case, I’m out. I’m out,” she repeated. “There’s a new investigation, and the department’s in the middle of a media frenzy screaming corruption, sex, and scandal that can’t help but bog down the works and give whoever’s slicing out parts of people time to cover more tracks.”

She whirled back to him. “You want to close your case, Baxter, then look at the one I had to leave behind and find the link. There’s a goddamn link, and Bowers was nothing more than a handy tool, easily disposed of. She meant nothing to me,” she said, and for the first time, there was some pity in her voice. “She meant less to whoever had her killed. I was the target.”

“The investigation is ongoing,” Baxter reminded her. “Feeney’s got your load.”

“Yeah.” Considering, she nodded slowly. “They miscalculated there.”

The rest was form, and they both knew it. Standard questions with standard responses. She agreed to make herself available for truth testing the following afternoon. When Baxter left, she put the unpleasantness of that upcoming event out of her mind.

“You handled that very well,” Roarke commented.

“He went easy on me. His heart wasn’t in it.”

“Perhaps I should have apologized for punching him.” Roarke smiled. “But my heart wouldn’t have been in it.”

She laughed a little. “He’s a good cop. I need good cops right now.” And thinking of them, she engaged the ’link and put a transmission through to Peabody’s personal porta-link.

“Dallas.” Peabody’s square face glowed with relief, then immediately a cloud of concern and guilt darkened her eyes. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better. Does your schedule allow for a meal today, Peabody?”

“A meal?”

“That’s right. This is a personal call on your personal unit.” Eve spoke carefully, trusting Peabody to read between the lines. “And a request, if time and inclination permit, for you to join me at home for a meal. You’re free to bring a couple of dates. If you can’t fit this in, I understand.”

Barely three seconds passed. “It so happens I’m hungry right now. I’ll just round up my dates. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“It’ll be good to see you.”

“Same goes,” Peabody murmured and broke transmission.

After a moment’s hesitation, Eve turned to Roarke. “I need data, as much as I can get, on Bowers: her personal info, all job records, and reports. I need to access Baxter’s case files and bring up all he has so far on her murder. I need the ME’s findings, the sweepers’ reports, any and all interview records pertaining.”

While Roarke watched, she strode around the room. “They wiped my case log at Central and here. I want that data back, and whatever Feeney’s gathered since I got kicked. I don’t want to ask him to copy it to me. He would, and I’m already going to ask him for more than I have a right to. I need everything I can dig on Westley Friend’s suicide and who his closest associates were at the time of his death.”

“It so happens I already have that information, or most of it, for you.” Roarke grinned at her when she turned around and stared at him. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.” He held out a hand to her. “You’ve been missed.”

“It’s good to be back.” She went to him, took his hand. “Roarke, however this turns out, the department may consider it more efficient damage control to . . . they may not reinstate me.”

His eyes on hers, he brushed his fingers through her hair, rubbed them firm and steady over the tension at the base of her neck. “That would be their very great loss.”

“Whatever happens, I have to do this. I have to finish what I started. I can’t walk away from the faces I see in my sleep. I can’t turn my back on the job that saved me. If, after it’s done, it’s still over for me . . .”

“Don’t think that way.”

“I have to prepare for it.” Her eyes were dark and steady, but he could see fear riding in them. “I want you to know I’ll get through it. I won’t fall apart on you again.”

“Eve.” He cupped her face in his hands. “We’ll make this right. Trust me.”

“I am trusting you. For God’s sake, Roarke, I’m going rogue. And I’m taking you with me.”

He laid his lips firmly on hers. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’ll probably enjoy the hell out of this,” she muttered. “Okay, we’d better get started. Can you do something to the computer in my office to confuse CompuGuard?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” With a laugh, he slid an arm around her waist and started toward the connecting doors.

It took him under ten minutes. She tried not to be impressed, but the simple fact was, it baffled her just how quickly those clever fingers of his could seduce electronics and make them hum.

“You’re clean and clear,” he told her.

“You’re sure CompuGuard won’t click to it when I run NYPSD data on here?”

“If you’re going to insult me, I’ll just go play with my own toys and leave you alone.”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I could do a lot of time in a cage for this, you know.”

“I’d visit you every week.”

“Yeah, from the cage next door.” When he only grinned at that, she shifted close. “How do I access the data?” she began, only to have him slap her hand away before she could touch the keyboard.

“Please, you’re such an amateur.” He danced his fingers over the keyboard. The machine hummed cooperatively, lights blinking. When a husky female computer-animated voice announced, “Transfer complete,” Eve raised her eyebrows.

“What happened to the default voice on this?”

“If I’m going to be working on this unit, I get to pick who talks to me.”

“You’re awfully simple at times, Roarke. Now, get out of my chair. I’ve got work to do before they get here.”

“You’re welcome,” he said just a bit testily, but before he could rise, she grabbed his shirt, yanked, and crushed her mouth to his in a long, hard kiss.

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.” He patted her butt as they shifted positions. “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

“A couple of gallons would be a good start.” She managed a smile. “Computer, print out stills of all crime scene photos, all pertaining files. On-screen, autopsy results on Bowers, Officer Ellen.”

Working . . .

“Yeah,” Eve said under her breath. “We’re working.”

Within thirty minutes, she had hard copies of specific data tucked in a drawer and had scanned reports to bring herself up to date. She was ready when Feeney arrived with Peabody and McNab.

“I’ve got one thing to say,” Feeney began before Eve could speak. “We’re not letting it go down this way. I’ve said my piece to Whitney, official and personal.”

“Feeney—”

“Just shut up.” His usually rumpled face was tight with anger, his voice clipped. When he jabbed his finger at a chair, Eve sat automatically without even the thought of protesting. “I trained you, goddamn it, and I got a right to say what I’ve got to say about one of mine. You let them kick you around this way, I’ll fucking kick you harder. You got a raw deal, no question. Now it’s time to get your own back. If you haven’t filed legal protest papers, I want to know why the hell not.”

Her brow knit. “I didn’t think of it.”

“What? Your brain go on holiday?” He stabbed a finger at Roarke. “What the hell’s the matter with you, with all your fancy lawyers and your pile of credits? You gone soft in the head, too?”

“The papers have been drawn up and are waiting for her signature, now that she’s finished . . .” He shot Eve a bland smile. “Whining.”

“Bite me,” she suggested, “both of you.”

“I told you to shut up,” Feeney reminded her. “Get them in before the end of the day,” he told Roarke. “Some wheels run slow. I’ve got my written statement, as former trainer, former partner, to add to it. Nadine’s multipart feature’s going to generate a lot of nice heat on top of it.”

“What feature?” Eve demanded and earned a scowl from Feeney.

“Been too busy whining to watch any screen? She’s put together interviews with survivors of victims from cases you closed. It’s powerful stuff. One of the strongest came from Jamie Lingstrom. He talks about how his grandfather called you a right cop, one of the best, and how you put your life on the line to bring down the bastard who killed his sister. Kid was on my doorstep last night giving me grief for letting them take your badge.”

Stunned, baffled, she only stared. “There was nothing you could do.”

“Try telling that to a young boy who wants to be a cop, who believes the system should work. Maybe you’d like to tell him why you’re sitting on your butt in this fortress doing nothing about it.”

“Jesus, Captain.” McNab mumbled it and fought back a wince when Feeney pinned him with a look.

“I didn’t ask for comments, Detective. Didn’t I teach you anything?” he demanded of Eve.

“You taught me everything.” She got to her feet. “You’re not usually so good at the bad cop routine, Feeney. You must’ve saved it up, because it’s damn effective. But you wasted it. I’d already decided to stop doing nothing.”

“About damn time.” He pulled a bag of nuts out of his pockets, dug in. “So, what angle are you playing?”

“All of them. You need to know I intend to pursue the investigation, both on the case that was turned over to you, and the Bowers homicide. It’s not a reflection on any of you, or on Baxter, but I can’t sit on my hands anymore.”

“About damn time,” he said again. “Let me bring you up to date.”

“No.” She said it sharply, moving forward. “I’m not having that, Feeney. I’m not putting your badge at risk.”

“It’s my badge.”

“I didn’t ask Peabody to get all of you here so you could leak data on the investigation. I asked you to come so I could let you know what I’m doing. That’s bad enough. Until the department is satisfied, I’m a murder suspect. I believe the Bowers case is connected to the one you’re investigating. You need everything I’ve got. Not just what’s in the reports, but what’s in my head.”

“You think I don’t know your head?” Feeney snorted, crunched a nut. “I guess not since you haven’t clicked to what’s in mine. Get this, Dallas. I’m primary on this case. I make the decisions. As far as I’m concerned, you’re key, and if you’ve finished twiddling your thumbs, let’s get to work. Either of you got a problem with that?” he asked Peabody and McNab and received a unified “No, sir.” “You’re outranked and outvoted, Dallas. Now, somebody get me some damn coffee. I’m not doing this briefing dry.”

“I don’t need the briefing.” Eve stated. “I’ve got all the data.”

Feeney quirked his brow at Roarke. “Well, surprise, surprise. I still want the coffee.”

“I’ll get it.” Barely restraining herself from dancing, Peabody headed for the kitchen.

“I heard something about food,” McNab commented.

“Get your own.” With a sniff, Peabody disappeared into the adjoining room.

“Boy’s got his mind on his stomach half the time,” Feeney muttered, then grinned like a proud papa. “Never had to worry about that with you. Where do you want to start?”

“You’re primary.”

“Hell I am.” He said it comfortably and sat. “You draft in this fancy Irishman?” he added, jerking his head in Roarke’s direction.

“He comes with the package.”

Satisfied, Feeney smiled. “It’s a damn good package.”

It came back to routine. She set up a board, posted the stills of the dead. On the other half she had Peabody tack stills of suspects, while she and Feeney dissected the transcripts of every interview.

She leaned forward, studying the videos of the organ wing, the research lab, and its rows of samples. “Did you cross-check these? All samples accounted for?”

“Right down the line,” Feeney agreed. “Privately donated, brokered, or accessed through public channels.”

“What do you get out of their data reports? How do they use the samples?”

“It’s thick going,” Feeney admitted. “Seems to be straight research and study on disease and aging. It’s a lot of medical mumbo.”

Yeah, she thought, and the mumbo was heavy going. “What do you think about using Louise Dimatto?”

“It’s touchy,” Feeney admitted. “We got the connection to Cagney and to the Canal Street Clinic, but all her background checks come through clean. And she cut through the muck of it when you used her.”

“I’d risk it. I don’t know if she’ll find anything dicey. They’re organized, smart, and careful. But she’ll save you time. McNab, I want you to dig in and see what series of droids Drake uses for security, then find me what manufacturers do self-destruct programs. Explosions, not shutdowns or circuit melts.”

“I can tell you that.” He shoveled noodles into his mouth. “The last part, I mean. Private manufacture of explosives for self-destruct’s illegal. It’s a straight government and military deal. They used to use them for espionage droids, or antiterrorism events. Supposedly, that device was discontinued about five years ago, but nobody really believes it.”

“Because it’s not true.” Roarke leaned back in his chair, selected a cigarette, lighted it. “We manufacture that device for a number of governments, including the United States. As it’s what you might call a one-shot deal, it’s fairly profitable. Replacement units are in continual demand.”

“No private concerns?”

He acted shocked. “That, Lieutenant, would be illegal. No,” he added, and blew out smoke. “None. And as far as I know, no other manufacturer sells under the counter privately.”

“Well, that nudges East Washington in a little tighter.” She wondered what Nadine Furst could do if leaked the connection. Rising, she walked to the board, studied once again the picture of what had been left of Bowers.

“This looks, on the surface, like overkill. A frenzy, crime of passion. But if you look deeper and go over the autopsy report carefully, it’s clear it was systematic. The killing blow came first, outside the building. A blunt instrument, long, thick and heavy, struck once, precisely on the left side of the face and head. ME confirms that this caused death. Not instantaneous, but within five minutes, and the victim would not have regained consciousness.”

“So why not leave her there and walk away?” Peabody put in.

“Exactly. Job was done. The rest was staging. Drag her inside, take her ID. She was quickly identified through prints as every cop’s are on file, then her uniform and ID are found a couple of blocks away in a broken recycle unit. Planted, by my guess. But it would appear, on the surface, that taking her uniform and identification was a ploy to slow or prevent her identification.”

“You’re too smart to have done that if you’d whiffed her,” Peabody put in, then flushed when Eve gave her a hard stare. “I just meant Detective Baxter would cop to that conclusion quick enough.”

“Right. Just more staging,” Eve went on. “Virtually every bone in her body was broken, her fingers crushed, her face battered beyond visual recognition. While it was structured to appear that it was a vicious, mindless attack, it was precise. Programmed,” she said turning back.

“A droid.” Feeney nodded. “Fits.”

“There was no other human element. The sweepers and crime scene team didn’t find any blood but hers, no skin cells, no hair, nothing. You can’t use your fists like that and not split or bruise your own skin. Whoever ordered this missed that step—or knew they wouldn’t need it to get me out on a technical. They’re not cops, but it’s likely they own some.”

Peabody’s eyes popped wide. “Rosswell.”

“It’s a good leap.” Eve nodded in approval. “He knew Bowers, worked out of the same house. He’s connected to the other investigation, and he either bungled it or he’s covering. Either way, he’s earned a closer look. He’s got a gambling problem,” she added. “Let’s find out how he stands financially just now.”

“That would be a pleasure. Funny,” Feeney considered. “He was at Central this morning. I hear Webster had him in for a chat about Bowers. He made himself pretty vocal around the Homicide bullpen from what I hear. Had some stuff to say about you. Cartright knocked him on his ass.”

“Did she?” Eve beamed. “I always liked Cartright.”

“Yeah, she’s a right one. Caught him full in his fat gut with her elbow, knocked him flat, and then she gives him a big smile and says, ‘Oops.”’

“Darling, we really must send her some flowers.”

Eve slanted Roarke a glance. “That’s inappropriate. Peabody, you’re on Rosswell. McNab, find me some connection between East Washington and the Drake to explain the droid. Feeney, you’ll contact Louise, see if she can find anything off in the organ records.”

“There are likely other records.”

This time Eve turned fully to Roarke. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if, indeed, there are illegal activities of a medical nature going on at the Drake, it’s highly likely there are careful records of it somewhere. They wouldn’t be on the facility’s mainframe but buried on another unit.”

“How the hell do we find it?”

“I believe I can help you there. But, unless you have a specific target, it will take some time to go through this entire list of suspects.”

“I’m not going to ask how you’ll do it,” Feeney decided. “But start with Tia Wo and Hans Vanderhaven. Wo was supposed to meet me today with her gold pin, and she never showed. Vanderhaven’s taken an unscheduled leave. All we can get at this point is he’s in Europe. Peabody and I were about to track both of them down when you called, Dallas.”

“If the pin found on-scene belongs to either of them, they’ll try to replace it.”

“Got that covered,” McNab assured her. “I’m linked into all the sources in the city for that particular piece. Already doing a search on other sources in Europe if that’s where the other doc flew. We’ll have a record of every sale made.”

“Good coverage.”

“We’d better get started.” Feeney rose, looked at Eve. “What’re you going to be doing while we’re busting our butts?”

“Taking a quick trip. I’ll be back tomorrow. Baxter’s setting up a truth testing and evaluation with Mira.”

“You could put that off. We get a break, you could be clear without it in a few days.”

The faint smile she’d worked up faded. “I’ll never be clear without it.”

“You stick with level one. They can’t make you go higher.”

She kept her eyes on his. “I’ll never be clear unless I go the route. You know that, Feeney.”

“Goddamn it.”

“I can handle it.” Aware that Roarke had gotten to his feet, she sent Feeney a warning look. “It’s just routine, and Mira’s the best handler there is.”

“Yeah.” But there was a sick feeling in his gut as he turned to grab up his coat. “Let’s ride, people. We’ll be in touch, Dallas. You can tag any of us, any time, on our personals.”

“As soon as I know something.”

“Sir.” Peabody stopped in front of Eve, shifted her feet. “Hell,” she muttered and grabbed Eve into a fierce hug.

“Peabody, this isn’t the time to get sloppy. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“If Rosswell’s connected, I’m going to fry his ass.”

In a quick jerk, Eve hugged back and released. “That’s the spirit. Get the hell out of here. I’ve got places to go.”

“Nobody gave me a hug,” McNab complained as they headed out and made Eve snort out a laugh.

“Well.” Fighting to steady her emotions, she turned back to Roarke. “Looks like we’ve got a plan.”

His eyes fixed on her face, he came toward her. “I didn’t realize there were levels of this testing process.”

“Sure. It’s no big deal.”

“Feeney seemed to think otherwise.”

“Feeney’s a worrier,” she said with a shrug, but when she started to turn away, Roarke took her arm.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not a cruise on airskates, okay? And I can handle it. I can’t think about it now, Roarke, it’ll mess up my head. Just how quick can that spiffy transpo of yours get us to Chicago?”

Tomorrow, he decided, they would damn well deal with it. But for now, he gave her the smile he knew she needed. “Just how quick can you pack?”

The sun was already dipping down in the western sky, sending shadows to droop over Chicago’s jagged skyline. She saw the last glints of it shimmer and bounce off the lake.

Should she remember the lake? she wondered.

Had she been born there, or had she just passed through to spend a few nights in that cold room with the broken window? If she could stand in that same room now, how would she feel? What images would dance through her head? Would she have the courage to turn and face them?

“You’re not a child now.” Roarke slipped a hand over hers as the transport began its gentle descent into the Chicago Air and Space Complex. “You’re not alone now, and you’re not helpless now.”

She continued to concentrate on breathing evenly, in and out. “It’s not always comfortable to realize you can see what goes on in my head.”

“It’s not always easy to read your head, or your heart. And I don’t care for it when they’re troubled and you try to hide it from me.”

“I’m not trying to hide it. I’m trying to deal with it.” Because the descent always made her stomach jitter, she turned away from the view port. “I didn’t come here on some personal oddessy, Roarke. I came here to gather data on a case. That’s priority.”

“It doesn’t stop you from wondering.”

“No.” She looked down at their joined hands. There was so much that should have separated them, she thought. How was it nothing did? Nothing could. “When you went back to Ireland last fall, you had issues, personal issues to deal with, to face or resolve. You didn’t let them get in the way of what had to be done.”

“I remember my yesterdays all too clearly. Ghosts are easier to fight when you know their shape.” Linking their fingers, he brought hers to his lips in a gesture that never failed to stir her. “You never asked me where I went the day I went off alone.”

“No, because I saw when you came back you’d stopped grieving so much.”

His lips curved against her knuckles. “So, you read my head and heart fairly well, yourself. I went back to where I lived as a boy, back to the alley where they found my father dead, and some thought I’d put the knife in him. I lived with the regret that it hadn’t been my hand that ended him.”

“It’s not a thing to regret,” she said quietly as the transport touched down with barely a whisper.

“There we part ways, Lieutenant.” His voice, so beautiful with that Irish lilt, was cold and final. “But I stood there, in that stinking alley, smelling the smells of my youth, feeling that same burn in the blood, the fire in the belly. And I realized, standing there, that some of what I’d been was still inside me and always will be. But there was more.” Now his voice warmed again, like whiskey in candlelight. “I’d made myself different. Other, you could say. I’d made myself other, and it was you who’s made me more.”

He smiled again as blank surprise filled her eyes. “What I have with you, darling Eve, I never thought to have with anyone. Never thought to want it or need it. So I realized as I stood there in an alley where he must have beaten me black a dozen times or more, where he’d laid drunk and finally dead, that what mattered about what had come before was that it had led me to where I was. That he hadn’t won, after all. He’d never won a bloody thing from me.”

He flipped the catch on her safety harness, then his own, while she said nothing. “When I walked away through the rain, I knew you’d be there. You have to know that whenever you decide to look into your own, whatever you find, when you walk away from it, I’ll be there.”

Emotions swirled inside her, filling her to bursting. “I don’t know how I managed to get through a day before you.”

It was his turn to look surprised. He drew her to her feet. “Ah, every once in a while you manage to say the perfect thing. Steady now?”

“Yeah, and I’m staying that way.”

Because power clears paths and money waxes them smooth, they were through the jammed shuttle terminal in minutes and out to the private valet area where he had a car waiting.

She took one look at the sleek silver torpedo shape with its elaborate and streamlined two-seater cockpit and scowled. “Couldn’t you have booked something a little less conspicuous?”

“I don’t see why we should be inconvenienced. Besides,” he added as they climbed in, “this thing drives like a fucking rocket.” So saying, he engaged the engine, hit the accelerator, and blasted out of the lot.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, slow down! You maniac.” She struggled into her harness as he laughed. “The airport cops will tag your ass before we clear the first gate.”

“Have to catch me first,” he said cheerfully. He punched a control, sent them into a screaming vertical lift that had her mixing curses and prayers. “You can open your eyes now, darling, we’re clear of airport traffic.”

Her stomach was still somewhere around her ankles. “Why do you do things like that?”

“Because it’s fun. Now, why don’t you program in the address of this retired cop you want to talk to, and we’ll see which is the best route.”

She opened one eye, saw they were horizontal again and zipping smoothly along a six-lane thruway. Still scowling, she started to search the glossy dash for the destination and map feature.

“It’s voice controlled, Eve. Just engage the computer and give it your destination of choice.”

“I knew that,” she snapped. “I was just looking. I want to have a clear picture of the place where we’re going to die when you crash this toy and kill us dead.”

“The Stargrazer 5000X is loaded with safety and life support systems,” he said mildly. “As I helped design it, I’m fully aware of all of them.”

“Yeah, that just figures. Engage computer.”

Computer engaged. How may I assist you?

As it was the same husky female voice he’d installed in her home unit, Eve felt obliged to give him a baleful stare. “Who the hell is this?”

“You don’t recognize it, do you?”

“Should I?”

“It’s you, darling. After sex.”

“Get out.”

He laughed again, a quick rumble of amusement. “Get the directions, Lieutenant, before we end up in Michigan.”

“That isn’t my voice,” she muttered, but began to worry about it as she read off the address.

A holographic map shimmered into place on the windscreen, the most direct route blinking in red.

“Isn’t that handy?” Roarke commented. “This is our exit.”

The sudden sharp turn at ninety miles an hour had Eve jerking back in the seat. She would hurt him later, she promised herself as he careened down the ramp. Hurt him really, really bad.

If they lived long enough.

Wilson McRae lived in a tidy white house in a line of other tidy white houses, all centered on thumb-sized lawns. Each driveway was a glossy black, and though the grass was winter withered, it was trimmed neatly and uncluttered.

The road ran straight as a ruler with young maple trees planted every twelve feet.

“It’s like something out of a horror video,” Eve commented.

“Darling, you’re such an urbanite.”

“No, really. There was this one where aliens invade, you know, undercover and all, and they’d—what do you call it—zombiedized the people. So they all dressed alike and walked alike. Ate the same stuff at the same time of day.”

Her gaze shifted from house to house suspiciously while Roarke looked on in amusement. “They’re kind of like. . . hives, you know? Don’t you expect to see all these doors open at exactly the same moment and have people who look exactly the same way walk out of these exactly the same houses?”

He sat back in the snazzy car and studied her. “Eve, you’re scaring me.”

“See?” She laughed as she climbed out her side. “Creepy place, if you ask me. I bet you don’t even know you’re being zombiedized when it’s happening.”

“Probably not. You go first.”

She snickered and didn’t feel the least foolish to have her hand linked with his as they started up the perfectly straight walkway to the white door. “I got the personal background on him. Nothing jars. Eight years married, one kid and another on the way. House is mortgaged and well within their financial scope. I couldn’t find any sudden influx of income to indicate he’d been paid off.”

“You’re banking that he’s straight.”

“I’ve got to hope he is and can give me a handle. I don’t have any authority,” she added. “He doesn’t have to talk to me. I can’t check in with the local cops, I can’t use any cop-to-cop pressure.”

“Try charm,” Roarke suggested.

“You’re the one with the charm.”

“True. Try anyway.”

“How’s this?” She smiled winningly.

“You’re scaring me again.”

“Smart-ass,” she muttered and when she rang the bell and heard the echo of three cheery chimes, rolled her eyes. “Man, I would self-terminate before I lived in a place like this. I bet all their furniture matches, and they’ve got cute little cows or something sitting around the kitchen.”

“Kittens. Fifty says it’s kittens.”

“Bet. Cows are sillier. It’s going to be cows.” She tried the smile, slightly less winning, when the door opened. A pretty woman leading with her hugely pregnant belly answered.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. We’d like to speak with Wilson McRae.”

“Oh, he’s down in his workshop. Can I tell him what this is about?”

“We’ve come from New York.” Now that she was here, facing big, curious brown eyes, Eve wasn’t sure how to begin. “It’s in reference to one of your husband’s cases, before he retired from the force.”

“Oh.” Her dark eyes clouded. “You’re cops? Come in, I’m sorry. Will so rarely sees any of his associates anymore. I think he misses them terribly. If you don’t mind waiting in the living room? I’ll go down and get him.”

“She didn’t ask to see ID.” Eve shook her head as she wandered the living room. “A cop’s wife, and she lets strangers into the house. What’s wrong with people?”

“They should be shot for being so trusting.”

She sent him a slanted look. “This from the guy with enough security to keep alien invaders out of his house.”

“You’re awfully hung up on aliens today.”

“It’s this place.” Restless, she moved her shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you? Everything matches.” She poked a finger into the tidy cushion of the blue and white sofa that matched the blue and white chair that matched the white curtains and blue rug.

“I imagine it’s a comfort to some people.” He cocked his head as he studied her. She needed a quick round with her hairdresser, and though she was in desperate need of new boots, he knew she wouldn’t even consider it. She looked long, lean, edgy, and just a little dangerous pacing around the solid suburban room. “You, on the other hand, would go mad here.”

She jingled the loose credits in her pockets. “Oh yeah. What about you?”

“I’d make a break for it in about two hours.” He reached up to skim his finger down her chin. “But I’d take you with me, darling.”

She grinned at him. “I guess that means we match. That doesn’t bother me.”

She turned when she heard voices. She didn’t have to see Wilson McRae to understand he wasn’t terribly pleased to have company. He came in just ahead of his now frazzled looking wife with his mouth set in a dissatisfied frown, his eyes wary.

All cop, Eve decided on the spot. He was sizing them up, scanning for threat or weapon and braced to defend.

She judged him at just under six feet, a well-built one eighty. His light brown hair was cut ruthlessly short over a square, sturdy face. Shades darker than his hair, his eyes stayed cool as they skimmed from her to Roarke and back.

“My wife didn’t get your names.”

“Eve Dallas.” She didn’t offer her hand. “This is Roarke.”

“Roarke?” It piped out of the woman just before color flooded her face. “I thought I recognized you. I’ve seen you on-screen dozens of times. Oh, please, sit down.”

“Karen.” With one quiet word he had her subsiding, in obvious distress and puzzlement. “You a cop?” he asked Roarke.

“No, indeed not.” He laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “She’s the cop.”

“Out of New York,” Eve continued. “I need some of your time. A case I’ve been working on crosses one you had before you retired.”

“That’s the operative word.” She caught resentment mixed in the wariness in his tone. “I’m retired.”

“Yeah.” She kept her eyes steady and level on him. “Just recently, someone’s been wanting to see me retire. One way or the other. Could be a . . . medical thing.”

His eyes flickered, his mouth tightened. Before he could speak, Roarke stepped forward and aimed a charming smile at Karen. “Ms. McRae, I wonder if I could trouble you for some coffee? My wife and I drove straight in from the airport.”

“Oh, of course. I’m so sorry.” Her hands fluttered up from their resting place on her belly to her throat. “I’ll make some right away.”

“Why don’t I help you?” With a smile in place that could have melted a woman’s heart at fifty paces, he put a gentle hand on the small of her back. “We’ll let our respective spouses talk shop. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you. Will and I have been putting it together for nearly two years now.”

As their voices faded, Will never took his eyes off Eve’s. “I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“You don’t know what I want or what I need. Yet. I can’t show you ID, McRae, because they took my badge a few days ago.” She watched his eyes narrow. “They found a way to get me out, off the case, so I figure I was getting close to something. Or they just didn’t like the heat. And I figure they found a way to get you out and have that asshole Kimiki take over the investigation.”

Will snorted, and some of the wariness faded. “Kimiki can barely find his own dick with both hands.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m a good cop, McRae, and their mistake this time was another good cop’s got the case now. We’ve got three bodies in New York with parts missing. You had one here, same MO. There’s another in Paris, one in London. We’re still running like crimes.”

“I can’t help you, Dallas.”

“What’d they use on you?”

“I’ve got a family.” He said it, low and fierce. “A wife, a five-year-old son, a baby on the way. Nothing happens to them. Nothing. You get that?”

“Yeah.” She got something else, too. Fear that wasn’t for himself. Frustration at being helpless against it. “Nobody knows I’m here, and nobody’s going to know. I’m on my own in this, and I’m not letting go.”

He walked past her to the window, smoothed the pretty white curtains. “You got kids?”

“No.”

“My boy, he’s spending a couple of days with Karen’s mother. She’s due any day. The kid’s amazing. Beautiful.” He turned, gestured with a jerk of his head to a framed holoprint on the end table.

Obligingly, Eve moved over, lifted it, and studied the cheerfully grinning face. Big brown eyes, dusty blond hair, and dimples. Kids mostly looked the same to her. Cute, innocent, and unfathomable. But she knew the response expected of her. “He’s a beaut, all right.”

“They said they’d do him first.”

Eve’s fingers tightened on the frame before she set it carefully down again. “They contacted you?”

“Set a fucking droid on me. Caught me by surprise, knocked me around some. I don’t give a shit about that.” He whirled back. “Told him to tell his keeper to go to hell. I did the job, Dallas. Then the droid explains just what’ll happen to my family, my little boy, my wife, the baby she’s carrying. Scared me bloodless. So I figure I’ll send them away, do the job, get these bastards. Then I get pictures in the mail, pictures of Karen and Will, coming out of a toy store, the market, playing in the yard at my mother’s, where I sent them. And one of that fucking droid holding Will. Holding him,” he said in a voice pitched low but vibrating with vicious fury. “He had his hands on my son. Message that came with it said the next time they’d cut out his heart. He’s five years old.”

He sat, buried his head in his hands. “Sometimes the badge can’t come first.”

She understood love now, and the terror it could bring to you. “Did you tell your boss?”

“I didn’t tell anybody. It’s been eating at me for months.” He sat, continued to lean over, while his fingers kept raking through his close-cropped hair. “I’m working private security at night, playing down in that idiot workshop half the day making birdhouses. I’m going crazy here.”

Eve sat beside him, leaned in. “Help me get them. Help me put them away where they can’t touch your family.”

“I can’t ever go back to the job.” He lowered his hands. “I can’t ever pick up a badge again. And I can’t be sure just how far they can reach out.”

“Nothing you tell me goes in a report, official or otherwise. Tell me about the droid; give me a line here.”

“Hell.” He rubbed his eyes. For weeks he’d lived with doing nothing, with backing down, with the fear. “Six two, two ten. Caucasian, brown and brown. Sharp features. Top-line model. Combat trained.”

“I met his brother,” she said with a thin smile. “What buttons were you pushing when the threats started?”

“I’d shaken out some slime from the black market, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing I’d run on the victim turned up anything that made it look like a personal hit. I went in circles awhile, but I kept coming back to how it was done. So goddamn neat, right?”

“Yeah, very neat and tidy.”

“There’s a free clinic a few blocks from the crime scene. The victim had been in there a few times. I interviewed the rotation doctors, ran them. It looked like a dead end, too. But it didn’t feel like one,” he added, relaxing a little when Eve nodded.

“I started circling out, hitting other med centers, cross-checking surgeons. I started scratching at the Nordic Clinic, and the next thing I know, the boss calls me in and says that fathead Waylan’s making noises about harassment, entrapment, Christ knows what, and demanding that we show some respect for the medical community. Shit.”

“Waylan. He cropped up on my watch, too.”

“Damn embarrassment to the state,” Will began. “Karen’s the one who gets into politics. Don’t get her started on Waylan.” For the first time, he grinned, and his face looked abruptly younger. “In this house, we hate him. Anyhow, I figured there was something there, too. What the hell does he care—except he’s got relatives in the AMA. I’m starting to check it out, then I’m blind-sided, flat on my back, and the goddamn droid’s got a laser at my throat.”

He sighed, rose to pace. “I was going to tell my boss, put it in the report, but on my next shift, I get called upstairs. Commander tells me that there’s more complaints about the tone of my investigation. I’m not getting support from the brass; instead, they’re warning me to watch my step, don’t step on the wrong toes. Ease back, it was only scum that got taken out, anyway. Don’t hassle nice people. Rich, powerful people,” McRae said, turning back. “Pissed me off. That’s when I decided to send my family away and dig in deeper. Until I got the pictures, then I folded. Faced with the same choice, I’d do the same thing again.”

“I’m not going to beat you up over it, Will. I don’t have what you have to risk. The way I look at it, you took it as far as you could, for as long as you could.”

“I gave up my badge.” His voice cracked, and she watched him suck it in. “They took yours.”

He needed something, she thought, and worked up a smile for him. “We got fucked either way, didn’t we.”

“Yeah. We got fucked royal, Dallas.”

“I’m going to ask you to give me anything you can, and maybe we can return the favor. Did you copy any of your files?”

“No. But I remember a lot of it. I’ve been going over the details in my head for months. I’ve written some of it down for myself.” He glanced over his shoulder as he heard his wife’s voice. “Karen doesn’t know anything about this. I don’t want her upset.”

“Give me the name of somebody you put away who’s been sprung.”

“Drury. Simon Drury.”

“I’m here about Drury.” She glanced over, lifted a brow as Roarke strolled in carrying a tray loaded with cups, plates. Coffee and cookies, she mused, then struggled with a scowl as she noted the cream pitcher in the shape of a cheerful white kitten.

The man never lost a damn bet.

“Looks great.” She helped herself to a cookie, mildly fascinated by the way Karen had to maneuver her body, shift her spectacular belly in order to sit down. How, Eve wondered, did a woman function on any level hauling all that bulk around?

Noting where Eve’s gaze had focused, Karen smiled and stroked a hand over the mound. “I’m due today.”

Eve choked on the cookie. If Karen had whipped out a laser on full and blasted it in her direction, she’d have felt less panic. “Today? Like now?”

“Well, not this minute, apparently.” Laughing, Karen sent Roarke an adoring look as he served her tea. Quite obviously, they’d bonded between cookies and kittens. “But I don’t think she’s going to wait much longer.”

“I guess you’ll be glad to—you know—get it out of there.”

“I can’t wait to meet her—hold her. But I love being pregnant.”

“Why?”

She laughed again at Eve’s obvious puzzlement, then shared a tender look with her husband. “Making a miracle.”

“Well.” Since that dried up her pregnancy conversation, Eve turned back to Will. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time. I appreciate the help. If you could get me any of your old notes on Drury, I’d be grateful.”

“I can dig them out.” He rose, paused by his wife to lay a hand over hers, linking them over their child.

• • •

At Eve’s request, Roarke drove aimlessly while she filled him in on her conversation with Wilson McRae.

“Do you blame him?”

She shook her head. “Everyone has their own, what do you call it, Achilles’ heel. They found his and put the pressure on. Guy’s got a kid, another on the way, a pretty little wife in a pretty little house. They knew just where to jam him.”

“She’s a teacher.” Roarke cruised the freeway under the flood of safety lights and kept the speed steady. “She’s been working on-screen for the last six months and plans to continue that way for at least another year or two. But she misses the personal contact with her students. She’s a very sweet woman who’s worried about her husband.”

“How much does she know?”

“Not all, but more, I believe, than he thinks. Will he go back when you close the case?”

Not if, she noted, but when. It bolstered the heart to have someone with so much faith in her. More faith, she realized, than she had in herself just now. “No. He’ll never get past giving it up. They stole that from him. And sometimes you never get back everything.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Will you drive downtown? I need to look. I need to see if I remember.”

“There’s no need to take on more now, Eve.”

“Sometimes you never get rid of everything, either. I need to look.”

Another city, she thought, with some of its old stone and brick desperately preserved, and so much of it crumbled to dust to make room for sleek steel and quick prefab.

There would be snazzy restaurants and clubs, slick hotels and glittering shops in the areas where the power board wanted the tourists, and their I’m-on-vacation money, to congregate. And there would be sex joints, dives, scarred units, and alley filth in others where only the doomed and the foolish gathered.

It was there Roarke drove the gleaming silver car through the narrow streets, where the lights pumped in hard colors and promised all the darker delights. Street LCs shivered on corners and hoped for a trick to take them out of the wind. Dealers prowled, angling for a mark, ready to do business at discounted rates because the cold kept all but the desperately addicted inside.

Sidewalk sleepers huddled inside their cribs, drank their brew, and waited for morning.

“Stop here,” she murmured it, squinting at a corner building with bricks pitted and laced with graffiti. The lower windows were barred and blocked with wood. It called itself Hotel South Side in a sign that blinked jerkily in watery blue.

She got out, staring up at the windows. Some were cracked, all were blackened with cheap privacy screens. “Too much the same,” she said quietly. “All these places are too much the same. I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go in?”

“I don’t know.” As she dragged a hand over her face, through her hair, a lanky man with icy eyes moved out of the shadows.

“Looking for action? Need a boost? You got some jingles, I got what you need. Prime Zeus, Ecstasy, Zoner. Mix or match.”

Eve flicked him a glance. “Back off, creep, or I’ll pop your eyes out of your head and make you eat them.”

“Hey, bitch, you’re on my turf, you get some manners.” He’d already tagged the car, and figured his marks as stupid, rich tourists. He flipped out his pocket blade, grinning as he tipped the killing point. “Let’s have the wallets and jewelry and all that good shit. We’ll call it even.”

She took a second to debate whether to kick his teeth in or restrain him for the beat cop. A second was all Roarke needed. With her mouth pursed, Eve watched his fist flash out, a fast flurry of movement that had the knife skittering down the sidewalk. She didn’t have time to blink before he had the dealer by the throat two inches off the ground.

“I believe you called my wife a bitch.”

The only response was a wheezing gag as the man struggled like a landed trout. Merely shaking her head, Eve strolled over, scooped up the knife, folded the blade back in place.

“Now,” Roarke continued in a mild, amazingly pleasant voice, “if I pop your eyes out, I get to eat them. If I still see you, say, five seconds after I toss your pitiful ass aside, I’m going to have a hell of an appetite.”

He bared his teeth in a grin, heaved. The dealer hit the sidewalk with a rattle of bones, scrambled up, and took off in a limping sprint.

“Now.” Fastidiously, Roarke dusted off his hands. “Where were we?”

“I liked the part about you eating his eyes. I’ll have to use that one.” She slipped the knife into her pocket, kept her hand over it. “Let’s go in.”

There was a single yellow light in the lobby, and a single burly droid behind the smeared security glass. He eyed them balefully, jerked a thumb at the rate sign.

For a dollar a minute, you got a room with a bed. For two, you got the additional amenity of a toilet.

“Third floor,” Eve said briefly. “East corner.”

“You get the room I give you.”

“Third floor,” she said again. “East corner.”

His gaze lowered to the hundred dollar credit Roarke flipped into the tray. “Don’t mean a shit to me.” He reached behind, took a key code from a rack. His fingers snagged the credit, then tossed down the key. “Fifty minutes. You go over, you pay double.”

Eve took the key for 3C, relieved to see her hand was still steady. They took the stairs.

It wasn’t familiar, yet it was painfully familiar. Narrow steps, dirty walls, thin sounds of sex and misery seeping through them. Cold, from the wind battering the brick and glass, reached down and froze the bones.

She said nothing as she slipped the key into the slot, pushed the door open.

The air was bitter and stale, with echoes of sweat and sex. The sheets on the bed shoved into the corner were stained with both and the rusty shadows of old blood.

With the breath strangling in her throat, she stepped inside. Roarke closed the door behind them, waited.

A single window, cracked. But so many were. The old floor, slanted and scarred. But she’d seen hundreds like it. Her legs trembled as she made herself walk across it, stand at that window and stare out.

How many times, she wondered, had she stood at windows in filthy little rooms and imagined herself leaping out, letting her body fall, feeling it smash and break on the street below? What had held her back, time after time, made her face the next day and the next?

How many times had she heard the door open and prayed to a God she didn’t understand to help her. To spare her. To save her.

“I don’t know if this is the room. There were so many rooms. But it was one like it. It’s not so different from the last room, in Dallas. Where I killed him. But I was younger here. That’s all I know for sure. I get a faded image of myself in my head. And of him. His hands around my throat.”

Absently, she reached up, soothed the memory of the ache. “Over my mouth. The shock of him pushing himself inside me. Not knowing, not knowing at first, what that meant. Except pain. Then you know what it means. You know you can’t stop it. And as much as it hurts when he beats you, you hope when you hear the door open that’s all he’ll do. Sometimes it is.”

Eyes closed now, she rested her brow on the cracked glass. “I thought maybe I’d remember something from before. Before it all started. I had to come from somewhere. Some woman had to carry me inside her the way Karen’s carrying her goddamn miracle. For God’s sake, how could she leave me with him?”

He turned her, wrapped his arms around her, drew her in. “She might not have had a choice.”

Eve swallowed back the grief and the rage, and finally the questions. “You always have a choice.” She stepped back, but kept her hands on his shoulders. “None of this matters now. Let’s go home.”

There wasn’t any point in pretending to unwind. Nor was there any point in thinking about what she had to face the next day. Work was the answer. Before she could tell Roarke her intentions, he was making arrangements to have a meal sent up to his private office.

“It makes more sense to use that equipment,” he said simply. “It’s faster, more efficient, and more thoroughly cloaked.” He arched a brow. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I want to tag Feeney first,” she began as they started upstairs. “Fill him in on my conversation with McRae.”

“I’ll input the disc he gave you while you’re doing that, do a quick cross-reference.”

“You’re almost as good as Peabody.”

He stopped at the door, grabbed her up in a steaming kiss. “You can’t get that from Peabody.”

“I could if I wanted.” But it made her grin as he uncoded the locks. “But I like you better for sex.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Use the minilink. It’s fully jammed and untraceable.”

“What’s one more com-tech violation?” she muttered.

“That’s what I always say.” He sat behind the console, slid into the U, and got to work.

“Feeney, Dallas. I’m back from Chicago.”

“I was just about to tag you. We got a hit on the lapel pin.”

“When?”

“Just came in. Gold caduceus purchased less than one hour ago at Tiffany’s, charged to the account of Dr. Tia Wo. I’m picking Peabody up for a little overtime. We’re going to go have a chat with the doctor.”

“Good. Great.” Everything inside her yearned to be there at the sticking point. “You track Vanderhaven?”

“He’s skipping around Europe. He’s not landing. You ask me, he’s running.”

“He can’t run forever. I’m about to run some data I got from a source in Chicago. I’ll see what else we can find on her. Anything looks like weight, I’ll pass it through Peabody’s personal.”

“We’ll fill you in when we’re done. I’ve got to get moving here.”

“Good luck.”

He was already gone. She stared for a moment at the black screen, then shoved away from the console. “Goddamn it.”

She hissed, balled her fists, then snarled when the AutoChef beeped to signal meal delivery. “It’s a pisser all right,” Roarke murmured.

“It’s stupid. The point is to close the case, not to be the one to snap the locks on it.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

She looked at him, shrugged violently, then strode across the room to get the food. “Well, I’ve just got to get over it.” She grabbed a plate, dropped it noisily on a table. “I will get over it. When this is done, I might just let you pay me a maxibus load of money to refine your security. The hell with them.”

He left the computer doing its scan and rose to pour wine. “Mmm-hmm,” was his only comment.

“Why the hell should I bust my ass the way I do? Work with equipment that’s not fit for the recycling heap, play politics, take orders, log in eighteen-hour days, to have them spit in my face.”

“It’s a puzzle all right. Have some wine.”

“Yeah.” She took the glass, gulped down a healthy swallow of six-hundred-dollar-a-bottle wine like tap water, and continued to prowl. “I don’t need their stinking regulations and procedures. Why the hell should I spend my life walking through blood and shit? Fuck all of them. Is there any more of this?” she demanded, gesturing with her empty glass.

If she meant to get drunk, he decided, he could hardly blame her. But she’d blame herself. “Why don’t we have a little food to go with it?”

“I’m not hungry.” She spun around. The gleam that came into her eyes was a flash, dangerous and dark. She was on him in one leap, fast and rough, with her hands dragging at his hair and her mouth brutal.

“That seems hungry enough to me.” He murmured it, his hands skimming down her to soothe. “We’ll eat later.” So saying, he jabbed a mechanism and had the bed sliding out of the wall seconds before they fell onto it.

“No, not that way.” She strained, bucking under him as his mouth shifted to her throat to nibble. She reared up, sank her teeth into his shoulder, tore at his shirt. “This way.”

The hot stream of lust flooded through him, clawed at his throat and loins. In one rough move, he caged her wrists in his hand and yanked her arms over her head.

Even as she struggled for freedom, he crushed his mouth to hers, devouring, taking greedy swallows of her ragged breaths until they turned to moans.

“Let go of my hands.”

“You want to use, but you’ll take what I give you now.” He leaned back, his eyes wildly blue and burning into hers. “And you won’t think of anything but what I’m doing to you.” With his free hand, he opened the buttons of her shirt, one at a time, letting his fingertip graze flesh as he moved from one to the next, as he exposed her. “If you’re afraid, tell me to stop.” His hand cupped her breast, covered, molded. Possessed.

“I’m not afraid of you.” But she trembled, nonetheless, her breath catching as he circled his thumb, light, whisper light, over her nipple until it seemed every nerve in her body was centered just there. “I want to touch you.”

“You need to be pleasured.” He dipped his head, licked delicately at her nipple. “You need to go where I can take you. I want you naked.” He flipped open the button of her jeans, slid his hand down, scraped his nails lightly over her so that she arched against him helplessly. Quivered. “I want you writhing.” He lowered his head, took the sensitized point of her breast gently in his teeth, bit down with an exquisite control that sent her heart hammering against that marvelous mouth. “And later. . . screaming,” he said and sent her stumbling over the edge with teeth and fingers.

Flames burst in her body, seared her mind clean as glass. There was nothing but the feel of his hands and mouth on her, the violent glory of being driven slowly, thoroughly, then brutally to peak again and again while her trapped hands flexed helplessly, then finally went limp.

There was nothing he couldn’t take from her. Nothing she wouldn’t give. The sensation of his skin sliding and slipping over hers made her breath catch, her heart stutter.

He dazed her, delighted and destroyed her.

He knew there was nothing, nothing more arousing than the surrender of a strong woman, that melted-bone yielding of a tough body. He took, tender and patient until he felt her float, heard her sigh. Then, ruthless and greedy, so that she shuddered and moaned. The arrow point of purpose now was to pleasure her. To make that long, limber body pulse and glow. To feed it as he fed on it.

He dragged her clothes aside, spread her wide. And feasted.

Her breath sobbed out, became his name repeated mindlessly, again and again, as she came in a long, hot gush. Her hands, free now, clutched and clawed at the sheets, at his hair, his shoulders. The desire to taste him was a desperate ache. The blood burned in her head, hammered her heart toward pain.

She reared up, bowed back as his mouth began to travel up her, scraping teeth against her hip, sliding tongue along her torso. Then she was rolling with him, her fingers digging into damp flesh, scraping viciously along the muscled ridge of his shoulders, her mouth wild and willful as it found his.

With one hard thrust, he was deep inside her, with each violent plunge, he seemed to go deeper, stroking into her fast and fierce. Still, the thirst couldn’t be slaked.

Once again her body bowed, forming a bridge with muscles quivering from strain and pleasure. His fingers dug into her hips, his eyes were slits of wicked blue that never left her face.

Her body gleamed with sweat. Her head thrown back in full abandon as she absorbed each violent stroke. He watched it build one last time, felt the power of it swarming into her, into him, that surge of outrageous energy, the one shivering stab of fear that came when control was about to snap.

“Scream.” He panted it out with the madness of her swallowing him whole. “Scream now.”

And when she did, he went blind and emptied himself into her.

He’d bruised her. He could see the marks of his own fingers on her skin as she lay facedown on the rumpled bed. Her skin had a surprising delicacy she was never aware of and that he forgot at times. There was such toughness under it.

When he started to draw the sheet over her, she stirred.

“No, I’m not sleeping.”

“Why don’t you?”

She shifted, balled the pillow under her head. “I did want to use you.”

He sat beside her, sighed heavily. “Now I feel so cheap.”

She turned her head to look at him, nearly managed a smile. “I guess it’s okay, since you got off on it.”

“You’re such a romantic, Eve.” He gave her a playful swat on the butt and rose. “Do you want to eat in bed or while you work?”

He glanced back from the AutoChef, intending on heating up their meal. Seeing her studying him with narrowed eyes, he lifted a brow. “Again?”

“I don’t think about sex every time I look at you.” She scooped back her hair and wondered idly if she had any clothes left that could still be worn. “Even if you are naked and built and just finished fucking my brains out. Where are my pants?”

“I have no idea. Then what were you thinking?”

“About sex,” she said easily, and, finding her jeans inside out and tangled, tried to unknot them. “Philosophically.”

“Really.” He left the plates warming and came back to search out his own trousers, making do with only them as she’d already confiscated his shirt. “And what is your philosophical opinion of sex?”

“It really works.” She hitched on her jeans. “Let’s eat.”

She plowed her way through a rare steak and delicate new potatoes while she studied the data on-screen. “The first thing we have are connections. Cagney and Friend in the same class at Harvard Medical. Vanderhaven and Friend consulting at the center in London sixteen years ago, at the Paris center four years ago.” She chewed, swallowed, cut more beef. “Wo and Friend serving on the same board and working the same surgical floor at Nordick in ’55, then her continuing to be affiliated with that clinic to the present. Waverly and Friend both officers of the AMA. And Friend regularly consulting at the Drake where Waverly is attached, and has been attached for nearly a decade.”

“And,” Roarke continued, topping off their wine-glasses, “you can follow the pattern deeper and connect the dots. Every one of them meshes in some manner with another. Links to links. I imagine you can expand and find the same incestual type of relationship in the European centers.”

“I’m going to have McNab do the match, but yeah, we’ll find other names.” The wine was cool and dry and perfect for her mood. “Now, we have Tia Wo, who does regular consults at Nordick. McRae was checking public transpo to see if she’d traveled to Chicago on or around the date of his murder. He didn’t find anything but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

“I’m ahead of you,” Roarke told her and ordered up new data. “No records of private or public transportation tickets in her name, but that wouldn’t include the mass shuttle that goes back and forth hourly between the two cities. You just need credit tokens. I have her schedule at Drake showing she had rounds on the afternoon of that date. Should have been finished by four o’clock. I’m pulling up her office log now.”

“I won’t be able to use it. I mean, Feeney won’t be able to use that data. He’ll need a warrant.”

“I don’t. Her security’s rather pathetic,” Roarke added as he finessed controls. “A five-year-old hacker with a toy scanner could break this. On-screen,” he ordered.

“Okay, rounds until four, office consult four-thirty. Logged out at five, and has a six o’clock dinner with Waverly and Cagney. Feeney can check to see if she kept that appointment, but even if she did, it would give her time. She didn’t have anything the next day until eight-thirty A.M., and that’s a lab consult with Bradley Young. What do we know about him?”

“What would you like to know? Computer, all available data on Young, Dr. Bradley.”

Eve pushed away from her plate and rose while the computer worked. “Dinner with Cagney and Waverly. Cagney put pressure on Mira to shuffle the case back or drop it. Waverly just struck me wrong. There’s more than one person involved in this deal. Could be the three of them. They have a dinner meeting, discuss the when and how. One or all of them head over to Chicago, do the job, come back. Then Wo transports the sample to Young in the lab.”

“It’s as good a theory as any. What you need is to find the buried records. We’ll work on that.”

“Vanderhaven rabbits to Europe rather than face a routine interview. So. . . how many of them?” Eve murmured. “And when did it start? Why did it start? What’s the motive? That’s the hang-up here. What’s the point? One rogue doctor who’d gone over the edge would be one thing. That’s not what we’ve got. We’ve got a team, a group, and that group has ties to East Washington, maybe to the NYPSD. Weasels, anyway, in my department, maybe others. In health clinics. Somebody passing data. I need the why to find the who.”

“Organs, human. No real money in them today. If not for profit,” Roarke mused, “then for power.”

“What kind of power can you get from stealing flawed organs out of street people?”

“A power trip,” he said with a shrug. “I can, therefore I do. But if not for power, then for glory.”

“Glory? Where’s the glory?” Impatient, she began to prowl again. “They’re useless. Diseased, dying, defective. Where’s the glory factor?” Before he could speak, she held up a hand, eyes going to slits in concentration. “Wait, wait. What if they’re not useless. If someone’s figured out something that can be done with them.”

“Or to them,” Roarke suggested.

“To them.” She turned back to him. “Every bit of data I’ve scanned says that all research points to the impracticality or impossibility of reconstruction or repair of seriously damaged organs. Artificial are cheap, efficient, and outlast the body. The major facilities we’re dealing with haven’t funded research in that area in years. Since Friend developed his implants.”

“A better mousetrap,” Roarke suggested. “Someone’s always looking for better, quicker, cheaper, fancier. The one who invents it,” he added gesturing with his wine. “Gets the glory—and the profit.”

“How much do you make annually on the NewLife line?”

“I’ll have to check. One minute.” He shifted in his chair, called up another unit, and ordered a financial spread. “Hmmm, gross or net?”

“I don’t know. Net, I guess.”

“Just over three billion annually.”

“Billion? Billion? Jesus, Roarke, how much money do you have?”

He glanced back at her, amused. “Oh, somewhat more than that, although this particular three billion isn’t my personal take. One does have to feed the company, you know.”

“Forget I asked, it just makes me nervous.” She waved her hand and paced. “Okay, you take in three billion every year on the manufacture of the implants. When Friend developed it, he got plenty of glory. Tons of media, hype, awards, funding, whatever it is these guys get off on. He got it in truckloads. And he got a cut of the pie, too. It’s his—what did you call it?—mousetrap. So . . .”

She trailed off, working it out in her head while Roarke watched her. It was, he thought, a delight to see her gears meshing. Oddly arousing, he mused, sipping his wine, and decided he would have to seduce her, in an entirely different manner, when they were finished for the night.

“So somebody, or a group of them, hits on a new technique, a new angle, using flawed organs. They’ve found, or nearly found, a way to buff them up and pop them back in. But where do you get them? You can’t use the property of health clinics. It’s tagged, logged, assigned. Donors and brokers would object to their body parts being used for something other than they’ve signed for. Big problems, bad press. Plus there are probably federal restrictions.”

She stopped, shook her head. “So you kill for them? You murder people so you can experiment? It’s a hell of a stretch.”

“Is it?” Roarke toasted her. “Look at history. Those in power have habitually found nasty uses for those without it. And often, all too often, they claim it’s for the greater good. You could have a group of highly skilled, educated, intelligent people who’ve decided they know what’s best for humanity. Nothing, in my opinion, is more dangerous.”

“And Bowers?”

“Casualties in the war on disease, in the quest for longevity. The quality of life for the many over the destruction of life for the few.”

“If that’s why,” she said slowly, “the answer’s in the lab. I’ll need to find a way into Drake.”

“I should be able to bring Drake to you, right here.”

“That’s a start.” She blew out a breath, took her seat again. “Let’s take a closer look at Young.”

“Geek,” Roarke said a few moments later when they scanned the data.

“What?”

“You really are behind on your retro-slang, Eve. What we have here is your classic techno-geek—what McNab might be without his charm, his affection for the ladies, and his interesting fashion sense.”

“Oh, like most EDD guys. Got it. They’d rather spend time with a motherboard than breathe regular. Thirty-six, single, lives with his mother.”

“Classic geekdom,” Roarke explained. “Educationally, he excelled, except in social areas. President of the compu-tech club in high school.”

“That would be a geek club.”

“That would be correct. Ran the E-society and newsletter in college—Princeton—where he graduated at the tender age of fourteen.”

“Genius geek.”

“Precisely. He added the med-lab and found another niche. I employ hordes of his type. They’re invaluable. Happily laboring to develop those new mousetraps. I’d say if Mira did a profile here, she would find him a socially stunted, massively intelligent introvert with sexual phobias, an acute arrogance level, and an inherent predilection for taking orders from authority figures even though he considers them inferior.”

“Female authority figures should play in. He lives with his mommy. He works for Wo. Ties in. He’s been employed at Drake for eight years, heads the research lab on organs. He’s not a surgeon,” she mused. “He’s a lab rat.”

“And likely doesn’t interact well with people. He’s more comfortable with machines and samples.”

“Let’s run the dates on all the murders, find out where he was.”

“I’ll have to dip into his logs for that. Give me a minute.”

He began to work, paused, frowned a little. “Well, well, he’s a bit more security-conscious than our Dr. Wo. We have some layers here to get through.” He swiveled the chair, slid out a keyboard, and began to work manually. “Interesting. It’s a lot of cover for a schedule log. What have we here?” His brow creased as he studied what looked to Eve to be random symbols on the monitor. “Clever boy,” Roarke murmured. “He’s got himself a fail-safe device. Sneaky bastard.”

“You can’t get through it.”

“It’s tricky.”

She angled her head. “Well, if you’re going to let some geek beat your ass, I guess I need another partner.”

He sat back, eyes narrowed, and looked, she thought, amazingly sexy sitting bare-chested at the controls with a scowl on his magnificent face. “What is that expression you’re so fond of? Ah yes, bite me. Now, stop breathing down my neck and get me some coffee. This is going to take some time.”

Snorting out a laugh, Eve strolled to the AutoChef. At his seat, Roarke rolled his shoulders, pushed up metaphorical sleeves, and began to wage his little war with the keyboard.

Eve drank two cups of coffee while his turned stone cold and sat untouched. His curses, delivered in a low, vicious voice, became steadily more inventive. And, she observed with some fascination, more Irish.

“Bloody buggering hell, where did he get this?” Frustration shimmered in his eyes as he pounded out a new combination of keys. “Oh no, you slippery bastard, there’s a trap there. I can see that well enough. He’s good. Aye, damn good; but I’ve nearly got him. Fuck me!” He shoved back, snarled at the monitor.

Eve opened her mouth, then thinking better of it, shut it again and got another cup of coffee. It was so rare to see him . . . out of sorts, she decided.

Toying with another angle, she took a chair across the room and used the ’link to contact Louise. She was greeted by a slurred “Dr. Dimatto” and a fuzzed video.

“It’s Dallas, I’ve got a job for you.”

“Do you know what the hell time it is?”

“No. I need you to check the records on the main system at your clinic. Any and all incoming and outgoing transmissions to this list of clinics. Paying attention?”

“I hate you, Dallas.”

“Uh-huh. The Drake, Nordick in Chicago—are you getting this?”

The video cleared, showing an image of a rumpled, heavy-eyed Louise. “I worked a double today, did a medi-van run. I have the morning shift. So you’ll excuse me for telling you to go to hell.”

“Don’t cut me off. I need this data.”

“Last I heard, you were off the case. It’s one thing for me to agree to a consult with a cop and another to pass confidential data to a civilian.”

The word civilian stung a great deal more than Eve expected it to. “People are still dead, whether I have a badge or not.”

“And if the new investigator asks for my help, I’ll cooperate, within the limits of the law. If I do what you want me to do and get caught, I could lose the clinic.”

Eve balled her fists, struggling with frustration. “Your clinic’s an armpit,” she tossed back. “How much would it take to rip it into the twenty-first century?”

“Half a million, minimum, and when I manage to break the limits on my trust fund, it’ll get it. So to repeat myself, you go to hell.”

“Just hold on a minute. One damn minute, okay?” She shifted the unit to mute. “Roarke?” She called out again, testily, when he ignored her, and she received an annoyed grunt in response. “I need a half a million dollars for a bribe.”

“Well, tap your account, there’s plenty there. Don’t talk to me until I get this fucker.”

“My account?” she repeated, but only hissed at his back, afraid Louise would disconnect and refuse another transmission. “I’ll have a half million transferred anywhere you want, the minute the data’s accessed for me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want the money for the clinic, you get me the data I need. Here’s the list of health centers.” She tossed them up, gratified to see Louise shove herself up and grab a memo book.

“If you’re stringing me, Dallas—”

“I don’t lie. Get the data, don’t get caught, and get it to me. We’ll arrange for a transfer of funds. So don’t string me, Louise. Do we have a deal or not?”

“Damn, you play tough. I’ll get the data and be in touch when I can. You’ve just saved hundreds of lives.”

“That’s your job. I save the dead.” She broke transmission just as Roarke let out one pithy “Ha! I’m in.” He wiggled his fingers to loosen them, picked up his coffee, and sipped. “Jesus, are you trying to poison me?”

“I put that there an hour ago. And what the hell do you mean dip into my own account, there’s plenty there?”

“Plenty of what? Oh.” He rose to stretch his shoulders and replace his stale coffee. “You have a personal account that’s been open for months. Don’t you ever look at your finances?”

“I have—had—a cop’s salary, which means I have no finances. My personal account has about two hundred dollars in it, since Christmas wiped out the rest.”

“That would be your professional account. You have your salary automatically transferred. I thought you meant your personal account.”

“I’ve only got one account.”

Patiently, he sipped his coffee, rotated his neck. He decided he wanted a session in the whirlpool. “No, you have two accounts with the one I opened for you last summer. Do you want to see this log?”

“One damn minute.” She slapped a hand on his bare chest. “You opened it for me? What the hell did you do that for?”

“Because we got married. It seemed logical, even normal.”

“Just how much seemed logical, even normal to you?”

He ran his tongue around his teeth. She was, he knew well, a woman with a temper and what he often thought as a screwed sense of pride. “I believe, if memory serves, the account was seeded with five million—though that’s certainly increased due to interest and dividends.”

“You—What is wrong with you?” She didn’t punch. He’d been prepared to block a fist. Instead, she all but skewered her finger through his chest.

“Jesus. You need a manicure.”

“Five million dollars.” She threw her hands up in the air, arms flapping in frustration. “What do I want with five million dollars? Damn it all to hell and back again, Roarke. I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.”

“You just asked me for half a million,” he pointed out with a charming smile that only widened when she let out a thin scream of frustration. Then he said, “Okay. Marital spat or murder investigation? You choose.”

She closed her eyes, struggled to remember her priorities. “We’re going to deal with this later,” she warned him. “We are really going to deal with this later.”

“I’ll look forward to it. For now, aren’t you interested in the fact that our favorite geek happened to be visiting certain pertinent cities on certain pertinent dates?”

“What?” She whirled to stare at the screen. “Oh God, it’s right there. Right there. Chicago, Paris, London. Right in his goddamn log. I’ve got one of them. Son of a bitch, when I get him into interview, he’ll roll over on the rest quick enough. I’ll fry his sorry ass and then . . .”

She trailed off, stepped back, felt Roarke’s hands come down on her shoulders to rub. “I forgot for a minute. Stupid.”

“Don’t.” He lowered his lips to the top of her head.

“No, I’m okay. I’m okay with it.” Had to be, she ordered herself. “I just have to figure out how to get this to Feeney without compromising him or the case. We can copy it to disc, drop the disc in an overnight mail drop. We need it to go through departmental channels to reach him. Need it documented. He can run it then, and he can use an anonymous tip to get a warrant to seize the logs and to bring him into interview. It’ll take the best part of a day that way, but it won’t screw up the case or put him in a bind.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. It’s falling into place, Eve. You’ll have what you need soon, and all of this will be behind you.”

“Yeah.” The case, she thought, and very likely her badge.

Eve convinced herself she was completely prepared when she walked into Mira’s office. She would do what needed to be done, then move on. And she knew, very well, that the results of what she did and what was done to her over the next few hours would weigh heavily in the department’s decision. Her suspension could be lifted. Or suspension could lead to dismissal.

Mira went directly to her, took Eve’s arms in her hands. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“No, I didn’t. I wish I could have.” She could feel the tension, snapping tight, in the muscles she gripped. “Eve, you’re not required to submit to these tests and procedures until you’re fully ready.”

“I want it done.”

With a nod, Mira stepped back. “I understand that. Sit down first. We’ll talk.”

Nerves danced up her spine, were ruthlessly shaken off. Nerves, Eve knew, would only add to the trauma. “Dr. Mira, I’m not here for tea and conversation. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I know where I stand.”

“Then consider it part of the procedure.” Mira’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp as she gestured to a chair. She wanted to soothe, and would be required to distress. “Sit down, Eve. I have all your data here,” she began when Eve shrugged and dropped into a chair. Arrogantly, Mira thought. That was good. A little arrogance would help get Eve through what was to come. “I’m required to verify that you understand what you’ve agreed to.”

“I know the drill.”

“You’re submitting to personality evaluation, violent tendency ratio, and a truth test. These procedures include virtual reality simulations, chemical injections, and brain scans. I will personally conduct or supervise all procedures. I’ll be there with you, Eve.”

“You don’t carry this weight, Mira. It’s not on you.”

“If you’re here because an associate arranged or had a part in the circumstances that brought you to this point, put you in this position, I carry some of the weight.”

Eve’s eyes sharpened. “Your profile indicates an associate?”

“I can’t discuss my profiling with you.” Mira picked up a disc from her desk, tapped a finger against it while her gaze remained steady on Eve’s. “I can’t tell you what data and conclusions are on this copy of my reports. A copy of reports already filed to all appropriate parties.” She tossed it carelessly back on the desk. “I need to check the equipment in the next room. Wait here a moment.”

Well, Eve thought when the door closed, that invitation was clear enough. What the hell, she decided and nipped the disc off the desk, stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She wanted to pace, wanted to find a way to keep herself loose before she snapped. But she forced herself to sit again, to wait, to blank her mind.

They wanted you to think, she reminded herself. To worry and to sweat. The more you did, the more open and vulnerable you were to everything that was beyond that door.

They would, she thought, use their equipment, their scans, their injections, to strip your control and dig into your mind. Your fears.

The less you took in with you, the less they had to exploit.

Mira opened the door again. She didn’t come back into the room, didn’t so much as glance at the desk, but nodded at Eve. “We’re ready to start.”

Saying nothing, Eve rose and followed Mira down one of the corridors that formed the maze of Testing. This one was in pale green, the color of hospitals. Others would be glassed with techs and machines lurking behind them like smoke.

From this point, every gesture, expression, and word and every thought would be documented, evaluated, analyzed.

“This Level One procedure should take no more than two hours,” Mira began. Eve stopped short, grabbed her arm.

“Level One?”

“Yes, that’s all you’re required to take.”

“I need Level Three.”

“That’s not necessary; it’s not recommended. The risks and side effects of Level Three are too extreme for these circumstances. Level One is recommended.”

“My badge is riding on this.” Her fingers wanted to tremble. She wouldn’t allow it. “We both know it. Just like we both know passing Level One is no guarantee of getting it back.”

“Positive results and my recommendation will weigh very heavily in your favor.”

“Not heavily enough. Level Three, Mira. It’s my right to demand it.”

“Damn it, Eve. Level Three is for suspected mental defectives, extreme violent tendencies, murderers, mutilators, deviants.”

Eve drew in a long breath. “Have I been cleared of any suspicion regarding the murder of Officer Ellen Bowers?”

“You’re not a prime suspect, nor is the investigation pointing in your direction.”

“But I’m not clear, and I intend to be.” Eve drew a breath in, let it out. “Level Three. It’s my right.”

“You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Eve surprised them both by smiling. “It can’t be. It already bites.”

They passed through a set of clear, reinforced doors. She had no weapon to be surrendered here. The computer politely requested she enter the door on the left and remove all articles of clothing, all jewelry.

Mira saw Eve close her fingers protectively over her wedding ring. And her heart broke a little. “I’m sorry. You can’t wear it during the scans. Would you like me to keep it for you?”

“They’ve only taken your symbols.”

She heard Roarke’s voice in her head as she tugged off his ring. “Thanks.” She moved into the room, closed the door. Mechanically, she removed her clothes, keeping her face impassive for the techs and machines who were monitoring her even now.

She despised being naked in front of strangers. Hated the vulnerability and lack of control.

She refused to think.

The light blinked over the opposing door, and another automated voice told her to step through for the physical exam.

She went in, stood on the center mark, stared straight ahead while the lights blinked and hummed and her body was checked for flaws.

The physical was quick, painless. When she was cleared, she tugged on the blue jumpsuit provided, followed the directions into the adjoining room for the brain scan.

She lay flat on the padded bench, ignoring the faces behind the glass walls, letting her eyes drift closed as the helmet was lowered onto her head.

Just what game would they play? she wondered, bracing herself as the bench glided silently up until she was sitting.

The VR session plunged her into the dark, disorienting her so that she gripped the sides of the bench to keep her balance.

She was attacked from behind. Huge hands shot out of the dark, hauled her off her feet, and tossed her high. She hit the hard floor of what she saw now was an alley, skidded on something slimy. Her bones jarred, her skin burned as it was scraped away. She sprang up fast, one hand reaching for her weapon.

Before she could free it from its holster, he was charging. She pivoted, breath grunting out, as she spun into a back kick to catch him center body.

“Police, you stupid son of a bitch. Freeze.”

She crouched, her weapon in both hands, prepared to shoot out a stunning blast, when the program shoved her into brilliant sunlight. Her weapon was still out, her finger twitching on the trigger. But now it pointed at a woman holding a screaming child.

Heart pistoning in her chest, she jerked the weapon up. She could hear her own ragged pants as she lowered it.

They were on a rooftop. The sun was blinding, the heat enormous. And the woman stood swaying on a narrow ledge. She looked at Eve with eyes that seemed already dead. And the child struggled and shrieked.

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Okay. Look, look, I’m putting it away. Watch.” Keeping her movement slow, Eve holstered her weapon. “I just want to talk to you. What’s your name?”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No, I can’t.” Where the hell was her backup? Where was the jumper team, the shrinks? Name of God. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“I can’t take care of him anymore. I’m tired.”

“He’s scared.” Sweat rolled down her back as she eased a step closer. It was brutally hot, heat bouncing off the sticky tar of the roof in shimmering waves. “And he’s hot. So are you. Why don’t we go back there in the shade for a minute?”

“He cries all the damn time. All night. I never get any sleep. I can’t stand it.”

“Maybe you should give him to me. He’s heavy. What’s his name?”

“Pete.” Sweat poured off the woman’s face, had her short, dark hair sticking in ringlets to her cheeks. “He’s sick. We’re both sick, so what’s the point?”

The child was screaming, one shrieking wail after another. The sound of it sliced her head, her heart. “I know some people who can help.”

“You’re just a fucking cop. You can’t do shit.”

“If you jump, nobody can. Jesus, it’s hot out here. Let’s go inside, figure this out.”

The woman let out a weary sigh. “Go to hell.”

Eve made the leap, caught the boy around the waist as the woman leaned forward. His screams were like razors scraping over her brain as she made one desperate grab. She hooked the woman under the armpit, dug in desperately while her muscles trembled and threatened to rip. The toes of her boots slapped hard into the wall of the ledge to keep the weight from sending them all to the sidewalk below.

“Hold on. Goddamn it.” Sweat poured into her eyes, stinging, blinding while she struggled for better purchase. The boy was wiggling like a wet fish. “Grab onto me!” she shouted as the woman stared up at her with eyes already empty.

“Sometimes you’re better off dead. You should know, Dallas.” The woman smiled as she said Eve’s name. And she laughed as Eve’s grip began to slip.

Then she was in another alley, shivering, curled into a ball of pain and numb shock.

And she was a child, battered and broken, without a name, without a past.

They were using her own memories now, sliding them in from her early data records. She hated them for it, hated them with a rage that simmered nastily under a slick coat of panic.

An alley in Dallas, a young girl with a bloody face, a broken arm, and nowhere to run.

Goddamn you. Damn all of you. She’s not part of this. She wanted to scream it, to fight her way clear of the influence and images being poured into her brain and crash through the glass wall.

Her pulse began to race, her rage began to rise. And with barely a blink, the program shifted her to the streets of lower Manhattan, on a frigid night. Bowers stood in front of her, leering.

“You stupid bitch, I’ll bury you in complaints. Everyone’s going to know what you are. Nothing but a whore who fucked her way up the ranks.”

“You’ve got a real problem, Bowers. Maybe after I finish writing you up for insubordination, threatening a superior officer, and being a general asshole, the department will find its balls and kick you clear.”

“We’ll see who they kick.” Bowers shoved hard, taking Eve back two steps.

The fury was there, right there, shooting out of her heart, trembling in her fingertips. “Don’t put your hands on me.”

“What the hell are you going to do about it? Nobody’s here but you and me. You think you can come down on my turf and make threats.”

“I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you. Keep your hands off me, keep out of my face, out of my business, or you’ll pay for it.”

“I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to strip you bare and expose you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

“Yeah. Oh yeah, there is.”

Eve found the metal pipe in her hand. Felt her fingers curl tightly around it, her muscles bunch and brace to swing. More annoyed than surprised, she tossed it aside, leaned in, and grabbed Bowers by the front of her uniform coat. “Put your hands on me again, and I’ll knock you on your fat ass. File all the complaints you want, my rep will hold. But I promise you, I’ll see you out of that uniform and off the streets before I’m done. You’re a fucking disgrace.”

She released her in disgust, started to walk away. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of movement. She ducked, spun, and felt the pipe whistle by her head and ruffle her hair.

“I was wrong,” she said in a voice gone dangerously cold. “You’re not a fucking disgrace. You’re just crazy.”

Bowers bared her teeth as she swung the pipe again. Eve leaped out of reach, then went in hard. She caught a glancing blow on the shoulder, used the pain and the momentum to push her body into Bowers. They went down in a tangled heap.

Her hand closed over the pipe again, wrenched, twisted, and once again heaved it aside. She had her weapon out, her eyes glittering, as she used it to jerk up Bowers’s chin.

“And you’re finished.” Breath ragged, she shoved Bowers over, yanked her arms behind her back, and fumbled in her pocket for restraints. “You’re under arrest for assault with a deadly, you piss-faced, brainless bitch.”

Even as she started to smile, she found herself in the dark again, straddling a bloody mess. Her hands thickly coated with gore.

Shock, horror, and a bright, silver fear slammed into her as she scrambled back. “Jesus. Jesus Christ, no. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t do this.”

When she covered her face with her bloody hands, Mira closed her eyes. “That’s enough. End program.” Sick at heart, she watched Eve’s body twitch as the session ended. And as the helmet was removed, their eyes met through the glass.

“This phase of Testing is complete. Please exit through the marked door. I’ll meet you inside.”

Her knees buckled when she pushed off the inclined bench, but she locked them straight, took a minute to even her breathing, and walked into the next area.

Another padded bench, a chair, a long table where instruments were already neatly lined. More machines, monitors. Blank white walls.

Mira entered. “You’re entitled to a thirty-minute rest break. I suggest you take it.”

“Get it done.”

“Sit down, Eve.”

She sat on the bench, doing her best to put the last session out of her mind, to prepare for the next.

Mira took the chair, folded her hands in her lap. “I have children I love,” she began, causing a line of puzzlement to dig between Eve’s brows. “I have friends who are vital to me and acquaintances and colleagues I admire and respect.” Mira let out one shallow breath. “I have all those feelings for you.” She leaned forward, put her hand over Eve’s and squeezed hard.

“If you were my daughter, if I had any authority over you, I would not permit you to submit to Level Three on this phase. I’m asking you, as a friend, to reconsider.”

Eve stared down at Mira’s hand. “I’m sorry this is difficult for you.”

“Oh God, Eve!” Mira sprang up, turned away, and struggled to bring her whirling emotions under control. “This is a very invasive procedure. You’ll be helpless, unable to defend yourself, physically, mentally, emotionally. If you fight it, as will be instinctive for you, it will put a strain on your heart. I can counter this reaction, and will.”

She turned back, already knowing it was useless. “The combination of drugs and scans I’ll have to use for this level will certainly make you ill. You’ll have nausea, headaches, fatigue, disorientation, dizziness, possibly a temporary loss of muscle control.”

“Sounds like a hell of a party. Look, you know I’m not going to change my mind. You’ve been inside it often enough to know how it works. So what’s the point in scaring the shit out of both of us? Just do it.”

Resigned, Mira crossed to the table, picked up a pressure syringe she’d loaded herself. “Lie back, try to relax.”

“Sure, maybe I’ll take a little nap while I’m at it.” She lay back, stared at the cool blue light in the ceiling. “What’s that for?”

“Just focus on it. Just look at the light, look through the light, imagine yourself inside it, in all that cool, soft blue. This won’t hurt. I need to unfasten the top of your jumpsuit.”

“Is that why you have blue chairs in your office? So people can sink into the blue?”

“It’s like water.” Mira worked quickly, gently, baring Eve’s shoulder, her arm. “You can slide right into the water. A little pressure now,” she murmured as she injected the first drug. “It’s just a calmer.”

“I hate chemicals.”

“I know. Breathe normally. I’m going to hook up the scanners, the monitors. There won’t be any discomfort.”

“I’m not worried about it. Do you have my ring?” Already her head felt light, her tongue thick. “Can I have my ring back?”

“I have it. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll give it back to you.” With the skill of long practice, Mira attached the scanners to Eve’s temples, her wrists, her heart. “I have it safe. Relax, Eve. Let the blue surround you.”

She was already floating, one drifting part of her mind wondering why Mira had made such a big deal out of it. It was just a painless, foolish ride.

With a cautious eye, Mira studied the monitors. Heart rate, blood pressure, brain waves, all physical stats normal. For now. She glanced down, seeing Eve’s eyes were closed, her face relaxed, her body limp. She indulged herself, brushing a hand over Eve’s cheek; then, after hooking restraints to her wrists and ankles, she picked up the second syringe.

“Can you hear me, Eve?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Feel fine.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then remember I’m here with you. Count back from one hundred for me. Slowly.”

“Hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven.” As the second drug swam into her blood, her pulse jittered, her breathing hitched. “Ninety-six. God!” Her body arched, limbs jerking against the restraints as the shock rocked her system.

“No, don’t fight. Breathe. Listen to my voice. Breathe, Eve. Don’t fight.”

There were thousands of hot, hungry bugs crawling over her skin, under it. Someone was choking her, and the hands were like jagged ice. Her heart fought to break out of her chest with vicious hammer blows. Terror, red and ripe, blinded her as her eyes sprang open and she realized she was restrained.

“Don’t tie me down. Jesus, don’t.”

“I have to. You could hurt yourself. But I’m here. Feel my hand.” She squeezed it over the tight ball of Eve’s fist. “I’m right here. Slow, deep breaths, Eve. Listen to my voice. Slow, deep breaths. Lieutenant Dallas.” She snapped it out when Eve continued to gasp and struggle. “I gave you an order. Cease struggling, breathe normally.”

Eve gulped in air, whooshed it out. Her arms shuddered but stopped straining.

“Look at the light,” Mira continued, adjusting the dosage, watching the monitors. “Listen to my voice. You don’t need to hear anything but my voice. I’m right here. You know who I am?”

“Mira. Dr. Mira. It hurts.”

“Only for a moment more. Your system needs to adjust. Take long, slow breaths. Watch the light. Long, slow breaths.” She repeated the same directions, over and over in a quiet monotone until she saw the monitors level, watched Eve’s face go lax again.

“You’re relaxed now, and all you hear is my voice. Do you still have pain?”

“No, I don’t feel anything.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Date of birth.”

“I don’t know.”

“Place of birth.”

“I don’t know.”

“City of residence?”

“New York.”

“Marital status.”

“Married. Roarke.”

“Place of employment.”

“NYPSD. Cop Central. No . . .” The monitors began to blip, indicating agitation, confusion. “I was. I’m suspended. They took my badge. I’m cold now.”

“It’ll pass.” But Mira leaned back and ordered the temperature of the room to increase five degrees. For the next several minutes, Mira asked simple, inane questions to establish normal blood pressure, the pattern of brain waves, respiration, heart rate.

“Was your suspension from duty warranted?”

“It was procedure. While under investigation, I can’t serve.”

“Was it warranted?”

Eve’s brow creased in confusion. “It was procedure,” she repeated.

“You’re a cop down to your bones,” Mira muttered.

“Yes.”

The simple answer nearly made Mira smile. “You have used maximum force in the line of duty, answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

Tricky ground now, Mira thought. She knew that once, a young, terrified girl had killed. “Have you ever, other than to protect yourself or another, taken a life?”

The image flashed. The horrid room, the pools of blood, the knife gored to the hilt and dripping with red. Pain, so brutal the memory of it struck like lightning, made her whimper. “I had to. I had to.”

The voice was a child’s and had Mira moving quickly. “Eve, stay here, and answer the question yes or no. Answer yes or no, Lieutenant, have you ever, other than to protect yourself or another, taken a life?”

“No.” The word came out on an explosion of breath. “No, no, no. He’s hurting me. He won’t stop.”

“Don’t go there. Listen to my voice, look at the light. You are not to go anywhere unless I tell you. Do you understand?”

“It’s always there.”

She’d been afraid of just this. “It’s not there now. No one is here but me. What is my name?”

“He’s coming back.” She began to shake, to struggle. “He’s drunk, but not too drunk.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, this is an official procedure sanctioned by the NYPSD. You are under suspension, but have not been terminated from service. You are obliged to follow the rules of this procedure. Do you understand your obligations?”

“Yes. Yes. God, I don’t want to be here.”

“What is my name?”

“Mira. Oh Christ. Mira, Dr. Charlotte.”

Stay with me, Mira thought. Stay right here with me. “What was the nature of the case you were investigating when suspended from service?”

“Homicide.” The shuddering stopped, and the data on the monitors began to level. “Multiple.”

“Were you acquainted with an Officer Ellen Bowers?”

“Yes. She and her trainee were first on-scene at two of the homicides. Victims Petrinksy and Spindler.”

“You had altercations with Bowers?”

“Yes.”

“Relate your view of those altercations.”

More images slid in and out of her brain. She lived it as she recited it. The heat, the punch of hate that had annoyed and baffled, the cold words, the vicious ones.

“You were aware that Bowers filed complaints against you.”

“Yes.”

“Was there validity to these complaints?”

“I used profanity when dealing with her.” Even weighed down with drugs, she sneered. It lifted Mira’s troubled heart. “It’s a technical breach of regulations.”

If she hadn’t been sick with worry, Mira might have laughed. “Did you threaten this officer with physical harm?”

“I’m not sure. I might have said I’d kick her ass if she kept screwing up. I thought it, anyway.”

“In her logs, she has stated that you exchanged sexual favors for advancement in the department. Is that true?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had a sexual relationship or encounter with Commander Whitney?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had a sexual relationship or encounter with Captain Feeney?”

“Jesus. No. I don’t go around fucking my friends.”

“Have you ever accepted a bribe?”

“No.”

“Have you ever falsified a report?”

“No.”

“Did you physically attack Officer Ellen Bowers?”

“No.”

“Did you cause her death?”

“I don’t know.”

Mira jerked back, shaken. “Did you kill Officer Ellen Bowers?”

“No.”

“How might you have caused her death?”

“Someone used her to get me off, to get me out. They wanted me. She was easier.”

“You believe that a person or persons currently unknown killed Bowers in order to remove you from the investigation you were pursuing?”

“Yes.”

“How does that make you responsible for her death?”

“Because I had a badge. Because it was my case. Because I let it be personal instead of seeing how they could use her. That puts her on my head.”

Mira sighed, adjusted the dose again. “Focus on the light, Eve. We’re nearly done.”

• • •

Roarke paced the waiting area outside Mira’s office. What the hell was taking so long? He should have known Eve was conning him when she’d said it wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. It was no big deal. Just as he’d known when he realized she’d gotten out of the house without telling him that morning that she hadn’t wanted him here.

Well, he was here, by God. She’d just have to deal with it.

Four hours, he thought with another glance at his wrist unit. How the devil could some tests and questions take four hours? He should have pressed her, pushed her into explaining exactly what would be done.

He knew something about Testing, the basic process a cop went through whenever maximum force was employed. It wasn’t pleasant, but she’d gotten through it before. He understood the elemental strain of Level One, and the additional burden of truth testing.

It was again, unpleasant, very often left the subject a little shaky for a few hours.

She’d get through that as well.

Why the hell weren’t they done with her?

His head came up, and his eyes went to pools of ice when Whitney walked in.

“Roarke. I’d hoped she’d be finished by now.”

“She doesn’t need to see you here when she is. You’ve done more than enough already, Commander.”

Whitney’s eyes went blank, and the shadows under them were deep. “We all follow orders, Roarke, and procedure. Without them, there’s no order.”

“Why don’t I tell you what I think of your procedure?” he began, stepping forward with blood in his eye.

The door opened. He turned quickly, an arrow of shock piercing his heart when he saw her.

She was pale as death. Her eyes seemed to be carved deep into the skull, the irises like gold glass, the pupils huge. Mira had a supporting arm around her, and still she swayed.

“You’re not ready to get up. Your system needs more time.”

“I want out of here.” She would have shaken Mira off, but was seriously afraid she’d pitch forward onto her face. She saw Roarke first, felt twin surges of frustration and relief. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

“Shut the hell up.” There was only one emotion pumping through him, and it was all fury. He was across the room in three quick strides, and pulling her away from Mira. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“What she was supposed to do.” Eve made the effort to stand on her own feet, though it had the nausea swimming back, the clammy sweat popping out. She would not be sick again, she promised herself. She’d already been violently ill twice and would not be sick again.

“She needs to lie down.” Mira’s face was nearly as pale as Eve’s, and every line of strain showed. “Her system hasn’t had time to recover. Please convince her to come back and lie down so I can monitor her vitals.”

“I have to get out of here.” Eve looked straight into Roarke’s eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

“All right. We’re going.”

She let herself lean against him until she saw Whitney. Then it was instinct as much as pride that had her forcing her aching body to attention. “Sir.”

“Dallas. I regret the necessity of this procedure. Dr. Mira needs to keep you under observation until she’s satisfied you’re well enough to leave.”

“With respect, Commander, I’m free to go where the hell I want.”

“Jack.” Mira linked her fingers together, felt useless. “She took Level Three.”

His eyes flashed, shifted back to Eve’s face. “Level Three was not necessary. Damn it, it was not necessary.”

“You took my badge,” Eve said quietly. “It was necessary.” She forced herself straight again, praying Roarke would understand she needed to walk out under her own power. She made it to the door before the trembling started again, but she shook her head fiercely when he turned.

“No, don’t, don’t carry me. God, leave me something here.”

“All right, just hold on.” He hooked an arm around her waist, took most of her weight. Bypassing the glide, he walked her to the elevator. “What’s Level Three?”

“Bad.” Her head was pounding brutally. “Really bad. Don’t hassle me. It was the only way.”

“For you,” he murmured, drawing her into the crowded elevator when the doors whisked open.

Her vision grayed at the edges. Voices from the people who jammed in with them drifted, echoed, and fell away like waves in an ocean. She lost her bearings, and herself, only dimly aware of movement, of Roarke’s voice close to her ear telling her they were nearly there.

“Okay, okay.” The gray spread, closed in as he guided her to the visitor’s parking area. “Mira said how this was just one of the side effects. No big deal.”

“What’s one of the side effects?”

“Shit, Roarke. Sorry. I’m gonna pass out.”

She never heard him curse as he swung her into his arms.

She was out, unconscious or asleep, for four hours. She didn’t remember getting home, being put to bed. Fortunately for all parties, she didn’t remember Roarke calling in Summerset, or the butler using his medical training to examine her and prescribe rest.

When she woke, the headache remained, but the sickness and the shakes had passed.

“You can take a blocker.”

Still dim, she blinked her vision clear and stared at the little blue pill Roarke held out. “What?”

“There’s been enough time since your treatment for you to take a blocker. Swallow.”

“Not more drugs, Roarke, I—”

It was as far as she got before he squeezed her jaw, popped the pill in her mouth. “Swallow.”

Scowling, she did so, more out of reflex than obedience. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Let’s go dancing.”

She squirmed into a sitting position and dearly hoped her head would stay in its proper place on her shoulders. “Did anyone see me go down?”

“No.” The hand on her jaw gentled. “Your kick-ass rep is intact.”

“That’s something, anyway. Man, I’m starving.”

“Not surprising. Mira said you’d probably lost everything you’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. I called her,” he added when she frowned at him. “I wanted to know what had been done.”

She saw the anger in his eyes, and the worry. Instinctively, she lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked. “Are you going to give me grief about it?”

“No. You couldn’t have done anything else.”

Now she smiled, let her head rest on his shoulder. “I was pissed off when I saw you there, mostly because I was glad you were there.”

“How long will you have to wait for the results?”

“A day, maybe two. I can’t think about it. I’ve got enough to keep me busy until. . . Shit, where are my clothes? My jeans? There’s a disc in the pocket.”

“This?” He picked up one he’d set on the table beside the bed.

“Yeah. Mira let me steal it out of her office. It’s the profile. I need to read it.” She tossed the covers back. “Feeney’s got the disc we sent him by now. He should have picked up Wo or be on his way to. If he’s already interviewed Wo, Peabody might be able to slip me some data on how it went.”

She was already up, pulling on clothes. She was still very pale, with shadows like bruises under her eyes. He imagined the headache was beginning to dull from agony to simple misery.

And there was no stopping her.

“Your office or mine?”

“Mine,” she said as she rummaged through a drawer and found one of her stash of candy bars. “Hey!” He snatched it out of her hand, jerked it out of reach as she made a grab.

“After dinner.”

“You’re so strict.” Because her mouth was set for chocolate, she tried a soft-eyed smile. “I’ve been sick. You’re supposed to pamper me.”

“You hate it when I do that.”

“I’m sort of getting used to it,” she said as he pulled her from the room.

“No candy before dinner. We’re having chicken soup,” he decided. “The ageless cure for everything. Since you’re feeling so much better,” he continued as they turned into her office, “you can get it while I bring up Mira’s profile.”

She wanted to be cranky about it. After all, her head was achy, her stomach raw, her system still slightly off. Any other time, she thought as she sulked in the kitchen, he’d have annoyed the hell out of her by keeping her in bed, guarding her like a damn watchdog. But when she’d actually, maybe, appreciate just a little hovering, he was giving her kitchen duty. And if she complained, damn him, he’d smirk at her.

So she was stuck, she admitted, as she took a steaming bowl of impossibly fragrant soup out of the AutoChef. And the first spoonful slid down her throat like glory, hit her abused stomach, and nearly made her whimper in gratitude. She ate another, ignoring the cat who’d homed in on the scent and was wrapping himself around her ankles like a furred ribbon.

Before she could stop herself, she’d eaten the entire bowl. Her head was clear, her system humming competently, and her mood wonderfully lifted. Licking the spoon, she eyed the cat.

“Why is he always right?”

“Just a little talent of mine,” Roarke said from the doorway. And, damn it, he did smirk. He crossed to her, tapped a finger on her cheek. “Your color’s back, Lieutenant, and from the looks of you, the headache’s gone and your appetite’s just fine.”

He glanced down at the empty bowl. “And where’s mine?”

Roarke wasn’t the only one who could smirk. She set the empty bowl down, snatched the full one out of the AutoChef, and dug into that. “I don’t know. Maybe the cat ate it.”

He only laughed, bent down, and scooped up the loudly complaining cat. “Well, pal, since she’s so greedy, I guess we’re on our own. He programmed the AutoChef himself while Eve stood where she was, lazily spooning up soup.

“Where’s my candy bar?”

“I don’t know.” He took out one bowl, set it on the floor where the cat all but leaped into it. “Maybe the cat ate it.” He took out his own bowl, picked up a spoon, and strolled out.

“You’ve got a great ass, ace,” she commented when she followed him in. “Now, get it out of my chair.”

He grinned at her. “Why don’t you come sit in my lap.”

“I don’t have time for your perverted games.” Because he didn’t appear to be moving, she rolled a chair over beside his and studied the monitor. “You have to skim through the shrink talk,” she told Roarke. “All the fifty-credit words. Mature, controlled, intelligent, organized.”

“That’s nothing you didn’t know.”

“No, but her profiles are gold in court, and they confirm the direction of the investigation. God complex. High level of medical knowledge and surgical skill. Probably duality of nature. Healer/destroyer.” Eve frowned at that, leaning forward as she scrolled down the text.

In breaking his oath to do no harm, he has put himself above the tenets of his profession. He is certainly, or was certainly, a doctor. With the level of skill shown in these murders, it is probable that he is currently practicing his art, saving lives, improving the qualities of lives in his patients on a daily basis. He is healer.

However, in taking lives, disregarding the rights of the people he has killed, he has removed himself from the responsibilities of his art. He is destroyer. There is no remorse, no hesitation. He is, I believe, fully aware of his actions. He has justified them in some way that will be connected to medicine. He chooses the sick, the old, the dying. They are not lives to him, but vessels. The care he takes when removing the samples indicates it is the work itself, the samples themselves, that are of importance. The vessels are no more vital than a test tube in a laboratory. Easily disposed of and replaced.

Still frowning, Eve leaned back. “Two natures.”

“Your own Jekyll and Hyde. The doctor with a mission,” Roarke went on, “and the evil inside him that overpowered and destroyed.”

“Destroyed who?”

“The damned, the innocent. And in the end, himself.”

“Good.” Her eyes were coldly fierce. “The end part. Two natures,” she said again. “Not split personality. That’s not what she’s saying.”

“No, two sides of the coin. The dark and the light. We all have it.”

“Don’t get philosophical on me.” She pushed away, needing to move while her mind worked.

“But in the end, that’s what we’re dealing with. His philosophy. Or hers. He takes, because he can, because he needs, because he wants. From his view, the vessels, for lack of a better word, are unimportant, medically.”

She turned back. “Then we’re back to the organs themselves. Their use. And the glory. Reconstruction, rejuve-nation, healing of what’s considered by current science to be beyond healing. What else could it be? He’s found a way, or believes he can find a way, to take a dying part and give it life.”

“Dr. Frankenstein. Another mad, flawed genius who was destroyed by his own mind. If we move into that area, he’s not just a surgeon, but a scientist, a researcher. A seeker.”

“And a politician. Damn, I need to know more about Friend, and I need to know what Feeney got out of his interview with Wo.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Do you want hard copy or full video/audio transcript?”

She stopped pacing as if she’d run into a wall. “You can’t do that. You can’t get into interview files.”

He sighed lustily. “I don’t know why I tolerate your constant insults. It would, however, be simpler if you got the file number and time and date stamp, but I can work without it.”

“God. I don’t want to know how you do it. And I don’t believe I’m going to stand here and let you do it.”

“Ends and means, darling. It’s all just ends and means.”

“I’m getting coffee,” she muttered.

“Tea. Your system’s had enough insults for one day. And I’ll have a cup myself. The data on Friend’s suicide will be up on the wall screen.”

She walked to the kitchen window, away, back again. What was she doing? she asked herself. How far over the line would she go?

As far as it took, she decided, and even as she turned to the ’link, it beeped.

“Dallas.”

“Got to make it fast.” Peabody’s face was set, her voice brisk. “Louise Dimatto was attacked at the clinic early this morning. We didn’t get the data until a few minutes ago. She’s at the Drake. I don’t have details yet, but she’s critical.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Dallas. Wo’s at the Drake, too. Attempted self-termination is the current data. They don’t think she’s going to make it.”

“Damn it. Did you get her into interview?”

“No. I’m sorry. And Vanderhaven’s still loose. We picked up Young. He’s in holding until we can get to him.”

“I’m on my way.”

“They won’t let you see Wo or Louise.”

“I’m coming in,” Eve said shortly, and broke transmission.

• • •

She got as far as the nurses’ station in Intensive Care before she was blocked.

“Dimatto, Louise. Room and condition.”

The nurse eyed her. “Are you family?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. I can only give that information to immediate family and authorized personnel.”

Eve reached down out of habit, then curled her fingers into a frustrated fist when she remembered she had no badge to slap on the counter. “Wo, Doctor Tia. Same questions.”

“Same answers.”

Eve took a deep breath, prepared to launch the dozen vile and frustrated curses dancing on the tongue, when Roarke stepped forward smoothly. “Nurse Simmons. Dr. Wo and I are on the board of this facility. I wonder if you could page her attending and ask him to speak with me. The name’s Roarke.”

Her eyes popped wide, her color rose. “Roarke. Yes, sir. Right away. The waiting area is just to your left. I’ll page Dr. Waverly immediately.”

“Page Officer Peabody while you’re at it,” Eve demanded and was met with a baleful look.

“I don’t have time—”

“If you’d be so kind,” Roarke interrupted, and Eve thought resentfully that he should bottle the charm oozing out of his pores for the less fortunate, “we’d very much like to speak with Officer Peabody. My wife . . .” He laid a hand on Eve’s vibrating shoulder. “Both of us are quite anxious.”

“Oh.” The nurse gave Eve a considering stare, obviously stunned to realize the disheveled woman was Roarke’s wife. “Certainly. I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Why didn’t you ask her to kiss your feet while you were at it?” Eve muttered.

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

The waiting room was empty but for a view screen tuned to the latest comedy series. Eve ignored it and the coffeepot that likely held the first cousin to mud.

“I bribed her into that hospital bed, Roarke. I used your money to do it so she’d get me data I couldn’t get myself.”

“If that’s true, she made her own choice as we all do. And the one who’s responsible for her being in that bed is the one who attacked her.”

“She’d have done anything to whip that clinic into shape.” Eve covered her eyes with the tips of her fingers, pressed hard. “It’s what mattered most to her. I used her on a hunch to close a case that isn’t even mine anymore. If she dies, I have to live with knowing that.”

“I can’t tell you you’re wrong, but I’ll tell you again: You didn’t put her here. If you keep thinking that way, you’ll go soft.” He nodded when she dropped her hands back to her sides. “You’re too close to finishing what you started to go soft. Shake it off, Eve, and do what you do best. Find the answers.”

“Do those answers have anything to do with why my niece is in a coma?” Face haggard and grim, Cagney stepped into the room. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You involved Louise in business that was none of hers, put her in jeopardy for your own ends. Now, I suspect while doing work for you, she was viciously attacked and is fighting for her life.”

“What’s her condition?” Eve demanded.

“You have no authority here. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a murderer, a corrupt cop, and a deviant. Whatever your reporter friends try to do to spin the public view, I know you for what you are.”

“Cagney.” Roarke’s voice was soft as Irish mist. “You’re overwrought and have my sympathy, but mind your step here.”

“He can say what he likes.” Eve stepped deliberately between them. “And so can I. I admire Louise for her purpose and her spine. She threw your fancy position in your rich-man’s center right back in your face and went her own way. I’ll accept whatever part I have in her being here now. Can you?”

“She had no business in that place.” His handsome, pampered face was ravaged, his eyes sunk deep into shadows. “With her mind, her talent, her background. No business wasting her gifts on the scum people like you scrape off the streets night after night.”

“The kind of scum that can be harvested for whatever parts might be useful, then disposed of?”

His eyes burned into hers. “The kind that would try to kill a beautiful young woman for the credits in her pocket, for the drugs she used to try to keep their pitiful lives going. The kind I imagine you sprang from. Both of you.”

“I thought, to a doctor, all life was sacred.”

“So it is.” Waverly strode in, his lab coat swirling. “Colin, you’re not yourself. Go get some rest. We’re doing everything that can be done.”

“I’ll go stay with her.”

“Not now.” Waverly put his hand on Cagney’s arm, and his eyes were filled with sympathy. “Take a break in the lounge at least. I promise I’ll page you if there’s any change. She’ll need you when she wakes up.”

“Yes, you’re right. Yes.” He lifted an unsteady hand to his temple. “My sister and her husband—I sent them back, to my home. I should go be with them for a while.”

“That’s the right thing to do. I’ll call you.”

“Yes, thank you. I know she’s in the best of hands.”

Waverly walked him to the door, murmured something, then watched him leave before turning back. “He’s very shaken. No amount of medical experience prepares you when it’s one of your own.”

“How bad was it?” Eve asked.

“Her skull was fractured. There was considerable hemorrhaging, swelling. The surgery went quite well, all in all. We’re scanning her at regular intervals for brain damage. We can’t be sure yet, but we’re hopeful.”

“Has she regained consciousness?”

“No.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“You’ll have to get those details from the police. I can only give you her medical data, and I shouldn’t be doing that. You’ll have to excuse me. We’re monitoring her very closely.”

“Dr. Wo?”

His already-weary face seemed to sink into itself. “We lost Tia moments ago. I came to tell Colin, but didn’t have the heart to add to his burden. I hope you’ll show him some consideration.”

“I need to see her records,” Eve muttered when she was alone with Roarke. “How did she die, what did she take or do? Who found her and when? Damn it, I don’t even know who pulled her case.”

“Find a source.”

“How the hell can I—” She broke off. “Hell, give me your porta-link.”

He handed it to her and smiled. “Say hello to Nadine for me. I’ll see if they’ll page Peabody again.”

“Such a smart guy,” she muttered and tagged Nadine at Channel 75.

“Dallas, for God’s sake, you’ve been dodging me for days. What’s going on? Are you okay? Those stupid bastards! Did you see my feature? We’re flooded with calls on it.”

“I don’t have time for questions. I need data. Contact whoever you bribe at the ME’s office and get me everything you can on Tia Wo, self-termination. She’ll be coming in within the hour. I need method, time of death, who found her and called it in, who’s handling the case, attending physician. Everything.”

“I don’t hear from you for days, then you want everything. And who says I bribe anybody?” She sniffed, looked insulted. “Bribing public officials is illegal.”

“I’m not a cop at the moment, remember? The sooner the better, Nadine. And wait, can you dig any dirt on Senator Brian Waylan, Illinois?”

“You want to know if I can dig any dirt on a U.S. senator?” She gave a low, rumbling laugh. “You want a truckload or a tanker?”

“Whatever there is—emphasis on his stand on artificial organs. You can get me at home or on Roarke’s porta.”

“I don’t happen to have Roarke’s private numbers. Even I have my limits.”

“Have Summerset patch you in. Thanks.”

“Wait, Dallas, are you okay? I want to—”

“Sorry, no time.” She broke transmission and rushed to the doorway just as Peabody strode down the corridor. “Where the hell have you been? I had you paged twice.”

“We’re just a little busy. Feeney sent me down to check on Wo, who kicked about fifteen minutes ago. Her current cohabitant was there and got hysterical. It took me and two orderlies to hold her down so they could sedate her.”

“I thought she lived alone.”

“Turned out she had a lover, kept it quiet. She got home and found Wo in bed pumped full of barbs.”

“When?”

“I guess it’s been a couple hours. We got word after we came in on Louise. Cartright hooked the suspicious death, but it looks like straight self-termination. I have to risk this coffee.”

She crossed to the counter, sniffed the pot, gagged a little, but poured a cup anyway. “She didn’t show for interview,” Peabody continued. “Feeney and I went to her place, got a warrant for entry. She wasn’t there. We looked for her here and came up empty. We had a couple of confirmations that she’d been in her office and the organ wing. We picked up Young and he lawyered up before you could swallow spit. We’re holding him for formal in the morning, but he could dance on bail for the night. We were heading back to Wo’s when we got word on Louise, so we came in, got her status.”

She gulped down coffee and shuddered. “So, how was your day?”

“It sucked. What can you give me on Louise?”

Peabody glanced at her wrist unit, then looked over before Eve could control the wince. “Sorry. Damn, Dallas.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re on duty and pressed for time.”

“I’m supposed to be having a fancy French dinner followed by what I figured might be some fancy sex.” She tried a smile. “But there you go. Louise got hit at the clinic. Blow to the head. Fractured right wrist indicates defensive wound. We figure she saw whoever bashed her. They used the desk ’link.”

“Christ, that took some muscle.”

“Yeah, and they did a number on her with it. She was in her office. Whoever did it left her there. There’s a small drug cabinet in there, for samples. It was broken open and rifled. It happened between three and four this afternoon. She was off shift at three, logged her last patient at three-ten. A doctor on the next rotation found her just after four. They called it in and started work on her there.”

“What’s your take on her chances?”

“It’s a damn good center. Some of the equipment looks like it should be at NASA II. She’s had a fleet of doctors in and out of her room. We’ve got a uniform on the door twenty-four/seven.” She finished off the coffee. “I heard the nurses saying that she’s young and strong. Her heart and lungs are prime. The brain scans haven’t shown anything to worry about yet. But you can tell they want her to come out of it. The longer she stays under, the more worried they look.”

“I have to ask you to call me if there’s any change. I need to know.”

“You don’t have to ask. I should get back.”

“Yeah. Tell Feeney I’m working on a couple of angles. I’ll pass along anything that looks worthwhile.”

“Will do.” She started out, hesitated. “I think you should know: Word is the commander’s been dogging the chief. He’s taken some pokes at IAB, and he’s breathing down Baxter’s neck to close off on Bowers. He’s been over to the one-six-two to do some digging on her on his own. Basically, he’s busting his ass to get you reinstated.”

Unsure how to feel, she simply stared. “I appreciate you telling me.”

“One more thing: Rosswell’s personal account showed regular deposits over the last two months of ten thousand a pop. All E-transfers.” Her lips curved when Eve’s eyes narrowed and gleamed. “He’s dirty. Feeney’s already sicced Webster on him.”

“Times in nicely with Spindler’s murder. Nice work.”

Roarke waited until she was alone before he came back in. He found her sitting on the arm of a sofa, staring down at her hands. “You’ve had a long day, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her hands on her knees, shook off the mood, then looked at him. “I was thinking about topping it off with something special.”

“Is that so?”

“How about a little nighttime B and E?”

His grin flashed. “Darling. I thought you’d never ask.”

chapter twenty-one

“I’m driving.”

Roarke’s hand paused as it reached for the car door, and his brow winged up. “It’s my car.”

“It’s my deal.”

They studied each other a minute, crowded together at the driver’s side door. “Why are you driving?”

“Because.” Vaguely embarrassed, she dug her hands in her pockets. “Don’t smirk.”

“I’ll try to resist. Why?”

“Because,” she said again, “I drive when I’m on a case, so if I drive, it’ll feel like—it’ll feel official instead of criminal.”

“I see. Well, that makes perfect sense. You drive.”

She started to climb in while he circled around to the passenger side. “Are you smirking behind my back?”

“Yes, of course.” He sat, stretched out his legs. “Now, to make it really official, I should have a uniform. I’ll go that far, but I refuse to wear those amazingly ugly cop shoes.”

“You’re a real joker,” she muttered and jerked the car into reverse, did a quick, squealing spin, and shot out of the garage.

“Too bad this vehicle doesn’t have a siren. But we can pretend nothing works on it, so you’ll feel official.”

“Keep it up. Just keep it up.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sir. Could be sexy.” He smiled blandly when she glared at him. “Okay, I’m done. How do you want to play this?”

“I want to get into the clinic, search for the data I sent Louise in for, and anything else interesting, then get out. Without getting caught by some beat droid. I figure with your light and sticky fingers, it should be a walk.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“That’s sir to you, ace.”

She streamed through the smoke of a corner glida grill and headed south. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I must be crazy. I must have lost my mind. I keep crossing lines.”

“Think of it this way. The lines keep moving. You’re just keeping up.”

“I continue keeping up this way, I’ll end up wearing security bracelets. I used to go by the book. I believe in the book. Now I just rewrite the pages.”

“Either that or go back to bed and pull the covers over your head.”

“Yeah, well . . . we make choices. I’ve made mine.”

She found a second-level spot four blocks north of the Canal Street Clinic and tucked the car between a sky scooter and a dented utility truck. If anyone bothered to look, she mused, Roarke’s elegant two-seater would stick out like a swan among toads, but it wasn’t against the law to drive a hot-looking car in this sector.

“I don’t want to park any closer. This thing has antitheft and antivandalism features, right?”

“Naturally. Engage all security,” he ordered as they climbed out. “One more thing. He reached in his pocket. “Your clutch piece . . . sir.”

“What the hell are you doing with this?” She snatched it from him.

“Giving it to you.”

“You’re not authorized to carry and neither am I.” She hissed out a breath as he met that information with another smirk. “Just shut up,” she muttered and jammed the weapon into her back pocket.

“When we get home,” he began as they walked down to street level, “you can . . . reprimand me.”

“Keep your mind off sex.”

“Why? It’s so happy there.” He laid a casual hand on her shoulder as they moved briskly down the block. The few doorway lurkers faded back, intimidated either by the steely look in Eve’s eyes or the warning glint in Roarke’s.

“The place is a dump,” she told him. “No palm plate, no camera. But the locks are decent. They’ve got to meet code because of the drugs. They’ll be standard Security Reds, maybe with timers. Antitheft alarms. Cartright caught the scene here, and she’s a straight cop. There’ll be a seal. I don’t have my master anymore.”

“You have better.” He gave her shoulder a quick rub. “You have me.”

“Yeah.” She tossed him a look, saw in that fabulous face the glint that told her he was enjoying himself. “Seems like.”

“I could teach you how to get through locks.”

It was tempting, much too tempting. God, she missed the weight of her weapon, her badge. “I’ll just keep a lookout for beat droids and other nuisances. If you trip the alarm, we just walk away.”

“Please. I haven’t tripped an alarm since I was ten.” Insulted, he turned to the door of the clinic while Eve cruised the block.

She made two passes, lost in her own thoughts. One event, she decided, had built on another. An old resentment from academy days, a dead sleeper, a conspiracy of death, and here she was, stripped of her badge and playing lookout while the man she’d married coolly broke into a building.

How the hell was she going to get back? How could she get back, if she didn’t get started? She turned, ready to tell him to stop. And he stood, watching her, his eyes calm and blue, with the door open at his back.

“In or out, Lieutenant?”

“Fuck it.” She strode past him and went inside.

He locked up behind them, turned on the narrow beam of a penlight. “Where’s the office?”

“Through the back. This door works on a release from inside.”

“Hold this.” He passed her the light, gestured for her to aim it at the lock. Crouching, he gave it a quick scan. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Your friend Louise was very optimistic with her half million bid.”

He took out what appeared to be a pen, unscrewed it, then flicked a finger over the tip of the long, thin wire he exposed.

She’d known him nearly a year, had been as intimate with him as one person could be with another, and he still managed to surprise her. “You carry burglary tools around with you all the time?”

“Well.” Eyes narrowed, he slid the wire into the slot. “You just never know, do you? There she is, hang on.” He finessed, turning his head to hear the seductive click of tumblers. There was a quiet buzz as locks disengaged. “After you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re slick.” She breezed through, leading with the light. “There’s no window,” she continued. “We can use the room lights. It’s a manual.” She switched it on, blinked to adjust.

A quick scan showed her the sweepers had done their work, left behind their usual mess. The crime scene team’s touch was evident in the sticky layer coating every surface.

“They’ve already lifted prints, swept for fibers, hair, blood, and fluids. Won’t help much. God knows how many of the staff are in and out of this room in any given day. They’ve got their evidence bagged and tagged, but I don’t want to touch or disturb anything that doesn’t need to be.”

“What you want’s on the computer.”

“Yeah, or on a disc, if Louise had already found it. You start on the machine. I’ll do the discs.”

When Roarke sat, making quick work of the pass-lock feature, Eve went through the discs filed on the shelf, flipping through them by the corners. Each was labeled with a patient’s name. Spindler’s was missing.

Frowning, she moved to the next file, scanning through. These appeared to be records of diseases, conditions, injuries. Straight medical shit, she thought, then stopped, eyes narrowing as she read.

The label said simply The Dallas Syndrome.

“I knew she was a smart-ass.” Eve plucked out the disc. “Damn smart. Got it.”

“I haven’t finished playing.”

“Just run this,” she began, then stopped to yank Roarke’s porta-link out of her pocket. “Block video. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant, Peabody. Louise is awake; she asked for you. We’re going to get you in, but it’s got to be fast.”

“I’m there.”

“Come up the east-side stairs. I’ll get you through. Step on it.”

“Close it up.” Eve jammed the ’link back in her pocket. “We’ve got to move.”

“Already done. This time, I drive.”

It was just as well, Eve thought as she bared her teeth and hung on. She had a rep for being nerveless and occasionally reckless behind the wheel, but compared with Roarke, she was a suburban matron manning a car pool.

She did no more than hiss when he screamed into a parking slot in the center’s garage. Saving her breath, she shoved out and pounded up the east-side stairs.

Faithful as a spaniel, Peabody yanked the door open. “Waverly’s going to be back with her in a few minutes. Just give me time to bump the uniform off the door and take over for him. Feeney’s already inside, but she won’t talk to anyone but you.”

“What’s her prognosis?”

“I don’t know yet. They’re not talking.” She looked up at Roarke. “I can’t let you in.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I’ll be quick,” Peabody promised. “Watch for it.”

She strode away, squaring her shoulders back to add authority. Eve moved smoothly to the end of the corridor, shifted slightly to bring Louise’s door into view.

She saw Peabody glance at her wrist unit, shrug, then jerk her thumb to indicate she’d take over duty while the uniform took a break. He didn’t hesitate. Sprung, he hurried down the hallway toward food, coffee, and a chair.

“I won’t be long,” Eve promised. She made the dash, slipped through the door Peabody opened.

The room was larger than she’d expected, and the light was dim. Feeney nodded and flipped the shield on the wide window, closing off the view from outside.

Louise was propped in the hospital bed, the bandages wrapped around her head no whiter than her cheeks. Scanners and IVs ran from her to machines and monitors that hummed and beeped and blinked with lights.

She stirred as Eve approached the bed and opened eyes that were deeply bruised and blurry. A smile ghosted around her mouth.

“I sure as hell earned that half million.”

“I’m sorry.” Eve wrapped her fingers around the bed guard.

“You’re sorry.” With a weak laugh, Louise lifted her right hand. The wrist was cased in a clear stabilizer. “Next time, you get your head bashed in, and I’ll be sorry.”

“Deal.”

“I got the data. I put it on a disc. It’s—”

“I’ve got it.” Feeling helpless, Eve leaned over, laid her hand over Louise’s uninjured one. “Don’t worry.”

“You’ve got it? What the hell did you need me for?”

“Insurance.”

Louise sighed, closed her eyes. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do you. I think it goes deep. Scary. Christ, they gave me primo drugs here, I’m about to go flying.”

“Tell me who hurt you. You saw them.”

“Yeah. So stupid. I was pissed. Put the disc away for safe keeping, then figured I’d handle it myself. Confront the enemy on my turf. Fading out here, Dallas.”

“Tell me who hurt you, Louise.”

“I called her in, let it rip. Next thing . . . caught me off guard. Never thought . . . Jan. Faithful nurse. Go get the bitch for me, Dallas. I can’t kick her ass until I can stand up.”

“I’ll get her for you.”

“Get all the bastards,” she mumbled, then drifted off.

“She was coherent,” Eve said to Feeney, hardly aware she still held Louise’s hand. “She wouldn’t have been that coherent if there was brain damage.”

“I’d say the lady has a hard head. Jan?” He took out his memo pad. “Nurse at the clinic? I’ll pick her up.”

Eve slid her hand away, shoved it into her pocket as she battled impotence. “Will you let me know?”

His eyes met hers over Louise. “First thing.”

“Good. Great. I’d better get out before I’m tagged.” She stopped with her hand on the door. “Feeney?”

“Yeah.”

“Peabody’s a good cop.”

“That she is.”

“If I don’t get back, ask Cartright to take her.”

His throat closed, so he swallowed hard. “You’ll be back, Dallas.”

She turned, met his eyes again. “If I don’t get back,” she said evenly, “ask Cartright to take her. Peabody wants Homicide, she wants to make detective. Cartright can bring her along. Just do that for me.”

“Yeah.” His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay. Goddamn it,” he muttered when she’d slipped out the door. “Goddamn it.”

Roarke gave her the silence he thought she needed on the drive home. He was certain, in her mind, she was riding with Feeney and Peabody, standing beside the door of Jan’s apartment, issuing the standard police order and warning.

And because she’d need to, kicking in the door.

“You could use some sleep,” he said when they were home and inside. “But I imagine you need to work.”

“I’ve got to do this.”

“I know.” The hurt was back in her eyes, the weariness back in her face. “I’ve got to do this.” He drew her into his arms, held her.

“I’m okay.” But she wallowed in him, for just a moment. “I can deal with whatever happens as long as we close this one out. I couldn’t accept whatever I’ll have to accept if we don’t put this one away.”

“You will.” He stroked a hand over her hair. “We will.”

“And if I start to sulk again, just slap me around.”

“I do so enjoy beating my wife.” He closed his hand over hers and started upstairs. “Best to use the unregistered equipment. I’ve had a unit working on searching for buried records at the lab. We may have hit.”

“I’ve got the disc Louise made. I didn’t give it to Feeney.” She waited while he uncoded the door. “He didn’t ask for it.”

“You’ve chosen your friends well. Ah, hard at work.” He glanced at the console, smiling slowly as he scanned the readouts from his scan of the lab at the Drake. “And it appears we’ve found something. Some interesting megabites of unregistered, unaccounted-for data. I’ll need to work on this. He’ll have covered this well, as he did his own log, but I know how his mind travels now.”

“Can you run this on the side?” She handed him the disc. When he popped it into a secondary unit, then sat down at the main controls, she frowned. “Pop the Friend information on one of the screens. And I guess you want coffee?”

“Actually, I’d rather a brandy. Thanks.”

She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve it. “You know, if you’d bring in some droids instead of leaving everything to that tight-assed snot Summerset—”

“You’re moving perilously close to sulking.”

She clamped her mouth shut, poured brandy, ordered coffee for herself, and sat down to work with her back to him.

She studied the data on Westley Friend’s death first. There had been no suicide note. According to his family and closest friends, he had been depressed, distracted, edgy during the days before his death. They had assumed it was due to the stress of his work, the lecture tours, the media and advertising schedule he kept to endorse NewLife products.

He’d been found dead in his office in the Nordick Clinic, at his desk, with the pressure syringe on the floor beside him.

Barbs, she mused, eyes narrowed. The same method as Wo.

There were no coincidences, she told herself. But there were patterns. There were routines.

At the time of his death, she read, he had been heading a team of prominent doctors and researchers involved in a classified project.

She noted with grim satisfaction that Cagney’s, Wo’s, and Vanderhaven’s names were listed as top team members.

Patterns, she thought again. Conspiracies.

Just what was your secret project, Friend, and why did it kill you?

“It goes deep,” Eve murmured. “It goes long, and they’re all in it.”

She turned back to Roarke. “Hard to find a killer when they come in bulk. How many of them have a part in this or knew and turned a blind eye? Close ranks.” She shook her head. “And it doesn’t end with doctors. We’re going to find cops, politicians, executives, investors.”

“I’m sure you’re right. It won’t help you, Eve, to take it personally.”

“There’s no other way to take it.” She leaned back on the desk. “Run Louise’s disc, will you?”

Louise’s voice slid out. “Dallas, looks like you owe me five hundred K. I can’t say I’m positive what—”

“Mute that, would you?” Roarke picked up his brandy and worked the keyboard one-handed. “It’s distracting.”

Eve gritted her teeth, hit mute. This taking orders crap,she decided, had to stop. The sudden thought flashed that they might reinstate her but bust her down to detective or uniform. She barely resisted lowering her head to the console and screaming.

She took a deep breath, then another. Then focused on the monitor.

I can’t say I’m positive what it all means, but I have some theories, and don’t like any of them. You’ll see from the records that follow that regular calls have gone out from the main ’link here at the clinic to the Drake. While we might contact some department there on occasion for a consult, there are too many, too often, and all from the main ’link. Rotation doctors use this office ’link. Only nurses and clerical staff use the main regularly. There are also calls to the Nordick in Chicago. Unless we had a patient who had used that facility and whose records would be there, we would have little reason to contact an out-of-state. Possibly, in rare cases, to reach a specialist. This same principle applies to the centers in London and Paris. You’ll find only a few calls there.

I’ve checked, and the contact numbers for each facility are the organ wings. I’ve also checked the logs here for who was on duty when these calls were made. There’s only one staff member whose schedule fits the time frame. I’m going to have a little chat with her after I file this. I can’t think of an explanation she can come up with that’ll satisfy me, but I’m going to give her a chance before I call the cops.

I assume, when I do, I’m to keep your name out of it. How about a bonus? We won’t call it blackmail. Ha ha.

Get these murdering bastards, Dallas.

Louise.

“Didn’t I tell you just to get the data?” Eve mumbled. “What the hell were you thinking, hotshot?”

She glanced at her wrist unit, calculated that even now Feeney and Peabody would be hauling Jan’s butt into interview. She thought she would cheerfully give up a decade of her life to be inside that room and in charge.

No sulking, she reminded herself and began to scan the ’link logs when the one beside her beeped.

“Dallas.” She frowned as she saw Feeney’s face. “You get Jan into interview already?”

“No.”

“You’ve picked her up?”

“More or less. She’s about to be bagged and tagged. We found her in her apartment, dead and still fresh. Whoever took her out did it fast and neat. Single blow to the head. Prelim time puts it less than thirty minutes before we got to her door.”

“Hell.” Eve closed her eyes a minute, shifted her thoughts. “That puts it under that same amount of time after Louise regained consciousness. Defensive wound indicated she’d seen her attacker and could identify.”

“Somebody didn’t want Jan to talk.” Feeney pursed his lips, nodded. “Follows.”

“That puts it back at the Drake, Feeney. Wo’s out. We need to find out where the other doctors on the short list were in that hour period. You’ve got the security discs and logs from Jan’s building.”

“Peabody’s confiscating right now.”

“He wouldn’t have done it himself. He’s not stupid. You’re going to find a droid, six two, two ten, Caucasian, brown and brown. But somebody had to activate and program.”

“Droid.” Feeney nodded. “McNab hit something interesting when he scanned for data on the self-destruct units. Senator Waylan headed the subcommittee that studied their military uses.”

“I have a feeling he won’t be running for another term.” She rubbed her fingers over her eyes. “Check the logs for security droids at the Drake. Wake up McNab. He could run a systems check on them if you can get a warrant for it. Even if the program was wiped, he’d find the lag time. When you’ve . . .”

She trailed off, snapping back. “Sorry,” she said in a careful voice. “Just thinking out loud.”

“You think good, kid. Always have. Keep going.”

“I was going to say that in some of the research I’ve done, I found that Westley Friend’s self-termination used the same method as Dr. Wo, and they were both—along with some of our other cast of characters—involved in some classified project at the time of his death. It seems a little too neat. Someone might want to suggest to Morris that he consider that dose was forcibly administered.”

“It was her pin found on scene.”

“Yeah, and it was the only mistake in this whole business. That’s a little too neat, too.”

“Smelling goat, are you, Dallas? Scapegoat?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m smelling. Be interesting to find out how much she knew. If I had access to her personal logs . . .”

“I think I’ll just wake up McNab, keep the boy busy awhile. You stand by.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

When the transmission ended, she picked up her coffee and got up to prowl. It had to go back to Friend, she decided. Revolutionary new implant that made certain hot areas of organ research obsolete. Meaning end of funding, end of glory for those heavily involved in those areas.

“What if a group of doctors or interested parties continued and restarted research on a covert level?” She turned to Roarke, grimaced when she noted he was manning the keyboard. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got his pattern now. It’s nearly routine from here.” He glanced up, pleased to see her focused, restless, edgy. That, he thought, was his cop. “What’s your theory?”

“It’s not one rogue doctor,” she began. “Look at this little operation. I can’t do this out on my own. I’ve got you, with your questionable skills. Feeney, Peabody, and McNab, sliding under regs and procedure to feed me data. I enlisted a doctor on the side. I’ve even got Nadine running research. It’s too big for one cop—and a cop working outside the system—to handle alone. You need contacts, fillers, assistants, experts. There’s a team, Roarke. He’s got a team. We know he had the nurse. My best guess is she fed him data on patients, the kind that use the clinic or make use of the medi-van service. Sleepers, LCs, dealers, chemi-heads. Dregs,” she concluded. “Vessels.”

“She contacted someone with possible donors, let’s say.” Roarke nodded. “Every business needs a good inside track. And this appears to be a business.”

“She passed data straight to the labs. Her contact with the outside centers could have, likely was, for verification of a hit. She’d be what you’d call middle management, I guess.”

“Close enough.”

“I bet we find she has a nice nest egg stashed. They’d pay well. We know their lab man had to be Young. Every business needs a geek, right?”

“Can’t run one otherwise.”

“The Drake’s enormous, and our geek was pretty much in charge of the organ wing. He’d know just where to stash outside samples. And he had a medical license. He’d be the likely candidate to assist the surgeon, to bag the sample, to transport it back to the lab. That’s two.”

She crossed to the AutoChef, getting more coffee. “Wo. Politics and administration. A skilled surgeon who enjoyed power. Former president of the AMA. She knew how to play the game. She’d have high connections. But obviously, she was also considered dispensable. Maybe she had a conscience, maybe she was getting nervous, or maybe they just sacrificed her to throw the investigation off the scent. It worked for Friend,” she mused. “He wouldn’t have been pleased, do you think, if he’d discovered this rogue research conspiracy. It would have cut into his profits, his glory. There go the lecture fees, the big banquets in his honor, the media hype.”

“Only if what they’re doing, or hope to do, works.”

“Yeah. They’re willing to kill to make it work, so why not take out the competition? It used to be organ building. Louise sort of explained it in the initial report she did for me. They took tissue from a damaged or defective organ and built a new one in the lab. Grew them in molds so the tissue’d take the right shape. That solved the rejection problem. You used the patient’s own tissue so the body’d accept it and tick along. But it takes time. You just don’t grow yourself a new, happy heart overnight.”

She walked back to the console, eased a hip on the edge, and watched him work as she talked it out. “They do that kind of thing in vitro. You got like nine months to deal there. You can grow the bad part back or repair it.

“Then Friend comes along,” she continued. “Building and brokering organs has been the thing. It’s tough to grow them for anyone over—I forget—like ninety because of the timing and the age of the tissue. Takes weeks to grow a new bladder and you’ve got to do molding and layering and stuff. A lot of work, a lot of money to order one up. But Friend comes up with this artificial material that the body accepts. It’s cheap, it’s durable, and it can be molded to order. Mass-produced. Applause, applause, let’s all live forever.”

He glanced up at that, had to grin. “Don’t you want to?”

“Not with a bunch of interchangeable spare parts. But anyhow, he gets carried through the streets, the crowd roars and throws buckets of money and adulation at him. And the guys doing organ building and reconstruction research are shoved right out into the cold. Who wants to hang around peeing in a diaper while their new bladder’s growing in some lab when they can pop into surgery, get a new, improved one, and be peeing like a champ inside a week?”

“Agreed. And that manufacturing arm of Roarke Industries thanks the full bladders everywhere. But since everyone’s happy this way, what good will this little group of mad scientists prove by continuing their work?”

“You keep your own,” she said simply. “Medically, it’s probably some major miracle—regeneration—like the Frankenstein guy. Here’s this half-dead, messed-up heart. Not gonna tick much longer. But what if it can be fixed, completely, like new? You got the part you were born with, not some piece of foreign matter. The Conservative party, which includes Senator Waylan, would dance in the street. Plenty of them have artificial tickers, but they like to stomp around every few years and talk about how it’s against the rules of God and humankind to prolong life by artificial means.”

“Darling, you’ve been reading the papers. I’m so impressed.”

“Kiss my ass.” And it felt good to grin. “I’m betting when Nadine gets in touch, she’ll tell me Waylan stands against artificial life aids. You know, the ‘if God didn’t give it to you, it’s immoral’ line.”

“NewLife routinely deals with protests from natural-life groups. I imagine we’ll find the senator supports their stand.”

“Yeah, and if he can make a few bucks running interference for a group who promises a new medical and natural miracle, so to speak, so much the better. It would have to be a quick procedure. It couldn’t be risky to the patient,” she went on. “They’d never outdo the implant unless what they do is as convenient and as successful. Business,” she said again. “Profit. Glory. Votes.”

“Agreed, again. I’d say they’ve been working with animal organs up until recently. They must have reached a level of success with that.”

“Then they moved up the evolutionary scale. Kept low on it from their viewpoint. Scum, as Cagney put it.”

“I’m in,” he said mildly and had her blinking.

“In what? In? What’ve you got? Let me see.”

Even as she dashed around the console, he ordered data on-screen. When he pulled her neatly onto his lap, she was too distracted for even a token protest.

“Neat as a pin,” she murmured. “Names, dates, procedures, results. Jesus Christ, Roarke, they’re all there.”

Jasper Mott, October 15, 2058, heart sample successfully removed. Evaluation concurred with previous diagnosis. Organ severely damaged, enlarged. Estimated period until termination, one year.

Logged as donor organ K-489.

Regeneration procedure begun October 16.

She bypassed the rest, focused on her case, her first victim, Snooks.

Samuel M. Petrinsky, January 12, 2059, heart sample successfully removed. Evaluation concurred with previous diagnosis. Organ severely damaged, arteries brittle and clogged, cancer cells stage two. Sample enlarged, estimated period until termination, three months.

Logged as brokered organ S-351.

Regeneration procedure begun January 13.

She skimmed down the rest, out of her depth with the medical jargon. But the last line was easily understood.

Procedure unsuccessful. Sample terminated and disposed of, January 15.

“They stole three months of his life, then failed and tossed his heart away.”

“Look at the last one, Eve.”

She noted the name—Jilessa Brown—the date, the sample removed.

January 25. Preliminary regeneration successful. Stage two begun. Sample responding to injection and stimuli. Noticeable regrowth of healthy cells. Stage three begun January 26. Naked eye exam shows pinkening of tissue. Sample fully regenerated within thirty-six hours of first injection. All scans and evaluations conclude sample is healthy. No indication of disease. Aging process successfully reversed. Organ fully functional.

“Well.” Eve drew a deep breath. “Applause, applause. Now let’s fry their asses.”

I have done it. Through skill and patience and power, through a judicious use of fine minds and greedy hearts, I have succeeded. Life, essentially endless, is within my reach.

It remains only to repeat the process again, continue the documentation.

My heart trembles, but my hands are steady. They are ever steady. I can look at them and see how perfect they are. Elegant, strong, like works of art carved by divine hands. I’ve held beating hearts in these hands, have slipped them delicately into the human body to repair, to improve, to prolong life.

Now, finally, I have conquered death.

Some of those fine minds will have regrets, will ask questions, will even doubt the steps that had to be taken now that the goal has been reached. I will not. Great strides often crush even the innocent under the heel.

If lives were lost, we will consider them martyrs to the greater good. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some of those greedy hearts will wheedle and whine, will demand more and calculate how to gain it. Let them. There will be enough for even the most avaricious among them.

And there will be some who will debate the meaning of what I’ve done, the means by which it was accomplished, and the use of the process. In the end, they’ll shove and elbow their way in line, desperate for what I can give them.

And pay whatever is asked.

Within a year, my name will be on the lips of kings and presidents. Glory, fame, wealth, power. They are at my fingertips. What fate once stole from me I have snatched back tenfold. Grand health centers, cathedrals to the art of medicine, will be built for me in every city, in every country on this planet, and everywhere man races to beat death.

Humanity will canonize me. The saint of their survival.

God is dead, and I am His replacement.

chapter twenty-two

How to do it was problematic. She could copy the data and send it to Feeney along the same route she had the other information. He’d have it in hand the next day. It would be enough for a warrant, for search and seizure, to drag high-level staff members into interview.

It was a way, a completely unsatisfying way.

She could go to the Drake Center herself, punch her way into the lab, record the data, the samples, pound on high-level staff members until they spilled their guts.

It was not the way, but it would have been very satisfying.

She tapped the disc she’d copied on her palm. “Feeney will close it within forty-eight hours, once he has this. It may take longer to round up everyone involved on at least two continents. But it’ll stop.”

“We’ll put it in overnight now.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaged the tension and fatigue. “I know it’s hard not being there at the end of it. You can comfort yourself knowing there wouldn’t be an end in a couple of days unless you’d found the answers. You’re a hell of a cop, Eve.”

“I was.”

“Are. Your test results and Mira’s evaluation will put you back where you belong. On the other side of the line.” He leaned down, kissed her. “I’ll miss you.”

It made her smile. “You manage to wiggle in, whichever side of the line I’m on. Let’s get this data on its way. Then we’ll watch the cleanup on-screen in a day or two, like normal citizens.”

“Wear your coat this time.”

“My coat’s trash,” she reminded him as they came down the stairs.

“You have another.” He opened a door, took out a long sweep of bronze cashmere. “It’s too cold for your jacket.”

Eyeing him, she fingered the sleeve. “What, do you have some droids in a room somewhere manufacturing these?”

“In a manner of speaking. Gloves in the pocket,” he reminded her and shrugged on his own coat.

She had to admit, it was nice to be wrapped in something warm and soft against the bitter air. “Once we dump this data, let’s come back, get naked, and crawl all over each other.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And tomorrow, you go back to work and stop hovering.”

“I don’t believe I’ve been hovering. I believe I’ve been playing Nick to your Nora, and quite well.”

“Nick who?”

“Charles, darling. We’re going to have to spend time educating you in the entertainment value of classic early–twentieth-century cinema.”

“I don’t know where you find time for that stuff. It must be because you don’t sleep like a regular human being. You’re out there piling up billions and buying small worlds and—which reminds me, we need to discuss this idiotic idea of yours about stuffing money in some account for me. I want you to take it back.”

“All five million plus, or less the half million you’re donating to the Canal Street Clinic?”

“Don’t get smart with me, pal. I married you for your body, not your bucks.”

“Darling Eve, that’s so touching. And all the while I thought it was my coffee connection.”

Love could swamp her at the oddest times, she realized. “That didn’t hurt. Tomorrow, you do whatever it is you do to zap it back out and close it down. And next time you . . . Louise. Oh Christ. Head to the Drake! Head there now! Damn it, how did this slip by us?”

He punched up speed, clipped the curb at the corner. “You think they’ll go after her?”

“They took out Jan. They can’t let Louise talk.” Ignoring jams and privacy, she used the car ’link and tagged Feeney on his communicator.

“Get to the Drake,” she told him. “Get to Louise. I’m on my way, ETA five minutes. They’ll go for her, Feeney. They’ve got to go for her. She had data.”

“We’ll head out. She’s under guard, Dallas.”

“It won’t matter. The uniform won’t question a doctor. Contact him, Feeney, tell him not to let anyone in that room.”

“Confirmed. Our ETA fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll be there in two,” Roarke promised her as he flew across town. “Waverly?”

“Current president of AMA, chief of surgery, organ specialist, board member. Affiliated with several top-level centers worldwide.” She slapped a hand on the dash to keep her balance when he swung into the garage. “Cagney—he’s her uncle, but he’s chief of staff, chairman, and one of the most respected surgeons in the country. Hans Vanderhaven, international connections. God knows where he is right now. If not them, there are others who can walk right in and get to her without anyone blinking twice. There must be a dozen ways to off a patient, then cover the tracks.”

She sprang out of the car, raced for the elevator. “They don’t know she’s talked to me. She’s smart enough to keep that to herself, maybe to play dumb if anybody tries to pump her. But they might have gotten something out of Jan before they killed her. They’ve got to know by now she has data on the calls, asked questions, made accusations.”

She watched the numbers light above the door, willed them to hurry.

“They’d wait until the floor was quiet, until the change of shifts, most likely.”

“We won’t be too late,” she promised herself, and sprang out of the elevator the moment the doors opened.

“Miss!” A nurse came scrambling around the desk as Eve rushed by. “Miss, you’re required to check in at the desk. You’re not authorized.” Racing after them, she dragged out her beeper and called security.

“Where’s the uniform assigned to this door?” Eve demanded, shoving and finding the door itself secured.

“I don’t know.” Grim-faced, the nurse moved over to block them from the door. “This is a family or authorized personnel only area.”

“Unlock this door.”

“I will not. I’ve called security. The patient in this room is not to be disturbed as per doctor’s orders. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Go ahead and ask.” Rearing back, Eve broke the door open with two vicious kicks. Her clutch piece seemed to leap into her hand as she ran through. “Oh God, goddamn.”

The bed was empty.

The nurse sputtered when Eve whirled on her, grabbed her by the collar of her pale peach uniform smock. “Where’s Louise?”

“I—I don’t know. She’s supposed to be here. She was logged out as not to disturb when I came on shift twenty minutes ago.”

“Eve. Here’s your uniform.”

Roarke was crouched on the other side of the bed, testing the unconscious cop’s pulse. “He’s alive, sedated heavily I’d say.”

“Which doctor logged her as not to be disturbed?”

“Her attending. Dr. Waverly.”

“Do something for that uniform,” she ordered the nurse. “Cops will be here in ten minutes. I want you to order this building sealed, all exits.”

“I don’t have the authority.”

“Do it!” Eve repeated. She spun on her heel. “Organ wing, best guess. We’ll have to separate when we get there. We can’t cover the whole wing in time unless we do.”

“We’ll find her.” They hit the elevator together. He pried open the plate, flipped some controls. “We’re now straight express. Brace yourself.”

She didn’t even have the breath to curse. The speed pressed her into the corner, made her eyes tear and her heart thunder. She had a moment to pray he’d remembered to engage the brakes when they jerked to a stop that had her stumbling hard into him.

“Some ride. Here, take my piece.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant, but I have my own.” His face was cold and set as he drew out a sleek nine-millimeter. A weapon, like all handguns, that had been banned decades earlier.

“Shit,” was all she had time to say.

“I’ll go east, you take the west side.”

“Don’t fire that weapon unless—” she began, but he was out and gone.

She got her bearings and moved down the corridor, sweeping with her weapon as she came to a turn or a door. She fought the urge to rush. Each new area had to be carefully searched before she moved to the next.

She gazed up to the cameras scanning. It would be a miracle, she knew, if she came across her objective without being expected. And she knew she was being led when doors that should have been locked gave way as she approached.

“Okay, you son of a bitch,” she whispered. “You want a one-on-one? So do I.”

She made another turn, faced double doors fashioned of heavy, opaque glass. There was a palm plate, a cornea scanner, timed locks. A computerized voice activated as she stepped forward.

Warning. This is a secured area. Authorized Level Five personnel only. Hazardous biological material contained within. Warning. Anticontamination suits required. No entry without authorization.

The doors slid smoothly open.

“I guess I’ve just been authorized.”

“Your tenacity is admirable, Lieutenant. Please, come in.”

Waverly had removed his lab coat. He was dressed as if for an elegant evening engagement in a perfectly cut dark suit with a silk tie. His gold caduceus glinted in the bright lights.

He smiled charmingly and held a pressure syringe against the pulse in Louise’s throat. Eve’s heart bumped once, hard against her ribs. Then she saw the gentle rise and fall of Louise’s breasts.

Still breathing, she thought, and she intended to keep it that way.

“You got sloppy in the end, Doc.”

“I don’t think so. Just a few loose ends needing to be tied off and snipped. I suggest you put down your weapon, Lieutenant, unless you want me to administer this very fast-acting, very lethal medication to our young friend here.”

“Is that the same stuff you used on Friend and Wo?”

“As it happens, Hans treated Tia. But, yes. It’s painless and efficient. The drug of choice for discriminating self-terminators. She’ll be dead in less than three minutes. Now, put down your weapon.”

“You kill her, you’ve got no shield.”

“You won’t let me kill her.” He smiled again. “You can’t. A woman who risks her life for dead derelicts will swallow her pride for the life of an innocent. I’ve made quite a study of you in the past couple of weeks, Lieutenant—or should I say former Lieutenant Dallas.”

“You saw to that, too.” She would count on her wits now, Eve thought, as she laid the gun on the counter beside her. And on Roarke.

“You made that simple, all in all. Or Bowers did. Close doors and secure,” he ordered, and she heard them snick together at her back, locking her in. Locking backup out.

“Did she work with you?”

“Only indirectly. Move away from your weapon, slowly, to the left. Very good. You have a good mind, and we won’t be disturbed in here for some time. I’m happy to cooperate and fill in the blanks for you. It seems only fair, under the circumstances.”

To brag, she realized. He needed to brag. Arrogance, God complex. “I don’t have too many blanks yet to fill. But I’m interested in how you roped Bowers in.”

“She walked into it. Or you did. She turned out to be a handy tool to get rid of you, since threats didn’t do the job, and bribery seemed absurd, considering both your record and your financial situation. You cost this area of the Drake a very expensive security droid.”

“Well, you’ve got more.”

“Several. One is even now dealing with your husband.” The flash in her eyes delighted him. “Ah, that concerns you, I see. I’ve never been a believer in true love, but the two of you do make a lovely couple. Did.”

Roarke was armed, she reminded herself. And he was good. “Roarke isn’t easy to deal with.”

“He doesn’t trouble me overmuch.” The arrogance seeped through as Waverly shrugged. “Now, the two of you together were an irritant, but . . . well, you were asking about Bowers. It simply fell into place. She was a paranoid violent tendency that slipped through the system and ended up in uniform. There are others, you know.”

“It happens.”

“Every day. You being assigned to the investigation on—what was his name?”

“Petrinsky. Snooks.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. Rosswell was supposed to be assigned to that matter, but there was some slipup in dispatch.”

“How long have you owned him?”

“Oh, only a few months. If all had gone according to plan, the entire business would have been filed and forgotten.”

“Who’ve you got in the ME’s department?”

“Just a midlevel clerk with an affection for pharmaceuticals.” He smiled slowly, winningly. “It’s a simple matter to find the right person with the right weakness.”

“You killed Snooks for nothing. You failed with him.”

“A disappointment to us. His heart didn’t respond. But there must be failures in any serious search for progress, just as there are obstacles to be overcome. You’ve been quite an obstacle. It was clear very quickly that you’d dig hard and deep and uncomfortably close. We had this problem in Chicago, but we handled it quite easily. You weren’t so quickly dispatched, so it took other means. A little cooperation from Rosswell, a bit of ruffling of Bowers’s feathers, false data planted, then, of course, we arranged for both of you to meet on another murder scene. She reacted very much as predicted, and while you were admirably controlled, it was enough.”

“So you had her killed, knowing procedure would require my suspension and an investigation.”

“It seemed that had solved our little problem, and with Senator Waylan putting pressure on the mayor, we’d have time to finish. We were so very close to complete success.”

“Organ regeneration.”

“Exactly.” He all but beamed at her. “You have filled in blanks. I told the others you would.”

“Yeah, I’ve filled them. Friend screwed up your cushy circle with his artificial implants, knocked away your funding.” She hooked her thumbs in her pockets, moved a little closer. “You’d have been pretty young then, maybe just getting your toehold. Must’ve pissed you off.”

“Oh, it did. It took me years to establish myself enough to gather the resources, the team, the equipment to competently continue the work we’d been doing when Friend destroyed it. I hadn’t quite reached the brass ring of prominence when he and some colleagues began experimenting with melding live tissue with the artificial material. But Tia, she believed in me, in my passions. She kept me well informed.”

“Did she help you kill him?”

“No, that I did unassisted. Friend had gotten wind of my interests, experiments. Didn’t care for them. He intended to use his influence to cancel my funding—pitiful as it was—to research the regeneration of animal organs. I canceled him and his little project first.”

“But then you had to go under,” she said easing forward with her eyes steady on his. “You planned to move to human organs eventually, so you covered your tracks.”

“And covered them well. Enlisted some of the very best hands and minds in the medical field. And all’s well that ends well. Watch your step.”

She stopped at the foot of the gurney, laid a hand casually on the guard. “You know they’ve got Young. He’ll roll over on you.”

“He’d die first.” Waverly chuckled. “The man is obsessed with this project. He sees his name shining in medical journals for the ages. He believes I’m a god. He would bite through the artery in his own wrist before he’d betray me.”

“Maybe. I guess you couldn’t count on that kind of loyalty from Wo.”

“No. She was always a risk, always on the outskirts of the project. A skilled doctor but a fairly unstable woman. She began to balk when she discovered our human samples had been . . . appropriated without permission.”

“She didn’t expect you to kill people.”

“They’re hardly people.”

“And the others?”

“In this arena? Hans believes as I do. Colin?” He moved an elegant shoulder. “He prefers to wear blinders, to pretend not to know the full extent of the project. There are more, of course. An undertaking of this magnitude requires a large if select team.”

“Did you send the droid after Jan?”

“You’ve found her already.” He shook his head in admiration, and his hair gleamed like gold under the bright lab lights. “My, that was quick. Of course. She was one of those loose ends.”

“And what will Cagney say when you tell him Louise was another loose end?”

“He won’t know. It’s very simple, if you know how, to dispose of a body in a health center. The crematorium is efficient and never closed. What happened to her will remain a mystery.”

In an absent gesture, Waverly stroked a hand over Louise’s hair. Eve wanted to taste his blood for that alone.

“It will likely break him,” Waverly considered. “I’m sorry for it. Very sorry to have to sacrifice two fine minds, two excellent doctors, but progress, great progress, requires heavy sacrifice.”

“He’ll know.”

“Oh, on some level, certainly. And he’ll deny. He does his best work in denial. But he will consider himself responsible. Guilty, I suppose, by omission. He is certainly aware that experiments and research are being conducted in this and other facilities, without official sanction. He tends to look the other way easily, to call out his loyalty to the club. One doctor does not turn on another.”

“But you do.”

“My loyalty is to the project.”

“What do you hope to gain?”

“Is that the blank you can’t fill? My God, we have done it.” Now his eyes sparkled, emerald green and full of power. “We can rejuvenate a human organ. Within one day, a dying heart can be treated and brought back to health. Not just health, but strength, youth, vigor.” Excitement had his voice rising, deepening. “Better in some cases than it was before it was damaged. It can be all but reanimated, and that, I believe, is possible with a bit more study.”

“Bring the dead to life?”

“The stuff of fiction, you’re thinking. So were transplants once, cornea replacement, in vitro repair. This can and will be done, and very soon. We’re nearly ready to go public with our discovery. A serum that, when injected directly into the damaged organ through a simple surgical procedure, will regenerate the cells, will eradicate any disease. A patient will be ambulatory within hours, and will walk out, cured, in under forty-eight. With his own heart or lungs or kidneys, not some artificial mold.”

He leaned toward her, eyes gleaming. “You still don’t understand the scope. It can be done over and over again, to every organ. And from there, it’s a small step to muscle, to bone, to tissue. With this beginning, we’ll draw in more funding than we can possibly use to complete the work. Within two years, we will be able to remake a human being, using his own body. Life expectancy can and will double. Perhaps more. Death will essentially become obsolete.”

“It’s never obsolete, Waverly. Not as long as there are people like you. Who will you choose to remake?” she demanded. “There’s not enough room, not enough resources for everybody to live forever.” She watched his smile turn cagey. “It’ll come down to money then, and selection.”

“Who needs more aging whores or sidewalk sleepers? We have Waylan in our pocket, and he’ll push his influence in East Washington. The politicians will jump right on this. We’ve found a way to clean up the streets over the next generation, to employ a kind of natural selection, survival of the fittest.”

“Of your selection, your choice.”

“And why not? Who better to decide than those who’ve held human hearts in their hands, slid into the brain and gut? Who understands better?”

“That’s the mission,” she said quietly. “To create and mold and select.”

“Admit it, Dallas, the world would be a better place without the dregs that weigh it down.”

“You’re right. We just have a different definition of dregs.”

She shoved the gurney hard to the right and leaped over it.

Roarke crouched at the secured door. His entire world had become that single control panel. There was a raw bruise on his cheekbone, a jagged gash in his shoulder.

The security droid was minus his left arm and head, but it had taken entirely too much time.

He forced his mind to stay focused, his vision to remain clear, and his hands steady. He never flinched when he heard footsteps pounding down the corridor behind him. He could recognize the slap of cheap cop shoes a mile off.

“Jesus, Roarke, was that droid your work?”

“She’s in there.” He didn’t glance back at Feeney, but continued to search for the next bypass. “I know it. Give me room, don’t get in my light.”

Peabody cleared her throat as the computer warning sounded again. “If you’re wrong—”

“I’m not wrong.”

She rammed her fist into his face and relished the sting of knuckles meeting flesh. Something ripped as she tackled him and sent them crashing onto the floor.

He wasn’t soft, and he was desperate. She tasted her own blood, felt her bones jar, saw one quick burst of stars when her head cracked against the wheels of the gurney.

She didn’t use the pain, she didn’t need it. She used her rage. Half blind with it, she straddled him, slamming her elbow into his windpipe. He gagged, strained for air. And she twisted the syringe he’d nearly pumped into her side out of his hand.

Wheezing, eyes huge, he went still as she tipped it against his throat. “Scared, you bastard? Different on the other end, isn’t it? Move the wrong way, and you’re dead. What did you say? Within three minutes? I’ll just sit here and watch you die, like you watched all those people die.”

“Don’t.” It was a rusty croak. “I’m choking. Can’t get air.”

“I could put you out of your misery.” She smiled as his eyes wheeled in his head. “But it’s just too damn easy. You want to live forever, Waverly? You can live forever in a fucking cage.”

She started to climb off him, sighed once. “I just have to,” she muttered, and rammed one short-armed jab into his face.

She was just pulling herself to her feet when the doors swung open. “Well.” She swiped the back of her hand across her swollen mouth. “The gang’s all here.” Cautiously, she turned the syringe upside down. “You might want to seal this, Peabody, poison precautions, it’s lethal. Hey, Roarke, you’re bleeding.”

He stepped to her, gently wiped her lip with his thumb. “You, too.”

“Good thing we’re in a health center, huh? Ruined that fancy coat.”

Now he grinned. “You, too.”

“Told ya. Feeney, you can interview me when you clean up this mess. Somebody ought to take a look at Louise. He must have sedated her. She slept through this whole thing. And pick up Rosswell, would you? Waverly rolled over on him.”

“It’ll be a pleasure. Anybody else?”

“Cagney and Vanderhaven, who happen to be in the city, according to Dr. Death here. There’ll be more, here and there.” She glanced back where Waverly lay unconscious. “He’ll give it up. He’s got no balls at all.” She picked up her clutch piece, stuck it in her back pocket. “We’re going home.”

“Good work, Dallas.”

For a moment, her eyes were absolutely bleak, then she grinned, shrugged. “Yeah. What the hell.” Sliding her arm around Roarke, she walked away.

“Peabody.”

“Captain?”

“Get Commander Whitney out of bed.”

“Sir?”

“Tell him Captain Feeney respectfully requests his administrative ass on-scene here as soon as possible.”

Peabody cleared her throat. “Is it okay if I rephrase that slightly?”

“Just get him here.” With that, Feeney walked over to take a look at Dallas’s good work.

She was dead asleep when the ’link beeped. For perhaps the first time in her life, she simply rolled over and ignored it. When Roarke shook her shoulder, she just grunted and yanked the cover over her head.

“I’m sleeping here.”

“You just had a call from Whitney. He wants you in his office at Central in an hour.”

“Shit. That can’t be good.” Resigned, she pushed the covers back, sat up. “The test results and evaluation can’t be in yet. It’s too early. Goddamn it, Roarke. I’m busted.”

“Let’s go in and find out.”

She shook her head, dragged herself out of bed. “This isn’t for you.”

“You aren’t going in alone. Pull yourself together, Eve.”

She bit down on the despair, rolled back her shoulders, and looked at him. He was already in a business suit, his hair shining and sleek. The bruise on his cheekbone had nearly faded away with treatment, but the shadow of it added just a hint of the dangerous.

“How come you already are?”

“Because staying in bed half the morning unless sex is involved is a waste of time. Since you didn’t appear to be cooperative in that area, I started my day with coffee instead. Stop stalling and go take your shower.”

“Okay, fine, great.” She stalked into the bathroom so they could worry in different rooms.

She refused breakfast. He didn’t press. But as he drove downtown, she reached for his hand. He held it until he’d parked at Central and turned to her.

“Eve.” He cupped her face, relieved that though she was pale, she didn’t tremble. “Remember who you are.”

“I’m working on it. I’ll be all right. You can wait here.”

“Not a chance.”

“Okay.” She took a bracing breath. “Let’s do it.”

They rode in silence. As cops piled off and on the elevator from floor to floor, gazes flickered toward her, then away. There was nothing to be said, and no way to say it.

Her stomach rolled as she stepped off, but her legs were steady as she approached the outer office of the commander.

The door was open. Whitney stood behind his desk and gestured her inside. His gaze shifted briefly to Roarke.

“Sit down, Dallas.”

“I’ll stand, sir.”

They weren’t alone in the room. As before, Tibble stood at the window. Others sat silently: Feeney with his morose face, Peabody with her lips clamped tight, Webster eyeing Roarke specutively. Before Whitney could speak again, Mira hurried in.

“I’m terribly sorry to be late. I was with a patient.” She took a seat beside Peabody, folded her hands.

Whitney nodded, then opened the center drawer of his desk. He took out her badge, her weapon, laid them in the center. Her gaze lowered to them, lingered, then lifted without expression.

“Lieutenant Webster.”

“Sir.” He rose. “The Internal Affairs Bureau finds no cause for sanction or reprimand or for further investigation into the conduct of Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Detective Baxter is in the field, but his investigative report on the homicide of Officer Ellen Bowers has been written and filed. The case has been closed, and Lieutenant Dallas is cleared of any suspicion or involvement in that matter. This confirms your evaluation, Dr. Mira.”

“Yes, it does. The test results and evaluation clear the lieutenant in all areas and confirm her aptitude for her position. My reports have been entered into the subject’s file.”

“So noted,” Whitney said and turned back to Eve. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. “The New York Police and Security Department offers its apologies to one of its finest for an injustice done to her. I add my own personal apology to it. Procedure is necessary, but it is not always equitable.”

Tibble stepped forward. “The suspension is lifted and will be expunged from your record. You will not be penalized in any way for the enforced time away from the job. The department will issue a statement to the media detailing what facts are deemed pertinent and necessary. Commander?”

“Sir.” Whitney’s face remained passive as he picked up her badge, her weapon, held them out. Emotion sparked in his eyes when she simply stared at them. “Lieutenant Dallas, this department and myself would suffer a great loss if you refuse these.”

She remembered to breathe and lifted her gaze, met his, then reached out and took what was hers. Across the room, Peabody sniffled audibly.

“Lieutenant.” Whitney offered his hand across the desk. A rare grin broke out on his face when she clasped it. “You’re on duty.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned, looked straight at Roarke. “Just let me get rid of this civilian.” Watching him, she tucked away her badge, shrugged into her harness. “Can I see you outside a minute?”

“Absolutely.”

He sent the sniffling Peabody a wink and walked out after his wife. The minute they were out of view, he spun her around, kissed her lavishly. “It’s nice to see you again, Lieutenant.”

“Oh God.” Her breath hitched in and out. “I’ve got to get out of here without . . . you know.”

“Yes.” He wiped a tear off her lashes. “I know.”

“You have to go or I’ll fall apart. But maybe you could be around later, so I could.”

“Get to work.” He tapped a finger on her chin. “You’ve been loafing long enough.”

She grinned, swiped the back of her unsteady hand inelegantly under her nose as he walked away. “Hey, Roarke?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

She laughed, rushed at him, leaped, and gave him a hard, smacking kiss. “See you.”

“You certainly will.” He flashed her one last devastating grin before the elevator doors closed him in.

“Lieutenant Dallas, sir.” Peabody snapped to attention, a dopey grin on her face when Eve turned around. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I’m ordered to return your communicator.” She dashed forward, shoved it into Eve’s hand, and bounced her up and down in a hug. “Hot damn!”

“Let’s maintain a little dignity here, Peabody.”

“Okay. Can we go out later to celebrate and get drunk and stupid?”

Eve pursed her lips in thought as they headed for the glide. “Got plans tonight,” she said thinking of that last flashing grin of Roarke’s, “but tomorrow works for me.”

“Frigid. So look, Feeney said I should tell you we’ve still got some details to wrap up to close this case good and tight. International connections, the East Washington angle, a full sweep of staff at the Drake, coordinating cooperative investigations with CPSD.”

“It’ll take some time, but we’ll clean it up. Vanderhaven?”

“Still at large.” She sent Eve a sidelong look. “Waverly’s out of the health center. He’s cleared to be interviewed any time, and he’s already singing out names hoping for leniency. We figure he’ll spit out Vanderhaven’s hole. Feeney figured you’d want to take the interview.”

“He figured right.” Eve hopped off the glide, changed directions. “Let’s go kick some ass, Peabody.”

“I love when you say that. Sir.”

Loyalty in Death

J. D. Robb

Contents

Loyalty in Death

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-0371-2

A BERKLEY BOOK®

Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: October, 2003

For Vanessa Darby because I really want to go to heaven

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.

—Shakespeare

Politics, as the word is commonly understood,
are nothing but corruptions.

—Jonathan Swift

prologue

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

It has begun.

All we have worked for, all we have trained for, all we have sacrificed for is in place. A dawn after so long a twilight. The goals set over thirty years ago will be achieved. The promises made will be kept. And the martyr’s blood that was shed avenged at long last.

We know you are concerned. We know you are cautious. This is what makes you a wise general. Believe that we have taken your counsel and your warnings to heart. We do not break the moratorium on this righteous and bitter war with a battle we intend to lose. We are well-equipped, our cause well-financed, and all steps and options have been considered.

We send this transmission to you, dear friend and Comrade, as we joyfully prepare to continue our mission. Already, first blood has been spilled, and we rejoice. Circumstances have put an opponent in our path you would find worthy. We have attached to this transmission a dossier on Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the so-called New York City Police and Security Department so that you might familiarize yourself with this adversary.

Through the defeat of this enemy, our victory will be all the sweeter. She is, after all, another symbol of the corrupt and oppressive system we will destroy.

Your wise counsel directed us to this place. We have lived among these pitiful pawns of a weak-kneed society, wearing our smiling mask as we scorn their city and their system of repression and decay. We have to their blind eyes become one of them. No one questions us as we move about these immoral and filthy streets. We are invisible, a shadow among shadows as you, and the one we both loved, taught us the canniest soldier must be.

And when we have destroyed, one by one, the symbols of this overfed society, demonstrating our power and our clean-minded plan for the new realm, they will tremble. They will see us, and they will remember him. The first symbol of our glorious victory will be a monument to him. In his image.

We are loyal, and our memory is long.

You will hear the first rumble of battle tomorrow.

Speak of us to all the patriots, to all the loyal.

We are Cassandra.

On this particular night, a beggar died unnoticed under a bench in Greenpeace Park. A history professor fell bloodied, his throat slashed three feet from his front door for the twelve credits in his pocket. A woman choked out one last scream as she crumpled under her lover’s pounding fists.

And not yet done, death circled its bony finger, then jabbed it gleefully between the eyes of one J. Clarence Branson, the fifty-year-old copresident of Branson Tools and Toys.

He’d been rich, single, and successful, a jolly man with reason to be as co-owner of a major interplanetary corporation. A second son and the third generation of Bransons to provide the world and its satellites with implements and amusements, he’d lived lavishly.

And had died the same way.

J. Clarence’s heart had been skewered with one of his own multipower porta drills by his steely-eyed mistress, who’d bolted him to the wall with it, reported the incident to the police, then had calmly sat sipping claret until the first officers arrived on the scene.

She continued to sip her drink, settled cozily in a high-backed chair in front of a computer-generated fire while Lieutenant Eve Dallas examined the body.

“He’s absolutely dead,” she coolly informed Eve. Her name was Lisbeth Cooke, and she made her living as an advertising executive in her deceased lover’s company. She was forty, sleekly attractive, and very good at her job. “The Branson 8000 is an excellent product—designed to satisfy both the professional and the hobbyist. It’s very powerful and accurate.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve scanned the victim’s face. Pampered and handsome, even though death had etched a look of stunned and sorrowful surprise on his face. Blood soaked through the breast of his blue velvet dressing gown and puddled glossily on the floor. “Sure did the job here. Read Ms. Cooke her rights, Peabody.”

While her aide attended to the matter, Eve verified time and cause of death for the record. Even with the voluntary confession, the business of murder would follow routine. The weapon would be taken into evidence, the body transported and autopsied, the scene secured.

Gesturing to the crime scene team to take over, Eve crossed the royal red carpet, sat across from Lisbeth in front of the chirpy fire that blew out lush heat and light. She said nothing for a moment, waiting several beats to see what reaction she might get from the fashionable brunette with fresh blood splattered somehow gaily on her yellow silk jumpsuit.

She got nothing but a politely inquiring stare. “So . . . you want to tell me about it?”

“He was cheating on me,” Lisbeth said flatly. “I killed him.”

Eve studied the steady green eyes, saw anger but no shock or remorse. “Did you argue?”

“We had a few words.” Lisbeth lifted her claret to full lips painted the same rich tone as the wine. “Most of them mine. J. C. was weak-minded.” She shrugged her shoulders and silk rustled. “I accepted that, even found it endearing in many ways. But we had an arrangement. I gave him three years of my life.”

Now she leaned forward, eyes snapping with the temper behind the chill. “Three years, during which time I could have pursued other interests, other arrangements, other relationships. But I was faithful. He was not.”

She drew in a breath, leaned back again, very nearly smiled. “Now he’s dead.”

“Yeah, we got that part.” Eve heard the ugly suck and scrape as the team struggled to remove the long steel spike from flesh and bone. “Did you bring the drill with you, Ms. Cooke, with the intention of using it as a weapon?”

“No, it’s J. C.’s. He putters occasionally. He must have been puttering,” she mused with a casual glance toward the body the crime scene team was now removing from the wall in a ghastly ballet of movements. “I saw it there, on the table, and thought, well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it? So I picked it up, flicked it on. And used it.”

It didn’t get much simpler, Eve mused, and rose. “Ms. Cooke, these officers will take you down to Cop Central. I’ll have some more questions for you.”

Obligingly, Lisbeth swallowed the last of the claret, then set the glass aside. “I’ll just get my coat.”

Peabody shook her head as Lisbeth tossed a full-length black mink over her bloody silks and swept out between two uniforms with all the panache of a woman heading out to the next heady social engagement.

“Man, it takes all kinds. She drills the guy, then hands us the case on a platter.”

Eve shrugged into her leather jacket, picked up her field kit. Thoughtfully, she used solvent to clean the blood and Seal-It from her hands. The sweepers would finish up, then secure the scene. “We’ll never get her on murder one. That’s just what it was, but I’ll lay odds it’s pleaded down to manslaughter within forty-eight hours.”

“Manslaughter?” Genuinely shocked, Peabody gaped at Eve as they stepped into the tiled elevator for the trip down to the lobby level. “Come on, Dallas. No way.”

“Here’s the way.” Eve looked into Peabody’s dark, earnest eyes, studied her square, no-nonsense face under its bowl-cut hair and police-issue hat. And was nearly sorry to cut into that unswerving belief in the system. “If the drill proves to be the victim’s, she didn’t bring a weapon with her. That cuts down on premeditation. Pride’s got her now, and a good dose of mad, but after a few hours in a cell, if not before, survival instinct will kick in, and she’ll lawyer up. She’s smart, so she’ll lawyer smart.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got intent. We’ve got malice. She just made a statement for the record.”

That was the book. As much as Eve believed in the book, she knew the pages often became blurred. “And she doesn’t have to renege on it, just embellish it. They argued. She was devastated, upset. Maybe he threatened her. In a moment of passion—or possibly fear—she grabbed the drill.”

Eve stepped off the elevator, crossed the wide lobby with its pink marble columns and glossy ornamental trees. “Temporary diminished capacity,” she continued. “Possibly an argument for self-defense, though it’s bullshit. But Branson was about six-two, two-twenty, and she’s five-four, maybe one-fifteen. They could make that work. Then, in shock, she contacts the police immediately. She doesn’t attempt to run or to deny what she did. She takes responsibility, which would earn points with a jury if it comes down to it. The PA knows that, so he’ll plead it down.”

“That really bites.”

“She’ll do time,” Eve said as they stepped outside into a cold as bitter as the scorned lover now in custody. “She’ll lose her job, spend a hefty chunk of credits on her lawyer. You take what you can get.”

Peabody glanced over at the morgue wagon. “This one should be so easy.”

“Lots of times the easy ones have the most angles.” Eve smiled a little as she opened the door of her vehicle. “Cheer up, Peabody. We’ll close the case, and she won’t walk. Sometimes that’s as good as it gets.”

“It wasn’t like she loved him.” At Eve’s arched brow, Peabody shrugged. “You could tell. She was just pissed because he’d screwed around on her.”

“Yeah, so she screwed him—literally. So remember, loyalty counts.” The car ’link beeped just as she started the engine. “Dallas.”

“Hey, Dallas, hey. It’s Ratso.”

Eve looked at the ferret face and beady blue eyes on-screen. “I’d never have guessed.”

He gave the wheezy inhale that passed for a laugh. “Yeah, right. Yeah. So listen, Dallas, I got something for you. How ’bout you meet me and we’ll deal. Okay? Right?”

“I’m heading into Central. I’ve got business. And my shift’s over ten minutes ago, so—”

“I got something for you. Good data. Worth something.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say. Don’t waste my time, Ratso.”

“It’s good shit.” The blue eyes skittered like marbles in his skinny face. “I can be at The Brew in ten.”

“I’ll give you five minutes, Ratso. Practice being coherent.”

She broke the connection, swung away from the curb, and headed downtown.

“I remember him from your files,” Peabody commented. “One of your weasels.”

“Yeah, and he just did ninety days on a D and D. I got the indecent exposure tossed. Ratso likes to flaunt his personality when he’s piss-faced. He’s harmless,” Eve added. “Mostly full of wind, but every now and again, he comes up with some solid data. The Brew’s on the way, and Cooke can hold for a bit. Run the serial number on the murder weapon. Let’s verify if it belonged to the victim. Then find the next of kin. I’ll notify them once Cooke’s booked.”

The night was clear and cold with a stiff wind snapping down the urban canyons and chasing most of the foot traffic indoors. The glide-cart vendors held out, shivering in the steam and stink of grilling soy dogs, hoping for a few hungry souls hearty enough to brave February’s teeth.

The winter of 2059 had been brutally cold, and profits were down.

They left the swank Upper East Side neighborhood with its clear, unbroken sidewalks and uniformed doormen and headed south and west where the streets went narrow and noisy and the natives moved fast, their eyes on the ground and their fists over their wallets.

Smashed against curbs, the remnants of the last snowfall was soot gray and ugly. Nasty patches of ice still slicked sidewalks and lay in wait for the unwary. Overhead, a billboard swam with a warm blue sea hemmed by sugar-white sand. The busty blonde frolicking in the waves wore little more than a tan and invited New York to come to the islands and play.

Eve entertained herself with thoughts of a couple of days in Roarke’s island getaway. Sun, sand, and sex, she mused as she negotiated bad-tempered evening traffic. Her husband would be happy to provide all three, and she was nearly ready to suggest it. Another week or two maybe, she decided. After she cleared up some paperwork, finished some court appearances, tied a couple of dangling loose ends.

And, she admitted, felt a little more secure about being away from the job.

She’d lost her badge and had nearly lost her way too recently for the sting to have faded. Now that she had both back, she wasn’t quite ready to set duty aside for a quick bout of indulgence.

By the time she found a parking space on the second-level street ramp near The Brew, Peabody had the requested data. “According to the serial numbers, the murder weapon belonged to the victim.”

“Then we start off with murder in the second,” Eve said as they trooped down to the street. “The PA won’t waste time trying to prove premeditation.”

“But you think she went there to kill him.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve crossed the sidewalk toward the murky lights of an animated beer mug with dingy foam sliding down the sides.

The Brew specialized in cheap drinks and stale beer nuts. Its clientele ran to grifters down on their luck, low-level office drones and the cut-rate licensed companions who hunted them, and a smatter of hustlers with nothing left to hustle.

The air was stale and overheated, conversation scattered and secret. Through the smeared light, several gazes slid to Eve, then quickly away.

Even without Peabody’s uniform beside her, she whispered cop. They would have recognized it in the way she stood—the long, rangy body alert, the clear brown eyes steady, focused, and flat as they took in faces and details.

Only the uninitiated would have seen just a woman with short, somewhat choppily cut brown hair, a lean face with sharp angles and a shallow dent in the chin. Most who patronized The Brew had been around and could smell cop at a dead run in the opposite direction.

She spotted Ratso, his pointy rodent face nearly inside the mug as he sucked back beer. As she walked toward his table, she heard a few chairs scrape shyly away, saw more than one pair of shoulders hunch defensively.

Everyone’s guilty of something, she thought, and sent Ratso a fierce, bare-toothed smile. “This joint doesn’t change, Ratso, and neither do you.”

He offered her his wheezy laugh, but his gaze had danced nervously over Peabody’s spit-and-polish uniform. “You didn’t hafta bring backup, Dallas. Jeez, Dallas, I thought we was pals.”

“My pals bathe regularly.” She jerked her head toward a chair for Peabody, then sat herself. “She’s mine,” Eve said simply.

“Yeah, I heard you got you a pup to train.” He tried a smile, exposing his distaste for dental hygiene, but Peabody met it with a cool stare. “She’s okay, yeah, she’s okay since she’s yours. I’m yours, too, right, Dallas? Right?”

“Aren’t I the lucky one.” When the waitress started over, Eve merely gave her a glance that had her changing directions and leaving them alone. “What have you got for me, Ratso?”

“I got good shit, and I can get more.” His unfortunate face split into a grin Eve imagined he thought cagey. “If I had some working credit.”

“I don’t pay on account. On account of I might not see your ugly face for another six months.”

He wheezed again, slurped up beer, and sent her a hopeful look out of his tiny, watery eyes. “I deal square with you, Dallas.”

“So, start dealing.”

“Okay, okay.” He leaned forward, curving his skinny little body over what was left in his mug. Eve could see a perfect circle of scalp, naked as a baby’s butt, at the crown of his head. It was almost endearing, and certainly more attractive than the greasy strings of paste-colored hair that hung from it. “You know The Fixer, right? Right?”

“Sure.” She leaned back a little, not so much to relax but to escape the puffs of her weasel’s very distasteful breath. “He still around? Christ, he must be a hundred and fifty.”

“Nah, nah, wasn’t that old. Ninety-couple maybe, and spry. You bet The Fixer was spry.” Ratso nodded enthusiastically and sent those greasy strings bobbing. “Took care of himself. Ate healthy, got regular sex from one of the girls on Avenue B. Said sex kept the mind and body tuned up, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Peabody muttered and earned a mild glare from Eve.

“You’re giving me past tense here.”

Ratso blinked at her. “Huh?”

“Did something happen to The Fixer?”

“Yeah, but wait. I’m getting ahead of things.” He dug his skinny fingers into the shallow bowl of sad-looking nuts. Chomped on them with what was left of his teeth as he looked at the ceiling and pulled his easily scattered thoughts back into line. “About a month ago, I got some . . . I had me a view-screen unit, needed a little work.”

Eve’s eyebrows lifted under her fringe of bangs. “To cool it off,” she said mildly.

He wheezed, slurped. “See, it got sorta dropped, and I took it in to Fixer so’s he could diddle with it. I mean, the guy’s a genius, right? Nothing he can’t make work like brand-fucking-new.”

“And it’s so clever the way he can change serial numbers.”

“Yeah, well.” Ratso’s smile was nearly sweet. “We got to talking, and The Fixer, he knows how I’m always looking for a little pickup work. He says how he’s got this job going. Big one. Really flush. They got him building timers and remotes and little bugs and shit. Done up some boomers, too.”

“He told you he was putting together explosives?”

“Well, we was sorta pals, so yeah, he was telling me. Said how they heard he used to do that kind of shit when he was in the army. And they was paying heavy credits.”

“Who was paying?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think he did, either. Said how a couple guys would come to his place, give him a list of stuff and some credits. He’d build the shit, you know? Then he’d call this number they give him, leave a message. Just supposed to say like the products are ready, and the two guys would come back, pick the stuff up, and give him the rest of the money.”

“What did he figure they wanted with the stuff?”

Ratso lifted his bony shoulders, then looked pitifully into his empty mug. Knowing the routine, Eve lifted a finger, turned it down toward Ratso’s glass. He brightened immediately.

“Thanks, Dallas. Thanks. Get dry, you know? Get dry talking.”

“Then get to the point, Ratso, while you still have some spit in your mouth.”

He beamed as the waitress came over to slop urine-colored liquid in his mug. “Okay, okay. So he says how he figures maybe these guys are looking to shake down a bank or jewelry store or something. He’s working on some bypass unit for them, and he’s clued in that the timers and remotes set off the boomers he’s got going for them. Says maybe they’ll want a little guy who knows his way under the street. He’ll maybe put in a word for me.”

“What are friends for?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Then I get a call from him a couple weeks later. He’s really wired up, you know? Tells me the deal isn’t what he figured. That it’s bad shit. Real bad shit. He ain’t making any sense. Never heard old Fixer like that. He was real scared. Said something about being afraid of another Arlington, and how he needed to go under awhile. Could he flop with me until he figured out what to do next? So I said sure, hey sure, come on over. But he never did.”

“Maybe he went under somewhere else?”

“Yeah, he went under. They fished him outta the river a couple days ago. Jersey side.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” Ratso brooded into his beer. “He was okay, you know? Word I got is somebody cut his tongue right outta his head.” He lifted his tiny eyes, fixed them mournfully on Eve. “What kinda person does that shit?”

“It’s bad business, Ratso. Bad people. It’s not my case,” she added. “I can take a look at the file, but there’s not a lot I can do.”

“They offed him ’cause he figured out what they was gonna do, right? Right?”

“Yeah, I’d say that follows.”

“So you gotta figure out what they’re gonna do, right? You figure it out, Dallas, then you stop them and take them down for doing The Fixer like that. You’re a murder cop, and they murdered him.”

“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not my case,” she said again. “If they fished him out in New Jersey, it’s not even my damn city. The cops working it aren’t likely to take kindly to me horning in on their investigation.”

“How much you figure most cops gonna bother with somebody like Fixer?”

She nearly sighed. “There are plenty of cops who’ll bother. Plenty who’ll work their butt off trying to close the case, Ratso.”

“You’ll work harder.” He said it simply, almost childlike faith in his eyes. And Eve felt her conscience stir restlessly. “And I can find out shit for you. If Fixer talked to me some, he coulda maybe talked to somebody else. He didn’t scare easy, you know. He come through the Urban Wars. But he was plenty scared when he called me that night. They didn’t do him that way ’cause they was gonna take out a bank.”

“Maybe not.” But she knew there were some who would gut a tourist for a wrist unit and a pair of airboots. “I’ll look into it. I can’t promise any more than that. You find out anything that adds to this, you get in touch.”

“Yeah, okay. Right.” He grinned at her. “You’ll find out who did Fixer that way. The other cops, they didn’t know about the shit he was into, right? Right? So that’s good data I give you.”

“Yeah, good enough, Ratso.” She rose, dug credits out of her pocket, and laid them on the table.

“You want me to run down the file on this floater?” Peabody asked when they stepped back outside.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” As they climbed back up to her vehicle, Eve dug her hands into her pockets. “Do a run on Arlington, too. See what buildings, streets, citizens, businesses, that kind of thing have that name. If we find anything, we can turn it over to the investigating officer.”

“This Fixer, did he weasel for anybody?”

“No.” Eve slid behind the wheel. “He hated cops.” For a moment she frowned, drummed her fingers. “Ratso’s got a brain the size of a soybean, but he’s got Fixer down. He didn’t scare easy, and he was greedy. Kept that shop of his open seven days a week, worked it solo. Rumor was he had his old army-issue blaster under the counter, and a hunting knife. Used to brag he could fillet a man as quick and easy as he could a trout.”

“Sounds like a real fun guy.”

“He was tough and sour and would sooner piss in a cop’s eye than look at one. If he wanted out of this deal he was in, it had to be way over the top. Nothing much would’ve put this old man off.”

“What’s that I hear?” Cocking her head, Peabody cupped a hand at her ear. “Oh, that must be the sound of you getting sucked in.”

Eve hit the street with a bit more bounce than necessary. “Shut up, Peabody.”

She missed dinner, which was only mildly irritating. The fact that she’d been right about the PA and the plea bargain on Lisbeth Cooke was downright infuriating. At least, Eve thought as she let herself into the house, the twit could have stuck for murder two a little longer.

Now, scant hours after Eve had arrested her in the wrongful death of one J. Clarence Branson, Lisbeth was out on bail and very likely sitting cozily in her own apartment with a glass of claret and a smug little smile on her face.

Summerset, Roarke’s butler, slipped into the foyer to greet her with a baleful eye and a sniff of disapproval. “You are, once again, quite late.”

“Yeah? And you are, once again, really ugly.” She dropped her jacket over the newel post. “Difference is, tomorrow I might be on time.”

He noted that she looked neither pale nor tired—two early signs of overwork. He would have suffered the torments of the damned before he would have admitted—even to himself—that the fact pleased him.

“Roarke,” he said in frigid tones as she breezed by him and started up the steps, “is in the video room.” Summerset’s brow arched slightly. “Second level, fourth door on the right.”

“I know where it is,” she muttered, though it wasn’t absolutely true. Still, she would have found it, even though the house was huge, a labyrinth of rooms and treasures and surprises.

The man didn’t deny himself anything, she thought. Why should he? He’d been denied everything as a child, and he’d earned, one way or another, all the comforts he now commanded.

But even after a year, she wasn’t really used to the house, the huge stone edifice with its juts and its towers and the lushly planted grounds. She wasn’t used to the wealth, she supposed, and never would be. The kind of financial power that could command acres of polished wood, sparkling glass, art from other countries and centuries, along with the simple pleasures of soft fabrics, plush cushions.

The fact was, she’d married Roarke in spite of his money, in spite of how he’d earned a great portion of it. Fallen for him, she supposed, as much for his shadows as his lights.

She stepped into the room with its long, luxurious sofas, its enormous wall screens, and complex control center. There was a charmingly old-fashioned bar, gleaming cherry with stools of leather and brass. A carved cabinet with a rounded door she remembered vaguely held countless discs of the old videos her husband was so fond of.

The polished floor was layered with richly patterned rugs. A blazing fire—no computer-generated image for Roarke—filled the hearth of black marble and warmed the fat, sleeping cat curled in front of it. The scent of crackling wood merged with the spice of the fresh flowers spearing out of a copper urn nearly as tall as she and the fragrance of the candles glowing gold on the gleaming mantel.

On-screen, an elegant party was happening in black and white.

But it was the man, stretched out comfortably on the plush sofa, a glass of wine in his hand, who drew and commanded attention.

However romantic and sensual those old videos with their atmospheric shadows, their mysterious tones could be, the man who watched them was only more so. And he was in three glorious dimensions.

Indeed, he was dressed in black and white, the collar of his soft white shirt casually unbuttoned. At the end of long legs clad in dark trousers, his feet were bare. Why, she wondered, she should find that so ripely sexy, she couldn’t say.

Still, it was his face that always drew her, that glorious face of an angel leaping into hell with the light of sin in his vivid blue eyes and a smile curving the poetic mouth. Sleek black hair framed it, falling nearly to his shoulders. A temptation for any woman’s fingers and fists.

It hit her now, as it often did, that she’d started falling for him the moment she’d seen that face. On her computer screen in her office, during a murder investigation. When he’d been on her short list of suspects.

A year ago, she realized. Only a year ago, when their lives had collided. And irrevocably changed.

Now, though she’d made no sound, came no closer, he turned his head. His eyes met hers. And he smiled. Her heart did the long, slow roll in her chest that continued to baffle and embarrass her.

“Hello, Lieutenant.” He held out a hand in welcome.

She crossed to him, let their fingers link. “Hi. What are you watching?”

“Dark Victory. Bette Davis. She goes blind and dies in the end.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“But she does it so courageously.” He gave her hand a little tug and urged her down on the sofa with him.

When she stretched out, when her body curved easily, naturally against his, he smiled. It had taken a great deal of time and a great deal of trust between them to persuade her to relax this way. To accept him and what he needed to give her.

His cop, he thought as he toyed with her hair, with her dark corners and terrifying courage. His wife, with her nerves and her needs.

He shifted slightly, content when she settled her head on his shoulder.

Since she’d gone that far, Eve decided it would be a pretty good idea to pull off her boots and to take a sip from his glass of wine. “How come you’re watching an old video like this if you already know how it ends?”

“It’s the getting there that counts. Did you have dinner?”

She made a negative sound, passed him back his wine. “I’ll get something in a bit. I got hung up on a case that came in right before end of shift. Woman screwed a guy to the wall with his own drill.”

Roarke swallowed wine, hard. “Literally, or metaphorically?”

She chuckled a little, enjoying the wine as they passed the glass back and forth. “Literally. Branson 8000.”

“Ouch.”

“You betcha.”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

“Because after she pinned him to the wall, she called it in, then waited for us. They were lovers, he was playing around, so she drilled a two-foot steel rod through his cheating heart.”

“Well, that’ll teach him.” Ireland cruised through his voice like whiskey and had her tilting her head to look up at him.

“She went for the heart. Me, I’d’ve screwed it through his balls. More to the point, don’t you think?”

“Darling Eve, you’re a very direct woman.” He lowered his head to touch his lips to hers—one brush, then two.

It was her mouth that heated, her hands that reached up to fist in his thick, black hair and drag him closer. Take him deeper. Before he could shift to set the wine aside, she flipped over, knocking the glass to the floor as she straddled him.

He lifted a brow, eyes glinting, as he used his nimble fingers to unbutton her shirt. “I’d say we know how this one ends, too.”

“Yeah.” Grinning, she bent down to bite his bottom lip. “Let’s see how we get there this time.”

Eve scowled at her desk-link after she’d finished her conversation with the PA’s office. They’d accepted a plea of man two on Lisbeth Cooke.

Second-degree manslaughter, she thought in disgust, for a woman who had cool-headedly, cold-bloodedly ended a life because a man couldn’t control his dick.

She’d do a year at best in a minimum-security facility where she’d paint her nails and brush up on her fucking tennis serve. She’d very likely sign a disc and video deal on the story for a tidy sum, retire, and move to Martinique.

Eve knew she’d told Peabody to take what you could get, but even she hadn’t expected it to be so little.

She damn well let the APA—and she’d told the spineless little prick in short, pithy terms—inform the next of kin why justice was too overworked to bother—why it had been in such a fucking hurry to deal it hadn’t even waited to settle until she’d finished her report.

Setting her teeth, she rapped a fist against her computer in anticipation of its vagaries and called up the ME’s report on Branson.

He’d been a healthy male of fifty-one, with no medical conditions. There were no marks or injuries to the body other than the nasty hole made by a whirling drill bit.

No drugs or alcohol in the system, she noted. No indication of recent sexual activity. Stomach contents indicated a simple last meal of carrot pasta and peas in a light cream sauce, cracked wheat bread, and herbal tea ingested less than an hour before time of death.

Pretty boring meal, she decided, for such a sneaky ladies’ man.

And who, she asked herself, said he was a ladies’ man but the women who’d killed him? In their damn rush to clear the dockets, they hadn’t given her time to verify the motive for the pissy man two.

When it hit the media, and it would, she imagined a lot of dissatisfied sexual partners were going to be eyeing the tool closet.

Lover piss you off? she thought. Well, see how he likes a taste of the Branson 8000—the choice of professionals and serious hobbyists. Oh yeah, she thought Lisbeth Cooke could work up a pretty jazzy ad campaign using that angle. Sales would shoot right up.

Relationships had to be society’s most baffling and brutal form of entertainment. Most could make an arena ball playoff game look like a ballroom dance. Still, lonely souls continued to seek them out, cling to them, fret and fight over them, and mourn the loss of them.

No wonder the world was full of whacks.

The glint of her wedding ring caught her eye and made her wince. That was different, she assured herself. She hadn’t sought anything out. It had found her, taken her down like a hard tackle to the back of the knees. And if Roarke ever decided he wanted out, she’d probably let him live.

In a permanent body cast.

Disgusted all around, she spun back to her machine and began to hammer out the investigative report the PA’s office apparently didn’t want to bother with.

She glanced up as E-Detective Ian McNab poked a head in her doorway. His long golden hair was braided today, and only one iridescent hoop graced his earlobe. Obviously to make up for the conservative touch, he wore a thick sweater in screaming greens and blues that hung to the hips of black pipe-stem trousers. Shiny blue boots completed the look.

He grinned at her, green eyes bold in a pretty face. “Hey, Dallas, I finished checking out your victim’s ’links and personal memo book. The stuff from his office just came in, but I figured you’d want what I’ve got so far.”

“Then why isn’t your report on my desk unit?” she asked dryly.

“Just thought I’d bring it over personally.” With a friendly smile, he dropped a disc on her desk, then plopped his butt on the corner.

“Peabody’s running data for me, McNab.”

“Yeah.” He moved his shoulders. “So, she’s in her cube?”

“She’s not interested in you, pal. Get a clue here.”

He turned his hand over, examined his nails critically. “Who says I’m interested in her? She still seeing Monroe, or what?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

His eyes met hers briefly, and they shared a moment of the vague disapproval neither of them liked to show for Peabody’s continued involvement with a slick if appealing licensed companion. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“So ask her yourself.” And report back to me, she added silently.

“I do.” He grinned again. “Gives her a chance to snarl at me. She’s got great teeth.”

He got up, paced around Eve’s cramped box of an office. They both would have been surprised to realize their thoughts on relationships were, at that moment, running on parallel lines.

McNab’s hot date with an off-planet flight consultant had cooled and soured the night before. She’d bored him, he thought now, which should have been impossible as she’d put her truly magnificent breasts on display in something sheer and silver.

He hadn’t been able to work up any enthusiasm because his thoughts had continued to drift to the way a certain prickly cop looked in her starched uniform.

What the hell did she wear under that thing? he wondered now, as he had unfortunately wondered the night before. That speculation had caused him to end the evening early, annoying the flight consultant so that when he came to his senses—as he was sure he would—he’d never get another shot at those beautiful breasts.

He was, he decided, spending too many nights home alone, watching the screen.

Which reminded him.

“Hey, I caught Mavis’s video on-screen last night. Frigid.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” Eve thought of her friend; even now on her first tour to promote her recording disc for Roarke’s entertainment arm, singing her butt off in Atlanta. Mavis Freestone, Eve thought sentimentally, was a long way from shrieking her lungs out for the zoned and the glazed at dives like the Blue Squirrel.

“The disc is starting to take off. Roarke thinks it’ll make the top twenty next week.”

McNab jingled credit chips in his pocket. “And we knew her when, right?”

He was stalling, Eve thought, and she was letting him. “I think Roarke’s planning a party or something once she gets back.”

“Yeah? Great.” Then he perked up at the unmistakable sound of police-issue shoes slapping worn linoleum. McNab had his hands in his pockets and a look of sheer disinterest on his face when Peabody came through the door.

“NJPSD came through with—” She broke off, scowled. “What do you want, McNab?”

“Multiple orgasms, but you guys copped that one out of the goodie bag.”

A laugh tried to bubble into her throat, but Peabody controlled it. “The lieutenant doesn’t have time for your pitiful jokes.”

“Actually, the lieutenant kind of liked that one,” Eve said, then rolled her eyes when Peabody glared at her. “Take off, McNab, play period’s over.”

“Just thought you’d be interested,” he continued, “that in running the ’links and memo books of the deceased, no calls, incoming and outgoing, were transmitted to a female other than his assailant or his office staff. No records of appointments appear in his log for liaisons,” he said, rolling out the word with a smirk for Peabody, “other than those involving Lisbeth Cooke—who he often refers to as Lissy my love.”

“No record of another woman?” Eve pursed her lips. “What about another guy?”

“Nope, no dates either way, and no indication of bisexuality.”

“Interesting. Run the office logs, McNab. I wonder if Lissy my love was lying about her motive, and if so, why she killed him.”

“I’m on it.” As he strolled out, he paused just long enough to throw Peabody a loud, exaggerated kiss.

“He is such a complete asshole.”

“Maybe he irritates you, Peabody—”

“There’s no maybe involved.”

“But he was smart enough to see that his report might change a few angles on this case.”

The idea of McNab dipping his toe into one of her cases, again, had Peabody bristling. “But the Cooke case is closed. The perpetrator confessed, has been charged, booked, and bonded.”

“She got man two. If it wasn’t a crime of passion, maybe we get more. It’s worth finding out if Branson was bouncing on somebody on the side or if she made that up to cover another motive. We’ll take a run over to his office later today, ask some questions. Meanwhile . . .” She wagged her curled fingers toward the disc Peabody still held.

“Detective Sally’s primary,” Peabody began as she handed Eve the disc. “He’s got no problem cooperating. Basically because he’s got nothing. The body’d been in the river at least thirty-six hours before discovery. He’s got no witnesses. The victim wasn’t carrying any cash or credits, but he did have ID and credit cards. He was wearing a wrist unit—Cartier knockoff but a good one—so Sally ruled out a standard mugging, especially when the autopsy didn’t turn up a tongue.”

“There’s a clue,” Eve muttered and slid the disc into a slot on her unit.

“ME’s report indicates the tongue was severed with a serrated blade, premortem. However, lacerations and bruising at the back of the neck, and the lack of defensive indicate the victim was probably knocked unconscious before the impromptu surgery, then dumped in the river. They strapped his hands and feet before giving him the toss. Drowning’s down as cause of death.”

Eve tapped her fingers. “Any reason I should bother reading this report?” she asked and earned a grin.

“Detective Sally was talkative. I don’t think he’d struggle if you wanted to take the case. He pointed out that since the victim lived in New York, it’s a toss-up right now if he was killed here or on the other side of the river.”

“I’m not taking the case, I’m just looking at it. You run Arlington?”

“Everything that popped is on side B of the disc.”

“Fine. I’ll skim through, then we’ll head over to Branson’s office.”

Eve narrowed her eyes as a tall, gangly man in worn jeans and an ancient parka hesitated at her doorway. Early twenties, she judged, with a look of such open innocence in eyes of dreamy gray she could already hear the street thieves and hustlers lining up to pluck his pockets clean.

He had the thin, bony face she associated with martyrs or scholars, and brown hair worn in a smooth tail and liberally streaked from the sun.

His smile was slow and shy.

“Looking for someone?” Eve began. At the question, Peabody turned, gaped, then let out what could only be called a squeal.

“Hey, Dee.” His voice creaked, as if he used it rarely.

“Zeke! Oh wow, Zeke!” She took one vaulting leap and jumped into long, welcoming arms.

The sight of Peabody in her ruthlessly pressed uniform with her regulation shoes dangling inches off the floor while she giggled—it was the only word to describe the sound—and pressed cheerful kisses onto the long face of the man who held her had Eve slowly rising to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” Peabody demanded. “When did you get here? Oh, it’s so good to see you. How long can you stay?”

“Dee,” was all he said, and hauled her up another inch to press his lips to her cheek.

“Excuse me.” Well aware how quickly tongues could wag in the unit, Eve stepped forward. “Officer Peabody, I suggest you have this little reunion on your personal time.”

“Oh, sorry. Put me down, Zeke.” But she kept an arm wrapped possessively around him even when her feet hit the floor. “Lieutenant, this is Zeke.”

“I got that far.”

“My brother.”

“Oh yeah?” Eve took another look, searching for family resemblance. There was none—not body type, not coloring, not in features. “Nice to meet you.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Zeke flushed a little and held out a big hand. “Dee’s had lots of good things to say about you, Lieutenant.”

“Glad to hear it.” Eve found her hand lost inside one the consistency of granite and as gentle as silk. “So which one are you?”

“Zeke’s the baby,” Peabody said with such adoration Eve had to grin.

“Some baby. What are you, about six-six?”

“And a quarter,” he said with a shy smile.

“He takes after our father. They’re both tall and skinny.” Peabody gave her brother a fierce squeeze. “Zeke’s a wood artist. He builds the most beautiful furniture and cabinets.”

“Come on, Dee.” The flush became a blush. “I’m just a carpenter. Handy with tools, that’s all.”

“There’s a lot of that going around lately,” Eve murmured.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?” Peabody demanded.

“Wanted to surprise you. Didn’t know for sure I’d come until a couple of days ago.”

He stroked a hand over her hair in a way that made Eve think of relationships again. Some weren’t about sex or power or control. Some were just about love.

“I got a commission to custom-build cabinets from these people who saw my work back in Arizona.”

“That’s great. How long will it take?”

“Don’t know till they’re done.”

“Okay, well, you’ll stay at my place. I’ll get you the key and tell you how to get there. You’ll take the subway.” She gnawed her lip. “Don’t go wandering around, Zeke. It’s not like home. Are you carrying your money and ID in your back pocket, because—”

“Peabody.” Eve held up a finger for attention. “Take the rest of the day on personal time, get your brother settled in.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Zeke began.

“You’ll be more trouble if she’s worried about you getting mugged six times before you get to her apartment.” Eve added a smile to soften it, though she’d already decided the guy had M for mark all over his face. “Things are slow here, anyway.”

“The Cooke case.”

“I think I can handle it solo,” Eve said mildly. “Anything pops, I’ll tag you. Go show Zeke the wonders of New York.”

“Thanks, Dallas.” Peabody took her brother’s hand, vowing that she’d make sure he didn’t see the seamier side of those wonders.

“Nice to’ve met you, Lieutenant.”

“You, too.” She watched them go off, Zeke bending his body slightly toward Peabody as she bubbled with sisterly affection.

Families, Eve mused. They continued to baffle her. But it was nice to see that, occasionally, they worked.

“Everyone loved J. C.” Chris Tipple, Branson’s executive assistant, was a man of about thirty with hair approximately the same shade as the swollen red rims of his eyes. Even now he wept unashamedly, tears trickling down his chubby, pleasant face. “Everyone.”

Which might have been the problem, Eve mused, and waited once again while Chris scrubbed his cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s just impossible to believe he won’t come through that door.” His breath hitched as he stared at the closed door of the big, bright office suite. “Ever again. Everyone’s in shock. When B. D. made the announcement this morning, no one could speak.”

He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth as if his voice had failed him again.

B. Donald Branson, the victim’s brother and partner, Eve knew, and waited for Chris to finish.

“You want some water, Chris? A soother?”

“I’ve taken a soother. It doesn’t seem to help. We were very close.” Mopping his streaming eyes, Chris didn’t notice Eve’s look of consideration.

“You had a personal relationship?”

“Oh yes. I’d been with J. C. for nearly eight years. He was much more than my employer. He was . . . he was like a father to me. Pardon me.”

Obviously overcome, he buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. J. C. wouldn’t want me to fall apart this way. It doesn’t help. But I can’t—I don’t think any of us can take it in. We’re closing down for a week. The whole operation. Offices, factories, everything. The memorial . . .” He trailed off, struggling. “The memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Quick.”

“J. C. wouldn’t have wanted it to be drawn out. How could she have done it?” He fisted the damp cloth in his hand, staring blindly at Eve. “How could she have done it, Lieutenant? J. C. adored her.”

“You know Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Of course.”

He rose to pace, and Eve could only be grateful. It was difficult to watch a grown man grieve while he was sitting in a chair shaped like a pink elephant. Then again, she was sitting in a purple kangaroo.

It was obvious, with one look at the late J. Clarence Branson’s office, that he’d enjoyed indulging in his own toys. The shelves lining one wall were loaded with them, from the simple remote-control space station to the series of multitask minidroids.

Eve did her best not to look at their lifeless eyes and small-scale bodies. It was too easy to imagine them popping to life and . . . well, God knew what.

“Tell me about her, Chris.”

“Lisbeth.” He sighed heavily, then in an absent gesture adjusted the sunshade tint on the wide window behind the desk. “She’s a beautiful woman. You’d have seen that for yourself. Smart, capable, ambitious. Demanding, but J. C. didn’t mind that. He told me once if he didn’t have a demanding woman, he’d end up puttering and playing his life away.”

“They spent a lot of time together?”

“Two evenings a week, sometimes three. Wednesdays and Saturdays were standard—dinner with theater or a concert. Any social event that required his presence or hers, and Monday lunch—twelve-thirty to two. A three-week vacation every August wherever Lisbeth wanted to go, and five weekend getaways through the year.”

“Sounds pretty regimented.”

“Lisbeth insisted on that. She wanted conditions spelled out and obligations on both sides clear-cut and in order. I think she understood J. C’s mind tended to wander, and she wanted his full attention when they were together.”

“Any other part of him tend to wander?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was J. C. involved with anyone else?”

“Involved—romantically? Absolutely not.”

“How about just sexually?”

Chris’s round face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. “If you’re insinuating that J. Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he’d made a commitment to, nothing could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal.”

“You can be sure of that? Without question?”

“I made all of his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments.”

“Couldn’t he have made some of his own, on the side?”

“It’s insulting.” Chris’s voice rang out. “The man is dead, and you’re sitting there accusing him of being a liar and a cheat.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything,” Eve corrected calmly. “I’m asking. It’s my responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can.”

“I don’t like how you go about it.” He turned away again. “J. C. was a good man, an honest man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn’t have entered into some illicit affair, and certainly couldn’t have done so without my knowledge.”

“Okay, so tell me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?”

“I don’t know. He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want. She killed the golden goose.”

“The what?”

“Like in the story.” He nearly smiled now. “The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he’s dead. No more golden eggs.”

Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she’d wanted all the eggs at one time.

She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson’s office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother’s. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.

The building itself seemed to be grieving.

At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys’ new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.

The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody’s. “It’s our job to serve and protect.”

Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer’s voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.

Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you’d need victim-droids.

Jesus.

The clear glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.

“Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on to the family. Mr. Branson’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o’clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it’s a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling.”

She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Branson isn’t available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week.”

Eve took out her badge. “I’m primary on his brother’s homicide. Is he in?”

“Oh, Lieutenant.” The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. “One moment, please.”

She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline ’link, then the door opened again.

“Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.’s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.

B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn’t have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.

“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s kind of you to come in person.” His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. “I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother’s death.”

“I’m sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson.”

“No, please. Sit down. We’re all trying to deal with it.”

“I gather your brother was well liked.”

“Loved,” he corrected as they took their seats. “It was impossible not to love J. C. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like part of the family. My God.” He looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Branson, let me get this over with as quickly as I can. Ms. Cooke claims she discovered your brother was involved with another woman.”

“What? That’s absurd.” Branson dismissed the idea with one angry wave of his hand. “J. C. was devoted to Lisbeth. He never looked at another woman.”

“If that’s true, why would she have killed him? Did they quarrel often, violently?”

“J.C. couldn’t maintain an argument for five minutes,” Branson said wearily. “It just wasn’t in him. He had no violence, and he certainly was no womanizer.”

“You don’t believe he could have been interested in someone else?”

“If he was—which is difficult to believe—he would have told Lisbeth. He would have been honest with her and dissolved their relationship before starting another. J. C. had almost childishly honest standards.”

“If I accept that, then I’m looking for motive. You and your bother were copresidents. Who inherits his share?”

“I do.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Our grandfather founded this company. J. C. and I have been at the helm together over thirty years. In our business agreement it’s stipulated that the survivor or the survivor’s heirs inherit the partnership.”

“Could he have designated any portion of it to Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Not of the company, no. We have a contract.”

“Of his personal funds and holdings, then.”

“Certainly, he’d be free to designate any or all of his personal estate to whomever he pleased.”

“Would we be talking substantial?”

“Yes, I believe we would say substantial.” Then he shook his head. “You think she killed him for money? I can’t believe that. He was always very generous with her, and Lisbeth is—was—a well-paid member of this company. Money shouldn’t have been an issue.”

“It’s an angle,” was all Eve said. “I’d like the name of his lawyer, and I’d appreciate it if you’d clear it so I can have the terms of the will.”

“Yes, of course.” He tapped a finger on the top of his desk and the center drawer slid open. “I have one of Suzanna’s business cards right here. I’ll contact her right away,” he added, rising as Eve did to hand her the card. “Tell her to give you whatever information you need.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Eve checked her wrist unit as she left. She could probably hook up with the lawyer by midafternoon, she decided. And since she had some time, why not juggle in a trip to Fixer’s shop?

Peabody shifted two of the three bags of groceries and foodstuffs she’d stopped off for on the trip home and dug out her key. She’d loaded up on fresh fruits and vegetables, soy mix, tofu, dried beans, and the brown rice she’d disliked since childhood.

“Dee.” Zeke set down the single duffel bag he’d packed for New York and added his sister’s two sacks to the one he already carried. “You shouldn’t have bought all this stuff.”

“I remember how you eat.” She grinned over her shoulder at him and didn’t add that most of her larder consisted of things no respectable Free-Ager would consider consuming. Fat- and chemical-laden snacks, red meat substitutes, alcohol.

“It’s robbery what they charge for fresh fruit here, and I don’t think those apples you bought came off a tree in the last ten days.” Plus he sincerely doubted they’d been organically grown.

“Well, we’re kind of short on orchards in Manhattan.”

“Still. You should’ve let me pay for it.”

“This is my city, and you’re the first of the family to visit me.” She pushed open the door, turned to take the sacks.

“There’s got to be some Free-Ager co-ops around.”

“I don’t really do any co-opping or bartering these days. Don’t have the time. I pull in a decent salary, Zeke. Don’t fuss. Anyway.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s home now.”

He stepped in behind her, scanned the living area with its sagging sofa, cluttered tables, bright poster prints. The windowshade was down, something she hurried over to remedy.

She didn’t have much of a view, but she enjoyed the rush and rumble of the street below. When the light shot in, she noted that the apartment was every bit as untidy as the street below.

And remembered, abruptly, she’d left a disc text on the mind of the serial torture killer in her computer. She’d have to get it out and bury it somewhere.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve picked up a little.”

“Why? You never picked up your room at home.”

He grinned at her and headed to the tiny kitchen to set down the food sack. Actually, it relieved him to see her living space was so much like her. Steady, unpretentious, basic.

He noted a slow drip from the faucet, a blister burn in the countertop. He could fix those for her, he thought. Though it surprised him she hadn’t done so herself.

“I’ll do this.” She stripped off her coat, her cap, and hurried in behind him. “Go put your things in the bedroom. I’ll bunk on the couch while you’re here.”

“No, you won’t.” Already he was poking in cabinets to put things away. If he was shocked by the stock in her pantry, particularly the bright red and yellow bag of Tasty Tater Treats, he didn’t mention it. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“It’s a pull-out, and fairly roomy.” And she thought she probably had clean sheets for it. “But it’s lumpy.”

“I can sleep anywhere.”

“I know. I remember all those camping trips. Give Zeke a blanket and a rock, and he’s down for the count.” Laughing, she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her cheek to his back. “God, I missed you. I really missed you.”

“We—Mom and Dad and the rest of us—hoped you’d make it home for Christmas.”

“I couldn’t.” She stepped back as he turned. “Things got complicated.” And she wouldn’t speak of that, wouldn’t tell him what had been happening, what had been done. “But I’ll make time soon. I promise.”

“You look different, Dee.” He touched his big hand to her cheek. “Official. Settled in. Happy.”

“I am happy. I love my work.” She lifted her hand to his, pressed down on it. “I don’t know how to explain it to you, to make you understand.”

“You don’t have to. I can see it.” He pulled out a six-pack of juice tubes and opened the tiny friggie. Understanding wasn’t always the answer. He knew that. Accepting was. “I feel bad about pulling you away from your job.”

“Don’t. I haven’t had any personal time in . . .” She shook her head as she stuffed boxes and bags onto shelves. “Hell, who remembers? Dallas wouldn’t have green-lighted it if we’d been jammed.”

“I liked her. She’s strong, with dark places. But she’s not hard.”

“You’re right.” Head angled, Peabody turned back to him. “And what did Mom tell you about peeking at auras without consent?”

He flushed a little, grinned around it. “She’s responsible for you. I didn’t look that close, and I like to know who’s looking out for my big sister.”

“Your big sister’s doing a pretty good job of looking out for herself. Why don’t you unpack?”

“That’ll take me about two minutes.”

“Which is about twice the time it’ll take me to give you the grand tour.” She took his arm and led him across the living space into the bedroom.

“This is about it.” A bed, a table, and lamp, a single window. The bed was made—that was habit and training. There was a book on the nightstand. She’d never understood why anyone could choose to curl up with a palm unit and disc. But the fact that it was a grisly murder mystery made her wince when Zeke flipped it over.

“Busman’s holiday?”

“I guess.”

“You always did like this kind of stuff.” He set the book back down. It comes down to good and evil, doesn’t it, Dee? And good’s supposed to win when it’s over.”

“That’s the way it works for me.”

“Yeah, but what’s evil there for in the first place?”

She might have sighed, thinking of all she’d seen, what she’d done, but she kept her gaze level on his. “Nobody’s got the answer to that, but you’ve got to know it’s there and deal with it. That’s what I do, Zeke.”

He nodded, studied her face. He knew it was different from the routine she’d had when she’d moved to New York and put on a uniform. Then it had been traffic incidents, squabbles to break up, and paperwork. Now she was attached to homicide. She dealt with death every day and rubbed shoulders with those who caused it.

Yes, she looked different, Zeke acknowledged. The things she’d seen and done and felt were there behind those dark, serious eyes.

“Are you good at it?”

“Pretty good.” Now she smiled a little. “I’m going to be better.”

“You’re learning from her. From Dallas.”

“Yeah.” Peabody sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “Before she took me on as her aide, I studied her. I read her files, I crammed on her technique. I never expected to be able to work with her. Maybe that was luck, maybe it was fate. We were taught to respect both.”

“Yeah.” He sat next to her.

“She’s giving me a chance to find out what I can do. What I can be.” Peabody drew in a long breath, let it out slowly. “Zeke, we were raised to take our own path, to pursue it, and to do the best we were capable of. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You think I don’t approve, don’t understand.”

“I worry about it.” She slid her hand down to the regulation stunner strapped to her belt. “About what you—especially you—feel.”

“You shouldn’t. I don’t have to understand what you do to know it’s what you need to do.”

“You were always the easiest of us, Zeke.”

“Nah.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “It’s just when you’re the last coming up, you get to watch how everyone else screws up. Okay if I take a shower?”

“Sure.” She patted his hand and rose. “Water takes awhile to come up to temp.”

“No hurry.”

When he got his bag and took it into the bath, she pounced on the kitchen ’link, called Charles Monroe, and left a message on his service canceling their date that night.

However wise and broad-minded and adult he’d sounded, she didn’t see her baby brother embracing her casual, and just lately spotty, relationship with a licensed companion.

She might have been surprised at just how much her little brother would understand. As he stood under the spray, let the hot water ease away the faint stiffness from travel, he was thinking of a relationship that wasn’t—couldn’t be—a relationship. He was thinking of a woman. And he told himself he had no right to think of her.

She was a married woman, and she was his employer.

He had no right to think of her as anything else, less to feel this shaky heat in his gut at the knowledge he would see her again very soon.

But he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. The sheer beauty of it. The sad eyes, the soft voice, the quiet dignity. He told himself it was a foolish, even childish crush. Horribly inappropriate. But he had no choice but to admit here, in private, where honesty was most valued, that she was one of the primary reasons he’d taken the commission and made the trip east.

He wanted to see her again, no matter how that wanting shamed him.

Still, he wasn’t a child who believed he could have whatever he needed.

It would be good for him to see her here, in her own home, with her husband. He liked to think it was the circumstances of how they’d met, of where they’d met, that had caused this infatuation. She’d been alone, so obviously lonely, and had looked so delicate, so cool and golden in the deep desert heat.

It would be different here because she would be different here. And so would he. He would do the job she had asked him to do and nothing more. He would spend time with the sister he had missed so deeply it sometimes made his heart ache. And he would see, at long last, the city and the work that had pulled her away from her family.

The city, he could already admit, fascinated him.

As he toweled off, he tried to see through the tiny, steam-misted window. Even that blurry, narrow view made his blood pump just a little faster.

There was so much of it, he thought now. Not the open vastness of desert and mountain and field he’d grown used to since his family had relocated in Arizona a few years before. But so much of everything rammed and jammed into one small space.

There was so much he wanted to see. So much he wanted to do. As he hitched on a fresh shirt and jeans, he began to speculate, to plot, and to plan. When he stepped back out into the living area, he was eager to begin.

He saw his sister busily tidying and grinned. “You make me feel like company.”

“Well . . .” She’d tucked away every murder and mayhem disc and file she could find. It would have to do. She glanced over, blinked.

Wow, was all she could think. Why hadn’t she noticed in her first rush of delight in seeing him? Her baby brother had grown up. And he was a genuine eye treat. “You look good—sort of filled out and everything.”

“It’s just a clean shirt.”

“Right. Do you want some juice, some tea?”

“Ah . . . I really want to go out. I’ve got this whole guidebook thing. I studied it on the way east. You know how many museums there are in Manhattan alone?”

“No, but I bet you do.” Inside her regulation shoes, Peabody’s toes curled and flexed. Her feet, she decided, were about to get a workout. “Let me change, and we’ll check them out.”

An hour later, she was almost tearfully grateful for the airsoles, for the thick soft wool of her slacks, and the lining of her winter coat. It wasn’t just museums Zeke was after. It was everything.

He took videos with the palm unit he told her he’d splurged on for the trip. It would have been ripped off a dozen times if she hadn’t kept her eyes peeled for street thieves. No matter how often she lectured him to watch himself, to recognize the signs and the moves, he just smiled and nodded.

They rode to the top of the Empire State Building, stood in the freezing, bitter wind until the tips of her ears went numb. And his pale gray eyes glowed with the wonder of it. They toured the Met, gawked at the storefronts along Fifth, stared up at the tourist blimps, bumped along the sky glides, and gnawed on stale pretzels he’d insisted on buying from a glide-cart.

Only deep and abiding love could have convinced her to agree to skidding over the ice rink at Rockefeller Center when her calf muscles were already weeping from three hours of urban hiking.

But he made her remember what it was to be stunned by the city, to see all it had to offer. She realized, watching him be awed, time after time, that she’d forgotten to look.

And if she had to flash the badge she’d tucked in her coat pocket at a gimlet-eyed grifter looking to score the tourist, it didn’t spoil the day.

Still, by the time she finally talked him into stopping for a hot drink and a bite to eat, she’d decided it was imperative she outline some very specific do’s and don’ts. He was going to be on his own a great deal when he wasn’t working, she thought. He might have been twenty-three, but he had all the naive trust in his fellow man of a sheltered five-year-old.

“Zeke.” She warmed her hands on a bowl of lentil soup and tried not to think about the soy-beef burger she’d spied on the menu. “We should talk about what you’re going to do while I’m working.”

“I’ll be building cabinets.”

“Yeah, but my hours are . . .” She gestured vaguely. “You never know. You’ll be spending a lot of time on your own, so—”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” He grinned at her, spooned up his own soup. “I’ve been off the farm before.”

“You’ve never been here before.”

He sat back, shot her the exasperated look brothers reserve for nagging sisters. “I carry my money in my front pocket. I don’t talk to the people who cart around those cases full of wrist units and PPCs, and I don’t move in to play that card game like the one they had going on Fifth Avenue, even though it looks like fun.”

“It’s a con. You can’t win.”

“Still looked like fun.” But he wouldn’t brood on it, not when she had that line dug between her eyebrows. “I don’t strike up conversations on the subway.”

“Not with a chemi-head looking to score.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Zeke, the guy was practically foaming at the mouth. Anyhow.” She waved that away. “I don’t expect you to lock yourself into the apartment on your free time. I just want you to be careful. It’s a great city, but it eats people every day. I don’t want one of them to be you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“And you’ll stick to the major tourist areas, carry your palm-link?”

“Yes, Mom.” He grinned at her again, and looked so young Peabody’s heart stuttered. “So, you up for the Fly Over Manhattan tour?”

“Sure.” She managed to smile instead of wince. “You bet. Soon as we’re done here.” She took her time with the soup. “When are you supposed to get started on this job?”

“Tomorrow. We set it all up before I left. They approved the plans, the estimates. They paid for my transpo and expenses.”

“You said they saw your work when they were out in Arizona on vacation?”

“She did.” And just thinking of it had his pulse running a little faster. “She bought one of the carvings I’d done for Camelback Cooperative Artworks. Then she and Silvie—I don’t think you ever met Silvie, she’s a glass artist. She was running the co-op that day and she mentioned how I’d designed and built the cabinets and counters and the displays. And then Mrs. Branson mentioned how she and her husband were looking for a carpenter, and—”

“What?” Peabody’s head snapped up.

“They were looking for a carpenter, and—”

“No, what was that name?” She grabbed his hand, clamped down. “Did you say Branson?”

“That’s right. The Bransons hired me. Mr. and Mrs. B. Donald Branson. He owns Branson T and T. Good tools.”

“Oh.” Peabody set down her spoon. “Oh, shit, Zeke.”

Fixer’s was a grungy smear in an area not known for its tidiness. Just off Ninth, a bare block from the entrance to the tunnel, Fixer’s was a dilapidated storefront mined with security bars, patched with intercoms and peek lenses, and as welcoming as a cockroach.

The one-way windows offered the passerby a dingy field of black. The door was reinforced steel, studded with a complicated series of locks that made the police seal look like a joke.

People who loitered in the area knew how to mind their own business—which was usually second-story work. One glance at Eve had most of them finding something else to do and somewhere else to do it.

Eve used her master on the police seal, relieved that the sweeper team hadn’t engaged Fixer’s locks. At least she wouldn’t have to spend time decoding them. It made her think of Roarke and wonder how long it would have taken him to slide right through them.

Since a part of her would have enjoyed watching him do just that, she scowled as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

It smelled—not quite foul but close, she decided. Sweat, grease, bad coffee, old piss. “Lights, full,” she ordered, then narrowed her eyes at the sudden brightness.

The interior of the shop was no more cheerful than the exterior. Not a single chair invited a customer to sit and relax. The floor, the sickly green of baby vomit, carried the grime and scars of decades of wear. The way her boots stuck and made sucking noises as she walked told her that mopping up hadn’t been a major occupation of the deceased.

Gray metal shelves rose up one wall and were jammed full in a system that defied all logic.

Miniscreens, security cams, porta-links, desk logs, communication and entertainment systems crowded together in varying stages of repair or harvesting.

Jumbled on the other side of the room were more units she took to be complete as the hand-lettered sign above warned that pickup must be made within thirty days or the customer defaulted the merchandise.

She counted five No Credit Given postings in a room no larger than fifteen feet wide.

Fixer’s sense of humor—for lack of a better term—was evidenced by the dangling human skull over the cashier’s counter. The sign under the sagging jaw read The Last Shoplifter.

“Yeah, that’s a laugh riot,” Eve murmured and huffed out a breath.

Damn if the place didn’t give her the creeps, she realized. The only window was behind her and barred. The only outside door mired with locks. She glanced up, studied the security monitor. It had been left running and gave her a full view of the street. On another, securing the interior, she could study herself on the crystal-clear screen.

Nobody got in, she decided, unless Fixer wanted them in.

She made a note to ask Sally at NJPSD for copies of the security discs, exterior and interior.

She crossed to the counter, noted that the computer stationed there was an ugly hybrid of scavenged parts. And in all probability, she mused, ran with more speed, efficiency, and reliability than the one in her office at Cop Central.

“Engage, computer.”

When nothing happened, she frowned and attempted to boot it manually. The screen shimmered.

Warning: This unit protected by fail safe. Code proper password or voice print within thirty seconds of this message or disengage.

Eve disengaged. She’d see if Feeney, top dog in the Electronic Detective Division, had the time and inclination to play with it.

There was nothing else on the counter but some greasy fingerprints, the dull sheen left by the sweepers, and a scatter of parts she couldn’t identify.

She uncoded the door leading to the back area and stepped into Fixer’s workshop.

The guy could’ve used a few elves, she thought. The place was an unholy mess with the bones and sinews of dozens of electronic devices scattered around. Tools were hung on pegs or tossed wherever they landed. Minilasers, delicate tweezers, and screwdrivers with bits hardly wider than a single hair.

If he’d been attacked here, how the hell would you tell? she wondered, nudging the shell of a monitor with her boot. But she didn’t think he had been. She’d only dealt with Fixer a handful of times and hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, but she remembered he kept his place and his person in constant disarray.

“And they wouldn’t have gotten into this dungeon unless he’d wanted them to,” she murmured. The man had been seriously paranoid, she mused, checking out yet more monitors overhead. Every inch of his space and several feet outside the shop were all under surveillance twenty-four/seven.

No, they didn’t take him from inside, she decided. If he was panicked, as Ratso had said, he’d have been all the more careful. Still, he hadn’t felt safe enough to simply barricade himself inside and wait it out. So he’d called a friend.

She moved into the tiny room beyond, scanned the mess of Fixer’s living space. A cot with yellowed sheets, a table with a jury-rigged communications center, a pile of unwashed clothes, and a narrow bathroom with hardly enough room for the skinny shower stall and toilet.

The kitchenette was a turnaround space packed with a fully loaded AutoChef and a minifridge stocked to bursting. Canned and dry goods were stacked in a wall as high as her waist.

“Jesus, he could have waited out an alien attack in here. Why go out to go under?”

Shaking her head, she tucked her thumbs in her pockets and turned a slow circle.

No windows, no outside doors, she noted. He’d lived in a fucking box. She studied the monitor across from the bed, watched the traffic move along Ninth. No, she corrected. Those were his windows.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture him there, using the image of him she remembered. Skinny, grizzled, old. Mean.

He’s scared, so he moves fast, she thought. Takes only what he needs. He’s former military. He knows how to decamp fast. Some clothes, some money. Not enough money on him for a man going under, she realized. Not nearly.

Greed, she thought. That was another facet of the man. He’d been greedy, hoarding his money, overcharging his clients who paid because of his magic hands.

He’d have taken cash, credits, bank and brokerage passkeys.

And where was his bag? He’d have packed a bag. Could be in the river, too, she decided, hooking her thumbs in her front pockets. Or whoever killed him took it.

“He’d’ve had money,” she thought aloud. “He sure as hell wasn’t spending it on home decorating or personal hygiene and enhancements.”

She’d check into his finances.

He packs a bag. Going under, she thought again. What does he put into it?

He’d have taken a palm-link, a PPC. He’d have wanted his logs, his connections. And weapons.

She moved back out, poked under the counter. She found an empty rack with a quick-release bar. Hunkering down, she narrowed her eyes as she studied it. Had the old bastard really had an illegal blaster? Was this some kind of weapon holder? She’d check the sweepers’ report, see if they’d confiscated a weapon.

She hissed out a breath, picked up the rack to examine it. She didn’t have a clue what an army-issue blaster circa the Urban Wars looked like.

Then she sighed, pushed the rack into her evidence bag. She knew where to find one.

Because she wanted to speak to Feeney in person, Eve swung back to Cop Central. She took the glide up to EDD, hopping off long enough to hit up a vending machine for a nutra-bar.

The Electronic Detective Division was a hive of activity. Cops were working on computers, tearing them apart, rebuilding them. Others sat in privacy booths playing and copying discs from confiscated ’links and logs. Nevertheless, the beeps and buzzes and whines of electronics crowded the air and made her wonder how anyone could manage to squeeze in a stray thought.

Despite the noise level, the door of Captain Ryan Feeney’s office was open. He sat at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, his wiry, rust-colored hair standing up on end, his droopy eyes enormous behind the lenses of microgoggles. While Eve watched from the doorway, he plucked a tiny translucent chip from the guts of the computer upended on his desk.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.” And with the delicacy of a surgeon, he slid the chip into an evidence bag.

“What is it?”

“Hah?” Behind the goggles, his hound dog eyes blinked, then he shoved the goggles up to his forehead and focused on her. “Hey, Dallas. This little darling? It’s basically a counter.” He tapped the bag and smiled a little. “Bank teller with a talent for e-work installed it in her unit at work. Every twenty transfers, a deposit got zipped into an account she’d set up for herself in Stockholm. Pretty slick.”

“You’re slicker.”

“Damn right. What are you doing over here?” He continued to work as he spoke, methodically tagging evidence. “Want to hang out with real cops?”

“Maybe I missed your pretty face.” She eased a hip onto the corner of his desk, grinning when he snorted. “Or maybe I wondered if you had any spare time.”

“For what?”

“You remember The Fixer?”

“Sure. Bad attitude, magic hands. The son of a bitch’s nearly as good as I am. He can take a unit like this XK-6000 here, strip her down, harvest her, and spread her into six other units before she cools down. He’s goddamn good.”

“Now he’s goddamn dead.”

“Fixer?” Genuine regret showed in his eyes. “What happened?”

“He took a last swim.” She filled him in quickly, moving from her meeting with Ratso through her quick tour of the shop.

“Had to be something big and something bad to scare an old warhorse like Fixer,” Feeney mused. “You say they didn’t take him from inside?”

“I’d say that would’ve been next to impossible. He had full security scan. Interior and exterior. A hive of locks. One exit—reinforced—and one window, one-way luminex, barred. Oh, and I checked his supplies. He had enough unperishables and bottled water to last a man used to rations a good month.”

“Sounds like he could’ve held off an invasion.”

“Yeah. So why run?”

“Got me. The Jersey primary cleared you to look into it from this end?”

“Well, he’s got nothing. I haven’t got much more,” she admitted. “The story’s from my weasel, and he tends to spook easy. But Fixer was into something, and they took him out. They didn’t get into his place, so they didn’t get to his equipment. He’s got a fail-safe on his shop unit. I thought you could play with it, see if you can get past it.”

Feeney scratched his ear, reached absently for a handful of the sugared nuts in a bowl on his desk. “Yeah, I can do that. Gotta figure he’d’ve taken his logs with him if he was going under. But he was smart. Might’ve left a copy behind. So I’ll look.”

“Appreciate it.” She straightened. “I’m just juggling this in for now. I haven’t run it by the commander.”

“Let’s see what I find; then we’ll take it to him.”

“Good.” She snatched some of the nuts before she headed for the door. “So how much did she get? The bank teller?”

Feeney glanced down at the microtimer. “Three million and change. If she’d settled for the three and skipped, she might’ve gotten away with it.”

“They always want more,” Eve said.

She munched on nuts as she headed to her own office. The detective’s bullpen clattered with voices, curses, and whines from suspects, from victims giving statements, the incessant trill of ’links, and the quick screams and scratches as two women went at each other with teeth and nails over a dead man they both claimed to love.

Eve found the atmosphere oddly soothing after her trip to EDD.

As a professional courtesy, she stepped in and hauled one of the shrieking women up in a headlock while the detective in charge struggled with the other.

“Thanks, Dallas.” Baxter grinned at her.

She only sneered. “You were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

“Hey, nothing like a catfight.” He cuffed his charge to a chair before she could slice at him. “If you’d have waited another minute, clothes might’ve gotten ripped off.”

“You’re so sick, Baxter.” Eve bent close to the woman’s ear. “You hear that?” she murmured, tightening her grip just a little as the woman continued to squirm like a fish. “You go after her again, the guys in the squad are going to get off on it. Is that what you want?”

“No.” She bit the word off, then sniffled. “I just want my Barry back!” she wailed.

The sentiment set the other woman off, so that the room was filled with the wild sobbing of women. Seeing Baxter wince, Eve smiled thinly and pushed the woman to him. “There you go, pal.”

“Thanks a lot, Dallas.”

Satisfied with her part in the little drama, Eve went into her office, shut the door. In the relative peace, she sat down and contacted Suzanna Day, the late J. Clarence Branson’s attorney.

After being passed from reception to assistant, Eve watched Suzanna’s face swim on-screen. She was a sharp-looking woman of perhaps forty. Black hair was cut short and sleek around an attractive face. Her complexion was dark and deep as onyx, her eyes like jet. Her unsmiling mouth was painted a rich crimson that matched the tiny bead pierced through the trailing tip of her left eyebrow.

“Lieutenant Dallas. B. D. told me you’d be in touch.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, Ms. Day. You’re aware I’m primary in the matter of J. Clarence Branson’s death?”

“Yes.” Her mouth thinned. “I’m also aware, through a contact at the PA’s office, that Lisbeth Cooke is being charged with man two.”

“You’re not happy with that decision.”

“J. C. was a friend, a good one. No, I’m not happy that the woman who killed him will do hardly more than turnaround time in a high-class cage.”

PAs make the deals, Eve thought sourly. Cops take the heat. “It’s not my job to make that determination, but it is to gather all possible evidence. Mr. Branson’s will could shed a different light on matters.”

“The will is to be read tonight, in the home of B. Donald Branson.”

“You already have the information as to the beneficiaries.”

“I do.” Suzanna paused, seemed to struggle with herself. “And I can’t reveal any of the terms before the official reading, as per my client’s instructions when the document was drawn up. My hands are tied here, Lieutenant.”

“Your client didn’t expect to be murdered.”

“Regardless. Believe me, Lieutenant, I’m already skimming corners by insisting the reading be held tonight.”

Eve considered a moment. “What time tonight?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Any legal reason why I can’t be there?”

Suzanna lifted her ornamented eyebrow. “No, not if Mr. and Mrs. Branson clear it. I’ll speak to them about it, get back to you.”

“Good. I’m going out in the field, but I’ll get the message. Just one more thing. Did you know Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Very well. I often socialized with her and J. C.”

“Opinion?”

“She’s ambitious, determined, possessive. And hot-tempered.”

Eve nodded. “You didn’t like her.”

“On the contrary, I liked her very much. I admire a woman who knows what she wants, gets it, and hangs on to it. She made him happy,” she added and pressed her lips together as tears swam into her eyes. “I’ll get back to you,” she said and broke transmission.

“Everybody loved J. C.,” Eve murmured, then, shaking her head, began to gather her things. Her communicator beeped before she got to the door. She tugged it out. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Peabody. I figured you’d have your brother out on the town.”

“Try vice versa.” On-screen, Peabody rolled her eyes. “I’ve already been to the top of the Empire State Building, taken the glide around the Silver Palace twice, gawked at skaters in Rockefeller Center—” Not under the tortures of hell would she admit she’d strapped on skates herself. “And I walked my feet off in two museums. He’s dying to do the Fly Over Manhattan tour. It leaves in fifteen.”

“Tons of fun,” Eve commented as she made her way to the elevator that would take her down to her car.

“Zeke’s never been to the city before. I’ve had to stop him from talking to every LC and beggar on the street. Jesus, Dallas, he wanted to play three-card monte.”

Eve grinned. “Good thing his sister’s a cop.”

“You’re telling me.” Then she sighed. “Look, this probably doesn’t mean anything, but it’s weird, and I thought I should let you know.”

Eve stepped out of the elevator into the garage. “What?”

“You know how Zeke said he came out because he had a commission? Building custom cabinets and stuff? Well, it turns out his commission is from B. Donald Branson.”

“Branson?” Eve pulled up short. “Branson hired your brother?”

“Yeah.” Peabody studied Eve out of unhappy eyes. “What are the odds?”

“Low,” Eve murmured. “Pretty low. How’d Branson hear about Zeke?”

“Mrs. Branson, actually. She was out in Arizona at some spa and was shopping, saw his work in one of the artists’ co-ops. Zeke does a lot of custom work, builtins, furniture. He’s really good. She asked about the craftsman, and they put her in touch with Zeke. One thing led to another, and here he is.”

“It sounds normal, logical.” She slipped into her car. “Has he been in touch with them since he got in?”

“He’s calling now. Their name just came up, and I told him. He thought he should call Mrs. Branson and see if she wanted to put off the work.”

“Okay. Don’t worry about it, Peabody. But let me know how they handle it. And if he hasn’t already spilled it about having a cop for a sister, tell him to keep that little bit of data to himself.”

“Sure. But it’s not like the Bransons are suspects. We’ve got the killer.”

“Right. Let’s just be cautious. Go play tour guide. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Coincidence, Eve mused as she drove out of the garage. She really hated coincidence. But no matter how she played the information through her mind, she couldn’t come up with anything off about the family of her murder victim hiring Peabody’s brother to do carpentry work.

J. Clarence had been alive when Zeke had been hired. Neither of the Bransons were involved in his death. There was no way to stretch it into anything shaky.

Sometimes coincidence was just coincidence. But she pushed the information into a corner of her mind and let it stew there.

There was music playing softly when Eve walked in the house. Summerset entertaining himself, she decided as she stripped off her jacket, while he went about doing whatever the hell it was he did all day.

She tossed the jacket over the newel post as she started upstairs. He would know she was home, she thought. The man knew every damn thing. He also hated to have his routine, whatever it was, disturbed. It was unlikely he would bother her.

She turned, walked down the corridor to the tall double doors of Roarke’s weapon room. Frowning a little, she hitched her bag on her shoulder more securely. She was aware that only Roarke, Summerset, and she could gain access to this room.

Roarke’s collection was legal—at least it was legal now. She had no idea if every piece had been obtained by legal means. She doubted that sincerely.

Eve laid her hand flat on the palm plate, waited while the cool green light shimmered on to take her print, then stated her name, and finally used the key code.

The security computer verified her identification, and the locks snicked open.

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and let out a long breath.

Weapons of violence through the ages were displayed, somehow elegantly, in the great room. Encased in glass, showcased in beautiful cabinets, gleaming on the walls were guns, knives, lasers, swords, pikes, maces. All testaments, she thought, to man’s continued ambition to destroy man.

And yet, she knew the weapon strapped to her side was as much a part of her as her arm.

She remembered the first time Roarke had showed her this room, when her instinct and her intellect had been waging a battle. One telling her he could be the killer she sought, the other insisting it wasn’t possible.

The first time he’d kissed her had been here, in this private museum of war. And another element had been added to her personal battle: her emotions. She’d never quite gotten her emotions back on track when it came to Roarke.

Her gaze skimmed over a case of handguns, all illegal but for collections like this since the Gun Ban implemented decades before. Clumsy, she thought, with their bulk and their weight. Lethal with their propulsion of hot steel into flesh.

Taking such impulsive killing devices off the street saved lives, she was sure. But as Lisbeth Cook had proved, there were always new ways to kill. The human mind never tired of dreaming them up.

She took the rack out of her bag, then studied her choices to find one that would fit.

She’d narrowed it down to three side arm types when the door behind her opened. She turned, intending to scald Summerset for interrupting, and Roarke strolled in.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’m working at home today,” he told her and lifted a brow. She looked a little frazzled, he noted, a bit distracted. And alluring.

“Do I assume the same for you, or are you just playing with guns?”

“I’ve got a case, sort of.” She set the rack down, gestured to it. “Since you’re here, you’d be better at this. I need an army-issue blaster, Urban War style, that would fit into this rack.”

“U.S. Army?”

“Yeah.”

“European style’s a bit different,” he commented as he walked to a display cabinet. “The U.S. had two hand blasters during that period, the second—toward the end of the war—was lighter, more accurate.”

He chose a piece with a long double over-and-under barrel and molded grip in a dull gray. “Infrared sight, heat-seeking directional. The blast can be toned down to stun—which would drop a two-hundred-pound man to his knees and have him drooling for twenty minutes—or tuned up to shoot a fist-sized hole in a charging rhino. It can be pinpointed or scattered to wide range.”

He turned the weapon over, showing Eve the controls on either side. She held out her hand, testing the weight when Roarke passed the weapon to her.

“Can’t weigh more than five pounds. How does it charge?”

“Battery card in the butt. Same principle as a clip on an old-fashioned automatic.”

“Hmm.” She turned and tried it in the rack. It slid in, settled snug, like a foot in a comfortable shoe. “Looks like a winner. Are there many of these around?”

“That depends on if you choose to believe the U.S. government, which claims that the vast majority were confiscated from its troops and destroyed. But if you believed that, you wouldn’t be the cynic I know and love.”

She grunted. “I want to test this out. You’ve got a battery card, right?”

“Of course.” He picked up the gun and rack himself, walked to the wall, and opened the panel. Frowning a little, Eve got on the elevator with him.

“Don’t you have to go back to work?”

“That’s the beauty of being the boss.” He smiled as she hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “What’s this about?”

“I’m not sure. Probably a waste of time.”

“We don’t get to waste nearly enough time together.”

The doors opened to the lower-level target range with its high ceilings and sand-colored walls. He hadn’t indulged his appreciation for comfort here. This room was spartan and efficient.

Roarke ordered the lights, set the rack on a counter area on the long glossy black console. He took a slim battery card from a drawer. He slid it into a slot on the butt of the weapon, gave it a quick shove with the heel of his hand.

“Fully charged,” he told her. “You’ve only to activate. A thumb flick on the side here,” he showed her. “Set your preferences and let it rip.”

She tried it out, nodded. “It’s fast, efficient. If you were worried about an attack, you’d have it on, already set.” Experimentally, she laid it against her own weapon harness. “With decent reflexes, you could have it out, aimed, and fired in seconds. I want to discharge it a couple of times.”

He opened another drawer, took out earplugs and safety goggles. “Hologram or still target?” Roarke asked as she put them on, then laid his palm on the identiscreen so that console lights glowed on.

“Hologram. Give me a couple of guys, night scene.”

Obligingly, Roarke programmed the target range, then settled back to enjoy the show.

He’d given her two bulky men who were nonetheless fast on their feet. Their images came at her from both sides. With a quick pivot, she blasted them both.

“Too easy,” she complained. “You’d have to be a one-armed moron with a vision impairment to miss with this thing.”

“Try it again.” He reprogrammed while she balanced on the balls of her feet and tried to imagine herself a scared old man getting ready to run.

The first one came at her fast, out of the shadows, and head-on. She shifted, firing in a crouch, then swiveling around in anticipation. It was closer this time. The second man had a steel bat lifted, had started into his swing. She rolled clear, fired up, and took his face off.

“Christ, I love to watch you work,” Roarke murmured.

“Maybe he wasn’t as fast,” she considered as she rose. “Maybe they knew about the blaster. But it would’ve given him the edge. And I had it on pinpoint. If he’d put it on wide range, he’d have taken out half the block in one swing.”

To demonstrate, she switched it herself, then using a two-handed grip sprayed the street scene. The vehicle parked on the opposite curb went up in flames, window glass shattered, alarms screamed.

“See?”

“As I said.” He stepped forward to take the weapon from her. Her hair was a tousled mess, and in the hard light every shade upon shade, every tone upon tone in the mix of brown showed. “I do love watching you work.”

“They didn’t just step up and knock him cold when he had one of those,” she insisted. “They had to distract him, send in a decoy or someone he trusted. They needed enough time to blindside him and not get blown to hell while they were at it. He didn’t have a vehicle, and he didn’t call for transport. I checked. So he’d’ve been on foot. Armed, ready, street savvy. But they took him out as quick and easy as plucking a Nebraskan tourist’s pocket in Times Square.”

“You’re sure it was quick and easy?”

“He had a blow to the head, no defensive wounds. If he’d fired that thing and the blast didn’t go into someone, there’d be a sign of the discharge. It isn’t neat.”

She blew her hair out of her eyes, shrugged. “Maybe he was just old and slow after all.”

“Not everyone reacts to fear clearheadedly, Lieutenant.”

“No, but I’d have bet the bank he would.” She moved her shoulders again. “I say they were armed. One of them drew his attention.” She began to set a new program herself as she thought it through. To put herself more into the scene she was devising, she removed her safety gear. “When he’s focused on that target . . .”

She took the weapon back from Roarke, engaged the program, slid herself into it. One man slipping out of the shadows, swing toward him, reach for your weapon. Even as she flicked it on, pivoted, she felt the slight shock of a computer hit on her upper shoulder.

She’d gotten off a shot, that was true, she mused as she absently rubbed her shoulder. But she was young and fit, and her mind was cool.

“He was old and scared, but he figured himself tough, too smart for them. But they flanked him, somewhere between his door and the subway stop. He goes for one, and the other stuns him. A stun’s not going to show up on autopsy unless it was a severe shock to the nervous system. They don’t need that. They just need to jolt him, then they can knock him out and haul him off.”

She laid the weapon down. “Anyway, I’ve got some answers. I just have to figure out where they fit.”

“Then I take it this little demonstration is concluded.”

“Yeah. I’m just going to—Hey,” she protested when he reached out and yanked her against him.

“I’m remembering the first time with you.” He expected her to resist a little, at first. It would only make her surrender sweeter. “It started right here.” He lowered his mouth to graze her cheek, sampling the taste he intended to devour. “Nearly a year ago. Even then, you were everything I wanted.”

“You just wanted sex.” Even as she twisted, she angled her head so that his clever mouth could skim down her throat. Under her skin dozens of pulse points awakened.

“I did.” He chuckled as his hands roamed down to mold and squeeze. “I still do. Always with you, darling Eve.”

“You’re not going to seduce me in the middle of a workday.” But he was circling her toward the elevator, and she wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

“Did you take a lunch break?”

“No.”

He leaned back long enough to grin. “Neither did I.” Then his mouth was hot and demanding on hers, taking her in quick, greedy gulps that had her nerve ends going from alert to sizzle.

“Oh hell,” she muttered and groped clumsily for her communicator with one hand while she hung onto him with the other. “Wait, stop. Hold it a minute. Block video.” She let out a breath. God, the man could do the most amazing things with his tongue. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

He dragged her into the elevator, pressed her against the wall, and savaged her neck.

Dispatch, acknowledged.

“I’m taking an hour personal time.” She bit back a moan when his hand closed roughly over her breast. And his other hand slipped between her legs, the heel pressed firmly against her where the heat built fever bright.

The first helpless orgasm had her fighting a scream.

Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on personal time. Affirmative. Dispatch out.

She barely managed to end transmission before he was tugging her shirt open. She fumbled for the release on her weapon harness, then grabbed a handful of his hair. “This is crazy,” she panted. “Why do we always want to do this?”

“I don’t know.” He swung her out of the elevator, then into his arms for the quick trip across the room to the big bed. “I just thank God for it.”

“Put your hands on me. I want your hands on me.” And they were, even as she fell beneath him onto the bed.

“A year ago.” His lips traced over her face, along her jaw. “I didn’t know your body, your moods, your needs. Now I do. It only makes me want you more.”

It was insane, she thought dimly, as she met his mouth with the same urgent hunger that touching him, tasting him, always caused this deep ache to grind inside her.

Whether they loved fast and furious such as now, or with sweeping tenderness, that ache, that want never seemed to lessen.

He was right. He knew her body now, as she knew his. She knew where to touch to make his muscles tense, where to stroke to make them quiver. And that knowledge, that familiarity was unbearably seductive.

She knew what he would bring her, this time, every time, whether it was a slow, burning build or one breathless burst: pleasure, deep and dazzling, with the excitement that shimmered around it.

He found her breast, giving himself the thrill of taking her into his mouth. Soft, firm, his. Her back bowed, her breath caught, and beneath his busy tongue, her heart hammered.

His hand closed around the teardrop diamond she wore—a symbol that she had learned to take what he so needed to give her.

Then they rolled, tugging at clothes so flesh could slide and stroke torturously against flesh.

Her breathing quickened, firing his blood. She who was strong and steady could be made to tremble under him. He could feel her body straining toward release, see in her face those flickers of shock and delight as it built.

As he took her over, he closed his mouth over hers and swallowed her long, shuddering moan.

It wouldn’t be enough. Even as her system started that lovely glide toward contentment, she knew he would drive her back up again. Drive her to where every pulse in her body pounded, every nerve sparked.

Braced and ready, she reached for him, struggling to give back even as her mind shattered and emptied, her system careened helplessly back into the heat.

She said his name, only his name, and arched up to take him inside her. The joining was smooth, and it was hot. Agile, eager, she pistoned her hips to meet each thrust. She could drive him as well as be driven. His fingers clamped down on hers, locked tight. Another layer of intimacy.

She could see in his eyes, so wildly blue, that he was as lost as she in this moment, this magic.

Only you. She knew he thought it, even as she did. Then those glorious eyes went opaque. With one breathless cry, she clung to his hands and threw herself over with him.

He lowered himself, sighing as he stretched out to rest his head between her breasts. Beneath him her body had gone lax as water. He knew she’d spring up soon enough, throw on her clothes, and go back to the work that consumed her.

But for now, for just a few moments more, she was content to drift.

“You should come home for lunch more often,” he murmured.

She laughed.

“Fun time’s over. I’ve got to get back.”

“Mm-hmm.” But neither of them made a move to rise. “We have dinner at eight at The Palace with some top-level staff and their spouses from one of my transportation arms.”

She frowned a little. “Did I know that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I’ve got this thing at seven.”

“What thing?”

“Will reading. At B. D. Branson’s.”

“Ah. No problem, I’ll shift dinner to eight-thirty and we’ll go by Branson’s first.”

“There’s no we here.”

He lifted his head from her breast, smiled. “I think I just proved you wrong.”

“It’s a case, not sex.”

“All right, I won’t have sex with you at Branson’s, but it might have been interesting.”

“Look, Roarke—”

“It simply makes sense, logistically.” He gave her cheek a pat and rolled aside. “We’ll go from Branson’s to the hotel where dinner is set.”

“You can’t just sit in on a will reading. It’s not a public event.”

“I’m sure B. D. has some comfortable place where I can wait for my wife without intruding, if that’s necessary. As I recall, he has a very spacious home.”

She didn’t bother to grumble. “I guess you know him.”

“Of course. We’re competitors—not unfriendly ones.”

She blew out a breath as she sat up and eyed him. “I’ll see if the lawyer approves it, so pending that, fine. And maybe later, you’ll give me your opinion of the Branson brothers.”

“Darling, I’m always delighted to help.”

“Yeah.” This time she did grumble. “That’s what worries me.”

Eve fidgeted in the back of the limo. It wasn’t the mode of transport she’d have chosen when she considered herself on duty. The fact was, she preferred being at the wheel when she was on the clock. There was something just plain decadent about streaming along in a mile-long limo under any circumstances, but in the middle of an investigation, it was, well, embarrassing.

Not that she would use the words decadent or embarrassing to Roarke. He’d enjoy her dilemma entirely too much.

At least the long, somewhat severe black dress she wore was suitable enough for both a will reading and a business dinner. It was straight and simple, covering her from neck to ankle. She considered it practical, if foolishly expensive.

But there was no place to strap on her weapon without looking ridiculous, no place for her badge but the silly little evening purse.

When she squirmed again, Roarke draped an arm over the backseat and smiled at her. “Problem?”

“Cops don’t wear virgin wool and ride in limos.”

“Cops who are married to me do.” He skimmed a finger over the cuff beneath the sleeve of her coat. He enjoyed the way the dress looked on her—long, straight, unadorned so that the body under it was quietly showcased. “How do you suppose they know the sheep are virgins?”

“Ha ha. We could have taken my ride.”

“Though your current vehicle is a vast improvement over your last, it hardly provides this kind of comfort. And we wouldn’t have been able to fully enjoy the wines that will be served with dinner. Most importantly . . .” He lifted her hand, nipped at her knuckles. “I wouldn’t be able to nibble on you along the way.”

“I’m on duty here.”

“No, you’re not. Your shift ended an hour ago.”

She smirked at him. “I took an hour’s personal time, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” He shifted closer, and his hand slid up her thigh. “You can go back on the clock when we get there, but for now . . .”

She narrowed her eyes as the car swung to the curb. “I haven’t gone off the clock, ace. Move your hand, or I’ll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer.”

“When we get home, will you read me my rights and interrogate me?”

She snorted out a laugh. “Pervert,” she muttered and climbed out of the car.

“You smell better than a cop’s supposed to.” He sniffed at her as they walked toward the dignified entrance of the brownstone.

“You squirted that stuff on me before I could dodge.” He tickled her neck, made her jerk back. “You’re awfully playful tonight, Roarke.”

“I had a very satisfying lunch,” he said soberly. “Put me in a cheerful mood.”

She had to grin, then cleared her throat. “Well, shake it off, this isn’t exactly a festive occasion.”

“No, it’s not.” He stroked an absent hand down her hair before ringing the bell. “I’m sorry about J. C.”

“You knew him, too.”

“Well enough to like him. He was an affable sort of man.”

“So everyone says. Affable enough to cheat on his lover?”

“I couldn’t say. Sex causes the best of us to make mistakes.”

“Really?” She arched her brows. “Well, if you ever feel like making a mistake in that area, remember what an annoyed woman can do with a Branson power drill.”

“Darling.” He gave the back of her neck a quick squeeze. “I feel so loved.”

A solemn-eyed maid opened the door, her slick, black jumpsuit conservatively cut, her voice smooth and faintly British. “Good evening,” she began with the faintest of nods. “I’m sorry, the Bransons aren’t accepting visitors at the moment. There’s been a death in the family.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve took out her badge. “We’re expected.”

The maid studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn’t until Eve saw the quick jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as a droid.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?”

“Sure.” Eve shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke’s over her arm.

“If you would follow me. The family is in the main parlor.”

Eve glanced around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white sweep, seemed to be floating unsupported.

Two tall doors slid silently into the wall at their approach. The maid paused respectfully at the entrance. “Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke,” she announced, then stepped back.

“How come we don’t have her instead of Summerset?”

Eve’s muttered question earned her another light neck squeeze from her husband as they walked into the room.

It was high-ceilinged, spacious, the lighting muted. The monochromatic theme carried through here, this time in layers of blue from the delicate pastels of fan-shaped conversation pits to the cobalt tiles of the fireplace where flames flickered.

Silver vases of varying sizes and shapes were arranged on the mantel. Each held white lilies. The air was ripely funereal with their scent.

A woman rose from the near curve of the seating area and crossed the sea of carpet toward them. Her skin was white as the lilies against her black suit. She wore her wheat-colored hair pulled severely back, knotted at the nape in smooth, snaking twists, in a way only the most confident and beautiful of women would dare. Unframed, her face was stunning, a perfect creation of planed cheekbones, slim, straight nose, smooth brow, shapely, unpainted lips all set off with large, lushly lashed eyes of dark violet.

The eyes grieved.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” She held out a hand. Her voice reminded Eve of her skin—pale and smooth and flawless. “Thank you for coming. I’m Clarissa Branson. Roarke.” In a gesture that was both warm and fragile, she offered him her free hand so that, for a moment, the three of them stood joined.

“I’m very sorry about J. C., Clarissa.”

“We’re all a little numb. I saw him just this weekend. We had . . . we all had brunch on Sunday. I don’t—I still don’t—”

As she began to falter, B. D. Branson stepped up, slid an arm around her waist. Eve watched her stiffen slightly, saw the gorgeous eyes lower.

“Why don’t you get our guests a drink, darling.”

“Oh yes, of course.” She released Eve’s hand to touch her fingers to her temple. “Would you like some wine?”

“No, thanks. Coffee, if you have it.”

“I’ll arrange for some to be brought in. Excuse me.”

“Clarissa’s taking this very hard,” Branson said quietly, and his gaze never left his wife.

“She and your brother were close?” Eve asked.

“Yes. She has no family, and J. C. was as much a brother to her as he was to me. Now we only have each other.” He continued to stare at his wife, then seemed to pull back into himself. “I didn’t make the connection until you’d left my office today, Lieutenant. Your connection to Roarke.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” He managed a small smile for Roarke. “We’re competitors, but I wouldn’t say we’re adversaries.”

“I enjoyed J. C.,” Roarke said briefly. “He’ll be missed.”

“Yes, he will. You should meet the lawyers, so we can get on with this.” A bit grim around the mouth now, he turned. “You’ve spoken with Suzanna Day.”

Catching Branson’s eye, Suzanna came over. Handshakes were brisk and impersonal before Suzanna ranged herself beside Branson. The final person in the room rose.

Eve had already recognized him. Lucas Mantz was one of the top and priciest criminal defense attorneys in the city. He was trim, slickly attractive, with waving hair of streaked white on black. His smile was cool and polite, his smoky eyes sharp and alert.

“Lieutenant. Roarke.” He nodded to both of them, then took another sip from the straw-colored wine he carried. “I’m representing Ms. Cooke’s interests.”

“She didn’t spare any expense,” Eve said dryly. “Your client figuring on coming into some money, Mantz?”

His eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused irony. “If my client’s finances are in question, Lieutenant, we’ll be happy to provide you with records. Once you provide a warrant. The charges against Ms. Cooke have been filed and accepted.”

“For now,” Eve told him.

“Why don’t we get on with the business at hand.” Branson once more looked toward his wife who was directing the maid to position the coffee cart. “Please, let’s sit down.” He gestured toward the seating area.

Once they took their places and coffee was served, Clarissa sat beside her husband, her hand clinging to his. Lucas Mantz shot Eve one more cool smile, then settled on the far end. Suzanna sat in a facing chair.

“The deceased left personal bereavement discs to his brother and sister-in-law, to Ms. Lisbeth Cooke, and to his assistant, Chris Tipple. Those discs will be hand delivered to the appropriate parties within twenty-four hours of the reading of his will. Mr. Tipple was advised of tonight’s reading but has declined to attend. He is . . . unwell.”

She took a document out of her briefcase and began.

The opening was technical and flowery. Eve doubted the language for such things had changed in two centuries. The formal acknowledgment of one’s own death had a long tradition, after all.

Humans, she thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance. I bet so much a month that I’ll live till I die, she mused.

Then there were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking out a sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.

Buy now, die later.

Those little details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.

A matter of control, she’d always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during life.

Either way, a lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.

And she who dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.

The minor bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who’d enjoyed foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream sauce.

He’d remembered the people who’d had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the ’link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist sculpture she had admired.

Her voice hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.

“To my assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.

“To my beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the pearl necklace my mother left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my grandmother’s, and my love.”

Clarissa began to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her husband draped his arm around them.

“Hush, Clarissa,” Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear. “Control yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” She kept her head lowered. “I’m sorry.”

“B. D.” Suzanna paused, casting Clarissa a glance of quiet sympathy. “Would you like me to stop for a few moments?”

“No.” Jaw set, mouth grim, he kept his arm firmly around his wife and stared straight ahead. “Please, let’s finish.”

“All right. To my brother and partner, B. Donald Branson.” Suzanna took a breath. “The disposition of my share of the business we ran together is set down in a separate document. I acknowledge here that all my interest in Branson Toys and Tools is to be transferred into his name upon my death should he survive me. If he should predecease me, that interest is to be transferred to his spouse or any children of that union. In addition, I hereby bequeath to my brother the emerald ring and diamond cufflinks that were our father’s, my disc library including but not exclusive to all family images, my boat the T and T, and my air cycle in the hopes he’ll finally try it out. Unless, of course, he was right, and my crashing it is the reason this will is being read.”

Branson made a sound, something that might have been a short, strained laugh, then closed his eyes.

“To Lisbeth Cooke.” Suzanna’s voice chilled several degrees as she spared Mantz one glimmering stare of dislike. “I leave all the rest of my personal possessions, including all cash, bank and credit accounts, real estate, financial holdings, furnishings, art, and personal property. Lissy my love,” Suzanne continued, biting off the words, “don’t grieve too long.”

“Millions.” Branson got slowly to his feet. His face was deathly pale, his eyes brilliant. “She murders him and stands to gain millions. I’ll fight this.” Hands clenched, he turned on Mantz. “I’ll fight this with everything I have.”

“I understand your distress.” Mantz rose as well. “However, your brother’s wishes were clearly and legally outlined. Ms. Cooke has not been charged with murder but with second-degree manslaughter. There are legal precedents that protect her inheritance.”

Branson bared his teeth. Even as he lunged, Eve sprang up to block him. Before she could, Roarke was doing so.

“B. D.” Roarke spoke calmly, but he had Branson’s arms pinned firmly to his sides. “This won’t help you. Let your lawyer handle it. Your wife’s very distraught,” he continued as Clarissa curled into a ball and wept wildly. “She should lie down. Why don’t you take her upstairs, give her a soother.”

The bones in Branson’s face stood out in sharp relief, so keen it seemed they might cut right through the flesh. “Get out of my house,” he ordered Mantz. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I’ll see him out,” Roarke said. “Take care of your wife.”

For one long moment, Branson strained against Roarke’s hold; then he nodded, turned. He gathered his wife up, cradling her as he would a child, and carried her from the room.

“You’re done here, Mantz.” Eve faced him. “Unless you want to see if the Bransons have a dog you could kick.”

He acknowledged this, picked up his own briefcase. “We all do our jobs, Lieutenant.”

“Right, and yours is to run to a murderer and tell her she just got rich.”

His eyes never wavered. “Life is very rarely black and white.” He nodded to Suzanna. “Good evening, Counselor,” he murmured and left.

“He’s right.” Suzanna sighed and sat again. “He’s only doing his job.”

“Will she inherit?” Eve demanded.

Suzanna pinched the bridge of her nose. “As things stand, yes. With charges of second-degree manslaughter, it can be argued she killed J. C. in a moment of jealous passion. His will was a sealed document. We can’t prove she had prior knowledge of its contents or that those contents in any way influenced her. Under current law, she can gain by his death.”

“If the charges are bumped up?”

Suzanna dropped her hand into her lap, regarding Eve thoughtfully. “Then things change. Is there a chance of that? I was under the impression the case was closed.”

“Closed doesn’t mean locked.”

“I hope you’ll keep me updated,” Suzanna said as she rose and walked out with them to where the maid waited with their coats.

“I’ll let you know what I can when I can.” When they stepped outside, Eve slid her hands into her pockets. The limo was waiting. She struggled not to be embarrassed by it.

“Can we give you a lift home, Ms. Day?” Roarke asked.

“No, thanks. I could use a walk.” She paused a moment and her sigh puffed out a thin stream of white. “As an estate lawyer, I deal with this sort of thing all the time. Grief and greed. But it’s rare it hits this close to home. I really liked J. C. Some people you think will live forever.” Shaking her head, she walked away.

“Well, that was fun.” Eve started toward the car. “Wonder if Lissy my love will shed half as many tears over this guy as Clarissa. You know her very well?”

“Hmm, no.” Roarke slid into the car beside her. “In that false intimacy of social acquaintances, I run into the Branson brothers at events occasionally. Clarissa and Lisbeth were usually with them.”

“I’d’ve reversed it.”

Roarke sat back, lighted a cigarette. “Meaning?”

“I’d put Clarissa with J. C. Just going by what I’ve learned about him, he was lighter, less driven, more emotional than his brother. Clarissa comes off fragile, nearly tender—seems a little . . . intimidated by Branson. She doesn’t seem like your slick corporate wife. The man’s running a big, international company. Why doesn’t he have a slick corporate wife?” Even as she posed the question, Roarke was grinning, making her narrow her eyes. “What?”

“I was going to say that he might have fallen for a different type. It happens, even to the heads of big, international companies.”

Now her narrowed eyes glinted. “Are you saying I’m not a slick, corporate wife?”

He drew contemplatively on his cigarette. “If I said you were, you’d try to hurt me, then we’d end up wrestling back here. One thing would lead to another and we’d be very late for a business dinner.”

“I’d be real sorry about that,” she muttered. “You’re not exactly the typical cop’s spouse either, pal.”

“If you said I was, we’d end up wrestling back here, and so on.” He stubbed out his cigarette, then trailed a fingertip down the center of her body from throat to waist. “Wanna?”

“I didn’t get all polished up so you could leave fingerprints all over me.”

He smiled and cupped her breast. “Darling, I never leave prints.”

During the evening of dinner and conversation, Eve managed to slip away long enough to request a warrant to access data on Lisbeth Cooke’s finances. She cited the sizable inheritance as cause and got lucky with a judge who either agreed with her or was too tired to argue the point.

As a result, she was alert and edgy when they arrived home.

“I’ve got some stuff I want to check out,” she told Roarke when they walked into the bedroom. “I’m going to change and work in my office awhile.”

“On . . . ?”

“I asked for a warrant to access Cooke’s financial data.” She wiggled out of the dress, tossed it aside, then stood there, much to her husband’s interest, in two tiny scraps of black and high leather boots. “It came through during the dessert course.”

“I must have a whip around here,” he murmured.

“A what?”

Grinning, he started toward her, amused when her eyes narrowed threateningly. “Keep your distance, ace. I said I have work.”

“I can access that information in half the time you can. I’ll help you out.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“No. But we both know I can do it faster and interpret it without getting a tension headache. And all I want in return is one little thing.”

“What little thing?”

“That when we’re finished you’re still wearing this very interesting getup.”

“Getup?” She glanced over, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and blinked in shock. “Jesus, I look like—”

“Oh yes,” Roarke agreed. “Yes, you do.”

She looked back at him, struggled to ignore the slick ball of lust the gleam in his eyes caused. “Men are so weird.”

“Then have pity on us.”

“I’m not parading around in my underwear so you can cook up some sordid little fantasy.”

“That’s all right,” he said as she snatched up a robe and bundled into it. “It’s already cooked. We can do this faster in my office.”

As she belted the robe, she eyed him suspiciously. “Do what faster?”

“Why, access the data, Lieutenant. What else?”

She refused to acknowledge the little tug of disappointment. “This is official business. I want the search initialized from my machine.”

“You’re the boss.” He took her hand to lead her out.

“Just remember that.”

“Darling, with what you’re wearing under that robe forever imprinted on my memory, how could I forget?”

“All roads,” she said dryly, “don’t lead back to sex.”

“The best ones do.” He gave her butt a friendly pat as she preceded him into her office.

Galahad was curled up in her sleep chair. The cat raised his head in obvious annoyance at the disturbance. Since neither of them headed for the kitchen, he closed his eyes again and ignored them.

She slid the warrant into a slot on her computer, engaged it. “I know how to do a financial search. You’re just here to interpret and tell me if you think she’s got anything buried under layers.”

“I’m here to serve.”

“Cut that out.” She dropped into the chair at her desk and called up Lisbeth Cooke’s case file. “Hold current data,” she ordered, “and initiate search of financial records on subject’s name and identification number. All accounts, cash, credit, and debit. Start with one-year period back from this date.”

Working . . . .

“Personal property?” Roarke asked.

“I’ll get to it. We’ll do the bucks first.”

Data complete. Cooke, Lisbeth has four cash/credit accounts active.

“Scroll data on-screen.”

Acknowledged . . . .

Eve made a low sound as the data popped. “Over two million in New York Security, another one and a half in New World Bank, just under a mil in American Trust, and a quarter million in Credit Managers.”

“The last would be for living expenses,” Roarke told her. “The other three are security and brokerage type accounts. Primarily long-term investments, managed by financial teams endorsed by those particular institutions. It’s smart business. She’s mixing high risk, big gain, with conservative interest income.”

“How can you tell that from the names of the banks and the amounts in them?”

“It’s my business to know the nature of banks. If you break this down to the next level, you’ll see she likely has a balanced mix of stocks, bonds, mutuals, and fluid cash to float into new investments as the market fluctuates.”

He ordered the breakdown himself and tapped a finger on the screen. “There, you see she believes in her own company. There’s a healthy chunk of stocks in Branson T and T, but she hedges her bets. She also has stocks in several other companies, including a number of mine. And including three that are in direct competition with Branson. She doesn’t invest her money emotionally.”

“She’s calculating.”

“When it comes to her finances, she’s smart and she’s realistic.”

“And she’s got over four million to play with. Seems like a lot for an ad exec. Computer, detail on-screen deposits and e-transfers during the one-year period.”

Working . . . .

When the data appeared, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “Look at that. An e-transfer from J. Clarence Branson’s account to her living expense account. A quarter million every three months. A fucking million a year. Computer, list all transfers from subject Branson’s account into the name of Lisbeth Cooke.”

Working . . . . Data complete. Initial transfer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars made July second, 2055. Transfers every quarter in that amount for period of one year. Transfers increased to two hundred thousand on July second, 2056, continuing at six-month increments until July second 2057, when transfers were increased to two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Eve muttered.

“He provided her with a steady and generous income.” From behind her chair, Roarke rubbed absently at the tension in Eve’s shoulders. “Why kill him?”

“A million a year?” She glanced back at him. “That would be nothing to you.”

“Darling, it’s all something.”

“You probably blow that on shoes.”

Chuckling, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If your feet aren’t happy, you aren’t happy.”

She grunted, tapped her fingers on the desk. “So what if she got greedy, got tired of hanging out for a million a year? Kill him, and do it right, and she gets it all and gets it now.”

“It’s a big risk. It goes wrong, she’s charged with murder and gets nothing but a cage for her trouble.”

“She’s calculating. She’d figure the odds. Computer, what is the value of J. Clarence Branson’s personal estate, not including any holdings in Branson Toys and Tools.”

Working . . . .

Roarke moved away to pour himself a brandy. He knew Eve would drink nothing—save coffee—while she worked like this. And since he wanted her to sleep, he bypassed the AutoChef.

She was up and pacing when he turned back. The belt of her robe had loosened, reminding him he had plans for her before sleep. Very specific, interesting plans.

Data complete. Estimated value, including appraisals of real estate, transportation vehicles, art, and jewelry is two hundred and sixty-eight million dollars.

“That’s a hell of an increase in salary.” Eve scooped her hair back with her hand. “You deduct the minor bequests, the death taxes, and he’d have finagled some there to cut them back, and she stands to get about two hundred million.”

“Mantz will argue she didn’t know about the inheritance.”

“She knew. They’d been together over three years. Damn straight she knew.”

“How much am I worth, Eve, and how are the bequests in my will distributed?”

She glanced up briefly, irritation in her eyes. “How the hell would I know?” When he smiled at her, she blew out a breath. “That’s different. We didn’t make a business arrangement.”

“True enough. But Mantz will still argue it.”

“He can argue until his tongue falls out. She knew. I’m going to talk to her again, hit her tomorrow. Her story about the other woman and her insane fit of jealousy just isn’t holding up for me.”

She swung back behind the desk and called up the debit data. Dissatisfied, she studied it, sliding her hands into her pockets. “Expensive taste, but nothing out of line with her income. She bought a lot of men’s jewelry, clothing. Maybe she had a guy on the side. That’s an angle worth looking into.”

“Hmm.” Her robe was open now, revealing a delightful strip of flesh, black silk, and leather. “I suppose all of that has to wait until tomorrow.”

“Not much more I can do here tonight,” she agreed.

“On the contrary.” He moved quickly, tugging the robe off, then running his hands over her. “I can think of a great deal more.”

“Oh yeah?” Her blood was already on boil. The man had the most creative hands. “Such as?”

“Why don’t I make a few suggestions.” With his lips curving against hers, he backed her up against the wall. The first one murmured against her ear made her eyes cross.

“Wow. That’s a good one. I’m just not sure it’s physically possible.”

“Never know until you try,” Roarke said, and began to demonstrate.

Peabody was already waiting when Eve arrived in her office in the morning. “Thanks for the time off, Dallas.”

Eve eyed the slim vase of red, hothouse roses on her desk. “You bought me flowers?”

“Zeke did.” The smile Peabody offered managed to be both whimsical and wry. “He does stuff like that all the time. He wanted to thank you for yesterday. I told him you weren’t the type for flowers, but he thinks everyone is.”

“I like flowers.” Feeling slightly defensive about Peabody’s take on her, Eve deliberately bent down and sniffed them. Twice. “What’s not to like? So what’s baby brother up to today?”

“He’s got a list of museums and galleries. A long list,” Peabody added. “Then he’s going to go down and stand in line for discount theater tickets for tonight. He doesn’t care what show, as long as he gets to see something on Broadway.”

Eve studied Peabody’s face, the concerned eyes, the teeth McNab had admired busily gnawing her bottom lip. “Peabody, people manage to do all the things he’s planning and survive New York every day.”

“Yeah, I know. And we went over all the warnings. Six or seven times,” she added with a wry smile. “But he’s just so . . . Zeke. Anyway, first he’s going to contact the Bransons, again, see what they want him to do. He couldn’t reach them yesterday.”

“Hmm.” Eve sat and began to poke through the interoffice and outside mail Peabody had already brought in and stacked. “Roarke and I sat in on the will reading last night. Cooke terminates her lover and inherits millions.” Eve shook her head. “We’re going to drop by her place this morning, have a little chat about that. Who the hell is Cassandra?”

“Who?”

“That’s what I said.” Frowning, Eve turned over the disc pouch. “Outside package—return address in the Lower East Side. I don’t like packages from people I don’t know.”

“All outside deliveries are scanned for explosives, poisons, and hazardous materials.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But instinct had her reaching in a drawer for a can of Seal-It and coating her fingers before she opened the pouch and took out the disc. “The virus killer on this thing in working order?”

Peabody looked sadly at Eve’s computer. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Fucking piece of junk,” Eve muttered and slipped the disc into a slot. “Computer, engage and run disc.”

There was a low buzzing, like a distant swarm of angry bees on the rise. Her screen blinked on, off, then with a whine came on again.

“First chance I get,” Eve vowed, “I’m paying a personal visit to those clowns in maintenance.”

Disc in text only. Message as follows . . . .

Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York Police and Security, Cop Central, Homicide Division.

We are Cassandra. We are the gods of justice. We are loyal.

The present corrupt government with its self-serving and weak-stomached leaders must and will be destroyed. We will dismantle, we will remove, we will annihilate as it becomes necessary to make way for the republic. No longer will the masses tolerate the abuse, the suppression of ideas and voices, the neglect of the pitiful few who cling to power.

Under our rule, all will live free.

We admire your skills. We admire your loyalty in the matter of Howard Bassi, known as The Fixer. He was useful to us and terminated only because he proved defective.

Eve slammed another disc into a slot. “Computer, copy disc currently running.”

We are Cassandra. Our memory is long. We are prepared. We will make our needs and demands known to you, in time. At nine-fifteen this morning, we will provide a small demonstration of our scope. You will believe. Then you will listen.

“A demonstration,” Eve said when the message ended. With a quick check of her wrist unit, she grabbed both discs, sealed the original. “We’ve got less than ten minutes.”

“To do what?”

“They gave us an address.” She tapped a finger on the pouch, scooped up her jacket. “Let’s check it out.”

“If these are the people who took out Fixer,” Peabody began as they strode to the elevator, “they already know you’re looking into it.”

“Not that hard to know. I’ve been in contact with New Jersey, I went to his shop yesterday. Run the address, Peabody, see what it is. Apartment, private home, business.”

“Yes, sir.”

They climbed into the car. Eve reversed, spun into a neat one-eighty, and shot out of the garage. “Display map,” she ordered, heading south. “Lower East Side, sector six.” When the street grid of the proper area shimmered onto her view screen, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. It’s a warehouse district.”

“The building in question is an old glass factory slated for rehab. It’s listed as unoccupied.”

“Maybe the address is bogus, but they expect us to check it out. We won’t disappoint them. Time?”

“Six minutes.”

“Okay. We’re going up.” Eve punched the warning siren, hit vertical lift, and shot over the roofs of southbound traffic.

She swung east, passed reconditioned lofts where young professionals liked to live and shop and eat in overpriced cafés with bad lighting and good wine.

Barely a block over, the ambiance changed to disuse, disrepair, and despair. Misery walked the streets below in the guise of the unemployed and the unwashed, the failed and the desperate.

South of there, the old factories and warehouses loomed, nearly every one abandoned. Bricks were soot gray from smoke, smog, time. Window glass was in shards and sparkling on ground littered with garbage and straggling with weeds that struggled out of broken concrete.

Eve set the car down, briefly studied the square six-story building of brick closed in behind a security fence. The gate was equipped with a card lock but was wide open.

“I’d say we’re expected.” She drove through, scanning the building for any sign of life. Then, frowning, she stopped the car, climbed out. “Time?”

“About a minute,” Peabody told her as she got out the opposite door. “Are we going in?”

“Not quite yet.” She thought of Fixer and his nasty little shop. “Call for backup. Let Dispatch know where we are. I don’t like the feel of this.”

It was as far as she got. There was a rumble, and the ground shook under her feet. A series of flashes bloomed in the broken windows of the building and had her swearing.

“Take cover!” Even as she started to dive behind the car, the air exploded and gave her a hot little slap that had her skidding on her knees. The noise was huge, slamming against her eardrums, shooting a high-pitched wine through the center of her skull.

Bricks rained. A smoldering chunk smashed into the ground inches from her face as she rolled under the car. Her body bumped solidly into Peabody’s.

“You hurt?”

“No. Jesus, Dallas.”

A wave of heat swarmed over them, brutally intense. The air was screaming. Debris flew overhead, battering the car like hot, furious fists. This is what the end of the world would feel like, Eve thought as she fought to catch her breath. Hot and filthy and full of noise.

Above them, the car rocked, bucked, shuddered. Then there was no sound but the ringing in her ears and Peabody’s ragged pants. No movement but the wild hammering of her own heart.

She lay there another moment, assuring herself she was still alive, that all her parts were intact. There was a burning sensation where she’d met the concrete. Her fingers came away wet with blood as she probed the area. That disgusted her enough to have her bellying out from under the car.

“Goddamn it, goddamn it! Just look at my ride.”

The car was dents and scorch marks, the windshield a fancy web of cracks. The roof carried a fist-sized hole.

Peabody crawled to her feet, coughed at the smoke that was stinking the air. “You don’t look so good yourself, sir.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Eve muttered and wiped her bloody fingers on her ruined trousers.

“No, I meant as a whole.”

Scowling, Eve glanced over, then narrowed her eyes. Peabody’s face was smeared with black, making the whites of her eyes stand out like moons. She’d lost her uniform cap and her hair was standing wildly on end.

Eve rubbed her fingers over her own face, studied the now blackened tips, and swore. “Shit. That caps it. Call this in. Get some units out here for crowd control. We’re going to have a hell of a crowd once people in this area crawl out from under their beds. And get—”

At the sound of a car, she whirled, one hand on the butt of her weapon. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed when she recognized the vehicle that pulled in behind hers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded when Roarke got out of the car.

“I could ask the same. Your leg’s bleeding, Lieutenant.”

“Not much.” She rubbed a hand under her nose. “I’ve got myself a crime scene here, Roarke, and a hazardous area. Go away.”

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, crouching down, examined the cut before tying the cloth over the wound. “You’ll need that tended. It’s full of grit.” Rising, he stroked a hand over her hair. “Interesting do, and somehow you.”

She caught Peabody’s smirk out of the corner of her eye but decided to let it pass. “I don’t have time for you, Roarke. I’m working.”

“Yes, I can see that. But I think you’ll want to make time.” His eyes were cold and flat as he scanned the smoldering rubble. “This used to be my building.”

“Oh hell.” Eve shoved her hands into her pockets, paced away, back, away again. “Hell,” she repeated and glared at him.

“I knew you’d be delighted.” He took a disc pouch out of his pocket, offered it to her. He’d already copied the disc and secured it. “I received that this morning. It’s a text message from a group calling themselves Cassandra. Basically, it calls me a capitalist opportunist—which of course is absolutely true—and states that I’ve been chosen in their first demonstration. There’s some tired and tedious political jargon thrown in. The redistribution of wealth, the exploitation of the poor by the rich. Nothing terribly original.”

His words might have been casual, but the tone was much too controlled. And she knew him. Beneath those cool eyes, violence was bubbling.

She handled it the only way she knew how, with professional dispatch. “I’m going to need you to come in so I can take a detailed statement. I’ll have to take this as evidence.”

She broke off as the violence in his eyes swam to the surface. No one, she thought fleetingly, no one could look more dangerous than Roarke in an icy temper.

Abruptly, he swung away from her to stride through the smoking bricks.

“Damn it.” Impatient, she scooped a hand through her disordered hair and tossed a glance at Peabody.

“Units are on the way, Dallas.”

“Stand at the gate,” Eve ordered. “Secure it if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” With some sympathy, Peabody watched as Eve walked over to deal with her husband.

“Look, Roarke, I know you’re pissed off. I don’t blame you. Somebody blows up one of your buildings, you’ve got a right to be pissed.”

“Damn right I do.” He spun back to her, fury ripe in his eyes. The fact that she’d nearly backed up a step in the face of it both mortified and infuriated her. She compensated by leaning forward until her boots bumped his shoes.

“This is a goddamn crime scene, and I don’t have the time or inclination to stand around and pat you on the head because one of your six million buildings got blown to hell. Now, I’m sorry about it, and I understand you feel ticked off and violated, but don’t take it out on me.”

He gripped her arms and hauled her up to her toes in a move guaranteed to make her snarl and spit. If his property hadn’t been heaved out in a half-block pile of stinking ruin, she might have decked him.

“Do you think that’s the problem?” he demanded. “Do you think the fucking warehouse is the problem?”

She struggled to think through her own temper. “Yes.”

He hauled her up another inch. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot? I’m an idiot? You’re a moron if you think I’m going to stand here making clucky noises to your ego while I’ve got somebody blowing up buildings on my watch. Now, get your hands off before I take you down.”

“How close were you to going in?”

“That’s not—” She broke off, deflating as it hit her. It wasn’t the building that put that wicked light in his eyes. It was her. “Not that close.” She said it quietly as she unclenched her fists. “Not that close, Roarke. I didn’t like the setup. I’d just ordered Peabody to call it in, send for a couple of backup units. I know how to handle myself.”

“Yeah.” He took a hand off her arm to brush his fingertips over her filthy cheek. “It shows.” Then he released her completely, stepped back. “Have that leg tended to. I’ll meet you at your office.”

When he started to walk away, she jammed her hands in her pockets, pulled them out. Rolled her eyes. Damn it, she did know how to handle herself. She just didn’t always know how to handle him. “Roarke.”

He stopped, glanced back. And nearly smiled when he watched the obvious struggle between duty and heart on her face. Looking over to make certain Peabody had her back discreetly turned, she crossed to him, lifted a hand to his cheek.

“Sorry. I was a little pissed off, myself. Having a building blow up in my face does that to me.” When she heard the approaching sirens, she dropped her hands, frowned. “No kissing in front of the uniforms.”

Now he did smile. “Darling, no kissing until you wash your face. I’ll meet you at your office,” he repeated and walked away.

“Give it a couple of hours,” she called out. “I’ll be tied up here at least that long.”

“Fine.” He stopped by her car, angling his head as he studied it. “Actually, this suits you better now.”

“Bite me,” she said with a laugh, then put on her official face for the bomb squad.

When she returned to Cop Central, Eve hit the showers and washed off the stink and soot. She remembered the gash in her leg when the hot water stung. Setting her teeth, she cleaned the wound herself, dug out a first-aid kit, and went to work on it. She figured she’d watched the med-techs poke around her body often enough to handle a few cuts.

Satisfied, she rooted through her locks for her spare set of clothes and made herself a memo to bring more in. Those she’d been wearing went straight into the recycler as a dead loss.

She found Roarke in her office, having a cozy chat with Nadine Furst from Channel 75.

“Scram, Nadine.”

“Come on, Dallas, a cop nearly gets blown up when her husband’s building is destroyed by person or persons unknown, it’s news.” She offered Eve one of her pretty cat smiles, but there was concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, and I wasn’t nearly blown up. I was yards away from the building at the time of the explosion. I’ve got nothing official to give you at this time.”

Nadine merely recrossed her legs. “What were you doing at the building?”

“Maybe I was scoping out my husband’s property.”

Nadine snorted and managed to make the sound ladylike. “Yeah, and maybe you’ve decided to retire and raise puppies. Give a little, Dallas.”

“The building was abandoned. I’m homicide. There was no homicide. I suggest you stroll on up to Explosives and Bombs.”

Nadine’s eyes slitted. “It’s not your case?”

“Why would it be? Nobody died. But if you don’t get out of my chair, somebody might.”

“All right, all right.” With a shrug, Nadine rose. “I’ll go charm the boys in E and B. Hey, I caught Mavis’s video yesterday. She looked fantastic. When’s she due back?”

“Next week.”

“We’ll have a welcome home party for her,” Roarke put in. “I’ll let you know the details.”

“Thanks. You’re so much nicer than Dallas.” With a cocky grin, Nadine strolled out.

“I’m going to remember that crack the next time she wants a one-on-one,” Eve muttered and closed her door.

“What didn’t you tell her?” Roarke asked.

Eve dropped into her chair. “It’s going to take time for E and B to scan and sweep the site. At this point, they have some pieces and suspect there were at least six explosive devices, likely on timers. It’ll be a couple of days before I have a cohesive report.”

“But it’s your case.”

“At this point, it appears the explosion is linked to a homicide I’m investigating.” Fixer was hers now. She’d arranged it. “The people responsible for both contacted me. I have a meeting with Whitney shortly, but yeah, until he says differently, it’s mine. Did you ever have any dealings with Fixer?”

Roarke stretched out his legs. “Is that an official question?”

“Shit.” She closed her eyes. “That means you did.”

“He had magic hands,” Roarke said, examining his own.

“I’m getting really tired of hearing that from people who should know better. Give.”

“Five, maybe six years ago. He worked on a little device for me. Security probe, a very cleverly designed code breaker.”

“Which I suppose you designed.”

“For the most part, though Fixer had some interesting input. He was brilliant with electronics, but not completely trustworthy.” Roarke plucked a stray speck of lint from his smoke gray slacks. “I decided it was unwise to use his services again.”

“So nothing recent.”

“No, nothing, and we parted ways amicably enough. I’ve no links to him, Eve, that should worry you or would complicate your investigation.”

“What about this warehouse? How long have you owned it?”

“About three months. I’ll get you the exact date of purchase and the details. It was intended for renovation. As the permits just came through, work was to begin next week.”

“Renovating it into what?”

“Housing units. I also own the buildings on either side, and I have a bid on another in the area. They’re to be rehabbed as well. Markets, shops, cafés. Some offices.”

“Will that sector support that kind of thing?”

“I believe it will.”

She shook her head, thinking of the income level and street crime. “You’d know more about that sort of thing, I guess. The building was insured.”

“Yes, for little more than the purchase price at this point. The project’s worth a great deal more to me.” Taking the neglected, the disdained and giving it value meant a very great deal to him. “The building was old, but it was sound. The problem with progress is that it often sweeps aside, destroying rather than respecting what others have built before us.”

She knew of his affection for old things but wasn’t sure there was a point here. She’d seen little more than a pile of bricks, and that was before it had been blown up.

His money, she thought with a shrug. His time.

“Do you know anyone name Cassandra?”

Now he smiled. “I’m sure I do. But I sincerely doubt this is a former lover’s jealous snit.”

“They had to get the name from somewhere.”

He moved his shoulders. “Maybe from the Greeks.”

“Greek Town isn’t anywhere near that sector.”

For a moment he just stared at her; then he laughed. “The ancient Greeks, Lieutenant. In mythology, Cassandra could foretell the future, but no one believed her. She warned of death and destruction and was dismissed. Her predictions always came true.”

“How do you know all this shit?” She waved the question away before he could answer. “So what’s this Cassandra predicting?”

“According to my disc, the uprising of the masses, the toppling of corrupt governments—which is one of those annoying redundancies—and the overthrow of the greedy upper class. Of which I am a proud member.”

“Revolution? Killing an old man and blowing up an empty warehouse is a pretty petty way to revolt.” But she wouldn’t dismiss the possibility of political terrorists. “Feeney’s working on Fixer’s office unit. It had a fail-safe feature, but he’ll get by it.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“If they’d had anyone good enough to break into that fortress of his, they wouldn’t have needed him in the first place.”

Roarke considered, nodded. “Good point. Do you need me for anything else?”

“Not now. I’ll keep you updated on the investigation. If you do a press release, keep it minimal.”

“All right. Did you have your leg looked at?”

“I took care of it.”

He raised his brow. “Let me see.”

Instinctively, she tucked her legs under the desk. “No.”

He only rose and stepped over to bend down and tug her leg up. At her sputtering protest, he tightened his grip and rolled up her trousers.

“Are you crazy? Stop that.” Mortified, she reached out to slam the door shut. “Somebody could come in.”

“Then stop squirming,” he suggested, and gently peeled back the bandage. He nodded in approval. “You did a decent job.” Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his head and touched his lips to the cut. “All better,” he said with a grin just as the door opened.

Peabody gaped, flushed, then stammered out, “Excuse me.”

“Just leaving,” Roarke said, patting the bandage back in place while Eve ground her teeth. “How did you come through this morning’s excitement, Peabody?”

“Okay, it was . . . well, actually.” She cleared her throat and shot him a hopeful glance. “I got this little nick right here.” She rubbed her finger at her jawline, heart fluttering pleasantly when he smiled at her.

“So you do.” He stepped to her, angled his head, and touched his lips to the tiny cut. “Take care of yourself.”

“Man, man, oh man,” was the best she could manage when he’d left. “He’s got such a great mouth. How do you stop yourself from just biting it?”

“Wipe the drool off your chin, for Christ’s sake. And sit down. We’ve got a report to write for the commander.”

“I almost got blown up and got kissed by Roarke all in the same morning. I’m writing it on my calendar.”

“Settle down.”

“Yes, sir.” She took out her log and got to work. But with a smile on her face.

Commander Whitney was an imposing figure behind his desk. He was a big man with beefy shoulders and a wide face. There were lines scored in his forehead his wife fussed at him to have smoothed away. But he knew that when furrowed, that brow symbolized authority and power to his officers. He’d sacrifice vanity for results every time.

He’d called in the top people in the required units. Lieutenant Anne Malloy from E and B, Feeney from EDD, and Eve. He listened to the reports, dissected, calculated.

“Even using three shifts,” Anne continued, “I’m projecting at least thirty-six hours before we’ve swept the site. The fragments coming in indicate multiple devices, using plaston explosives and intricate timers. This tells me the work was both expensive and sophisticated. We’re not dealing with vandals or a scatter group. More likely we have an organized, well-funded operation.”

“And the likelihood you’ll be able to trace any of the fragments?”

She hesitated. Anne Malloy was a small woman with a pretty, caramel-colored face and wide eyes of quiet green. She wore her blond hair in a bouncy ponytail and had a reputation for being both cheerful and fearless.

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, Commander. But if there’s anything to trace, we’ll trace it. First we’ve got to put the pieces together.”

“Captain?” Whitney shifted his attention to Feeney.

“I’m down to the last couple of layers in Fixer’s unit. I should have it bypassed by the end of the day. He put in a maze, but we’re working through it, and we’ll have whatever data there is. I’ve got some of my best going through his equipment at his shop now. If, as we believe, he was connected with this morning’s explosion, we’ll find the link.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, according to your report, the subject was never connected with any political group or involved in any terrorist activity.”

“No, sir. He was a loner. Most of his suspected criminal activity was in the area of robbery, security bypass, small explosives used in those fields. After the Urban Wars, he retired from the army. He was reputed to have become disenchanted with the military, the government, and people in general. He established himself as a freelance electronics artist, with his repair shop as a front. In my opinion, it was for those very reasons that once he discovered he hadn’t been hired to take out a bank but to be a part in something much larger, he panicked, attempted to go under, and was killed.”

“That leaves us with a dead electronics man who may or may not have recorded data on his activities, a previously unknown group with as yet undetermined purposes, and a privately owned building that’s been destroyed with enough overkill to spew debris over a two-block area.”

He leaned back, folded his hands. “Each of you will work on your particular angle, but I want all efforts coordinated. Data is to be shared. We were told this morning was a demonstration. They may not choose an uninhabited building in a scantily populated area the next time. I want this shut down before we’re picking fragments of civilians as well as explosives out of the rubble. I want progress reports by end of shift.”

“Sir.” Eve stepped forward. “I’d like to take copies of both discs and each report to Dr. Mira for analysis. We could use a more detailed profile on the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

“Granted. The media will be given only the information that this explosion was a deliberate act and is under investigation. I want no leaks regarding the discs or the possible connection to a homicide. Work fast,” he ordered and dismissed them.

“Normally,” Anne said when the three of them moved down the corridor together, “I’d arm wrestle you for primary on this little project, Dallas.”

Eve slid her eyes over, sized up Anne’s tiny frame, and snorted. “I’d hurt you, Malloy.”

“Hey, I’m little, but I’m tough.” She bent her arm, flexing her biceps. “In this case, however, the ball bounced to you first, and these jerks contacted you personally. I’ll give way here.” As if to symbolize it, she gestured Eve onto the glide ahead of her, then winked at Feeney and hopped on.

“I’ve got some of my top people on site,” she continued. “I juggled the budget to work them round the clock, but it won’t shake loose for that kind of OT in the lab. IDing and tracing these parts and pieces after a major explosion takes time. It takes manpower. It takes some hot fucking luck.”

“We coordinate what you find with what my team comes up with at Fixer’s, we might find some of that luck,” Feeney said. “We could get even luckier, and I’ll find names, dates, and addresses on his hard drive.”

“I’ll take luck, but I’m not going to count on it.” Eve tucked her hands in her pockets. “If this is a well-funded, organized group, Fixer wouldn’t have joined, but he wouldn’t have run, either. Not as long as they were paying. He ran because he was scared. I’m going to tag Ratso again, see if he left anything out. What does Arlington mean to you, Feeney?”

He started to shrug, but Anne shot her hand between them, grabbed Eve’s arm. “Arlington? Where does that play?”

“Fixer told my weasel he was afraid of another Arlington.” She stared into Anne’s troubled eyes. “Mean something to you?”

“Yeah, Christ, yeah. And to any E and B man. September 25, 2023. The Urban Wars were basically over. There was a radical group, terrorists—assassinations, sabotage, explosives. They’d kill anyone for a price and justified it as revolution. They called themselves Apollo.”

“Oh shit,” Feeney breathed when the name hit home. “Holy Mother of God.”

“What?” Frustrated, Eve gave Anne a quick shake. “History’s not my strong suit. Give me a lesson here.”

“They’re the ones who took responsibility for blowing up the Pentagon. Arlington, Virginia. They used what was then a new material known as plaston. They used it in such amounts and in such areas that the building was essentially vaporized.

“Eight thousand people, military and civilian personnel, including children in the care center. There were no survivors.”

In Peabody’s apartment, Zeke cleaned and repaired the recycler and replayed the ’link conversation with Clarissa Branson on the kitchen unit.

The first time he played it back, he told himself he was just making sure of the details, of what time he was to report to work, the address.

The second time he played it, he convinced himself he’d missed something vital in the instructions.

By the third time, the parts of the recycler lay neglected while he stared at the screen and let her soft voice wash over him.

I’m sure we have everything you need in the way of tools. She smiled a little as she spoke and made his heart beat just a little faster. But you’ve only to ask if there’s anything else you want.

It shamed him that what he wanted was her.

Before he could give in and replay the transmission one more time, he ordered the ’link off. Color rose into his cheeks as he thought of his own foolishness, his own dishonor in coveting another man’s wife.

She’d hired him to do a job, he reminded himself. That was all there was between them. All there ever could be. She was a married woman, as removed from him as the moon, and had never done anything to encourage these yearnings in him.

But as he rebuilt the recycler with the energy of the guilty, he thought of her.

“How much more can you tell me?” Eve asked.

Rather than squeeze into her office, she’d set them up in a conference room. Already, she had Peabody setting up crime scene photos and available data on a board. Right now, the board was very thin.

“Arlington’s something anyone who wants into E and B studies.” Anne sipped the stale black coffee the room’s AutoChef offered. “The group had to have recruited inside people, probably both military and civilian. An instillation like the Pentagon just isn’t easily infiltrated, and during that period, security was very tight. The operation was very slick,” she continued. “The investigation indicated that a trio of explosive devices loaded with plaston were placed in all five sides, more in the underground facilities.”

Restless, she rose, glancing at the board as she paced. “At least one of the terrorists must have had high clearance in order to set the bombs underground. There was no warning, no contact demanding terms. The entire facility went up at eleven hundred hours, detonated by timers. Thousands of people were lost. It wasn’t possible to identify all the victims. There wasn’t enough left of them.”

“What do we know about Apollo?” Eve asked her.

“They took credit for the bombing. Boasted that they could do the same again, anywhere, at any time. And would unless the president resigned and their chosen representative was established as leader of what they called their new order.”

“James Rowan,” Feeney put in. “There’s a dossier on him, but I don’t think there’s much data. Paramilitary type, right, Malloy? Former CIA operative with ambitions toward politics and lots of bucks. They figured him for the head guy, and likely the inside man at the Pentagon. But somebody took him out before it was verified.”

“That’s right. It’s assumed he was head of the group; that he was pushing the buttons. After Arlington, he went public with video transmissions and on-air speeches. He was charismatic, as a lot of fanatics are. There was a lot of panic, pressure on the administration to cave rather than to risk another slaughter. Instead, they put a price on his head. Five million, dead or alive. No questions asked.”

“Who did him?”

Anne looked back at Eve. “Those files are sealed. That was part of the package. His headquarters—a house outside of Boston—was blown up with him in it. His body was ID’d, and the group scattered, fell apart. Splinter groups formed, managed to do some damage here and there. But the tide of the Wars had turned—at least here in the States. By the late twenties, the core of the original group was either dead or in cages. Over the next decade, others were tracked down and dealt with.”

“And how many slipped through?” Eve wondered.

“They never found his right hand. Guy named William Henson. He’d been Rowan’s campaign manager during his political runs.” Anne rubbed a hand over her slightly queasy stomach and set her coffee aside. “It was believed he was top level in Apollo. It was never proven, and he disappeared the same day Rowan went up. Some speculate he was inside when the bomb went, but that could be wishful thinking.”

“What about their holes, headquarters, arsenals?”

“Found, destroyed, confiscated. It’s assumed everything was found, but if you ask me, that’s a big assumption. A lot of the data’s sealed tight. Rumor is that a lot of the people taken in were killed without trial, tortured. Family members unlawfully imprisoned or executed.” Anne sat again. “It might be true. It couldn’t have been pretty, and there’s no way it was by the book.”

Eve rose, studied the photos on the board. “In your opinion, this deal is linked with what happened in Arlington?”

“I want to study the evidence more closely, pull the available data on Arlington, but it follows.” She hissed out a breath. “The names—both mythical types—the political crap, the material used for explosives. Still, there are variations. It wasn’t a military target, there was a warning, no lives were taken.”

“Yet,” Eve murmured. “Shoot me whatever data you spring on this, will you? Peabody, Fixer was army during the Urban Wars, let’s take a closer look at his service record. Feeney, we need everything he put on that office unit.”

“I’m on it.” He rose. “Let me put McNab on that service record. He’ll be able to melt through any seals quicker.”

Peabody opened her mouth, then shut it again in a thin line at one warning look from Eve.

“Tell him to send data to me as he gets it. Let’s ride, Peabody. I want to find Ratso.”

“I can access military data,” Peabody complained as they headed down to the garage. “It’s just a matter of going through channels.”

“McNab can swim the channels faster.”

“He’s a show-off,” she muttered and made Eve roll her eyes.

“I’ll take a show-off as long as he gets the job done fast. You don’t have to like everyone you work with, Peabody.”

“Good thing.”

“Shit, would you look at this?” Eve stopped to study her battered and abused car. Some joker had put a hand-lettered sign on the cracked rear window that read: Show mercy. Terminate me now.

“That’s Baxter’s warped sense of humor.” Eve ripped the sign away. “If I turn this sucker in to maintenance, they’ll just screw it up.” She got behind the wheel. “And they’ll take a month to do it. I’ll never get it back the way it was.”

“You’re going to have to have the windows replaced at least,” Peabody pointed out and tried to squint through the starburst of cracks on her side.

“Yeah.” She pulled out, wincing when the car shuddered. Glancing up, she saw the sky through the hole in the roof. “Let’s hope the temp controls still work.”

“I can put in a request for a replacement.”

“This is a replacement, remember?” Sulking, Eve headed south. “I’m going to take grief for this.”

“I can ask Zeke to take a look at it.”

“I thought he was a carpenter.”

“He’s good at everything. He can tinker with the innards, then you just get the glass replaced, the roof patched. It won’t be pretty, but you won’t have to turn the whole deal over to maintenance or enter the black hole of requisitions.”

Something inside the dash controls began to rattle ominously. “When could he do it?”

“Soon as you want.” She slid Eve a sidelong glance. “He’d really like to see your house. I told him about it, how you’ve got that mag old wood and furniture and stuff.”

Eve shifted in her seat. “I thought you were going to a play or something tonight.”

“I’ll tag him, tell him not to get the tickets.”

“I don’t know if Roarke has plans.”

“I’ll check with Summerset.”

“Shit. All right, okay.”

“That’s so gracious of you, sir.” Happily, Peabody took out her palm ’link to call her brother.

They found Ratso at The Brew, contemplating a plate of what looked like undercooked brains. He blinked up as Eve slid into the booth across from him.

“These are supposed to be eggs. How come they ain’t yellow?”

“Must be from gray chickens.”

“Oh.” Apparently satisfied with that, he dug in. “So what’s up, Dallas? You got the guys who done Fixer?”

“I’ve got some lines to tug. What have you got?”

“Word is nobody sees Fixer that night. Don’t expect to, ’cause he don’t come out at night usual. But Pokey—you know Pokey, Dallas, he deals some Zoner if he scores enough, and does some street work as an LC.”

“I don’t believe Pokey and I are acquainted.”

“Pokey’s all right. Mostly he minds his own, you know? He says how he was doing street work that night. Not much business ’cause it’s too fucking cold to fuck, you know? But he was tapped out, so he’s out on the stroll, and he sees a van down from The Fixer’s place. Nice new one. Figures how somebody’s come around looking for some action, but there ain’t nobody in it he can see. Said he scoped it out awhile in case somebody comes back and wants a quick poke. That’s why they call him Pokey, he gives a real quick poke.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. What kind of van was it?”

Ratso toyed with his eggs and tried to look sly. “Well, see, I told Pokey you’d want to know stuff, and if it was solid data, you’d pay.”

“I don’t pay until I get the data. Did you tell him that?”

Ratso sighed. “Yeah, guess I did. Okay, okay, he says it was one of them fancy Airstreams, looked spanking, was black. Had zap security.” Ratso smiled a little. “He knows ’cause he tried to get in and got the zap. So he’s dancing and blowing on his hand and he hears a kinda commotion down the street.”

“What kind of commotion?”

“I dunno. Like noise and maybe somebody yelling, and people coming. So he ducks around the corner in case who owns the van maybe saw him trying to break in. What he sees is two guys and one of ’em’s carrying this big bag over his shoulder. The other—get this—is holding what Pokey says looks like a gun—like he’s seen on-screen and on discs and shit. So they toss this bag in the back, and it makes a thump when it hits. Then they get in the front and drive away.”

He scooped up more eggs, washed them down with the pissy-looking liquid in his glass. “I’m just sitting here thinking on it and wondering if I should tag you and fill you in, then here you are.” He grinned at her. “Maybe it was Fixer in that bag. Maybe they took him off in it, and did him and tossed him in the river. Maybe.”

“Pokey get the vehicle ID?”

“Nah. Pokey, he’s not too smart, you know. And he said his hand was on fire and he didn’t think nothing of it until I come around asking about Fixer.”

“Black Airstream van?”

“Yeah, with the zapper. And oh yeah, he says how it had the full blast entertainment center in the dash. That’s how come he thought maybe to get in. Pokey, he sometimes trades off electronics.”

“Sounds like a real solid citizen.”

“Yeah, he votes and everything. So how about it, Dallas, that’s good data, right?”

She took out twenty. “If it leads anywhere, there’s twenty more. Now, how much do you know about Fixer’s military history?”

The twenty vanished inside one of the pockets in Ratso’s dirty coat. “History?”

“What he did in the army? He ever talk to you about it?”

“Not much. Couple times when we was drinking and he sucked down too many. He said he took out plenty of targets during the Wars. Said how the army called ’em targets ’cause they didn’t have the balls to call them people. He had a real hard-on for the army. Said how he gave them every fucking thing he had, and they took everything. Um, how they thought they could throw money at him to make it right. He took their money and screw ’em. Screw the cops, too, and the CIA and the goddamn president of the U.S. of A., too. But that was only when he was sloppy. Otherwise, he never said nothing.”

“Have you ever heard anything about Apollo or Cassandra?”

Ratso swiped a hand under his nose. “Table dancer over at the Peek-A-Boo goes by Cassandra. She got tits like watermelons.”

Eve shook her head. “No, this is something else. You ask around, Ratso, but ask around real careful. And if you hear anything, don’t wonder if you should tag me. Just do it.”

“Okay, but I’m kinda low on operating expenses.”

She rose, then tossed another twenty on the table. “Don’t waste my money,” she warned. “Peabody.”

“I’ll start the run on Airstream vans,” Peabody said, “New York and New Jersey registrations.”

“Goddamn it!” Eve dashed toward her vehicle. “Look at this shit, would you?” she demanded, jerking a thumb toward the bright red frowny face someone had painted on her dented hood. “No respect. No respect whatsoever for city property.”

Peabody coughed, forced her face into stern, disapproving lines. “It’s a disgrace, sir. Absolutely.”

“Was that a smirk, Officer?”

“No sir, it certainly was not a smirk. It was a scowl. A righteous scowl. Should I canvas the area for spray cans, Lieutenant?”

“Kiss my ass.” Eve slammed into the car, giving Peabody just enough time to snort out the laugh that had been burning in her chest.

“I do,” she murmured. “Constantly.” She let out a long breath, shook off the grin, and climbed in the passenger seat.

“We’ll finish out the shift at my home office. I’ll be damned if I’m going to park this thing in the garage and have the precinct snickering.”

“That works for me. You’ve got better food.” And there’d be no chance of McNab swinging through to do one of his tap dances.

“Have you got Lisbeth Cooke’s address? We can swing by and see if we can catch her before we take the rest of this home.”

“Yes, sir, I believe it’s on the way.” Peabody called it up. “That’s just off Madison at Eighty-third. Should I call and set up an interview?”

“No, let’s surprise her.”

It was obvious they did, and that Lisbeth didn’t care for surprises. “I don’t have to speak to you,” she said when she opened the door. “Not without my attorney present.”

“Call him,” Eve suggested. “Since you’ve got something to hide.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ve given you my statement, I’ve interviewed with the prosecuting attorney’s office. I’ve taken the plea, and that’s it.”

“Since it’s all neat and tidy, it shouldn’t bother you to talk to me. Unless everything you stated was a lie.”

Lisbeth’s eyes flashed. Her chin jutted. Pride, Eve saw, had been the right target.

“I don’t lie. I insist on honesty, for myself and the people I’m involved with. Honesty, loyalty, and respect.”

“Otherwise, you kill them. We’ve established that.”

Something flickered in Lisbeth’s eyes, then her mouth thinned and they were cool and hard again. “What do you want?”

“Just a few questions to tidy up my case file.” Eve angled her head. “Don’t you include neatness in your list of required virtues?”

Lisbeth stepped back. “I warn you, the minute I feel you’re out of line, I’m calling my representative. I can file harassment charges.”

“Note that down, Peabody. No harassing Ms. Cooke.”

“So noted, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Aw well, now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

Eve studied the living area, the absolute order, the flawless taste. Style, she mused, she had to admit the woman had style. She could even admire it, in the twin streamlined sofas in deep green and blue stripes that looked as comfortable as they did attractive. In the trim, smoked glass tables and the vivid paintings of seascapes.

There was a case filled with books with faded leather bindings she knew Roarke would approve of, and a view of the city neatly framed with swept-back curtains.

“Nice place.” Eve turned to study the perfectly groomed woman in casual at-home wear of buff-colored slacks and tunic.

“I don’t believe you’re here to discuss my decorating skills.”

“J. Clarence help you pick out your knickknacks?”

“No. J. C.’s taste ran the gamut from the absurd to the tacky.”

Rather than wait for an invitation, Eve sat on the sofa, stretched out her legs. “You didn’t seem to have much in common.”

“On the contrary, we enjoyed a great many of the same things. And I believed he had a warm, generous, and honest heart. I was wrong.”

“A couple hundred million seems pretty damn generous to me.”

Lisbeth merely turned away, took a bottle of water from a built-in minifridge. “I wasn’t speaking of money,” she said, and poured the water into a heavy, faceted glass. “But of spirit. However, yes, J. C. was very generous with money.”

“He paid you to sleep with him.”

Glass snapped against glass as Lisbeth slammed down her water. “He certainly did not. The financial arrangement was a separate matter, a personal one mutually agreed to. It kept us both comfortable.”

“Lisbeth, you were taking the guy for a million a year.”

“I was not taking him for anything. We had an agreement, and part of that agreement included monetary payments. Such arrangements are often made in relationships when one party has considerable financial advantage over the other.”

“You have considerable financial advantage now that he’s dead.”

“So I’m told.” She picked up her glass again, watched Eve over the rim. “I was unaware of the terms of his will.”

“That’s hard to believe. You had an intimate relationship, a long-term and intimate relationship that included, at your own admission, regular monetary payments. And you never discussed, never questioned what would happen in the event of his death.”

“He was a robust, healthy man.” She tried for a smooth shrug, but it came off in a jerk. “His death wasn’t something we focused on. He did tell me I’d be taken care of. I believed him.”

She lowered her glass and passion leapt into her eyes. “I believed him. I believed in him. And he betrayed me in the most insulting, the most intolerable of ways. Had he come to me and told me he wanted to end our arrangement, I would have been unhappy. I would have been angry, but I would have accepted it.”

“Just like that?” Eve lifted her eyebrows. “No more payments, no more fancy trips and expensive gifts, no more boinking the boss?”

“How dare you! How dare you lower what we had to such crude terms. You know nothing, nothing about what was between J. C. and me.” Her breath began to heave, her hands to clench. “All you see is the surface because you don’t have the capability to see beneath it. And you, you’re boinking Roarke; you wangled marriage out of him. How many fancy trips and expensive gifts are you raking in, Lieutenant? How many million a year goes in your pockets?”

With an effort, Eve kept her seat. Temper had washed ugly color into Lisbeth’s face, turned her eyes into hot green glass. For the first time she looked fully capable of punching a drill through a man’s heart.

“I haven’t killed him,” Eve said coolly. “And now that you mention it, Lisbeth, why didn’t you wangle marriage out of J. C.?”

“I didn’t want it,” she snapped. “I don’t believe in marriage. It was something we disagreed on, but he respected my feelings. I will have respect!” She’d taken three long strides toward Eve, fists clenched, when a movement from Peabody stopped her.

She seemed to tremble, and her knuckles went white with strain. The lips she’d peeled back in a snarl relaxed slowly and the wild color began to fade from her cheeks.

“That’s some trigger you’ve got there, Lisbeth,” Eve said mildly.

“Yes. Part of my plea bargain is to enter anger control therapy. I begin sessions next week.”

“Sometimes it’s not better late than never. You claim you went off when you learned J. C. was cheating on you. Yet no one knows of another woman in his life. His personal assistant swears there was no one but you.”

“He’s mistaken. J. C. deceived him even as he deceived me. Or he’s lying,” she said with a shrug. “Chris would have cut off his hand for J. C., so lying would be nothing.”

“Why lie? Why cheat if, as you just told me, all he had to do was come to you and end the arrangement?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed an agitated hand through her hair, disturbing its perfect order. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “Perhaps he was like other men after all and found it more exciting to cheat.”

“Don’t like men much, do you?”

“As a whole, no.”

“So, how’d you find out about this other woman? Who is she? Where is she? How is it no one else knows about it?”

“Someone does,” Lisbeth said evenly. “Someone sent me photos of them together, discs of conversations. Conversations where they talked about me. Laughed at me. God, I could kill him all over again.”

She whirled around, yanked open a cabinet, and pulled out a large pouch. “Here. These are copies. We gave the PA the originals. Look at him, with his hands all over her.”

Eve tapped out the contents, frowned. They were decent shots. The man was very clearly J. Clarence Branson. In one, he sat on what looked like a park bench with a young blonde in a short skirt. His hand was resting high on her thigh. In the next, they were kissing with apparent passion, and the hand was under her skirt.

The others looked to be taken in a privacy room at a club. They were grainy, which fit if they’d been duped from disc. A club could lose its sex license if the management was caught running video of privacy rooms.

But grainy or not, they clearly showed J. C. and the blonde in various and energetic sexual acts.

“When did you receive these?”

“I’ve given all that information to the PA’s office.”

“Give it to me,” Eve said shortly. And she was damn well going to find out why the PA hadn’t bothered to pass these tidbits on to the primary investigator.

“They were in my mail slot when I got home from work. I opened them, I looked at them. I went directly to J. C. to confront him. He denied it. He actually stood there and denied it, told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. It was infuriating, insulting. I lost my temper. I was blind with rage. I grabbed the drill and . . .”

She trailed off, remembering herself and her lawyer’s instructions. “I must have lost my mind, I can’t remember what I was thinking, what I was doing. Then I called the police.”

“Do you know this woman?”

“I’ve never seen her before. Young, isn’t she?” Lisbeth’s lips trembled before she firmed them. “Very young and very . . . agile.”

Eve slid the photos and discs back in the pouch. “Why are you keeping these?”

“To remind me that everything we had together was a lie.” Lisbeth took the bag back, placed it in the cabinet again. “And to remind me to enjoy every cent of the money he left me.”

She picked up her water glass again, lifted it as if in a toast. “Every goddamn cent.”

Eve got back in her car, slammed the door. And brooded. “It might have happened just the way she said. Hell.” She rapped a fist on the wheel. “I hate that.”

“We can run the photo of the woman, try to get an ID. Something may pop.”

“Yeah, shuffle it in when you have time. And when we have the goddamn photos.” Disgusted, Eve pulled away from the curb. “No way to prove she knew about the will or that was her motive. And damn it, after seeing her in action up there, I tend to believe her story.”

“I thought she was going to try to rip your face off.”

“She wanted to.” Then Eve sighed. “Anger control therapy,” she muttered. “What next?”

“Snag on system,” Eve muttered as she pushed away from her desk-link. “The PA’s office said we didn’t get the photos and discs on the Branson case because there was an SOS. My ass.” She rose to pace. “SOS also stands for sack of shit.”

She heard the snicker, turned to glare at Peabody. “What are you grinning at?”

“It’s your way with words, sir. I do so admire your way with words.”

Eve dropped into her chair again, leaned back. “Peabody, we’ve been working together long enough for me to know when you’re gassing me.”

“Oh. Is that also long enough for you to appreciate our personal rapport?”

“No.”

To help put the Branson matter out of her mind for the moment, Eve squeezed the heels of her hands on either side of her head. “Okay, back to priorities. Run the vans while I see how much McNab’s shaken loose on Fixer’s military record. And why don’t I have any coffee?”

“I was just wondering the same thing.” To avoid another snarl, Peabody hurried into the kitchen.

“McNab,” Eve said the minute she had him on-screen. “Gimme.”

“Just got the basic front stuff for now. I’m weaving through.” He recognized the view out the window behind her and pouted. “Hey, you working at home today? How come I’m not there, too?”

“Because, thank God, you don’t live here. Now, let’s have it.”

“I’ll shoot it to your home unit, but the quick rundown is as follows. Bassi, Colonel Howard. Retired. Enlisted in 1997, enrolled officer’s training. Top scores. As a first lieutenant, he worked with STF—Special Training Forces. Elite, real hush-hush stuff. I’m working on that, but at this point, I’m just getting commendations—he had a hat full—and remarks about his expertise with electronics and explosives. He made captain in 2006, then worked his way right up the ranks until he was given a field promotion to full colonel during the Urban Wars.”

“Where was he stationed? New York?”

“Yeah, then he was transferred to East Washington in . . . wait, I’ve got it. 2021. Had to put in for a special family transfer package because most military weren’t allowed to take their families along during that period.”

“Family?” She held up a hand. “What family?”

“Ah . . . military records have him down for a wife Nancy, civilian, and two kids, one of each. He got the transfer because his spouse was a civilian liaison between army and media. Like, you know, public relations.”

“Hell.” Eve rubbed her eyes. “Run the wife and kids, McNab.”

“Sure, they’re on the list to do.”

“No, now. You’ve got the ID numbers there.” She glanced over as Peabody brought in coffee. “Do a quick run on date of death.”

“Shit, they’re not old,” McNab muttered, but he turned away to check the records. “Man, Dallas, they all bought it. Same DOD.”

“September 25, 2023, Arlington County, Virginia.”

“Yeah.” He let out a sigh. “They must have been taken out with the Pentagon. Christ, Dallas, the kids were only six and eight. That bites.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Fixer agreed with you. Now we know why he turned.”

And, she thought, why he ran. How could he expect to be safe, even in his dirty little fortress, if he was up against the kind of people who could wipe out the most secure military establishment in the country?

“Keep up the search,” she ordered. “See if you can find anybody he worked with who’s still around and no longer military. Somebody who got transferred with him, in his same unit. If he was STF, he probably had some part in dealing with Apollo.”

“I’m on it. Hey, Peabody.” He wiggled his brows when she came into view, and sliding his hand under his bright pink shirt mimed a thumping heart.

“Asshole,” she muttered and stepped aside.

Scowling, Eve cut him off. “Roarke thinks he’s got a thing for you.”

“He’s got a thing for breasts,” Peabody corrected. “I happen to have a pair. I caught him eyeballing Sheila’s from Records, and hers aren’t as good as mine.”

Thoughtfully, Eve glanced down at her own. “He doesn’t look at my tits.”

“Yes, he does, but he’s careful because he fears you nearly as much as he fears Roarke.”

“Only nearly? I’m disappointed. Where’s my data on the vans?”

“Here.” With a smug smile, Peabody tapped a disc into the desk unit. “I used the one in the kitchen to run it. We’ve got fifty-eight hits, but that’s with factory-installed zappers. If we consider that they were installed privately, we more than triple that number.”

“We’ll start with the big number, check and see if anyone reported their vehicle stolen during the forty-eight hours around the murder. If we don’t hit there, eliminate families. I can’t see a professional mother running the kids to arena ball practice in the afternoon, then Daddy transporting corpses in it at night. Look for registration to companies and males. We’ll run females if we crap out on those.

“Use this unit,” Eve told her and rose. “I can make calls on the one in the other room.”

She contacted Mira and set up a meeting for the following day. The closest she could get to Feeney was his e-mail announcement that he was on a priority and could only take emergency transmissions.

Deciding to leave him to what he did best, she tagged Anne Malloy in the field.

“Hey, Dallas, your sexy husband just left.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve could see the rubble and the E and B teams sifting through it.

“He wanted to see what we had going here, which isn’t any more than you already know, at this point. We’ve transported fragments to the lab. We’re finding more. Your man took a look at a piece of one of the devices and said it was a chunk of high-impact politex, like they use in space construction. Probably from a remote. He could be right.”

He would be right, Eve thought. He was rarely otherwise.

“What does that tell you?”

“A couple of things,” Anne said. “One, at least some of the devices were made from space salvage or parts manufactured for that use. And two, your man’s got a sharp eye.”

“Okay.” She scooped a hand through her hair. “If he’s right, can you trace it?”

“It narrows the field. I’ll be in touch.”

Eve sat back, then out of curiosity looked up politex and its manufacturers.

It didn’t surprise her to see Roarke Industries as one of the four interplanetary companies that made the product. But it did have her rolling her eyes. She noted Branson Toys and Tools also manufactured it. Smaller scale, she noted. On planet only.

She decided to save time and simply ask Roarke for a rundown on the other two companies, then spent the next hour backtracking, picking through old data, weeding through the fresh data McNab transmitted. She was about to go in and harass Peabody for results on the vehicle search when her ’link beeped.

“Dallas.”

“Hey, Dallas!” Mavis Freestone’s delighted smile filled the screen. “Catch this.”

Beside the table, a column of air shimmered, then, in a blink, the hologram image of Mavis standing in the kitchen on skinny ruby heels with bright pink feathers drifting over her toes. She wore a short robe in eyewatering swirls of the same two tones that drooped off one shoulder to display a tattoo of a silver angel playing a gilt harp.

Her hair tumbled in spiraling curls as fat as soy sausages in a mix of gold and silver and glinted with a metallic sheen.

“Mag, huh?” She laughed and did a little bump and grind dance around the kitchen. “My room’s got this way fine holo feature on the ’link. How do I look?”

“Colorful. Nice tattoo.”

“That’s nothing, get this.” Mavis tugged the robe down her other shoulder to reveal a second angel with a little whip tail who carried a pitchfork and wore a maniacal grin. “Good angel, bad angel. Get it?”

“No.” But Eve grinned. “How’s the tour going?”

“Dallas, it is like wow! We’re going just everywhere and the crowds are panic city when I perform. And Roarke’s got us the most amazing transpo and all the hotels are absolutely the ult.”

“Ult?”

“Ultimate. Today, I’ve got this appearance at a music center to sign discs and a bunch of interviews with media, then a gig at the Dominant here in Houston. It’s like packed. I hardly have time to do hair.”

Eve skimmed her gaze off the shiny curls. “But you manage.”

“Yeah, I’d never get it all done if Leonardo hadn’t come with me. Hey, Leonardo, I’ve got Dallas here. Come say hi.” Mavis laughed and bounced on her heels. “She doesn’t care if you’re naked.”

“Yes, she does,” Eve corrected. “You look happy, Mavis.”

“Beyond. Dallas, I’m totally D and D.”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“No.” Mavis giggled again and turned circles. “Dazed and delirious. It’s everything I always wanted and didn’t know. When I come back, I’m going to kiss Roarke all over his face.”

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy that.”

“I know I will.” This time Mavis cackled. “Leonardo says he’s not jealous, and maybe he’ll kiss Roarke, too. Anyway, how are things on the home front?” Before Eve could answer, Mavis tilted her head, then sighed. “You haven’t seen Trina.”

Eve paled a little, squirmed in her chair. “Trina? Trina who?”

“Come on, Dallas, you said you were going to get her to come by and do your hair and stuff while I was gone. You haven’t had a salon date in weeks.”

“Maybe I forgot.”

“Maybe you thought I wouldn’t notice. But that’s okay, we’ll have her give us both the works when I get back.”

“Don’t threaten me, pal.”

“You’ll cave.” Mavis twirled a silver curl around her finger, then grinned. “Hey, Peabody!”

“Hi, Mavis.” Peabody stepped closer. “Great hologram.”

“Roarke has the best toys. Whoops, gotta go. Leonardo says it’s time to get ready. Watch this.” She twirled, blowing kisses, then winked away.

“How does she move like that on those heels?” Peabody wondered.

“Just one of the many Mavis mysteries. What have you got on the van?”

“Pretty sure I tagged it. Black Airstream, 2058 model, loaded.” She offered Eve a hard copy data printout. “Registered to Cassandra Unlimited.”

“Bull’s-eye.”

“But I checked the address. It’s bogus.”

“Regardless, it ties Fixer in and gives us a target. Did you do a search on Cassandra Unlimited?”

“Not yet. I wanted to give you this first.”

“All right. Let’s just see.” Eve swiveled back. “Computer, search and report all data on Cassandra Unlimited.”

Working . . . . No data in banks on Cassandra Unlimited.

“Yeah,” Eve murmured. “That would’ve been too easy.” She sat back a moment, closing her eyes as she considered. “Okay, try this, search and list all companies and businesses with Cassandra in the title. Keep it to New York and New Jersey.”

Working . . . .

“You think they’d use the name?” Peabody asked her.

“I think they’re smart, but they’re cocky. There’s a way to run it down. There’s always a way.”

Data complete. List as follows . . . . Cassandra’s House of Beauty, Brooklyn, New York. Cassandra’s Chocolate Delights, Trenton, New Jersey. Cassandra Electronics, New York, New York.

“Stop. All data on Cassandra Electronics.”

Working . . . . Cassandra Electronics, 10092 Houston, established 2049, no financial or employee data in banks. A branch of Mount Olympus Enterprises. No available data. Encoded block illegal under federal law and will be reported automatically to CompuGuard.

“Yeah, you do that. The data’s there. It’ll be there somewhere. Verify address on Houston.”

Working . . . . Address is invalid. No such address exists.

Eve rose, circled the room. “But they put it in. Why bother to register the companies, risk an automatic search by CompuGuard, an IRS probe?”

Peabody took the opportunity to program more coffee. “Because they’re cocky?”

“That’s just exactly right. They don’t know the van was spotted and tagged, but they had to know I’d do a run on the name Cassandra and click into it.”

She took the coffee Peabody offered absently. “They want me to waste my time on it. If they can get an illegal into the data system, they’ve got funds and superior equipment. They aren’t worried about CompuGuard.”

“Everybody’s worried about CompuGuard,” Peabody disagreed. “You can’t get by them.”

Eve sipped her coffee and thought of Roarke’s private room, his unregistered equipment, and his talent for skimming smoothly by CompuGuard’s all-seeing eye. “They did,” was all she said. “We’ll dump this on EDD.” Officially, Eve thought. Unofficially, she would ask her clever husband what he could do. “For now we’ll just wait.”

She turned back to the machine, called up the four companies that manufactured politex. Roarke Industries, she noted, Branson Toys and Tools, Eurotell Corporation, and Aries Manufacturing.

“Peabody, any of these named for those god people?”

“God people? Oh, I get it. Aries. I think he’s a god of something or other, and I know he’s a sign of the Zodiac.”

“Greek?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see if they follow pattern.” She ordered the data search and found Aries listed at an invalid address and attached to Mount Olympus.

“They’re certainly tidy.” Eve stepped back, leaned against the counter. “If they have a pattern, we can start predicting. Like Cassandra,” she said with a cool smile.

She sent Peabody off to transfer the data and start an updated report. Then, switching to privacy mode, she called Roarke’s office.

“I need to speak with him,” she told Roarke’s terrifyingly efficient assistant. “If he’s available.”

“Just one moment, Lieutenant. I’ll pass you through.”

One hand to her headphones, Eve moved quietly to the doorway, saw Peabody hard at work at the desk. With only a slight tug of guilt, she slipped back out of sight. She wasn’t deceiving her aide, she told herself. She was preventing Peabody from stepping into the shadowy area between the law and justice.

“Lieutenant? What can I do for you?”

Eve blew out a breath and stepped into those shadows. “I need a consult.”

“Oh? Of what sort?”

“Of the unofficial sort.”

A glimmer of a smile worked around his mouth. “Ah.”

“I hate when you say ‘ah’ that way.”

“I know.”

“Look, I’m not in a position to explain right now, but if you don’t have anything on for tonight—”

“But I do. We do,” he reminded her. “You invited guests.”

“I invited?” She went totally blank. “I never invite anybody. You’re the one.”

“Not this time. Peabody and her young brother? Ring a bell?”

“Oh hell.” Dragging a hand through her hair, Eve paced in a circle. “I can’t get out of that. I can’t tell her the truth, and if I make some lame excuse, she’ll pout. You can’t work with her when she pouts.”

She picked up her coffee, drank with a scowl on her face. “Are we like feeding them and everything?”

He laughed, adoring her. “Eve, you are the most gracious of hosts. Personally, I’m looking forward to meeting Peabody’s brother. Free-Agers are so soothing.”

“I’m not much in the mood for soothing.” But she shrugged. “Well, they have to go home sometime.”

“They certainly do. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. That should give you time to fill me in.”

“Okay, we’ll play it that way. You ever hear of Aries Manufacturing?”

“No.”

“Mount Olympus Enterprises?”

She had his interest now. “No. But Cassandra slides right in, doesn’t she?”

“Looks that way. I’ll be home when you get here,” she told him and signed off.

She solved the first problem by sending Peabody back to Cop Central with the updated report and instructions to pass what they had on to Feeney and McNab.

With the idea of clearing her head before she worked on the rest of the problem, she headed downstairs. A quick workout, she decided, might jar something loose in her brain.

Summerset stood at the base of the stairs. He studied her baggy sweater and ancient trousers with a cool and derisive eye. “I trust you intend to change into something more appropriate before dinner this evening.”

“I trust you’ll continue to be an asshole for the rest of your life.”

He drew air sharply through his nose, and because he knew she despised it, took her arm before she could swing by him. She bared her teeth. He smiled. “There is a messenger coming to the door with a package for you.”

“A messenger.” Though she yanked her arm free as a matter of principle, she shifted to stand between Summerset and the door. Her hand moved automatically to rest on her weapon. “Did you scan?”

“Naturally.” Puzzled, he lifted a brow. “It’s a registered delivery service. The driver is a young female. The scan showed no weapons.”

“Call the delivery service and verify,” she ordered. “I’ll take care of the door.” She started forward, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You scanned for explosives?”

He paled a little but nodded. “Of course. Gate security is very thorough. Roarke designed it himself.”

“Call and verify,” she repeated. “Do it from the back of the house.”

Eyes grim, Summerset drew out his palm ’link but moved no farther than the parlor doorway. He’d be damned if he’d allow Eve to shield him as she’d done once before.

Eve watched the miniscooter approach on the security monitor. The logo for Zippy Service was clearly printed on the fuel tank. The driver wore the standard bright red uniform, goggles, and cap. She flipped them up as she stopped the scooter, then stood gaping at the house.

She was young, Eve noted, her cheeks still pudgy with baby fat. Her eyes were wide and dazzled as she craned her head back to try to see the top of the house as she moved forward.

She tripped on the steps, then blushed as she looked around to see if anyone noticed. In one hand she carried a disc pouch. She used the other to hitch down her jacket, then ring the bell.

“The delivery is verified,” Summerset said from behind Eve and nearly made her jolt.

“I told you to call from the back of the house.”

“I don’t take orders from you.” He reached for the door, blocking her, then yelped in absolute shock when Eve stomped hard on his instep.

“Get back,” she snapped. “Stupid son of a bitch.” She muttered it as she yanked the door open. Before the delivery girl could give her standard greeting, Eve had dragged her inside, shoved her face first against the wall, and secured her hands behind her back.

“You got a name?”

“Yes, yes, ma’am. Sherry Combs. I’m Sherry Combs.” She had her eyes squeezed shut. “I’m with Zippy. I have a delivery. Please, lady, I don’t carry any money.”

“Is that the right name, Summerset?”

“Yes. She’s just a child, Lieutenant, and you’ve frightened her.”

“She’ll live through it. How’d you get the delivery, Sherry?”

“I–I–I . . .” She gulped audibly, kept her eyes shut. “I’m on rotation.”

“No, how did the package come in?”

“Oh, oh, oh, drop box. I think. I’m pretty sure. Golly, I don’t know. My supervisor just told me to bring it here. It’s my job.”

“Okay.” Eve eased back, patted Sherry’s shoulder. “We’ve been getting a lot of solicitations,” she said with a smile. “We really hate that here.” She pulled out a fifty-credit chip and pressed it into the girl’s sweaty palm. “You drive careful.”

“Okay, right, thanks, gosh.” She started for the door, then turned back, almost tearfully. “Man, gee lady, you’re supposed to sign for it, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Eve simply jerked her head toward Summerset, then started upstairs with the pouch. She heard him murmur to the girl. “I’m terribly sorry. She hasn’t had her medication today.”

Despite the fact that she’d seen the return address on the pouch, Eve had to grin. But the humor didn’t last long. Her eyes were cool when she walked back into her office. She sealed her hands, opened the pouch, then slipped the disc it held into her machine.

We are Cassandra.

We are the gods of justice.

We are loyal.

Lieutenant Dallas, we hope our demonstration of this morning was enough to convince you of our capabilities and the seriousness of our intent. We are Cassandra, and we predict that you will show your respect to us by arranging for the release of the following political heros now wrongly imprisoned in the gestapo facilities of Kent Prison in New York: Carl Minnu, Milicent Jung, Peter Johnson, and Susan B. Stoops.

If these patriots of freedom are not released by noon tomorrow, we will be forced to sacrifice a New York landmark. A symbol of excess and foolishness where mortals gawk at mortals. You will be contacted at noon for verification. If our demands are not met, all lives lost will be on your head.

We are Cassandra.

Susan B. Stoops, Eve thought. Susie B, former nurse, who had poisoned fifteen elderly patients at the rehab facility where she’d worked. Claiming they had all been war criminals.

Eve had been primary, had taken her in, and knew Nurse Susie B was doing five terms of life in the mentally defective ward at Kent Prison.

She had a feeling the other “political heros” would have similar histories.

She copied the disc and called Whitney.

“It’s out of my hands, at least for now,” Eve told Roarke as she paced the main parlor. “The political heads are doing their circle and spin. I wait for orders. I wait for contact.”

“They won’t agree to terms.”

“No. You add up the body count the four names they want are responsible for, you come up with over a hundred. Jung blew up a church claiming all religious symbols were tools of the hypocritical right. A kids’ choir was rehearsing inside. Minnu burnt down a café in SoHo, trapping over fifty people inside. He claimed it was a front for the fascist left, and Johnson was a hired assassin who killed anyone for the right price. What the hell’s the connection?”

“Maybe there isn’t one. It may just be a test. Will the governor acquiesce, or will he refuse?”

“They have to know he’ll refuse. They’ve left us no way to negotiate.”

“So you wait.”

“Yeah. What place in New York symbolizes excess and foolishness?”

“What place doesn’t?”

“Right.” She frowned, paced. “I did a run on that Cassandra—the Greek one. It said how she was given her gift of prophecy by Apollo.”

“I’d say this group enjoys symbolism.” He glanced toward the doorway when he heard voices. “That’ll be Peabody. Put it out of your mind for a couple of hours, Eve. It might help.”

Roarke walked over to greet Peabody, to tell her she looked lovely, to shake hands with Zeke. He was so damn smooth, Eve thought. It never failed to fascinate her how he could shift from mode to mode without a single visible hitch.

Beside Zeke—gangling, his smile awkward as he struggled very obviously not to gawk—the contrast was only more marked.

“Give her the thing, Zeke,” Peabody demanded and added a quick, sisterly jab in the ribs.

“Oh yeah. It’s not much of anything.” He offered that shy smile to Eve, then took a small wood carving out of his pocket. “Dee said you had a cat.”

“Well, one lets us live here.” Eve found herself grinning down at a thumb-sized carving of a sleeping cat. It was rough and simple and cleverly done. “And this, next to eating, is what he does best. Thanks, it’s great.”

“Zeke makes them.”

“Just for fun,” he added. “I saw your vehicle outside. It looks a little rough.”

“It sounds rougher.”

“I can take a look at it, tinker around.”

“I’d appreciate it.” She started to suggest he do just that, now, when she caught Roarke’s warning look and bit the words back. “Ah, let me get you a drink first.”

Damn party manners, she thought.

“Just some water, or juice maybe. Thanks. There’s beautiful work in this house,” he said to Roarke.

“Yes, there is. We’ll show you through after dinner.” He ignored Eve’s grimace and smiled. “Most of the wood is original. I appreciate craftsmen who build to last.”

“I didn’t realize so much of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century interior work was left in an urban area like this. When I saw the Branson home today, I was just staggered. But this—”

“You were at the Bransons’?” Eve had finished scratching her head over the choices of juice Summerset had arranged. She poured something rose-colored into a glass.

“I called this morning to express my condolences and to ask if they’d prefer to postpone the work they’d contracted for.” He took the glass she offered with a smile of thanks. “But Mrs. Branson said they’d appreciate it if I’d come by and look things over today. This afternoon, after the memorial service. She said the project might help take their minds off things.”

“Zeke says they have a fully equipped workshop on the lower level.” Peabody wiggled her eyebrows at Eve. “Apparently B. Donald likes to putter.”

“Runs in the family.”

“I still haven’t met him,” Zeke put in. “Mrs. Branson showed me around.” He’d spent time with her, just a little time. And his system was still revving on it. “I’ll get started tomorrow, work right there in the house.”

“And get roped into doing odd jobs,” Peabody said.

“I don’t mind. Maybe I should go take a look at the car, see what I can do.” He looked at Roarke. “Do you have any tools I could borrow?”

“I think I have what you need. They’re not Branson, I’m afraid. I use Steelbend.”

“Branson’s good,” Zeke said soberly. “Steelbend’s better.”

Sending his wife a blinding smile, Roarke laid a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

“Isn’t he great?” Peabody sent a look of affection after her brother. “Twenty minutes at the Bransons’ and he was repairing some plumbing blip. There’s nothing Zeke can’t fix.”

“If he can keep that car out of the hands of the monkeys in maintenance, I’ll owe him for life.”

“He’ll do it.”

She started to bring up her newest worry. Something in Zeke’s eyes, in his voice, when he spoke of Clarissa Branson. Just a crush, Peabody assured herself. The woman was married, years older than Zeke. Just a little crush, she told herself again, and decided her lieutenant was hardly the person to share foolish sisterly concerns with. Certainly not in the middle of a difficult investigation.

Peabody blew out a breath. “I know this isn’t a great time for socializing. As soon as Zeke’s done, we’ll take off.”

“We’ll feed you. Look, there’s this stuff all ready.” Eve gestured absently to a tray of beautifully arranged canapés. “You might as well eat them.”

“Well, since you insist.” Peabody plucked one up. “No word from the commander?”

“Nothing yet. I don’t expect to hear anything before morning. Which reminds me, I’ll need you to report to Central at oh-six-hundred.”

Peabody swallowed the canapé before she choked. “Six. Great.” She blew out a breath and snagged another canapé. “Looks like it’s going to be a very early evening.”

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

It has begun. The preliminary stages of the revolution have proceeded precisely as outlined. Our symbolic destruction of the property of the capitalist Roarke was pitifully simple. The slow-witted police are investigating. The first messages of our mission have been transmitted.

They will not understand. They will not comprehend the magnitude of our power and our plans. Now, they scramble like mice, chasing down the crumbs we’ve left for them.

Our chosen adversary studies the deaths of two pawns, and sees nothing. Today, unless we were mistaken in her, she will go where we have led her. And be blinded to the true path.

He would be proud of what we accomplish here.

After this bloody battle is won, we will take his place. Those who have stood for us, for him, will join us. Comrade, we look forward to the day we raise our flag over the new capital of the new order. When all those responsible for the death of the martyr die in pain and terror.

They will pay, in fear, in money, in blood, as one by one and city by city, we who are Cassandra destroy what they worship.

Gather the faithful today, Comrade. Watch the screen. I will hear your shouts of triumph across the miles that separate us.

We are Cassandra.

Zeke Peabody was a conscientious man. He believed in doing a job well, in giving it all his time, his attention, and his skill. He’d learned carpentry from his father, and both father and son had been proud when the boy had outdistanced the man.

He’d been raised a Free-Ager, and the tenets of his faith suited Zeke like his skin. He was tolerant of others; part of his beliefs included the simple knowledge that the human race was made up of diverse individuals who had the right to go their own way.

His own sister had gone hers, choosing to become a cop. No true Free-Ager would ever carry a weapon, much less use one against another living thing. But her family was proud of her for following her own path. That, after all, was the foundation of Free-Agism.

One of the sweetest benefits of the job he’d taken here was the chance it gave him to spend time with his sister. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to see her in what had become her milieu, to explore the city she’d made her home. And he knew he amused her by dragging her around to every clichéd tourist attraction he could find on his guide disc.

He was very pleased with her superior. Dee had called and written home countless details about Eve Dallas that Zeke had arranged into a very complex and fascinating woman. But seeing her for himself was better. She had a strong aura. The dark shimmer of violence might have troubled him a bit, but the heart of it had been bright with compassion and loyalty.

He’d wanted to suggest that she try meditation to dull that shimmer, but he’d been afraid she’d take offense. Some people did. He’d also thought, perhaps, that nimbus of darkness might be necessary for her line of work.

He could accept such things, even if he never fully understood them.

In any case, he was satisfied that when the job was finished, he could return home content that his sister had found her place and was with the people she needed in her life.

As instructed, he went to the service entrance of the Branson brownstone. The servant who admitted him was a tall male with cool eyes and a formal manner. Mrs. Branson—she’d told him to call her Clarissa—had told him that all staff members were droids. Her husband considered them less intrusive and more efficient than their human counterparts.

He was shown to the lower-level workshop, asked if he required anything, then left alone.

And alone, he grinned like a boy.

The shop was nearly as well-equipped and organized as his own back home. Here, though he had no intention of using them, were the additions of a computer and telelink system, a wall screen, VR unit and mood tube, and a droid assistant that was currently disengaged.

He ran his hands over the oak he knew would be a joy to work with, then took out his plans. They were on paper rather than disc. He preferred to create his drawings with a pencil as his father had, and his grandfather before him.

It was more personal, Zeke thought, more a part of himself. He spread the diagrams out neatly on the workbench, took his bottle of water from his sack, and sipped contemplatively while he visualized the project, stage by stage.

He offered the work up to the power that had given him the knowledge and skill to build, then took his first measurements.

When he heard Clarissa’s voice, his pencil faltered. The flush was already working up his neck as he turned. The fact that there was no one there only made the blush deepen. He’d been thinking too much about her, he told himself. And had no right to think about another man’s wife. No matter how lovely she was, no matter if something in her big, troubled eyes called to him.

Especially because of that.

Because he was flustered, it took him a moment to realize the murmur of sound he heard was coming through the old vents. They should be sealed, he mused. He would ask her if she wanted him to take care of that while he was here.

He couldn’t quite make out the words—not that he would have tried, he assured himself. Not that he would ever, ever, intrude on another’s privacy. But he recognized her tone—the smooth flow of it, and his blood moved a little faster.

He laughed at himself, went back to his measuring with the assurance that it was all right to admire a woman because of her beauty and gentle manner. When he heard a voice join hers, he nodded. Her husband. It was good to remember she had a husband.

And a lifestyle, he added, lifting a board with a casual strength his gangly body disguised. A lifestyle that was far removed from his own.

Even as he carried the board to the braces for his first cuts, he heard the tones change. Voices raised in anger now, loud and clear enough for him to catch a few words.

“Stupid bitch. Get the hell out of my way.”

“B. D., please. Just listen.”

“To what? More whining? You make me sick.”

“I only want to—”

There was a thump, a crash that made Zeke wince, and the sound of Clarissa’s voice, begging now: “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Just remember, you pathetic cunt, who’s in charge.”

Another bullet of sound, a door slamming. Then a woman’s wild and miserable weeping.

He’d had no right, Zeke told himself, no right to listen to the intimacies of a marriage. No right to want to go upstairs and comfort her.

But, my God, how could anyone treat their life partner so callously, so cruelly? She should be cherished.

Despising himself for imagining doing just that, of going upstairs, gathering Clarissa against him, Zeke slipped on his ear protectors and gave her the privacy that was her right.

“I appreciate you changing your schedule and coming here.” Eve scooped her jacket off her ratty chair and tried not to obsess that her tiny, cluttered office was a far cry from the elegant Dr. Mira’s work space.

“I know you’re working against the clock on this one.” Mira glanced around. Odd, she thought, she’d never been in Eve’s office before. She doubted Eve realized just how completely the cramped little room suited her. No fuss, no frills, and very little comfort.

She took the chair Eve offered, crossed her smooth legs, lifted a brow when Eve remained standing.

“I should have come to you. I don’t even have any of that tea you drink in here.”

Mira merely smiled. “Coffee would be fine.”

“That I’ve got.” She turned to the AutoChef, which did little more than spit at her. Eve rammed it with the heel of her hand. “Goddamn budget cuts. One of these days I’m taking every lousy piece of equipment in this room and chucking it out the window. And I hope to God every piss-head in maintenance is down below when I do.”

Mira laughed and glanced at the narrow slit of grimy glass. “You’d have a hard time fitting anything through that window.”

“Yeah, well, I’d manage. It’s coming up,” she said as the AutoChef gave a coughing hum. “The rest of the team is working in their areas. We’re meeting in an hour. I want to be able to take them something.”

“I wish I had more to give you.” Mira sat back, accepting the mug of coffee Eve offered. It was barely seven A.M., yet Mira looked as elegant and polished as fine glass. Her sable-toned hair waved gently back from her serene face. She wore one of her trim suits, this one in a quiet sage green she’d accented with a single strand of pearls.

In her tired jeans and bulky sweater, Eve felt scruffy, gritty-eyed, and unkempt.

She sat, thinking Roarke had said basically the same thing to her in the early hours of the morning. He’d continued to search, but he was up against equipment and minds as clever and complex as his own. It could be hours, he’d explained, or days before he broke through the tangled blocks and reached the core of Cassandra.

“Give me what you’ve got,” Eve said shortly to Mira. “And it’ll be more than I have now.”

“This organization is exactly that,” Mira began. “Organized. It would be my supposition that whatever they intend to do has been planned out meticulously. They wanted your attention, and they have it. They wanted the attention of the powers of the city, and have that as well. Their politics, however, elude me. The four people they’re demanding be released are from variable points on the political compass. Therefore, this is a test. Will their demands be met? I don’t believe they think they will.”

“But they’ve given us no mechanism to negotiate.”

“Negotiation isn’t their goal. Capitulation is. The destruction of the building yesterday was merely a show. No one was hurt, they can say. We’re giving you a chance to keep it that way. Then, they ask for the impossible.”

“I can’t link any of the four on the list together.” Eve rested a booted ankle on her knee when she sat. She’d spent hours the night before trying to find the connection while Roarke had worked on Cassandra. “No political tenet, as you said. No associations, no memberships. Ages, personal and criminal histories. Nothing connects them. I say they picked those four names out of a hat, for the hell of it. They couldn’t care less if those people are back on the street or not. It’s smoke.”

“I agree. Knowing that, however, doesn’t ease the threat of what they’ll do next. This group calls itself Cassandra, links itself to Mount Olympus, so the symbolism is clear. Power and prophecy, of course, but more a distance between them and mere mortals. A belief, an arrogance, that they, or whoever heads them, has the superior knowledge and ability to direct us. Perhaps even to care for us in the ruthlessly cold directives of gods. They’ll use us—as they did Howard Bassi—when we have the potential to be useful. And when they are done, we are rewarded or punished as they see fit.”

“This new republic, new realm?”

“Theirs, of course.” Mira sampled the coffee, delighted to discover it was Roarke’s marvelous blend. “With their tenets, their rules, their people. It’s the tone that troubles me more than the content, Eve. Underlying what is said is a glee in saying it. ‘We are Cassandra,” ’ she added. “Is that the group, or one person who believes himself to be many? If the latter is partially true, you’re dealing with a clever and damaged mind. ‘We are loyal.’ Loyal, we can assume, to the organization, the mission. And to the terrorist group Apollo from which Cassandra was given its prophetic powers.”

“ ‘Our memory is long,” ’ Eve murmured. “It would have to be. Apollo was broken more than thirty years ago.”

“You’ll note the constant use of the plural pronoun, the short declarative sentences followed by political jargon, propaganda, accusations. There’s nothing new in that part of it, nothing original. It’s recycled, and a great deal older than three decades. But don’t take this to mean they’re not advanced in the ways and means in which they operate. Their foundation may be tired and trite, but I believe their intentions and capabilities are vital.

“They came to you,” she continued, “because they respect you. Possibly admire you—soldier to soldier. Because when they win, as they believe they will, victory will have a more satisfying taste if their opponent was worthy.”

“I need their target.”

“Yes, I know you do.” Mira closed her eyes a moment. “A symbol. Again, it would be something worthy. A place of excess, they said, and foolishness. Where mortals gawk at mortals. Perhaps a theater.”

“Or a club, an arena. It could be anything from Madison Square to a sex joint on Avenue C.”

“More likely the first than the second.” Mira set her coffee aside. “A symbol, Eve, a landmark. Something that would have impact.”

“The first hit was an empty warehouse. Not much impact.”

“It was Roarke’s,” Mira pointed out and watched Eve’s eyes flicker. “It got your attention. They mean to keep your attention.”

“You think they’ll target one of his properties again.” Eve pushed to her feet. “Well, that narrows it down. The man owns most of the damn city.”

“Does that bother you?” Mira began, then caught herself and nearly chuckled. “Sorry, knee-jerk psychologist’s question. I think it’s a good possibility since they’ve targeted you that they may focus on Roarke’s properties. It’s certainly not conclusive, no more, really, than what you’d term a hunch. But you have to look somewhere.”

“All right, I’ll contact him.”

“Concentrate on important buildings, something with tradition.”

“Okay, I’ll get started.”

Mira got to her feet. “I haven’t given you much help.”

“I didn’t give you much to work with.” Then Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “I’m not really in my area here. I’m used to dealing with straight murder, not the threat of wholesale annihilation.”

“Are the steps that different?”

“I don’t know. I’m still feeling my way around. And while I am, somebody’s got their finger on the button.”

She tried Roarke in his home office first, and got lucky. “Do me a favor,” she said immediately. “Work at home today.”

“For any particular reason?”

Who was to say, she thought, that the sumptuous lobby, the theaters and lounges in his midtown office building didn’t make it the target?

And, if she told him that, he’d be down there in a heartbeat, doing a search and scan personally. She wouldn’t risk it.

“I don’t like asking, but if you could keep on that project we were dealing with last night, it would help a lot.”

He studied her face. “All right. I can shift some things around. I’ve got an auto-search going in any case.”

“Yeah, but you get things done faster when you’re working them yourself.”

He lifted a brow. “I believe that was very nearly a compliment.”

“Don’t get puffed up about it.” She leaned back, tried to look casual. “Look, I’m kind of pressed right now, but can you shoot me some data here?”

“Of what kind?”

“Your properties in New York?”

Now both eyebrows winged up. “All?”

“I said I was pressed for time,” she said dryly. “I don’t have a decade or so to deal with this. Just the really jazzy ones. Jazzy old stuff.”

“Why?”

Why? Shit. “I’m just doing a cross-check. Loose ends. Routine.”

“Darling Eve.” He didn’t smile when he said it, and she began to drum her fingers on the desk.

“What?”

“You’re lying to me.”

“I am not. Jesus, ask a guy for some basic data, data which as his wife I’m entitled to, and he calls you a liar.”

“Now I know you’re lying. You don’t give two damns about my properties, and you hate when I call you my wife.”

“No, I don’t. It’s this certain tone you use that I object to. Forget it,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not important anyway.”

“Which one of my properties do you believe is the target?”

She hissed out a breath. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you? Just send me the goddamn data, will you, and let me do my job.”

“You’ll have it.” His eyes were as cool as his voice now. “And if you find the target, let me know. You can reach me at my midtown office.”

“Roarke, damn it—”

“Do your job, Lieutenant, and I’ll do mine.”

Before she could swear at him again, he’d cut her off. She kicked the desk. “Stubborn, tight-assed son of a bitch.” Without hesitation, she tossed procedure out the window and called Anne Malloy.

“I need an E and B team at a midtown address. Full search and scan.”

“You located the target?”

“No.” She said that much between her teeth, then forced her jaw to relax. “It’s a personal favor, Anne, I’m sorry to ask. Mira believes one of Roarke’s properties will likely be today’s target. He’s going into his office, and I—”

“Give me the address,” Anne said briskly, “and it’s done.”

Eve closed her eyes, breathed out slowly. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve got a man of my own. I’d do the same thing.”

“I owe you anyway. I’ve got data coming in,” she added when her machine beeped. “It’s a place to start. I’ll be sifting through it, hopefully have it narrowed down by our meeting.”

“Fingers crossed, Dallas,” Anne said and signed off.

“Peabody.” Eve signaled her aide. “My office.”

She sat, tunneled her fingers through her hair, then called up the data Roarke had sent her.

“Sir.” Peabody stepped into the room. “I got the reports back on the Cassandra discs. Analysis doesn’t show anything. Standard units, no initializations or prints. No way to trace.”

“Pull up a chair,” Eve ordered. “I’ve got a list here of potential targets. We’ll run a probability scan, try to slim it down.”

“How did you generate the list?”

“Mira’s take is that we’re likely looking for a club or theater. I agree with that. She thinks it’s a pretty good bet they’ll go for one of Roarke’s again.”

“Follows,” Peabody said after a moment, then sat down next to Eve. And gaped at the list scrolling on-screen. “Man, those are his? He owns all that?”

“Don’t get me started,” Eve muttered. “Computer, analysis current data, select properties considered landmarks or traditional symbols of New York, and list. Ah, add buildings constructed on historic sites.”

Working . . . .

“That’s a good call,” Peabody said. “You know, I was in a lot of these places with Zeke. We’d have been even more impressed if we’d known you owned them.”

“Roarke owns them.”

Task complete, the computer announced with such efficiency Eve eyed it suspiciously.

“Why do you think this thing’s working so well today, Peabody?”

“I’d knock wood when I make statements like that, Lieutenant.” Peabody’s brows drew together as she studied the new list. “That didn’t whittle it down by a whole lot.”

“That’s what he gets for liking old things. The guy has a real obsession for old shit.” She let out a breath. “Okay, we’re thinking club or theater. Mortals gawking at mortals. Computer, which of this list runs matinees today?”

Working. . . .

“They want people inside,” Eve murmured as the computer burped rudely. “Lives lost. Not just a couple of tour groups, not just employees. Why not go for a full house. Impact.”

“If you’re right, we could still have time enough to stop it.”

“Or we could be peeking in the wrong window and some bar downtown blows up. Okay, okay.” Eve nodded when the new data emerged. “That’s better, that’s workable. Computer, copy current list to disk, print hard copy.”

Eve checked the time, rose. “Let’s get this in to the conference room.” She snatched up the hard copy, stared at it. “What the hell is this?”

Peabody looked over her shoulder. “I think it’s Japanese. I told you to knock on wood, Dallas.”

“Get the damn disc. If it’s in Japanese, Feeney can run it through a translator. Out the fucking window,” she muttered as she strode from the room. “One of these days, out the fucking window.”

The disc proved to be in Mandarin Chinese, but Feeney dealt with it and put it on the wall screen.

“Mira’s preliminary profile,” Eve began, “and the computer analysis of data and supposition indicates these are the most likely targets. All are entertainment complexes, either landmarks or constructed on the site of destroyed landmarks. All have performances scheduled this afternoon.”

“That’s a good angle.” Anne tucked her hands in her back pockets as she read the screen. “I’ll send out teams for a search and scan.”

“How much time will you need?” Eve asked her.

“Every damn bit of it.” She whipped out her communicator.

“No uniforms and unmarked vehicles,” Eve said quickly. “They may have the buildings under surveillance. Let’s not tip them off.”

With a nod, Anne began to bark orders into her communicator.

“We got through the fail-safe.” Feeney picked up with EDD’s progress. “The old bastard coded his data. I’m running a code breaker, but he used a good one. It’s going to take more time.”

“Let’s hope it’s something worth looking at.”

“McNab tracked down a couple of names from Fixer’s old unit. Men still in the area. I’ve got interviews set up for noon today.”

“Good.”

“Teams are moving.” Anne tucked her communicator away. “I’ll be in the field. You’ll know when I know. Oh, Dallas,” she added as she headed for the door. “That address we discussed earlier? It’s clean.”

“Thanks.”

Anne sent her a grin. “Any time.”

“I’ll be on the code until we have something to move on.” Feeney rattled his bag of candied nuts. “This kind of shit went on all the damn time during the Urban Wars. Mostly we suppressed and subdued, but there’s bigger and better shit out there now.”

“Yeah, but we’re bigger and better, too.”

It made him smile a little. “Goddamn right.”

Eve rubbed her eyes when she was alone with Peabody. The scant three hours’ sleep she’d managed was threatening to fog her brain. “Man the computer in here. As Malloy’s teams report in, adjust the list. I’ll report in to Whitney, then I’ll be in the field. Keep me updated.”

“You could use me in the field, Dallas.”

Eve thought of how close she’d come to getting her aide blown to pieces once already and shook her head. “I need you here,” was all she said, and headed out.

An hour later, Peabody swung between being miserably bored and outrageously edgy. Four buildings had been tagged clean, but there were another dozen to go with just under two hours until noon.

She wandered the room, drank too much coffee. She tried to think like a political terrorist. Eve could do that, she knew. Her lieutenant could slide into the mind of a criminal, walk around in it, visualize a scene from the eyes of a killer.

Peabody envied that skill, though it had occurred to her more than once it couldn’t be a comfortable one.

“If I were a political terrorist, what building in New York would I want to take out to make a statement?”

Tourist traps and lures, she thought. The problem was she’d always avoided that kind of thing. She’d come to New York to be a cop and had deliberately—as a matter of pride, she supposed—avoided all the usual tourist havens.

The fact was, she’d never been inside the Empire State or the Met until Zeke . . .

Her head came up, her eyes brightened. She’d call Zeke. She knew he’d studied his guide disc front and back and sideways. So where would he, as an eager tourist from Arizona, most like to attend a weekday matinee?

She turned from the window to start toward the ’link, then scowled when McNab strolled in.

“Hey, She-Body, they dump you on desk duty, too?”

“I’m busy, McNab.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He wandered to the AutoChef, poked. “This thing’s out of coffee.”

“Then go drink somewhere else. This isn’t a damn café.” She wanted him out and gone on general principles, and because she didn’t want him smirking when she called her little brother.

“I like it here.” Partially because he wanted to know, and partially to annoy her, he leaned over her monitor. “How many have been eliminated?”

“Get away from there. I’m manning this unit. I’m working here, McNab.”

“What are you so touchy about? You and Charlie have a spat?”

“My personal life is none of your business.” She tried for dignity, but something about him always put her back up. She marched over, elbowed him aside. “Why don’t you go play with your motherboard?”

“I happen to be part of this team.” To irritate her, he plopped his butt on the table. “And I outrank you, sweetheart.”

“Only through some obvious glitch in the system.” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “And don’t call me sweetheart. The name is Peabody, Officer Peabody, and I don’t need some half-wit, skinny-assed e-man breathing down my neck when I’m on assignment.”

He glanced down at the finger that had jabbed twice more into his chest. When he lifted his gaze, she was mildly surprised to see his usually cheerful green eyes had gone to pricks of ice. “You want to be careful.”

The chilly steel of his voice surprised her, too, but she was too far in to back off. “About what?” she said and gleefully jabbed him again.

“About physically assaulting a superior officer. I’ll only tolerate so much of your abuse before I start dishing it back out.”

“My abuse. You come sniffing around every time I blink with your lame comments and innuendos. You try to horn in on my cases—”

“Your cases. Now she’s got delusions of grandeur.”

“Dallas’s cases are my cases. And we don’t need you poking into them. We don’t need you strolling in for comic relief with your stupid jokes. And I don’t need you asking questions about my relationship with Charles, which is completely private and none of your damn business.”

“You know what you do need, Peabody?”

Since she’d raised her voice to a shout, he did the same. And he was up, toe to toe, nearly nose to nose.

“No, McNab, just what do you think I need?”

He hadn’t intended to do it. He didn’t think. Well, maybe he had. Either way, it was done. He’d grabbed her arms, he’d yanked her hard, and his mouth was currently doing a damn fine job of devouring hers.

She made a sound, something that was reminiscent of a swimmer inhaling water by mistake. Somewhere under his bubbling temper was the knowledge that she was likely to kick his ass the minute she recovered from the shock. So, what the hell, he gave the moment all he had.

He trapped her between the table and his body, and took as much of her in as a man could in one, long, greedy gulp.

She was paralyzed. It was the only rational explanation as to why the man still had his mouth on her instead of lying broken and bleeding on the floor.

She’d had some sort of a stroke or . . . Oh my God, who’d known an annoying little twit could kiss like this?

The blood simply drained out of her head and left it buzzing. And she discovered she wasn’t paralyzed after all, when her arms locked around him, and her mouth began to meet his assault with one of her own.

They grappled, groping and biting. Somebody moaned. Somebody swore. Then they were staring at each other, panting.

“What the—what the hell was that?” Her voice came out in a squeak.

“I don’t know.” He managed to suck in air, release it. “But let’s do it again.”

“Jesus Christ, McNab!” Feeney exploded from the doorway and watched the pair of them jump apart like rabbits. “What the sweet hell are you doing?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” He wheezed, coughed, tried to blink his vision clear. “Nothing,” he said for a third time. “At all. Captain.”

“Holy Mary McGuire.” Feeney rubbed his hands over his face, kept them there. “We’ll all just pretend I didn’t see that. I didn’t see a goddamn thing. I’ve just now this second walked into this room. Is that understood?”

“Sir,” Peabody said snappily, and prayed the blush she could feel burning her face would fade sometime before the end of the decade.

“Yes, sir.” McNab took a long sideways step away from Peabody.

Feeney lowered his hands, studied the two of them. He’d locked less guilty-looking pairs in cages, he thought with an inner sigh. “Target’s been located. It’s Radio City.”

They had time. They still had time, was all Eve allowed herself to think. She wore riot gear: the full antiflak jacket, the assault helmet, and face visor. All of which, she knew, would prove as useless as fresh, pink skin if they didn’t have time.

So they did. That was the only choice for her, for the E and B team, and for the civilians they were working feverishly to evacuate.

The Great Stage at Radio City had pulled in a full house: tourists, locals, preschoolers with parents or caretakers, classroom groups with teachers and chaperons. The noise level was huge, and the natives weren’t just restless, they were pissed.

“Seats run between one hundred and two hundred and fifty.” The six-foot blonde, who’d identified herself as the theater manager, galloped beside Eve like a Viking warhorse. Outrage and distress had gone to battle in her voice. “Do you have any idea how complicated it’s going to be to arrange alternate dates or refunds? We’re sold out through the run of the show.”

“Look, sister, you’ll be holding your run of the show in pieces blown over to Hoboken if you don’t let us do our job.” She elbowed the woman aside and pulled out her communicator. “Malloy? Status.”

“Multiple devices detected. We’ve located and neutralized two. Scan indicates six more. Teams already deployed. The stage has four elevators, every one of them can go down twenty-seven feet into the basement of this place. We got hot ones in all of them. Working as fast as we can here.”

“Work faster,” Eve suggested. She jammed the communicator back in her pocket and turned to the woman beside her. “Get out.”

“I certainly will not. I’m the manager.”

“That doesn’t make you captain of this sinking ship.” Because the woman outweighed her by a good fifty pounds and looked frazzled enough to put up a good, entertaining fight, Eve was tempted to haul her along personally. It was too bad she couldn’t spare the time. Instead, she signaled to a couple of beefy uniforms, indicated the woman with a jerk of her thumb.

“Move this,” was all she said and pushed her way through the noisy, complaining crowd of evacuees.

She could see the impressive block-long expanse of stage. A full dozen cops in riot gear were posted on it to keep any ticket holders from scrambling in that direction. The heavy red curtain was raised, the stage lights brilliant. No one, she thought dryly, would mistake the helmeted figures onstage for The Rockettes.

Babies wailed, the elderly griped, and a half dozen schoolgirls clutching their souvenir Rockette dolls wept silently.

The cover story of a water main leak had staved off panic, but it didn’t make for cheerful cooperation from the civilians.

The evacuation teams were making progress, but it was no easy task to move several thousand annoyed ticket holders out of a warm theater and into the cold. The main lobby area was jammed shoulder to shoulder.

And there were countless other rooms, lounges, lobbies. Beyond the public areas there were dressing rooms, control centers, offices. Each one had to be searched, emptied, secured.

Add panic to annoyance, Eve mused, and you’d have several hundred casualties before they hit the doors. She slapped on her headset and climbed onto a wide Art Deco table to look down on the grumbling horde being pushed along through the grandiose lobby with its stylized glass and chrome.

She switched on her mike. “This is the NYPSD,” she announced over the echoing din. “Your cooperation is appreciated. Please don’t block the exits. Continue to move outside.” She ignored the shouts and questions thrown at her and repeated her statement twice more.

A woman in her matinee pearls curled a hand around Eve’s booted ankle. “I know the mayor. He’s going to hear about this.”

Eve nodded pleasantly. “Give him my best. Please proceed in an orderly fashion. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

The word inconvenience pushed the bitch button. The shouts increased even as uniforms firmly led people through the doors. Eve had just swiveled her mouthpiece aside, pulled out her communicator for another status check when she saw someone come in instead of out.

Her blood went instantly on boil as Roarke slid gracefully through the crowd toward her.

Her teeth were grinding as she stared down at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Insuring that my property—and my wife,” he added just deliberately enough to make her snarl, “remain in one piece.”

He hopped agilely beside her. “May I?” he began and snatched her headset.

“That’s police property, ace.”

“Which means it’s an inferior product, but it should do the job.”

Then, looking cool and sleek, he addressed the disorderly crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the staff and performers of Radio City apologize for this difficulty. All tickets and transportation costs incurred will be fully re-funded. An alternate date will be set for today’s matinee at no change to any ticket holders who wish to attend. We appreciate your understanding.”

The noise level didn’t abate, but the tone of it altered dramatically. Roarke could have told Eve that money, unfailingly, talks.

“Pretty slick, aren’t you?” she muttered and swung down behind the table.

“You need them out,” he said simply. “What’s your status?”

She waited until he stood down with her, then contacted Anne. “We’re about fifty percent evacuated. It’s moving, but slow. Where are you?”

“About the same. We’ve got half. Cooled one in the organ console. Working on one in the orchestra pit now. This one’s almost a lock, but they’re scattered all over hell and back. I’ve only got so many men.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Roarke checking a handheld scanner. It sank sickness into her gut. “Keep me posted. You,” she said as she turned to him. “Get out.”

“No.” He didn’t bother to look up but did lay a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from moving in on him. “There’s one up on the catwalk. I’ll take that one.”

“You’re taking nothing but a hike, and now.”

“Eve, we both know there’s no time to argue. If these people have the building under surveillance, they know you’ve tagged them. They could decide to detonate any time now.”

“Which is why all civilians—” She broke off rather than talk to his back. He’d already turned away and was slipping quickly through the oncoming crowd. “Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it.” Fighting off panic, she muscled her way through after him.

She caught up just as he was unlocking a side door and managed to push her way in behind him.

It slammed, locked, and they eyed each other narrowly. “I don’t need you here,” they said together. Roarke very nearly chuckled.

“Never mind. Just don’t crowd me.” He moved fast up narrow metal steps, moved quickly along twisting corridors.

Eve saved her breath. They were in it now, win or lose.

She could hear the echoes of voices from below, just a hum as the walls were thick. Here the theater was plain and functional, like an actor without costume or makeup.

Roarke took another set of steps, more narrow than the last, and came out on what looked to Eve like the deck of a ship.

It swung out over the plush seats, gave a full view of the stage far below. As heights weren’t on her list of favorite things, she turned away and studied the massive and complicated control panels, puzzled over the thick hanging hanks of rope.

“Where . . .” she began, then lost all power of speech as he stepped through an opening and out into space.

“I won’t be long.”

“Jesus, Roarke. Jesus!” She scrambled over, saw he was not actually walking on air. But from her perspective, he might as well have been. The platform was no more than two feet wide, a kind of bridge that spanned above the theater, slicing through huge hanging lights, more ropes and pulleys, metal beams.

Even as she stepped onto it after him, her ears began to buzz. She’d have sworn she could feel her brain start to swim in her skull.

“Go back, Eve. Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Shut up, just shut up. Where is the fucker?”

“Here.” For both their sakes, he put her fear of heights out of his mind. And hoped she could do the same. Nimbly, he pivoted, knelt, then leaned over in a way that made Eve’s stomach flip in one long, slow rotation. “Under this catwalk.”

He ran the scanner as Eve gratefully lowered to her hands and knees. She kept her teeth gritted and told herself to watch him. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

Of course, she looked down.

The crowd was thin now, just a few dozen stragglers being hurried along by uniforms. The trio of E and B men in the orchestra pit looked like toys, but she heard their shout of triumph through the ocean roar of blood in her ears.

“They took out another one.”

“Mmm,” was Roarke’s only comment.

With sweaty fingers, she took out her communicator and answered Anne’s beep. “Dallas.”

“We’ve got two more down. Closing in. I’m sending a team to the catwalk and another—”

“I’m on the catwalk. We’re working on this one.”

“We?”

“Just do the rest.” She blinked her vision clear and saw Anne stride out onstage, look up. “We’re under control here.”

“I hope to Christ you are. Malloy out.”

“Are we under control here, Roarke?”

“Hmm. It’s a clever little bastard. Your terrorists have deep pockets. I could use Feeney,” he said absently, then held out a minilight. “Hold this.”

“Where?”

“Just here.” He indicated, then glanced at her, noted she was dead pale and clammy. “On your belly, darling. Breathe slow.”

“I know how to breathe.” She snapped it out, then bellied down. Her stomach might have been doing a mad jig, but her hand was rock steady.

“Good, that’s good.” He stretched out across from her so they were nearly nose to nose and went to work with a delicate tool that glinted silver in the lights. “They want you to snip these wires here. If you do, you’ll be blown into several unattractive pieces. They’re a front,” he went on conversationally while he carefully removed a cover. “A lure. They’ve made it to appear to be a second-rate boomer when in reality . . . Ah, there’s that little beauty. When in reality, it’s top of the line, plaston-driven, with compu-remote trigger.”

“That’s fascinating.” Her breath wanted to come in pants. “Kill the bastard.”

“Normally, I admire your kick-in-the-face style, Lieutenant. But try that with this, and the two of us will be making love in heaven tonight.”

“Heaven wouldn’t have either of us.”

He smiled. “Wherever, then. It’s this chip I need. Turn the light a bit. Aye, that’s the way. I’ll need both hands here, Eve, so I’ll need one of yours as well.”

“For what?”

“To catch this when it pops out. If they’re as clever as I think, they’d have used an impact chip. Which means if this little darling falls, hits below, it’ll take out a good dozen rows and put a very nasty crater in my floor. Very possibly shaking us off our perch here with the backwash. Ready?”

“Oh sure. Absolutely.” She rubbed her sweaty hand on her butt, then held it out. “So you figure we can still have sex, wherever?”

He glanced up long enough to grin at her. “Oh sure. Absolutely.” He took her hand, squeezed it once, then lowered it. You’re going to need to lean out a bit. Keep your eye on what I’m doing. Watch the chip.”

She emptied her mind, shifted so that her head and shoulders were unsupported. She stared at the little black box, the colorful wires, the dull green of the miniboard.

“This one.” He touched the point of his tool to a gray chip no bigger than the first knuckle on a baby’s pinkie.

“I’ve got it. Finish the job.”

“Don’t squeeze it. Be gentle. On three then. One, two.” He slid the tip around the edge of the chip, pried it gently. “Three.” And it snapped out with a quiet click that sounded like a bomb blast to Eve’s ears.

It hit her cupped palm, bounced. She rolled her fingers into a loose fist. “Got it.”

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Roarke pushed up to his knees, took out a handkerchief. Taking Eve’s hand, he uncurled her fingers and placed the chip in the center of the silk, folded it, folded again. “Not much padding, but better than nothing. He slipped it into his back pocket. “As long as I don’t sit on it, we’ll be fine.”

“Be careful. I like your ass too much to see it blown off. Now, how the hell do we get off of here?”

“We could go back the way we came.” But there was a glint in his eye as he stood. “Or we can have some fun with it.”

“I don’t want any fun.”

“I do.” He took her hand to help her to her feet, then reached out to grip a rope and pulley. “Do you know what today’s matinee was?”

“No.”

“A revival of that longtime children’s favorite, Peter Pan. Hold tight, darling.”

“Don’t.” But he’d already pulled her close and in automatic defense, her arms locked around him. “I’ll kill you for this.”

“The pirates look great swinging to stage on these. Inhale,” he suggested, then with a laugh swung free.

She felt a rush of wind that took her stomach and flung it behind her. Before her glazed eyes, she watched color and shape fly. The only thing that stopped her from screaming was pride, and even that was nearly used up as they flew over the orchestra pit.

Then the crazy man she was somehow married to closed his mouth silkily over hers. A hot little ball of pure lust burned along with terror, and both managed to jelly her knees so they buckled clumsily when her boots hit the stage.

“You’re dead. You’re meat.”

He kissed her again and chuckled against her mouth. “It was worth it.”

“Nice entrance.” Feeney, his face rumpled and weary, walked toward them. “Now, if you kids have finished playing, we’ve got two more of these bastards still armed.”

Eve elbowed Roarke aside and managed to stand on her own. “Civilians out?”

“Yeah, we’re clear there. If they stick to deadline, we should make it. Cutting it damn close, but—”

He broke off as the rumble sounded below and the stage shook beneath their feet. Above, lights and cables swung wildly.

“Oh hell, oh shit.” Eve slapped her communicator into her hand. “Malloy? Anne? Report. Give me a report. Anne? Do you copy?”

The answering buzz had her gripping Feeney’s shoulder, then there was a crackle. “Malloy here. We had it contained. No injuries, no casualties. The timer went and we had to contain and detonate. Repeat, no injuries. But this understage area is one holy mess.”

“Okay. All right.” Eve rubbed a hand over her face. “Status?”

“We got them all, Dallas. This building’s clean.”

“Report to the conference room at Central when you’re secured here. Good work.” She broke transmission, spared Roarke a quick glance. “You’re with me, pal.” She offered Feeney a brief nod before striding off. “We’ll need all security data on this building, a complete list of personnel—techs, performers, maintenance, managerial. Everyone.”

“I ordered that for you when I learned the target. It should be waiting for you at Central.”

“Fine. Then you can go back to buying the planet and stay out of my hair. Give me the chip.”

He lifted a brow. “What chip?”

“Don’t be cute. Let me have the impact chip or whatever it’s called.”

“Oh, that chip.” With the appearance of cooperation, he took out his handkerchief, unfolded it. And revealed nothing. “I seem to have lost it somewhere.”

“Like hell. Give me the goddamn chip. Roarke. It’s evidence.”

Smiling blandly, he shook the handkerchief, shrugged.

She moved in until her toes bumped his. “Give me the damn thing, Roarke.” She hissed it out. “Before I order you strip-searched.”

“You can’t do that without a warrant. Unless, of course, you’d like to do it yourself, in which case I’d be more than delighted to waive a few of my civil rights.”

“This is an official investigation.”

“It was my property, twice. My woman, twice.” His eyes had gone very cool. “You know where to find me if you need me, Lieutenant.”

She grabbed his arm. “If ‘my woman’ is your new way of saying ‘my wife,’ I don’t like it any better.”

“I didn’t think you would.” He gave her a friendly kiss on the brow. “See you at home.”

She didn’t bother to snarl. Instead, she contacted Peabody to let the rest of the team know they were heading in.

Clarissa raced into the workroom where Zeke was quietly fashioning the grooves for the tongue-and-groove joints on his cabinet. He glanced up in surprise, noted that her eyes were huge, her face flushed.

“Did you hear?” she demanded. “Someone tried to set off a bomb in Radio City.”

“In the theater?” His brow furrowed as he set down his tools. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Money or something, I suppose.” She brushed a hand over her hair. “Oh, you’re not using the entertainment center. I thought you would have heard. They aren’t giving out any real details, just that the building’s been secured and there’s no danger.”

She fluttered her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with them now. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“It’s all right. That’s such a beautiful old place. Why would anyone want to destroy it?”

“People are so cruel.” She ran a fingertip along one of the smoothly sanded boards he had stacked on a worktable. “Sometimes there’s no reason for it at all. It just is. I used to go to the Christmas show there every year. My parents would take me.” She smiled a little. “Good memories. I suppose that’s why I got so upset when I heard the news. Well, I should let you get back to work.”

“I was about to take a break.” She was lonely—and more. He was sure of it. Out of politeness, he avoided looking beyond, scanning her aura. He could see enough in her face. She’d used enhancers carefully, but the faint bruise on her cheek showed, as did the results of weeping.

He opened his lunch sack, took out his bottle of juice. “Would you like a drink?”

“No. Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. You don’t have to bring your lunch Zeke. The AutoChef is fully stocked.”

“I’m sort of used to my own.” Because he sensed she needed it, he smiled. “Got any glasses?”

“Oh, of course.” She walked to a doorway, disappeared through it.

He tried not to pay close attention. Really, he did. But it was such a pleasure to watch her move. All that nervous energy just under the seamless grace. She was so tiny, so beautiful.

So sad.

Everything inside him wanted to comfort her.

She came back with two tall, clear glasses, then set them down so she could study his work. “You’ve already done so much. I’ve never seen the stages of something being built by hand, but I thought it would take much more time.”

“It’s just a matter of sticking with it.”

“You love what you do.” She looked back at him, her eyes just a little too bright, her smile just a little too wide. “It shows. I fell in love with your work the first time I saw it. With the heart of it.”

She stopped, laughed at herself. “That sounds ridiculous. I’m always saying something ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not. It’s what matters to me, anyway.” He picked up a glass he’d filled, offered it. He didn’t feel tongue-tied and miserably shy around her as he often did with women. She needed a friend, and that made all the difference. “My father taught me that whatever you put of yourself in your work, you get back twice over.”

“That’s nice.” Her smile softened. “It’s so important to have family. I miss mine. I lost my parents a dozen years ago and still miss them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She sipped the juice, stopped, sipped again. “Why, this is wonderful. What is it?”

“It’s just one of my mother’s recipes. Mixed fruit, heavy on the mango.”

“Well, it’s marvelous. I drink entirely too much coffee. I’d be better off with this.”

“I’ll bring you a jug if you like.”

“That’s kind of you, Zeke. You’re a kind man.” She laid a hand over his. As their eyes met, he felt his heart stumble in his chest, fall flat. Then she slid her hand, and her gaze, aside. “It, ah, smells wonderful in here. The wood.”

All he could smell was her perfume, as soft and delicate as her skin. The back of his hand throbbed where her fingers had skimmed it. “You’ve hurt yourself, Mrs. Branson.”

She swung around quickly. “What?”

“There’s a bruise on your cheek.”

“Oh.” Panic shadowed her eyes as she lifted her hand to the mark. “Oh, it’s nothing. I . . . tripped earlier. I tend to move too fast and not watch where I’m going.” She set her glass down, lifted it again. “I thought you were going to call me Clarissa. Mrs. Branson makes me feel so distant.”

“I can make you a salve for the bruise. Clarissa.”

Her eyes filled, threatened to overflow. “It’s nothing. But thank you. It’s nothing at all. I should go, let you get back to work. B. D. hates it when I interrupt his projects.”

“I like the company.” He stepped forward. He could imagine himself reaching out, taking her into his arms. Just holding her there. Nothing more than that. But even that, he understood, was too much. “Would you like to stay?”

“I . . .” A single tear spilled over, slipped beautifully down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not myself today. My brother-in-law—I suppose, the shock. Everything. I haven’t been able to . . . B. D. hates public displays.”

“You’re not in public now.”

And he was reaching out, taking her into his arms where she fit as if she’d been designed for him. He held her there, nothing more than that. And it wasn’t too much at all.

She wept quietly, almost silently, her face buried against his chest, her fists clenched against his back. He was tall, strong, innately gentle. She’d known he would be.

When the tears began to slow, she sighed once, twice. “You are kind,” she murmured. “And patient, letting a woman you barely know cry on your shoulder. I really am sorry. I suppose I didn’t realize I had all that pent up.”

She eased back, offered him a watery smile. Her eyes glimmered with tears as she lifted to her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek again, just as lightly, but her eyes had darkened, and her heart tripped against his chest.

The hands balled against his back opened, spread, stroked, her breath trembled out through lips just parted.

Then somehow, without thought or reason, his met them. Naturally as breathing, soft as a whispered promise. He drew her in, she drew him down into a kiss that spun delicately out until there was no time, no place for him but here and now.

She seemed to melt against him, muscle by muscle and bone by bone as if to prove she was as lost in that moment as he. Then she trembled, then shuddered until her body quaked almost violently against his.

She yanked back, her color high, her eyes huge and shocked. “That was—that was entirely my fault. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“It was my doing.” He was as pale as she was flushed, and every bit as shaken. “I beg your pardon.”

“You were just being kind.” She pressed a hand against her heart as if to stop it from bounding out of her chest. “I’d forgotten how that is. Please, Zeke, let’s forget it.”

He kept his eyes locked on hers, nodded slowly while his pulse beat like a thousand drums. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what has to be. I stopped having choices a long time ago. I have to go. I wish—” She bit back whatever she’d intended to say, shook her head fiercely. “I have to go,” she said again and dashed from the room.

Alone, Zeke laid his hands against the workbench, leaned in, and closed his eyes. What in God’s name was he doing? What in God’s name had he done?

He’d fallen flat-faced in love with a married woman.

“Sir.” The minute Eve walked into the conference room, Peabody was on her feet. Strain showed in the tightness around her mouth. “You received another communication.”

Eve pulled off her jacket. “Cassandra?”

“I didn’t open the pouch, but I had it scanned. It’s clean.”

With a nod, Eve took the pouch, turned it over in her hand. It was identical to the first. “The rest of the team’s on the way in. Where’s McNab?”

“How would I know?” It came out in something close to a squeak that had Eve glancing over to watch Peabody stuff her hands in her pockets, take them out, fold her arms over her chest. “I don’t keep tabs on him. I don’t care where he is.”

“Tag him, Peabody,” Eve said with what she considered admirable patience. “Bring him in.”

“Ah, the superior officer should send for him.”

“Your superior officer is telling you to get his skinny butt in here. Now.” Annoyed, Eve dropped into a chair and ripped open the pouch. She examined the disc briefly, then plugged it into the computer.

“Run disc.”

Running . . . . contents are text only as follows . . . .

We are Cassandra.

We are the gods of justice.

We are loyal.

Lieutenant Dallas, we enjoyed today’s events. We are in no way disappointed in our choice of you as adversary. In less than our projected time allotted, you located the described target. We are pleased with your skills.

Perhaps you believe you won this battle. Though we congratulate you on your quick and decisive work, we feel, in fairness, we should inform you today’s work was only a test. A preliminary round.

The first wave of police experts entered the target building at eleven hundred hours and sixteen minutes. Evacuation proceedings began within eight minutes. You arrived at target twelve minutes after evacuation had begun.

At any time during this process, the target could have been destroyed. We preferred observing.

We found it interesting that Roarke became personally involved. His arrival was an unexpected bonus and allowed us to study you working together. The cop and the capitalist.

Forgive us for being amused by your fear of heights. We were impressed that despite it, you performed your duties as the tool of the fascist state. We had expected no less from you.

In triggering the last device, we allowed time for containment. Lieutenant Malloy will confirm that without this time, without this containment, several lives and a great deal of property would have been lost.

We will not be as accommodating with the next target.

Our demands must be met within forty-eight hours. To those initial demands, we now demand a payment of sixty million dollars in bearer bonds in increments of fifty thousand dollars. The capitalistic figureheads that line their pockets and break the back of the masses must be made to pay in coin they worship.

Once confirmation of the liberation of our compatriots is assured, instructions on delivery of the monetary penalty will be issued.

To prove our commitment to the cause, a small demonstration of our power will be made at precisely fourteen hundred hours.

We are Cassandra.

“A demonstration?” Eve glanced at her wrist unit. “In ten minutes.” She pulled out her communicator. “Malloy, are you still in the target?”

“Just securing.”

“Get everybody out, keep out for another fifteen minutes. Run another scan.”

“This place is clean, Dallas.”

“Run it anyway. After the fifteen, have Feeney send a unit of exterminators in. The building’s full of bugs. They were watching every move. We’ll need the bugs brought in for analysis, but get out and stay out of the building until after fourteen hundred.”

Anne opened her mouth, obviously decided to save her questions, then nodded. “Affirmative. ETA to Central thirty minutes.”

“Do you think they got a bomb past the scan?” Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.

“No, but I’m not taking the chance. We can’t track every damn building in the city. They want to show us how big and bad they are. So they’re going to take something out.” She pushed away from the desk, walked to the window. “There’s not a fucking thing I can do to stop them.”

She scanned her view of New York, the old brick, the new steel, the crowds of people jammed onto glides or sidewalks, the nervous, edgy traffic in the streets, the rumble of it in the air.

Serve and protect, she thought. That was her job. That was her promise. And now all she could do was watch and wait.

McNab came in, looked anywhere but at Peabody. He preferred to pretend she wasn’t in the room. “You sent for me, Lieutenant?”

“See what you can do with the disc I just ran. Make copies for my files and for the commander. And what is the status on Fixer’s code?”

McNab allowed himself a small, smug smile and a sly sidelong glance at Peabody. “I just cracked it.” He held up his own disc and struggled not to scowl as Peabody turned her head away and studiously examined her nails.

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Eve strode over to snatch it out of his hand.

Insulted, McNab opened his mouth, then shut it tight when he caught Peabody’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “I’d just run the backups when you sent for me,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t take the time to read the contents comprehensively,” he continued as Eve jammed the disc home. “But a quick skim indicates he lists all materials used, all devices made, and there are enough of them to wipe out a Third World country.”

He paused, deliberately moving to the other side of Eve as Peabody shifted closer to see the screen. “Or a major city.”

“Ten pounds of plaston,” Eve read.

“An ounce would take out half this level of Cop Central,” he told her. When Eve shifted to the wall screen, he moved another lateral foot away from Peabody, and she from him.

“Timers, remotes, impacts, sound and motion activated.” Eve felt the ice crawl into her stomach. “They didn’t miss a trick. Plenty of security, sensors, surveillance toys, too. He put together a goddamn warehouse for them.”

“They paid him plenty,” Peabody murmured. “He’s got his costs, his fees, his profits all listed nice and tidy beside each unit.”

“Hell of a businessman. Guns.” Eve’s eyes narrowed. “He got hold of banned weapons for them. Those are Urban War era.”

“Is that what they are?” Interested, McNab leaned closer. “I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about there, but didn’t take time to run a check. Fifty ARK-95s?”

“Riot dispersers, military. A troop could take down a city block of looters—stunned or terminated—with a couple of passes.”

Roarke had one in his collection. She’d tested it herself and had been stunned by the hot ripple of power up her arms at discharge.

“Why would they need guns?” Peabody wondered.

“When you start a war, you arm the troops. It’s not a damn political statement.” She shoved back. “That’s smoke. They want the city, and they don’t much care if it’s in rubble.” She blew out a breath. “But what the hell do they want to do with it?”

She shifted to continue the run. Without thinking, both Peabody and McNab moved in. Their shoulders bumped. Eve glanced back with a baffled scowl when they leaped widely apart.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing. Sir.” Peabody snapped to attention even as color washed into her cheeks.

“Well, stop dancing around and contact the commander. Request he join us for debriefing and update as soon as possible. Inform him of the new deadline.”

“Deadline?” McNab asked.

“New communication. A promised demonstration at fourteen hundred.” Eve looked at her wrist unit. “Less than two minutes from now.” Nothing to be done, she thought, but deal with the after. She turned back to the screen.

“We’ve got what he made them and how many. We don’t know, however, if he was their only source. From his list here, we can calculate that he was paid more than two million, cash, over a period of three months. I suspect they put that money back into their pie when they took him out.”

“He knew they meant to.” McNab glanced over. “Scan down to page seventeen. He adds a sort of journal there.”

Eve did as he suggested, then slid her hands into her pockets and read.

It’s my own fault, my own fucking fault. You keep looking at the money, you get blinded. So the assholes sucked me in, and sucked me deep. This ain’t no bank job. They could take out the National fucking Mint with what I’ve put together for them. Maybe it’s money, maybe it’s not. I don’t give a rat’s ass.

Guess I thought I didn’t give that rat’s ass about nothing. Until I started thinking. I started remembering. It’s smarter not to remember. You got a wife and kids once, they get blown to pieces, no point in thinking about it the rest of your life.

But I’m thinking about it now. I’m thinking what’s in the works here is another Arlington.

These two jokers I’ve been dealing with figure I’m old and greedy and stupid. But they’re off. I got enough brain cells left to know they aren’t running this song and dance. Fucking-A. Mechanical muscle’s all they are. Muscle with dead eyes. When I started to tip to how things were, I added a little bonus to one of the transmitters. Then all I had to do was sit and wait and listen.

Now I know who they are and what they want. Bastards.

They’re going to have to take me out. It’s the only way they can cover their asses. One day soon, one of them’s walking in here and slicing my throat.

I’ve got to go under. I’ve built and handed over to them enough to blow me out of here as soon as they’re done with me. I’ve got to take what I can and go under deep. They won’t get inside my place, not for a while, and they don’t have the brain power to get to the data on here. This is my backup. The proof, the money, they’re going with me.

Jesus, Jesus, I’m scared.

I gave them everything they need to blow this city to hell. And they’ll use it. Soon.

For money. For power. For revenge. And God help us all, for the fun.

It’s a game, that’s all. A game played in the name of the dead.

I have to go under. I have to get out. Need time to think, to figure things out. Christ, I might have to go to the cops with this. The fucking bastard cops.

But first I’m getting out. If they come after me, I’m taking the two drones down with me.

“That’s it.” Eve curled her hands into fists. “That’s all. He had names, he had data. Why didn’t the stubborn old fuck put the info on his machine?” She whirled away to pace. “Instead, he takes it with him, whatever he had on them, he takes with him. And when they off him, they have it all.”

She stalked to the window. Her view of New York hadn’t changed. It was five after two. “Peabody, I need everything you can get on the Apollo group. Every name, every incident they took responsibility for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“McNab.” She turned, stopping when Feeney stepped into the doorway. His face was drawn, his eyes too dark. “Oh hell. What did they hit?”

“Plaza Hotel. The tea room.” He walked slowly to the AutoChef, jabbed his finger into the controls for coffee. “They took it out, and the lobby shops, most of the goddamn lobby, too. Malloy’s headed to the scene. We don’t have a body count yet.”

He took out the coffee, drank it down like medicine. “They’ll need us.”

She’d never lived through war. Not the kind that killed in indiscriminate masses. Her dealings with death had always been more personal, more individual. Somehow intimate. The body, the blood, the motive, the humanity.

What she saw now had no intimacy. Wholesale destruction accomplished from a distance erased even that nasty bond between killer and victim.

There was chaos, the screams of sirens, the wails of the injured, the shouts of onlookers who stood nearby, both shocked and fascinated.

Smoke continued to stream out of the once-elegant Fifth Avenue entrance of the revered hotel to sting the air and the eyes. Hunks of brick and concrete, jagged spears of metal and wood, glittering remnants of marble and stone lay heaped with grim pieces of flesh and gore scattered over them.

She saw tattered rags of colorful cloth, severed limbs, hills of ash. And a single shoe—black with a silver buckle. A child’s shoe, she thought, unable to stop herself from crouching down to study it. It would have been shiny, a little girl’s dress-up-for-tea shoe. Now it was dull and splattered with blood.

She straightened, ordered her heart to chill and her mind to clear, then began to make her way over, around the rubble and waste.

“Dallas!”

Eve turned, saw Nadine picking her way through the filth in lady heels and thin hose. “Get back behind the press line, Nadine.”

“No one’s put up a line.” Nadine lifted a hand to push at her hair while the wind blew it back in her face. “Dallas. Sweet God. I was finishing up a luncheon speech deal over at the Waldorf when this came through.”

“Busy day,” Eve muttered.

“Yeah. All around. I had to pass on the Radio City story because I was committed to the lunch. But the station kept me updated. What the hell’s going on? Word was you evacuated over there.”

She paused, scanned over the destruction. “It wasn’t any water main problem. And neither was this.”

“I don’t have time for you now.”

“Dallas.” Nadine caught at her sleeve, held firm. Her eyes, when they met Eve’s, were ripe with horror. “People have got to know.” She said it quietly. “They have a right to.”

Eve jerked her arm free. She’d seen the camera behind Nadine and the remote mike pinned to her lapel. Everyone had their jobs. She knew it, understood it.

“I don’t have anything to add to what you see here, Nadine. This isn’t the time or the place for statements.” She looked down again at the small shoe, the silver buckle. “The dead make their own.”

Nadine held up a hand to signal her camera operator back. Lifting a hand, she closed it over her mike and spoke softly. “You’re right, and so am I. And just now, it doesn’t matter a damn. If there’s anything I can do—any sources I can tap for you, just let me know. This time, it’s for free.”

Nodding, Eve turned away. She saw the MTs scurrying, a team of them working frantically on the bloody mess that must have been one of the doormen. Most of him had been blown clear, a good fifteen feet from the entrance.

She wondered if they’d ever find his arm.

She stepped away and through the blackened hole into what was left of the lobby.

The fire sprinklers had gone off so that streams and puddles of wet ran through the waste. Her feet squelched as she pushed through. The stench was bad, very bad. Blood and smoke and ripe gore. She forced herself not to think about what littered the floor, ordered herself to ignore the two emergency workers who were weeping silently as they marked the dead, and looked for Anne.

“We’ll need extra shifts at the morgue and the labs, to deal with IDs.” Her voice was rusty, so she cleared it. “Can you clear that with Central, Feeney?”

“Yeah, goddamn it. I brought my daughter here on her sixteenth birthday. Fucking pigs.” He yanked out his communicator and turned away.

Eve kept going. The closer she came to point of impact, the worse it got. She’d been there once before, with Roarke. She remembered the opulence, the elegance. Cool colors, beautiful people, wide-eyed tourists, excited young girls, groups of shoppers crowding at tables to experience the old tradition of tea at The Plaza.

She fought her way through rubble then stared, cold-eyed, at the blackened crater.

“They never had a chance.” Anne stepped up beside her. Her eyes were wet and hot. “Not a fucking chance, Dallas. An hour ago there were people in here, sitting at pretty tables, listening to a violinist, drinking tea or wine and eating frosted cakes.”

“Do you know what they used?”

“There were children.” Anne’s voice rose, broke. “Babies in strollers. It just didn’t mean a damn. Not one damn to them.”

Eve could see it, and much too well. She already knew it would come back to her in dreams. But she turned, faced Anne. “We can’t help them. We can’t go back and stop it. It’s done. All we can do is move forward and try to stop the next. I need your report.”

“You want business as usual?” In a move Eve didn’t bother to block, Anne snagged her by the shirt front. “You can stand here and look at this and want business as fucking usual?”

“They do,” Eve said quietly. “That’s all this is to them. If we’re going to stop them, we have to do the same.”

“You want a goddamn droid. You can go to hell.”

“Lieutenant Malloy.” Peabody stepped forward, laid a hand on her arm.

Eve had forgotten Peabody was there, and now shook her head. “Stand back, Officer. I’ll settle for a droid if you can’t give me your report, Lieutenant Malloy.”

“You’ll get a report when I’ve got something to give you,” Anne snapped. “And right now I don’t need you in my face.” She shoved Eve aside and pushed her way through the ruins.

“She was off, Dallas, way off.”

“Doesn’t matter.” But it stung, Eve realized, more than a little. “She’ll pull herself back together. I want you to edit that from the record. It isn’t pertinent. We’ll need masks and goggles from the field kit. We won’t be able to work in here otherwise.”

“What are we going to do in here?”

“The only thing we can at this point.” Eve rubbed her stinging eyes. “Help the emergency team collect the dead.”

It was miserable and gruesome work—the kind that would live inside you always unless you turned off everything you were.

It wasn’t people she was dealing with, she told herself, but pieces, evidence. Whenever her shield began to slip, whenever the horror of it crept through, she yanked it up again, blanked her mind, and went on with the job.

It was dark when she stepped outside with Peabody. “You all right?” Eve asked.

“I’ll get there. Jesus, Dallas, sweet Jesus.”

“Go home, take a soother, get drunk, call Charles and have sex. Use whatever works, but blank it out.”

“Maybe I’ll go for all three.” She tried for a half-hearted smile, then spotted McNab coming their way and stiffened like a flagpole.

“I need a drink.” He looked directly, deliberately at Eve. “I need a whole bunch of drinks. Do you want us back at Central?”

“No. We’ve had enough for one day. Report at eight hundred hours.”

“You got it.” Then, following the lecture he’d given himself off and on throughout the day, he made himself look at Peabody. “You want a lift home?

“I—well. . .” Flustered, she shifted from foot to foot. “No, um. No.”

“Take the lift, Peabody. You’re a mess. No point in fighting public transpo at this hour.”

“I don’t want . . .” Before Eve’s baffled eyes she blushed like a schoolgirl. “I think it would be better . . .” She coughed, cleared her throat. “I appreciate the offer, McNab, but I’m fine.”

“You look tired, that’s all.” And Eve watched in amazement as his color rose as well. “It was rough in there.”

“I’m okay.” She lowered her head, stared at her shoes. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure. Well, ah, eight hundred hours. Later.”

With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, he headed off.

“What’s the deal here, Peabody?”

“Nothing. No deal.” Her head came up sharply, and despising herself, she watched McNab walk away. “Not a deal. Not a thing. Nothing going on.”

Stop it, she ordered herself as babbling continued to stream out of her mouth. “Zip. Zero happening here. Oh look.” With outrageous relief for the distraction, she saw Roarke step out of a limo. “Looks like you’ve got a lift. A class one.”

Eve looked across the avenue, studied Roarke in the blinking red and blue emergency lights. “Take my vehicle and go home, Peabody. I’ll get transpo to Central in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, but Eve was already crossing the street.

“You’ve had a lousy day, Lieutenant.” He lifted a hand, started to stroke her cheek, but she stepped back.

“No, don’t touch me. I’m filthy.” She saw the look in his eyes, knew he’d ignore her, and yanked the door open herself. “Not yet. Okay? God, not yet.”

She climbed in, waited for him to settle beside her, order the driver to take them home, then lift the privacy screen.

“Now?” he said quietly.

Saying nothing, she turned to him, turned into him. And wept.

It helped, the tears and the man who understood her enough to offer nothing more until they were shed. When they were home, she took a hot shower, and the wine he poured her and was grateful he said nothing.

They ate in the bedroom. She’d been certain she wouldn’t be able to swallow. But the first spoonful of hot soup hit her raw stomach like a blessing.

“Thanks.” She sighed a little, leaned her head back against the cushions in the seating area. “For giving me an hour. I needed it.”

She needed more than an hour, Roarke thought, studying the pale face, the bruised eyes. But they’d take it a step at a time. “I was there earlier.” He waited while her eyes opened. “I would have done what I could to help you, but civilians weren’t permitted.”

“No.” She closed her eyes again. “They’re not.”

But he had seen, briefly at least, he had seen the carnage, the horrors, and her. He had seen her deal with it, her hands steady, her eyes dark with the pity she thought she hid from everyone.

“I don’t envy you your job, Lieutenant.”

She nearly smiled at that. “You can’t prove that to me when you’re always popping up into it.” With her eyes still closed, she reached out for his hand. “The hotel was one of yours, wasn’t it? I didn’t have time to check.”

“Yes, it was one of mine. And so are the people who died in it.”

“No.” Her eyes flashed open. “They’re not.”

“Only yours, Eve? Are the dead your exclusive property?” He rose, restless, poured a brandy he didn’t want. “Not this time. The doorman who lost his arm, who may yet lose his life, is a friend of mine. I’ve known him a decade, brought him over from London because he had a yen to live in New York.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The wait staff, the musicians, the desk and bell staff, every one of them died working for me.” He turned back, and a fierce and cold fury rode in his eyes. “Every guest, every tourist who wandered through, every single person was under my roof. By Christ, that makes them mine.”

“You can’t take it personally. No, you can’t,” she repeated when his eyes flashed. She got up, gripped his arm. “Roarke, it’s not you or yours they’re interested in. It’s their point, it’s the power.”

“Why should it matter to me what they’re interested in beyond using that to find them?”

“It’s my job to find them. And I will.”

He set his brandy down, caught her chin in his hand. “Do you think you’ll close me out?”

She wanted to be furious, and part of her was, if for nothing more than the proprietary way he held her face. But there was too much at stake, too much to lose. And he was much too valuable a source. “No.”

His grip gentled, his thumb skimmed over the shallow dent in her chin. “Progress,” he murmured.

“Let’s understand each other,” she began.

“Oh, by all means.”

Now she did suck in a breath. “Don’t start that with me. By all means, my butt. Makes you sound like some sort of snotty blue blood, and we both know you grew up scrambling for marks in Dublin alleys.”

Now he grinned. “See, we already understand each other. You don’t mind if I get comfortable before the lecture, do you?” He sat again, took out a cigarette, lighted it, then picked up his brandy while she smoldered.

“Are you trying to irritate me?”

“Not very hard, but it rarely takes true effort.” He drew in smoke, blew out a fragrant stream. “I don’t really need the lecture, you know. I’m sure I have the salient points memorized. Such as this is your job, I’m not to interfere. I’m not to explore any angles on my own, and so on.”

“If you know the points, why the hell don’t you follow them?”

“Because I don’t want to—and if I did, you wouldn’t have Fixer’s data decoded.” He grinned again when she gaped at him. “I had it late this morning and slipped the code into McNab’s unit. He was close, but I was faster. No need to mention that,” Roarke added. “I’d hate to dent his ego.”

She frowned at him. “Now I suppose you think I should thank you.”

“Actually, I was hoping you would.” He crushed out his cigarette, set aside his barely touched brandy. But when he reached for her hand, she folded her arms over her chest.

“Forget it, pal. I’ve got work.”

“And you’ll reluctantly ask me to assist you with it.” He hooked his fingers in her waistband and tugged until she tumbled on top of him. “But first . . .” He rubbed his mouth persuasively against hers. “I need you.”

Her protest would have been lukewarm in any case. But those words melted it away. She skimmed her fingers through his hair. “I guess I can spare a couple of minutes.”

He laughed, and tucking her close, reversed position. “In a hurry, are you? Well then.”

Now his mouth crushed down on hers, hot, greedy, and with enough bite to shoot her pulse from steady to screaming. She hadn’t expected it, but then she never quite did expect what he could do to her with a touch, with a taste, with as little as a look.

All the horror, the pain, the misery she’d waded through that day fell away in the sheer drive to mate.

“I am. In a big hurry.” She tugged at the hook of his trousers. “Roarke. Inside me. Come inside me.”

He yanked down the soft slacks she’d slipped into after her shower. Mouth still devouring mouth, he lifted her hips. And he plunged into her.

Into the heat and the welcome and the wet. His body shuddered once as he swallowed her groan. Then she was moving under him, driving him, setting a frantic pace that ripped her to peak and over before he could catch his breath.

She closed around him, vise tight, erupted around him, nearly dragged him off that fine edge with her. Gasping for air, he lifted his head, watched her face. God, how he loved to watch her face when she lost herself. Those dark blind eyes against flushed skin, that mouth full and soft and parted. Her head tipped back, and there was that long smooth throat, its pulse wildly beating.

He tasted her there. Flesh. Soap. Eve.

And felt her building again, fast and sure, her hips pistoning as she climbed, her breath ragged as the wave swept in.

And this time, when it crested, he buried himself deep and let it swamp them both.

He collapsed on her, let out a long, contented sigh as his system shimmered. “Let’s get to work.”

“We’re not doing this in here because I want to get around CompuGuard.” Eve took her stand in the center of Roarke’s private office while he settled down at the control console of his unregistered—and illegal—equipment.

“Mmmm,” was his response.

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “It’s not the issue here.”

“That’s your story, and I’ll stick with it.”

She gave him a scalpel-thin smile. “Stick your smart-ass comments, pal. The reason I’m going this route is because I’ve got good reason to believe Cassandra’s got just as many illegal toys as you do, and likely just as much disregard for privacy. It’s possible they can slide into my equipment here or at Central. I don’t want to chance them getting a line on any part of the investigation.”

Roarke leaned back, nodded soberly. “And it’s a very good story, too, well told. Now, if you’ve finished soothing your admirable conscience, why don’t you get us some coffee?”

“I really hate when you snicker at me.”

“Even when I have cause?”

“Especially.” She strode to the AutoChef. “What I’m dealing with here is a group that has no kind of conscience, that has what appears to be heavy financial resources, expert technical skills, and a knack for getting by tight security.”

She brought both mugs to the console, smiled again. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Does it really?” He said it mildly as he took the coffee she offered.

“Which is why I’m willing to use everything you’ve got on this one. Money, resources, skills, and that criminal brain of yours.”

“Darling, they are now and always at your service. And following that line, I’ve made some progress on Mount Olympus and its subsidiaries.”

“You got something?” She went on full alert. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“There were other matters. You needed an hour,” he reminded her. “I needed you.”

“This is priority,” she began, then stopped herself with a shake of her head. Complaining was a waste of time. “What have you got?”

“You could say, nothing.”

“But you just told me you’d found them.”

“No, I said I’d made progress, and that progress is nothing. They’re nothing. They don’t exist.”

“Of course they exist.” Frustration shimmered around her. She hated riddles. “They appeared all over the computer—electronics companies, storage companies, office complexes, manufacturers.”

“They exist only on the computer records,” he told her. “You might call Mount Olympus a virtual company. But IRL—in real life—it’s nothing. There are no buildings, no complexes, no employees, no clients. It’s a front, Eve.”

“A virtual front? What the hell is the point of that?” Then she knew, and swore. “A distraction, a time waster. Energy defuser, whatever. They knew I’d do a search and scan on Cassandra, that it would lead me to this Mount Olympus, and then to the other fake companies. So I waste time chasing down what was never there in the first place.”

“Not very much time,” he pointed out. “And whoever set up the maze—and a very complex and well-executed maze it was—doesn’t know you’ve gotten from one end to the other.”

“They think I’m still looking.” She nodded slowly. “So I continue to search through EDD, tell Feeney to take it slow so Cassandra thinks we’re still running into walls.”

“Building their confidence while you concentrate in other areas.”

She grunted and, sipping her coffee, paced. “Okay, I’ll handle that. Now, I need to know all I can about the Apollo group. I gave Peabody the assignment, but she’ll have to go through channels and won’t find enough data, not fast, anyway. I don’t just want their party line,” she added, turning back to him. “I want what’s under it. I’ve got to get a handle on them and hope that gives me one on Cassandra.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start.”

“I need names, Roarke, of known members, living or dead. I need to know where they are, what happened to them. Then I need names and locations of family members, lovers, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.”

She paused, her eyes going cop flat. “In Fixer’s little journal, he mentioned revenge. I want survivors and loved ones. And I want those closest to James Rowan.”

“The FBI will have files, sealed, but they’ll have them.” He lifted a brow, amused by the obvious struggle on her face. “It’ll take some time.”

“We’re a little pressed in that area. Can you zing whatever you pull up into one of the auxiliary units? I can start a comparison run on ID, see if I can tag anyone connected who worked or works in the three target buildings.”

He nodded toward a machine on the left of his console. “Help yourself. I’d focus on lower-level positions,” he suggested. “Security checks are likely to be spottier there.”

She settled down, spending the next twenty minutes reviewing everything she could find on the Pentagon bombing. At the control center, Roarke went coolly about the business of bypassing FBI security and delving into sealed files.

He knew the route—had taken it before—and slid through the locked levels like a shadow through the dark. Occasionally, for his own amusement, he checked in to see just what the Bureau had in their file marked Roarke.

It was surprisingly lean for data on a man who had been and done and acquired all he had been and done and acquired. Then again, he’d erased and destroyed a great deal of that data, or at least altered it, when he’d still been a teenager. Files at the FBI, Interpol, IRCCA, and Scotland Yard contained nothing he didn’t care for them to contain.

It was, he liked to think, a matter of privacy.

He regretted only mildly the fact that since he’d met Eve, none of those agencies had cause to add any interesting facts about his activities.

Love had him walking the straight and narrow, with only the occasional step into the dark.

“Incoming,” he murmured, and had Eve’s head coming up.

“Already?”

“It’s only the FBI,” he pointed out, and tipping back in his chair, ordered data onto the wall screen. “There’s your head man. James Thomas Rowan, born in Boston, June 10, 1988.”

“They so rarely look like madmen,” Eve murmured, studying the image. A handsome face with sharp bones, easily smiling mouth, clear blue eyes. His dark hair was shot with distinguished gray, lending him the look of a successful executive or politician.

“Jamie, as he was called by friends, came from good, solid, New England stock.” Roarke angled his head as he read data. “And healthy Yankee money. Prep schools, Harvard. Poli-sci major. Likely being groomed for politics. Did his military stint—angled into Special Forces. He did some work for the CIA. Parents deceased, one sibling. Sister. Julia Rowan Peterman.”

“Professional mother, retired,” Eve read. “She lives in Tampa. We’ll check her out.”

She rose as much to stretch her legs as to get a closer look at the screen. “Married Monica Stone, 2015. Two children: Charlotte, DOB September 14, 2016, and James Junior, DOB February 8, 2019. Where’s Monica?”

“Display current data on Monica Stone Rowan,” Roarke ordered. “Split screen.”

Going by the age of the subject, Eve decided the picture was fairly recent. So the Bureau was keeping tabs. She’d probably been an attractive woman once. The bones were still good, but lines had dug deep around her mouth, her eyes, and both the mouth and eyes carried bitterness. Her hair had gone gray and was carelessly cut.

“She lives in Maine.” Eve pursed her lips. “Alone and unemployed. Pulls in a retired professional mother’s pension. I bet it’s stinking cold in Maine this time of year.”

“You’ll have to wear your long johns, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah. It’ll be worth a little chill to talk to Monica. Where are the kids?”

Roarke called the data up and had Eve raising her brow. “Believed dead. Both of them? Same date? Get me more here, Roarke.”

“One minute. You’ll note,” he added as he bent to the task, the dates of death coincide with the date James Rowan was killed.”

“February 8, 2024. I saw that.”

“Explosion. The feds blew up his house, though the public stand is he did the job himself.” He glanced up again, face blank and set. “But that’s confirmed in this file—time, unit, authorization to terminate. It appears he had his children in the house with him.”

“You’re telling me the FBI bombed his house to take him out, and took two kids along for the ride?”

“Rowan, his children, the woman he’d taken as his lover. One of his top lieutenants and three other members of Apollo.” Roarke rose, moved to get more coffee. “Read the file, Eve. They’d tagged him. They’d been hunting him since his group had claimed responsibility for the Pentagon bombing. The government wanted payment, and they were pissed.”

He brought fresh coffee to Eve. “He’d gone under, moved from location to location. Using new names, new faces when necessary.” Roarke settled behind her as they read the data. “He still managed to make his videos and get them on air. But he stayed a step or two ahead of the hounds for several months.”

“With his kids,” she murmured.

“According to these files, he kept them close. Then the FBI ran him to ground, surrounded his house, moved in, and did the job. They wanted to take him out and break the back of the group. That’s what they did.”

“It didn’t have to be done that way.”

“No.” He met her eyes. “It’s rare in war for either side to consider the innocent.”

Why hadn’t they been with their mother? It was her first thought, one that came unwillingly to mind. What did she know of mothers? she reminded herself. Her own had left her in the hands of the man who’d beaten and raped her throughout her childhood.

And would the woman who had given birth to her have carried the same bitter look in her eyes as the woman now on-screen? Would she have had that same tight-lipped scowl?

What did it matter?

She shoved the thought aside, sipped her coffee again. For once, Roarke’s superior blend left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Revenge,” she said. “If Fixer was right and that’s part of the motive, this could be the root of it. ‘We are loyal,” ’ she murmured. “Every message they send has that phrase in it. Loyal to Rowan? To his memory?”

“A logical step.”

“Henson. Feeney said a man named William Henson was one of Rowan’s top men. Do we have a dead list on here?”

Roarke brought it up to the wall screen. “Christ Jesus,” he said quietly. “There are hundreds.”

“From what I was told, the government hunted them down for years.” Quickly, Eve scanned the names. “And they weren’t too particular about it. Henson’s not on here.”

“No. I’ll run a check on him for you.”

“Thanks. Shoot this much through to my machine here, and keep digging.”

He stopped her by brushing a hand over her hair. “It hurts you. The children.”

“It reminds me,” she corrected, “of what it’s like to have no choice, and to have your life in the hands of someone who thinks of you as a thing to be used or discarded as the mood strikes.”

“Some love, Eve, and fiercely.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “And some don’t.”

“Yeah, well, let’s see what Rowan and his group loved, and fiercely.”

She turned away to man her computer.

The answer, she thought, was in the series of statements on file that Apollo had issued during its three-year run.

We are the gods of war.

Each statement began with that single line. Arrogance, violence, and power, she thought.

We have determined the government is corrupt, a useless vehicle for those inside it, used for exploitation of the masses, for suppression of ideas, for the perpetuation of futility. The system is flawed and must be eradicated. Out of its smoke and ashes, a new regime will rise. Stand with us, you who believe in justice, in honor, in the future of our children who cry for food and comfort while the soldiers of this doomed government destroy our cities.

We who are Apollo will use their own weapons against them. And we will triumph. Citizens of the world, break the chains binding you by the establishment with their fat bellies and bloated minds. We promise you freedom.

Attack the system, she decided, cry out for the common man, for the intellect. Justify the mass murder of innocents, and promise a new way.

We are the gods of war.

Today at noon, our wrath struck down the military establishment known as the Pentagon. This symbol and structure of this faltering government’s military strength has been destroyed. All within were guilty. All within are dead.

Once again, we call for the unconditional surrender of the government, a statement by the so-called Commander-in-Chief resigning all power. We demand that all military personnel, all members of the police forces lay down their weapons.

We who are Apollo promise clemency for those who do so within seventy-two hours. And annihilation for those who continue to oppose us.

It was Apollo’s most sweeping statement, Eve noted. Broadcast less than six months before Rowan’s house had been destroyed, with all its occupants.

What had he wanted, she wondered, this self-proclaimed god? What all gods wanted. Adulation, fear, power, and glory.

“Would you want to rule the world?” she asked Roarke. “Or even the country?”

“Good God, no. Too much work for too little remuneration, and very little time left over to enjoy your kingdom.” He glanced over. “I much prefer owning as much of the world as humanly possible. But running it? No thanks.”

She laughed a little, then propped her elbows on the counter. “He wanted to. When you take out all the dreck, he just wanted to be president or king or despot. Whatever the term would be. It wasn’t money,” she added. “I can’t find a single demand for money. No ransoms, no terms. Just surrender, you fascist pig cops, or resign and tremble, you big fat politicians.”

“He came from money,” Roarke pointed out. “Often those who do fail to appreciate its charms.”

“Maybe.” She skimmed back to Rowan’s personal file. “He ran for mayor of Boston twice. Lost twice. Then he ran for governor and didn’t pull it off, either. You ask me, he was just pissed. Pissed and crazy. The combo’s lethal more often than not.”

“Is his motive important at this point?”

“You can’t get a full picture without it. Whoever’s pushing the buttons in Cassandra’s linked to him. But I don’t think they’re pissed.”

“Just crazy then?”

“No, not just. I haven’t figured out what else yet.”

She shifted, rolled her shoulders, then set up to run comparisons on the names Roarke had fed into her machine.

It was a slow process, and a tedious one that depended more on the computer than its operator. Her mind began to drift as she watched names, faces, data, skim over the screen.

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep. Didn’t know she was dreaming when she found herself wading through a river of blood.

Children were crying. Bodies littered the ground, and the ones that still had faces begged for help. Smoke stung her eyes, her throat, as she stumbled over the wounded. Too many, she thought frantically. Too many to save.

Hands snatched at her ankles, some no more than bones. They tripped her up until she was falling, falling into a deep, black crater piled with still more bodies. Stacked like cordwood, ripped and torn like broken dolls. Something was pulling her in, pulling her down until she was drowning in that sea of dead.

Gasping, whimpering, she clawed her way back, crawled frantically up the slippery side of the pit until her fingers were raw and bloody.

She was back in the smoke, crawling still, fighting to breathe, to clear her mind of panic so that she could do something. Do what needed to be done.

Someone was crying. Softly, secretly. Eve stumbled forward through the stinking, blinding mist. She saw the child, the little girl huddled on the ground, balled up, rocking herself for comfort as she wept.

“It’s all right.” She coughed her throat clear, knelt down, and pulled the girl into her arms. “We’ll get out.”

“There’s no place to go.” The little girl whispered in her ear. “We’re already there.”

“We’re getting out.” They had to get out, was all Eve could think. Terror was crawling over her skin like ants, crab claws of ice were scraping the inside of her belly. She dragged the child up and began to carry her through the smoke.

Their hearts thudded against each other’s, hard and in unison. And the girl’s fingers gripped like thin wires when voices slithered through the mist.

“I need a goddamn fix. Why the hell isn’t there money for a goddamn fix?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eve stopped cold. She hadn’t recognized the woman’s voice, but the man’s, the one who’d answered with that sharp, sneering snap. It was one that lived in her dreams. In her terrors.

Her father’s voice.

“You shut the fuck up, you bastard. If you hadn’t got me knocked up in the first place, I wouldn’t be stuck in this hole with you and that whiny little brat.”

Breath shallow, the child like a stone doll in her arms, Eve crept forward. She saw figures, male, female, hardly more than smudges on the smoke. But she recognized him. The build, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.

I killed you, was all she could think. I killed you, you son of a bitch. Why won’t you stay dead?

“They’re monsters,” the child whispered to Eve. “Monsters never die.”

But they did, Eve thought. If you stood up long enough, they did.

“Should’ve gotten rid of it while you had the chance,” the man who had been Eve’s father said with a careless shrug. “Too late now, sweetie-pie.”

“I wish to Christ I had. I never wanted the little bitch in the first place. Now you owe me, Rick. Give me the price of a corner fix, or—”

“You don’t want to threaten me.”

“Goddamn you, I’ve been in this hole all day with that sniveling kid. You fucking owe me.”

“Here’s what I owe you.” Eve cowered back at the sound of a fist smashing into bone. The sharp cry that followed.

“Here’s what I fucking owe both of you.”

She stood paralyzed as he beat the woman, as he raped her. And realizing the child she held tight in her arms was herself, she began to scream.

“Eve, stop. Come on now, wake up.” Roarke had bolted out of his chair at the first scream, had her up and into his arms by the second. And still she thrashed.

“It’s me.” She shoved at him, kicked. “It’s me, and I can’t get out.”

“Yes, you can. You’re out now. You’re with me now.” Shifting her, he pressed the mechanism on the wall and brought out the bed. “Come on, all the way back. You’re with me. Understand?”

“I’m all right. Let go. I’m okay.”

“Not a chance.” She was shaking even as he sat on the edge of the bed and cradled her in his lap. “Just relax. Just hold onto me and relax.”

“I fell asleep, that’s all. I nodded off for a minute.” He eased her back to study her face. It was the understanding in his eyes, those fabulous eyes, the patience there and the love that did her in. “Oh God.” Surrendering, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “Oh God, oh God. Just give me a minute.”

“All you need.”

“I guess I hadn’t let go of today. Everything. All those people—what was left of them. You can’t let it get in the way of the job, or you can’t do the job.”

“So it slices you up when you shut down.”

“Maybe. Sometimes.”

“Darling Eve.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “You suffer for all of them. And always have.”

“If they’re not people to me, what’s the point?”

“None. Not for you. I love who you are.” He drew back again to stroke her cheek. “And still, it worries me. How much can you give and still stand up to it?”

“As much as it takes. It wasn’t only that.” She drew a breath, then another, steadying herself. “I don’t know if it was a dream or a memory. I just don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

She did, because with him she could. She told him of finding the child, of the vague figures in the smoke. Of what she’d heard, and what she’d seen.

“You think it was your mother.”

“I don’t know. I have to get up. I have to move.” She rubbed her hands over her arms when he released her. “Maybe I was—what do they call it? Projecting or transposing. What the hell. I’d been thinking of Monica Rowan, what kind of woman would have turned her kids over to a man like James Rowan. Like I said before, it reminded me.”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Well, he had them, anyway, just like my father had me. It’s probably all it was. I’ve never had any memory of her. I’ve got nothing of her.”

“You’ve remembered other things,” he pointed out, and rose to warm her arms himself. “This could be one of them. Eve, talk to Mira.”

“I’m not ready for that.” She pulled back immediately. “I’m not ready. I’ll know when I am. If I am.”

“It eats at you.” And at him, when he saw her suffering like this.

“No, it doesn’t drive my life. It just gets in the way of it sometimes. Remembering her, if there’s anything to remember, isn’t going to bring me any peace, Roarke. To me, she’s as dead as he is.”

And that, Roarke thought as he watched Eve turn back to her machine, wasn’t nearly dead enough.

“You need some sleep.”

“Not yet. I can do another hour.”

“Fine.” He walked to her and had her up and over his shoulder before she could blink.

“Hey!”

“An hour should be just about right,” he decided. “You rushed me earlier.”

“We’re not having sex.”

“Okay, I’ll have sex. You can just lie there.” He rolled onto the bed with her.

There was something miraculous about the way his body fit to hers. But she wasn’t going to pay any attention to that little miracle. “What part of no didn’t you get?”

“You didn’t say no.” He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek. “You said you weren’t having sex, which is entirely different. If you’d said no . . .” His fingers busily unbuttoned her shirt. “I would, of course, respect that.”

“Okay, listen up.”

Before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, soft, seductive. And wonderfully sly. His hands were already sliding, slipping, searching over her. She didn’t quite choke back the moan.

“Fine.” She gave up and sighed when his lips laid a hot trail down her throat. “Be an animal.”

“Thank you, darling. I’d love to.”

He took every bit of the hour, while the machines hummed away. He pleased her, and himself, knowing when her body went lax with release under his, she would tumble mindlessly into sleep.

And for a night, at least, there would be no more dreams.

It was dark in the room when she awoke, with just the lights from the console and screens flickering. Blinking, her brain still musty, she sat up and saw Roarke at the controls.

“What time is it?” She didn’t remember she was naked until she swung her legs from the bed.

“Just six. You have some matches here, Lieutenant. They’re on disc and hard copy.”

“Did you sleep?” She started to search for her pants, and saw the robe neatly laid across the foot of the bed. The man never missed a damn step.

“Yes. I haven’t been up long. I assume you’re going straight in today?”

“Yeah. Team briefing at eight hundred.”

“The report on Henson—what there is of it—is printed out.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a number of things to see to today, but you can reach me if you need to.” He rose, looking dark and dangerous in the half light, the night’s growth of beard shadowing his face, the black robe carelessly belted. “There are a couple of names on the match list I recognize.”

She took the hard copy he offered. “I guess it was too much to expect otherwise.”

“Paul Lamont rings the clearest bell. His father fought in the French Wars before the family immigrated here. Paul’s father was very skilled and passed considerable knowledge on to his son. Paul is a member of the security team for one of my businesses here in New York. Autotron. We make droids and various small electronics.”

“You pals?”

“He works for me—and we . . . developed a project or two several years ago.”

“And it’s not the kind of project a good cop needs to know about.”

“Exactly. He’s been with Autotron for more than six years now. We haven’t had contact beyond that relationship for nearly that amount of time.”

“Uh-huh. And what are these skills his dear old dad passed along to him?”

“Paul’s father was a saboteur. He specialized in explosives.”

Peabody hadn’t slept well. She dragged into work heavy-eyed and vaguely achy, as if she were coming down with some nasty little bug. She hadn’t eaten, either. Though her appetite was dependable—sometimes too dependable—she expected few could eat hearty after spending several hours tagging body parts.

That she could have lived with. That was the job, and she had learned how to channel all thoughts and energies into the job during the months she’d worked under Eve.

What she couldn’t live with, and what spread a thin layer of cranky over fatigue, was the fact that a great deal of her thoughts—and not pure ones—and entirely too much of her energies had been centered on McNab during the long night.

She hadn’t been able to talk to Zeke. Not about this sudden weird compulsion for McNab. McNab, for Christ’s sake. And she hadn’t wanted to talk about the bombing at The Plaza.

He’d seemed distracted himself, she thought now, and they’d circled each other the night before and again that morning.

She’d make it up to him, Peabody promised herself. She’d carve out a couple of hours that night and take him to some funky little club for a meal and music. Zeke loved music. It would do them both good, she decided as she stepped off the guide and tried to rub the stiffness out of the back of her neck.

She turned toward the conference room and rammed straight into McNab. He sprang back, collided with a pair of uniforms who toppled into a clerk from Anticrime.

Nobody took his apology very well, and he was red-faced and sweaty by the time he managed to look Peabody in the eye again. “You, ah, heading into the meeting.”

“Yeah.” She tugged at her uniform coat. “Just now.”

“Me, too.” They stared at each other a moment while people shoved by them.

“You shake anything loose on Apollo?”

“Not much.” She cleared her throat, tugged her coat again, and finally managed to start moving. “The lieutenant’s probably waiting.”

“Yeah, right.” He fell into step beside her. “You get any sleep?”

She thought of warm slick bodies . . . and stared straight ahead. “Some.”

“Me, either.” His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, but it had to be said. “Look, about yesterday.”

“Forget it.” She snapped it out.

“I already have. But if you’re going to walk around all tight-assed about it—”

“I’ll walk any way I want, and you just keep your hands off me, you moron, or I’ll rip your lungs out and use them for bagpipes.”

“Same goes, sweetheart. I’d rather kiss the back end of an alley cat.”

Her breath was coming quick now. Outrage. “I bet that’s just your style.”

“Better that than a stiff-necked uniform with an attitude.”

“Asshole.”

“Twit.”

They turned together into an empty office, slammed the door. And leapt at each other.

She bit his lip. He nipped her tongue. She body pressed him against the wall. He managed to get his hands under her thick coat to squeeze her ass. The moans that ripped from their throats came out as one single, tortured sound.

Then her back was against the wall and he filled his hands with her breasts.

“Oh God, you’re built. You are so built.”

He was kissing her as if he could swallow her whole. As if the universe centered on that one taste. Her head was spinning too fast for her to catch her own thoughts. And somehow the bright buttons of her uniform were open and his fingers were on her flesh.

Who’d have thought the man had such fabulous fingers?

“We can’t do this.” Even as she said it she was scraping her teeth along his throat.

“I know. We’ll stop. In a minute.” The scent of her—all starch and soap—was driving him crazy. He was fighting with her bra when the ’link behind them beeped and had them both muffling a scream.

Panting like dogs, clothes twisted, eyes glazed, they stared at each other with a kind of horror. “Holy God,” he managed.

“Step back, step back.” She shoved him hard enough to knock him back on his heels and began to fumble with her buttons. “It’s the pressure. It’s the stress. It’s something, because this is not happening.”

“Right, absolutely. If I don’t have sex with you, I think I’m going to die.”

“If you’d die, I wouldn’t have this problem.” She did her buttons up wrong, swore, and fumbled them open again.

Watching her, he felt his tongue go thick. “Having sex would be the mother of all mistakes.”

“Agreed.” She buttoned her uniform again, then met his eyes dead-on. “Where?”

“Your place?”

“Can’t. My brother’s staying with me.”

“Mine then. After shift. We’ll just do it, and it’s done and we’ll, you know. Get it out of the way and be back to normal.”

“Deal.” With a brisk nod, she bent and picked up her cap. “Tuck in your shirt, McNab.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea quite yet.” He grinned at her. “Dallas might wonder why I’ve got a hard-on the size of Utah.”

Peabody snorted, straightened her cap. “Your ego, maybe.”

“Baby, we’ll see what you say about that after shift.”

She felt a little tingling between her thighs, but sniffed. “Don’t call me baby,” she told him and yanked open the door.

She kept her head up and her eyes straight ahead as she walked the rest of the way to the conference room.

Eve was already there, which gave Peabody a quick twinge of guilt. Three boards were set up, and her lieutenant was busy covering the last of them with hard copy data.

“Glad you could make it.” Eve said it dryly without turning around.

“I ran into . . . traffic. Do you want me to finish that for you, sir?”

“I’ve got it. Get me coffee, and program the screen for hard copy. We won’t be using discs on this.”

“I’ll get the screen,” McNab volunteered. “And I could use some coffee, too. No discs, Lieutenant?”

“No, I’ll update when the full team’s here.”

They went to work quietly, so quietly that Eve got an itch between her shoulder blades. The two of them should’ve been sniping at each other by now, she thought, and glanced over her shoulder.

Peabody had given McNab his coffee, which was weird enough. But while she printed out hard copy of her own discs, she smiled at him. Well, not really a smile, Eve mused, but close.

“You two take happy pills this morning?” she asked, then frowned when they both blushed. “What’s the deal?” she began, then shook her head when Anne Malloy and Feeney came in. “Never mind.”

“Dallas.” Anne stayed in the doorway. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Make it quick,” Feeney suggested. “Whitney and the chief are heading in.”

“I’ll keep it short.” Anne drew a breath when Eve joined her at the door. “I want to apologize for yesterday. I had no call coming down on you that way.”

“It was a tough scene.”

“Yeah. I’ve done tough scenes before.” She glanced into the room, lowered her voice another notch. “I didn’t handle it well, and that won’t happen again.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Anne. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Big enough. You’re heading this investigation, and you have to count on all of us. I blew it yesterday, and you need to know why. I’m pregnant again.”

“Oh.” Eve blinked, shifted her feet. “Is that good?”

“It is for me.” With a little laugh, Anne laid a hand on her belly. “Nearly four months into it now, and I’ll tell my shift commander in a couple weeks. I’ve done it twice before and it hasn’t interfered with my job. It did yesterday. It was the kids that got me, Dallas, but I’ve got a handle on it now.”

“Fine. You’re not feeling . . . weird or anything?”

“No, I’m good. I just want to keep it quiet for a few more weeks. Once everybody finds out, they start the betting pool and the jokes.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’d like to close this case before all that gets going. So, are we square here?”

“Sure. Here come the brass,” she murmured. “Give Peabody your report and evidence discs. We’ll be using hard copy.”

Eve remained in the doorway, at attention. “Commander. Chief Tibble.”

“Lieutenant.” Tibble, a tall, nearly massive man with sharp eyes, nodded as he walked by her into the room. He glanced at the boards, then as was his habit, linked his hands behind his back. “If everyone would please be seated. Commander Whitney, would you close the door?”

Tibble waited. He was a patient man and a thorough one, with a mind like a street cop and a talent for administration. He scanned the faces of the team Whitney had put together. Neither approval nor disapproval showed on his face.

“Before you begin your reports, I’ve come to tell you that both the mayor and the governor have requested a federal antiterrorist team to assist in this investigation.”

He watched Eve’s eyes flash and narrow and silently approved her control. “This is not a reflection on the work being done here. Rather it’s a statement as to the scope of the problem itself. I have a meeting this morning to discuss the progress of the investigation and to make the final decision as to whether a federal team should indeed be called in.”

“Sir.” Eve kept her voice level and her hands on her knees. “If they’re called in, which team heads the investigation?”

His brows lifted. “If the feds come in, the case would be theirs. You would assist. I don’t imagine that sits well with you, Lieutenant, or any of your team.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t.”

“Well then.” He moved to a chair, sat. “Convince me that the investigation should remain in your hands. We’ve had three bombings in this city in two days. What have you got, and where are you going with it?”

She rose, moved to the first board. “The Apollo group,” she began and went step by step through all the gathered data.

“Henson, William Jenkins.” She paused there as the square-jawed, tough-eyed face flashed on-screen. She hadn’t had time to closely review the data Roarke had accessed for her, so she went slowly here. “He served as Rowan’s campaign manager, and according to sources, a great deal more. It’s believed he acted as a kind of general in Rowan’s revolution. Assisting and often devising the military strategies, selecting targets, training and disciplining the troops. Like Rowan, he had a background in the military and in covert work. Initially, it was believed he was killed in the explosion that destroyed Rowan’s Boston headquarters, but several subsequent sightings of the subject negated that belief. He’s never been located.”

“You believe he’s part of this current group, Cassandra.” Whitney studied the face on-screen, then looked at Eve.

“There’s a connection, and it’s my belief he’s one of the links. The FBI files on Henson remain open.” She shifted gears and relayed the information on the maze of false companies inputted into the data banks.

“Apollo,” she continued. “Cassandra, Mount Olympus, Aries, Aphrodite, and so on. It all connects. Their expert manipulation of data banks, the high quality of the materials used in their explosives, the employment of a disenfranchised former soldier to manufacture their equipment, the tone and content of their transmissions all connect and echo back to the original group.”

Because it seemed so foolish, she let out a little breath before she spoke again. “In Greek mythology, Apollo gave Cassandra the power of prophecy. Eventually, they had a disagreement, and that’s when he fixed it so she could predict, but nobody would believe her. But I think the hook is she got her power from him. This Cassandra doesn’t really care if we believe her or not. She’s not trying to save, but to destroy.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Lieutenant. And logical enough.” Tibble sat back, listened, watched the facts and images flash on-screen. “You’ve made the connections, have at least partial motives. It’s good work.” Then he glanced back at her. “The FBI antiterrorist team would be very interested in how you came by a great deal of this information, Lieutenant.”

She didn’t so much as blink. “I used what sources were available to me, sir.”

“I’m sure you did.” He folded his hands. “As I said, good work.”

“Thank you.” She moved past the second board to the third. “The current line of investigation corroborates our conclusions that there’s a connection between the old Apollo group and Cassandra. Fixer believed there was, and though any evidence he may have gathered in that area is likely destroyed, the connection continues to hold through this second line. The tactics used by both groups are similar. In Dr. Mira’s report, she terms Cassandra’s political creed as a recycling of Apollo’s. Following this angle, I believe that the people who formed Cassandra have connections to or were once a part of Apollo.”

Tibble held up a hand. “Isn’t it possible these people studied Apollo—just as you are—and chose to mirror that group as closely as possible?”

“It’s not impossible, sir.”

“If it’s a copycat,” Feeney put in, “it’s going to be tougher.”

“Even a copycat has to have a connection,” Eve insisted. “The Apollo group was essentially disbanded when Rowan and some of his top people were killed. That was over thirty years ago, and the public was never privy to any but the sketchiest of details about him and his organization. Without a connection, who cares? It was over years ago, a lifetime ago. Rowan’s not even a smudge in the history books because it was never proven—in reports to media—that he was the head of Apollo. Files verifying this are sealed. Apollo claimed responsibility for some bombings and for Arlington, then essentially vanished.

There’s a connection,” she finished. “I don’t believe it’s a mirror, sir, but a personal stake. The people who head Cassandra killed hundreds yesterday. And they did it to prove they could. The bombs at Radio City were a tease, a test. The Plaza was always the target. And this echoes the theme used by Apollo.”

She nodded toward the screen again, shifted to new copy. “The first building Apollo claims to have destroyed was an empty storehouse outside of what was then the District of Columbia. The local police were alerted, and there were no injuries. Following that, the locals were tipped that there were explosives in the Kennedy Center. All but one bomb was defused, the building was successfully evacuated, and the single explosive discharged caused only minor damage and injury. But this was immediately followed up by a bombing in the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel. There was no warning given. Casualties were steep. Apollo took responsibility for all three incidents, but only the last was reported in the media.”

Whitney leaned forward, studying the screen. “What was next?”

“The newly refurbished U-Line Arena during a basketball game. Fourteen thousand people were killed or injured. If Cassandra runs true to form, I’m looking at Madison Square or the Pleasure Dome. By keeping all data out of the mainframe and within this room, there’s no way for Cassandra to know our current avenue of investigation. We should be a step ahead of them.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant Malloy, your report on the explosives?”

Anne rose, moved to the middle board. The next thirty minutes were technical: electronics, triggers, timers, remotes, materials. Rate of detonation, scope of impact.

“Pieces of the devices are still being gathered on-scene and are under lab analysis,” she concluded. “At this time we know we’re working with intricate, handmade units. Plaston appears to be the material of favor. Analysis is incomplete as to the capabilities of distance on the remotes, but it appears to be extreme long range. These aren’t toys, no homemade boomers, but high-level military-style explosives. I concur with Lieutenant Dallas’s opinion on Radio City. If this group had wanted it blown, it’d be dust.”

She sat, giving way to Feeney. “This is one of the surveillance cameras my team swept out of Radio City.” He held up a small round unit hardly bigger than the circle made by his thumb and forefinger. “It’s damn well made. We tagged twenty-five of them from scene. They watched every step we took and could have blown us to hell in a heartbeat.”

He slipped the bug back into its seal. “EDD is working with Malloy and her people to develop a longer-range, more sensitive bomb scanner. Meanwhile, I’m not saying the feds don’t have good people, but so do we. And it’s our damn city. Added to that, this group contacted Dallas. They targeted her. You pull her back now, and us with her, you’re going to change the balance. Once it tips, we could lose it all.”

“So noted. Dallas?” Tibble lifted a finger. “An opinion on why this group contacted you?”

“Only conjecture, sir. Roarke owns or has interests in the targets thus far. I’m connected to Roarke. It amuses them. Fixer referred to it as a game. I think they’re enjoying it. He also spoke of revenge.”

She rose again, shifted the image of Monica Rowan on-screen. “She’d have the most cause to enjoy some revenge, and as Rowan’s widow, would be the most likely person to have personal and inside knowledge of his group.”

“You and your aide are cleared for immediate travel to Maine,” Tibble told her. “Commander? Comments?”

“This team has put together an impressive amount of evidence and probability in a short amount of time.” Whitney rose. “It’s my opinion that a federal team would be superfluous.”

“I believe the lieutenant and her team have given me enough balls to juggle for the politicians.” Tibble got to his feet as well. “Dallas, you remain in charge until further notice. I expect updates on every step. It’s our city, Captain Feeney,” he added as he turned to the door. “Let’s keep it intact.”

“Whew.” McNab let out a huge sigh when the door closed again. “Dodged that beam.”

“And if we want to keep this case where it belongs, we’re going to work our butts off.” Eve smiled at him thinly. “Your social life just went down the sewer, pal. We need that long-range scanner. And I want every arena and sports complex in every borough scanned. New Jersey as well.”

“Christ, Dallas, with our equipment and manpower, that’ll take a week.”

“You’ve got a day,” she told him. “Get in touch with Roarke.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Odds are, he’s got some toy that fits what you’re looking for.”

“Hot damn.” McNab rubbed his hands together and grinned at Anne. “Wait till you see what this guy’s got.”

“Feeney, is there any way you can block the unit in here? Jam it? Or better yet, come up with a new, unregistered unit with a shield.”

His hangdog face brightened as he smiled at Eve. “Guess I could jury-rig something. Not that we ever fiddle with unregistereds over at EDD.”

“Of course not. Peabody, you’re with me.”

“Hey, when are you getting back?” McNab called out.

Eve turned, stared at him, while Peabody wished herself invisible. “When we’re finished, Detective. I think you have enough to keep you busy in the meantime.”

“Oh sure, I just wondered. Just wondered.” He grinned foolishly. “Have a nice trip.”

“We’re not going for lobster,” Eve muttered and, shaking her head, walked out.

“We’ll be back before end of shift, don’t you think? Sir?”

Eve shrugged into her jacket as she strode to the elevator. “Look, if you’ve got a hot date, you’ll just have to cool your glands.”

“No, I didn’t mean . . . Ah, I just want to let Zeke know if I’m going to be on OT, that’s all.” And it shamed her that she hadn’t given her brother a thought.

“It takes as long as it takes. We’ve got a stop to make before we snag transpo north.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll be taking one of Roarke’s private jets?” When Eve merely eyed her balefully, Peabody hunched her shoulders. “Nope, guess not. It’s just that they’re so much faster than public shuttles.”

“And you’re just interested in speed, right, Peabody?” Eve stepped onto the elevator, pushed for garage. “It has nothing to do with plush, roomy seats, the fully stocked galley, or the screen selection.”

“A comfortable body produces a sharp mind.”

“That’s lame. You’re usually better than that when you try to hose me. You’re off today, Peabody.”

She thought of that wild interlude with McNab in an empty office. “You’re telling me.”

Zeke worked steadily, precisely, doing his best to focus his mind on the wood and his pleasure in it.

He’d known his sister hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d heard her stirring and pacing while he’d laid awake on the living room pull-out. He’d wanted to go to her, offer to meditate with her, or to make her one of his organic soothers, but he hadn’t been able to face her.

His mind was full of Clarissa, of the way she’d felt snuggled into his arms, of how sweet her lips had tasted. It shamed him. He believed strongly in the sanctity of marriage. One of the reasons he’d never pursued a serious relationship was that he’d promised himself when he took those vows to another, he would keep them throughout his life.

There had been no one he’d loved enough to make promises to.

Until now.

And she belonged to someone else.

Someone who didn’t appreciate her, he thought now as he had during the night. Someone who mistreated her, made her unhappy. Vows were meant to be broken when they caused pain.

No, he couldn’t talk to Dee when thoughts like that were skimming through his head. When he couldn’t get Clarissa out of his mind and offer his own sister comfort.

He’d seen the reports of the bombing on the news the evening before. It had horrified him. He understood that not everyone embraced the cause-no-harm tenets that formed the foundation of the Free-Agers. He knew that even some Free-Agers modified that foundation to suit their lifestyles, and after all, the religion was designed to be fluid.

He knew cruelty existed. That murder was done every day. But he had never seen the kind of terrible disregard for life as he had on the viewing screen at his sister’s apartment the evening before.

Those who were capable of it had to be less than human. No one with heart and soul and guts could destroy lives in that way. He believed that, clung to the hope that such a thing was an aberration, a mutation. And that the world had evolved beyond acceptance of wholesale death.

It had been a shock when he’d seen Eve moving through the carnage. Her face had been blank, he remembered, her clothes splattered with blood. He’d thought she’d looked exhausted, and hollow, and somehow courageous. Then it had struck him that his sister must have been there as well, somewhere in the horror of all that.

Eve had only spoken to one reporter, a pretty, foxy-faced woman whose green eyes had mirrored her grief.

“I don’t have anything to add to what you see here, Nadine,” she’d said. “This isn’t the time or place for statements. The dead make their own.”

And when his sister had come home, with that same exhausted look on her face, he’d left her alone.

He hoped now that he’d done so for her sake and not his own. He hadn’t wanted to talk about what she’d seen and done. Hadn’t wanted to think about it. Or about Clarissa. And while he’d been able to control his mind enough to blank out those images of death, he hadn’t had the power to do so with the woman.

She would stay away from him now, he thought. They would stay away from each other, and that was best. He would finish the job he’d promised to do, then he would go back to Arizona. He’d fast and he’d meditate and he’d purge his system of her.

Maybe he’d camp in the desert for a few days, until his mind and heart were in balance again.

Then the sounds came through the vent. The angry laugh of the man, the soft pleas of the woman.

“I said I want to fuck. It’s all you’re good for, anyway.”

“Please, B. D., I’m not feeling well this morning.”

“I don’t give a damn how you feel. It’s your job to spread your legs when I tell you to.”

There was a thud, then a cry sharply cut off. The crash of glass.

“On your knees. On your knees, you bitch.”

“You’re hurting me. Please—”

“Use that mouth of yours for something besides whining. Yeah, yeah. Put some effort into it, for Christ’s sake. It’s a miracle I can get it up with you in the first place. Harder, you whore. You know where I had my cock last night? You know where I had what you’ve got in your whiny mouth? In that new ’link operator I hired. I got my money’s worth there.”

He was panting now, grunting like an animal, and Zeke squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to stop.

But it didn’t, it only changed, with the sounds of Clarissa weeping, then pleading. He was raping her now, there was no way to mistake those sounds.

Zeke caught himself at the foot of the steps, shocked to find his hand curled around the haft of a hammer. The blood was roaring violently in his ears.

My God, dear God, what was he doing?

Even as he set the hammer aside with a shaky hand, the sounds quieted. There was only weeping now. Slowly, Zeke climbed the steps.

It had to stop. Someone had to stop it. But he would face Branson empty-handed, and as a man.

He walked through the kitchen. Neither of the two remote domestics who worked there paid any attention to him. He moved into the wide hallway beyond, past the beautiful rooms and toward the sweep of floating stairs.

Perhaps he had no right to intrude, he thought, but no one, no one had a right to treat another human being as Clarissa was being treated.

He moved down the hallway to the right, judging which room would be directly over the workshop. The door was ajar; he could hear her crying inside. Placing his fingertips against the polished wood, he eased it open. And saw her curled on the bed, her naked body already blooming with bruises.

“Clarissa?”

Her head came up, eyes wide, and her swollen lips trembled. “Oh God. No, no, I don’t want you to see me like this. Go away.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Gone. Oh please, please.” She pressed her face to the tangled sheets.

“He can’t be. I just came up the front stairs.”

“The side entrance. He uses the side. He’s gone, already gone. Thank God. If he’d seen you come up . . .”

“This has to stop.” He came to the bed, gently untangled a sheet, and draped it over her. “You can’t let him hurt you this way.”

“He doesn’t mean—He’s my husband.” She let out a sigh that ripped at Zeke’s heart. It was so hopeless. “I have no place to go. No one to go to. He wouldn’t have to hurt me if I wasn’t so slow and stupid. If I’d just do what he says. If I—”

“Stop that.” It came out sharper than he’d intended, and when he laid a hand on her shoulder, she flinched. “What happened here wasn’t your fault, it was his.”

She needed counseling, he thought. She needed cleansing. A safe place to stay. Both her body and her selfesteem had been battered, and such things harmed the soul. “I want to help you. I can take you away from here. You can stay at my sister’s until you decide what to do. There are programs, people you can talk to. The police,” he added. “You need to file charges.”

“No. No police!” She gathered the sheet close and struggled up. Her dark violet eyes were brilliant with fear. “He’d kill me if I did. And he knows people on the force. High-up people. I can never call the police.”

She’d begun to tremble, so he soothed. “That’s not important now. Let me help you get dressed. Let me take you to a healer—the doctor,” he corrected, remembering where he was. “Then we’ll talk about what’s next.”

“Oh, Zeke.” Her breath shuddered out as she lay her head on his shoulder. “There is no next. Don’t you see this is it for me? He’ll never let me go. He’s told me. He’s told me what he’d do to me if I try to leave. I’m just not strong enough to fight him.”

He slipped his arms around her, rocked her. “I am.”

“You’re so young.” She shook her head. “I’m not.”

“That’s not true. You feel helpless because you’ve been alone. You’re not alone now. I’ll help you. My family will.”

He brushed at her loose and tangled hair, cloud soft under his hand. At home, my home,” he said, keeping his voice a reassuring murmur. “It’s peaceful. Remember how big and open and quiet the desert is? You can heal there.”

“I was almost happy for those few days. All that space. The stars. You. If I believed there was a chance—”

“Give me the chance.” Gently, he tipped her face back. The bruises on her face nearly broke his heart. “I love you.”

Tears swam into her eyes. “You can’t. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Nothing he’s made you do counts. And it doesn’t matter what I feel, but what you need. You can’t stay with him.”

“I can’t drag you into this, Zeke. It’s wrong.”

“I won’t leave you.” He pressed his mouth to her hair. “When you’re safe, if you want me to go, I will. But not until you’re safe.”

“Safe.” She barely breathed the word. “I stopped believing I could be safe. If there’s a chance . . .” She drew back, looked into his eyes. “I need time to think.”

“Clarissa—”

“I have to be sure I can go through with it. I have to have time. Please, try to understand. Give me today.” She closed a hand over his. “He can’t hurt me any more than he already has. Give me today to look inside myself and see if there’s anything there worth offering you. Or anyone else.”

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“But I am.” Her lips trembled into a smile. “Finally, I am. Will you give me a number where I can reach you? I want you to go home now. B. D. won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, and I need this time alone.”

“All right. If you promise that whatever you decide, you’ll call.”

“I will.” She picked up a memo from the bedside table and offered it. “I’ll call you by tonight. I promise.” When he’d entered the number, she took it from him, slipped it into the drawer. “Please, go now. I need to see how many pieces I can pick up on my own.”

“I won’t be far away,” he told her.

She waited until he reached the door. “Zeke? When I met you in Arizona—when I saw you, looked at you . . . something inside me I’d thought had died seemed to stir again. I don’t know if it’s love. I don’t know if I have love anymore. But if I do, it’s for you.”

“I’ll take care of you, Clarissa. He’ll never hurt you again.”

Opening the door and leaving her was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Eve gave her battered vehicle one long scowl as she strode across the garage. It wasn’t that appearance mattered much. Since Zeke and Roarke had played with it, the heap was back in top running condition. But it was, by God, a heap.

“It’s goddamn pitiful when a homicide lieutenant has to drive around in a wreck like this while those bozos in Illegals get zoomers.” She gave the shiny, streamlined all-terrain two spaces down from hers an avaricious glare.

“Just needs some body work, some paint, a little new shielding.” Peabody opened her door.

“It’s the principle. Murder cops always get the shaft.” Eve slammed in her side, a mistake, as the door popped right back open. “Oh fine, great.”

“I noticed that little hitch yesterday when I took it home. What you have to do is lift up some, kind of jiggle it and slide it home. Zeke’ll fix it for you first chance he gets. I forgot to mention it to him last night.”

Eve held up her hands, took several slow, deep breaths. “Okay, no point in bitching about it.”

“But you have such a smooth bitching style, sir.”

Eve slanted Peabody a look as she went to work on the door. “That’s better. You were starting to worry me. I’ve hardly heard a single smartass remark out of you for two days.”

“I’m off my rhythm,” Peabody muttered, and pressed her lips together. She could still taste McNab.

Eve secured the door. “Problem?”

“I—” She wanted to tell someone, but it was just too humiliating. “No, no problem. Where’s the first stop?”

Eve lifted her brows. It was rare for Peabody not to walk through a door she’d opened. Reminding herself that personal lives were personal lives for a reason, Eve backed out of her slot. “Autotron. Get the address.”

“I know it. It’s a few blocks west of my place, on Ninth. Ninth and Twelfth. What’s there?”

“A guy who likes bombs.”

She filled Peabody in on the way.

When she pulled into the garage at Autotron, gate security took one look at her car and strode over snappily to glance at the badge she held up for view.

“You’ve already been cleared, Lieutenant. Your space is reserved. Slot thirty-six, level A. It’s just up on your left.”

“Who cleared me?” Though she wondered why she bothered to ask.

“Roarke. Take the first bank of elevators to the eighth floor. You’ll be met.”

Her eyes flashed once, then she drove in. “He just doesn’t know when to step out.”

“Well, it speeds things up. Saves time.”

She wanted to say she wasn’t in any hurry, but it was such a ridiculous lie Eve clamped her mouth shut. And smoldered. “If he’s already questioned Lamont, I’m tying his tongue into a knot.”

“Can I watch?” Peabody grinned as Eve braked hard in her parking slot. “I’m getting my rhythm back.”

“Lose it.” Irritated, she slammed the door before she remembered, then cursed roundly when the leading edge of it bounced on the concrete floor. “Son of a bitch.” She kicked it, only because it seemed called for, then muscled it back into the frame. “Say nothing,” she warned Peabody, then stalked to the elevator.

Peabody stepped into the elevator, folded her hands, and studiously studied the ascending numbers over the door.

The eighth floor was a wide, airy office and reception area filled with clerks and drones and snazzily suited execs. It was done in navys and grays with the startling slap and dash of wild red flowers streaming along under the windows and around a central console.

She thought that Roarke had a thing about flowers in the businessplace—anyplace, really. His main headquarters in midtown was alive with them.

She’d barely stepped out, had yet to reach for her badge, when a tall man in a severely cut black suit came toward her with a polished smile.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke’s expecting you. If you and your aide would follow me?”

A nasty part of her wanted to tell him to inform his boss to keep his pretty nose out of her business, but she sucked it in. She needed to talk to Lamont, and if Roarke had decided to be the line to him, it would take more time and energy than she had to waste to go around him.

She followed him through the cubicles, past snazzier offices, more flowers, and through open double doors to a spacious conference room.

The center table was a thick, clear slab, lined with matching chairs with deep blue cushions, seat and back. A quick glance showed it held all the comforts and over-the-top technology she expected from anything Roarke had his hand in or his name on.

There was a maxi AutoChef and cold box, a fully equipped communications center, a rather jazzy entertainment console, and a wide window with full security and sun shade.

On the enormous wall screen an animated schematic twirled and spun. The man at the head of the table turned his attention from it, lifted a cocky brow, and gave his wife a charming smile.

“Lieutenant, Peabody. Thank you, Gates.” He waited until the doors were closed, then gestured. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“I don’t want a seat or any damn coffee,” Eve began.

“I’d like some coffee.” Peabody winced under Eve’s withering stare. “On the other hand . . .”

“Sit,” Eve ordered. “Quiet.”

“Sir.” She sat, she was quiet, but sent Roarke a sympathetic glance before she did her best to become blind, deaf, and invisible.

“Did I ask you to have me cleared?” Eve began. “Did I ask you to be here when I came in to interview Lamont? I’m in the middle of an extremely sensitive investigation, one the feds would like to snatch out from under me. I don’t want your name in my reports any more often than absolutely necessary. You got that?”

She’d marched to him as she spoke and ended by jabbing a finger at his shoulder.

“God, I love it when you scold me.” He only smiled when she hissed breath between her teeth. “Don’t stop.”

“This isn’t a joke. Don’t you have worlds to conquer, small industrial nations to buy, businesses to run?”

“Yes.” The humor cleared out of his eyes, leaving them dark and intense. “And this is one of them. Just as the hotel where people died yesterday is one of them. If someone in my employ turns out to be connected in any way, it’s my business as much as yours, Lieutenant. I thought that was understood.”

“You can’t blame yourself for yesterday.”

“If I say the same to you, will you listen?”

She stared at him a moment, wishing she didn’t see his side so clearly. “Did you question Lamont?”

“I know better than that. I rescheduled my morning, arranged for your clearance, and made sure that Lamont was in the lab. I haven’t sent for him yet. I assumed you’d want to rail at me a bit first.”

If she was that predictable, Eve decided it was time for some realigning. “I’ll take that coffee before you send for Lamont.”

He skimmed his fingers along the tips of her hair before turning to deal with it. Eve dropped down in a chair, scowled at Peabody. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Sir.” Deliberately, Peabody looked away. It was so fascinating to watch them together, she mused. An education in the tug-of-war of relationships. And the way they looked at each other when their minds came together. You could actually see it.

She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be that connected. So meshed that the brush of fingertips over your hair was a simple and absolute declaration of love.

She must have sighed. Roarke angled his head as he set her coffee in front of her. “Tired?” he murmured, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Peabody felt she was entitled to the lovely flush of heat and mild lust she experienced nearly every time she looked at that spectacular face of his. But she didn’t think Eve would appreciate it if she sighed again. “Rough night,” she said and dipping her head, concentrated on her coffee.

He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze that sent her heart on a gallop, then turned back to Eve. “Lamont will be right up. I’d like to stay while you interview him. And,” he continued holding up a hand, “before you tell me why I can’t be here during an official interview, I’ll remind you that I not only employ the subject, but I know him and have for a number of years. I’ll know if he’s lying.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the table. She knew that look in his eye—cold, enigmatic, controlled. He would study and he would see, every bit as expertly as a veteran police interrogator.

“Observe only. You don’t question him or comment unless I indicate otherwise.”

“Agreed. Are you cleared for Maine?”

“We’ll catch a shuttle as soon as we leave here.”

“There’s a jet at the airport. Take it.”

“We’ll take the shuttle,” Eve repeated, even when Peabody’s head came up and her eyes held all the hope of a puppy sniffing mother’s milk.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Roarke said mildly. “The jet will get you there in half the time and with none of the frustration. You can pick us up a couple of lobsters for dinner.”

The phrase fat chance trembled on her tongue, but she bit it back when the knock sounded on the door.

“Showtime,” Roarke murmured, and leaned back in his chair. “Come in.”

Lamont had smooth, round cheeks, lively blue eyes, and a chin tattoo of a flaming arrow that was new since his ID photo. He’d let his hair grow some as well, Eve noted, so that it swirled in deep brown waves to his chin and gave him a slightly angelic look rather than the upright young conservative she’d viewed on-screen the night before.

He wore a white lab coat over a white shirt that was buttoned snugly to the Adam’s apple, stovepipe black pants. She recognized his boots as being hand tooled and pricey, as Roarke had countless pairs in his endless closet.

He gave her a polite glance, gave Peabody’s uniform a slightly longer study, then shifted his full attention to Roarke.

“You needed to see me?” His voice carried the faintest whisper of France, like a sprinkle of thyme over broth.

“This is Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD.” Roarke didn’t rise or gesture to a chair. It was his tacit shift of control to Eve. “She needed to see you.”

“Oh?” The well-mannered smile was vaguely puzzled.

“Have a seat, Mr. Lamont. I have a few questions. You’re entitled to have counsel present if you like.”

He blinked twice, two slow movements. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lamont. Do you?”

“I don’t see why.” He sat, shifted until he found comfort on the cushion. “What’s this about?”

“Bombs.” Eve gave him a small smile. “On record, Peabody,” she added and read Lamont his rights. “What do you know about the bombing of the Plaza Hotel yesterday?”

“Just what I saw on-screen. They upped the body count this morning. It’s over three hundred now.”

“Have you ever worked with plaston, Mr. Lamont?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re aware of what it is?”

“Of course.” He shifted again. “It’s a light, elastic, highly unstable substance most commonly used as a detonation factor in explosives.” He’d lost a little color since he’d taken his seat, but he kept his eyes on hers. They weren’t quite so lively now.

“The explosives we manufacture here at Autotron for government contracts and some private concerns often employ minute amounts of plaston.”

“How’s your Greek mythology?”

His fingers linked together on the table, pulled apart, linked again. “Excuse me?”

“Know anyone named Cassandra?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you acquainted with Howard Bassi, more commonly known as Fixer?”

“No.”

“What do you do with your free time, Mr. Lamont?”

“My—my free time?”

She smiled again. The change in rhythm had thrown him off, as she’d intended. “Hobbies, sports, entertainment. Roarke doesn’t work you twenty-four/seven, does he?”

“I—No.” His gaze flicked to Roarke, then back. “I . . . play a little handball.”

“Team or solo?”

He lifted his hand, rubbed it over his mouth. “Mostly solo.”

“Your father made bombs during the French War,” she continued. “Did he work team, or solo?”

“I—he worked for the SRA—the Social Reform Army. I guess that’s a team.”

“I assumed he freelanced, worked for the highest bidder.”

Color rushed back into Lamont’s face. “My father was a patriot.”

“Sabotage for causes. Terrorists often call themselves patriots.” She kept her voice mild, but saw the shimmer of anger in his eyes for the first time. “Do you believe in sabotage for causes, Lamont? In the slaughter and the sacrifice of the innocent for a just and righteous cause?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then took one long breath. “War is different. During my father’s time, our country had been seized by exploitive bureaucrats. The second revolution in France was necessary to give its people back the power and justice that are their right.”

“So . . .” Eve smiled a little. “I take that as a yes.”

“I don’t make bombs for causes. I make them for mining, for the demolition of old buildings. Empty buildings. For military testing. Contracts,” he said, smoothly now. “Autotron is a respected and reputable company.”

“You bet. You like making boomers?”

“We don’t make boomers here.” The tone was slightly scathing now and subtly more French. “Our devices are highly sophisticated, technologically advanced. We produce the best on the market.”

“Sorry. You like making sophisticated, technologically advanced devices?”

“Yes. I enjoy my work. Do you enjoy yours?”

A little cocky now, Eve noted. Interesting. “I enjoy the results of mine. How about you?”

“I believe in utilizing my skills.”

“Me, too. Thank you, Mr. Lamont. That’s all.”

The little smile that had begun to form faded. “I can go?”

“Yes, thank you. End record, Peabody. Thanks for the use of the room, Roarke.”

“We’re always pleased to cooperate with the police at Autotron.” He lifted a sleek eyebrow in Lamont’s direction. “I believe Lieutenant Dallas is finished with you, Lamont. You’re free to return to your work.”

“Yes, sir.” He rose, stiffly, and walked from the room.

Eve sat back. “He was lying.”

“Oh yes,” Roarke agreed. “He was.”

“About what?” It came out before Peabody could stop it.

“He recognized the name Cassandra, and he knew about Fixer.” Contemplatively, Eve scratched her chin. “He was a little shaky at first, but he started to warm up. He doesn’t care for cops.”

“A common emotion,” Roarke pointed out. “Just as it’s a common mistake to underestimate certain cops. He thought he was stringing you quite nicely toward the end.”

She snorted, rose. “Amateur. Peabody, order a shadow for our friend Lamont. Roarke, I’ll want you to—”

“Pull his work files, review his equipment and materials lists, any requisitions, and run a fresh inventory.” He rose as well. “That’s already being done.”

“Show-off.”

He took her hand, and because watching her work put him in the mood, nibbled on her knuckles before she could snatch it away. “I’ll be keeping an eye on him.”

“Keep your distance,” she ordered. “I want him to think he pulled off the interview. Peabody . . .” She turned, then cleared her throat when she caught her aide dreaming into space. “Peabody, snap to.”

“Sir!” She blinked, leaped to her feet, and nearly upended her chair. Seeing Roarke’s clever mouth linger over Eve’s fingers had made her wonder just what McNab would have in store for her later.

“Stay on planet, will you? I’ll be in touch,” she added to Roarke.”

“Do that.” He moved to the door with them, then caught Peabody’s arm to hold her back a step. “He’s a lucky man,” he murmured.

“Huh? Who?”

“Whoever you were just dreaming about.”

She grinned like an idiot. “Not yet, but he’s going to be.”

“Peabody!”

Peabody rolled her eyes and double-timed it to catch up with Eve.

“Take the jet, Lieutenant,” Roarke called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder, saw him, tall, gorgeous, in the center of the wide doorway. She wished she’d had the time and the privacy to stride back and give those marvelous lips one quick little bite. “Maybe.” She shrugged and made the turn for the elevator.

She took the jet—as much to keep Peabody from pouting as to save time. She’d been right. It was brutally cold in Maine. Naturally, she’d forgotten her gloves, so she stuffed her hands in her pockets as she stepped off the plane and into the bitter wind.

An airport official in cold-weather coveralls hustled over, handed her a vehicle coder.

“What’s this?”

“Your transportation, Lieutenant Dallas. Your vehicle is in the green parking area, level two, slot five.”

“Roarke,” she muttered and jammed the code into her pocket along with her frozen fingers.

“I’ll show you the way.”

“Yeah, do that.”

They moved across the tarmac and into the warmth of the terminal. The private transportation sector was quiet, almost reverently so, as opposed to the constant noise, bumping bodies and food and gift hawkers that crowded the public areas.

They rode the elevator down to green, where Eve was shown a sleek, black air-and-road number that made the all-terrains the illegals detectives drove look like kiddie cars.

“If you’d prefer another make or model, you’re authorized for any available unit,” she was told.

“No. Fine. Thanks.” She waited until he’d walked away before she seethed. “He’s got to stop doing this.”

Peabody ran a loving hand over the glistening fender. “Why?”

“Because,” was the best Eve could come up with, and she uncoded the door. “Map out directions to Monica Rowan’s address.”

Peabody settled in, rubbed her hands together as she scanned the cockpit. “Air or road?”

Eve spared her a steely look. “Road, Peabody.”

“Air or road, I bet this baby moves.” She leaned forward to study the on-board computer system. “Oh wow, she is loaded.”

“When you finish being sixteen, Officer, map out the damn route.”

“You never stop being sixteen,” Peabody murmured, but followed orders.

The in-dash monitor responded immediately with a detailed map of the best route.

Would you like audio prompts during this trip? They were asked in the computer’s warm, silky baritone.

“I think we can handle it, ace.” Eve cruised toward the exit.

As you wish, Lieutenant Dallas. This trip comprises ten point three miles. Your estimated time to complete at this time of day on this day of the week, at the posted speed limits, is twelve minutes, eight seconds.

“Oh, we can beat that.” Peabody shot Eve a quick grin. “Right, Lieutenant?”

“We’re not here to beat anything.” She drove decorously through the parking garage, into and around airport traffic, and through the gates.

Then there was a stretch of highway, long, wide, open.

Hell, she was human. She punched it.

“Oh man! I want one of these.” Peabody grinned as the scenery blurred and flew by. “How much do you think this honey goes for?”

This model retails for one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars, excluding tax, fees, and licenses.

“Holy shit.”

“Still feeling sixteen, Peabody?” With a quick laugh, Eve swung onto their exit.

“Yeah, and I want a raise in my allowance.”

They hit the commuter high-rises, strip malls, and hotel complexes that edged the suburbs. Traffic thickened on the road and overhead, but remained well-mannered and well-spaced.

That made Eve immediately miss New York with its nasty streets, rude vendors, and snarling pedestrians.

“How do people live in places like this?” she asked Peabody. “It’s like somebody cut it all out of a travel disc, took a few thousand copies, and pasted it down outside of every goddamn city in the country. They’re all the same.”

“Some people like all the same. It’s comforting. We took a trip to Maine when I was a kid. Mount Desert Island, the national park?”

Eve shuddered. “National parks are full of trees and hikers and weird little bugs.”

“Yeah, no bugs in New York.”

“I’ll take a good honest cockroach any day.”

“Come over to my place. Sometimes we have parties.”

“Complain to your super.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll work.”

Eve took a right, slowed as the street narrowed. The duplexes and triplexes here were old and shoved unhappily together. Lawns were quietly miserable, showing grass the bitter yellow of winter where snow had melted. She pulled up at a curb by a cracked sidewalk, shut off the engine.

Trip complete. Time elapsed nine minutes, forty-eight seconds. Please remember to code your door.

“You’d have cut another two minutes off easy if you’d gone air over that traffic,” Peabody told her when they climbed out.

“Stop grinning and put on your cop face. Monica’s peeking out the window.” Eve headed up the bumpy, unshoveled walk and rapped on the middle door of the triplex.

It was a long wait, though she judged Monica had about three steps to take to get from the window to the door. She didn’t expect a warm welcome. And didn’t get one.

The door opened a crack and one hard gray eye peered out. “What do you want?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security, and aide. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you, Ms. Rowan. Can we come in?”

“This isn’t New York. You’ve got no authority here, no business here.”

“We have some questions,” Eve repeated. “And we’ve been cleared to request an interview. It would be easier for you, Ms. Rowan, if we conducted it here rather than arranging for you to be transported to New York.”

“You can’t make me go to New York.”

Eve didn’t bother to sigh, and pocketed the badge she flipped out for Monica’s study. “Yes, we can. But we’d rather not inconvenience you. We won’t take up much of your time.”

“I don’t like the police in my house.” But she opened the door. “I don’t want you touching anything.”

Eve stepped into what she supposed the architect had amused himself by calling a foyer. It was no more than four square feet of faded linoleum, ruthlessly scrubbed.

“You wipe your feet. You wipe your dirty cop feet before you come in my house.”

Dutifully, Eve stepped back, wiped her boots on a mat. It gave her another moment to study Monica Rowan.

The image on file had been a true one. The woman was hard-faced, grim-eyed, and gray. Eyes, skin, hair were all nearly the same dull color. She was wearing flannel from top to toe, and the heat pumping through the house was already making Eve uncomfortably warm in her jacket and jeans.

“Close the door! You’re costing me money letting the heat out. You know what it costs to heat this place? Utility company is run by government drones.”

Peabody wiped her feet, stepped in, closed the door, and was rammed up tight against Eve. Monica stood glowering, her arms folded across her chest. “You ask what you got to ask, then get out.”

So much, Eve mused, for Yankee hospitality. “It’s a little crowded here, Ms. Rowan. Maybe we can go in the living room and sit down.”

“You make it fast. I’ve got things to do.” She turned and led the way into a doll-sized living area.

It was painfully clean, the single chair and small sofa slicked with clear plastic. Two matching lamps still wore their plastic shields on the shades. Eve decided she didn’t want to sit down after all.

The window drapes were drawn together, leaving a thin chink. The inch-wide slit brought in the only light.

There were dust catchers, but no dust. Eve imagined if a mote wandered in, it soon ran screaming in horror. A dozen little happy-faced figurines, gleaming clean, danced over tabletops. A cheap model cat droid rose creakily from the rug, gave one rusty meow, and settled again.

“Ask your questions and go. I’ve got housework to finish.”

Eve recited the revised Miranda when Peabody went on record. “Do you understand your rights and obligations, Mrs. Rowan?”

“I understand you’ve come in my house unwanted, and you’re interrupting my work. I don’t need any bleeding-heart liberal lawyer. They’re all government puppets preying on honest people. Get on with it.”

“You were married to James Rowan.”

“Until the government killed him and my children.”

“You weren’t living with him at the time of his death.”

“Doesn’t make me less of his wife, does it?”

“No, ma’am, it doesn’t. Can you tell me why you were separated from him, and your children?”

“That’s my private marital business.” Monica’s arms tightened on her chest. “Jamie had a lot on his mind. He was a great man. It’s a wife’s duty to give way to her husband’s needs and wishes.”

Eve only lifted a brow at that. “And your children? Did you take their needs and wishes into account?”

“He needed the children with him. Jamie adored them.”

But he didn’t think so much of you, did he? Eve mused. “And you, Ms. Rowan, did you adore your children?”

It wasn’t a question she needed to ask, and Eve was annoyed with herself the moment it was out.

“I gave birth to them, didn’t I?” Monica stretched her head forward aggressively on her scrawny neck. “I carried each one of them inside me for nine months, gave birth to them in pain and blood. I did my duty by them, kept them clean, kept them fed, and the government gave me a pittance for my trouble. A damn cop made more than a professional mother back then. Who do you think got up in the middle of the night with them when they were squalling? Who cleaned up after them? Nothing dirtier than children. You work your hands to the bone to keep a clean house when there’s children in it.”

So much for mother love, Eve thought, and reminded herself that wasn’t the issue.

“You were aware of your husband’s activities. His association with the terrorist group Apollo?”

“Propaganda and lies. Government lies.” She all but spat it out. “Jamie was a great man. A hero. If he’d been president, this country wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in with whores and filth in the streets.”

“Did you work with him?”

“A woman’s place is to keep a clean house, to provide decent meals, and to bear children.” She folded her lips into a sneer. “The two of you might want to be men, but I knew what God had put women on Earth to do.”

“Did he talk to you about his work?”

“No.”

“Did you meet any of his associates?”

“I was his wife. I provided a clean home for him and for the people who believed in him.”

“William Henson believed in him.”

“William Henson was a loyal and brilliant man.”

“Do you know where I might find this loyal and brilliant man?”

Monica smiled, thin and sly. “The government dogs hunted him down and killed him, just the way they killed all the loyal.”

“Really? I have no data that confirms his death.”

“A plot. Conspiracy. Cover-ups.” Thin beads of spittle flew out of her mouth. “They dragged honest people out of their homes, locked them in cages, starved and tortured them. Executions.”

“Were you dragged out of your home, Mrs. Rowan? Locked up, tortured?”

Monica’s eyes slitted. “I had nothing they wanted.”

“Can you give me names of people who believed in him who are still alive?”

“It was thirty years ago and more. They came and they went.”

“What about their wives? Their children? You must have met their families. Socialized.”

“I had a house to run. I didn’t have time to socialize.”

Eve flicked a glance around the room. There was no view screen in evidence. “Do you keep up with the news, Ms. Rowan? Current events.”

“I mind my own business. I don’t need to know what other people are up to.”

“Then you might not be aware that yesterday a terrorist group calling themselves Cassandra bombed the Plaza Hotel in New York. Hundreds of people were killed. Among them, women and children.”

The gray eyes flickered, then leveled again. “They should have been in their own homes where they belonged.”

“It doesn’t concern you that a group of terrorists is killing innocent people? That it’s believed this group is connected to your dead husband?”

“No one’s innocent.”

“Not even you, Mrs. Rowan?” Before she could answer, Eve moved on. “Has anyone from Cassandra contacted you?”

“I keep to myself. I don’t know anything about your bombed hotel, but if you ask me, the country’d be better off if that whole city was blown to hell. I’ve given you all the time I’m going to give. I want you out of my house, or I’m calling my public representative.”

Eve gave it one more shot. “Your husband and his group never asked for money, Mrs. Rowan. Whatever they did, they did for their beliefs. Cassandra is holding the city hostage for money. Would James Rowan have approved?”

“I don’t know anything about it. I’m telling you to leave.”

Eve took a memo card out of her pocket, set it on the table in front of a figure of a laughing woman. “If and when you remember or think of anything that might help, I’d appreciate it if you contacted me. Thanks for your time.”

They headed out, with Monica dogging their heels. Outside, Eve sucked in air. “Let’s get back to the whores and filth in the streets, Peabody.”

“Oh, you bet.” She shuddered for effect. “I’d rather have been raised by rabid wolves than a woman like that.”

Eve glanced back to see that dingy gray eye peering through the chink in the drapes. “What’s the difference?”

Monica watched them go, waited until the car had pulled away. She went back, picked up the memo card. Could be a bug, she thought. Jamie had taught her well. She hurried into the kitchen with it, dumped it in the recycler, and turned the whining machine on.

Satisfied, she went to the wall ’link. Could be bugged, could be bugged, too. Everything could be. Dirty cops. Lips peeled back, she slipped a small jammer out of a drawer, slid it onto the ’link.

She’d done her duty, hadn’t she? Done it without complaint. It was long past time for compensation. She programmed the number.

“I want my share,” she said in a hiss when she heard the voice answer. “The police were just here, asking questions. I didn’t tell them anything. But I might next time. I might just have a few things to say to Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD that would perk her ears up. I want my share, Cassandra,” she repeated, attacking a faint smudge on the counter with a tattered disinfectant rag. “I earned it.”

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

I trust you have received and are pleased with the latest progress reports transmitted to your location. The next steps of our plan are under way. Much like the chess games we used to play on those long, quiet nights, pawns are sacrificed for the queen.

At this time there is a small matter I would ask you to take care of for us, as our time is limited and our concentration must remain focused on the events unfolding. Timing over the next few days is vital.

Attached is the data you will require to arrange an execution long overdue. This is a matter we had hoped to handle ourselves at a future date, but circumstances require its implementation immediately.

There is no cause for concern.

We must keep this transmission brief. Remember us at tonight’s rally. Speak our name.

We are Cassandra.

Zeke stayed in the apartment all day, afraid if he so much as stepped out to the corner deli for tofu, Clarissa would call, and berating himself for forgetting to give her the number of his pocket ’link.

He kept himself busy. There were a dozen minor chores and repairs around the apartment his sister had neglected. He cleared the kitchen drain, repaired the drip, sanded the bedroom door and window sashes so that they no longer stuck, dealt with the temperamental light switch in the bathroom.

If he’d thought of it, he would have bought a few kits and upgraded her lighting system. He made a note to do so before he returned to Arizona.

If there was time. If he and Clarissa weren’t on a transport west that night.

Why didn’t she call?

When he caught himself staring at the ’link, he moved into the kitchen and concentrated on the recycler. He took it apart, cleaned it, put it back together again.

Then he stared into space, imagining what it would be like when he took Clarissa home.

There was no question his family would welcome her. Even if it hadn’t been part of the Free-Age dogma to offer shelter and comfort to any in need, without questions or strings, he knew the hearts of those who had raised him. They were open and generous.

Still, he knew his mother’s eyes were sharp, and would see his feelings no matter what he did to hide them. And he knew she wouldn’t approve of his romantic involvement with Clarissa.

He could hear his mother’s counsel as if she were in the room with him now.

She has to heal, Zeke. She needs the time and space to find what’s inside her. No one can know their heart when it’s so badly injured. Step aside and be her friend. You’ve no right to more than that. Neither does she.

He knew his mother would be right to say those things. Just as he knew no matter how hard he might try to follow her advice, he was already too deeply in love to turn around.

But he’d be careful with Clarissa, gentle, treat her the way she should be treated. He’d coax her into therapy so she could find her self-worth again, introduce her to his family so that she could see what family was meant to be.

He would be patient.

And when she was steady again, he would make love with her, sweetly, softly, so she would understand the beauty between a man and a woman and forget the pain and fear.

She was so full of fear. The bruises on the flesh would heal, but he knew those on the heart, on the soul, could spread and fester and ache. For that alone he wanted Branson to pay. It shamed him to crave retribution; it was against everything he’d come to believe. But even as he struggled to concentrate only on Clarissa, on how she would bloom away from the city—like a desert flower—his blood called out for justice.

He wanted to see Branson in a cage, alone, afraid. Wanted to hear him cry out for mercy as Clarissa had cried.

He told himself it was useless to wish it, that Branson’s life would mean nothing to Clarissa’s happiness and recovery once she was away from him. His Free-Ager’s belief that each should move toward their own destiny without interference, that man’s insistence on judging and punishing his fellows only hampered their rise to the next plane, was sorely tested.

He knew he’d already judged B. Donald Branson, and that he wanted him punished. A part of himself Zeke hadn’t known existed craved to mete out that punishment.

He fought to bury it, to erase it, but his hands were clenched into fists as he looked toward the ’link once again and willed Clarissa to call.

When it beeped, he jolted, stared, then leaped on it. “Yes, hello.”

“Zeke.” Clarissa’s face filled the screen. There were tears drying on her cheeks, but she curved her lips into a trembling smile. “Please come.”

His heart sprang to his throat, swelled. “I’m on my way.”

Peabody itched for the final team meeting of the day to be over. The fact was, she admitted, she just itched. Period. McNab sat across the conference table, sending her an occasional wink and bumping his foot against hers as if to remind her of what was going to happen if they could ever get the hell out of Central.

As if she could forget.

She had a couple of bad moments, wondering if she’d lost her mind, if she should call it off. It was torture trying to concentrate on the work.

“If we’re lucky,” Eve was saying as she paced the room, “Lamont will make a move tonight, try for some contact. We have two tails on him. My impression of Monica Rowan is that she’s a basic whack, but I instructed Peabody to put in the request to tap her home and porta-links. Ordinarily, I don’t think we’d get it, but the governor’s jumpy, and he’ll put pressure on the judge.”

She paused a moment, dipped her hands into her pockets. It always unnerved her to bring up Roarke’s name in official business. “Added to that, I have some hope that Roarke will gather some evidence from inside Autotron, without putting Lamont any more on alert.”

“If it’s there,” Feeney said with a nod, “he’ll find it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be checking in with him shortly. McNab?”

“What?” He was caught in the middle of another wink at Peabody, coughed wildly. “Ah, sorry. Yes, sir?”

“You developing a tic or something?”

“Tic?” He looked anywhere but at Peabody, who was struggling to turn a laughing snort into a sneeze. “No, Lieutenant.”

“Then maybe you’d entertain us with your report.”

“My report?” How the hell was a guy supposed to think straight when the blood kept insisting on draining out of his head and into his lap? “After contacting Roarke with your request for a long-range scanner, I took Driscol from E and B to the lab at Trojan Securities. At that time we met with Roarke and his lab manager. They demonstrated a scanner currently in development. Man, oh man, it’s a beauty, Lieutenant.”

Warming up, he leaned forward. “It can scan, triangulate, and scope through six inches of steel with a range of five hundred yards. Driscol nearly wet his pants.”

“We can leave out Driscol’s bladder problems,” Eve said dryly. “Is the equipment developed enough for use?”

“They haven’t done the fine tuning, but yeah. It’s more sensitive and powerful than anything we have available through NYPSD. Roarke put a round-the-clock in manufacturing. We can have four of them, maybe five, by tomorrow.”

“Anne, will that be enough?”

“If the units are as sensitive as Driscol reported—and I’m pretty sure he did wet his pants—it’ll go a long way. I’ve had teams doing scans on arenas and sports complexes all day. We haven’t found anything, but it’s slow work. I’m short of men with so many assigned to the Plaza site.”

“Our problem is time,” Eve put in. “If Cassandra sticks to the timetable used by the Apollo group, we’ve got a couple of days. But we can’t count on that. At this point, we’ve got everything in place we can have in place. I suggest everyone go home, try to get a decent night’s sleep, and be ready to kick back into gear in the morning.”

Peabody and McNab sprang up immediately, making Eve eye them balefully. “Bladder problems?”

“I . . . I need to call my brother,” Peabody said.

“Me, too. I mean . . .” McNab laughed nervously. “I’ve got a call to make.”

“Just remember, you’re on call until this is over.” She shook her head as they hurried out. “What’s with those two lately?”

“I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything.” Feeney got to his feet. “That warrant comes through, I’ll arrange the tap.”

“See what anything?” she demanded, but he was already heading out. “Something’s weird around here.”

“We’re all wired.” Anne got to her feet. “And, oh joy, it’s my turn to put dinner on the table. See you in the morning, Dallas.”

“Yeah.” Absently, Eve picked up her jacket, and alone, turned to study the boards one last time.

McNab’s apartment was three blocks away. They took it at a fast clip with the wind directly in their faces and the beginnings of an icy rain pricking their skin.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” Peabody began. She had to take control from the get-go, she’d decided, to avoid any chance of disaster.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea how it’s going to be.” Once they were far enough away from Central, he patted a hand on her butt.

“This is a one-time deal.” Though she liked his hand where it was, she knocked it aside. “We go to your place, we do it, and it’s done. Then that’s it, that’s all. We get back to the way things were.”

“Fine.” At that point, he’d have agreed to strip naked and walk on his hands through Times Square just to get her out of that uniform.

“I’m calling my brother.” She pulled her palm-link out of her pocket. “To tell him I’ll be a little late.”

“Tell him you’ll be a lot late.” With that suggestion, he bit her ear and pulled her into the skinny lobby of his building.

Heat washed through her, nearly as annoying as it was arousing. “He’s not home yet. Keep out of range, will you? I don’t want my brother knowing I’m stopping off for a bounce on a bony EDD guy.”

Grinning, McNab stepped back. “You’ve got a real strong romantic streak, She-Body.”

“Shut up. Zeke,” she continued when her ’link clicked to message. “I’m running a little late. Guess you are, too. I should be home in an hour . . .”

She trailed off as, still grinning, McNab held up two fingers.

“Or so. We’ll go out to this club I think you’ll like, if you’re up for it. I’ll call back when I’m on my way home.”

She tucked the ’link away as they stepped into the creaky elevator. “Let’s make this quick, McNab. I don’t want him wondering where I am.”

“Okay. Then let’s get started right now.” He grabbed her, had her up against the wall and his mouth fused on hers before she could squeak.

“Hey, wait.” Her eyes crossed when his teeth closed over the cord in her neck. “Is this a secured elevator?”

“I’m EDD.” He had fast hands and they were busy dragging open the buttons of her overcoat. “Would I live in an unsecured building?”

“Then cut it out. Wait. This isn’t even legal.”

He could feel her heart thudding, feel the frantic beat of it under his hand. “Screw it.” He turned, jabbed the controls to stop the car between floors.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re about to live out one of my top ten fantasies.” From his pocket he took a minitool kit, and went to work on the security panel.

“In here? In here?” Just the thought of it had the blood swimming wildly in her head. “Do you know how many city ordinances you’re breaking?”

“We’ll arrest each other after.” God, his hands weren’t steady. Who’d have thought it? But he grunted in satisfaction when the light on the security camera overhead went blank. He deactivated the alarm system, tossed the tools in the corner, and swung around to her.

“McNab, this is insane.”

“I know.” He jerked his coat off, flung it aside.

“I like it.”

He grabbed her again, grinned. “I thought you would.”

Ice slicked the streets and sidewalks by the time Zeke finished fighting traffic and arrived at the Branson townhouse. It fell in thin, bitter needles and shimmered in the streetlights.

He thought of the baking heat of home, the strong, clean sunlight. And of how Clarissa would heal there.

She answered the door herself. Her face was pale and showed the ravages of tears. Her hand shook, just a little, as she reached for his. “You took so long.”

“I’m sorry.” She’d left her hair down, in a soft wave he wanted to press his face against. “This weather’s slowed everything down. I don’t know how anyone lives here.”

“I don’t want to. Not anymore.” She closed the door, leaned back against it. “I’m scared, Zeke, and I’m so tired of being scared.”

“You don’t have to be anymore.” Gently, swamped with love, he framed her face in his hands. “No one’s going to hurt you again. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes. “I think I knew, the minute I met you, that my life was going to change.” She lifted her hands to his wrists. “You’re cold. Come in by the fire.”

“I want to take you out of here, Clarissa.”

“Yes, and I . . . I’m ready to go.” Still, she walked into the parlor, close to the fire, shivering a little. “I packed a bag. It’s upstairs. I don’t even remember what I put in it.” She drew a breath, leaned back into him when Zeke laid his hands on her shoulders. “I left a note for B. D. When he gets home tomorrow and reads it . . . I don’t know what he’ll do, Zeke. I don’t know what he’s capable of, and I’m afraid of what I’ve done by putting you between us.”

“I want to be between you.” He turned her to face him, his eyes quietly intense on hers. “I want to help you.”

She pressed her lips together. “Because you feel sorry for me.”

“Because I love you.”

Tears glistened in her eyes again, shimmering like dew on wild violets. “I love you, Zeke. It seems impossible, incredible that I could feel like this. But I do. It’s as if I’d been waiting for you.” Her arms slipped around his waist, her mouth tilted toward his. “As if I could get through anything, survive anything, because I had to wait for you.”

His mouth moved softly over hers, to soothe and to promise. When she laid her head against his heart, he drew her closer and simply held her.

“I’ll get your bag.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “And we’ll go away from here.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, smiled. “Yes, we’ll go away from here. Hurry, Zeke.”

“Get your coat. It’s cold.”

He walked out, up the steps. Now his heart began to pound. She was going with him. She loved him. And it was a miracle. He found the suitcase on the bed, saw the envelope addressed to her husband propped on the pillow.

That had taken courage, he thought. One day she’d understand how much courage she had inside her.

He was halfway down the steps again when he heard her scream.

Propped in a corner of the elevator, mostly naked, Peabody struggled for air. McNab had his face buried against her throat with his breath whistling like her mother’s old teakettle.

They’d pulled, tugged, and torn at each other’s clothes, bit, groped, and bruised each other’s flesh. Then had finished the job exactly where they stood.

It had been, Peabody admitted as her brain began to engage again, the most incredible experience of her life.

“Jesus.” His lips formed the word against her throat and had her pulse picking up speed again. “Jesus, Peabody.”

He didn’t think he could move if she’d stuck a stunner in his ear. Her body—oh my God—her body was amazing: ripe and lush, the kind a man could just sink into. If he could manage to get them both horizontal, he wanted to do just that. Maybe drown there.

She had her arms locked around him. Couldn’t quite make herself let go. Just as she couldn’t quite remember what they’d done or how they’d managed it. The last ten minutes were a whirling blur, a sexual haze. A quick walk through insanity.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Yeah.” But he nuzzled at her neck another moment in a gesture she found scary and sweet. Then he stepped back, blinked, and stared at her. His gaze skimmed down, up, then made the trip again. “God, you look great.”

She knew it was ridiculous. Her bra was hanging off one shoulder by one strap. She still had one uniform sock and shoe on, with her trousers caught on the ankle. She wasn’t sure where her panties were, but thought they’d probably been torn to pieces.

And the two dozen ab crunches she suffered through every day still hadn’t flattened her belly.

Despite it, she felt the sly feminine thrill slide up her spine at the approval in his voice and the heat in his eyes. “You look okay, too.”

He was thin, she could nearly count his ribs, and his stomach was flat as a board. Normally, that would have annoyed her. But just now, looking at him, seeing his long blond hair tousled, and the goosebumps starting to pop out on his skin from the chill in the elevator, she found herself grinning.

He grinned back. “I’m not done yet.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

Zeke raced down the stairs with Clarissa’s suitcase tumbling after him. He burst into the parlor to see her sprawled on the floor, one hand holding her cheek. Through her splayed fingers an ugly red mark stood out against her skin.

B. Donald Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at her with it. “I didn’t tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out while I’m away, you bitch?”

“Stay away from her.” Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke’s voice was calm.

“Well, well.” Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. “Isn’t this cozy. The whore and the handyman.” He shoved Zeke in the chest. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I intend to. With Clarissa.”

“Zeke, don’t. He doesn’t mean anything, B. D.” She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. “I was . . . just going out for a walk. That’s all.”

“Lying bitch. So you were going to help yourself to what’s mine, were you?” He shoved Zeke again. “Did she tell you how many others she’s whored with?”

“That’s not true.” Clarissa’s voice broke on a sob. “I never—” She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not talking to you. Thought you’d put in a little overtime while I was out of town?” He sneered at Zeke. “Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your dick into her already. No.” He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. “If you’d had her, you’d know she’s lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she’s mine.”

“Not anymore.”

“Zeke, don’t. I want you to go now.” Her teeth were chattering. “I’ll be fine. Just go now.”

“We’ll go.” Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn’t see Branson’s fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw, radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Clarissa cry out again.

“Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him. B. D., I won’t go. I swear I—” Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.

Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson’s head.

“Sweet God. Sit down, here, sit down.” He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson’s throat.

“There’s no pulse.” He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson’s shirt, and began to pump the heart. “Call for an ambulance, Clarissa.”

But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

“He’s dead. He’s dead, isn’t he?” She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke’s, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. “What will we do, what will we do?”

Nausea churned in Zeke’s stomach as he rose. He’d killed a man. He’d left behind every belief and had taken a life. “We have to call an ambulance. The police.”

“The police. No, no, no.” She began to rock then, her face white and strained. “They’ll lock me away. They’ll send me to prison.”

“Clarissa.” He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil. “You didn’t do anything. I killed him.”

“You—you—” Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. “Because of me. It’s all because of me.”

“No, because of him. You need to be strong now.”

“Strong. Yes.” Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. “I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I . . . But . . . I feel ill. I—Could you get me some water?”

“We need to call the police.”

“Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?”

“All right. Stay right here.”

His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside.

He had killed.

The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn’t remember why he’d come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson’s skull hitting the hearth.

“Water.” He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. “Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water.”

Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.

Because his hands were shaking, he took the glass she brought him in both of them, managed a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor.

Water leaped over the rim of the glass and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood.

There was no body beside her.

“What have you done? What are you doing?” Panicked, he set the glass down and ran to her.

“What has to be done. I’m being strong and doing what has to be done. Let me finish.”

She was fighting him, shoving, weeping, and the smell of fresh blood was strong.

“Stop. Stop this. Where is he?”

“He’s gone. He’s gone, and no one has to know.”

“What are you talking about?” Zeke pulled the bloody rag from her, tossed it back on the hearth. “For God’s sake, Clarissa, what have you done?”

“I had the droid take him.” Her eyes were wild, as with fever. “I had the droid take him out, put him in the car. He’ll throw the body into the river. We’ll clean up the blood. And we’ll run away. We’ll just go away and forget this ever happened.”

“No, no, we won’t.”

“I won’t let them put you in prison.” She reached out, grabbed his shirt. “I won’t let them lock you away for this. I couldn’t bear it.” She lowered her head to his chest, clung. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“It has to be faced.” He gentled his hands on her arms. “If I don’t face it, I couldn’t live with myself.” When she sagged against him, he took her back to the chair.”

“You’ll call the police,” she said dully.

“Yes.”

They’d finally made it to the bed. Peabody wasn’t altogether sure how they’d managed to get from the elevator to his apartment to his bed without killing each other, but that’s where they were. The sheets were hot and tangled, and even now when McNab rolled weakly off her, her body pumped heat like a furnace.

“I’m not done yet,” he said in the dark with a voice that hitched.

Peabody snorted, then began to laugh like a loon. “Me, neither. What are we, crazy?”

“A couple of more times, we’ll probably burn it all out of our systems.”

“A couple of more times, we’ll be dead.”

He reached out to stroke her breast. He had long, bony fingers, and she was becoming very fond of them. “Game?”

“Looks like.”

He rolled over, replaced his fingers with his tongue. “I love your tits.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean . . . ummm.” He began to suck, slowly now, bringing an odd liquid flutter to her belly. “I really love your tits.”

“They’re mine.” She could have bitten her tongue, and was grateful for the dark that concealed the flush as he chuckled against her. “I mean, I didn’t like buy them or anything.”

“I know, Dee. Believe me, nothing improves on Mother Nature.”

God, she wished he hadn’t called her Dee. It made it all personal, and well, intimate, when it was—it had to be . . . otherwise. She started to tell him so, but his hand was sliding, not rushing this time, just lazily sliding down her rib cage.

“Man, you are so . . . female.” He had an urge to kiss her, long and slow and deep. As he lifted his head, started to order lights so he could see her when he did, a ’link beeped.

“Shit. Lights. Yours or mine?”

All at once, they were both cops. She dived for her coat pocket. “Mine, I think. It shouldn’t be from Dispatch, it’s my palm-link. Block outgoing video,” she ordered, shoving the hair back from her face. “Engage. Peabody.”

“Dee.” Zeke’s face filled the miniscreen. By the time he’d drawn a breath, let it out, her heart had stopped. She’d seen that stunned and glazed look in too many other eyes.

“What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

“No. No. Dee, I need you to come. I need you to call Dallas and come to Clarissa Branson’s house. I just killed her husband.”

Eve finished reading the printout Roarke had given her and sat back in the chair at her desk. “So, Lamont’s been stealing material from Autotron, bits and pieces at a time, for the last six months.”

“He covered his tracks well.” It burned, oh, it burned to know he’d been paying the son of a bitch all along. “He had some autonomy, his requisitions would hardly be questioned. He just ordered a bit more than he required for the work, then obviously smuggled out the extras.”

“Which were handed over to Fixer, I’d guess. This is enough to nail him on theft of hazardous material, anyway. And that’s enough for me to haul his butt into interview and cook him.”

Roarke studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I don’t suppose you could hold off on that long enough for me to fire him. Personally?”

“I think I’ll save myself the trouble of getting you out of assault charges and dump him in a cage out of your reach. I appreciate the help.”

“Excuse me?” He turned back to her. “If you’d let me get my memo book, then repeat that for the record.”

“Ha ha. Don’t let it go to your head.” Absently, she rubbed at a headache brewing in her temple. “We have to find the next target. I’ll have Lamont brought in tonight, let him stew in a cage, but it’s not likely he knows the where and when.”

“He’s bound to know a few of the whos.” Roarke moved around the desk, stood behind her, and began to massage the tension from her shoulders. “You need to put this aside for a while, Lieutenant. Give your mind a chance to clear.”

“Yeah, I do.” She let her head fall forward as his hands worked magic. “How long can you keep that up?”

“A lot longer if we were naked.”

She laughed and amused him by starting to unbutton her blouse. “We’ll just see about that. Hell.” She did up the buttons quickly when her communicator sounded.

“Dallas?”

“Jesus, Dallas. God.”

“Peabody.” She got to her feet quickly.

“It’s my brother. It’s Zeke. It’s my brother.”

Eve clamped a hand over Roarke’s, squeezed hard, and forced her voice into a command. “Tell me. Say it fast and straight.”

“He says he killed B. Donald Branson. He’s at that address now. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll meet you there. Hold it together, Peabody. Don’t do anything. Do you copy this? Do nothing until I arrive.”

“Yes, sir. Dallas—”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” She broke the connection and bolted for the door.

“I’m going with you.”

She started to refuse, then remembered the terrified look in Peabody’s eyes. “We’ll take one of your cars. It’ll be faster.”

Eve wasn’t surprised to arrive on scene ahead of Peabody, but she was grateful. One look at the parlor, the blood smeared on the hearth, and the possessive and protective way Zeke kept his hand on Clarissa’s shoulder had her stomach sinking.

Oh shit, Peabody, she thought. What a hell of a fix.

“Where’s the body?”

“I got rid of it.” Clarissa started to her feet on legs that were visibly shaking.

“Sit down, Clarissa.” Zeke said it softly while easing her back into the chair. “She’s in shock. She should have medical attention.”

Shoving sympathy aside, and for the moment doing no more than filing the bruises on Clarissa’s face away, she stepped forward. “Got rid of it?”

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath, locked her hands together. “After—after it . . . I sent Zeke out of the room, asked him to get me some water.”

She glanced toward the glass still sitting untouched on an inlaid table, the water that had sloshed out of it ruining the finish. “When he was gone, I got one of the droids to carry—to carry it out, drive it away. I programmed the droid. I—I know how. I instructed it to throw the body in the river. Off the bridge and into the East River.”

“She was upset,” Zeke began. “She wasn’t thinking. It all happened so fast and I—”

“Zeke, I need you to sit down. Over there.” Eve indicated the sofa.

“She didn’t do anything. I did. I pushed him. I didn’t mean . . . he was hurting her.”

“Sit down, Zeke. Roarke, would you take Mrs. Branson in another room? She should lie down for a few minutes.”

“Of course. Come on, Clarissa.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” She began to weep again. “It was my fault. He was just trying to help me.”

“It’s all right,” Roarke murmured. “Eve will take care of it. Come with me now.” He sent his wife a long, silent look as he led Clarissa away.

“We’re not on record yet, Zeke. No,” she continued with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t say anything until you listen to me. I have to know everything, every detail, every step. I don’t want you to even think about leaving anything out.”

“I killed him, Dallas.”

“I said shut up.” Damn it, why didn’t people listen? “I’m going to read you your rights, then we’re going to talk. You can call for a lawyer, but I’m telling you now—as your sister’s friend—not to do that, not yet. You give it to me straight, then we go in and do a formal interview. That’s when you lawyer up. I’m going on record here in a minute, and when I do, you keep looking me dead in the eye. You got that? You don’t evade, you don’t hesitate. I’m seeing self-defense here, I’m seeing an accident, but when Clarissa ditched the body, she put both of you in jeopardy.”

“She only—”

“Quiet, goddamn it.” Frustrated, she dragged her hands through her hair. “There are ways to get around that. That’s what the lawyer’s going to be for. And the psych tests I’m going to order. But right now, on record, you’re going to tell me everything, leaving nothing out. Don’t think by smoking any details you’re protecting Clarissa. You won’t. It’ll only make it worse.”

“I’ll tell you what happened. All of it. But do you have to take her in? She’s afraid of the police. She’s so fragile. He hurt her. If you could just take me.”

She moved forward, sat on the edge of the coffee table to face him. Jesus, she thought. Sweet Jesus, he was little more than a boy. “Do you trust your sister, Zeke?”

“Yes.”

“And she trusts me.” Eve heard the commotion in the foyer and rose. “That’ll be her now. Are you going to be able to hold it together?”

He nodded, got to his feet as Peabody burst in. “Zeke. God, Zeke, are you all right?” She nearly leaped into his arms, then yanked back to run her hands over him, face, shoulders, chest. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Dee.” He pressed his brow to hers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, it’s okay. We’ll take care of everything. We’ll take care of it all. We need to call a lawyer.”

“No. Not yet.”

Peabody whirled to Eve, eyes damp and terrified. “He needs representation. Jesus, Dallas, he’s not going in a cage, he’s not going into holding.”

“Suck it in, Peabody,” Eve snapped. “That’s an order.” The tears were already rolling, causing Eve to feel a slick sense of panic. Oh God, oh God, don’t fall apart on me. Don’t do it. “That’s an order, Officer. Sit down.”

She’d seen McNab out of the corner of her eye and didn’t stop to think why he was there. “McNab, take Peabody’s recorder. You’ll be acting as temporary aide in this matter.”

“Dallas—”

“This one isn’t for you,” Eve interrupted. “It can’t be. McNab?”

“Yes, sir.” He came over, leaned down to Peabody. “Hold on, okay? Just hang. It’ll be all right.” He took the recorder still pinned to her uniform collar, fixed it on the lapel of his wrinkled pink shirt. “When you’re ready, Lieutenant.”

“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on scene at residence of B. Donald Branson, conducting interview with Zeke Peabody in regards to the suspected death of B. Donald Branson.” She sat on the coffee table again, kept her eyes directly on his, and read him his rights. Both of them ignored Peabody’s muffled moan.

“Zeke, tell me what happened.”

He drew a breath. “I better start at the beginning. Is that all right?”

“That’s fine.”

He did as Eve had told him, kept his eyes on hers, never wavered. He spoke of the first day he’d worked in the house, what he’d heard, his conversation with Clarissa afterward.

His voice trembled now and then, but Eve simply nodded and let him continue on. She wanted the emotion in his voice, the obvious distress in his eyes. She wanted it all on record while it was fresh.

“When I started back downstairs with her suitcase, I heard her scream. She was on the floor, crying, holding her face. He was yelling at her, drunk and yelling at her. He’d knocked her down. I had to stop him.”

Blindly, he reached out for his sister’s hand, gripped it tight. “I just wanted to get her out, away from him. No, that’s not true.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Leave nothing out, Eve had told him. “I wanted him to be punished. I wanted him to pay for what he was doing to her, but I knew I had to get her away where she’d be safe. He yanked her up, yanked her up by her hair. Hurting her, just to hurt her. I grabbed for her, shoved him back. And that’s when . . . that’s when he fell.”

“You stepped up to stop him.” It was the first time Eve had spoken since he started. And she kept her voice quiet, even, expressionless. “To get Clarissa away when he hurt her again. You shoved him and he fell? Is that correct?”

“Yes, he fell, fell backwards. I watched. It was like I’d frozen, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His feet went out from under him and he stumbled back, went down hard. I heard—oh God—I heard his head hit the stone. And then there was blood. I checked his pulse, and there was nothing. His eyes were open, fixed and open and his aura was gone.”

“His what?”

“His aura. His life force. I couldn’t see it.”

“Okay.” That was an area they could just leave alone. “What did you do then?”

“I told Clarissa we needed to call an ambulance. I knew it was too late, but it seemed right. And the police. She was shaking and terrified. She kept blaming herself. I said, I told her she had to be strong and she seemed to snap back a little. She asked me to get her some water, just to give her a minute and get her some water. If I’d known what was in her head . . .”

He broke off then, closed his mouth tightly.

“Zeke, you have to finish. Finish it out. You won’t help Clarissa by covering up now.”

“She did it for me. She was afraid for me. It was the shock, you see?” Those young, soft gray eyes pleaded with Eve for understanding. “She just panicked, that’s all, and thought if there wasn’t a body, if she cleaned up the blood, it would be all right. He’d hurt her,” Zeke murmured, “and she was afraid.”

“Explain what happened. You went to get water.”

He sighed, nodded, and finished.

Eve sat back, considered. Calculated. “Okay, thank you. You’re going to have to go downtown, make a full statement.”

“I know.”

“McNab, call Dispatch, report a homicide at this address.” She shot Peabody a look as her aide sprang off the couch. “Believed self-defense. We need a team in here. And we need a team out, dragging the river. Zeke, I’m calling in a couple of uniforms to take you downtown. You’re not under arrest, but you will be detained until this scene can be secured and swept and we get your statement.”

“Can I see Clarissa before I go?”

“It’s not a good idea. McNab.” She indicated by a jerk of her head for him to stay in the room with Zeke. “Peabody, with me.”

She strode out into the hall, saying nothing when Roarke slipped out of a door and shut it gently. “She’s asleep.”

“Not for long. Peabody, pull it together and listen to me. You ride with your brother. I’m going to order he be detained in an interview room, not a cage. And you’re going to talk to him and explain that he’s going to agree to truth testing and a psych and personality exam. Mira will do it. We’ll put a rush on it and get it done tomorrow. We’ll lawyer him up and get him out tonight. He may have to wear a bracelet until after testing results, but his end of the story is clean, and it’s going to hold.”

“Don’t take me off the case.”

“You were never on. Don’t push this,” she said in a fierce whisper when Peabody protested. “I’ll take care of your brother. If I let you on, it’s going to look shaky. It’s going to be tricky enough for me to hang as primary.”

She was struggling against the tears and losing fast. “You were good to him. You let him get it out on record clean, without the lawyer. You were right about that.”

Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “For Christ’s sake, Peabody, a blind man could see the guy would trip over his own feet before he’d step on an ant. Nobody’s going to argue with self-defense here.” If they found the body. The goddamn body. “He’ll be okay.”

“I should’ve looked after him.” Now she did begin to weep, in great gulping sobs. Helpless, Eve looked at Roarke, spread her hands.

Understanding, he turned Peabody into his arms. “It’s all right, darling.” He stroked her hair, rocked, watched his wife suffer more than a little. “You let Eve look after him now. Let her take care of him.”

“I need to talk to the woman.” Eve’s stomach rolled every time a fresh sob shuddered out. “McNab will secure the scene and wait for the uniforms. Can you . . . handle this?”

He nodded and continued to murmur to Peabody as Eve slipped into the room where Clarissa slept.

“I’m sorry.” Peabody’s voice was muffled against Roarke’s chest.

“Don’t be. You’re entitled to a good cry.”

But she shook her head, eased back, and scrubbed at her wet face. “She wouldn’t break down.”

“Peabody.” Gently, Roarke cupped her cheek. “She breaks.”

Eve yanked all the chains she could reach, gathered strings and pulled each one. She argued, justified, debated, and came close to threatening. In the end, she was primary in the matter of the death of B. Donald Branson.

She booked two interview rooms, positioning Zeke and Clarissa in separate areas, put the fear of God into the crime scene team and sweepers, harangued the body retrieval unit that was already dragging the East River, put McNab to work on the Branson droid, and arrived at Central with a viciously brilliant headache.

But she had everything she’d wanted.

Her last step before taking statements was to contact Mira at home and arrange for both Zeke and Clarissa to be tested the following day.

She took Clarissa first. She imagined when the woman’s initial shock passed, she’d want a lawyer, and the lawyer would shut her up. Self-preservation was bound to overshadow any concern Clarissa might have for Zeke.

But when she walked into the interview room, Clarissa was sitting pale and quiet, her hands clutched around a cup of water. Eve gestured the uniform outside, closed the door.

“Is Zeke all right?”

“Yeah, he’s okay. Feeling any better?”

Clarissa turned the cup in her hands, but didn’t lift it. “It’s all like a dream. So unreal. B. D.’s dead. He is dead, isn’t he?”

Eve walked to the table, pulled back a chair. “Tough to say at this point. We don’t have a body.”

Clarissa shuddered, squeezed her eyes tight. “It’s my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“Now’s the time to start.” She left any sympathy out of her voice. Sympathy would only push the woman into tears again. She engaged the recorder, recited the necessary information, and leaned forward. “What happened tonight, Clarissa?”

“I called Zeke. He came. We were going to leave together. Go away.”

“You and Zeke were having an affair?”

“No.” She raised her eyes then, dark and bright and beautiful. “No, we’d never . . . we kissed once. We fell in love. I know it sounds ridiculous, we barely knew each other. It just happened. He was kind to me, gentle. I wanted to feel safe. I only wanted to feel safe. I called, and he came.”

“Where were you going?”

“Arizona. I think. I don’t know.” She lifted a hand to her forehead, skimmed her fingers over her skin. “Anywhere, as long as I got away. I’d packed. I’d packed a bag, and Zeke went up to get it for me. I got my coat. I was getting away, I was going away with him. Then B. D. came in. He wasn’t supposed to.”

Her voice started to hitch, her shoulders to tremble. “He wasn’t supposed to come home tonight. He was drunk, and he saw I had my coat. He knocked me down.” Her hand drifted to her cheek where the bruise was raw. “Zeke was there, and he told him to stay away from me. B. D. said awful things, and he kept pushing Zeke, shoving him, shouting. I can’t remember, exactly. Just shouting and pushing, and he grabbed my hair. B. D. grabbed my hair and yanked me up. I think I was screaming. Zeke pushed him away. He pushed him because he was hurting me. And he fell. There was a terrible sound and the blood on the hearth. Blood,” she said again and huddled over her cup of water.

“Clarissa, what did Zeke do then, after your husband fell? After the blood?”

“He . . . I’m not sure.”

“Think. Pull it back into your head and think.”

“He . . .” The tears began to plop, in single drops, onto the table. “He made me sit down, then he went to B. D. He told me to call an ambulance. He told me to hurry, but I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t. I knew he was dead. I could see—the blood, his eyes. He was dead. Call the police. Zeke said we had to call the police. I was so afraid. I told him we should run. We should just run away, but he wouldn’t. We had to call the police.”

She stopped, shivering, then looked into Eve’s eyes. “B. D. knows the police,” she said in a whisper. “He said if I ever told anyone, if I ever went to them because he hurt me, they’d lock me up. They’d rape me and lock me up. He knows the police.”

“You’re with the police now,” Eve said coolly. “Have you been raped and locked up?”

Clarissa’s eyes flickered. “No, but—”

“What happened after Zeke told you he was calling the police?”

“I sent him away, into the other room. I thought if I could just . . . make it go away. I asked him to get me some water, and when he was gone, I got the droid. I programmed it to take the—the body, to drive it to the river and throw it in. Then I tried to clean up the blood. There was so much blood.”

“That was fast work. Fast and smart.”

“I had to be fast. And smart. Zeke would come back—he’d try to stop me. He did stop me.” She lowered her head. “And now we’re here.”

“Why are you here?”

“He called the police. He called them and they’ll put him in prison. It was my fault, but he’ll go to prison.”

No, Eve thought, he wouldn’t.

“How long were you married to B. Donald Branson, Clarissa?”

“Almost ten years.”

“And you claim he abused you during this period?” Eve remembered the way Clarissa had stiffened when Branson had put his arm around her at the will reading. “He hurt you physically?”

“Not the whole time.” She wiped a hand over her face. “At first. It was all right at first. But I couldn’t do anything right. I’m so stupid, and I never got anything right. He’d get so angry. He hit me—he said he hit me to knock some sense into my head. To show me who was in charge.”

“Just remember who’s in charge around here, little girl. Just you remember.”

Eve’s gut clenched as the words played back in her head, and the sticky fear from childhood that went with it. “You’re a grown woman. Why didn’t you leave?”

“And go where?” Clarissa’s eyes were ripe with despair. “Where would I go that he wouldn’t find me?”

“Friends, family.” She’d had none, Eve thought. She had no one.

Clarissa shook her head. “I didn’t have any friends, and my family’s gone. What people I knew—the ones he let me know—think B. D. is a great man. He beat me whenever he wanted, raped me whenever he chose. You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t know what it’s like to live with that, with the not knowing what he’ll do, what he’ll be like when he walks through the door.”

Eve rose, walked away to the two-way mirror and stared at her own face. She knew exactly what it was like, too much what it was like. And the remembering, the feeling, would only cloud her objectivity. “And now, now that he won’t walk through the door again?”

“He can’t hurt me anymore.” She said it simply, causing Eve to turn. “And I’ll have to live with knowing I caused a good man, a gentle man to be responsible for his death. Any chance Zeke and I had to be together, to be happy, died tonight, too.”

She laid her head on the rough table. Her weeping, Eve thought, was the sound of a heart breaking.

Eve ended the recording and stepping out, instructed the uniform to arrange to have Clarissa taken to her health center until morning.

She found McNab by the vending machine, scowling at his choices. “The droid?”

“She did a good job with him. He followed orders. I ran his program back and forward and sideways. She inputted orders—retrieve the body by the hearth, transport it to the car, drive to the river, and dispose. There’s nothing else in there. She wiped previous memory.”

“Accident or design?”

“Can’t tell. She’d have been rushed, nervous. It’s easy to wipe out old with new programming if you’re in a hurry.”

“Yeah. How many other servants in that place?”

McNab took out his notes. “Four.”

“And nobody hears anything, sees anything?”

“Two in the kitchen at the time in question. Personal maid upstairs, groundskeeper tucked in his shed.”

“Tucked in his shed, in this weather?”

“They’re all droids. The Bransons had full droid staff. Top quality.”

“Figures.” She rubbed her tired eyes. She’d think about that later, go through those steps and stages later. First priority was to clear Zeke of any chance of formal charges.

“Okay, I’m going to hit Zeke again. Peabody in there with him?”

“Yeah, and the lawyer. No way around running him through again?”

She dropped her hands and her eyes were cool. “We do this by the book. We fucking write the book with this one. Every step documented. This’ll hit the media by morning. ‘Tool and Toy Tycoon Killed by Wife’s Lover. Suspect is the brother of a police officer assigned to Homicide. Investigation snagged. Body missing.” ’

“Okay, okay.” He held up a hand. “I can see the picture.”

“The only way to avoid that is to beat them to it. We prove self-defense, quick and clean. And we find the goddamn body. Tag the sweepers,” she said as she swung toward the interview room. “If they haven’t finished yet, light a fire under them.”

Peabody’s head came up the moment Eve walked in. Her hand continued to grip Zeke’s. On the other side of him was a lawyer she recognized as one of Roarke’s.

The woman in her was grateful, the cop furious. One more shadow on the case, she thought grimly. “Husband of investigating officer arranged for representation.” Fabulous.

“Counselor.”

“Lieutenant.”

Without a glance at Peabody, she sat, engaged the recorder, and got to work.

Thirty minutes later, when Eve walked out, Peabody was right on her heels. “Lieutenant. Sir. Dallas.”

“I don’t have time to talk to you.”

Peabody managed to skirt around Eve, face her. “Yes, you do.”

“Fine.” Braced for a battle, Eve pushed into the women’s room, marched to the sink, and ordered the water on cold. “Say it and let me get back to work.”

“Thank you.”

Off balance with the quiet words, Eve lifted her dripping face. “For what?”

“For taking care of Zeke.”

Slowly, Eve turned off the tap, shook the excess water from her hands, and moved to the dryer. It ran with a nasty buzz and a chilly blow of air. “I’ve got a job to do here, Peabody. And if you’re thanking me for the lawyer, you’re off. That’s Roarke, and I’m not happy about it.”

“Let me thank you.”

She hadn’t expected it. She’d been prepared for anger, for accusations. “Why did you push him that way? Why did you keep trying to trip him up? How can you be so hard?”

And what she got was Peabody’s shaky gratitude and unhappy eyes. Eve rubbed her hands over her face, closed her eyes. “God.”

“I know why you were rough on him this round. I know how much stronger his story is because you were. I was afraid . . .” She had to suck in breaths, one at a time. “Once I got my head clear, I was afraid you’d give him room, go soft—the way I would. But you hammered him. So, thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Eve let her hands drop. “He’s not going down for this. You can hold onto that.”

“I know. Because I’m holding onto you.”

“Don’t do that.” Eve bit off the words and turned away. “Don’t.”

“I’ve got to get this out. My family’s the most important thing I’ve got. Just because I don’t live close doesn’t mean we aren’t close. After them comes the job.” She sniffled, rubbed a hand impatiently under her nose. “You’re the job.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are, Dallas. You’re everything that’s right about the job. And you’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I picked up my badge. I’m holding onto you because I know I can.”

Eve’s heart quivered. The backs of her eyes burned. “I don’t have time to stand here and get sloppy with you.” She strode to the door, stopping briefly to tap a finger on Peabody’s chest. “Officer Peabody, you’re out of uniform.”

As the door swung closed behind Eve, Peabody glanced down and saw the third button on her uniform jacket was hanging by a thread. McNab, she realized, hadn’t quite torn it off.

“Oh hell.” She swore again, viciously, and ripped the button free.

There was a manic dance troupe doing a foot-stomping jig inside Eve’s head. She gave a passing thought to rooting out a pain blocker. Then she walked into her office and saw Roarke.

He sat in her ratty chair in his elegant suit. His equally elegant overcoat hung on her ugly coat rack. His eyes were clear, his voice smooth and alert, as he conducted whatever kind of business a man like him conducted at eleven o’clock at night.

On principle, she rapped a fist against the supple Italian shoes currently making themselves at home on the top of her desk. She didn’t budge them, but she made her point.

“I’ll have to get back to you on the details.” His gaze skimmed over Eve. His sharp eyes saw everything. The fatigue, the headache, the simmering emotions held ruthlessly in check. “I have a meeting.”

He disconnected, lazily swung his feet to the floor. “Sit down, Lieutenant.”

“This is my office. I give the orders here.”

“Um-hmm.” He rose to go to her AutoChef, and knowing she’d complain, programmed it for broth rather than coffee.

“There was no point in your waiting.”

“Of course not.”

“You might as well go home. I’m not sure when I’ll get there. I’ll just bunk here.”

In a pig’s eye, Roarke thought, but simply turned and handed her the broth.

“I want coffee.”

“You’re such a big girl now. You must know you can’t have everything you want.” He moved past her to the door, shut it just as she bristled at him.

“What I don’t need, in here, is a smart mouth.”

He winged up a brow. “Are you having yours removed? I’m so fond of it.”

“I can have two gorillas in uniform in here in thirty seconds. It would make their night to toss you out on your excellent ass.”

He sat in her spare chair, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped room would allow, and studied her face. “Sit down, Eve, and drink your broth.”

Because she caught herself, barely caught herself, before flinging the cup across the room, she did sit. “I just pounded on Zeke. For thirty minutes I beat him up the wall and down again. ‘You wanted to fuck another man’s wife. So you killed him to get him out of the way. He was a rich man, wasn’t he? She’ll be rich now. That oughta set you up just fine, Zeke. You get the woman, you get the money, and Branson gets a tasteful memorial service.’ And that was before I got nasty.”

Roarke said nothing, simply waited her out. Eve picked up the broth. Her throat was raw, and it was better than nothing. “And when I finished hammering him, Peabody follows me into the john and thanks me for it. For Christ’s sake.”

He rose because she’d dropped her throbbing head into her hands. But when his hands came down to rest on her shoulders, she tried to shrug them off. “Don’t. I can’t take any more understanding tonight.”

“That’s a pity.” He lowered his lips to the top of her head. “You’ve been training Peabody for months now. Do you think she doesn’t know how your mind works?”

“Right now I don’t know how the hell it works. She—Clarissa—she said he’d beaten her, raped her. Whenever he wanted. For years. Over and over for years.”

Roarke’s fingers tightened on her shoulders before he controlled them, gentled them. “I’m sorry, Eve.”

“I’ve heard it before, from witnesses, suspects, victims. I can handle it. I can deal with it. But every time, every goddamn time, it’s like a fist in the gut. Right under the guard and into the gut. Every time.”

For a moment, just a moment, she let herself lean back, into him, into the comfort. “I have to keep going here.” She rose, moved away from him. “You shouldn’t have called in your spiffy lawyer, Roarke. It’s sticky. This whole deal is very, very sticky.”

“She cried on my shoulder. Sturdy, stalwart Peabody. Would you ask me to turn away from that?”

Eve shook her head. “Okay.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing the headache away. “We’ll deal with it. I’m going to call Nadine.”

“Now?”

After blowing out a breath, Eve turned back. Her eyes were clear again. “I’m going to offer her a one-on-one, right here, right now. She’ll jump at it, and we’ll have our spin on this right out of the box.”

She walked back to the ’link to make the call. “Go home, Roarke.”

“I will. When you do.”

He bullied her into going home. Or she let him think he did. Zeke had been released on his own recognizance and was to report to Dr. Mira’s office at nine A.M. Clarissa was tucked in a private room at her swanky health center and sedated for the night.

Eve had stationed a guard at her door.

Nadine’s story hit the air at midnight and carried exactly the brisk tone of a routine if tragic accident that Eve had wanted.

The crime scene evidence was in and would be fully analyzed the next morning. The body was still somewhere in the depths of the East River, and there was simply no more to be done.

So at two A.M. she stripped off her clothes and prepared to fall into her own bed.

“Eve?” Roarke noted her weapon and harness were now out of reach. When she turned her head toward him, he caught her chin and shoved a pain blocker into her mouth. Before she could spit it at him, he caught her close, clever hands roaming down to squeeze her naked ass, and crushed his mouth to hers.

She choked, swallowed in self-defense, and felt his tongue dance lightly over hers. “That was low.” She shoved away, coughed a little. “That was despicable.”

“That worked.” He caressed her cheek and gave her an affectionate shove into bed. “You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”

“In the morning, after coffee, I’m going to smack you around.”

He slid into bed beside her, cuddled her against him. “Mmm. I can’t wait. Go to sleep.”

“You won’t think it’s so funny when your head’s bouncing off the floor.” But she rolled hers onto his shoulder and dropped away.

Four hours later, she awoke in exactly the same position. Exhaustion had gobbled her up, and she’d slept like a stone. She blinked, saw Roarke’s eyes were already open and on hers. “Time?” she croaked it out.

“Just past six. Take a few minutes more.”

“No, I can get started from here.” She climbed over him, then stumbled groggily into the bathroom. In the shower, she rubbed sleep out of her eyes, and realized—with some resentment—her headache was gone.

“Jets on full, a hundred and one degrees.”

Water streamed out from half a dozen jets, billowing steam. She let out one low, appreciative moan, then hair dripping, narrowed her eyes as Roarke stepped in behind her.

“Lower the temp and suffer.”

“I thought I’d boil with you this morning.” He handed her a cup of coffee, amused by the suspicious look in her eyes, pleased that they showed no shadow of pain. “I’ll be working at home myself for a few hours today.”

He sipped his own coffee, then set the mug on a high shelf above the pumping jets. “I’d like you to keep me apprised of progress, in both the helpings you currently have on your plate.”

“I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.”

“Good enough.” He filled his hands with soap and began to slide them over her.

“I can manage this myself.” She stepped back because the blood was already sizzling under her skin. “I don’t have time for water games this morning.”

He only moved in, gliding his hands up over her belly, torso, breasts, which made her shiver. “I said—” His mouth lowered to her shoulder, teeth nipping. “Cut it out.”

“I love it when you’re wet . . .” He took the mug out of her hand before she could drop it, set it next to his own. “And slippery.” Nudged her against the wall running with water, dripping with steam. “And reluctant. Go up.” He murmured against her ear as his fingers dipped into her, slipping in, slipping out in a smooth, lazy rhythm.

Her head fell back, her body took over. “Damn it.” It came out in a moan as pleasure, dark and drugged, spread from her center to the tips of her fingers.

“Go over.” He slicked his tongue down the side of her throat and gave her no choice.

Her hands were splayed against the wet tile, her body pulsing. Water rained over them, hot and needle sharp, as he felt the orgasm tear through her.

A kind of purging, he thought.

She was still gasping when he spun her around and closed his mouth greedily over her breast.

She was helpless against what he brought to her. Each time, every time, helpless, staggered. And grateful. She dived her fingers into his hair, twisting, tangling them in that thick wet silk while those good, strong tugs of desire in her belly followed the restless hunger of his mouth on her.

His hands, slick, skilled, strong, raced over her, took her to the edge and over. Where he wanted her, where he needed her—shuddering, moaning his name, swamped in her own pleasure.

The nails biting viciously into his back thrilled him, the frenzied race of her heart against his incited him. More. All. Now, was all he could think as they savaged each other’s mouths.

“I want you.” His breath was heaving as he gripped her hips. “Always. Ever. Mine.”

His eyes were a wild and burning blue. She could see nothing else. It should have been too much, this desperate, endless need for him. Yet somehow it was never, never enough. “Mine.” She dragged his mouth back to hers, and when he drove into her, met him beat for urgent beat.

She had to admit, four solid hours of sleep, wet, wild sex, and a hot meal went a long way to put the mind and body back into fighting trim. At seven-fifteen, she was at her desk in her home office, ready to start her day with her head clear and alert, her muscles warmed, and her energy up.

Marriage was having a number of interesting side benefits she hadn’t considered.

“You look . . . limber, Lieutenant.”

She glanced over. “I’d better. I want to put in a half hour here before I head in. We’ve still got Cassandra to deal with, and I need to keep Peabody’s energies focused in that direction.”

“While you juggle Zeke’s case with your other hand.”

“Cops are always juggling.” She had some very definite ideas where she was heading in that particular area. “I’m going to split McNab’s duties. We can spare him to put time into the Branson case until we smooth it out. It helped having him around last night.”

She stopped, frowned. “What the hell was he doing around last night, anyway? I didn’t take time to find out.”

“I’d say that was obvious.” When Eve only stared at him blankly, Roarke laughed. “And you call yourself a detective. He’d been with Peabody.”

“With her? What for? They were off duty.”

Roarke stared at her a moment, saw she was seriously at sea. With a chuckle, he walked over, cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb over the dent in it. “Eve, they were off duty and on each other.”

“On each other?” It took her a beat, then two. “Sex? You think they had sex? That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because—because it is. She thinks he’s a pest. He goes out of his way to irritate her. I know you thought they had some . . . thing developing, but you were off. She’s busy fooling around with Charles Monroe and he’s . . .” She trailed off, thinking of the odd looks, the silences, the blushes. The signals.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” was all she could say. “Jesus Christ, they’re having sex. I don’t need this.”

“Why should you care?”

“Because. They’re cops. They’re both cops, and damn it, she’s my cop. This kind of shit gets in the way, it messes things up. They’ll moon over each other for a while, then something’s going to go wrong, and they’ll start spitting and slapping.”

“Why do you assume it won’t work?”

“Because it won’t. It doesn’t. Your energies and your focus get all split up when they need to be channeled on the job. You start mixing sex and romance and Christ knows what into it, everything gets tilted. They’ve got no business having sex. Cops aren’t supposed to—”

“Have a personal life?” he finished, just a bit coolly. “Personal feelings and choices?”

“I didn’t mean that. Exactly. But they’re better off without them,” she added in a mutter.

“Thank you so much.”

“This isn’t about us. I’m not talking about us.”

“Meaning you’re not a cop, and we haven’t mixed sex, romance, and Christ knows what into it?”

She’d pushed a button all right, Eve noted and wished she’d broken her finger first. “This is about two cops working on my team and on two messy investigations.”

“An hour ago I was inside you, and you were wrapped around me.” His voice was more than cool now, it was cold. As were his eyes. “That was about us, and the investigations were still there, messy or otherwise. How long are you going to keep believing you’d be better off without that?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She got to her feet, surprised to find herself just a little shaken.

“Isn’t it?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth or thoughts in my head. I don’t have time for some marital crisis right now.”

“Fine, I don’t have the tolerance for one.”

When he turned and left her, snapping the door closed between their offices, she lifted a fist. Then, as the temper refused to build and spare her from guilt, she lifted the other and knocked them against her temples.

Heaving out a breath, she strode to the door, opened it, and faced him down. He was already behind his desk and barely acknowledged her.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said again. “But maybe it’s part of it. I know you love me, but I don’t know why. I look at you, and I just can’t get why it’s me. Every time I get my balance, I lose it again. Because it shouldn’t be me, and I think it’d kill me if you ever figured that out.”

He started to get to his feet, but she shook her head. “No, I don’t have time. I mean it. I just wanted to say that, and to tell you it wasn’t what I meant. Peabody—she got hurt before, she got bruised because she tipped for a cop—another cop, another case. I’m not going to see that happen to her again. That’s it. That’s all. I’m going in. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything you need to know.”

She moved fast. He could have stopped her, but he stayed where he was and let her go.

Later, he told himself, he’d deal with her. And she would have to deal with him.

Eve strode into Central. The glowing mood with which she’d started the day was now tarnished. She thought it just as well. She’d work better, sharper, if she was edgy. Spotting Peabody, she jerked her chin, then pointed a finger toward her office.

She could see the signs of an unhappy, sleepless night on her aide’s face. She’d expected that. She held the door herself until Peabody moved through, then closed it. “As of now, you put Zeke out of your mind. It’s being handled, and you have a job to do.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“I’m not finished, Officer. If you can’t guarantee that I’ll have all your energy and all your concentration on the Cassandra matter, I want you to withdraw from the team and request leave. Now.”

Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again before something nasty could escape. When her control was back, she nodded briefly. “You’ll have the best I can give you, Lieutenant. I’ll do my job.”

“So noted. Lamont should have been picked up last night. Arrange for him to be brought up to interview. When the scanners received from Securities arrive, I want to know about it.” Keep her busy, Eve thought. Keep her swimming in grunt work. “Contact Feeney and see if the tap warrant came through on Monica Rowan. Did you sleep with McNab?”

“Yes, sir. What?”

“Shit.” Eve shoved her hands in her pockets, paced to the window, back. “Shit.” She stopped, and they stared at each other. “Peabody, have you lost your mind?”

“It was a momentary lapse. It won’t be repeated.” She intended to tell McNab so at the first opportunity.

“You’re not . . . stuck on him or anything?”

“It was a lapse,” Peabody insisted. “A momentary lapse brought on by unexpected physical stimuli. I don’t want to talk about it. Sir.”

“Good. I don’t even want to think about it. Get me Lamont.”

“Right away.”

Delighted to escape, Peabody fled.

Eve turned to her ’link and began to run the incoming messages. When Lamont’s name popped, she swore, punched the machine. “Why the hell wasn’t this transmission forwarded when it came in?”

Due to a temporary lapse in the system, all transmissions received between one hundred and six hundred and fifty hours were placed on hold.

“Lapses.” She smacked the machine again, for the hell of it. “We’re just full of lapses these days. Transmit full report on Lamont, hard copy.”

Working . . . .

While her unit hiccupped through the printout, Eve signaled Peabody on her communicator. “Don’t bother to dig up Lamont. He’s in the morgue.”

“Yes, sir. The mail just came in. There’s another pouch.”

Eve’s nerves hummed. “I’ll meet you in the conference room. Tag the rest of the team. Let’s move.”

The pouch was tested, cleared. The disc was copied, secured. Eve took a seat at the computer, slid the disc into the slot. “Run and print,” she ordered.

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

We are the gods of justice.

We are aware of your efforts. They amuse us. Because we are amused, we will warn you a last time. Our compatriots must be freed. Until these heros have liberty, there will be terror—for the corrupt government, the puppet military, the fascist police, and the innocent they suppress and condemn. We demand payment, as retribution for the murders and imprisonment of the righteous. The price is now one hundred million dollars, in bearer bonds.

Confirmation of the release of the unjustly imprisoned political prophets must be received by sixteen hundred hours today. We will accept a public statement from each individual listed, made live through the national media. All must be accounted for. If even one is not released, we will destroy the next target.

We are loyal. And our memory is long.

Payment must be made at seventeen hundred hours. Lieutenant Dallas is to deliver this payment, alone. The bonds are to be placed in a plain black suitcase. Lieutenant Dallas is to go to Grand Central Station, track nineteen, westbound landing, and await further instruction.

If she is accompanied, followed, tracked, or attempts to make or receive any transmissions from this position, she will be executed, and the target will be destroyed.

We are Cassandra, prophets of the new realm.

“Extortion,” Eve murmured. “It’s the money. It’s the money, not those psycho jokers on the list. A public statement over national screen. A ten-year-old could figure we’d be able to rig that.”

She rose to pace and think. “That’s smoke. It’s the money. And they’ll blow the target whether they get it or not. Because they want to.”

“Either way,” Feeney pointed out, “it puts you in the crosshairs and some unknown target on countdown.”

“Can you fix me up with a tracker they can’t make?”

“I don’t know what the hell they can make.”

“Do your best.” She turned to Anne. “You’ve got a team who can work these high-end scanners?”

“One of Roarke’s geniuses is giving us a briefing on it in twenty minutes. Then we’re in the field.”

“Find the target. I’ll deal with the drop.”

“You’re not going in alone.” This time Feeney rose. “Whitney won’t clear it.”

“I didn’t say I was going in alone, but we’d better work out how it’ll look that way,” she said again. “We’re going to need a hundred million in fake bearer bonds.” Her smile was thin, humorless. “I think I know someone who can deliver those in time for the deadline.”

“Give Roarke my best,” Feeney said with a smirk.

She sent him a bland look. “I need you to report to Whitney and rig me a tracker.”

“McNab and I will get on that.”

“I need McNab—for a bit.”

Feeney looked at her, at his detective, nodded. “I’ll get another man on it until I’ve finished with the commander.” He took the hard copy. “We’ll want a good hour to test it out on you beforehand.”

“I’ll be available. Peabody, you’re with me. I’ll meet you at my vehicle in five minutes. McNab.” She signaled him out with the flick of a finger.

“I want you to check in with Mira,” she began as they walked toward her office. “Get a line on Zeke’s testing. Then I want you to put the squeeze on Dickhead in the lab. I’d do it myself, but I don’t want to involve Peabody at this point.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Threaten him, and if that doesn’t work, bribe him. Arena ball tickets should work. I can scope two VIP box seats for next weekend.”

“Yeah?” His eyes went bright. “Gee, Dallas, how come you never share with pals? The Huds are squaring off against the Rockets next weekend. If I threaten him into shagging his ass, can I have the tickets?”

“Are you asking for a bribe, Detective?”

Because she’d stopped, because her eyes were flat and her mouth set, he sobered quickly. “Why are you pissed off at me?”

“Why did you have sex with my aide during a sensitive investigation?”

His eyes glistened. “Does she need your permission to date, Lieutenant?”

“This wasn’t pizza and a video, McNab.” She strode into her office, yanked her jacket off the hook.

“Oh, so she only has to clear who she goes to bed with.”

Eve spun back. “You’re insubordinate, Detective.”

“You’re out of line, Lieutenant.”

It surprised her, she had to admit. It threw her off rhythm to see him standing there, eyes cold and fierce, body braced, teeth showing. She thought of him—when she thought of him—as a good cop with a sharp mind for details, a good hand with electronics. And as a man, a little foolish, vain, and glib, who talked too much and took nothing beyond his work seriously.

“Don’t you tell me I’m out of line.” Working on control, she put her jacket on slowly. “Peabody got kicked by a cop with a pretty face before. I’m not watching it happen again. She matters.”

“She matters to me, too.” The words were out before he could yank out his tongue and bite it off. “Not that she gives a damn about that. She brushed me off this morning, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.” He kicked her chair, sent it skidding across the room. “Goddamn it.”

“Oh hell, McNab.” The anger she’d worked up so nicely dipped toward nerves. “What are you doing here? You’re not getting sticky on her?” His only answer was one long, miserable stare. “I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it.”

“It’s probably just a blip,” he muttered. “I’ll get over it.”

“Do that. Just do that, will you? This isn’t the time—it’s never the time, but this is really not the time. So forget it, okay?” Eve didn’t wait for his reply—she wanted him to understand. “Her brother’s on the hot seat, we’ve got bombs all over the damn city. I’ve got one body in the morgue and another in the river. I can’t afford to have two members of my team tripping over heartstrings.”

He surprised himself by laughing, and meaning it. “Christ, that’s cold.”

“Yeah, I know.” She remembered the way Roarke had looked at her that morning. “I suck at this, McNab. But I need you on your toes.”

“I’m on them.”

“Stay on them,” she told him and walked out.

Since she calculated she couldn’t do worse on her record of offending, insulting, and injuring people who mattered to her that morning, Eve put a call through to Roarke as she headed to the garage.

Summerset answered, and her instinctive reaction of clenching her teeth felt a lot better than guilt. “Roarke,” was all she said.

“He’s engaged on another call at the moment.”

“This is police business, you cross-eyed putz. Put me through.”

His nostrils flared in annoyance, and her mood lightened just a little more. “I will see if he’s available to take your call.”

The screen went blank. Though she didn’t doubt he’d have the nerve to cut her off, she counted to ten. And ten again. She was heading toward thirty when Roarke came on.

“Lieutenant.” His voice was clipped, the Irish in it frigid temper rather than music.

“The department needs one hundred million in fake bearer bonds—good fakes, but not good enough to pass a bank check. Sheets of ten thousand.”

“When’s your deadline?”

“I could use them by fourteen hundred.”

“You’ll have them.” He waited a beat. “Anything else?”

Yes, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. What do you want from me? “That’s it. The department—”

“Appreciates it. Yes, I know. I’m on an interplanetary conference call, so if that’s all . . .”

“Yeah, that’s all. If you’d let me know when they’re ready, I’ll arrange transport.”

“You’ll hear from me.”

He cut her off without another word and made her wince. “Okay,” she mumbled. “That hurt. Bull’s-eye.” She jammed the link back in her bag.

She remembered her advice to McNab. Just forget it. She did her best to follow it, but some of her feelings must have shown on her face. Peabody kept her mouth shut as Eve stepped up to the car. And they drove to the morgue in silence.

The dead house was packed like a lobby bar at a Shriners’ convention. The corridors were full of techs, assistant MEs, and the medical staff drafted from local health centers to wade in during the current crisis. The stench of humanity, alive and deceased, smeared the air.

Eve managed to snag one of the morgue staff she knew. “Chambers, where’s Morris?” She’d hoped for a five-minute consult with the chief medical examiner.

“Up to his eyebrows. The hotel bombing brought in a lot of customers. A lot of them in pieces. It’s like putting a jigsaw puzzle together.”

“Well, I need to see one of your guests who checked in early this morning. Lamont. Paul Lamont.”

“Jeez, Dallas, we’re working on priority here. We gotta get these stiffs ID’d.”

“It’s connected.”

“All right, all right.” Obviously miffed, Chambers scurried to a computer, ran the log. “We got him on ice in area D, drawer twelve. We’re racking, packing, and stacking them for now.”

“I need a look at him, his personal effects and the incoming report.”

“Let’s make it quick.” His shoes slapped down the hall. He swung into area D, slid his key card in the slot, and led them inside. “Drawer twelve,” he reminded her. “Just use your master, and I’ll pull up the rest.”

Eve uncoded the drawer and out came a puff of icy smoke and Lamont. Or what was left of him. “They did a job on him,” she muttered, scanning his mangled, broken body.

“Sure did. Says here the vehicle, a black Airstream van, jumped the curve and ran right over him where he stood on the sidewalk. We haven’t done anything on him yet, just stored him. He’s not priority.”

“No, he’ll keep.” Eve slid the drawer back in place. “What did he have on him?”

“Fifty couple in credits, wrist unit, IDs and key cards, pack of breath mints, palm-link, date book. Oooh, and a sticker.” He examined the long, slim blade. “Over the legal limit, I’d say.”

“Only by a mile or two. I need the ’link and date book.”

“Fine by me. Sign for them and they’re yours. Look, I have to get back. Hate to keep the customers waiting.”

She signed the checkout log. “Have these effects been dusted?”

“Hell if I know. Enjoy.”

Eve turned to Peabody as the area doors swung shut. “We’ll dust and clean first. Let’s go on record.”

Peabody shifted her field kit on her shoulder. “Here? Don’t you want to do this somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“Well, the place is full of dead people.”

“And you want to be a murder cop?”

“I’d rather deal with one at a time.” But she opened her kit and went to work. “Good clean prints on here.”

“We’ll run them after we check out his ’link and log. Probably Lamont’s prints.”

Eve took the ’link, turned it over in her hand. It was a top-of-the-line model, sleek and complex. She remembered his expensive shoes. “Wonder what Roarke pays these guys? She turned the control to replay all incoming and outgoing transmissions for the last twenty-four hours. “Note any numbers we hit. We’ll need to run them, too.”

She watched the numbers zip by on the display, then pursed her lips. Video was blocked. But the voices came through loud and clear.

Yes.

They’re looking at me. Lamont, Eve decided, with the faintly French accent and the squeak of nerves in his voice. The cops were here. They’re looking at me. They know something.

Calm down. You’re shielded. This isn’t something to discuss over ’links. Where are you?

It’s all right. I’m secured. I slipped out to the grill down from work. They called me up, Roarke was there, too.

And what did you tell them?

Nothing. They got nothing out of me. But I’m telling you, I’m not taking the fall for this. I want out. I need more money.

Your father would be disappointed.

I’m not my father, and I know when it’s time to cut loose. I got you everything you needed. I’m finished here. I want my share now, tonight, and I’m gone. I did my part. You don’t need me anymore.

No, you’re right. It would be best if you finished out the day as normal. You’ll be contacted later as to where to pick up your share. We still have to be careful. Your work is done, but ours isn’t.

Just get me what I’ve got coming, and I’m gone by morning.

It’ll be arranged.

“Idiot,” Eve muttered. “Signed his own execution papers.” She shook her head. “Greed or stupidity.”

There was another call, Lamont booking a private compartment on the off-planet transport to Vegas II. He used a false name and identification number.

“Have a unit go by his place, Peabody. I bet our boy was all packed and ready to go.”

The next was an incoming, a recorded voice giving brief instructions.

The corner of Sixth and Forty-third, one hundred hours.

Lamont made two more outgoings, received no answer from either.

“Run the numbers, Peabody,” Eve instructed as she picked up the day book.

“Already running the first. It’s a private code.”

“Use my authorization number and get it. Whoever he was talking to didn’t realize Lamont was on his own ’link. Had to figure he was on a public job, or he’d never have left this on the body. Even if he’d wanted it, the tails on Lamont were right on scene.”

“The code’s shielded,” Peabody told her. “They won’t release it.”

“Oh yeah, they will.” Eve whipped out her communicator. Within thirty seconds she had Chief Tibble on the line, and barely two minutes later, the governor’s personal authorization.

“Man, you are good.” Peabody looked on with admiration. “You snarled at the governor.”

“Gives me that shit about privacy acts. Politicians.” She set her teeth, flexed and unflexed her fingers as she waited for the last line of bureaucracy to tumble. “Well, son of a bitch.”

“What is it? Who is it?” Peabody craned her neck to see the data on Eve’s display.

“B. Donald Branson’s private line.”

“Branson.” The blood drained out of Peabody’s face. “But, Zeke. Last night . . .”

“Transmit that call to Feeney, get him to run a voice check. We need to know if that was Branson on the call.” She was moving fast as she snapped out the order. “Contact the guard on Clarissa Branson’s room,” she continued as they strode down the corridor. “Tell him no one goes in or out of it until we get there.”

She pulled out her own communicator as they swung outside into the cold. “McNab, get down to Mira’s. I want Zeke brought back up. Tuck him away until you hear from me.”

“Zeke wouldn’t know anything about Cassandra, Dallas. He’d never—”

Eve spared Peabody a look as she jumped into the car. “Toys and tools, Peabody. I’d say your brother was being used as both.”

Clarissa was gone. There was nothing to be gained by berating and browbeating the guard on duty, but Eve did it anyway.

“She looks at him, smiles tearfully, and asks if she can go sit in the gardens.” Eve rolled her eyes and tapped the note Clarissa had left behind in her palm. “Then she uses the can I have a glass of water routine she did with Zeke and our boneheaded hero runs off to fetch.”

She circled the conference room, waiting for Zeke to be brought in. “Oops, where’d she go? It takes him thirty fucking minutes to call it in because he’s so sure a sweet little thing like her is still around somewhere. But does he check her room? See the tearful good-bye note?”

Eve unfolded it again while Peabody wisely remained silent.

I’m sorry, so sorry, for everything that happened. It was my fault. All of it. Please forgive me. I’m doing what’s best for Zeke. He can’t be held responsible. I can never face him again.

“So she leaves him holding the bag. Let’s hear it for true love.” Though Peabody said nothing, Eve held up her hand and began to go through the steps and stages. “Zeke hears them fighting through the vent in the workroom. It’s Branson’s house, his workroom. He knows Zeke’s down there. According to Clarissa, he was wild to keep anyone from knowing he knocked her around. So why doesn’t he fix the damn vent? The staff’s all droids, so he doesn’t worry about them. But he’s got a live one now.”

“You think he wanted Zeke to hear?”

“Follow along, Peabody. I’ve been working this out since last night.”

“Last night?” Peabody’s mouth dropped open. “But, Dallas, there was nothing in the prelim report about—”

She broke off, winced, as Eve shot her a cool stare. “You read my prelim, Officer Peabody?”

“Strap me in irons,” Peabody muttered, “and flog me. He’s my brother.”

“I’ll reserve the flogging for a later date. No, I didn’t put anything into the prelim because the main concern was getting Zeke’s story down and putting him in the clear. But the whole deal screamed setup. Slick, organized, damn well-oiled, but a setup.”

“I don’t see it.”

“You can’t see past Zeke. Take the steps here. They pull Zeke in from out west. I don’t care how good he is, they could’ve found somebody to do this work without transporting him in. But they pull him, a single guy, a Free-Ager. Branson kicks his wife to hell and back, but he lets her import a young, attractive man into the house. And he’s diddling with having carpentry work done when, we suspect, he’s laying plans for the biggest terrorist siege on the city since the Urban Wars.”

“None of it makes sense.”

“Not separately, but it does when you connect the dots. He needed a fall guy.”

“But, for God’s sake, Dallas, Zeke killed him.”

“I don’t think so. Why haven’t they found the body? Why did this cowed, terrified woman manage to get rid of it in less than five minutes?”

“But—who died?”

“This time around, I don’t think anybody did. Toys and tools, Peabody. I’ve seen several of the prototype droids Roarke’s R and D department’s got under production. You wouldn’t make them at a glance, even a close look.” She glanced around as Zeke came in, followed by Dr. Mira.

“Doctor?”

“Zeke’s my patient, and he’s under considerable distress.” Gently, Mira walked him to a chair. “If you feel it’s necessary to interview him, I want to be here.”

“Zeke, do you want your lawyer?” Eve asked him, and he only shook his head. Sympathy threatened to surface. She knew firsthand how miserable Testing could be. She set the recorder, sat across from him. “I just have a few questions. How many times did you meet Branson?”

“I only saw him twice. Once over the ’link and then last night.”

“Just once, over a ’link?” But he’d recognized Zeke instantly. Branson had reportedly been stumbling drunk, but he’d tagged Zeke at a glance. “The whore and the handyman,” Zeke had quoted him as saying. “So most of your contact was through Clarissa. How much time did you spend together?”

“Not a lot. When she was in Arizona, we talked. We had lunch a couple of times.” He looked up quickly. “It was harmless.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Just . . . things. All sorts of things.”

“Did she ask you about yourself?”

“I guess, yeah. She was so relaxed and happy. Not like she is here. She liked hearing about my work, and she was interested in Free-Agism. She said it sounded like such a gentle and kind religion.”

“Zeke, did she come onto you?”

“No!” His shoulders straightened. “It was nothing like that. She was married. I knew she was married. She was just lonely. There was something there.” He said it with a wonder that made Eve’s heart sink for him. “Right away, and we both knew it, but we wouldn’t have done anything. I didn’t know how he treated her, I just knew she was unhappy.”

“Last night was the first time you’d actually seen Branson in person. He never came down to the workroom, never called you up to discuss the projects?”

“No, he never came down.”

Eve sat back. She was willing to bet Zeke had yet to meet B. Donald Branson in the flesh. “That’s all I need for now. Zeke, you’re going to have to stay here, in Central.”

“In a cell?”

“No. But you have to stay here.”

“Can I see Clarissa?”

“We’ll talk about that later.” Eve rose. “The uniform will take you up to the recreation area. There’s a sleeping bin off the side. I think you should tranq up and use it.”

“I don’t use tranqs.”

“Me, either.” She softened enough to smile at him. “Use the bin anyway. Get some rest.”

“Zeke.” There was so much Peabody wanted to say, wanted to do, but she held it in and looked at him soberly. “You can trust Dallas.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.” Mira patted his arm. “We’ll use meditation.” She waited until the uniform came to take him out. “My testing is complete enough for me to give you an evaluation.”

“I don’t need it.” Eve cut her off. “It’s for the record, not for me. He’s not going to be charged.”

Mira relaxed fractionally. In the last two hours, Zeke had slipped past her professional veneer. “He’s suffering. The idea that he took a life, however accidentally—”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Eve corrected. “It was a setup. If I’m on target, B. Donald Branson’s very much alive, and most likely with his wife. I can’t get into the details, I don’t have time,” she continued. “You looked at Clarissa’s statement, you viewed the recording.”

“Yes. It’s a classic case of abuse and shattered self-esteem.”

“Classic,” Eve agreed with a nod. “Like textbook. Like line for line out of a case study. She didn’t miss a trick, did she?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No friends, no family support. Delicate, helpless woman dominated by an older, stronger man. He drinks, he beats her. He rapes her. She sticks. ‘Where will I go, what will I do?” ’

Mira folded her hands. “I realize you would find her inability to change her situation a sign of weakness, but it isn’t at all atypical.”

“No, it’s dead typical. And I’m saying that’s just how she played it. Played Zeke, played me, and would have played you. I think you’d have caught on, and she probably figured the same. That’s why she’s gone. And when we check Branson’s financials, I guarantee the money’s gone, too.”

“What possible reason would the Bransons have to fake his death?”

“The same reason they arranged his brother’s. Money. The same reason they timed it to pull part of the team away from the central theme. More money, with a little payback thrown in. We’ll tie them to Apollo. Sooner or later, something’ll click. Take care of Zeke. If I’m right, we’ll be able to tell him he didn’t kill anyone. Let’s move, Peabody.”

“I can’t keep up,” Peabody told her. “I can’t get it straight in my head.”

“You will, when we get the rest of the pieces. Check those financials.”

Peabody scrambled to keep pace as they worked their way down to the garage. “Jesus, Branson transferred fifty million—that’s most of the fluid cash in the business—to an off-planet, coded account. He did it last night, two hours before Zeke . . .”

“Check their personal accounts.”

Working one-handed, Peabody slid into the car. “Six personals, between twenty and forty apiece. He cleaned them out yesterday.”

“A nice little nest egg for Cassandra.” As she drove, Eve contacted Feeney on her communicator.

“Voiceprints match,” he told her. “Now how are we going to arrest a dead guy?”

“I’m working on it. Take a run by Branson T and T; take a look at the droids in development. Did we get the order for tapping Monica Rowan’s lines?”

“They’re tapped. Not a peep so far.”

“Keep me up.” She ended transmission. “Peabody, contact the locals up in Maine, get a black and white to do a runby. I want Monica under wraps.”

Lisbeth wasn’t pleased to see cops at her door. She stared through Eve and ignored Peabody. “I have nothing to say to you. My counsel has advised—”

“Save it.” Eve pushed her way in.

“This is harassment. One call to my lawyer, and I’ll have your badge.”

“How tight were the Branson boys, Lisbeth?”

“Excuse me?”

“J. C. must have talked to you about his brother. What did they think of each other?”

“They were brothers.” Lisbeth shrugged. “They ran a business together. They had their ups and downs.”

“Did they fight?”

“J. C. didn’t fight with anyone, really.” Something like grief flickered in her eyes and was quickly shut down. “They disagreed occasionally.”

“Who ran the show?”

“B. D. ran the show.” Lisbeth waved a hand. “J. Clarence was better with people, and creatively he enjoyed having input in new projects. It didn’t bother him that B. D. held the reins.”

“What was his relationship with Clarissa?”

“He liked her, of course. She’s a charming woman. I think she intimidated him somewhat. She’s very formal and aloof for all that air of fragility.”

“Really, but you were friends?”

“Friendly. After all, we were both involved with a Branson. We socialized, with and without them.”

“Did she ever tell you B. D. mistreated her?”

“Mistreated?” Lisbeth let out a short laugh. “The man fawned on her. All she had to do was bat her eyes and purr and he jumped.”

Eve glanced toward the wall screen, noted it was turned off. “Not watching the news these days?”

“No.” She turned her head and for a moment looked tired and strained. “I’m making arrangements to clean up some personal matters before I transfer to the rehabilitation center.”

“Then you wouldn’t have heard that B. Donald Branson was killed last night.”

“What?”

“He fell during a struggle when he was beating his wife.”

“That’s ridiculous. That’s absurd. He wouldn’t lay a hand on Clarissa. He worships her.”

“Clarissa claims he’s been abusing her physically for years.”

“Then she’s a liar,” Lisbeth snapped out. “He treated her like a princess, and if she says otherwise, she’s lying through her teeth.”

She stopped abruptly, went very pale.

“You didn’t find the photographs in your mail slot, did you, Lisbeth? You had them handed to you by someone you trusted—someone you thought cared about J. C.”

“I—I found them.”

“No point in lying to protect the Bransons. He’s dead, and she’s gone. Who gave you the photographs of J. C., Lisbeth? Who gave them to you and told you that he was cheating on you?”

“I saw the pictures. I saw them with my own eyes. He was with that blond bitch.”

“Who gave them to you?”

“Clarissa.” She blinked once, twice, and tears started to stream. “She brought them to me, and she was crying. She said how sorry she was, how sorry. She begged me not to tell anyone she’d given them to me.”

“How did she get them?”

“I never asked. I just looked at them, and I went crazy. She told me it had been going on for months, and she couldn’t pretend not to know any longer. She couldn’t stand to see me hurt and J. C. ruin his life over some cheap lay. She knew how jealous I was, she knew. When I got to his house, he denied it. He told me I was crazy, there wasn’t any blonde. But I’d seen! And the next thing I knew, I was picking up that drill. Oh my God, oh my God. J. C.”

She collapsed into the chair, wailing.

“Get her a tranq, Peabody.” Eve’s voice held no sympathy. “We’ll have a car come by and pick her up. When she’s pulled it together, McNab can take a statement.”

“I know we’re pressed for time.” Peabody jumped in the car again. “But I feel like I’m three steps behind.”

“Branson’s connected to Cassandra. Clarissa’s connected to Branson, Zeke’s connected to Clarissa. We’re led to believe that both the Branson brothers meet with untimely and violent ends within a week of each other. Meanwhile, the accounts are stripped. Zeke’s brought in from clear across the country to work at the Branson house, and within a couple of days, he’s tangled with Branson over Clarissa and supposedly killed him. But Clarissa, out of her fear and concern for Zeke, loses the body.

“That’s the part that hung me up all along, but a guy tells you he kills another guy, you generally go with it. Still we’ve got no body, and there’s nothing on the droid playback to indicate he was instructed to weigh it down. The search team’s sensors don’t pick another up, it doesn’t bob up and float, but we know it got tossed in the river.”

“Droids don’t float, and the sensors are looking for flesh, blood, and bone.”

“See, you’re catching up. Now, we connect those dots. Zeke killed himself a droid. We have Lisbeth’s statement that there were never any beatings, no rapes, and odds are she’d have known if there were. Through J. C., if not on her own. We have the coincidence that Zeke just happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear beatings and rapes, then Clarissa turns to him for help. She’s already scoped him; she knows the kind of man he is, and very likely made the subtle kind of play for him he wouldn’t see as a come-on.”

“He doesn’t understand women,” Peabody murmured. “He’s practically still a kid.”

“He wouldn’t understand this one if he’d hit the century mark. She trolled for him and reeled him in. She and Branson got rid of the brother, which leads me to believe he wasn’t involved in Cassandra. He was weight, so they ditched him. I’m primary on the case, and they don’t want me looking too hard, having just the kind of talk with Lisbeth I just finished having, so they tag me on the bombings. Blowing up the city’s going to pull my attention away from a plea bargain I know I can’t change.”

“Whoever had pulled J. C. Branson’s homicide would have been tagged? They moved to you because of that?” Peabody considered. “That was their big mistake.”

“That was excellent sucking up, Peabody. Smooth, subtle.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“The politics are more smoke—pull the attention away, waste our time. It’s the money they’re after and the sheer delight in destroying.”

“But they have money.”

“More’s better, especially if you grew up on the run, hiding out, maybe scraping for the good life. What do you want to bet Clarissa Branson spent her formative years in Apollo?”

“That’s a big leap, Lieutenant.”

“ ‘We are loyal,” ’ Eve quoted as she zipped through the security gate to the parking area under Roarke’s midtown offices.

Peabody gawked a little when they moved into the private elevator, but before she could comment, Eve’s ’link beeped.

“Lieutenant Dallas? Captain Sully, Boston PD. The patrols just reported in from the Rowan address. Monica Rowan has been the victim of what appears to be a bungled B and E. She’s dead.”

“Damn it. I’ll need a full report on that, priority level, Captain.”

“I’ll get you as much as I can as quick as I can. Sorry we can’t be of more help.”

“So am I,” Eve murmured as she ended the call. “Goddamn it, I should’ve put a wall around her.”

“How could you know?”

“I do know. Just a little too late.” She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke’s efficient assistant without stopping.

Efficiency prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got there.

“Lieutenant, I didn’t expect you personally.”

“I’m heading in. I’m pressed to the wall here.” She looked in his eyes, wished she could say . . . wanted to. “Things are coming together, and the clock’s running.”

“Then you’ll want your bait.” He looked into her eyes. “I assume several million in counterfeit bonds is bait—with you as hook.”

“We’re closing in. With any luck, this should finish it. I—Peabody, take a walk,” she said without looking back.

“Sir?”

“Step out, Peabody.”

“Stepping out, Lieutenant.”

“Look . . .” Eve began. “I’m really hitting the wire on this, so I can’t get into stuff. I’m sorry about before.”

“You’re sorry I’m irritated.”

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry you’re irritated, but I have to ask for a favor.”

“Personal or official?”

Oh, he was going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. “Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson—everything—And I need it really fast. I can’t spare Feeney, and even if I could, you’ll be quicker and you won’t leave fingerprints.”

“Where do you want me to send the data?”

“I need you to call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don’t want her to know I’m looking.”

“She won’t.” He turned and lifted a wide steel case. “Your bonds, Lieutenant.”

She tried a smile. “I won’t ask you how you managed this so fast.”

He didn’t smile back. “Best not.”

She nodded, hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn’t remember another time when they’d been together for five minutes and he hadn’t touched her in some way. She’d gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a backhanded slap.

“Thanks. I’ll—The hell with it.” She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for her was a great gulp of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. “See you later,” she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.

Now he smiled, just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she’d asked of him.

“You okay, Dallas?”

“Yeah, shit. I’m dancing.” She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.

“I can call in a female to, ah, finish this.”

“Hell, I don’t want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it.”

“All right, okay.” He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. “The tracker’s wireless. It’s going to go right over your heart. We figure they’ll scan you, but we’re going to coat it with this stuff—it’s like skin. They’re using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it’ll look like a blemish or something.”

“So they’ll think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine.”

“You know, Peabody could do this.”

“Jesus, Feeney.” Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. “Put the damn thing where it goes.”

The next five minutes were mortifying for both of them.

“You, ah, want to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’ll be on the tracker myself. We’ll be able to monitor your location through your heartbeat. We rigged this wrist unit.” Relieved the worst was over, he picked it up from the table. “The mike’s low frequency, so it shouldn’t pop on a scan, but its range is a joke, and you’re going to have to talk straight into it for us to pick you up. This is just backup.”

“I’ll take it.” Eve removed her own unit, replaced it. “Anything else I should know?”

“We’re positioning men all over Grand Central. You won’t be on your own. Nobody moves in until you give the go-ahead, but they’re there.”

“Good to know.”

“Dallas, any protective gear over your chest will jam the tracker.”

She stared at him. “No vest?”

“Your choice. Gear or tracker.”

“Hell, they’re more likely to blast me in the head, anyway.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Joking.” But she rubbed a hand over her mouth. “Any line on the target?”

“Nothing so far.”

“You looked over the droids at Branson T and T?”

“Yeah, they’ve got a new Brainiac line.” He smiled a little now. “New shell covering, too. Next best to skin. But they’re toys,” he added. “I didn’t see anything full size.”

“Doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Those toys capable of acting out a scene like what happened at Branson’s?”

“If they were six foot instead of six inches, yeah. I’d say. Creepy little bastards, you ask me.”

“That’s my personal ’link,” she said when she heard the signal. “I have to take this. It’s private.”

“Okay, I’ll be outside. We’re ready to roll when you are.”

Alone, she took out her ’link, engaged the privacy mode by unfolding and slipping on her headphones. “Dallas.”

“I have your data, Lieutenant.” Roarke’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s your shirt?”

“Somewhere. Here.” She grabbed it up. “What have you got?”

“She checks out easily if you skim the first few levels. Born in Kansas thirty-six years ago, parents are teachers, pure middle class, one sister, married with son. She went through the local school system, worked for a short time as a department store clerk. She married Branson about ten years ago, moved to New York. I assume you have all that.”

“I want what’s under it.”

“So I thought. The names her records show as parents did indeed have a daughter named Clarissa born thirty-six years ago. However, she died at the age of eight. Scraping off the levels, we find this dead child with school and employment records and a marriage license.”

“Bogus.”

“Yes, indeed. A little dip into Clarissa Stanley’s medical files indicates she hasn’t seen the age of thirty-six for some time. She’s forty-six. Tracing the data input, it appears Clarissa was reborn twelve years ago. Whoever, whatever she was before, has been wiped. I might be able to jiggle some out, but it won’t be quick.”

“That’s enough for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age.”

“If you do a bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed.”

“I’ve already done the math, thanks.”

“Since I followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther.”

“Farther where?”

“Some may disagree,” he said with a long look at her, “but people in intimate relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each other’s ambitions and activities.”

Guilt fizzed back into her chest. “Look, Roarke—”

“Shut up, Eve.” He said it so pleasantly, she did. “Since it appears Clarissa may have close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald. Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps questionable contributions to the Artemis Society.”

“Another Greek god?”

“Yes, and Apollo’s twin. I doubt we’ll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking a generation back, I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.’s father, contributed large amounts to this same organization. He was also—according to CIA files—briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him.”

“Which closed the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are loyal.” She let out a breath. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?”

“I’ll have backup.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I appreciate the help.”

“Any time.”

Words, many of them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door. “We have to move, Dallas.”

“Yeah, right. I’m there. Time to saddle up,” she said with a half smile at Roarke. “See you tonight.”

“Take care of what’s mine, Lieutenant.”

She smiled again as she slipped the ’link away. She knew he hadn’t meant the bonds.

Having backup and a tracker didn’t stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.

The speakers droned overhead, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of commuters lined the public ’links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their bookies.

Eve strode past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat was smooth and steady.

She saw the vagrants who’d come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by security. Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs, hot drinks, and cold beer.

She took the stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.

“Leaving main level for check point. No contact yet.”

She felt the floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the station.

She stood on the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the case, and they’re lost in the confusion.

That’s what she would do, Eve thought. That’s how she’d play the game.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McNab in a bright yellow coat, blue shoes, and ski hat, idling at a computer game while he sat on a bench in the waiting area.

They were scanning her now, she imagined. They’d find she was armed, but they’d have expected that. If she was lucky, and Feeney was good, they wouldn’t make the tracker.

The public ’link behind her began to ring, loud and shrill. Without hesitating, she turned and answered. “Dallas.”

“Take the incoming train to Queens. Buy a ticket on-board.”

“Queens,” she repeated with her mouth all but against her wrist unit. The caller had already disconnected. “Next train,” she added. “Incoming.”

Turning away, she moved toward the tracks as the rumble started. McNab pocketed his computer game and strolled up behind her. He’d been a good call, Eve mused. No one looked less like a cop. He was wearing headphones, doing a little head and shoulder dance as if he were listening to music that set him into motion. His body stood at Eve’s flank like a shield.

The displaced air from the train blew over them. The whine shivered away, and people began to bump and shove their way on and off the train.

Eve didn’t bother to try for a seat but gripped a security hook, planted her feet, and braced for the takeoff.

McNab squeezed in just down the line and began singing lightly under his breath. Eve nearly smiled when she recognized one of Mavis’s songs.

The trip to Queens was crowded, hot, and blessedly short. Yet even that short jaunt made Eve thankful she wasn’t an office drone condemned to ride public transpo throughout her days.

She stepped off onto the platform. McNab moved by her without a blink and headed into the station.

They sent her to the Bronx next, then Brooklyn. Then shot her to Long Island, back to Queens. She decided she’d just throw out her arms and beg for a laser blast if she had to take one more ride.

Then she saw them coming. One on the left, one on the right. She ran Fixer’s description through her head and decided these were the two who’d made his deliveries and cut out his tongue.

She backed up out of the crowd of weary commuters, noting the two-man team had slipped into a pincher pattern:

They were taking no chances, she mused, and as one flipped open his coat to show the police-issue blaster, she assumed they meant to take no prisoners, either.

She bumped deliberately into a man waiting behind her, lifted a hand as if to catch her balance. “Contact. Two. Armed.”

“Lieutenant.” One of them slipped a hand over her arm. “I’ll take the payment.”

She let him steer her back. Not a man, she realized when she took a good, hard look. Fixer had been right there, too. They were droids. You couldn’t even smell them.

“You’ll get the payment when I get the target, and it’s confirmed. That’s the deal.”

He smiled. “New terms. We’ll take the payment, my partner will cut you in half where you stand, and the target will be destroyed as a celebration to the cause.”

She saw McNab barreling down the glide. He jerked his thumb up, signaling that the target had been made. Eve showed the droid her teeth. “I don’t like those terms.”

She swung back, slamming the case into the knees of the droid behind her. With the move she swung down and to the side, catching him by the ankles as he discharged the weapon. The blast put a fist-sized hole in his partner’s chest.

Screaming for civilians to take cover, she reared up, clamped her fingers over his weapon hand, and twisted. The next blast hit the concrete, its path close enough to singe her hair. She could hear shrieks, stumbling feet, the roaring whine of an oncoming train.

Eve threw back her weight, brought the droid down with her. They rolled through running feet, toppling people like bowling pins.

She couldn’t get her hand to her weapon, and his was lost in the stampede. Her ears were ringing with the noise, and beneath her, the ground shook like thunder. The droid reared up; something sharp and silver flashed in his hand.

Eve bucked back, swung up her legs, and slammed her feet into his groin. He didn’t buckle as a man would, but teetered back, arms pinwheeling for balance. She rocked to her feet, made one frantic grab, missed.

He tumbled to the tracks, then disappeared under the silver blur of the train.

“Jesus, Dallas, I couldn’t get through.” Panting, red welts swelling on his face, McNab gripped her arm. “Did you take a hit?”

“No. Damn it, I needed one of them working. They’re useless to us now. Call for a cleanup and crowd control here. Where’s the target?”

“Madison Square, they’re evacuating and defusing right now.”

“Let’s get the hell out of Queens.”

The first charge went off in the upper deck of section B in Madison Square at precisely eight forty-three. The game, a hockey match between the Rangers and the Penguins, was in the bitterly contested first period. There’d been no score and only one minor injury when the offensive guard from the Penguins had cross-checked his man—a little on the high side.

The Ranger defensive lineman had been carried off, bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth.

He was already in the ER when the bomb blew.

The NYPSD had moved fast once the explosives had been detected. The game was halted, and the announcement was made that the arena was to be evacuated.

This was met with catcalls, profanities, and from the Ranger side of the stadium, a rain of recycled toilet paper and beer cans.

New York fans took their hockey seriously.

Despite it, the swarm of uniforms and officials had managed to move close to twenty percent of the attendees out of the Garden in more or less an orderly fashion. Only five cops and twelve civilians had reported minor injuries. There were only four arrests for assault and lewd conduct.

Below the Garden, Pennsylvania Station was being cleared as rapidly as possible, with all incoming trains and transpos diverted.

Even the most optimistic of officials didn’t expect to scoop up every beggar and sidewalk sleeper who hid in the station for warmth, but an effort was made to sweep through the usual flop spots and hiding places.

When the bomb blew, spewing steel and wood and pieces of the drunk who’d been dozing on the floor of the bleachers along seats 528 through 530, people got the picture fast.

They flooded like a raging tide for the exits.

When Eve arrived on scene, it looked as though the grand old building was vomiting people.

“Do what you can,” she shouted at McNab. “Get these people away from here.”

“What are you doing?” He shouted over the screams and sirens, made a grab for her, but his fingers skidded off her jacket. “You can’t go in there. Holy God, Dallas.”

But she was already pushing, punching, and peeling her way through the press of fleeing bodies.

Twice she was slammed hard enough to make her ears ring as she fought to get clear of the doors and the frantic rush for escape.

She swung up toward the closest set of stairs, climbing over seats as people leaped for safety. Above, she could see one of the emergency team efficiently putting out several small fires. The nosebleed seats were in smoking splinters.

“Malloy!” she shouted into her communicator. “Anne Malloy. Give me your location.”

Static hissed in her ear, words hiccupping through it. “Three—cleared . . . scanned ten . . .”

“Your location,” Eve repeated. “Give me your location.”

“Teams spread . . .”

“Goddamn it, Anne, give me a location. I’m helpless here.” Helpless, she thought, watching people claw their way over each other to get out. She saw a child shoot out of the crowd like soap from wet fingers, feet tripping over him as he slid out and bounced facefirst on the ice.

She swore again, viciously, and leaped over the rail. She hit the ice on her hands and knees, skidding wildly until she slammed in with the toes of her boots. She grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt and dragged them both away from the stampeding crowd.

“Up to five.” Anne’s voice came through, clearer now. “We’re clicking here. Update on evacuation.”

“I can’t tell. Shit, it’s a zoo.” Eve pushed a hand over her face, saw blood smeared on her palm. “Fifty percent clear, up here. Maybe more. I’ve got no contact with the team in Penn. Where the hell are you?”

“Moving toward sector two. I’m under the floor in Penn. Get those civilians out.”

“I’ve got a kid here. Injured.” She spared the boy under her arm a glance. He was sheet white with a lump the size of a baby’s fist on his forehead, but he was breathing. “I’ll get him clear and be back.”

“Get him out, Dallas. Clock’s ticking.”

She managed to get to her feet, skidded, grabbed clumsily for the rail. “Move your men out, Malloy. Abort and move out now.”

“Cleared six, four to go. Have to stick. Dallas, we lose it down here, we take out Penn and the Garden.”

Eve dumped the boy over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and pulled herself onto the steps. “Get them out, Anne. Save lives, fuck property.”

She stumbled through the seats, kicking aside the bags and coats and food people had left behind.

“Seven, down to three. We’re going to make it.”

“For God’s sake, Anne. Move your ass.”

“Good advice.”

Eve blinked the sweat out of her eyes and saw Roarke just as he plucked the boy off her shoulder. “Get him out. I’m going for Malloy.”

“The hell you are.”

It was all he managed before the floor began to tremble. He saw the crack in the wall behind them split. Eve’s hand was caught in his.

They leaped off the platform and ran for the door where cops in full gear were pushing, shoving, all but tossing the last of the civilians through. She felt her eardrums contract an instant before she heard the blast. The wall of sizzling heat slammed them from behind. She felt her feet leave the ground, her head reel from the noise and heat. And the tidal wave force of air shot them through the door. Something hot and heavy crashed behind them.

Survival was paramount now. Hands gripped, they scrambled up, kept moving blindly forward while rock and glass and steel rained down. The air was full of sounds, the shrieks of metal, the crash of steel, the thunder of spewing rock.

She tripped over something, saw it was a body trapped under a concrete spear as wide as her waist. Her lungs were on fire, her throat full of smoke. Diamond-sharp fists of glass showered down, propelled by vicious secondary explosions.

When her vision cleared, she could see what seemed to be hundreds of shocked faces, mountains of smoking rubble, and too many bodies to count.

Then the wind slapped her face, cold. Hard. And she knew they were alive.

“Are you hurt, are you hit?” she shouted to Roarke, unaware that their hands were still fused together.

“No.” Somehow, he still had the unconscious boy over his shoulder. “You?”

“No, I don’t think . . . No. Get him to the MTs,” she told Roarke. Panting, she stopped, turned, blinked. From the outside, the building showed little damage. Smoke billowed from the jagged opening where doors had been, and the streets were littered with charred and twisted rubble, but the Garden still stood.

“They got all but two. Just two.” She thought of the station below—the trains, the commuters, the vendors. She wiped grime and blood off her face. “I have to go back, get the status.”

He kept her hand firmly in his. He’d looked behind as they’d flown through the door. And he’d seen. “Eve, there’s nothing to go back for.”

“There has to be.” She shook him off. “I have men in there. I have people in there. Take the kid to an MT, Roarke. He took a bad spill.”

“Eve . . .” He saw the expression on her face, and let it go. “I’ll wait for you.”

She crossed the street again, avoiding little pots of flame and smoking stone. She could already see looters joyfully racing down the block, crashing in windows. She grabbed a uniform, and when he shook her off and told her to move along, dug out her badge.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” His face was dead white, his eyes glazed. “Crowd control’s a bitch.”

“Get a couple of units together, get the looting stopped. Start moving the perimeter back and get some security sensors up. You!” she called to another uniform. “Get the medical teams a clear area for the wounded and start taking names.”

She kept moving, making herself give orders, start routines. By the time she was ten feet from the building, she knew Roarke was right. There was nothing to go back for.

She saw a man sitting on the ground, his head in his hands, and recognized him as part of E and B by the fluorescent yellow stripe across his jacket.

“Officer, where’s your lieutenant?”

He looked up, and she saw he was weeping. “There were too many. There were just too many, all over hell and back.”

“Officer.” Her breath wanted to hitch, her heart to pound. She wouldn’t let them. “Where’s Lieutenant Malloy?”

“She sent us out, down to the last two. She sent us out. Just her and two men. Only two more. They got one. I heard Snyder call it over the headphones, and the lieutenant told them to clear the area. It was the last one that took them. The last fucking one.”

He lowered his head and sobbed like a child.

“Dallas.” Feeney came on the run and out of breath. “Damn, goddamn, I couldn’t get closer than half a block by the time I got here. Couldn’t hear a damn thing over the communicator.”

But he’d heard her heart on the tracker, loud and strong, and it had kept him sane.

“Sweet holy Jesus.” His hand gripped her shoulder while he looked at the entrance. “Mother of God.”

“Anne. Anne was in there.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder, then his arm was around her. “Oh hell.”

“I was one of the last out. We were nearly clear. I told her to get out. I told her to abort and go. She didn’t listen.”

“She had a job to do.”

“We need search and rescue. Maybe . . .” She knew better. Anne would have been all but on top of the bomb when it went off. “We need to look. We need to be sure.”

“I’ll get it started. You ought to see a med-tech, Dallas.”

“It’s nothing.” She drew in a breath, blew it out. “I need her address.”

“We’ll get done what needs to be done here, then I’ll go with you.”

She turned away, scanned over the huddles of people, the wrecks of cars that had been too close to the building, the mangled hunks of steel.

And below the streets, she thought, in the transpo station, it would be worse. Unimaginably worse.

For money, she thought as the heat rose in her like a geyser. For money, she was sure of it, and for the memory of a fanatic without a clear cause.

Someone, she swore it, would pay.

It was an hour before she got back to Roarke. He stood, his coat rippling in the wind, as he helped MTs load wounded into transports.

“The kid okay?” Eve asked him.

“He will be. We found his father. The man was terrified.” Roarke reached out, wiped a smear off her cheek. “The talk is casualties are light. Most were killed in the panic to get out. Most got out, Eve. What could have been a death toll in the thousands is, at this point, less than four hundred.”

“I can’t count lives that way.”

“Sometimes it’s all you can do.”

“I lost a friend tonight.”

“I know that.” His hands lifted to frame her face. “I’m sorry for that.”

“She had a husband and two children.” She looked away, into the night. “She was pregnant.”

“Ah, God.” When he would have drawn her to him, she shook her head and stepped back.

“I can’t. I’ll fall apart, and I can’t. I have to go tell her family.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, it’s a cop thing.” She lifted her hands, pressed them to her eyes, and just held them there a moment. “Feeney and I will do it. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

“I’ll be here awhile yet. They can use extra hands.”

She nodded, started to turn.

“Eve?”

“Yeah.”

“Come home. You’ll need it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” She walked off to find Feeney and prepared to deliver news that crushed lives.

Roarke worked another two hours with the wounded and the weeping. He sent for oceans of coffee and soup—one of the comforts money could buy. As bodies were transferred to the already overburdened morgue, he thought of Eve and how she faced the demands of the dead every day.

The blood. The waste. The stink of both seemed to crawl over his skin and under it. This is what she lived with.

He looked at the building, the scars and the ruin. This could be mended. It was stone, steel, glass, and such things could be rebuilt with time, with money, with sweat.

He was driven to own buildings like this. Symbols and structures. For profit, certainly, he thought, reaching down to pick up a chunk of concrete. For business, for pleasure. But it didn’t take a session with Mira to understand why a man who’d spent his childhood in dirty little rooms with leaking roofs and broken windows was compelled to own, to possess. To preserve and to build.

A human weakness to compensate, he supposed, that had become power.

He had the power to see that this was rebuilt, that it was put back as it had been. He could put his money and his energies into that and see it as a kind of justice.

And Eve would look to the dead.

He walked away, and went home to wait for his wife.

She drove home in the damp, frigid chill of predawn. Billboards flashed and jittered around her as she headed uptown. Buy this and be happy. See that and be thrilled. Come here and be amazed. New York wasn’t about to stop its dance.

Steam spilled out of glida grills, belched out of street vents, pumped out of the maxibus that creaked to a halt to pick up a scatter of drones who’d worked the graveyard shift.

A few obviously desperate street LCs strutted their stuff and called out to the drones.

“I’ll give you a ride, buddy. Twenty, cash or credit’ll buy you a hell of a ride.”

The drones shuffled on the bus, too tired for cheap sex.

Eve watched a drunk stumble along the sidewalk, swinging his bottle of brew like a baton. And a huddle of teenagers pooling money for soy dogs. The lower the temperatures fell, the higher the price.

Free enterprise.

Abruptly, she pulled over to the curb, leaned over the wheel. She was well beyond exhausted and into the tightly strung stage of brittle energy and racing thoughts.

She’d gone to a tidy little home in Westchester and had spoken the words that ripped a family to pieces. She’d told a man his wife was dead, listened to children cry for a mother who was never coming back.

Then she’d gone to her office and written the reports, filed them. Because it needed to be done, she’d cleaned out Anne’s locker herself.

And after all that, she thought, she could drive through the city, see the lights, the people, the deals, and the dregs, and feel . . . alive, she realized.

This was her place, with its dirt and its drama, its brilliance and its streak of nasty. Whores and hustlers, the weary and the wealthy. Every jittery heartbeat pumped in her blood.

This was hers.

“Lady.” A grimy fist rapped on her window. “Hey, lady, wanna buy a flower?”

She looked at the face peering through the glass. It was ancient and stupid and if the dirt in its folds were any indication, it hadn’t seen a bar of soap in this decade.

She put the window down. “Do I look like I want to buy a flower?”

“It’s the last one.” He grinned toothlessly and held up a pitiful, ragged bloom she supposed was trying to be a rose. “Give ya a good deal. Five bucks for it.”

“Five? Get a handful of reality.” She started to brush him off, put the glass between them. Then found herself digging in her pocket. “I got four.”

“Okay, good.” He snatched the credit chips and pushed the flower at her before heading off in a shambling run.

“To the nearest liquor store,” Eve muttered and pulled away from the curb with the window open. His breath had been amazingly foul.

She drove home with the flower across her lap. And saw, as she headed through the gates, the lights he’d left on for her.

After all she’d seen and done that day, the simple welcome of lights in the window had her fighting tears.

She went in quietly, tossing her jacket over the newel post, climbing the stairs. The scents here were quiet, elegant. The wood polished, the floors gleaming.

This, too, she thought, was hers.

And so, she knew, when she saw him waiting for her, was Roarke.

He’d put on a robe and had the screen on low. Nadine Furst was reporting, and looked pale and fierce on the scene of the explosion. She could see he’d been working—checking stock reports, juggling deals, whatever he did—on the bedroom unit.

Feeling foolish, she kept the flower behind her back. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He didn’t go to her. She looked stretched thin, he decided, as if she might snap at the slightest touch. Her eyes were bruised and fragile. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t.” She managed a half smile. “Wired up. I’m going to go back soon.”

“Eve.” He stepped toward her, but still didn’t touch. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’m okay. Really. I was punchy for a while, but it passed. When it’s over, I’ll crash, but I’m okay now. I need to talk to you.”

“All right.”

She moved around him, shifting the flower out of sight, going to the window, staring at the dark. “I’m trying to figure out where to start. It’s been a rotten couple of days.”

“It was difficult, telling the Malloys.”

“Jesus.” She let her brow rest against the glass. “They know. Families of cops know as soon as they see us at the door. That’s what they live with, day in and out. They know when they see you, but they block it. You can see it in their faces—the knowledge and the denial. Some of them just stand there, others stop you—start talking, making conversation, picking up around the house. It’s like if you don’t say it, if you just don’t say it, it isn’t real.

“Then you say it, and it is.”

She turned back to him. “You live with that.”

“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. “I suppose I do.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about this morning. I—”

“So you’ve said already.” This time when he crossed to her, he touched, just a hand to her cheek. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It does matter. I’ve got to get through this, okay?”

“All right. Sit down.”

“I can’t, I just can’t.” She lifted her hands in frustration. “I’ve got all this stuff churning inside me.”

“Then get rid of it.” He stopped her by putting a hand to hers, lifting the flower. “What’s this?”

“I think it’s a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you.”

It was so rare to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she thought—hoped—it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he looked down at the rose again. “You brought me a flower.”

“I think it’s sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up.”

“Darling Eve.” He took the stem. The edges of the bud were blackened and curled from the cold. The color was somewhere between the yellow of a healing bruise and urine. “You fascinate me.”

“Pretty pitiful, huh?”

“No.” This time his hand cupped her cheek, skimmed into her hair. “It’s delightful.”

“If it smells anything like the guy who sold it to me, you might want to have it fumigated.”

“Don’t spoil it,” he said mildly, and touched his lips to hers.

“I do that—spoil things.” She backed away again before she gave in and grabbed on. “I don’t do it on purpose. And I meant what I said this morning, even if it pisses you off. Mostly, I think cops are better off going solo. I don’t know, like priests or something, so they don’t keep dragging the sin and sorrow home with them.”

“I have sin and sorrow of my own,” he said evenly. “It’s washed over you a time or two.”

“I knew it would piss you off.”

“It does. And by God, Eve, it hurts me.”

Her mouth dropped open, trembled closed again. “I don’t mean to do that.” Hadn’t known she could do that. Part of the problem, she realized. Her problem. “I don’t have the words like you do. I don’t have them, Roarke, the kind you say to me—or even think, and I see you thinking them and it—my heart just stops.”

“Do you think loving you to excess is easy for me?”

“No. I don’t. I think it should be impossible. Don’t get mad.” She hurried on when she saw that dangerous flash in his eyes. “Don’t get mad yet. Let me finish.”

“Then make it good.” He set the flower aside. “Because I’m damn sick and I’m tired of having to justify my feelings to the woman who owns them.”

“I can’t keep my balance.” Oh, she hated to admit it, to say it out loud to the man who wobbled it so often and so easily. “I get it, and I cruise along for a while, realizing this is who I am now, who we are now. And then, sometimes, I just look at you and stumble. And I can’t get my breath because all these feelings just rear up and grab me by the throat. I don’t know what to do about it, how to handle it. I think, I’m married to him. I’ve been married to him for almost six months, and there are times he walks into the room and stops my heart.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. In my life, you’re what matters most. I love you so much it scares me, and I guess if I had a choice about it, I wouldn’t change it. So . . . now you can get pissed off, because I’m done.”

“A fat lot of room you’ve given me for that.” He watched her lips twitch into a smile as he went to her. His hands slipped over her shoulders, down her back. “I’ve no choice either, Eve. I wouldn’t want one.”

“We’re not going to fight.”

“I don’t think so.”

She kept her eyes on his as she tugged at the belt of his robe. “I stored up this energy in case I needed it to fight with you.”

He lowered his head, bit her bottom lip. “It’s a shame to waste it.”

“I’m not going to.” Slowly, she backed him toward the bed, up the short steps to the platform. “I drove through the city tonight. I felt alive.” She tugged the robe away, closed her teeth over his shoulder. “I’m going to show you.”

She tumbled to the bed on top of him, and her mouth was like a fever. The frantic burst of energy reminded her of the first time they’d come together on this bed, the night she’d thrown all caution and restraint aside and let him take her where they’d needed to go.

Now she would drive him, with fast, rough hands, hot greedy lips. She took exactly what she wanted, and what she took was everything.

The light was gray and weak, trickling through the sky window overhead, filtering down on her. His vision blurred, but he watched her as she destroyed him. Slim, agile, fierce, the bruises from the hideous night blooming on her skin like the medals of a warrior.

Her eyes gleamed as she worked them both toward frenzy.

Then, and then again, skin glowing, breath ragged, she lowered over him, sheathed him, surrounded him.

She arched back, arrowed with pleasure. He gripped her hips, said her name, and let her ride.

Her skin was slick with sweat when she collapsed onto him, melted into him. His arms came around her, holding her there. Her cheek to his heart.

“Sleep awhile,” he murmured.

“I can’t. I have to go in.”

“You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

“I’m okay,” she answered as she sat up. “Almost better than okay. I needed this more than sleep—really, Roarke. And if you think you’re going to force a tranq down my throat, think again.”

She rolled off him and up. “I need to keep moving. If there’s any down time, I’ll catch a nap at the crib at Central.”

She glanced around for a robe, took his. “I need a favor.”

“Now would be an excellent time to ask for one.”

She glanced over, grinned. He looked sleek and satisfied. “I bet. Anyway, I don’t want Zeke stuck at the station the way he has been, but I need to keep him under wraps awhile longer.”

“Send him here.”

“Ah . . . if I took one of your vehicles in, I could leave mine here. Working on it would give him something to do.”

Roarke turned his head. Eyed her. “Do you plan to be involved in any wrecks or explosions today?”

“You never know.”

“Take anything but the 3X-2000. I’ve only driven it once.”

She made some comment about men and their toys, but he was feeling mellow and let it pass.

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

We are sure you’ve been watching the bleeding liberal media puppets report on the incidents in New York City. It sickens us to listen to their sobbing, their wailing. While we are nothing but amused by their condemnation of the destruction of their pathetic symbols of the blindly opportunistic society that now holds this country under its rigid thumb, we are angry at their one-dimensional and predictable stand on the issues.

Where is their faith? Where is their comprehension?

They still don’t see, still don’t understand what we are and what we will mean to them.

Tonight we struck with the fury of the gods. Tonight we watched the scrambling rats. But this is nothing, nothing to what we will do.

Our adversary, the woman that fate and circumstance deemed we face down for our mission, has proven difficult. She is skilled and strong, but we would be satisfied with no less. It is true that through her, we have lost a certain monetary payment, which we understand you had hoped to secure quickly. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Our finances are very solvent, and we will bleed this heedless city to its bones before we are finished.

You must trust that we will finish what he began. You must not falter in your faith and your commitment to the cause. Soon, very soon, the most precious symbol of their corrupt and weeping nation will fall. It is all but done.

When this is accomplished, they will pay.

We will see you, face to face, within forty-eight hours. The necessary papers are in order. This next battle to be waged and won in this place, we will complete personally. He would have expected this. He would have demanded it.

Prepare for the next stage, dear comrade. For we will be with you soon to drink to the one who set us on this path. To celebrate our victory and to set the stage for our new republic.

We are Cassandra.

Peabody strode toward the conference room. She’d just left Zeke and was feeling a little shaky over the conversation they’d had with their parents over the ’link. Both of them had put the pressure on for their parents to stay out west, though each had separate reasons.

Zeke couldn’t stand the thought of them seeing him under the current circumstances. He wasn’t in a cell, but it was close.

Peabody was determined to clear her brother and put him back on the path of his life in her own way.

But her mother had struggled not to cry, and her father had looked dazed and helpless. She wasn’t going to get the image of their faces out of her head any time soon.

Work was the remedy, she decided. Unearthing that lying, murdering bitch Clarissa. Then snapping her skinny neck like a twig.

It was with violence brewing under her starched uniform that she walked into the room and saw McNab.

Oh hell, was all she could think, and she marched straight over for coffee. “You’re early.”

“I figured you’d be.” He’d also figured out what he intended to do, and he took the first step by going over and closing the door. “You’re not kicking me out of your way without an explanation.”

“I don’t need to explain anything to you. We wanted to have sex, we had it. Done and over. The lab reports come up?”

“I say it’s not done and over.” It should be, he knew it should be. But he’d been thinking about that square, serious face and amazingly lush body for days. Weeks. Jesus, maybe months. He’d damn well say when it was done and over.

“I’ve got more important things on my mind than your ego, McNab.” She took a deliberate sip of coffee. “Like my semiannual dentist appointment.”

“Why don’t you save up your lame insults until you have a better selection? They don’t work. I’ve had you under me.”

And over him, she thought. Around and through. “Had’s the operative word. Past tense.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it is.”

He stepped closer, pulled the cup out of her hand, slammed it down. “Why?”

Her heart began to pound. Damn it, she wasn’t supposed to feel anything. “Because that’s the way I want it.”

“Why?”

“Because if I hadn’t been rolling around with you, I’d have been with Zeke. If I’d been with him, I wouldn’t have just told my parents my lieutenant is trying to clear him on murder charges.”

“That’s not your fault. It’s not mine.” Her breath had begun to hitch, unnerving him. He was mortally afraid she might cry. “It’s on the Bransons. And Dallas isn’t going to let him take the heat from it. Get a hold here, Dee.”

“I should’ve been with him! I should’ve been with him, not you.”

“You were with me.” He took her arms, gave her a quick, surprising shake. “You can’t change that. And I want you with me again. Damn it, Dee, I’m not done.”

He was kissing her, with all the helpless rage and lust and confusion that roared through him. She made some little sound, a sound caught between despair and relief. And was kissing him with all the vivid fury and need and bafflement that pumped inside her.

Eve walked in, stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, jeez.”

They were too busy trying to swallow each other to hear her.

“Man.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, half hoping they’d disappear before she lowered them. No such luck. “Break it up.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and tried to ignore the inarguable fact that McNab’s hands were clamped on her aide’s ass.

“I said break it up!”

The shout got through. They leaped apart as if someone had snapped a spring between them. McNab hit a chair, knocked it over, then stared at Eve as if he’d never seen her before.

“Oh. Whoa.”

“Clamp it shut,” Eve warned him. “Not a word out of you. Sit down, shut up. Peabody, damn it to hell and back again. Why don’t I have my coffee?”

“Coffee.” Eyes dazed, blood screaming, Peabody blinked. “Coffee?”

“Now.” Eve pointed to the AutoChef, then made a show of looking at her wrist unit. “You are now on duty. Anything that happened here before this mark was on your own time. Is that clear?”

“Uh-huh, you bet. Listen, Lieutenant—”

“Zip it, McNab,” she ordered him. “I don’t want any discussion, any explanations, any verbal pictures drawn of activities pursued on your own time.”

“Your coffee, sir.” Peabody set it down, shot McNab a look of dire warning.

“Lab reports?”

“I’ll check on them now.” Relieved, Peabody hurried to a chair.

Feeney came in. The bags under his eyes were in danger of drooping past his nose. Seeing him, Peabody got up again, ordered more coffee.

He sat, nodded absently in thanks. “The emergency teams managed to clear down to the site of the last explosion, Malloy’s last known location.” He cleared his throat, lifted his cup, drank. “The shield appeared to be in place, but the blast took it out. They said it would have been over quick.”

No one spoke for a moment; then Eve got to her feet. “Lieutenant Malloy was a good cop. That’s the best I can say about anybody. She died doing her job and trying to give her men time to reach safety. It’s our job to find the people responsible for her death and take them down.”

She opened the file she’d brought in, took out two photos, and moved to the boards to fix them in place.

“Clarissa Branson, aka Charlotte Rowan. B. Donald Branson. We don’t stop,” Eve said, turning, with eyes bright and cold. “We don’t rest until these two people are in a cage or dead. Labs, Peabody. McNab, I want the report on Monica Rowan’s ’link. Feeney, I need Zeke in interview one more time. Maybe if you take him, you’ll push a button I missed. He might have heard something, seen something, that can give us a line on where to look.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And I want another round with Lisbeth Cooke, too. Same deal. If you can spare the time, you’d probably get more out of her by going to her place and playing the sympathetic ear.”

“She a weeper?” Feeney wanted to know.

“Could be.”

He sighed. “I’ll take extra hankies.”

“There’ll be a trail,” Eve continued, scanning the faces of her team. “Where they went under, where they’re going next, where and when they’ve targeted the next one. They’ll know we’re following the Apollo line now and probably know we’ve made—or will make—Clarissa as James Rowan’s daughter.”

She moved back to the board, pinning up another photo. “This was Charlotte Rowan’s mother. I believe her daughter gave the order for her execution. If this is true, understand we’re dealing with an individual with a cool and focused mind. A skilled actor who doesn’t mind getting blood on her hands. She has, with her husband, arranged or carried out the murder of four people we are aware of, one tied to her by blood, one by marriage, and is responsible for the deaths of hundreds through terrorist acts that are no more than disguised blackmail for gain.

“She won’t hesitate to kill again. She has no conscience, no morals, and no loyalty to anyone but herself and a man who’s been dead for over three decades. This is not a creature of impulse but of calculation. She’s had thirty years to plan what she’s now setting out to accomplish. And so far, she’s kicking the shit out of us.”

“You took out two of her droids,” McNab pointed out. “And she didn’t get the bonds.”

“That’s why she’s going to hit again and hit hard. Money’s part of the motive, but it’s not all. Mira’s analysis indicated a large ego, a mission, and a sense of pride. Pulling from that, she is Cassandra.” Eve tapped a finger on the photo. “Not just the woman, but the whole. And her ego and pride took a hit last night—and she hasn’t yet accomplished her mission. She can’t be dealt or bargained with because she’s a liar, and she’s enjoying playing the goddess, high on power and blood. She believes what she’s saying. Even when what she’s saying is a lie.”

“We’ve still got the scanners,” McNab pointed out.

“And we’ll use them. E and B’s going to be shaken up, and they’re also going to want payback for Anne. They’ll work their asses off on this one.”

“Labs, Lieutenant.” Peabody held out the copy. “Blood, skin, and hair samples from the Branson hearth match B. Donald Branson’s DNA.”

Eve took them, noted the fresh worry in Peabody’s eyes. “They’d have been clever enough to think of that. They stored the blood, and she had plenty of time to plant the other samples while she was pretending to clean up the mess.”

“They haven’t come up with a body yet.” When McNab spoke, Peabody turned her head to watch him. “They’ve got divers down now.” He moved his shoulders. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Her mouth wanted to tremble, but she firmed it, nodded briskly. “Appreciate it.”

“Maine’s shooting me down the ’link unit from Monica Rowan’s place,” he continued. “They found a slew of jammers and code-spanners in the kitchen. Her ’link log’s been blocked. I’ll unblock it.”

“Get it down. I’ll take the Branson house and the offices. Anything develops, I want a tag, pronto.” She yanked out her communicator when it signaled. “Dallas.”

“Sergeant Howard, Search and Rescue. My divers found something. I think you’ll want to see this.”

“Send through your location. I’m on my way.” She glanced toward McNab. As he rose, Peabody stepped forward.

“Sir, I know you have reason to keep me off this part of the investigation. I don’t believe those reasons are valid at this time. I request, respectfully, to accompany you as your aide.”

Eve considered, tapped her fingers on her thigh. “Are you going to keep talking to me that way? All tight-assed and formal, using long, polite sentences?”

“If I don’t get what I want, yes, sir.”

“I admire a good threat,” Eve decided. “You’re with me, Peabody.”

The wind whipped like a nest of angry snakes and had the ugly water of the river churning. Eve stood on the scarred and littered dock, cold to the bone, as one of the search team uncovered the body.

“We probably wouldn’t have come on it for days if you hadn’t told us to start looking for a mechanical. Even with that, we got lucky. You wouldn’t fucking believe what people dump in this river.”

He crouched down with her. “Looks a hell of a lot better than a floater would by this time. No bloat, no decay. Fish gave him a try, but they don’t get off on synthetics.”

“Yeah.” She could see the nicks and dents where fish had taken nibbling samples. One had apparently given the left eye a hell of a go before giving up. But the diver was right; he looked a hell of a lot better than a floater.

He looked like B. Donald Branson—handsome and fit, if considerably bedragged. She used a fingertip on the chin to turn the head, then studied the massive damage to the back of the skull.

“When I saw it down there, I thought the sensors were whacked. Never seen a droid this good before. Wouldn’t have known for sure it wasn’t a fresh dead guy if it wasn’t for the hand.”

Somewhere along the line, the wrist had been injured enough to split the skin casing. The structure, riddled with sensors and chips, showed clearly.

“Of course, when we got him out and gave him a good look-see in the light—”

“Yeah, doesn’t quite fit the bill. You get pictures?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“We’ll just get some to back up the record. Then I’ll need it bagged and sealed and shipped to the lab. Get all angles, Peabody.”

Eve rose, moved to the side, and called Feeney. “I’m sending this droid into the lab. I need someone from EDD to go in and work with Dickhead’s team. I want to run his programming back. Can we interface with our system? Get a playback of the night Zeke was there?”

“Might.”

“And can we dig in enough to get a time frame for the programming and the programmer?”

“It’s not impossible. Much damage?”

She glanced back as Peabody got the crater in the skull on record. “Considerable.”

“We’ll do what we can. Does this put Zeke out of it?”

“No law against killing a droid. He could get it on destruction of property, but I don’t think the Bransons will pursue that angle.”

Feeney smiled. “Good work. Want me to tell him?”

“No.” She looked back at Peabody. “Let him hear it from his sister.” She pocketed her communicator and signaled to Peabody. “We’re done here. Let’s move.”

“Dallas.” She walked over, laid a hand on Eve’s arm. “I was afraid when we came down here. Afraid you’d been wrong. I knew, in my head, that even if it was Branson, it would go down as an accident, just the way Zeke said. He wouldn’t have gone to jail, but he’d have paid for it. All his life.”

“Now you can tell him he doesn’t have to.”

“He should hear it from you. You weren’t wrong,” she said before Eve could speak. “And it’ll matter more.”

Zeke’s hands dangled between his knees. Slumped over, he stared at them as if they belonged to a stranger. “I don’t understand this.” He spoke slowly, again as if the voice were someone else’s and just happened to come out of his mouth. “You say it was a droid that just looked like Mr. Branson.”

“You didn’t kill anyone, Zeke.” Eve leaned toward him. “Get that in your head first.”

“But he fell. He hit his head. There was blood.”

“It fell, as it was directed to fall. There was blood because blood had been injected under its skin shield. Branson’s blood. It was put there to make you think you’d killed him.”

“But why? I’m sorry, Dallas, but that’s just crazy.”

“Part of a game. He’s dead—his body conveniently disposed of by his terrified and abused wife who’s now run away. They can be anyone they want to be, anywhere they want to be, and with a big pile of money to hide in. They thought they’d have a lot more by the time we figured this out. If we ever did.”

“He hit her.” Zeke’s head snapped up. “I heard it—I saw it.”

“A show, an act. A few bruises were a small price to pay for winning the whole match. They’d already arranged for his brother’s death. They had to be able to access all the fluid cash from the company. Once B. D.’s gone—branded, they’d hoped, as a wife beater, marital rapist, they pick up their new lives. He’s cleaned out the cash flow from all accounts. We’d probably have looked at that as just one more vicious act on his part. But they left holes.”

He shook his head, and fighting impatience, she tried to explain quickly. “Why does a man like that let his wife go off to a spa out west, spend time on her own? He doesn’t even trust her out of the front door from what she told me in interview. But he lets her bring you into the house. He’s insanely jealous, but it’s fine and dandy to have a young, good-looking guy in the same house with his wife all day. And she can barely decide to get out of bed in the morning, but she gets in gear, orders a droid to ditch her dead husband’s body, and gets it done in the time it takes you to get her a glass of water. All while she’s in shock.”

“She can’t have been involved,” Zeke whispered.

“It’s the only way it can play. She’s lived with a man she claims beats her for nearly ten years, but she’s ready to leave him to go with you, someone she barely knows—and this after two conversations about her situation.”

“We fell in love.”

“She loves no one. She used you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know.” His voice lowered and went fierce. “You can’t know what we felt for each other. What she felt for me.”

“Zeke—”

Eve simply lifted her fingers from her knee to stop Peabody’s protest. “You’re right, I can’t know what you felt. But I can know that you killed no one. I can know that the woman who said she loved you set you up to take the fall. I can know that that same woman was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people this last week. One of them was a friend of mine. That I can know.”

She rose, started to walk out of the room, when Mavis burst in.

“Hey, Dallas!” Smile brilliant, hair a purple explosion of curls, eyes the disconcerting shade of copper, Mavis threw open her arms and sent the twelve-inch emerald fringe running from armpit to wrist flying. “I’m back.”

“Mavis.” Eve struggled to switch gears from the miserable to the absurd. “I thought you were back next week.”

“That was last week, now it is next week. Dallas, man, I was seismic! Hey, Peabody.” Her laughing eyes landed on Zeke and sobered even as she winced. Even someone dancing on Mavis’s level of happy could sense the anger and grief. “Oops, bad timing, huh?”

“No. It’s great. Come outside a minute.” Eve jerked her head at Peabody, signaling her to deal with Zeke, and moved outside the office with Mavis. “It’s good to see you.” And suddenly it was more than good. Mavis, with her stupendously ridiculous wardrobe, her ever-changing hair, her sheer delight with herself, was the perfect antidote for misery.

“It’s great to see you.” Eve caught her in a fierce embrace that had Mavis giggling even as she gave Eve’s back soothing pats.

“Wow. You missed me.”

“I did. I really did.” Eve stepped back and grinned at her. “You kicked ass, didn’t you?”

“I did. I really did.” The narrow corridor didn’t stop Mavis from turning three fast circles on her platform airpumps. “It was orbital, it was mag, it was beyond the ult. I came to see you, but my next stop is Roarke, and I figure I should warn you I’m going to kiss him hard right on the mouth.”

“No tongues.”

“Spoilsport.” Mavis shook back her curls, angled her head. “You look beat, wasted, absolutely dead.”

“Thanks, just what I needed to perk up my day.”

“No, I mean it. I caught some of what’s been going on—didn’t have much time for screen, but what I didn’t catch, people were talking about. I don’t buy this Urban Wars revival crap. I mean who wants to run around blasting people in the streets all the damn time? It’s so, you know, last century. So what’s up?”

Eve smiled and felt wonderful doing it. “Oh, nothing much. Just a whacked terrorist group blowing up landmark property and blackmailing the city for millions of dollars. Some droids tried to kill me, but I took them out. Peabody’s brother’s here from Arizona and got pulled into the mix because he fell for some lying slut bomber and thought he killed her husband by accident. But he only took out another droid.”

“Gee, is that all? I’ve been gone for a while. I figured you’d be busy.”

“Roarke and I had kind of a fight, then terrific makeup sex.”

Mavis’s face brightened. “That’s more like it. Why don’t you take a break and tell me all about it?”

“Can’t. I’m busy saving the city from destruction, but you can do me a favor.”

“Since you put it that way. What?”

“Zeke, Peabody’s brother. I need to keep him under wraps. No media, no outside contacts. I’m sending him to my place, but I know Roarke’s busy, and I don’t want to stick the poor guy with Summerset. Can you take him over, hang awhile?”

“Sure, Leonardo’s busy on some designs. I’ve got plenty of swing time. I can keep him happy at your place.”

“Thanks. Just call Summerset. He’ll send a car for you.”

“I bet he’ll send the limo if I ask nice.” Delighted with the prospect, she turned for the door. “Well, intro me so Zeke knows who he’s going to be playing with today.”

“No. Peabody’ll do it. He doesn’t want to see me right now. He needs to be mad at someone—I’m it. Just tell her to meet me in the garage. We’ve got places to go.”

“You’ve had a rough time, Zeke.” Mavis licked pink frosting from her fingers and contemplated eating another of the pretty little cakes Summerset had served them. Control, greed, she mused. Control. Greed. Let’s hear it for greed, she decided and plucked up another.

“I’m so worried about Clarissa.” He sat, steeped in his unhappiness.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He’d started out shy with her so that she’d had to pry every second word out of him. So she’d chattered away for the first hour, about her tour, about Leonardo, adding little anecdotes about Peabody that had wormed through his defenses.

When she’d seen him smile for the first time, Mavis had sensed victory. She’d drawn him into talking about his work. She didn’t understand a damn thing, but she’d made interested noises and kept her glowing, copper-colored eyes on his face.

They’d settled into the main parlor in front of the fire Summerset had built in anticipation of her arrival. And when Summerset had brought in the tea and cakes, Zeke had taken a cup out of politeness.

By the time Mavis had charmed, nagged, and bullied the full story out of him, Zeke had gone through two cups of tea and three cakes.

He felt better. Then felt guilty because of it. When he’d been detained at Cop Central, it had seemed he was paying for his crimes, for not completing his ride to Clarissa’s rescue. But here in the beautiful house, with the fire crackling and his body warm from fragrant tea, it was like being rewarded for his sins.

Mavis curled her legs under her and felt as comfortable as the cat who stretched out on the top of the sofa above her. “Dallas said you killed a droid.”

Zeke jolted, set down his tea. “I know, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“What did Peabody say?”

“She said—she said it was a mechanical they pulled out of the river, but—”

“Maybe she’s saying that to make you feel better.” Mavis turned her body toward him, nodded with her eyes wide and guileless. “Maybe she’s covering up for you. Oh, and I know! She’s blackmailing Dallas to go along with it so you get away with the whole thing.”

The idea was so absurd, he would have laughed. But he was too shocked to do more than goggle. “Dee would never do that. She couldn’t.”

“Oh.” Mavis pursed her lips into a pout, then moved her shoulders. “Well, I guess she must have told you straight then, huh? I guess it must be like they said, and you knocked over a droid that looked like this Branson guy. Otherwise, Peabody’d be lying and breaking the law.”

He hadn’t put one and one together in quite that way before. Now that Mavis had, he stared down at his hands. Thoughts whirled inside his head. “But if it was a droid . . . Clarissa. Dallas thinks Clarissa did all this. She has to be wrong.”

“Maybe. She’s hardly ever wrong about this sort of thing though.” Mavis stretched luxuriously, but her eyes stayed sharp on Zeke’s. It was getting through, she thought. Poor guy. “Let’s say Clarissa didn’t know it was a droid. She really thought you’d offed her husband, and then . . . oh that won’t work.” She furrowed her brow. “I mean, gee, unless they ditched the body, the cops would’ve tagged it as a droid right off. She’s the one who got rid of the body, right?”

“Yes.” It was indeed getting through, and his heart cracked like an egg. “She was . . . scared.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t be, but if she hadn’t lost the body, it would’ve been all over that same night. Nobody would’ve thought Branson was dead. The cops wouldn’t have wasted all that time and given Branson the lead to get clear and stuff. I guess, hmmm.” She tilted her head. “I guess if Dallas hadn’t figured a droid, they’d never have found the body anyway. Then everybody would think the guy was fish food, and Clarissa had run off because she was so weirded by the whole scene. Wow!”

She sat up as if the idea had just occurred to her. “That means if Dallas hadn’t clicked to it and pushed until she had the proof, they’d have gotten away with it, and you’d still believe you’d killed a guy.”

“Oh God.” It didn’t just get through now. It burst through, ripping out his guts. “What have I done?”

“You didn’t do anything, honey.” Mavis swung her legs off the sofa, leaned forward to lay a hand over his. “They did it all. Danced a number over you. All you did was be who you are. A nice guy who believes the best of people.”

“I have to think.” He got shakily to his feet.

“Sure you do. You want to lie down? They’ve got amazing guest rooms in this place.”

“No, I . . . I said I’d work on Dallas’s car. That’s what I’ll do. I think better when I’m using my hands.”

“Okay.”

She made him put on his coat, bundled him up, and added a motherly peck on the cheek. Closing the door behind him, she turned, and let out a squeak of surprise when she saw Roarke on the steps.

“You’re a good friend, Mavis.”

“Roarke!” This time she squealed and bounded up the steps. “I got something for you. Dallas said I could.” With this, she threw her arms around him and gave him a hard, noisy kiss.

For a little thing, Roarke mused, she packed a punch. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to tell you about the tour, every second of it. But not now, because Dallas said you’d be busy.”

“Unfortunately, I am.”

“So I thought Leonardo and I could take you guys out to dinner—maybe next week? Sort of celebrate and fill you in and thank you. Thank you, Roarke. You gave me the chance for everything I wanted.”

“You did the job.” He tugged on one of her curls, watched it, with some fascination, spring out and back. “I’d hoped to take Eve to your final show in Memphis. But things got complicated.”

“So I hear. She looked ragged out big time. I figure when she wraps this up, you can help me kidnap her. We’ll get Trina to give her the full treatment—relaxation and beauty session. The works.”

“It’ll be a pleasure.”

“You look a little tired yourself.” And she couldn’t remember ever seeing real fatigue in his eyes before.

“It was a filthy night.”

“Maybe Trina should have a go at you, too.” His only answer was a vague “Hmmm,” and she grinned. “I’ll let you get back to what you’re doing. Okay if I take a swim?”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“Always do.” She danced down the stairs, grabbed her oversized bag, and headed for the elevator to the pool house. She was going to give Trina a call and make those appointments—including erotic therapy.

Since she’d tried it out with Leonardo, she knew it was mag.

chapter twenty-one

Eve scanned every file and disk in Branson’s office. He’d covered his tracks well. Even his private ’link had been wiped clean. She’d send it to Feeney, but she doubted he’d find any overlooked data on the logs.

She pigeonholed his assistant, then his brother’s assistant, but got nothing out of them other than shock and confusion.

He’d kept his area clean, she decided.

She did a run through the labs, examined the droids in development. She nailed another piece into place when the lab foreman, in the spirit of cooperation, told her they had produced replica droids of both Branson brothers. As a surprise, he explained, ordered by Clarissa Branson. A personal request, kept off the books and logs.

They’d been completed and delivered to the Branson townhouse only three weeks before.

Very slick timing, Eve thought as she wandered through production with its orderly shelves loaded with minidroids, tyke-bykes, and space toys.

She picked up an excellent reproduction of a police issue stunner, shook her head. “This sort of thing should be outlawed. You know how many 24/7s are knocked over with these every month?”

“I had one when I was a kid.” Peabody grinned with nostalgia. “Bought it on the sly and hid it from my parents. No toys of violence allowed in our house.”

“Free-Agers got that one right.” Eve set it down, walked farther down the line and into the maze of souveniers. Her energy was flagging. It felt as though she were walking through a wall of water. “Shit, who buys this stuff?”

“Tourists love them. Zeke’s already loaded with key chains and globes and friggie magnets.”

The New York section was filled with replicas—the key chains, the pens, the dash figures, the magnets and trinket boxes that crowded the stores and stands for eager tourists.

The Empire State Building, the Pleasure Dome, the UN building, the Statue of Liberty. Madison Square, the Plaza Hotel, she noted, frowning at the detailed reproduction of the hotel inside a water globe. Lift it, shake it, and glitter rained like confetti on New Year’s Eve.

Good business, she wondered, or irony?

“I bet that kind of thing is going to sell like crazy now.” Peabody scowled at the globe when Eve replaced it. “Hot ticket item.”

“People are sick,” Eve decided. “Let’s do the house.” Her eyes were feeling gritty now from lack of sleep. “Got any Alert-All in your bag?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the official limit.”

“Give me one, will you? I hate that stuff, makes me edgy. But I’m losing focus.”

She swallowed the pill Peabody handed her, knowing the false energy would annoy her.

“When’s the last time you caught some shut-eye?”

“I forget. You drive,” Eve ordered. God, she hated to give up the control, but it was Peabody or auto. “Until this crap kicks in.”

She slid into the passenger seat, let her head fall back, her body relax. Within five minutes, her system was on the gallop. “Man.” Her eyes popped open. “I’m awake now.”

“It’ll give you a good four hours—maybe six—then, if you don’t get horizontal, you’ll crash hard. Go down like a tree after ‘timber.” ’

“If we don’t close up some of these holes in four to six, I might as well crash.” Revved now, she contacted McNab at EDD. “Did you get the ’link from Maine?”

“Working on it now. She had a class-A jammer on it, but we’re getting there.”

“Bring everything you get to my home office. Bring the whole ’link if you don’t have clear data by five. Save me a call and tell Feeney I’ve sent him Branson’s personal. It’s been wiped, but he might jiggle something.”

“If there’s anything, we’ll jiggle it.”

She put the next call through to Whitney. “Commander, I’ve finished at Branson T and T and am en route to his residence.”

“Progress?”

“Nothing solid at this point. However, I suggest steps be taken to scan and secure the UN building.” She thought of the pretty, pricey souveniers. “Apollo’s next hit was the Pentagon. If Cassandra continues to follow the theme, that location is the logical choice. Time-wise there would be a lag of several weeks, but we can’t risk them sticking to the schedule set by Apollo.”

“Agreed. We’ll take all necessary steps.”

“Do you think they’ll make contact again?” Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.

“I’m not counting on it.” She made one last call, to Mira.

“Question,” she began as soon as Mira’s face came on-screen. “Given the tone of the demands, the fact that those demands have not been met. Adding on that the targets were not destroyed and loss of life was kept minimal, will Cassandra contact me again to play guess what’s next?”

“Doubtful. You haven’t won the battles, but neither have you lost. Their goals have not been accomplished, while yours have come closer to the mark in each instance. According to your report, which I’ve just finished reading, you believe they are now aware of your line of investigation. Aware that you know their identities and their pattern.”

“And their response to that would be . . . ?”

“Anger, a need to win. A desire to thumb a total victory under your nose. I don’t believe they’ll feel compelled to issue any sort of warning or jeer the next time. The rules of war, Eve, are, there are no rules.”

“Agreed. I have a favor to ask.”

Mira tried to hide her surprise. Eve rarely asked for anything. “Of course.”

“Zeke’s been informed of the setup, Clarissa’s part in it.”

“I see. This will be difficult for him.”

“Yeah, he’s not taking it well. I’ve got him at my place. Mavis is with him, but I think he could use some counseling. If you’ve got time for a house call.”

“I’ll make time.”

“Thanks.”

“Are unnecessary,” Mira said. “Good-bye, Eve.”

Satisfied, Eve ended the call, and glanced over to see that they’d arrived at the Branson townhouse. Peabody had already parked. “Let’s get started.” Then she saw that Peabody was clutching the wheel, and tears were swimming in her eyes. “Don’t even think about doing that,” Eve snapped. “Dry it up.”

“I don’t know how to thank you. For thinking of him. After he acted that way, with all that’s going on, for thinking of him.”

“I’m thinking of me.” Eve shoved her door open. “I can’t afford to have my aide’s concentration split because she’s worried about a family member.”

“Right.” Knowing better, Peabody sniffled as she got out of the car. But she’d blinked her eyes clear. “You have my full attention, sir.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” Eve disarmed the police seal and entered the house. “The droids have been deactivated and taken into holding.” But she hitched back her jacket so her weapon was in easy reach. “The place should be empty, but we’re dealing with people with solid tech and electronic skills. They could have gotten through the seal. I want you on alert while we’re in here, Peabody.”

“Full alert, sir.”

“We’ll start with the offices.”

Branson’s was masculine, distinguished, in burgundy and green with dark wood, leather chairs, heavy crystal. Eve stopped in the doorway, shook her head.

“No, she’s the force, she’s the one who’s driving this train.” Her mind was clear again, achingly so. “I shouldn’t have wasted time at his plant. She’s the button here.”

She strode across the hall and into the feminine grace of Clarissa’s office. Sitting room, Eve decided it would have been called, with its rose and ivory tones, its dainty chairs with pastel cushions. There were pretty little vases lining the marble mantel, each with tiny flowers tucked in. The flowers were faded and dying and added a sick scent over the fragile fragrance of the air.

There was a day bed with a white swan painted on the cushions, lamps with tinted shades, curtains of lace.

Eve walked to the small desk with long curved legs and studied the small-scale communication and data unit.

The disc collection proved to be filled with fashion and shopping programs, a smatter of novels—heavy on romance—and a daily journal that spoke of household matters, more shopping, lunch dates, and social events.

“Got to be more.” Eve stepped back. “Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let’s take this creepy little room apart.”

“I think it’s kind of pretty.”

“Anybody who lives with this much pink has to be insane.”

They went through drawers, searched under and behind them. The small closet held more office supplies and a filmy robe. Again pink.

They found nothing behind the watercolor paintings of formal gardens, not even dust.

Then Peabody struck gold. “A disc.” Triumphant, she held it up. “It was in this swan cushion.”

“Let’s run it.” Eve slipped it into the slot, then looked less than pleased when it immediately engaged. “She hides it, but doesn’t bother to passcode it. Oh, I don’t think so.”

It was a diary, written in the first person, and detailing beatings, rapes, abuse.

“I heard him come in. I thought—he’ll think I’m asleep, he’ll leave me alone. I’ve been so careful to do everything right today. But when I heard him coming up the stairs, I knew he was drunk. Then I could smell it as he came to the bed.

“It’s worse when he’s drunk, when he’s just drunk enough.

“I kept my eyes closed. I think I stopped breathing. I prayed he was too drunk to hurt me. But no one listens when you pray.”

“Playing possum, little girl.” The words, the voice, the memory snapped out at Eve like fangs. The smell of liquor and candy, the hands pulling, bruising.

“I begged him to stop, but it was already too late. His hands were on my throat, squeezing so I wouldn’t scream, and he was pushing himself into me, hurting me, his breath hot on my face.”

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” It hadn’t done Eve any good to beg. Hands on her throat, yes. Squeezing until red dots danced in front of her eyes, and the burning, tearing pain of another rape. With that sick-sweet breath on her face.

“Lieutenant. Dallas.” Peabody took her arm and shook. “You okay? You’re really pale.”

“I’m all right.” Damn it, goddamn it. She needed air. “It’s a plant,” she managed. “She knew someone would find it during the investigation. Scan through to the end, Peabody. She wants us to finish it.”

Eve walked to the window, unlocked it, threw it open. She leaned out, had to lean out and breathe. The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits of ice.

She wouldn’t go back there, she promised herself. Couldn’t afford to go back there. She would stay in the now. In control.

“She talks about Zeke,” Peabody called out. “It goes on—pretty flowery love language here—about meeting him, how she felt when she knew he was coming.”

She looked over, relieved to see color in Eve’s face again, though she suspected it was mostly from the slap of cold wind. “She talks about going down to the workshop; it runs with what they’d told us before. Then she’s saying that she found her strength because of him, and was leaving her husband at last. It stops with her writing that she was packed and about to call Zeke and begin her real life.”

“She covered her ass. If she decided not to run straight off, she’d have the disc, dated and logged, as verification of the story. I guess she figured Testing was too big a risk.”

“Doesn’t help us any. Everything here’s just as you’d expect it to be if her story was on the up.”

“But it’s not, so there’s more. This is a front.” Eve closed the window, turned to wander the room. “This is image—what do you call it—veneer. Under this we’ve got a tough, determined, bloodthirsty woman who wants to be treated like a goddess. With awe and fear. She’s not pink.” Eve lifted a satin pillow, tossed it. “She’s red; rich, powerful red. She’s no delicate flower. She’s poison—exotic, sensual, but poison. She wouldn’t have spent any more time in this room than it would have taken to set it up.”

Eve stopped, waiting for her racing mind to slow. Damn chemicals, she thought. She deliberately closed her eyes. “She’d come in here, probably sneer at all the little trinkets. False front. Society’s trappings. She hates it. Uses it. She goes for the bold, but this is part of the stage. She’s been acting for years. This room is to show people how soft and female she is, but it isn’t where she works.”

“The rest of the house is guest rooms, baths, living and kitchen area.” Peabody sat where she was, watching Eve, watching her work. Watching her mind. “If she didn’t work here, then where?”

“Close.” Eve opened her eyes, studied the little closet. “Master bedroom’s on the other side of that wall, right?”

“Yeah. Big he and she walk-in closet takes up the facing wall.”

“All the closets are big. Except this one. Why would she settle for this little corner here?” She squeezed herself in, started running fingers over the wall. “Go around the other side, into the closet. Knock on the wall. Give it three good raps, and come back.”

While she waited, Eve crouched, dug her minigoggles out of her field kit.

“Why did I do that?” Peabody asked when she came back.

“You knock hard?”

“Yes, sir. Rap, rap, rap. Stung my knuckles.”

“I didn’t hear a thing. There’s got to be a mechanism, a control.”

“Hidden room?” Peabody tried to angle it. “That’s so iced.”

“Back up, you’re in my light. It’s got to be here. Wait. Hell. Give me something to pry with.”

“I’ve got something.” Peabody dug in her bag for her Swiss Army knife, selected the slim opener, and offered it.

“Were you a Girl Scout?”

“All the way to Eagle level, sir.”

Eve grunted, slid the opener into the minute crack in the glossy ivory wall. It slipped out twice before she got some leverage, and hissing out an oath, she shoved it hard. The little door swung open to reveal a control panel.

“Okay, let’s bypass this sucker.” She worked for five cramped minutes, shifted her weight on her knees, wiped sweat off her face, and started again.

“Why don’t you let me have a go at it, Dallas?”

“You don’t know any more about electronics than I do. Hell with it. Step back.” She rose, her shoulder bumping solidly into Peabody’s nose. Peabody had a minute to yelp, check for blood, then Eve had her weapon out.

“Oh, sir, you don’t need to—”

Eve blasted the control lock. Circuits sizzled, chips flew, and the panel of ivory slid smoothly apart.

“What’s that fairy tale code? Open sesame.” Eve stepped inside a small, pie-slice room, eyed the sleek control panel, the snazzy equipment that reminded her, a bit uncomfortably, of what Roarke had behind a locked door. “This,” Eve said, “is where Cassandra worked.”

She ran her fingers over controls, tried manual and verbal commands. The machines stayed silent.

“They’ll be passcoded,” she murmured, “and unregistered, and likely have a couple of traps laid in.”

“Should I send for Captain Feeney?”

“No.” Eve rubbed her cheek. “I’ve got an expert only minutes from this location.” She dug out her ’link and called Roarke.

He took one look at the fried control panel and shook his head. “You’d only to call.”

“I got in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but there’s something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant.”

“There’s something to be said for speed. I don’t mean to rush you—”

“Then don’t.” He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. “Set up your night flash until I can get the room controls working.”

He took a slim penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his teeth in a technique favored by burglars.

Eve saw Peabody’s eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them. “Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We’ll send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert.”

“Yes, sir.” But she craned her neck to see over Eve’s shoulder. Roarke had removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous definition in his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want me to assist here?”

“Beat it.” Eve bent to dig a light out of her field kit. “I still see your shoes,” she said mildly. “Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders.”

Her shoes pivoted smartly and marched away.

“Do you have to look so sexy when you do that?” Eve demanded. “You distract my aide.”

“Just one of life’s little hurdles. Ah, I won’t need that flash after all. Lights,” he ordered and the room brightened.

“Good. See if you can find the controls that open this paper file over here.” She turned to a cabinet. “I’d blast it, but I might damage the data inside.”

“Try a little patience. I’ll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my units. Locks, yes, here we are.” He keystroked and Eve heard the click.

“That was easy.”

“The rest won’t be. Give me some quiet here.”

She pulled out a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn’t say, but it was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.

Then she started going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.

There were letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter—the daughter he didn’t call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.

They weren’t the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.

“The war must be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is too much his mother’s son. You are mine.

“Remember always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history.”

There were others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He’d molded her, one god to another, in his image.

In another file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa’s and her brother’s, and their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings, stories on Apollo, and on her father.

There were photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.

She’d looked into them hundreds of times in her life.

Family pictures, again private, of James Rowan and his daughter. The fairylike little girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was fierce, and her eyes were her father’s.

She found all the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.

Another picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain’s hat shading his eyes. Behind them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.

She’d seen that face before, she thought and dug out her magnifying goggles again to get a better look.

“Henson,” she murmured. “William Jenkins.” She pulled out her palm unit and requested data to refresh her memory.

William Jenkins Henson, date of birth August 12, 1998, Billings, Montana. Married Jessica Deals, one child. Daughter Madia, born August 9, 2018. James Rowan’s campaign manager . . .

“Right. Stop.” She rose, took a turn around the room. She remembered, she’d scanned the data before. He’d had a daughter Clarissa’s age. A daughter who hadn’t been accounted for, hadn’t been mentioned since the bombing in Boston.

A female child’s body had been identified in the ruin of that Boston home. Henson’s daughter, Eve thought. Not Rowan’s. And Willian Jenkins Henson had taken Rowan’s child as his own.

He’d finished her training.

She sat again, began to push through the papers looking for another letter, another photo, another piece. She found another stack from Rowan to his daughter and began to read.

“Eve, I’m in. You’ll want to see this.”

Taking the letters with her, she went to Roarke. “He’d been training her since she was a kid,” Eve told him. “Brought her up through the ranks. He called her Cassandra. And when he died, Henson took over. I’ve got a photo of her and Henson taken a good ten years after the bombing in Boston.”

“They trained her well.” Damned if he hadn’t admired her skill with the units and the codes and mazes she’d planted within them. “I have transmissions from here to a location in Montana. It may be to Henson. No names are used, but she’s kept him up to date on her progress.”

Eve glanced down at the monitor. “Dear Comrade,” she read.

“I don’t understand politics,” she said after she’d read the first transmission. “What are they trying to prove? What are they trying to be?”

“Communism, Marxism, Socialism, Fascism.” Roarke jerked his shoulders. “Democracy, republic, monarchy. One is the same as the other to them. It’s power, it’s glory. It’s revolution for the sake of it. Politics, religion, for some it remains their own narrow and personal view.”

“Conquer and rule?” Eve wondered.

“To feed. Have a look. On-screen,” Roarke ordered, and the wall unit flashed on. “We have schematics and blueprints, security codes and data. These are the Apollo targets, starting with the Kennedy Center.”

“They kept records,” she murmured. “Property damage and cost, number of dead. Jesus, they list the names.”

“War records,” Roarke said. “So many for them, so many for us. Tally the count. Without blood, war’s losing its sexuality. And here . . . secondary data, split . . . screen. This is the data and images of Radio City. Note the red dots indicate the positioning of the explosives.”

“Following in daddy’s footsteps.”

“I have names and locations for members of the group.”

“Feed them to my home unit, to Peabody. We’ll start rounding up. Are all the targets listed?”

“I haven’t gone past the first two. I thought you’d want to see what we’ve got so far.”

“Right. Get the data to Peabody first, then we’ll go on.” She glanced down at the letter in her hand as he started the transmission. And her blood froze.

“Jesus, the Pentagon wasn’t the next target. They had an abort between the arena and the Pentagon. It doesn’t say what it is here, just equipment problems, financial difficulties. ‘Money is a necessary evil. Line your coffers well.” ’ She tossed the letter aside. “What’s after the arena? What was next on Apollo’s list?”

Roarke called it up and they both stared at the white spear on-screen. “The Washington Monument, targeted for two days after the complex.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. “They’ll move tonight, tomorrow the latest. They won’t wait, they won’t contact. They can’t risk it. What’s the target?”

He called it up. Three images popped. “Take your choice.”

Eve yanked out her communicator. “Peabody, get an E and B team to the Empire State Building, another to the Twin Towers, one more to the Statue of Liberty. You and McNab cover the Empire State, get Feeney down to the Towers. Have one of the long-range scanners ready for me. I’m on my way home. I want everybody to move, move fast. Riot gear and armed. Evacuation immediately, cordon off entire sectors. No civilians within three city blocks of locations.”

She jammed the communicator into her pocket. “How fast can that jet-copter of yours get us to Liberty Island?”

“A lot faster than those toys your department uses.”

“Then shoot this data off, add your copter’s computer to the spread. Let’s go fire it up.”

She raced through the door, out and down the steps. Roarke was behind the wheel of his car and had the engine engaged before she could slam her door.

“The Statue’s your target.”

“I know it. They’ll go for the symbol. The biggest one we’ve got. She’s female, she’s political.” He took the blocks home at a speed that had Eve pressed against the seat. “And I’m damned if they’re going to take her down.”

chapter twenty-two

“Lieutenant! Dallas! Sir!” Peabody scrambled out the front door as Eve leaped out of the car.

“Go,” Eve told Roarke. “I’m right behind you.”

“Your data’s still coming in.” Peabody slid over the frost on the lawn, grabbed her footing. “I relayed to Central. Units are being mobilized.”

Eve took the scanner. “Full protective gear. You scan before you go in. I’m not losing anyone else.”

“Yes, sir. The commander wants your destination and ETA.”

Eve whirled around as the silky drone of the jet-copter blurred the air. She watched it sweep out of the mini-hangar, purr. “God help me, I’m going up in that. Liberty Island. You’ll know my ETA when I do.”

She crouched to avoid the blast of air, tossed the scanner to Roarke, then hooked a hand on the door opening, propped a boot on the runner. She gave Roarke a brief glance. “I hate this part.”

He grinned at her. “Strap in, Lieutenant,” he advised as she boosted herself through the door. “Secure the door. This won’t take long.”

“I know.” She hooked the strap across her body, braced. “That’s the part I hate.”

He went into a steep vertical lift that had her stomach flopping as she contacted Whitney. “Sir. En route to Liberty Island. Data should be coming through to you now.”

“It is. Mobilizing backup and E and B teams to each location. ETA to Liberty Island, twelve minutes. Give me yours.”

“What’s our ETA, Roarke?”

They rose over trees, buildings, engine purring. He sent her one quick look out of wickedly blue eyes. “Three minutes.”

“But that’s—” She managed not to scream when he punched in the jets. The purr turned to a panther roar and the copter ripped through the sky like a pebble shot from a sling. Eve gripped the seat with white-knuckled hands and thought, Shit, shit, shit. But her voice was relatively controlled. “We’ll be there inside of three minutes, Commander.”

“Report in on arrival.”

She clicked off and struggled to breathe steadily through her teeth. “I want to get there alive.”

“Trust me, darling.”

He banked over the city, adjusted course, and the copter tilted dramatically. Eve felt her eyes roll back in her head. “We’ll need to scan the site.” She picked up the instrument, studied it. “I’ve never used one of these.”

Roarke reached over, flipped a switch on the base of the scanner. It let out a mild hum.

“Jesus Christ! Keep your hands on the controls!” she shouted at him.

“If I ever want to blackmail you, I can threaten to tell your associates of your phobia of heights and high rates of speed.”

“Remind me to hurt you if we live.” She wiped a clammy hand on her thighs, then took out her weapon. “You’ll need my clinch piece. You can’t go in unarmed.”

“I’ve got what I need.” He sent her a grim smile as they flew out over the water.

She let that go and called up the data on the in-dash. “Five locations, from base to crown,” she said, studying the image. “If they follow these plans, how long would it take you to deactivate them?”

“Depends. I can’t say until I see the devices.”

“Backup’s nine minutes behind us. If this is the target, it’s going to be mostly up to you to take the explosives down.”

“Activate long-range sensor and screen,” he ordered. The in-dash monitor blipped on. Eve saw lights, shadows, symbols. “That’s your target. Two people, two droids, one vehicle.”

“Have they activated?”

“I can’t read explosives with this equipment.” He made a mental note to add that capability. “But they’re there.”

“Droids here, and here?” She tapped a finger on the screen, indicated the black dots on the screen.

“Guarding the base. Ever been in the lady?”

“No.”

“Shame on you,” he said mildly. “Museums in the base. She’s on a pedestal, several stories high. Added together, she’s got to be twenty, twenty-two stories, easy. There are elevators, but I wouldn’t recommend them under the circumstances. There’ll be stairs. Narrow, winding metal. Up to the crown. Then a jag and they follow up to the torch.”

Eve wiped a hand over her mouth. “You don’t, like, own her or anything?”

“No one owns her.”

“Okay. Go in low.” Gritting her teeth, she unstrapped. “I’ll need you to get close to give me a shot at taking the droids out.”

He pressed a button under the dash. A compartment opened. In it was a long-range laser rifle with night scope. “Try that instead.”

“Christ, you could get five years in maximum lockup for transporting one of these.”

He only smiled when she pulled it out, checked it for weight. “Or you could get two droids before we land. My money’s on you, Lieutenant.”

“Just keep this thing steady.” She opened the door, gritted her teeth against the blast of wind, then bellied down on the floor of the cockpit.

“We’ve got one at three o’clock and one at nine. We’ll take three o’clock first, then I’m going to swing around. So brace yourself for it.”

“Just get me in range,” she muttered and sighted in.

Out of the dark, out of the delicate mist, the lady rose up. Torch held high, face serene and somehow kind.

Lights glowed in her, around her, charging her with brilliance, with purpose. And how many, Eve thought, had seen that welcome, that promise, when they’d crossed an ocean to a new world? A new life?

How many times had she seen it herself and thought nothing more of it than that it was there? Had always been there. And by God, she vowed, there it would stay.

She saw the other copter first, the cargo unit cloaked in the shadows of the statue. Through the scope it burned red through a green background.

“Coming into range,” Roarke warned her. “Do you see it?”

“No, not—Yeah. Yeah, I got the bastard. Little more, little more,” she murmured, then engaged the target lock. She fired, took him clean, midbody. She had a moment to see the mechanical implode, a moment to register the shock of the rifle’s power sing up her arm to her shoulder, then Roarke was going into a hard turn.

“They’ll have made us now,” he told her. “So let’s make it two for two. Droid’s moving, coming around to six o’clock. One of the marks inside is heading down, fast.”

“Then we’ll be faster. Come on, come on, come on.”

“He’s got a long-range himself,” Roarke said mildly as a blast of light skimmed inches from the windscreen. “Evasive maneuvers. Take him out, Eve.”

She hooked a boot around the base of her chair as the copter swung and danced. “I’ve got him.” She fired, watched the light stream explode onto the ground as her target swerved. “Fuck it. This time.”

She drew in breath, held it, ignored the flash and flare of fire outside. She caught him in the crosshairs, locked, and sheared him off neatly at the waist.

“Get this thing on the ground!” she shouted, crawling up to grip the door. “If you get the chance, take out their transpo.” She dropped the rifle onto her seat. “They’ll think twice about blowing up this site if they’re stuck on it.”

She watched the ground speed up toward her, began to breathe in fast pants to pump adrenaline. “I’ll keep them off you as long as I can.”

“Wait until I land.” A spear of panic arrowed into his gut as he understood what she meant to do. “Goddamn it, Eve, wait until I put down.”

She watched the ground come, felt the speed slow. “Clock’s ticking,” she told him and jumped.

She kept her knees loose, absorbing the shock. Still, she felt the bright pain careen from her boots up her legs as she hit and rolled. She came up, weapon drawn, and ran in a zigzag pattern for the statue’s entrance.

A stream of heat singed past her. Eve hit the ground, rolled again, and returned fire. Even as she came up, she released the harness on her calf, pulled her clinch piece. She hit the door with sweeping blasts from both weapons and dived through.

The return fire came from above. Eve saw Clarissa in full combat gear, an assault laser in her hands, two hand blasters strapped to her side.

“It’s done!” Eve called out. “It’s over, Clarissa. We found your room, your data. Your transmissions to Montana are going to lead us right to Henson and the rest. There’s a hundred cops on their way to this location.”

A huge blast rocked the ground. Light exploded outside the door. Roarke, Eve thought with a cold smile. He’d come through. “There goes your transpo. You can’t get off the island. Give it up.”

“We’ll take it out. We’ll take it all out. There’ll be nothing left but the ashes.” Clarissa fired another round. “Just as my father planned.”

“But you won’t be there to take his place.” Eve plastered herself to the wall. Across the room was the first device, set in a slim metal box. She could see the red lights blinking. Time? she thought. How much time?

“It falls apart, everything he wanted falls apart if you don’t take his place.”

“I will take his place. We are Cassandra.” She laid down a stream of heat and light as she raced up the stairs.

Sucking in a breath, Eve pounded after her. The heat burned her lungs, had tears streaming from her eyes and blurring her vision.

She heard Clarissa screaming for her husband, calling for death, for destruction. For glory. The old metal stairs circled, circled up the body of the statue. She saw the second device, hesitated for a heartbeat with some thought of deactivating it herself.

And hesitating saved herself a laser blast full in the face. The blast shrieked past her and blew out three of the metal treads.

“He was a great man! A god. And he was assassinated by the Fascist forces of a corrupt government. He stood for the people. For the masses.”

“He killed the people, killed the masses. Children, babies, old men.”

“Sacrifices of a just war.”

“Just, my ass.” Eve swung from cover, fired high and blind toward the shouts. She heard a howl of rage or pain; she couldn’t be sure which. She hoped it was both.

Then they were racing up again.

She saw the third device. Roarke had already dealt with the first, she told herself. Had to. She could hear no sounds of fire or struggle from below. He was in the clear, doing what needed to be done.

She took a quick look at her wrist unit. Six minutes to backup.

Her calves burned, her breath came short. For a moment, her vision wavered and the weapons clutched in her hands grew weighty and awkward.

The crash was coming on. She leaned back against the wall to catch her breath and her bearings. Not now, not now. She could hold out against it, would hold out against it.

Finally, she heard movement behind her. “Roarke?”

“The first is down.” He called up the stairs, his voice brisk and cool. “Moving on to two. We’re on timers with these. Set for eighteen hundred. Locked and loaded.”

“Okay. Okay.” She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. It was seventeen-fifty.

She pushed away from the wall, climbed. She didn’t give the fourth device so much as a glance. Her job was the Bransons.

She was running on pure nerve when she reached the top. Her legs were jellied. As she slid along the wall, she saw the dazzling view out of the observation windows. The last device was set dead center of the lady’s crown.

“Clarissa.”

“Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” Eve corrected, shifting slightly, trying to scan as much of the area as she could manage. “Dying here isn’t going to finish your father’s work.”

“It will be a great moment in history. The destruction of the city’s most beloved symbols. She’ll crumble in his name, and the world will know.”

“How will they know? If you’re buried under tons of stone and steel, how will they know?”

“We are not alone.”

“The rest of your group is being searched out and picked up right now.” She looked at her wrist unit again, felt sweat slipping down her spine. “Henson.” She tossed the name out, hoping it would shake her quarry. “We know where he is.”

“You’ll never take him.” In fury, Clarissa fired. “He was my father’s most trusted friend. He raised me. He completed my training.”

“After your father was killed. Your father and your brother.” Roarke was moving up, she told herself. They’d take out the last device together. There was time. “You weren’t in the house.”

“I was with Henson. Madia died for me. It was right that she did. We heard the explosion from blocks away. I saw what those pigs had done.”

“So Henson took you under. What about your mother?”

“Worthless bitch. I wish I could have killed her myself, watched her die. I would’ve enjoyed that, loved it, remembering all the times she berated me. My father used her as a vessel, nothing more.”

“And when her usefulness was over, he left her, and took you and your brother.”

“To teach us, to train us. But I was his light. He knew I would be the one. Others saw me as just a pretty little girl with a soft voice. But he knew. He knew I was a soldier, his goddess of war. He knew, as Henson knew. As the man I chose to marry knew.”

Branson. Eve shook her head to clear it. Dear God, she’d forgotten about him. “He’s been in on it all along.”

“Of course. I would never give myself to a man who wasn’t worthy. I could make them think I would—like Zeke. What a pathetic boy, starry-eyed, gullible. He made those last steps work. The Bransons dead, most of the money in closed accounts, me running out of guilt and fear. B. D. and I would continue our mission from another place, with other names. And all the wealth of this corrupt society to back our cause.”

“But that’s over now.” She heard feet slapping the stairs beneath her. It was time to move.

“I’m not afraid to die here.”

“Good.” Eve dived across the opening, firing a sweeping blast. She saw the impact knock Clarissa down, and the blood bloom on her thigh. She came in low, kicking the weapon from Clarissa’s still shuddering hand. “But I’d rather you live in a cage for a long, long time.”

“You’ll die here, too.” Clarissa gasped for breath as Eve disarmed her.

“The hell I will. I’ve got an ace in the hole.”

Roarke came through the door. She started to grin at him, then saw the movement behind. “Your back!” she shouted.

He pivoted, swung out. The flash from Branson’s weapon smoked his sleeve. Eve saw the line of blood, sprang to her feet. They were already struggling, locked in close hand-to-hand. With no way to get a clear shot, she prepared to leap.

Clarissa swung her legs out, caught her behind the knees, and sent her sprawling. Eve was cursing when the next blast shattered the glass. Wind poured in, and the roar of copters, the scream of sirens.

“It’s too late!” Clarissa shrieked, and her lovely eyes were wide and wild. “Kill him, B. D. Kill him for me while she watches.”

Roarke’s hand slipped off the weapon. Pain fired up his arm. The scent of his own blood had his teeth bared. From somewhere behind him, he heard Eve shouting, the sound of racing feet. But all he could see was the vicious thirst for death in Branson’s eyes.

The weapon swung again, shot blasts into the ceiling. Debris rained down, whirled by the wind into his face like tiny bullets. When a hand closed hard over his throat, he saw small stars and spun his body into Branson’s. The impact sent them both over the rail and through the jagged glass.

Eve heard screams, couldn’t separate them. Hers, Clarissa’s. She was halfway across the room when she saw Roarke fall. Her heart froze, her mind went helplessly, hopelessly blank. The lights from the incoming copters blinded her as she dashed to the window.

Roarke. His name shrieked through her mind, but only a choked sob pushed its way out of her throat. The dizzying height had her head reeling, but her wavering vision could still make out the small, crumpled body on the ground below.

She was halfway out the window, with no idea what she would do when she saw him. Not dead and broken on the ground, but clinging to a narrow fold of weathered bronze with bloody hands.

“Hang on. For God’s sake, hang on.”

She started to swing out when Clarissa rammed into her back. Her balance teetered, her breath heaved. Almost as an afterthought, Eve spun into a back kick and planted her boot in Clarissa’s chest, a second in her face. “Stay away from me, you bitch.”

There was wailing and sobbing behind her as Eve leaned into the teeth of the wind, braced her midriff on the window ledge, and held out a hand to Roarke.

“Reach up. Grab hold of me. Roarke!”

He knew he was slipping. Blood was dripping down his arm, through his fingers. He’d faced death before, was no stranger to the sensation of knowing this breath, this one breath, could be the last you drew.

But he’d be damned if it would. Not when his woman was watching him with terrified eyes, calling to him, risking her life to save his. He set his teeth, gave his injured arm his weight. Pain swam sickly into his head, into his gut as he reached up to her.

And her hand gripped his, firm and strong.

Eve rammed the toes of her boots into the wall for purchase, and muscles screaming, held out her other hand. “I’ll pull you in. Give me your other hand. I’ll pull you in. Hurry.”

When her fingers closed over his, slipped once as the blood slickened them, his vision grayed. Then she was locking her hand over his wrist, hauling up. He bore down, pulled his body up, an inch, then two. He saw the sweat run down her face, into her eyes. Concentrated on her eyes.

Then his arm was on the window ledge, braced there. With one last heave he was tumbling in on top of her.

“God. Roarke. God.”

“Time!” He rolled free, all but fell on the last explosive. The readout showed forty-five seconds. “Get out, Eve.” He said it coolly as he began to work.

“Get it down.” She fought to get breath back in her body. “Get it down.”

“There won’t be time.” Battered, bloody, Clarissa dragged herself to her feet. “We die here. All of us. Both men I loved, martyrs to the cause.”

“Fuck your cause.” Eve yanked her communicator. “Keep this area clear. Keep it clear. There’s a hot one left. Working now.” She shut it down as shouts and orders buzzed through. “Live or die,” she said, looking into Clarissa’s eyes. “You still lose.”

“Die,” she said. “My way.”

Screaming her father’s name, she leaped through the window.

“Jesus Christ.” Eve wanted to sag to her knees, but braced against the device. “Kill this thing, will you?”

“I’m working on it.” But his fingers were slippery, his system screaming to shut down from loss of blood. The readout clicked down twenty-six seconds, twenty-five, twenty-four.

“It’s going to be close.” He shut off the pain, as he’d learned to do as a child. Get through, get by. Survive. “Start out. I’ll be behind you.”

“Don’t waste your breath.” She moved to his side. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. Laid a hand on his shoulder. Unified them. Lights from a circling copter speared through the windows, lighted his face. Doomed angel, with a mouth of a poet, the eyes of a warrior. She’d had a year with him, and it had changed everything.

“I love you, Roarke.”

His answer was a grunt, and it nearly made her smile. She took her gaze from his face, looked down at the readout. Nine, eight, seven . . .

The hand on his shoulder tightened. She held her breath.

“Would you mind repeating that, Lieutenant?”

She whooshed out her breath, stared down at the readout. “You killed it.”

“With four seconds to spare. Not bad.” He pulled her against him with his good arm. Those wild warrior’s eyes were brilliant on hers. “Kiss me, Eve.”

She let out a whoop of laughter and ignoring the circling lights, the shouts from bull horns, the incessant beep of her communicator, crushed his mouth with hers. “We’re alive.”

“And staying that way.” He buried his face in her hair. “By the way, thanks for the lift.”

“Any time.” In joy, she threw her arms around him, squeezed, then leaped back when he yelped. “What? Oh God, your arm. Looks bad.”

“Bad enough.” He wiped blood from his face, then hers. “But it’ll hold.”

“Uh-uh.” She tore his sleeve, frowned at the wound, and quickly bound it up. “This time I get to drag your ass to a health center, pal.” She staggered, shaking her head as he grabbed her.

“We’ll get a big bed. Are you hit?”

“No, crash city.” Her mind went on float and she giggled. “I got my four to six out of the goddamn chemicals though. I’m okay. I’ve just got to lie down really, really soon.”

But she hooked her arm around his waist, turned. Together they looked out over the water, toward the city lights that flashed and blinked against the dark. “Some view, huh?”

His arm came around her. It was debatable who was holding whom upright. “Yeah, it’s a killer. Let’s go home, Eve.”

“Okay.” She pulled out her communicator as they hobbled toward the doorway. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. We’re secure here.”

“Lieutenant.” Whitney’s voice came through as a mild buzzing as fatigue washed over her. Even the echo of adrenaline had faded. “Report?”

“Ah . . .” She shook her head, but didn’t quite clear it. “The explosives are down, E and B teams can dispose. The Bransons took a leap. We’ll need body removal to scrape up what’s left of them. Sir . . . Roarke’s injured. I’m transporting him to a health center.”

“Is his condition serious?”

They teetered on the stairs, shifted grips, and continued down. Eve had to swallow down a chuckle. “Oh, we’re pretty much a mess here, Commander, thanks, but we’ll hold. Do me a favor, will you?”

On the miniscreen, Whitney’s brows drew together in surprise. “Yes?”

“Will you tag Peabody and McNab and Feeney? Tell them we’re okay here. Mostly okay, anyhow. They worry, and I’m feeling a little too flaked to triangulate our status. Oh, and tell Peabody to go get Zeke and maybe get him drunk or something. He’ll handle what went down here better that way.”

“Excuse me?”

She swayed as they came to the entrance level, shot Roarke a puzzled look as he shook with laughter. “Um, sorry, Commander, I think we’re running into some interference on this channel.”

Obligingly, Roarke took the communicator and shut it down. “There, before you ask your superior to join the drunken revelry.”

“Jesus, I can’t believe I said that.” She stepped out into the teeth of the wind, winced against the brilliant spin of lights from landing copters. She rubbed a hand over her face as the teams began to leap out and race toward the statue. “Let’s get out of here before I say something else stupid.”

By the time they dragged each other into the jet-copter, she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a corner, any corner, and sleep for a week. Yawning, she turned her head and looked at Roarke as he took the controls. He was bloody, torn, and gorgeous. Through the fatigue, the worry, she grinned.

“Roarke? Nice working with you.”

His eyes glinted wild and blue and his grin flashed in return as the jets roared to life. “My pleasure, Lieutenant. As always.”

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
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Witness in Death

J. D. Robb

Contents

WITNESS IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN-10: 978-1-1012-0374-3

A BERKLEY BOOK®

Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: October, 2003

The play’s the thing.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

This reasonable moderator, and equal piece of justice, Death.

—SIR THOMAS BROWNE

There was always an audience for murder.

Whether it took its form in horror or glee, in dark humor or quiet grief, mankind’s fascination with the ultimate crime made it a ripe subject for exploration in fact and in fiction.

At its bottom line, murder sold tickets and had packed theaters throughout history. Romans had pushed and shoved their way into the Coliseum to watch gladiators hack each other to bloody bits. Or, to alleviate the boredom of the day, by catching a matinee where a few hapless Christians were pitted against happy-to-oblige lions for the amusement of a cheering audience.

Since the outcome of these uneven matches was pretty much a sure bet, the crowd hadn’t packed the stands to see if maybe this time the Christians would win the day. They wanted the results and all the blood and gore they offered.

People could go home pleased that they’d gotten their money’s worth—and more, that they themselves were alive and whole. Vicarious murder was a simple way of reassuring yourself that your personal problems weren’t really so bad after all.

Human nature, and the need for such entertainment, hadn’t changed very much in a millennium or two. Lions and Christians might have been passé, but in the last gasp of winter in the year 2059, murder still sold strong and bumped the ratings in the media.

In a more civilized way, of course.

Families, wooing couples, the sophisticated, and their country cousins continued to queue up and plunk down hard-earned credits to be entertained by the idea of murder.

Crime and punishment was Lieutenant Eve Dallas’s business, and murder was her specialty. But tonight she sat in a comfortable seat in a packed house and watched the canny business of murder play out onstage.

“He did it.”

“Hmm?” Roarke was every bit as interested in his wife’s reaction to the play as he was the play itself. She leaned forward in her chair, her arms crossed on the gleaming rail of the owner’s box. Her brandy-colored eyes scanned the stage, the players, even as the curtain came down for intermission.

“The Vole guy. He killed the woman. Bashed her head in for her money. Right?”

Roarke took the time to pour them each a glass of the champagne he had chilling. He hadn’t been certain how she’d react to an evening with murder as the entertainment and was pleased she’d gotten into the spirit. “Perhaps.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know.” Eve took the flute glass, studied his face.

And a hell of a face it was, she thought. It seemed to have been carved by magic into a staggering male beauty that made a woman’s glands hum a happy tune. The dark mane of hair framed it, those long, sculpted bones; the firm, full mouth that was curved now in the faintest of smiles as he watched her. He reached out, ever so casually, to skim those long fingers over the ends of her hair.

And those eyes, that brilliant, almost burning blue, could still make her heart stumble.

It was mortifying the way the man could turn her inside out with no more than a look.

“What are you staring at?”

“I like looking at you.” The simple phrase, delivered with that musical hint of Ireland, was a power all its own.

“Yeah?” She angled her head. Relaxed by the idea of having the entire evening to do nothing but be with him, enjoy him, she let him nibble on her knuckles. “So, you want to fool around?”

Amused, he set his glass down and, watching her, ran his hand up the long line of her leg to where the slit in her narrow skirt ended at the hip.

“Pervert. Cut it out.”

“You asked.”

“You have no shame.” But she laughed and handed him back his glass. “Half the people in this fancy joint of yours have their spyglasses on this box. Everybody wants a look at Roarke.”

“They’re looking at my very nifty wife, the homicide cop who brought me down.”

She sneered at that, as he knew she would. It gave him the opening to lean over and sink his teeth lightly into her soft bottom lip. “Keep it up,” she warned. “We’ll have to sell tickets.”

“We’re still basically newlyweds. It’s perfectly acceptable for newlyweds to neck in public places.”

“Like you care about what’s acceptable.” She put a hand on his chest, nudged him back to a safe distance. “So, you’ve packed them in tonight. I guess you figured you would.” She turned back to look out on the audience again.

She didn’t know much about architecture or design, but the place dripped with class. She imagined Roarke had employed the best minds and talents available to rehab the old building into its former glory.

People wandered in and out of the enormous, multi-level theater during the break, and the sound of their voices rose in a low roar of humanity. Some were dressed to kill, so to speak. Others were decked out in the casual wear of airboots and oversized, retro flak jackets that were all the rage that winter.

With its soaring, muraled ceilings, its miles of red carpet and acres of gilt, the theater itself had been redone to Roarke’s exacting specifications. Everything he owned was done to his specifications—and, Eve thought, he owned damn near everything that could be owned in the known universe.

It was something she still wasn’t used to, something she doubted she’d ever be fully comfortable with. But that was Roarke, and they’d taken each other for better or worse.

In the year since they’d met, they’d had more than their share of both.

“It’s a hell of a place you’ve got here, pal. I didn’t get the full punch of it from the holo-models.”

“Models only provide the structure and elements of ambiance. A theater needs people, the smell and sound of them, to have impact.”

“I’ll take your word for it. What made you pick this play for the opening?”

“It’s a compelling story, and, I think, has timeless themes as the best stories do. Love, betrayal, murder, all in a layered and untidy package. And it’s a stellar cast.”

“And it all has your stamp on it. Still, Leonard Vole’s guilty.” She narrowed her eyes at the shimmering red-and-gold drawn curtain as if she could see through it to measure and judge. “His wife’s a very cool customer, with some trick up her sleeve. The lawyer guy’s good.”

“Barrister,” Roarke corrected. “The play takes place in London, mid–twentieth century. Barristers plead criminal cases in that particular system.”

“Whatever. The costumes are cool.”

“And authentic, circa 1952. When Witness for the Prosecution came out on film, it was a huge hit, and it’s proven an enduring one. They had a stellar cast then, too.” He had it on disc, of course. Roarke had a particular fondness for the black-and-white films of the early–and mid–twentieth century.

Some saw black-and-white as simple and clear cut. He saw shadows. That, he thought, his wife would understand very well.

“They’ve done a good job casting actors who reflect the original players while maintaining their own style,” he told her. “We’ll have to watch the movie sometime, so you can judge for yourself.”

He, too, scanned the theater. However much he enjoyed an evening out with his wife, he was a businessman. The play was an investment. “I think we’re in for a good, long run with this.”

“Hey, there’s Mira.” Eve leaned forward as she spotted the police psychologist, elegant as always, in a winter-white sheath. “She’s with her husband, and it looks like a couple of other people.”

“Would you like me to get a message down to her? We could invite them for a drink after curtain.”

Eve opened her mouth, then slid her gaze to Roarke’s profile. “No, not tonight. I’ve got other plans.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

“None whatsoever.” He topped off their wine. “Now, we have a few minutes before the next act. Why don’t you tell me why you’re so sure Leonard Vole is guilty.”

“Too slick not to be. Not slick like you,” she added and made Roarke grin. “His is a—what do you call it—a veneer. Your slick goes down to the bone.”

“Darling, you flatter me.”

“Anyway, this guy’s an operator, and he does a good job with the honest, innocent act of a hopeful, trusting man who’s down on his luck. But great-looking guys with beautiful wives don’t piddle time away with older, much less attractive women unless they have an agenda. And his goes a lot deeper than selling some goofy kitchen tool he invented.”

She sipped her champagne, settling back as the houselights flickered to signal the end of intermission. “The wife knows he did it. She’s the key, not him. She’s the study. If I were investigating, she’s the one I’d be looking into. Yeah, I’d have myself a nice long talk with Christine Vole.”

“Then the play’s working for you.”

“It’s pretty clever.”

When the curtain rose, Roarke watched Eve instead of the courtroom drama.

She was, he thought, the most fascinating of women. A few hours before, she’d come home with blood on her shirt. Fortunately, not her own. The case that caused it had opened and closed almost immediately with the dead she stood for and a confession she’d drawn out within an hour of the crime itself.

It wasn’t always that simplistic. He supposed that was the word. He’d seen her drive herself to exhaustion, risk her life, to bring justice to the dead.

It was only one of the myriad facets of her he admired.

Now she was here, for him, dressed in sleek and elegant black, her only jewelry the diamond he’d once given her, dripping like a tear between her breasts, and her wedding ring. Her hair was short, a careless cap of dozens of shades of brown.

She watched the play with those cool cop’s eyes, dissecting, he imagined, evidence, motive, and character, just as she would a case that landed in her lap. Her mouth was unpainted—she rarely remembered or thought of lip dye. Her strong face with its take-me-on chin and its shallow cleft didn’t need it.

He watched that mouth thin and those eyes narrow and gleam as the character of Christine Vole took the stand and betrayed the man she’d called her husband.

“She’s up to something. I told you she was up to something.”

Roarke danced his fingers over the back of Eve’s neck. “So you did.”

“She’s lying,” Eve murmured. “Not all the way. Pieces of lies. Where does the knife come into it? So he cut himself with it. It’s not a vital point. The knife’s a red herring. Not the murder weapon, which, by the way, they haven’t introduced into evidence. That’s a flaw. But if he cut himself slicing bread with the knife—and everyone agrees he did—why do they need it?”

“He either cut himself on purpose to explain the blood on his sleeves or by accident as he claims.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s smoke.” Her brow furrowed. “Oh, he’s good.” Her voice lowered, vibrated with the intense dislike she’d developed for Leonard Vole. “Look at him standing in the . . . what is it?”

“The dock.”

“Yeah, standing in the dock looking all shocked and devastated by her testimony.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Something’s off. I’ll figure it out.”

She liked putting her mind to it, looking for the angles and the twists. Before her involvement with Roarke, she’d never seen an actual live play. She’d passed some time in front of the screen, had let her friend Mavis drag her to a couple of holograph acts over the years. But she had to admit watching live performers act out the scenes, deliver the lines, and make the moves took the whole entertainment aspect to a higher level.

There was something about sitting in the dark, looking down on the action that made you a part of it, while separating you just enough that you didn’t have a real stake in the outcome.

It removed responsibility, Eve thought. The foolish and wealthy widow who’d gotten her skull bashed in wasn’t looking to Lieutenant Eve Dallas to find the answers. That made looking for those answers an interesting game.

If Roarke had his way—and it was rarely otherwise—that rich widow would die six nights a week, and during two matinees, for a very, very long time for the amusement and entertainment of an audience of armchair detectives.

“He’s not worth it,” she muttered, drawn in by the action enough to be annoyed by the characters. “She’s sacrificing herself, performing for the jury so they look at her as an opportunist, a user, a cold-hearted bitch. Because she loves him. And he’s not worth a damn.”

“One would assume,” Roarke commented, “that she’s just betrayed him and hung him out to dry.”

“Uh-uh. She’s turned the case on its ear, shifted it so that she’s the villain. Who’s the jury looking at now? She’s the center, and he’s just a sap. Damn smart thinking, if he was worth it, but he’s not. Does she figure that out?”

“Watch and see.”

“Just tell me if I’m right.”

He leaned over, kissed her cheek. “No.”

“No, I’m not right?”

“No, I’m not telling, and if you keep talking, you’ll miss the subtleties and the dialogue.”

She scowled at him but fell silent to watch the rest of the drama unfold. She rolled her eyes when the not guilty verdict was read. Juries, she thought. You couldn’t depend on them in fiction or in real life. A panel of twelve decent cops would have convicted the bastard. She started to say so, then watched Christine Vole fight her way through a crowd of spectators, who wanted her blood, into the nearly empty courtroom.

Eve nodded, pleased when the character confessed her lies and deceptions to Vole’s barrister. “She knew he was guilty. She knew it, and she lied to save him. Idiot. He’ll brush himself off and dump her now. You watch.”

Eve turned her head at Roarke’s laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“I have a feeling Dame Christie would have liked you.”

“Who the hell is that? Ssh! Here he comes. Watch him gloat.”

Leonard Vole crossed the courtroom set, flaunting his acquittal and the slinky brunette on his arm. Another woman, Eve thought. Big surprise. She felt both pity and frustration for Christine as she threw herself into Vole’s arms, tried to cling.

She watched his arrogance, Christine’s shock and disbelief, Sir Wilfred’s anger. It was no less, no more than she expected, however well played. And then, she came straight up out of her chair.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Down girl.” Delighted, Roarke dragged Eve back into her seat while onstage, Christine Vole plunged the knife she’d snatched from the evidence table into her husband’s black heart.

“Son of a bitch,” Eve said again. “I didn’t see it coming. She executed him.”

Yes, Roarke thought Agatha Christie would have enjoyed his Eve. Sir Wilfred echoed those precise words as people rushed out onstage to huddle over the body, to draw Christine Vole away.

“Something’s wrong.” Again, Eve pushed to her feet, and now her blood was humming to a different beat. This time she gripped the rail tight in both hands, her eyes riveted to the stage. “Something’s wrong. How do we get down there?”

“Eve, it’s a performance.”

“Somebody’s not acting.” She shoved the chair out of her way and strode out of the box just as Roarke noted one of the kneeling extras scramble to his feet and stare at the blood on his hand.

He caught up with Eve, grabbed her arm. “This way. There’s an elevator. It’ll take us straight down to backstage.” He keyed in a code. From somewhere, down below, a woman began to scream.

“Is that part of the script?” Eve demanded as they stepped into the elevator.

“No.”

“Okay.” She dug her communicator out of her evening bag. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need a medi-vac unit. New Globe Theater, Broadway and Thirty-eighth. Condition and injury as yet unknown.”

She tossed the communicator back in her bag as the elevator opened onto chaos. “Get these people back and under control. I don’t want any of the cast or crew to leave the building. Can you get me a head count?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

They separated, with Eve shoving her way through to the stage. Someone had had the presence of mind to drop the curtain, but behind it were a dozen people in various stages of hysteria.

“Step back.” She snapped out the order.

“We need a doctor.” The cool-eyed blonde who’d played Vole’s wife stood with both hands clutched between her breasts. There was blood staining her costume, her hands. “Oh my God. Somebody get a doctor.”

But Eve crouched beside the man sprawled facedown on the floor and knew it was too late for doctors. She straightened, dug out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security. I want everyone to step back. Don’t touch anything, don’t remove anything from the stage area.”

“There’s been an accident.” The actor who played Sir Wilfred had pulled off his barrister’s wig. His stage makeup ran with sweat. “A terrible accident.”

Eve looked down at the pool of blood, the gored-to-the-hilt bread knife. “This is a crime scene. I want you people to step back. Where the hell is security?”

She tossed out a hand, slapped it on the shoulder of the woman she still thought of as Christine Vole. “I said back.” When she spotted Roarke come out of the wings with three men in uniform, she signaled.

“Get these people offstage. I want them sequestered. You’ve got dressing rooms or whatever. Get them stashed, and keep the guards on them. That goes for crew as well.”

“He’s dead?”

“That or he wins best actor award for the century.”

“We need to move the audience along to a safe area. Keep it controlled.”

“Go ahead and make it happen. See if you can find out if Mira’s still around. I could use her.”

“I killed him.” The blonde staggered back two steps, holding up her bloody hands, staring at them. “I killed him,” she said again and fainted.

“Great. Terrific. Roarke?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You.” She jabbed a finger at one of the guards. “Start moving these people into dressing rooms. Keep them there. You,” she ordered the second guard, “start rounding up the crew, the techs. I want the doors secured. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out.”

A woman began to sob, several men began to argue in raised voices. Eve counted to five, lifted her badge in the air, and shouted, “Now, listen up! This is a police investigation. Anyone refusing to follow the directives will be interfering with that investigation and will find themselves transported to the nearest station house where they will be kept in holding. I want this stage cleared, and cleared now!”

“Let’s move.” The brunette with the bit part as Vole’s tootsie gracefully stepped over the unconscious Christine. “A couple of you big strong men pick up our leading lady, will you? I need a goddamn drink.” She glanced around, her eyes cool, clear, and green. “Is that allowed, Lieutenant?”

“As long as it’s not on my crime scene.”

Satisfied, Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” Once more she crouched beside the body. “I need a crime scene unit dispatched immediately.”

“Eve.” Doctor Mira hurried across the stage. “Roarke told me . . .” She trailed off, looked down at the body. “Good lord.” She let out a long breath, shifted her gaze back to Eve. “What can I do?”

“Right now, you can stand by. I don’t have a field kit. Peabody’s on the way, and I’ve sent for the crime scene team, and the ME. But until they get here, you’re both the doctor on-scene and a designated police and security official. Sorry to screw up your evening.”

Mira shook her head, started to kneel by the body.

“No, watch the blood. You’ll contaminate my scene and ruin your dress.”

“How did it happen?”

“You tell me. We all watched it. Using my acute powers of observation, I identify that knife as the murder weapon.” Eve spread her hands. “I don’t even have a damn can of Seal-It. Where the hell is Peabody?”

Frustrated that she couldn’t begin a true examination or investigation without her tools, she spun around and spotted Roarke. “Would you hold here for me, Dr. Mira?”

Without waiting for an answer, Eve strode stage left. “Tell me, the bit with the knife in the last scene. How does it work?” she asked Roarke.

“Dummy knife. The blade retracts when it’s pressed against a solid surface.”

“Not this time,” Eve murmured. “The victim, what’s his real name?”

“Richard Draco. A very hot property. I suppose he’s cooled off considerably now.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well. I’ve met him socially a few times, but primarily I knew his work.” Roarke tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he studied Draco’s stunned and staring eyes. “He’s a four-time Tony Award winner, garnered excellent reviews in the films he’s done. He’s a top box office draw, stage and screen, and has been so for a number of years. He has a rep,” Roarke continued, “for being difficult, arrogant, and childish. Juggles women, enjoys a certain amount of chemical enhancements that might not meet the police department’s code.”

“The woman who killed him?”

“Areena Mansfield. Brilliant actress. A rare untemperamental type, and dedicated to her art. Very well respected in theater circles. She lives and works primarily in London but was persuaded to relocate to New York for this role.”

“By who?”

“Partially by me. We’ve known each other for a number of years. And no,” he added, dipping his hands in his pockets again, “I’ve never slept with her.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Okay, if I did, we’ll have the follow-up. Why haven’t you slept with her?”

A faint smile lifted his mouth. “Initially because she was married. Then, when she wasn’t . . .” He ran a fingertip along the dent in Eve’s chin. “I was. My wife doesn’t like me to sleep with other women. She’s very strict about it.”

“I’ll make a note of that.” She considered her options, juggled them. “You know a lot of these people, or have impressions of them anyway. I’m going to want to talk to you later.” She sighed. “On the record.”

“Of course. Is it possible this was an accident?”

“Anything’s possible. I need to examine the knife, and I can’t touch the fucker until Peabody gets here. Why don’t you go back there, do a pat and stroke on your people? And keep your ears open.”

“Are you asking me to assist in an official police investigation?”

“No, I am not.” And despite the circumstances, her lips wanted to quiver. “I just said keep your ears open.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “And stay out of my way. I’m on duty.”

She turned away as she heard the hard clop of what could only be police-issue shoes.

Peabody’s were shined to a painful gleam Eve could spot across the length of the stage. Her winter-weight uniform coat was buttoned to the throat of a sturdy body. Her cap sat precisely at the correct angle atop her dark, straight hair.

They crossed the stage from opposite ends, met at the body. “Hi, Dr. Mira.” Peabody glanced down at the body, pursed her lips. “Looks like a hell of an opening night.”

Eve held out a hand for her field kit. “Record on, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.” Because it was warm under the stage lights, Peabody shrugged out of her coat, folded it, set it aside. She clipped her recorder to the collar of her uniform jacket.

“Record on,” she said as Eve coated her hands and evening shoes with Seal-It.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on-scene, stage set of New Globe Theater. Also in attendance, Peabody, Officer Delia, and Mira, Dr. Charlotte. Victim is Richard Draco, mixed race male, late forties to early fifties.”

She tossed the Seal-It to Peabody. “Cause of death, stabbing, single wound. Visual exam and minimal amount of blood indicate a heart wound.”

She crouched, and with her coated fingers picked up the knife. “Wound inflicted by what appears to be a common kitchen knife, serrated blade approximately eight inches in length.”

“I’ll measure and bag, Lieutenant.”

“Not yet,” Eve murmured. She examined the knife, dug out microgoggles, examined it again from hilt to tip. “Initial exam reveals no mechanism for retracting the blade on impact. This is no prop knife.”

She shoved the goggles up so they rested on the top of her head. “No prop knife, no accident.” She passed the knife to Peabody’s sealed hand. “It’s homicide.”

“I could use you,” Eve said to Mira while the sweepers worked over the crime scene. Draco’s body was already bagged, tagged, and on its way to the morgue.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a couple of dozen uniforms logging names and addresses of audience members.” She didn’t want to think about the man-hours, the mountains of paperwork that would go into interviewing over two thousand witnesses. “But I want to start the interview process on the main players before I kick them clear for the night. I don’t want anybody lawyering on me until I get a better handle on the setup.”

Right out in the open, Eve thought as she studied the stage, the set, the tiers after tiers of plush velvet seats that had held a rapt audience.

Someone was cool and cocky. And smart.

“People are comfortable with you,” she went on. “I want Areena Mansfield comfortable.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Appreciate it. Peabody, you’re with me.”

Eve crossed the stage, moved into the wings. There were uniforms scattered throughout the backstage area. Civilians were either tucked behind closed doors or huddled in miserable little groups.

“What do you give our chances of keeping the media locked out of this until morning?”

Peabody glanced over at Eve. “I’d say zero, but that’s optimistic.”

“Yeah. Officer.” Eve signaled a uniform. “I want guards posted at every entrance, every exit.”

“Already done, sir.”

“I want the guards inside. Nobody leaves the building, not even a cop. Nobody comes in, especially reporters. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A corridor bent off the wing, narrowed. Eve scanned the door, vaguely amused by the gold stars affixed to several of them. Name plaques were displayed as well. She stopped by the door marked for Areena Mansfield, knocked briefly, then walked in.

She only lifted her eyebrows when she saw Roarke sitting on a royal blue daybed, holding Areena’s hand.

The actress had yet to remove her stage makeup, and though tears had ravaged it, she was still stunning. Her eyes darted to Eve and were instantly full of fear.

“Oh God. Oh my God. Am I going to be arrested?”

“I need to ask you some questions, Ms. Mansfield.”

“They wouldn’t let me change. They said I couldn’t. His blood.” Her hands fluttered in front of her costume, fisted. “I can’t stand it.”

“I’m sorry. Dr. Mira, would you help Miss Mansfield out of her costume? Peabody will bag it.”

“Of course.”

“Roarke, outside please.” Eve stepped back to the door, opened it.

“Don’t worry, Areena. The lieutenant will sort this out.” After giving Areena’s hand a comforting squeeze, he rose and walked by Eve.

“I asked you to keep your ears open, not to cozy up with one of my suspects.”

“Trying to keep a hysterical woman lucid isn’t particularly cozy.” He blew out a breath. “I could use a very large brandy.”

“Well, go home and have one. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I believe I can find what I need here.”

“Just go home,” she said again. “There’s nothing for you to do here.”

“As I’m not one of your suspects,” he added in a quiet voice, “and I own this theater, I believe I can come and go as I please.”

He ran a finger down her cheek and strolled off.

“You always do,” she muttered, then went back into the dressing room.

It seemed to Eve that dressing room was a lowly term for a space so large, so lush. A long, cream-toned counter held a forest of pots, tubes, wands, bottles, all arranged with soldierly precision. Over it all gleamed a wide triple mirror ringed with slim white lights.

There was the daybed, several cozy chairs, a full-sized AutoChef and friggie unit, a trim, mini–communication system. Wardrobe hung in a long closet area, open now so that Eve noted the costumes and street clothes were as precisely arranged as the makeup.

On every table, in groupings on the floor, were flowers. The overfragranced air made Eve think of weddings. And funerals.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Areena shivered slightly as Mira helped her into a long white robe. “I don’t know how much longer I could have stood . . . I’d like to clean off my makeup.” Her hand reached for her throat. “I’d like to feel like myself.”

“Go ahead.” Eve made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. “This interview will be recorded. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand anything.” With a sigh, Areena sat on the padded stool in front of her makeup mirror. “My mind seems numb, as if everything’s happening one step after it should be.”

“It’s a very normal reaction,” Mira assured her. “It often helps to talk about the event that caused the shock, to go over the details of it so they can be dealt with. Set aside.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Shifting her gaze in the mirror, she watched Eve. “You have to ask me questions, and it has to be on the record. All right. I want to get it done.”

“Record on, Peabody. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Mansfield, Areena, in subject’s dressing room at the New Globe Theater. Also present are Peabody, Officer Delia, and Dr. Charlotte Mira.”

While Areena creamed off her stage makeup, Eve recited the revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and responsibilities, Miss Mansfield?”

“Yes. It’s another part of the nightmare.” She closed her eyes, tried to envision a pure white field, tranquil, serene. And could see only blood. “Is he really dead? Is Richard really dead?”

“Yes.”

“I killed him. I stabbed him.” The shudder ran from her shoulders down. “A dozen times,” she said, opening her eyes again to meet Eve’s in the center of the triple mirror. “At least a dozen times, we rehearsed that scene. We choreographed it so carefully, for the biggest impact. What went wrong? Why didn’t the knife retract?” The first hint of anger showed in her eyes. “How could this have happened?”

“Take me through it. The scene. You’re Christine. You’ve protected him, lied for him. You’ve ruined yourself for him. Then, after all that, he blows you off, flaunts another woman, a younger woman, in your face.”

“I loved him. He was my obsession—my lover, my husband, my child, all in one.” She lifted her shoulders. “Above all else, Christine loved Leonard Vole. She knew what he was, what he did. But it didn’t matter. She would have died for him, so deep and obsessive was her love.”

Calmer now, Areena tossed the used tissues into her recycle chute, turned on the stool. Her face was marble pale, her eyes red and swollen. And still, she radiated beauty.

“In that moment, every woman in the audience understands her. If they haven’t felt that kind of love, in some part of themselves they wish they had. So when she realizes that after all she’s done, he can discard her so casually, when she fully understands what he is, she grabs the knife.”

Areena lifted a fisted hand, as if holding the hilt. “Despair? No, she is a creature of action. She is never passive. It’s an instant, an impulse, but a bone-deep one. She plunges the knife into him, even as she embraces him. Love and hate, both in their highest form, both inside her in that one instant.”

She stared at the hand she’d flung out, and it began to tremble. “God. God!” In a frantic move, she yanked open a drawer of her dressing table.

Eve was on her feet, her hand clamped over Areena’s wrist in a flash.

“I—it—a cigarette,” she managed. “I know I’m not supposed to smoke in the building, but I want a cigarette.” She pushed at Eve’s hand. “I want a damn cigarette.”

Eve glanced in the drawer, saw the pricey ten-pack of herbals. “We’re on the record. You’ll get an automatic fine.” But she stepped back.

“My nerves.” She fumbled with the lighter until Mira stepped over, gently pried it from her fingers, and flicked it on. “Thanks. Okay.” Areena took a deep drag, blew it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so . . . fragile. The theater smashes the fragile to bits, and quickly.”

“You’re doing very well.” Mira kept her voice low, calm. “Talking it through with Lieutenant Dallas will help.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Areena stared back at Mira with the trust Eve had wanted to see radiating in her eyes. “It just happened.”

“When you picked up the knife,” Eve interrupted, “did you notice anything different?”

“Different?” Areena blinked as she focused on Eve again. “No. It was exactly where it was supposed to be, hilt toward me to make the movement fast and smooth. I swept it up, to give the audience that one shocked instant to see the blade. The lighting’s designed to catch it, to glint off the edges. Then I charged. It’s only two steps from the table to Richard. I take his right arm, between the elbow and the shoulder, with my left hand, holding him, draw back with the right, then . . . the impact,” she said after another long drag, “of the prop knife against his chest releases the pack of stage blood. We hold there for an instant, just two beats, intimately, before the others onstage rush forward to pull me away.”

“What was your relationship with Richard Draco?”

“What?” Areena’s eyes had glazed.

“Your relationship with Draco. Tell me about it.”

“With Richard?” Areena pressed her lips together, her hand running up between her breasts to massage the base of her throat as if words were stuck there, like burrs. “We’ve known each other several years, worked with each other before—and well—most recently in a London production of Twice Owned.”

“And personally?”

There was a hesitation, less than a half beat, but Eve noticed and filed it away.

“We were friendly enough,” Areena told her. “As I said, we’ve known each other for years. The media in London played up a romance between us during that last work. The play was a romance. We enjoyed the benefit of the interest. It sold tickets. I was married at the time, but that didn’t discourage the public from seeing us as a couple. We were amused by it.”

“But never acted on it.”

“I was married, and smart enough, Lieutenant, to know Richard wasn’t the kind of man to throw out a marriage for.”

“Because?”

“He’s a fine actor. Was,” she corrected, swallowed hard before she drew one last time on her cigarette. “He wasn’t a particularly fine human being. Oh, that sounds vicious, horrible.” Her hand lifted to her throat again, fingers restless against flesh. “I feel vicious and horrible saying it, but I—I want to be as honest as I can. I’m afraid. I’m terrified you’ll think that I meant this to happen.”

“At the moment, I don’t think anything. I want you to tell me about Richard Draco.”

“All right. All right.” She drew in a breath, sucked on the cigarette as if it were a straw. “Others will say it in any case. Richard was very self-interested and egocentric, as many . . . most of us are in this business. I didn’t hold it against him. And I jumped at the chance to work with him in this play.”

“Are you aware of anyone else who, believing him not a particularly fine human being, might have held that against him?”

“I imagine Richard insulted or offended everyone attached to this production at one time or another.” She pressed a fingertip to the inside corner of her eye, as if to relieve some pressure. “Certainly there were bruised feelings, complaints, mutters, and grudges. That’s theater.”

The theater, as far as Eve was concerned, was a screwy business. People wept copiously, gave rambling monologues when any half-wit lawyer would have advised them to say yes, no, and shut the hell up. They expounded, they expanded, and a great many of them managed to turn the death of an associate into a drama where they themselves held a starring role.

“Ninety percent bullshit, Peabody.”

“I guess.” Peabody crossed the backstage area, trying to look everywhere at once. “But it’s kind of cool. All those lights, and the holoboard, and there’re some really mag costumes if you’re into antique. Don’t you think it’d be amazing to be standing out front and having all those people watching you?”

“Creepy. We’re going to have to let some of these people go before they start whining about their civil rights.”

“I hate when that happens.”

Eve smirked, scanned her memo pad. “So far, we’re getting an interesting picture of the victim. Nobody really wants to say so, but he was well disliked. Even when they don’t want to say so, they do anyway, while they dab tears from their eyes. I’m going to look around back here. Go ahead and have the uniforms cut these people loose. Make sure we have all pertinent data on them, that they’re issued the standard warning. Set up interviews for tomorrow.”

“At Central or in the field?”

“Let’s keep it light and go to them. For now. After you’ve set them up, you’re relieved. Meet me at Central at oh eight hundred.”

Peabody shifted her feet. “Are you going home?”

“Eventually.”

“I can hang until you do.”

“No point in it. We’ll do better with a fresh start tomorrow. Just scramble the interviews in. I want to talk to as many people as possible as soon as possible. And I want a follow-up with Areena Mansfield.”

“Yes, sir. Great dress,” she added as she tucked her memo log away. “You’re going to have to get the blood and sweeper gunk off the skirt before it sets in.”

Eve looked down, scowled at the elegant black column. “Damn it. I hate not being dressed for the job.” She turned, strode deeper backstage, where a uniform stood by a huge, locked cabinet.

“Key.” She held out a hand while the uniform took out a key in an evidence bag. “Anybody try to get in this thing?”

“The prop master came back—old guy, pretty shaky. But he didn’t give me any hassle.”

“Fine. Go out front and tell the sweepers they’ll be cleared to run this area in about ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alone, Eve unlocked the cabinet and pulled the double doors open. She frowned, noting the box of cigars, the old-fashioned telephone, and a few other items neatly arranged in an area marked Sir Wilfred’s Office.

Another section held props that had been used in the bar scene. The courtroom section was empty. Apparently, the prop master was very careful about replacing and arranging his props, and did so directly after the scene where they were needed was wrapped.

Someone that meticulous wouldn’t have mistaken a kitchen knife for a dummy.

“Lieutenant Dallas?”

Eve glanced back and saw the young brunette from the last act moving from the shadows of the wings into the lights of backstage. She’d changed from her costume and wore a simple black jumpsuit. Her hair had been combed out of its tight waves and fell straight and richly brown down the center of her back.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your work.” She had the faintest accent, soft and southern, and an easy smile on her face as she walked closer. “I was hoping to have a word with you. Your aide told me I was free to go, for the moment.”

“That’s right.” Eve cast her mind back over the program she’d scanned after the murder. “Miss Landsdowne.”

“Carly Landsdowne, Diane in this tragic production.” She shifted her large blue eyes to the cabinet. “I hope you don’t think Pete had anything to do with what happened to Richard. Old Pete wouldn’t hurt a fly if it was buzzing in his ear.”

“Pete would be the property master?”

“Yes. And as harmless as they come. That can’t be said for everyone in this little circus.”

“Obviously. Is there something specific you want?”

“Only to say what I doubt most of the others will, at least initially. Everyone hated Richard.”

“Including you?

“Oh, absolutely.” She said it with a brilliant smile. “He’d step on your lines every chance he got, cut off your mark, anything that would draw the attention onto him and off anyone else. Offstage, he was a vicious little worm. His world revolved around one thing, his own ego.”

She gave a delicate shrug. “You’ll hear it from someone eventually, so I thought it would be best if you heard it from me. We were lovers for a brief period. It ended a couple of weeks ago, in a nasty little scene. Richard was fond of nasty little scenes and staged this one for the biggest impact. During our first full dress rehearsal.”

“I take it he broke things off.”

“He did.” She said it carelessly, but the gleam in those green eyes told Eve the resentment still simmered. “He went out of his way to charm me, and once I was charmed, he went out of his way to humiliate me in front of the cast and crew. This was my first Broadway production.”

She glanced around, and though her lips were curved, the smile was sharp as broken glass. “I was green, Lieutenant, but I ripen fast. I won’t bother to say I’m sorry he’s dead, but I will say I don’t think he was worth killing.”

“Were you in love with him?”

“I don’t have room for love at this point in my career, but I was . . . dazzled. Much, I think as my character was dazzled by Leonard Vole. I doubt there’s anyone involved in this production who didn’t have some grudge against Richard. I wanted to be up front about mine.”

“I appreciate that. You said he humiliated you. In what way?”

“In his last scene, the one where I come down with him into the courtroom and he confronts Christine, he broke off my lines to her, stormed around the stage, claiming my delivery was flat.”

Her lips compressed, her eyes slitted. “He compared its lack of passion and style to my performance in bed. He called me a brainless rube who was trying to trade her lack of talent on mildly attractive looks and a good pair of breasts.”

Carly brushed back her hair, a lazy gesture in direct contrast with the bright fury in her eyes. “He said I was boring, and while I’d amused him for a while, if I couldn’t pretend to act in my minor capacity, he’d see I was replaced with someone who could.”

“And this came as a complete surprise to you?”

“He was a snake. Snakes strike quickly, because they’re cowards. I gave back a few shots, but they weren’t my best. I wasn’t prepared, and I was embarrassed. Richard stalked offstage, locked himself in his dressing room. The assistant director went off to try to placate him, and we ran the scene again with Richard’s stand-in.”

“Who’s the stand-in?”

“Michael Proctor. He’s very good, by the way.”

“And if the play goes back into production, would he step into the part?”

“That’s a question for the producers, I imagine. But it wouldn’t surprise me, at least in the short term.”

“I appreciate the information, Miss Landsdowne.” And that much information, unbidden, was always suspect.

“I’ve got nothing to hide.” She moved her shoulders again and kept those big green eyes on Eve’s face. “And if I did, I imagine you’d dig it out. I’ve heard quite a bit about Roarke’s cop wife over the last few months. It took a certain arrogance, don’t you think, to choose a night you’d be in the audience to do murder?”

“Arrogance is required to take another’s life. I’ll be in touch, Miss Landsdowne.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Eve waited until the woman was nearly to the wings. “One thing.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t care much for Areena Mansfield either.”

“I don’t have strong feelings about her one way or the other.” Carly tilted her head, lifted one eyebrow in a high arch. “Why do you ask?”

“You weren’t very sympathetic when she fainted.”

The smile came back, bright enough to play to the back rows. “A damn graceful faint, wasn’t it? Actors, Lieutenant Dallas, you can’t trust them.”

With a casual toss of her hair, she made her exit.

“So,” Eve murmured, “who’s performing?”

“Lieutenant.” One of the sweepers, a young, fresh-faced woman, marched up to Eve. Her baggy protective jumpsuit made little swishing noises with each step. “Got a little toy here I think you’ll want to take a look at.”

“Well, well.” Eve took the evidence bag, pursed her lips as she studied the knife. Through the clear plastic she fingered the tip of the blade, felt it retract. “Where’d you find this, ah . . .” She scanned the name stitched on the breast of the dull gray jumpsuit. “Lombowsky.”

“In a vase full of genuine long-stemmed red roses. Nice flowers. The room was packed with them like it was a state funeral or something. Areena Mansfield’s dressing room.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Do you know where Mansfield is?”

“She’s in the cast lounge. Your man’s with her.”

“Peabody?”

“No, sir. Your husband.” Lombowsky waited until Eve scowled down at the prop knife before she dared to raise her eyebrows. It had been her first up-close look at Roarke, and she considered him worth two big eyesful.

“Finish the sweep, Lombowsky.”

“On it, Lieutenant.”

Eve strode offstage and caught Peabody coming out of a dressing room. “I’ve got four of the interviews scheduled.”

“Fine. Change of plan for tonight.” Eve held up the dummy knife. “Sweepers found this in Mansfield’s dressing room, tucked in with some roses.”

“You going to charge her?”

“Her lawyer’d get her bounced before I got her into Central. It’s awfully damn pat, isn’t it, Peabody? She kills him in front of a packed house and stashes the prop knife in her own dressing room. Very neat or very stupid.” Eve turned the evidence bag over in her hands. “Let’s see what she has to say about it. Where’s the cast lounge?”

“Lower level. We can take the stairs.”

“Fine. You know anything about actors?”

“Sure. Free-Agers are big on all the arts. My mother did some little theater when I was coming up, and two of my cousins are actors. Live stage work and small screen stuff. And my great-grandmother was a performance artist in San Francisco before she retired. Then there’s my—”

“Okay, all right.” Shaking her head, Eve clattered down the stairs. “How did you stand all those people crowding into your life?”

“I like people,” Peabody said cheerfully.

“Why?”

Since it wasn’t a question that required an answer, Peabody gestured to the left as they came to the bottom of the steps. “You like them, too. You just pretend to be snarly.”

“I am snarly. If and when I cut Mansfield loose, or she lawyers, I want you to stick with her. If she goes home, settles in, call for a couple of uniforms to watch her place. We’ve got enough for a surveillance clearance. I want to know where she goes and what she does.”

“Want me to run the background check on her now?”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

Eve pulled open the door to the lounge. As with anything Roarke had his fingers in, it was far from shabby. Obviously he wanted the talent comfortable and had spared no expense to insure it.

There were two separate seating areas with plush sofas flanked by serving droids. The room bent into an ell, with the short leg offering an AutoChef she assumed was fully stocked, a clear-fronted friggie holding a variety of cold drinks, and a small, separate table with a slick little computer setup.

Roarke sat, cozily to Eve’s mind, beside Areena in the sitting area on the right, swirling a snifter of brandy. His gaze; that lightning-strike blue, shifted to his wife’s face, gleamed there, and reminded her of the first time she’d seen him, face-to-face.

He hadn’t been baby-sitting a murder suspect then. He’d been one.

His lips curved in a lazy, confident smile. “Hello, Peabody,” he said, but his eyes remained on Eve’s face.

“I have a few more questions for you, Miss Mansfield.”

Areena blinked up at Eve, fluttered her hands. “Oh, but I thought we were finished for the evening. Roarke’s just arranged my transportation back to my penthouse.”

“The transpo can wait. Record on, Peabody. Do you need me to refresh you on your rights and obligations as pertains to this investigation, Miss Mansfield?”

“I—” The fluttering hand landed on her throat, rested there. “No. I just don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“Recognize this?” Eve tossed the sealed prop knife onto the table between them.

“It looks like . . .” Her hand, still restless, reached out, then fisted, drew back. “It’s the dummy knife. It’s the prop that should have been on the set when . . . Oh, God. Where did you find it?”

“In your dressing room, buried in red roses.”

“No. No.” Very slowly, Areena shook her head from side to side. She crossed her arms over her breasts, fingers digging into her shoulders. “That’s not possible.”

If it was an act, Eve mused, it was damn good. The eyes were glazed, the lips and fingers trembled. “It’s not only possible, it’s fact. How did it get there?”

“I don’t know. I tell you, I don’t know.” In a sudden spurt of energy, Areena leaped to her feet. Her eyes weren’t glazed now, but wild and wheeling. “Someone put it there. Whoever switched the knives put it there. They want me to be blamed for Richard. They want me to suffer for it. Wasn’t it enough, God, wasn’t it enough that I killed him?”

She held out her hand, a Lady Macbeth, staring at blood already washed away.

“Why?” Eve’s voice was cold and flat. “Why not just toss the prop away, into a corner, a recycling bin. Why would anyone hide it in your dressing room?”

“I can’t think . . . who would hate me so much. And Richard . . .” Tears shimmered, fell gorgeously as she turned. “Roarke. You know me. Please, help me. Tell her I couldn’t do this terrible thing.”

“Whatever the answers are, she’ll find them.” He rose, letting her come into his arms to weep as he watched his wife over her head. “You can be sure of it. Can’t she, Lieutenant?”

“Are you her representative?” Eve snapped back and earned a lifted brow.

“Who, other than yourself, has access to your dressing room, Miss Mansfield?”

“I don’t know. Anyone, really, in the cast and crew. I don’t keep it locked. It’s inconvenient.” With her head still resting on Roarke’s shoulder, she drew steadying breaths.

“Who sent you the red roses? And who brought them into the room?”

“I don’t know. There were so many flowers. My dresser took the cards. She would have marked the type on each. One of the gofers brought some of the deliveries in. People were in and out up till thirty minutes before curtain. That’s when I cut off visitors so I could prepare myself.”

“You were back in your dressing room after your initial scene and again for costume changes throughout the play.”

“That’s right.” Calmer, Areena drew back from Roarke, faced Eve. “I have five costume changes. My dresser was with me. She was in the dressing room with me each time.”

Eve drew out her memo. “Your dresser’s name?”

“Tricia. Tricia Beets. She’ll tell you I didn’t hide the prop. She’ll tell you. Ask her.”

“I’ll do that. My aide will see you back to your penthouse.”

“I can go?”

“For the moment. I’ll be in touch. Record off, Peabody. See Miss Mansfield back to her home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Areena grabbed the coat she’d draped over the arm of the sofa, passed it to Roarke in a way Eve had to appreciate. So female, so smoothly confident a man would be right there to wrap her up warm.

“I want you to catch who did this, Lieutenant Dallas. I want that very much. And even then, even when whoever arranged for this to happen is punished, I’ll always know it was my hand that caused it. I’ll always know that.”

She reached back, touched the back of Roarke’s hand with her fingers. “Thank you, Roarke. I couldn’t have gotten through tonight without you.”

“Get some rest, Areena.”

“I hope I can.” Head bowed, she walked out with Peabody trailing sturdily behind.

Frowning, Eve picked up the evidence bag, put it in her field kit. “She’d like to rectify the fact that you didn’t sleep with her.”

“Do you think so?”

The faint trace of amusement in his voice was just enough to put her back up. “And you just lap that up, don’t you?”

“Men are pigs.” He stepped forward, brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Jealous, darling Eve?”

“If I was jealous of every woman you’ve had sex with, compounded by every woman who wishes you did or would, I’d spend my life green.”

She started to turn, shoved at his hand when he grabbed her arm. “Hands off.”

“I don’t think so.” To prove it, he took her other arm, pulled her firmly against him. The humor was in his face and so, damn him, was a tenderness she had no defense against. “I love you, Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He laughed, leaned down, and bit her bottom lip gently. “You romantic fool.”

“You know your trouble, ace?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“You’re a walking orgasm.” She had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen.

“I don’t believe that’s entirely flattering.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” It was very rare to sneak under that slick polish and hit a nerve, she thought. Which was why she enjoyed it so much. “I’m going to talk to Mansfield’s dresser, see if she confirms the story. Then I’m done here for tonight. I can start some background runs on the way home.”

He retrieved his coat and hers, and his equilibrium. “I believe you’re going to be too busy to do background runs on the way home.”

“Doing what?”

He held her coat up before she could take it and shrug into it herself. Rolling her eyes, she turned, stuck her arms in the sleeves. Then let out a choked sound when he whispered a particularly imaginative suggestion in her ear.

“You can’t do that in the back of a limo.”

“Want to bet?”

“Twenty.”

He took her hand to lead her out. “Done.”

She lost, but it was money well spent.

“If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.”

Well, it is done, done well and done quickly. And I dare quote from the Scottish play as I sit alone. A murderer. Or, as Christine Vole was in our clever play, am I but an executioner?

It’s foolish of me to record my thoughts. But those thoughts are so loud, so huge, so brilliantly colored I wonder the world can’t see them bursting out of my head. I think this speaking aloud where no one can hear might quiet them. Those thoughts must be silenced, must be buried. This is a precarious time. I must steel my nerve.

The risks were weighed before the deed was done, but how was I to know, how could I have imagined what it would be like to see him dead and bleeding center stage? So still. He lay so still in the white wash of lights.

It’s best not to think of it.

It’s time now to think of myself. To be cautious, to be clever. To be calm. There were no mistakes made. There must be none now. I will keep my thoughts quiet, tucked deep inside my heart.

Though they want to scream out in jubilation.

Richard Draco is dead.

Given the state of the equipment at her disposal at Cop Central, Eve saved herself considerable frustration and ran her initial background checks at home. Roarke loved his toys, and the computer and communications systems in her home office made the junk at Central look like something out of the second millennium.

Which it very nearly was.

Pacing her office with her second cup of coffee, she listened while her computer listed the official details of Areena Mansfield’s life.

Areena Mansfield, born Jane Stoops, eight November, 2018, Wichita, Kansas. Parents, Adalaide Munch and Joseph Stoops, cohabitation union dissolved 2027. One sibling, male, Donald Stoops, born twelve August, 2022.

She let it run through education data for form—all standard stuff as far as Eve could tell right through her enrollment in New York’s Institute of Dramatic Arts at the age of fifteen.

Got the hell out of Kansas first chance, Eve mused, and couldn’t blame her. What did people do out there with all that wheat and corn, anyway?

Areena’s professional credits started young. Teen model, a scatter of plays, a brief stint in Hollywood before a return to live theater.

“Yeah, yeah, blah blah.” Eve wandered back to her machine. “Computer, search and list any criminal record, all arrests.”

Working . . .

The computer hummed with quiet efficiency. Comparing it to the useless pile of chips she was cursed with at Central made her sneer.

“Gotta marry a billionaire to get a decent tool these days.”

Search complete . . .

Possession of illegals, New Los Angeles, 2040.

“Now we’re talking.” Intrigued, Eve sat behind the desk. “Keep going.”

Plea bargain resulted in probation with standard obligatory rehabilitation. Obligation satisfied at Keith Richard Memorial Rehabilitation Center, New Los Angeles.

Consumption of illegals with secondary charges of indecent exposure, New York City, 2044. Second rehabilitation ordered and satisfied, New Life Clinic, New York City.

No further criminal activities noted in subject file.

“That’s good enough. What was her drug of choice?”

Working . . . File indicates Ecstasy/Zoner combination in both counts.

“That’ll get you off, won’t it?”

Please rephrase query.

“Never mind. Search and list cohabitation and/or marriage data.”

Working . . . Formal cohabitation license issued in New Los Angeles for Areena Mansfield and Broderic Peters from June 2048 to April 2049, union mutually dissolved. Marriage license issued in London, England, for Areena Mansfield and Lawrence Baristol September 2053. Divorce petitioned, Mansfield v. Baristol January 2057, unopposed and granted. No children resulted from marriage or cohabitation unions.

“Okay. Search and list any professional credits in productions that involved Richard Draco.”

Working . . . Off-Broadway production of drama Broken Wings, from May through October 2038. Subject and Draco, Richard, in secondary roles through run of play. Small-screen video production, Die for Love, starring subject and Draco, Richard, taped New Los Angeles, 2040. Video production, New York, Check Mate, starring subject and Draco, February 2044. London Arts production of drama, Twice Owned, starring subject and Draco, Richard, from February 2054 through June of that year.

“Interesting timing,” Eve murmured, reaching over idly to scratch the ears of the plump cat that leaped onto her desk. As Galahad made himself comfortable directly in front of the computer screen, Eve watched Roarke stroll in through the door connecting their personal offices.

“You didn’t mention Areena had an illegals habit.”

“Had being the operative word. Is it relevant?”

“Everything’s relevant. Are you sure her affection for illegals is past tense?”

“To my knowledge, she’s been clean more than a dozen years.” When he sat on the edge of the desk, Galahad slithered over to bump his head against Roarke’s long-fingered hand. “Don’t you believe in rehabilitation, Lieutenant?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Because it made him grin, she angled her head. “You also didn’t mention that she and Draco were in some productions together over the years.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“The timing of two of their acting connections coincide down the line with her illegals convictions.”

“Ah. Hmmm.” Roarke sent Galahad into feline ecstasy with one slim finger over fur.

“How tight were they, Roarke?”

“They may have been involved. Gossip ran that way during their last project together in London. I didn’t meet Areena until a few years ago when she was married and living in London. And I never saw her and Richard together until we were casting this play.” He lifted a shoulder, helped himself to what was left of Eve’s coffee.

“When I do my run on the victim, am I going to find illegals charges?”

“Probably. If Areena was still using, she was discreet and professional. No missed rehearsals, no temperamental scenes. I wouldn’t use the term discreet in the same sentence with Draco, but he did his job. And if they were involved in a romantic or sexual fashion, they kept it behind locked doors.”

“Nobody’s ever discreet enough. If they were banging each other, someone knew. And if they were rolling around sweaty together or popping illegals, it adds some angles.”

“Do you want me to find out?”

She got to her feet, leaned forward until her nose bumped his. “No. Now, if there’s any part of that you didn’t understand, let me repeat. No. Got it?”

“I believe I do. I have a meeting in San Francisco in a few hours. Summerset knows how to reach me if you need to.”

Her scowl at the mention of Roarke’s tight-assed aide de camp was instant and heartfelt. “I won’t need to.”

“I should be home before nine.” He rose, sliding his hands up the sides of her body, then down again to her hips. “I’ll call if I’ll be any later.”

She understood he was reassuring her she wouldn’t be alone at night—alone where the nightmares chased her. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I like to.”

He bent his head to give her a light kiss, but she changed the tone, the texture, by pulling him close, her mouth hot and greedy. Her hands were fisted in his hair, and her blood was up before she released him.

There was satisfaction in seeing his eyes had darkened and his breath quickened. “Well. What was that for?”

“I like to,” she said and picked up her empty coffee cup. “See you.” She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen for a refill.

Eve screened her calls on her home unit, her palm unit, her vehicle, and her equipment in her office at Central. If her math held, she’d received twenty-three calls from reporters, which ran the gamut from charm, pleas, vague threats, and minor bribes, since midnight. Six of them, at varying locations and with increasing levels of frustration and urgency, were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

They might have been friends, which never failed to surprise Eve, but for both of them business was business. Nadine wanted an exclusive one-on-one with the primary investigator in the death of Richard Draco. Eve just wanted his killer.

She dumped each and every one of the calls from the media, signaled Peabody to stand by, and played the terse message from her commanding officer.

That one was simple enough. His office. Now.

It was still shy of eight A.M.

Commander Whitney didn’t keep her waiting. His aide gestured Eve straight into his office where Whitney sat behind his desk, juggling his own communications.

His big hands tapped the surface of his desk impatiently, one lifting to jab a finger at a chair as she entered. He continued to man his tele-link, his broad, dark face betraying nothing, his voice calm and brisk.

“We’ll brief the press at two. No, sir, it cannot be done any sooner. I’m well aware Richard Draco was a prominent celebrity and the media is demanding details. We’ll accommodate them at two. The primary will be prepared. Her report is on my desk,” he said, lifting a brow at Eve.

She rose quickly, set a disc at his fingertips.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve analyzed the situation.” For the first time since Eve entered, irritation rippled over Whitney’s face. “Mayor Bianci, whether or not Draco was a luminary of the arts, he’s dead. I have a homicide, and the investigation will be pursued with all energy and dispatch. That is correct. Two o’clock,” he repeated, then ended the transmission and pulled off his privacy headphones.

“Politics.” It was all he said.

He leaned back, rubbed at a line of tension at the base of his neck. “I read the prelim report you filed last night. We have a situation.”

“Yes, sir. The situation should be in autopsy right about now.”

His lips stretched in what was almost a smile. “You’re not much of a theater buff, are you, Dallas?”

“I get my quota of entertainment on the street.”

“ ‘All the world’s a stage,’ ” Whitney murmured. “By now you’re aware that the victim was a celebrity of considerable note. His death in such a public, and shall we say, dramatic venue, is news. Major news. The story’s already hit on and off planet. Draco to Mansfield to Roarke to you.”

“Roarke isn’t involved.” Even as she said it, a dozen curses ran through her head.

“He owns the theater, he was the primary backer for the play, and from the information that’s come to me already, he was personally responsible for wooing both Draco and Mansfield into the production. Is that accurate, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Commander Whitney, if every crime that took place in a property Roarke owns or has interest in was connected to him, he’d be tied to every cop and perpetrator on planet, and half of them off.”

This time Whitney did smile. “That’s quite a thought. However.” The smile vanished. “In this case his connection and yours is considerably more tangible. You’re among the witnesses. I prefer to look at that as an advantage in this instance. The fact that you were on-scene and were able to contain it quickly keeps this from being more unwieldy than it is. The media’s going to be a problem.”

“Respectfully, sir, the media is always a problem.”

He said nothing for a moment. “I take it you’ve seen some of the early headlines.”

She had. Running right after the flash of “Draco Dies for Art” had been annoying little tidbits such as: “Murder Most Foul! Renowned actor Richard Draco was brutally stabbed and killed last night, the murder committed under the nose of top NYPSD homicide detective, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”

So much, she thought, for plugging media leaks.

“At least they didn’t refer to me as Roarke’s wife until the third paragraph.”

“They’ll use him and you to keep the story hot.”

She knew it. Detested it. “I’ve worked under media heat before, Commander.”

“True enough.” As his ’link beeped, he pushed its All Hold button and silenced it. “Dallas, this isn’t an ordinary murder or even an extraordinary one. It’s, as my grandchildren say, got juice, and you’re part of it. You’ll need to prepare carefully for the press conference at two. Believe me, the actors involved will play to the cameras. They won’t be able to help themselves, and as they do, the story adds layers.”

He leaned back, tapping his thigh. “I’m also aware you’re not particularly interested in the public and media end of this. You’ll have to consider that end, in this case, part of the job. Don’t grant interviews or discuss any area of the case with any reporter prior to the press conference.”

“No, sir.”

“I want this to move fast. I’ve already requested the ME put a rush on the autopsy. The lab’s on alert. We go by the book here, but turn those pages quickly. Has Areena Mansfield requested her lawyer or representative?”

“Not as yet.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t expect that to last long. She was shaken, but my impression is she’ll want a rep once her mind clears. Her dresser confirms she was in the dressing room with Areena at every costume change. I don’t put complete faith in her statement. The woman worships Mansfield. Meanwhile, I’m running background checks on all members of cast and crew. It’s going to take some time. There are a lot of players here. Interviews are starting this morning.”

“Are the estimates of three thousand witnesses in the ballpark?”

Just thinking about it made Eve’s head throb. “I’m afraid they are, Commander. Obviously, we couldn’t hold the audience members in the theater for long. We did a person-by-person ID for name and residence as each was released. Some statements were taken because, basically, some people couldn’t shut up. Most of those, which I’ve reviewed, were disjointed and essentially useless.”

“Divvy up the audience witnesses in the squad. I’ll pull in some detectives from other areas. Let’s run some eliminations to get those numbers down.”

“I’ll start that today, Commander.”

“Delegate it,” he ordered. “You can’t be spared for drone work. Tag Feeney for the backgrounds on cast and theater personnel. I want this to close. He’s to prioritize the backgrounds over his current caseload.”

He’ll moan over that one, Eve thought, but she was pleased to be able to pass that part of the load over to the e-detective. “I’ll communicate that to him, Commander, and send him the list.”

“Copies to my attention. After the press conference, I’ll need you to clear any and all media interviews with me before confirmation. Dallas, you can expect to see yourself and your husband on-screen, in print, and blasted out of the goddamn tourist trams until this matter is satisfactorily closed. If you require a larger team, let me know.”

“I’ll start with what I have. Thank you, Commander.”

“Be here, this office, at thirteen-thirty, for premedia briefing.”

It was dismissal, and acknowledging it, Eve headed out of the office and down the glide. Before she reached her level, she pulled out her communicator and contacted Feeney in the Electronic Detective Division.

“Hey, Dallas. Heard you caught a hell of a show last night.”

“The reviews were a killer. Okay, got that out of my system. I’ve got direct orders from the commander. I’ll be shooting you a full list of cast and crew from the play, and additional theater personnel. I need full backgrounds, with correlation runs. Any and all connections of any and all individuals with Richard Draco and/or Areena Mansfield.”

“Love to lend a hand, Dallas, but I’m up to my nostrils here.”

“Direct from the commander,” she repeated. “He tagged you, pal, not me.”

“Well, hell.” Feeney’s already hangdog face filled the screen with sorrow. She watched him drag a hand through his wiry rust-colored hair. “How many backgrounds we talking?”

“Including nonspeaking roles, walk-on, tech and talent crew, concessions, maintenance, and so on? Four hundred, give or take.”

“Jesus, Dallas.”

“I’ve done Mansfield, but you could go deeper.” Instead of sympathy, she felt amusement that lightened her step as she passed through the bullpen and gave Peabody the come-ahead sign. “Whitney wants it prioritized and rushed. Media conference at fourteen hundred. I need all I can get by then. You’re authorized to put as many hands on the team as you need.”

“Isn’t that just dandy?”

“Works for me. I’ll be in the field. Peabody’ll get you the list ASAP. Look for sex, Feeney.”

“You get to be my age, you slow down on that some.”

“Ha ha. Sex and illegals. I’ve got a tie already. Let’s see if it spreads out any. I’ll be in touch.”

She pocketed her communicator, leading the way down to the lower level where her vehicle was parked. “Shoot the witness and suspect lists to Feeney. We’re dumping backgrounds on EDD.”

“Good for us.” Peabody drew out her palm unit and began the transfer. “So . . . is he using McNab?”

“I didn’t ask.” Eve slid her gaze toward Peabody, then shook her head and coded open the locks on her vehicle.

“You want to know, don’t you?”

Eve strapped in, started the car. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About me and McNab.”

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no you and McNab. It does not exist in my world. My aide is not having some weird-ass sexual fling with the fashion plate from EDD.”

“It is weird,” Peabody admitted, then let out a long sigh.

“We’re not talking about it. Give me the first address.”

“Kenneth Stiles, aka Sir Wilfred, 828 Park Avenue. And it’s really good sex.”

“Peabody.”

“You were wondering.”

“I was not.” But she winced as a distressingly clear image of Peabody and McNab popped gleefully into her head. “Keep your mind on the job.”

“I have lots of compartments in my mind.” With a happy sigh, Peabody settled back. “Room for everything.”

“Then make room for Kenneth Stiles and give me a rundown.”

“Yes, sir.” Obediently, Peabody took out her PPC. “Stiles, Kenneth, age fifty-six, a rare New York City native. Born and bred in midtown. Parents were entertainers. No criminal record. Educated by private tutor through secondary level with additional classes in drama, stage design, costuming, and elocution.”

“Whoopee. So we’ve got a serious thespian on our hands.”

“First performance at age two. Guy’s won a pot load of awards. Always live stage. No video. An artist, is my guess. Probably temperamental and emotional.”

“Won’t this be fun. Has he worked with Draco before?”

“Several times. A couple of times with Mansfield. Last time in London. He’s unmarried at the moment. Had two spouses and one formal cohabitation partner. All female.”

Eve scanned for a parking place, rejected the idea, and pulled up to the front of the post–Urban War building on Park. Before she’d climbed out, the uniformed doorman was at her side.

“I’m sorry, madam, this is a nonparking zone.”

“And this is a badge.” She held up her shield. “Kenneth Stiles?”

“Mr. Stiles occupies the apartment on the fiftieth floor. Five thousand. The deskman will clear you. Madam—”

“Does this say madam?” Eve asked and waited for the doorman’s eyes to skim down, read her badge.

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, might I arrange to have your vehicle garaged during your visit? A valet will return it when you’re ready to leave.”

“That’s a nice offer, but if I gave you the ignition code, I’d have to arrest myself. It stays right here.”

Eve kept her badge out and walked into the building, leaving the doorman staring sadly at her pea-green police issue.

It was hard to blame him. The lobby area was lush and elegant, with gleaming brass and spearing white flowers. Huge squares of polished black tiles covered the floor. Behind a long white counter, a tall, slim woman sat gracefully on a stool and beamed welcoming smiles.

“Good morning. How may I direct you?”

“Kenneth Stiles.” Eve laid her badge on the counter beside a brass pot teeming with flowers.

“Is Mr. Stiles expecting you, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“He’d better be.”

“Just one moment please.” She swiveled to a ’link, her smile never dimming, her voice maintaining that same smooth and pleasant tone of an expensive and well-programmed droid. “Good morning, Mr. Stiles. I have a Lieutenant Dallas and companion at the lobby desk. May I clear them?” She waited a beat. “Thank you. Have a lovely day.”

Turning from the ’link, she gestured toward the east bank of elevators. “The far right car is cleared for you, Lieutenant. Enjoy your day.”

“You bet. I used to wonder why Roarke didn’t use more droids,” she said to Peabody as they crossed the black tiles. “Then I run into one like that, and I understand. That much politeness is just fucking creepy.”

The ride up to the fiftieth floor was rapid enough to have Eve’s stomach jump and her ears pop. She’d never understand why people equated height with luxury.

Another droid was waiting for them when the doors slid open. One of Stiles’s serving units, Eve concluded, done up in such stark and formal attire he made the dreaded Summerset look like a sidewalk sleeper. His steel gray hair was slicked back and matched with a heavy mustache that dominated his thin, bony face. The black of his slacks and long jacket was offset with snow-white gloves.

He bowed, then spoke in a fruity voice with a rolling English accent. “Lieutenant Dallas and Officer, Mr. Stiles is expecting you. This way, please.”

He led them down the hall to double doors that opened into the corner apartment. The first thing Eve saw when she entered was the sweeping window wall that opened onto New York’s bustling sky traffic. She wished Stiles had drawn the privacy screen.

The room itself was wild with color, rubies and emeralds and sapphires tangled together in the pattern on the wide U-shaped conversation pit. Centered in it was a white marble pool where fat goldfish swam in bored circles among lily pads.

A strong scent of citrus spread out from the tidy forest of dwarf orange and lemon trees, heavy with fruit. The floor was a violent geometric pattern of color that on closer look shifted into an erotic orgy of naked bodies in inventive forms of copulation.

Eve strode across blue breasts and green cocks to where Stiles lounged—posed, she thought—in a saffron ankle-duster.

“Some place.”

He smiled, a surprisingly sweet expression on his craggy face. “Why live without drama? May I offer you anything before we begin, Lieutenant?”

“No, thanks.”

“That will be all, Walter.” He dismissed the droid with a wave of his hand, then gestured Eve to sit. “I realize this is routine for you, Lieutenant Dallas, but it’s new and, I confess, exciting territory to me.”

“Having an associate murdered in front of you is exciting?”

“After the initial shock, yes. It’s human nature to find murder exciting and fascinating, don’t you think? Else why does it play so well through the ages?” His eyes were deep, dark brown, and very shrewd.

“I could have taken any number of tacks with this interview. I’m a very skilled actor. I could be prostrate, nervous, frightened, confused, sorrowful. I chose honesty.”

She thought of Carly Landsdowne. “It seems to be going around. Record on, Peabody,” she said, and sat.

And sank into the clouds of cushions. Biting off an oath, Eve shoved herself up, sat on the edge of the couch. Balanced, she read off the pertinent data and issued the standard warning.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter, Mr. Stiles?”

“I do indeed.” That sweet smile spread over his face again. “Might I say you read your lines with authority and panache, Lieutenant.”

“Gee, thanks. Now, what was your relationship with Richard Draco?”

“Professional associates. Over the years, we worked together from time to time, most recently in the play that had its unusual opening night yesterday.”

Oh yeah, Eve thought. He’s enjoying this. Milking this. “And your personal relationship?”

“I don’t know as we had one, in the way I assume you mean. Actors often . . .” He made a vague gesture with his hand and set the multicolored stone cuff bracelet on his wrist to winking cheerfully. “Gravitate toward each other, you might say: ‘Like minds, like egos.’ We marry each other with a kind of distressing regularity. It rarely lasts, as do the temporary friendships and other intimacies between players on the same stage.”

“Still, you knew him for a number of years.”

“Knew him, certainly, but we were never chums, let’s say. In point of fact . . .” He paused again, his eyes glittering as happily as his bracelet. “I despised him. Loathed him. Found him a particularly vile form of life.”

“For any particular reason?”

“For any number of very particular reasons.” Stiles leaned forward, as if imparting confidences. “He was selfish, egocentric, rude, arrogant. All of those traits I could forgive, even appreciate as we who act require a certain sheen of vanity to do what we do. But under Richard’s sheen was a sheer nastiness of spirit. He was a user, Lieutenant, one who not so quietly rejoiced at crushing hearts and souls. I’m not the least bit sorry he’s dead, though I regret the method of his oh-so-timely demise.”

“Why?”

“The play was brilliant, and my part one I relished. This incident will postpone if not cancel the rest of the run. It’s very inconvenient.”

“It’s going to get a lot of publicity. That won’t hurt you.”

Stiles ran a fingertip down his chin. “Naturally not.”

“And when the play resumes, it’ll pack the house, night after night.”

“There is that.”

“So his death, in so dramatic and public a way is, on some levels, an advantage.”

“Clever,” he murmured, eyeing her more closely now. “That’s cleverly thought out. We have a play within a play here, Lieutenant, and you’re writing it well.”

“You had access to the prop knife. And enough time to make the switch.”

“I suppose I did. What a thought.” He blinked several times as if processing new data. “I’m a suspect. How entertaining! I had seen myself as a witness. Well, well. Yes, I suppose I had opportunity, but no real motive.”

“You’ve stated, on record, you hated Richard Draco.”

“Oh, my dear Lieutenant, if I arranged the death of every person I disliked, the stage would be littered with bodies. But the fact is, however much I detested Richard on a personal level, I admired his talent. He was an exceptional artist, and that is the only reason I agreed to work with him again. The world might have rid itself of a nasty, small-minded man, but the theater has lost one of its brightest lights.”

“And you, one of your toughest competitors.”

Stiles’s eyebrows lifted. “No indeed. Richard and I were much different types. I don’t recall that we ever competed for the same role.”

Eve nodded. It would be easy enough to check that data. She shifted tactics. “What’s your relationship with Areena Mansfield?”

“She’s a friend, one I admire as a woman and as an associate.” He lowered his eyes, shook his head. “This business is very difficult for her. She’s a delicate creature under it all. I hope you’ll consider that.”

His eyes, darker now, with hints of anger in them, came back to Eve’s. “Someone used her horribly. I can tell you this, Lieutenant. If I had decided to kill Richard Draco, I would have found a way to do so that wouldn’t have involved a friend. There were two victims on stage last night, and my heart breaks for her.”

“An operator,” Eve murmured as they rode down to lobby level. “Slick, smart, and self-satisfied. Of all the actors, he’s the one with the most experience. He knows the theater in and out.”

“If he’s really a friend of Mansfield’s, would he have set it up so she killed Draco? Planted the weapon in her dressing room?”

“Why not?” Eve strode out of the building, flipped the doorman a sneer. “It’s theatrical, and if you wind it all around, the plant was so obvious it looks like a plant. So. . .” She climbed behind the wheel, drummed her fingers on it, and frowned. “Whoever planted it wanted us to find it, wanted us to know it was put there to toss suspicion on Mansfield. Otherwise, it’s just stupid, and whoever set the murder up isn’t. I want to know who worked backstage who wanted to be on it. Let’s see how many frustrated actors were doing tech duty on this thing.”

Eve pulled away from the curb. “Toss that ball to Feeney,” she ordered Peabody, and used her car ’link to contact the morgue.

Morse, the chief medical examiner, came on-screen. His luxurious hair was slicked back to show off a duo of gold and silver hoops in his right ear. “I was expecting you, Dallas. You cops are damned demanding.”

“We get our rocks off hassling dead doctors. What have you got on Draco?”

“He’s most sincerely dead.” Morse smiled thinly. “Single stab wound to the heart did the job quickly and neatly. No other wounds or injuries. He’s had some excellent body sculpting work over the years, and a recent tummy toner. A superior practitioner, in my opinion, as the laser marks are microscopic. His liver shows some rehabilitation. I’d say your guy was a serious drinker and had at least one treatment to revitalize. He did, however, have a lovely little mix of illegals in his system at time of death. Exotica and Zing, with a soupçon of Zeus. He chased that with a double shot of unblended scotch.”

“Hell of a combo.”

“You bet. This guy was a serious abuser, who continued to pay to have his body put back in shape. This kind of cycle eventually takes its toll, but even at this rate, he likely had another twenty good years in him.”

“Not anymore. Thanks, Morse.”

“Any chance of getting me seats when this play goes back on? You got the connections,” he added with a wink.

She sighed a little. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The trip from Stiles’s rarified uptown air to Alphabet City’s aroma of overturned recyclers and unwashed sidewalk sleepers was more than a matter of blocks. They left the lofty buildings with their uniformed doormen, the pristine glide-carts and serene air traffic for prefab, soot-scarred complexes, blatting maxibuses, and sly-eyed street thieves.

Eve immediately felt more at home.

Michael Proctor lived on the fourth floor of one of the units tossed up haphazardly after the devastation of the Urban Wars. At election time, city officials made lofty speeches about revitalizing the area, made stirring promises to fight the good fight against neglect, crime, and the general decay of that ailing sector of the city.

After the elections, the entire matter went back in the sewer to rot and ripen for another term.

Still, people had to live somewhere. Eve imagined a struggling actor who managed bit parts and understudy roles couldn’t afford to pay much for housing.

Eve’s initial background check revealed that Michael Proctor was currently six weeks behind on his rent and had applied for Universal Housing Assistance.

Which meant desperation, she mused. Most applicants to UHA became so strangled, so smothered in red tape reeled out by the sticky fingers of bureaucrats, they stumbled off into the night and were pitifully grateful to find a bed in one of the shelters.

She imagined that stepping into Draco’s bloody shoes would considerably up Proctor’s salary. Money was an old motive, as tried as it was true.

Eve considered double-parking on Seventh, then, spotting a parking slot on the second level street side, went into a fast vertical lift that had Peabody yelping, and shot forward to squeeze in between a rusted sedan and a battered air bike.

“Nice job.” Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.

Eve flipped on the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to street level. “This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco’s death. He’s got a good shot at the starring role—if only temporarily. That gives him an ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his record, but every criminal has to start somewhere.”

“I love your optimistic view of humanity, sir.”

“Yeah, I’m a people-lover all right.” She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed his wide canvas shoulder bag. “Hey!” She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched his shoulders and sulked. “You set up that game on this corner, I’m going to be insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see your ugly face.”

“I’m just trying to make a living.”

“Make it two blocks over.”

“Shit.” He shifted his bag, then scooted off, heading west through the billowing steam from a glide-cart.

Peabody sniffed hopefully. “Those soy dogs smell fresh.”

“They haven’t been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold.”

“I can’t. It has a mind of its own.” Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody followed Eve into the grimy building.

At one time the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on outer doors had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful red ink, was M. Proctor.

Eve glanced at the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate. She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.

Someone was crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring sounds of an arena football game and someone’s foul cursing at a botched play. She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.

On level three there was classical music, something she’d heard Roarke play. Accompanying it were rhythmic thumps.

“A dancer,” Peabody said. “I’ve got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in Denver. Somebody’s doing jetés. I used to want to be one.”

“A dancer?” Eve glanced back. Peabody’s cheeks were pretty and pink from the climb.

“Yeah, well, when I was a kid. But I don’t have the build. Dancers are built more like you. I went to the ballet with Charles a couple of weeks back. All the ballerinas were tall and skinny. Makes me sick.”

“Hmmm.” It was the safest response when Peabody mentioned her connection to the licensed companion, Charles Monroe.

“I’m built more like an opera singer. Sturdy,” Peabody added with a grimace.

“You into opera now?”

“I’ve been a few times. It’s okay.” She blew out a relieved breath when they reached the fourth floor and tried not to be irritated that Eve wasn’t winded. “Charles goes for that culture stuff.”

“Must keep you busy, juggling him and McNab.”

Peabody grinned. “I thought there was no me and McNab in your reality.”

“Shut up, Peabody.” Annoyed, Eve rapped on Proctor’s door. “Was that a snort?”

“No, sir.” Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. “Absolutely not. I think my stomach’s growling.”

“Shut that up, too.” She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and the peephole. The building didn’t run to soundproofing.

A series of clicks and jangles followed. She counted five manual locks being disengaged before the door opened.

The face that poked into the crack was a study of God’s generosity. Or a really good face sculptor. Pale gold skin stretched taut and smooth over long cheekbones and a heroic, square jaw that boasted a pinpoint dimple. The mouth was full and firm, the nose narrow and straight, and the eyes the true green of organic emeralds.

Michael Proctor framed this gift with a silky flow of rich brown hair worn with a few tumbling, boyish curls. As his eyes darted from Eve to Peabody and back, he streamed long fingers through the mass of it, slicking it back before he tried out a hesitant smile.

“Um . . . Lieutenant Houston.”

“Dallas.”

“Right. I knew it was somewhere in Texas.” Nerves had his voice jumping over the words, but he stepped back, widening the opening. “I’m still pretty shaken up. I keep thinking it’s all some kind of mistake.”

“If it is, it’s a permanent one.” Eve scanned what there was of the apartment. The single room held a ratty sleep chair Proctor hadn’t bothered to make up for the day, a skinny table that held a low-end tele-link/computer combo, a pole lamp with a torn shade, and a three-drawer wall chest.

For some, she supposed, acting wasn’t lucrative.

“Um . . . let me get . . . um.” Coloring slightly, he opened the long closet, fumbled inside, and eventually came out with a small folding chair. “Sorry. I don’t do much more than sleep here, so it’s not company friendly.”

“Don’t think of us as company. Record on, Peabody. You can sit, Mr. Proctor, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“I’m . . .” His fingers danced with each other, tips to tips. “I’m fine. I don’t really know how to do this. I never worked in any police dramas. I tend to be cast in period pieces or romantic comedies.”

“Good thing I’ve worked in a number of police dramas,” Eve said mildly. “You just answer the questions, and we’ll be fine.”

“Okay. All right.” After glancing around the room as if he’d never seen it before, he finally sat on the chair. Crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Smiled hopefully.

He looked, Eve thought, like some schoolboy called down to the principal’s office for a minor infraction.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Proctor, Michael, in subject’s residence. Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide.”

Watching Proctor, she recited the revised Miranda. As he listened, he tapped his fingers on his knees and succeeded in looking as guilty as a man with six ounces of Zeus in each pocket.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Yes, I think. Do I need a lawyer?” He looked up at Eve like a puppy, one hoping not to be whacked on the nose for spotting the carpet. “I’ve got a representative, a theatrical rep. Maybe I should call her?”

“That’s up to you.” And would waste time and complicate matters. “You can request one at any time during the interview. If you prefer, we can move the process down to Central.”

“Well now. Gosh.” He blew out a breath, glanced toward his link. “I don’t guess I’ll bother her now. She’s pretty busy.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened last night.”

“You mean . . .” He shuddered visibly. “I was in the wings. Stage left. It was brilliant, just brilliant. I remember thinking that if the play had a long run, I’d get a chance to be Vole. Draco was bound to miss a performance or two along the way . . .”

He trailed off, looked stunned, then appalled. “I don’t mean to say . . . I never wished for anything bad to happen to him. It was more thinking that he’d catch a cold or something, or maybe just need a night off. Like that.”

“Sure. And what did you see from the wings, stage left, in the last scene?”

“He was perfect,” Proctor murmured, those deep green eyes going dreamy. “Arrogant, careless, smooth. The way he celebrated his acquittal even as he cast Christine off like a leftover bone. His pleasure in winning, in circumventing the system, fooling everyone. Then the shock, the shock in his eyes, in his body, when she turned on him with the knife. I watched, knowing I could never reach that high. Never find so much in myself. I didn’t realize, even after everyone broke character, it didn’t sink in.”

He lifted his hands, let them fall. “I’m not sure it has yet.”

“When did you realize that Draco wasn’t acting?”

“I think—I think when Areena screamed. At least, I knew then that something was horribly wrong. Then everything happened so quickly. People were running to him, and shouting. They brought the curtain down, very fast,” he remembered. “And he was still lying there.”

Hard to jump up and take your bows with eight inches of steel in your heart, Eve thought. “What was your personal relationship with Richard Draco?”

“I don’t suppose we had one.”

“You had no personal conversations with him, no interactions?”

“Well, um. . .” The fingers started dancing again. “Sure, we spoke a couple of times. I’m afraid I irritated him.”

“In what way?”

“You see, Lieutenant, I watch. People,” he added with another of those shaky smiles. “To develop character types, to learn. I guess my watching him put Draco off, and he told me to keep out of his sight or . . . or he’d, hmmm, he’d see to it that the only acting job I got was in sex holograms. I apologized right away.”

“And?”

“He threw a paperweight at me. The prop paperweight on Sir Wilfred’s desk.” Proctor winced. “He missed. I’m sure he meant to.”

“That must have pissed you off.”

“No, not really. I was embarrassed to have annoyed him during rehearsal. He had to take the rest of the day off to calm down.”

“A guy threatens your livelihood, throws a paperweight at you, and you don’t get pissed off?”

“It was Draco.” Proctor’s tone was reverent. “He’s—he was—one of the finest actors of the century. The pinnacle. His temperament is part—was part—of making him what he was.”

“You admired him.”

“Oh yes. I’ve studied his work as long as I can remember. I have discs and recordings of every one of his plays. When I had a chance to understudy Vole, I jumped at it. I think it’s the turning point in my career.” His eyes were shining now. “All my life I dreamed of walking the same stage as Richard Draco, and there I was.”

“But you wouldn’t walk that stage unless something happened to him.”

“Not exactly.” In his enthusiasm, Proctor leaned forward. The cheap chair creaked ominously. “But I had to rehearse the same lines, the same blocking, know the same cues. It was almost like being him. In a way. You know.”

“Now, you’ll have a shot at stepping onto his—what do you call it—his mark, won’t you?”

“Yes.” Proctor’s smile was brilliant, and quickly gone. “I know how awful, how selfish and cold that must sound. I don’t mean it that way.”

“You’re having some financial difficulties, Mr. Proctor.”

He flushed, winced, tried that smile again. “Yes, ah, well . . . One doesn’t go into the theater for money but for love.”

“But money comes in handy for things like eating and keeping a roof over your head. You’re behind on your rent.”

“A little.”

“The understudy job pays enough to keep you current with your rent. You gamble, Mr. Proctor?”

“Oh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Just careless with money?”

“I don’t think so. I invest, you see. In myself. Acting and voice lessons, body maintenance, enhancement treatments. They don’t come cheap, especially in the city. I suppose all that seems frivolous to you, Lieutenant, but it’s part of my craft. Tools of the trade. I was considering a part-time job to help defray the expenses.”

“No need to consider that now, is there? With Draco out of the way.”

“I suppose not.” He paused, considering it. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the time. It’ll be easier to—” He broke off, sucked in a breath. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s just that following your line of thinking, it takes some strain off my mind. I’m used to doing without money, Lieutenant. Whatever else, the theater’s lost one of its finest, and one of my personal idols. But I guess I’d feel better if I said—if I was honest and said—that there’s a part of me that’s thrilled to think that I’ll play Vole. Even temporarily.”

He sighed, long and loud, closed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I do feel better. I wish he’d just caught a cold, though.”

Eve’s head was throbbing lightly as she walked back up the steps to her car. “Nobody’s that naive,” she muttered. “Nobody’s that guileless.”

“He’s from Nebraska.” Peabody scanned her pocket unit.

“From where?”

“Nebraska.” Peabody waved a hand, vaguely west. “Farm boy. Done a lot of regional theater, some video, billboard ads, bit parts on-screen. He’s only been in New York three years.” She climbed into the car. “They still grow them pretty guileless in Nebraska. I think it’s all that soy and corn.”

“Whatever, he stays on the short list. His fee for walking into the part of Vole is a big step up from watching in the wings. He’s living like a transient in that dump. Money’s a motivator, and so’s ambition. He wanted to be Draco. What better way than to eliminate Draco?”

“I’ve got this idea.”

Eve glanced at her wrist unit to check the time as she zipped down into traffic. Goddamn press conference. “Which is?”

“Okay, it’s more of a theory.”

“Spill it.”

“If it’s good, can I get a soy dog?”

“Christ. What’s the theory?”

“So, they’re all actors in a play. A good actor slides into the character during the performance. Stays there. It’s all immediate, but another part of them is distant—gauging the performances, remembering the staging, picking up vibes from the audience and stuff like that. My theory is whoever switched the knives was performing.”

“Yeah, performing murder.”

“Sure, but this is like another level. They could be part of the play and watch it go down without actually doing the crime. The objective’s reached, and it’s all still a role. Even if it’s a tech who did it, it’s all part of the play. Vole’s dead. He’s supposed to be. The fact that Draco’s dead, too, just makes it all the more satisfying.”

Eve mulled it over, then pulled over at the next corner where a glide-cart smoked and sizzled.

“So it’s a good theory?”

“It’s decent. Get your soy dog.”

“You want anything?”

“Coffee, but not off that bug coach.”

Peabody sighed. “Wow, that sure stirs my appetite.” But she got out, beelined through the pedestrian traffic, and ordered the double wide soy dog and a mega tube of Diet Coke to convince herself she was watching her weight.

“Happy now?” Eve asked when Peabody dropped back into the passenger seat and stuffed the end of the dog into her mouth.

“Ummm. Good. Wanna bite?”

Peabody was saved from a scathing response by the beep of the car ’link. Nadine Furst, reporter for Channel 75, floated on-screen. “Dallas. I need to talk to you, soon as you can manage.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Eve ignored the transmission and whipped around the corner to head back to Central. “Why she thinks I’ll give her an exclusive one-on-one before a scheduled press conference, I don’t know.”

“Because you’re friends?” Peabody hazarded with her mouth full of soy dog and rehydrated onion flakes.

“Nobody’s that friendly.”

“Dallas.” Nadine’s pretty, camera-ready face was strained, as Eve noted with mild curiosity, was her perfectly pitched voice. “It’s important, and it’s. . . personal. Please. If you’re screening transmissions, give me a break here. I’ll meet you anywhere you say, whenever you say.”

Cursing, Eve engaged transmission. “The Blue Squirrel. Now.”

“Dallas—”

“I can give you ten minutes. Make it fast.”

It had been a while since she’d swung through the doors into the Blue Squirrel. As joints went, there were worse, but not by much. Still, the dingy club held some sentimental attachment for Eve. At one time, her friend Mavis had performed there, slithering, bouncing, and screaming out songs in costumes that defied description.

And once, during a difficult and confusing case, Eve had gone in with the sole purpose of drinking her mind to mush.

There Roarke had tracked her down, hauled her out before she could accomplish the mission. That night, she’d ended up in his bed for the first time.

Sex with Roarke, she’d discovered, did a much better job of turning the mind to mush than a vatful of screamers.

So the Squirrel, with its debatable menu and disinterested servers, held some fond memories.

She slid into a booth, considered ordering the hideous excuse for coffee for old times’ sake, then watched Nadine come in.

“Thanks.” Nadine stood by the booth, slowly unwinding a brilliant multicolored scarf from around her neck. Her fingers plucked at the long, dark fringe. “Peabody, would you mind giving us a minute here?”

“No problem.” Peabody pushed herself out of the booth, and because Nadine’s eyes were clouded, gave the reporter a quick, reassuring squeeze on the arm. “I’ll just go sit at the bar and watch the holo-games.”

“Thanks. Been a while since we’ve been in here.”

“Never long enough,” Eve commented when Nadine took her seat across the wobbly table. At a server’s approach, Eve merely took out her badge and set it in clear view on the table. She didn’t think she or Nadine were in the mood for a snack, much less possible ptomaine. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe there isn’t one.” Nadine closed her eyes, shook back her hair.

She’d added some blonde streaky things in it, Eve noticed. She could never figure out why people were always changing colors. All that maintenance baffled her.

“Richard Draco,” Nadine said.

“I’m not going to discuss the case with you.” Eve scooped up her badge with one impatient swipe. “Press conference at fourteen hundred.”

“I slept with him.”

Eve paused in the act of getting out of the booth, settled back, and took a closer look at Nadine’s face. “When?”

“Not long after I got the on-air job at 75. I wasn’t doing the crime beat then. Mostly fluff stories, social gigs, celebrity profiles. Anyway, he contacted me. Wanted to tell me how good I was, how much he enjoyed watching my reports. Which were pretty damn solid, considering I hated every fucking minute of it.”

She picked up her scarf, wound it around her hand. Unwound it. Set it down again. “He asked me to dinner. I was flattered, he was gorgeous. One thing led to another.”

“Okay. That would have been, what, five years ago?”

“Six, actually, six.” Nadine lifted a hand, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. It was a gesture Eve had never seen her make before. On-air reporters didn’t like mussing their makeup.

“I said one thing led to another,” she continued, “but it led there romantically. We didn’t just jump into bed. We dated for a couple of weeks. Quiet dinners, theater, walks, parties. Then he asked me to go away with him for the weekend, to Paris.”

This time Nadine simply dropped her head in her hands. “Oh Jesus. Jesus, Dallas.”

“You fell for him.”

“Oh yeah. I fell for him. All the way. I mean I was gone, stupid in love with the son of a bitch. We were together for three months, and I actually . . . Dallas, I was thinking marriage, kids, the house in the country. The whole ball.”

Eve shifted in her seat. Emotional declarations always made her feel clumsy. “So, I take it things didn’t work out.”

Nadine stared for a moment, then let her head fall back with a long, shaky laugh. “Yeah, you could say things didn’t work out. I found out he was two-timing me. Hell, three- and four-timing me. I caught a gossip report right before I went on air, and there was Richard cuddled up with some big-breasted blonde at some swank club uptown. When I confronted him about it, he just smiled and said he enjoyed women. So what?

“So what,” she murmured. “The fucker broke my heart and didn’t have the decency to lie to me. He even talked me back into bed. I’m ashamed of that. I let him talk me back into bed, and when I was still wet from him, he takes a call from another woman. Makes a date with her while I’m lying there naked.”

“How long was he hospitalized?”

Nadine managed a weak smile. “There’s the pity. I cried. I sat there in his bed and cried like a baby.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. It was a raw deal. But it was six years ago.”

“I saw him the night he was killed.”

“Oh hell, Nadine.”

“He called me.”

“Shut up. Just shut up right now. Don’t say another word to me. Get a lawyer.”

“Dallas.” Nadine’s hand shot out, and her fingers dug into Eve’s wrist. “Please. I need to tell you everything. Then I need you to tell me how much trouble I could be in.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Eve jabbed at the menu, ordered coffee after all. “I haven’t read you your rights. I’m not going to. I can’t use anything you say to me.”

“He called me. Said he’d been thinking about me, about old times. He wondered if I’d like to get together. I started to tell him to go to hell, but I realized, even after all that time, I wanted some of my own back. I wanted to burn his ass in person. So I agreed to drop by his hotel. They’ll have me on the security discs.”

“Yeah, they will.”

“He’d ordered up a dinner for two. The bastard remembered what we’d had on our first date. Maybe he orders it on all his first dates. It would be just like him. May he rot in hell.”

She blew out a breath. “Well, I pulled out the stops myself. I’d really put myself together. New dress. New hair. I let him pour me champagne, and we made small talk while we drank. I knew his moves. I remembered every one of them. And when he ran his fingertips down my cheek, gave me that long, soulful look, I threw my champagne in his face and said everything I wish I’d said six years ago. We had a terrible fight. Broken glass, vicious words, a couple of slaps on both sides.”

“He got physical with you?”

“More the other way around, I guess. I slapped him, he slapped me back. Then I punched him in the gut. That took the air out of him. While he was wheezing, I walked out, feeling really good.”

“Will the security disc show you looking disheveled, emotional?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her fingers over her mouth again. “Maybe. I didn’t think of that. But no matter what, I’m glad I went. I’m glad I finally stood up for myself. But then, Dallas, I made a really big mistake.”

The coffee slid greasily through the serving slot. Eve simply pushed it toward Nadine, waited until her friend gulped it down.

“I went to the theater last night. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go, see him, and feel nothing.” The coffee was barely lukewarm, but it managed to take the worst chill out of her belly. “I did. I felt nothing. It was like a celebration to finally have that bastard out of my system. I even, oh God, I even went backstage—used my press pass—at intermission to tell him.”

“You talked to him backstage last night?”

“No. When I got back there, started toward his dressing room, it occurred to me that confronting him again made him too important. It would only feed his ego. So I left. I went out the stage door, and I took a long walk. I did some window-shopping. I stopped off at a hotel bar and bought myself a glass of wine. Then I went home. This morning, I heard . . . I panicked. Called in sick. I’ve been sick all day, then I realized I had to talk to you. I had to tell you. I don’t know what to do.”

“When you went back, you headed for the dressing rooms. Nowhere else?”

“No, I swear.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t know. I imagine. I wasn’t trying to be invisible.”

“I want to do this formally, putting it on record that you came to me with this information. That’s the best for you. Meanwhile, I want you to get a lawyer, a good one. Do it quietly and tell the rep everything you told me.”

“Okay.”

“Did you leave anything out, Nadine? Anything?”

“No. That’s all. I only saw him that once in his hotel room, then again onstage. I might have been a sap, Dallas, but I’ve come a long way. And I’m no coward. If I’d wanted the son of a bitch dead, I’d have killed him myself, not pawned it off on someone else.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve picked up the coffee, finished it up. “I know it. Talk to the lawyer. We’ll do the interview tomorrow.” She rose, then after a slight hesitation, patted Nadine’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“You know what sucks here, Dallas? I was feeling so damn good about everything. Ever since—you know I do the therapy thing with Mira.”

Eve shifted her feet. “Yeah.”

“One of the things we got down to is I haven’t been open to love—not the real thing—since Richard. He really messed me up. Then last night, when I was in that hotel bar, I realized that now I could be. I wanted to be. Lousy timing all around. Thanks for listening.”

“Don’t mention it.” Eve signaled for Peabody. “Nadine, take that literally.”

The calendar claimed spring was just around the corner, but it was taking a slow walk. Eve drove home in a thin, spitting sleet that was nearly as nasty as her mood.

Press conferences annoyed her.

The only good thing about it, as far as she was concerned, was that it was over. Between that and a day spent in interviews that gave her no more than a murky picture of people and events, she was edgy and dissatisfied.

The fact was, she shouldn’t be going home. There was more field work that could be, should be done. But she’d cut Peabody loose, much to her aide’s undisguised delight.

She’d take an hour, she told herself. Maybe two. Do some pacing, juggle her thoughts into some sort of order. She chugged and dodged through bad-tempered traffic and tried to block out the irritatingly chirpy sky blimp shouting about the new spring fashions on sale at Bloomingdale’s.

She got caught at a light, and in a stinking stream of smoke from a glide-cart currently on fire and being sprayed with gel foam by its unhappy operator. Since the flames seemed reasonably under control, she left him to it and tagged Feeney via her car ’link.

“Progress?”

“Some. I got you backgrounds and current locations, financial data, and criminal records on cast and crew, including permanent theater personnel.”

Eve’s voice calmed. “All?”

“Yeah.” Feeney rubbed his chin. “Well, I can’t take full credit. Told you we were backed up here. Roarke passed it on.”

Her agitation returned. “Roarke?”

“He got in touch early this afternoon, figured I’d be doing the search. He had all the data anyway. Saved me some time here.”

“Always helpful,” she muttered.

“I shot it to your office unit.”

“Fine, great.”

Feeney kept rubbing his chin. Eve began to suspect the gesture was to hide a grin. “I started McNab on running patterns, probabilities, percentages. It’s a long list, so it’s not going to be quick. But I figure we should have simple eliminations by tomorrow, with a most-likely list to shuffle in with your interview results. How’s it going?”

“Slow.” She inched her way across the intersection, spied a break in traffic, and went for it. The chorus of horns exceeded noise pollution levels and made her smile thinly. “We managed to make the murder weapon. Standard kitchen knife. It came right out of the sublevel kitchen at the theater.”

“Open access?”

“To cast and crew, not to the public. I had a uniform pick up the security discs. We’ll see what we see. Look, I’m going to run some probability scans myself, see if they jibe with yours. I should have some profile from Mira tomorrow. Let’s see if we can whittle this down from a few thousand suspects. How far’s McNab gotten?”

“He got a ways before I sprang him for the day.”

“You let him go?”

“He had a date,” Feeney said and grinned.

Eve winced. “Shut up, Feeney,” she ordered and broke transmission.

She brooded, because it made her feel better, then shot through the gates of home. Even in miserable weather, it was magnificent. Maybe more magnificent, she thought, in that gloom and gray.

The sprawling lawns were faded from winter, the naked trees shimmering with wet. Atmosphere, she supposed Roarke would say. It was all about atmosphere, and it showcased the glorious stone-and-glass structure with its towers, its turrets, its sweep of terraces and balconies that he had claimed as his own.

It belonged on a cliff somewhere, she mused, with the sea boiling and pounding below. The city, with its crowds and noise and sneaky despair couldn’t beat its way through those tall iron gates to the oasis he’d built out of canniness, ruthlessness, sheer will, and the driving need to bury the miseries of his childhood.

Every time she saw it, her mind was of two conflicting parts. One told her she didn’t belong there. The other told her she belonged nowhere else.

She left the car at the base of the front steps, knowing Summerset would send it lumbering into the garage on principle. The pea-green city issue offended his sensibilities, she supposed, nearly as much as she did herself.

She jogged up the steps in her scarred boots and walked inside to the warmth, the beauty, and all the style money could buy and power could maintain.

Summerset was waiting for her, his thin face dour, his mouth in a flattened line. “Lieutenant. You surprise me. You’ve arrived home in a timely fashion.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to clock me in and out of here?” She stripped off her jacket, tossed it on the newel post to annoy him. “You could be out scaring small children.”

Summerset sniffed and to annoy her, picked up her damp leather jacket with the delicate tips of two fingers. He examined it with dark, disapproving eyes. “What? No blood today?”

“That can still be arranged. Roarke home yet?”

“Roarke is in the lower-level recreation area.”

“A boy and his toys.” She strode past him.

“You’re tracking wet on the floor.”

She glanced back, glanced down. “Well, that’ll give you something to do.”

Well satisfied with their evening exchange, Summerset went off to dry her jacket.

She took the steps, then wound her way through the pool house where wisps of steam danced invitingly over water of deep, secret blue. She thought fleetingly about stripping to the skin and diving in, but there was Roarke to deal with.

She bypassed the gym, the dressing area, and a small greenhouse. When she opened the door of the recreation area, the noise poured through.

It was, in Eve’s opinion, a twelve-year-old’s wet dream. Though she herself had long since ceased dreaming of toys by the age of twelve. Perhaps Roarke had, too, which was why, she supposed, he indulged himself now.

There were two pool tables, three multiperson VR tubes, a variety of screens designed for transmissions or games, a small holodeck, and a forest of brightly colored, noisy game stations.

Roarke stood at one, long legs comfortably spread, elegant hands on either side of a long, waist-height box with a glass top. His fingers were tapping rhythmically on what seemed to be large buttons. The top of the box was a riot of lights.

Cops and Robbers, she read and had to roll her eyes as a high-pitched siren began to scream. There was an explosion of what she recognized as gunfire, the wild squeal of tires on pavement, and blue and red lights crowned the vertical length of the box as it began to spin.

Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and strolled over to him. “So this is what you do with your downtime.”

“Hello, darling.” He never took his eyes off the duo of silver balls that raced and ricochetted under the glass. “You’re home early.”

“Only temporarily. I want to talk to you.”

“Mmm-hmm. One minute.”

She opened her mouth to object, then nearly jumped as bells began to clang and lights shot like lasers. “What the hell is this thing?”

“Antique—prime condition. Just—fucker—just got it in today.” He bumped the machine lightly with his hip. “It’s a pinball machine, late–twentieth century.”

“Cops and Robbers?”

“How could I resist?” The machine ordered him to “Freeze!” in menacing tones, and Roarke responded by zipping his remaining ball up a chute where it banged and bumped against a trio of diamond shapes, then slid into a hole.

“Free ball.” He stepped back, rolled his shoulders. “But that can wait.” As he leaned down to kiss her, she slapped a hand on his chest.

“Hold on, ace. What do you mean by calling Feeney?”

“Offering my assistance to New York’s finest,” he said easily. “Doing my duty as a concerned citizen. Give us a bite of this.” So saying, he drew her against him and nipped at her lower lip. “Let’s play a game.”

“I’m primary.”

“Darling, you most certainly are.”

“On the case, smart guy.”

“That, as well. And as such, you’d have requested the data from the theater’s files and funneled it to Feeney. Now it’s done. Your hair’s damp,” he said and sniffed at it.

“It’s sleeting.” She wanted to argue but didn’t see the point when he was exactly right. “Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved with The Globe and this production?”

“Because, Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me.” He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he’d set beside the machine. “Had an annoying day, have you?”

“Mostly.” When he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a small swig. “I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind.”

“Me, too. And I’ve the perfect method. Strip pinball.”

She snorted. “Get out.”

“Oh well, if you’re afraid you’ll lose, I’ll give you a handicap.” He smiled when he said it, knowing his wife very well.

“I’m not afraid I’ll lose.” She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. “How much of a handicap?”

Still smiling, he toed off both his shoes. “That, and five hundred points a ball—seems fair, as you’re a novice.”

She considered, studying the machine. “You just got this in today, right?”

“Just a bit ago, yes.”

“You go first.”

“My pleasure.”

And as he enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to be. Within twenty minutes, she’d lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness, and was currently losing her shirt.

“Damn it! This thing is rigged.” Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine, then hissed when her flippers froze. “Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to me?”

“Perhaps you’re a bit too aggressive. Why don’t I help you with this,” he offered and began unbuttoning her shirt.

She slapped his hands away. “I can do it. You’re cheating.” While she tugged off her shirt, she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers. “I don’t know how, but you’re cheating.”

“It couldn’t be that I’m just the superior player.”

“No.”

He laughed, then pulled her in front of him. “I’ll give you another go here, and help you out. Now.” He placed his fingers over hers on the control buttons. “You have to learn to finesse it rather than attack it. The idea is to keep the ball lively, and in play.”

“I got the idea, Roarke. You want it to smash up against everything.”

Wisely, he swallowed a chuckle. “More or less. All right, here it comes.”

He released the ball, leaned into her, watching over her shoulder. “No, no, wait. You don’t just flip madly about. Wait for it.” His fingers pressed over hers and sent the little silver ball dancing to the tune of automatic weapon fire.

“I want the gold bars over there.”

“In time, all in good time.” He leaned down to skim his lips over the back of her neck. “There now, you’ve evaded the squad car and racked yourself up five thousand points.”

“I want the gold.”

“Why am I not surprised? Let’s see what we can do for you. Feel my hands?”

He was pressed into her back, snug and cozy. Eve turned her head. “That’s not your hands.”

His grin flashed. “Right you are. These are.” Slowly, he skimmed those clever hands up her body, over her breasts. Beneath the thin cotton, he felt her heart give one fast leap. “You could forfeit.” His mouth went to the curve of her neck this time, with the light scrape of teeth.

“In a pig’s eye.”

He caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth, and the resulting jolt to her system had her fingers jabbing into the buttons. Even as she moaned, the machine exploded under her hands.

“What? What?”

“You got the gold. Bonus points.” He tugged at the button of her trousers. “Extra ball. Nice job.”

“Thanks.” Bells were clanging. In the machine, in her head. She let him turn her so they were face-to-face. “Game’s not over.”

“Not nearly.” His mouth came down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands had already snaked under her shirt to cup her breasts. “I want you. I always want you.”

Breathless, eager, she dragged at his shirt. “You should’ve lost a few times. You wouldn’t be wearing so many clothes.”

“I’ll remember that.” The need reared up so fast, so ripe, it burned. Her body was a treasure to him, the long, clean lines of it, the sleekness of muscle, the surprising delicacy of skin. Standing, wrapped tight, he sank into her.

She wanted to give. No one else had ever made her so desperate to give. Whatever she had. Whatever he would take. Through all the horrors of her life, through all the miseries of her work, this—what they brought to each other time and time again—was her personal miracle.

She found his flesh with her hands—firm, warm—and sighed deeply. She found his mouth with hers—rough, hungry—and she moaned.

When she would have pulled him to the floor, he turned, stumbled with her until her back was pressed against something cool and solid.

“Look at me.”

His name caught in her throat as those skilled fingers slid over her, into her, and sent her spinning as madly as the silver ball under glass.

He watched her eyes cloud, then the rich brown of them go opaque as she came. “More. Again.” While she shuddered, while her hands gripped his shoulders, he took her mouth, swallowed her cry of release.

His breath was as tattered as hers as he took her hips, lifted them, and plunged.

He pinned her, pummeled her system with a pleasure too outrageous for reason. Energized her so that she fought to give it back, beat for beat. When her hands slipped from his shoulders, she lifted them to his hair, fisted her fingers in all that black silk.

They drove each other up, and over.

“I didn’t lose.”

Roarke glanced over, smiled at the view of her pretty naked butt as she gathered up her clothes. “I didn’t say you did.”

“You’re thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. I just don’t have time to finish playing that stupid game.”

“It’ll hold.” He fastened his trousers. “I’m hungry. Let’s have something to eat.”

“It’ll have to be quick. I’ve got work. I want to go over and take a look at Draco’s hotel room.”

“That’s fine then.” Roarke wandered to the AutoChef, considered, and decided a cool, sleety night called for something homey. He ordered beef and barley stew for both of them. “I’ll go with you.”

“It’s police business.”

“Naturally. Just doing my civic duty again, Lieutenant.” Because he knew that would irritate her, he offered her a bowl and a smile. “It’s my hotel, after all.”

“It would be.” Because she knew he meant to irritate her, she scooped up a bite. And scalded her tongue. It wasn’t a crime scene, she thought as she blew some of the heat from the second spoonful. And she could use Roarke’s eyes, his mind, not that she wanted to admit it.

“Fine.” She shrugged. “But you stay out of my way.”

He nodded agreeably. Not that he had any intention of doing what she asked. Where was the fun in that? “Will we be picking up Peabody?”

“She’s off. She had a date.”

“Ah. With McNab?”

Eve felt her appetite take an abrupt nosedive. “She doesn’t date McNab.” At Roarke’s look of surprise, she stubbornly stuffed more stew in her mouth. “Look, maybe, in some alternate universe far, far away, they have sex. But they’re not dating. That’s it.”

“Darling, there comes a time, however sad for Mum, when the children must leave home.”

“Shut up.” She jabbed her spoon at him. “I mean it. They are not dating,” she insisted, and polished off her stew.

Some might have called Ian McNab’s ramshackle apartment on the Lower West Side an alternate universe. It was a guy’s space, badly decorated, heavy on the sports memorabilia, and scattered with dirty dishes.

While he did, occasionally, think to stuff some of the worst of the debris in some dusty closet when female company was expected, it was a long way from the sumptuous space of Roarke’s home, and it smelled a great deal like overcooked veggie hash. But it worked for him.

At the moment, with his heart stuttering and his skin slick from sex, it worked just fine.

“Jesus, Peabody.” He flopped over on his back, much like a landed trout. He didn’t bother to gasp for air. He had a lush, naked woman in his bed. He could die a happy man. “We had to break a record that time. We ought to be writing this down.”

She lay where she was, stunned as she always was when she found herself in this situation with Ian McNab. “I can’t feel my feet.”

Obligingly he propped himself on his elbow, but as they’d ended up crosswise on the bed, he couldn’t see past her knees. She had, he noted, really cute knees. “I don’t think I bit them off. I’d remember.” But with a grunt, he scooted down, just to be sure. “They’re there, all right, both of them.”

“Good. I’m going to need them later.”

As the shock wore off, she blinked, stared at McNab’s pretty profile, and wondered, not for the first time, when she’d lost her mind.

I’m naked in bed with McNab. Naked. In bed. McNab.

Jesus.

Always self-conscious about body flaws, she tugged at the knotted sheets. “Cold in here,” she muttered.

“Bastard super cut the main furnace back first of March. Like it’s his money. First chance I get, I’m rerouting the system.”

He yawned hugely, dragged both hands through his long and tangled blond hair. His narrow shoulders seemed weighed down by the mass of it. Peabody had to order her fingers not to reach up to play with the long loops of reddish gold. He had skinny hips, with the right one currently decorated with a temp tattoo of a silver lightning bolt. It matched the four earrings winking in his left earlobe.

His skin was milk white, his eyes a cagey green. She still couldn’t figure out why anything about him attracted her on a physical level, much less how she’d ended up having regular and outrageous sex with him when out of bed they spent most of their time annoying each other.

She’d liked to have said he wasn’t her type, but she didn’t think she actually had a type. Her luck with men was usually, distressingly, piss-poor.

“I’d better get going.”

“Why? It’s early.” When she sat up, he leaned over and nipped suggestively at her shoulder. “I’m starving.”

“Christ, McNab, we just finished having sex.”

“That, too, but I was thinking more of pizza, loaded.” He knew her weaknesses. “Let’s fuel up.”

Her taste buds stirred to attention. “I’m dieting.”

“What for?”

She rolled her eyes, yanking the rumpled sheet around her as she climbed out of bed. “Because I’m pudgy.”

“No, you’re not. You’re built.” He caught the edge of the sheet, surprising her with his quickness, and pulled it down to her waist. “Seriously built.”

As she fumbled for the sheet, he sprang up, caught her around the waist with an affectionate squeeze that both disarmed and worried her. “Come on, let’s eat, then see what happens next. I’ve got some wine around here.”

“If it’s anything like the wine you had last time, I’d as soon dip a cup in the sewer.”

“New bottle.” He picked his bright orange jumpsuit off the floor, stepped into it. “You want some pants?”

The fact that he would offer her his pants made her want to pinch all four of his cheeks. “McNab, I couldn’t have squeezed into your pants when I was twelve. I actually have an ass.”

“True. That’s okay; I love a woman in uniform.” He strolled off, struggling not to brood. He always had to talk her into staying.

In the corner of the living area that doubled for his kitchen, he pulled out the bottle of wine he’d bought the day before when he’d been thinking of her. He thought about her just often enough to be demoralized. If he could keep her in bed, they’d be fine. He didn’t have to think about his moves there, they just happened.

He flipped on his ’link. The pizza joint was keyed in on memory, in the primo position due to frequency of transmissions. He ordered a mongo pie, loaded, then dug out a corkscrew.

The damn wine had cost him twice what he usually spent. But when a guy was competing with a slick, experienced LC, he needed to hold his own. He didn’t doubt Charles Monroe knew all about fine wines. He and Peabody probably took baths in champagne.

Since the image infuriated him, he glugged down half a glass of wine. Then he turned as Peabody came out of the bedroom. She was wearing her uniform pants with her shirt open at the throat. He wanted to lick her there, just there where the stiff cotton gave way to soft flesh.

Goddamn it.

“What’s the matter?” She asked, noticing the scowl on his face. “They run out of pepperoni?”

“No, it’s coming.” He held out her glass of wine. “I was thinking . . . about work.”

“Mmm.” She sipped the wine, pursed her lips at its smooth and subtle fruity taste. “This is pretty good. You’re running backgrounds on the Draco case, right?”

“Already done. Dallas should have them by now.”

“Quick work.”

He answered with a shrug. He didn’t have to tell her Roarke had dropped the data in his lap. “We in EDD aim to please. Even after eliminations and probability scans, it’s going to take days to shift the list down to a workable number. Guy gets his heart jabbed in front of a couple thousand people, it’s complicated.”

“Yeah.” Peabody sipped again, then wandered off to drop into a chair. Without being aware of it on a conscious level, she was as comfortable in McNab’s mess of an apartment as she was in her own tidy one. “Something’s going on.”

“Something’s always going on.”

“No, not the usual.” She struggled with herself, brooded into her wine. If she didn’t talk to someone, she’d explode. And hell, he was here. “Look, this is confidential.”

“Okay.” Since the pizza wouldn’t arrive for a good ten minutes more, McNab snagged an open bag of soy chips. He settled on the arm of Peabody’s chair. “What’s the deal?”

“I don’t know. Nadine Furst tagged the lieutenant today, and she was razzed. Nadine, I mean.” Absently, Peabody reached into the bag. “You don’t see Nadine razzed very often. She makes a meet with Dallas—a personal meet. It was serious. They stashed me across the room, but I could tell. And after, Dallas didn’t say a word about it.”

“Maybe it was just personal shit.”

“No, Nadine’s not going to ask for a meet like that unless there’s trouble.” Nadine was her friend, too, and part of Peabody was bruised that she’d been brushed aside. “I think it ties to the case. Dallas should’ve told me.” Peabody crunched on chips. “She should trust me.”

“Want me to poke around?”

“I can do my own poking. I don’t need an E Division hotshot running plays for me.”

“Suit yourself, She-Body.”

“Just lay off. I don’t even know why I told you. It’s just sitting in my gut. Nadine’s a friend. She’s supposed to be a friend.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, you are.” He was beginning to have an intimate relationship with the feeling. “Dallas and Nadine are playing without you, so you’re jealous. Girl Dynamics one oh one.”

She shoved him off the arm of the chair. “You’re an asshole.”

“And there,” he said as his security bell rang, “is the pizza.”

“Don’t touch anything, and stay out of the way.”

“Darling.” Roarke watched Eve slip her master into the security lock on Penthouse A. “You’re repeating yourself.”

“That’s because you never listen.” Before she opened the door, she turned, met his eyes. “Why does a man whose primary residence is New York, whose main source of work is New York, opt to live in a hotel rather than a private residence?”

“First the panache. ‘Mr. Draco keeps the penthouse at The Palace when in the city.’ Next, the convenience. At the crook of a finger, whatever you need or want done for you can be. Is. And lastly, perhaps most tellingly, the utter lack of commitment. Everything around you is someone else’s problem and responsibility.”

“From what I’ve learned of Draco so far, that’s the one I go for.” She opened the door, stepped inside.

It belonged to Roarke, she thought, therefore it was plush and lush and perfect. If you went for that kind of thing.

The living area was enormous and elegantly furnished with walls of silky rose. The ceiling was arched and decorated with a complicated design of fruit and flowers around a huge glass and gold chandelier.

Three sofas, all in deep, cushy red were piled with pillows bright as jewels. Tables—and she suspected they were genuine wood and quite old—were polished like mirrors, as was the floor. The rug was an inch thick and matched the ceiling pattern grape for grape.

One wall was glass, the privacy screen drawn so that New York exploded with light and shape outside but couldn’t intrude. There was a stone terrace beyond, and as the flowers decked in big stone pots were thriving, she assumed it was heated.

A glossy white piano stood at one end of the room, and at the other, carved wood panels hid what she assumed was a full entertainment unit. There were plants of thick and glossy foliage, glass displays holding pretty dust catchers she concluded were art, and no discernable sign of life.

“Housekeeping would have come in after he left for the theater,” Roarke told her. “I can ask the team on duty that evening to come up and let you know the condition of the rooms at that time.”

“Yeah.” She thought of Nadine. If she knew the reporter, the condition of the rooms had been something approaching the wake of a tornado. She walked over to the panels, opened them, and studied the entertainment unit. “Unit on,” she commanded, and the screen flickered to soft blue. “Play back last program.”

With barely a hiccup, the unit burst into color and sound. Eve watched two figures slide and slither over a pool of black sheets. “Why do guys always get off watching other people fuck?”

“We’re sick, disgusting, and weak. Pity us.”

She started to laugh. Then the couple on the bed rolled. The woman’s face, soft with pleasure, turned toward the camera. “Goddamn it. That’s Nadine. Nadine and Draco.”

In support, Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “It wasn’t taped here. That’s not the bedroom. Her hair’s different. I don’t think it’s recent.”

“I’m going to have to take it in, prove it isn’t. And I’ve got a damn sex tape of one of the media’s cream as evidence on a murder case.” She stopped the play, ejected the disc, and sealed it in an evidence bag from her field kit.

“Damn it. Damn it.”

She began to pace, to struggle with herself. All this relationship stuff was so complicated and still so foreign to her. Nadine had told her what she’d told her as a friend. In confidence. The man currently, and patiently, watching her from across the room was her husband.

Love, honor, and all the rest of it.

If she told him about Nadine and Draco, was she breaching a confidence and the trust of a friend? Or was she just doing the marriage thing?

How the hell, she wondered, did people get through life juggling all this stuff?

“Darling Eve.” Sympathizing, Roarke waited until she’d stopped prowling the room and turned to face him. “You’re giving yourself a headache. I can make it easier on you. Don’t feel you have to tell me something that makes you uncomfortable.”

She frowned at him, narrowed her eyes. “I hear a but at the end of that sentence.”

“You have very sharp ears. But,” he continued, crossing to her, “I can deduce that Nadine and Draco were involved at one time, and given your current concern, that something happened between them a great deal more recently.”

“Oh hell.” In the end she went with the gut and told him everything.

He listened, then tucked Eve’s hair behind her ear. “You’re a good friend.”

“Don’t say that. It makes me nervous.”

“All right, I’ll say this: Nadine didn’t have anything to do with Draco’s murder.”

“I know that, and there’s no hard evidence indicating any different. But it’s going to be messy for her. Personally messy. Okay, what else is in this place?”

“Ah, if memory serves. Kitchen through there.” He gestured. “Office, bath, bedroom, dressing room, bath.”

“I’ll start in the office. I want to run his ’links and see if he had any conversations that involved threats or arguments. Do me a favor.” She handed him her kit. “Bag the rest of the video discs.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant.”

She smirked but let it ride.

She worked systematically. He loved watching her at it: The focus, the concentration, the absolute logic of her method.

Not so long before in his life if anyone had suggested he could find a cop and her work sexy, he’d have been both appalled and insulted.

“Stop staring at me.”

He smiled. “Was I?”

She decided to let it pass. “Lots of communications in and out. If I were a shrink, I’d guess this was a guy who couldn’t stand being alone with himself. Needed contact on a constant basis. Nothing out of the ordinary though, unless you count some pretty heavy ’link shopping—eight pairs of shoes, three snazzy suits, antique wrist unit.” She straightened. “But you wouldn’t count that.”

“On the contrary, I’d never buy snazzy suits via ’link. Fit is everything.”

“Ha ha. He did have a short, pithy kind of conversation with his agent. Seems our boy discovered that his leading lady was pulling in the same salary for the run of the play. He was pretty pissed off about it, wanted his rep to renegotiate and get him more. One credit more per performance.”

“Yes, I knew about that. No deal.”

Puzzled, she turned away from the neat little desk. “You wouldn’t give him a credit?”

“When dealing with a child,” Roarke said mildly, “you set boundaries. The contract was a boundary. The amount of the demand was inconsequential.”

“You’re tough.”

“Certainly.”

“Did he give you trouble over it?”

“No. He may have planned to push it, but we never had words over it. The fact is, his agent went to my lawyers, they to me, me back to them, and so on. It hadn’t progressed beyond my refusal before opening night.”

“Okay, that keeps you clean. I want to check out the bedroom.” She moved past him, across a small, circular hallway and through the door.

The bed was big, elaborate, with a high, padded wall behind and covered with sheer, smoky gray. It looked like a bank of soft fog.

She moved briefly into the adjoining dressing room, shook her head at the forest of clothes and shoes. A built-in, mirrored counter held a chorus line of colored bottles and tubes: enhancers, skin soothers, scents, powders.

“Okay, we’ve got vain, selfish, egocentric, childish, and insecure.”

“I wouldn’t argue with your assessment. All those personality traits are motive for dislike, but for murder?”

“Sometimes having two feet’s a motive for murder.” She moved back to the bedroom. “A man that full of ego and insecurity wouldn’t sleep alone very often. He dumped Carly Landsdowne. I’d say he had someone else lined up to take her place.” Idly, she pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. “Well, well, look at the toys.”

The drawer was fitted with compartments, and each was jammed with various erotic enhancers suitable for partnership or solo bouts.

“Lieutenant, I really think you should take these in for further examination.”

“No touching.” She slapped Roarke’s hand away as he reached in.

“Spoilsport.”

“Civilian. What the hell does this do?” She held up a long, cone-shaped piece of rubber. It made cheerful tinkling noises when she shook it.

Roarke tucked his tongue in his cheek and sat on the bed. “Well, in the interest of your investigation, I’d be happy to demonstrate.” Smiling, he patted the bed beside him.

“No, I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“Never mind.” But she was still pondering when she put the cone back and opened the bottom drawer. “Ah, here’s a little gold mine. Looks like a month’s supply of Exotica, a bit of Zeus, and . . .” She opened a small vial, sniffed cautiously, then shook her head like a dog coming out of a pool of water. “Shit. Wild Rabbit.”

She fumbled the stopper back in, grabbed for an evidence bag, and sealed the vial.

“Pure, too.” She blew out a breath. “If he’s using that on his dates, no wonder they all think he’s a sex god. One or two drops of Rabbit, and you’d screw a doorknob. Did you know he was into this?”

“No.” All humor fled, Roarke rose. “I don’t have particularly strong feelings about most of the illegals. But this one is the same as rape, as far as I’m concerned. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” A little dizzy, she thought, and annoyingly horny. And that was only from a quick whiff of the fumes. “Stuff this pure goes for ten thousand an ounce, minimum, and it isn’t easy to come by. It only works on the female system,” she murmured. “Only takes a drop too many to overdose.”

Roarke cupped a hand under her chin, lifted it to examine her eyes. Clear enough, he decided. “There was never any talk about him using anything like this. If there had been, and I’d discovered it was true, I’d have broken his contract. And very likely, his arms.”

“Okay.” She lifted a hand to his wrist, squeezed. “That’s enough in here for now. I’m going to need you to keep this room vacant another day or two. I want an Illegals unit to run through it.”

“All right.”

She slipped the vial into her kit, and hoped to lighten his mood. “So, how much is it costing you?”

“Excuse me?”

“To keep this place vacant? How much does it run a night?”

“Oh this little place? I believe it’s in the neighborhood of eighty-five hundred a night, though I imagine we have weekly and monthly rates as well.”

“Chump change. Mansfield has a unit in here, too, right?”

“Penthouse B, the other tower.”

“Let’s pay her a visit. She and Draco had an illegals history in common,” Eve began as she gathered her field kit and started out. “She may know his sources. It could all come down to a bad drug deal.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I don’t think so either, but the majority of cop work is eliminating.” She locked the door, started to reach for a police seal in her kit.

“Must you do that?” He eyed the seal with dislike. “It’s very off-putting to the other guests.”

“Yes, I must. Besides, it’ll give them a secret thrill. Oooh, look, George, that’s where the dead actor lived. Get the vid cam.”

“Your attitude toward society at large is sadly cynical.”

“And accurate.” She stepped into the elevator ahead of him, waiting for the doors to close. Then pounced. “Just give me a quick—God—” Desperate for release, she rubbed herself against him, bit his lip, moaning as her hands squeezed hard on his butt.

“Whew.” On a long breath, she pushed him away, circled her shoulders. “That’s better.”

“For you maybe.” He made a grab for her, but she slapped a hand on his chest.

“No games in public elevators. Don’t you know that’s a violation of city code? Tower A, penthouse level,” she ordered, and the car slid seamlessly into motion.

“You’ll definitely have to pay for that.”

She leaned back against the wall as the elevator started its horizontal ride. “Please, you’re scaring me.”

He only smiled and slipped his hands into his pocket. Toyed idly with the rubber cone he’d palmed out of the drawer. “Be afraid,” he murmured, and made her laugh as the car came to a stop.

“I had to clear my head before talking to a witness, didn’t I?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Listen, you know Mansfield fairly well. I’d like your observations when this is done.”

“Ah, there I am. Useful again.”

She stopped, turned, and laid a hand on his cheek. Love for him reared up and bit her at the oddest times. “You do come in handy.” When he turned his head and brushed his lips over her palm, she felt the thrill of it right down to her toes. “No mushy stuff,” she ordered and strode to Areena’s door.

She pressed the buzzer, waited.

Areena, dressed in a white lounging robe, opened the door. She looked flushed, obviously surprised, and not altogether pleased. “Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke. I . . . I wasn’t expecting—” Then those limpid eyes went wide, went bright. “Is there news? Have you caught whoever—”

“No. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have a few questions.”

“Oh. I thought, I hoped, it might all be over. Well.” She lifted a hand, pressed pink-tipped fingers under her eye as if to soothe an ache. Indeed, there were faint bruises of fatigue under it. “I’m afraid this isn’t really a good time. Is this absolutely necessary?”

“I’m sorry it’s inconvenient, but it won’t take long.”

“Of course. This is awkward. You see, I’m not alone. I . . .” In surrender, Areena let her hand fall, stepped back. “Please, come in.”

Eve stepped inside. The penthouse was very like its opposite in setup, in size. The furnishings were softer, more female somehow, and the colors a symphony of blues and creams.

And seated on one of the trio of sofas, looking sleek and gorgeous in black, was Charles Monroe.

Terrific, Eve thought, and immediately wanted to kick his expensive balls into his throat.

He grinned, a quick snap of pleasure, then seeing the chill in her eyes, the look shifted into lazy amusement as he got languorously to his feet. “Lieutenant. Always a delight to see you.”

“Charles. Night work still keeping you busy?”

“Fortunately. Roarke, nice to see you again.”

“Charles.”

“Can I freshen your drink, Areena?”

“What?” Her eyes had whipped back and forth between faces, and her fingers twirled and twisted the silver links at her throat. “No. No, thank you. Ah, you know each other.”

The flush that had pinked prettily on her face deepened. She lifted her hands again in that feminine gesture of helplessness.

“The lieutenant and I have met a number of times. We even have a mutual friend.”

“Watch your step,” Eve said, very quietly. Temper had already stormed into her eyes and was ready to snap. “Is this a social call, Charles, or are you on the clock?”

“You should know a man in my position doesn’t discuss such matters.”

“Please, this is embarrassing.” Areena lifted her hand to toy restlessly with her necklace again and didn’t notice Charles’s mouth twist in a thin, cynical line, but Eve did. “Obviously, you’re aware Charles is a professional. I didn’t want to be alone, and I needed . . . some simple companionship. Charles—Mr. Monroe came highly recommended.”

“Areena.” Smooth as silk, Roarke stepped forward. “I’d love some coffee. Would you mind?”

“Oh, of course. Forgive me. I can . . .”

“Why don’t I see to it.” Charles brushed a hand over Areena’s arm and started toward the kitchen.

“I’ll just give him a hand.” With a last look at Eve, Roarke strolled away.

“I know how this must look to you,” Areena began. “It must seem very cold and very self-interested for me to have hired a sexual partner the night after . . .”

“It seems odd to me that a woman like you would have to hire anyone to be with her.”

With a light laugh, Areena picked up a glass of wine and, sipping, began to pace. The silk whispered around her legs. “A pretty compliment wrapped in barbed suspicion. And well delivered.”

“I’m not here to pay you compliments.”

“No.” Areena’s eyes lost their light of humor. “No, of course not. The simple answer to your underlying question is that I keep to myself a great deal. It comes, I suppose, from spending too much of my youth at parties, in groups. You’ll have learned about my indiscretions, my difficulties with illegals. That’s behind me now.”

She turned back, lifted her chin. “It wasn’t easy to put it behind me, but I did. In doing so, I lost a number of what I once considered friends. I ruined relationships that mattered to me because of addictions, lost those that shouldn’t have mattered when I beat the addictions. And now I’m at a point in my life where my career needs all my attention. It doesn’t leave much time for socializing or for romance.”

“Were you romantically involved with Draco?”

“No. Never. We had sex a lifetime ago, the sort hearts and minds have nothing to do with. For some time, we’ve had nothing in common but the theater. I came back to New York, Lieutenant, because I wanted this play, and I knew Richard would shine in his part. I wanted that. There’ll never be another like him onstage. God.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shivered. “It’s horrible. Horrible. I’m more sorry to have lost the actor than the man. I’m sorry to know that about myself. No, I can’t be alone.” She sank down on the sofa. “Can’t bear it. I can’t sleep. If I sleep, I wake up, and my hands are covered in blood. Richard’s blood. The nightmares.”

She lifted her head, and her eyes swam as they met Eve’s. “I have horrible nightmares every time I lie down, they leap into my head, and I wake up sick, wake up screaming, with his blood all over me. You can’t imagine. You can’t.”

But Eve could. A small, freezing room, washed in the dirty red light from the sign across the street. The pain, the sheer hideousness of the rape, of the bone he’d broken in her arm when she’d fought him. The blood, his blood everywhere, slicked on her hands, dripping from the blade of the knife as she crawled away.

She’d been eight. In her nightmares, Eve was forever eight.

“I want you to find who did this,” Areena whispered. “You have to find who did it. When you do, the nightmares will stop. Won’t they? Won’t they stop?”

“I don’t know.” Eve forced herself to step forward, forced herself to step away from her own memories and stay in the present. Stay in control. “Tell me what you know about the illegals. Who were his contacts, who supplied him, who played with him?”

In the kitchen, Charles sipped his wine, and Roarke made do with the reasonably decent faux coffee the AutoChef offered.

“Areena’s having a difficult time,” Charles began.

“I imagine she is.”

“There’s no law against paying for comfort.”

“No.”

“My job is as viable as hers.”

Roarke inclined his head. “Monroe, Eve has no personal vendetta against licensed companions.”

“Just against me, in particular.”

“She’s protective of Peabody.” With his eyes clear and direct, Roarke sipped again. “So am I.”

“I’m fond of Delia. Very fond. I’d never hurt her. I’ve never deceived her.” On a sound of disgust, Charles turned away to stare through the window at the lights. “I lost my chance to have a relationship outside my job—to have a life outside my job—because I deceived a woman. Then because I cared enough about her to be honest. I’ve come to terms with that. I am what I am.”

He turned back, and his lips curved. “And I’m good at what I do. Delia accepts that.”

“Perhaps. But women are the oddest creatures, aren’t they? A man never really knows. And that, I think, is part of their continual appeal. A mystery’s more interesting, isn’t it, before it’s completely solved.”

With a half laugh, Charles looked over his shoulder, and Eve walked through the door.

She couldn’t have said, precisely, why it annoyed her to see Charles and her husband sharing a moment of what couldn’t be mistaken for anything but male amusement. But since it did, she scowled at Roarke.

“Sorry to break up the boy talk, but could you keep Areena company for a moment while I speak to Charles?”

“Of course. The coffee’s reasonably good.”

She waited until he’d walked out, then moved to the AutoChef more to give herself a moment to settle than out of a desire for hotel coffee. “When did Ms. Mansfield make the appointment for your services?”

“This afternoon. About two, I believe.”

“Isn’t that late notice for you?”

“Yes.”

Eve pulled the coffee out, leaned back against the wall, with the steam rising from her cup. “No bookings tonight?”

“I rearranged my schedule.”

“Why? Areena indicated you hadn’t met before, socially or professionally. Why go to that trouble for a stranger?”

“Because she doubled my fee,” he said simply.

“What did she buy? Straight sex? An overnighter?”

He paused, stared down at his wine. When he lifted his gaze again, his eyes had gone cool. “I don’t have to answer that. And won’t.”

“I’m investigating a homicide. I can pull you in for an interview at Central.”

“Yes, you can. Will you?”

“You’re making this sticky.” She set the coffee down, paced up and down the narrow space between the wall and the counter. “I have to put you in my report as it is. That’s bad enough. But you make me take you in, formalize this, it’s right up Peabody’s nose.”

“And neither of us want that,” he murmured, then sighed. “Look, Dallas, I got a call. A client of mine gave my name to Areena as someone who could give her a comfortable evening. She was obviously upset. I’d heard about Draco, so I didn’t have to ask why. She wanted a companion for the night. Dinner in, conversation, sex. To compensate for my inconvenience, she doubled my usual overnight fee. It’s simple.”

“Did you talk about Draco?”

“No. We talked about art, we talked about theater. She’s had three glasses of wine and half a pack of herbals. Her hands stopped shaking about twenty minutes before you got here. She’s an emotional wreck who’s trying to hold on.”

“Okay. I appreciate it.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Peabody’s going to see the report.”

He could feel his own hackles rise. “Delia knows what I do.”

“Right.” It stuck in her craw like barbed wire.

“She’s a grown woman, Dallas.”

“Grown, my ass.” She gave up and kicked the wall. “She’s out of her league with an operator like you. Damn it, her family’s Free-Agers. She grew up out in bumfuck somewhere.” A vague gesture took care of the Midwest. “She’s a good cop. She’s a solid cop, but she’s still got blind sides. And she’s going to get really pissed off when she finds out I said anything to you about it. She’ll jam that stick up her ass and freeze me out, but damn it—”

“She matters,” he shot back. “She matters to you. Doesn’t it occur to you that she could matter to me?”

“Women are a business to you.”

“When they pay me to be my business. It isn’t like that with Delia. For Christ’s sake, we don’t even have sex.”

“What? She can’t meet your fee?” As soon as it was out, she hated herself. Hated herself more when she saw those cool eyes register simple hurt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was wrong. That was way off.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Suddenly tired, she scooted down and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. “I don’t want to know this stuff. I don’t want to think about this stuff. I like you.”

Intrigued, he lowered to the floor, his back to the counter so their knees almost brushed. “Really?”

“Yeah, mostly. You’ve been seeing her since before Christmas, and you haven’t . . . What’s wrong with her?”

He laughed, and this time it was easy and rich. “Jesus, Dallas, which way do you want it? I have sex with her, I’m a bastard. I don’t, I’m a bastard. Roarke was right.”

“What do you mean, Roarke was right?”

“You can’t figure women.” He took a drink of his wine. “She’s a friend. It just happened that way. I don’t have many friends who aren’t clients or in the business.”

“Watch yourself. They start to multiply when you’re not paying attention. It complicates your whole damn life.”

“You’re a good friend. One more thing,” he said and gave her foot an easy pat. “I mostly like you, too, Lieutenant Sugar.”

The nightmare came. She should have expected it. Areena’s talk of dreams and blood and terror triggered it. But even knowing, she could never stop it once it slid into her mind.

She saw him come into the room. Her father. That nasty little room in Dallas, so cold, even with the temperature gauge stuck on high. But seeing him, smelling him, knowing he’d been drinking, but not drinking enough, had sweat popping out on her chilled arms.

She dropped the knife. She’d been so hungry, so hungry it had been worth the risk of finding a snack. Just a little piece of cheese. The knife fell out of her hand, took days, years, centuries to reach the floor. And in the dream, the clatter of it was like thunder that echoed. Echoed. Echoed.

Across his face as he walked to her, the red light from the sign washed red, then white, then red.

Please don’t please don’t please don’t.

But it never did any good to beg.

It would happen again and again and again. The pain of his hand smashing almost casually across her face. Hitting the floor so hard it rattled her bones. And then his weight on top of her.

“Eve. There now. Eve, come back to me. You’re home.”

Her breath burned in her throat, and she struggled, bucking, shoving against the arms that held her. And Roarke’s voice seeped into the dream, warm, calm, lovely. Safe.

“That’s right. Hold on to me.” He gathered her closer in the dark, rocking her as he would a child until her shudders quieted. “You’re all right now.”

“Don’t let go.”

“No.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I won’t.”

When she woke in the morning, the dream only a vague smear on her mind, his arms were still around her.

Eve beat Peabody into Central. It was deliberate, and it cost her a full hour’s sleep that morning. She hoped to file her updated report, then move on, before her aide showed up. If she was lucky, there would be no discussion involving Charles Monroe.

The detective’s bullpen was buzzing. It turned out that Detective Zeno’s wife had given birth to a baby girl the night before, and he’d celebrated by bringing in two dozen donuts. Knowing detectives, Eve snagged one before the unit fell on them like hyenas on scavenged meat.

“Who won the pool?”

“I did.” Baxter grinned around a cinnamon twist with raspberry jelly. “Six hundred and thirty smackeroos.”

“Damn it. I never win the baby pool.” Consoling herself, Eve snagged a cruller. Taking the first bite, she grinned at him. Good old Baxter, she thought. He could be a pain in the ass, but he was meticulous and sharp with details.

He was just perfect. “Looks like this is your lucky day.”

“No shit. I’ve had my eye on this new auto-entertainment system. The six bills plus is going to go a long way toward putting that baby in my ride.”

“That’s great, Baxter, but I mean it’s really your lucky day.” She pulled a clear file of discs out of her bag, those gathered from the uniforms and detectives who’d logged witness names the night of the Draco homicide. “You get the grand prize. Run standard backgrounds and probabilities on these individuals, re Draco. We got close to three thousand names here. Grab a couple of detectives, a few uniforms if you need them, and get statements. Let’s see if you can cut that number in half by the end of the week.”

He snorted. “Very funny, Dallas.”

“I have orders from Whitney to tag somebody for this duty. Tag, Baxter. You’re it.”

“This is bullshit.” When she dropped the file on his desk, his eyes wheeled. “You can’t dump this nightmare on me, Dallas.”

“Can, have, did. You’re dropping crumbs, Baxter. You should remember to always keep your area clean.”

Pleased with the morning’s work, she headed for her office with his curses following her.

The door was open, and the sounds of riffling came clearly into the hall. Eve pressed her back to the wall, danced her fingers over her weapon. The son of a bitch. She had him this time. The sneaking candy thief’s ass was hers at last.

She charged into the room, leading with her fist, and caught the intruder by the scruff of the neck. “Gotcha!”

“Hey, lady!”

She had six inches and a good twenty pounds on him. Eve calculated she could squeeze him through her skinny window without too much trouble. He’d make an interesting smear on the pavement below.

“I’m not going to read you your rights,” she said as she bounced him against the file cabinets. “You won’t need them where you’re going.”

“Call Lieutenant Dallas!” His voice piped out like a rusty flute. “Call Lieutenant Dallas.”

She hauled him around, stared into his jittery eyes, doubled in size behind microgoggles. “I am Dallas, you candy-stealing putz.”

“Well, jeez. Jeez. I’m Lewis. Tomjohn Lewis, from Maintenance. I got your new equipment.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Let me smell your breath. You got candy breath, I’m going to pull out your tongue and strangle you with it.”

With his feet dangling an inch from the floor, he puffed out his cheeks and blew explosive air in her face. “Cracked wheat waffles down to the Eatery, and—and the fruit cup. I ain’t had candy. Swear to God.”

“No, but you might want to consider a stronger mouthwash. What’s this about new equipment?”

“There. Right there. I was just finishing the transfer.”

Still holding him off the floor, she turned her head. Her mouth fell open seconds before she dropped Lewis in a heap and leaped on the industrial gray shell of the computer. “Mine. It’s mine.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant sir. She’s all yours.”

With her arms possessively circled around the unit, she looked back at him. “Look, maintenance boy, if you’re toying with me, I’ll bite your ears off and make them into stew.”

“I got the order right here.” Moving cautiously, he reached in his pocket for his logbook, punched in the code. “See, here, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Homicide Division. You got yourself a new XE-5000. You requisitioned it yourself.”

“I requisitioned it two goddamn years ago.”

“Yeah. Well.” He smiled hopefully. “Here she is. I was just hooking her to the mainframe. You want I should finish?”

“Yeah, I want you should finish.”

“Okay. Have it done in a wink, then get right out of your way.” He all but dived under the desk.

“What the hell kind of name is Tomjohn?”

“It’s my name, Lieutenant. You got your complete owner’s manual and user’s guide in that box over there.”

She looked over, snorted at the foot-high box. “I know how it works. I have this model at home.”

“It’s a good machine. Once you’re linked to the main, all we gotta do is transfer your code and data from your old equipment. Take about thirty minutes, tops.”

“I got time.” She skimmed her eyes over her old unit, dented, battered, despised. Some of the dents had been put into it by her own frustrated fist. “What happens to my old equipment?”

“I can haul it out for you, take it down to recycle.”

“Fine—no. No, I want it. I want to take it home.” She’d perform a ritual extermination, she decided. She hoped it suffered.

“Okay by me.” Since he figured his tongue and his ears were safe again, he began to whistle with his work. “That thing’s been obsolete for five years. Don’t know how you managed to get anything done with it.”

Her only response to that was a low, throaty growl.

When Peabody came in an hour later, Eve was sitting at her crowded desk, grinning. “Look, Peabody. It’s Christmas.”

“Whoa.” Peabody came in, circled around. “Whoa squared. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. It’s mine. Tomjohn Lewis, my new best friend, hooked it up for me. It listens to me, Peabody. It does what I tell it to do.”

“That’s great, sir. I know you’ll be very happy together.”

“Okay, fun’s over.” She picked up her coffee, jerking her thumb toward the AutoChef so Peabody knew she was welcome to a cup of her own. “I did a run-through on Draco’s apartment last night.”

“I didn’t know you planned to do that. I would have adjusted my personal time.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” Eve had a nasty image of the scene in Areena’s apartment if Peabody had come along.

“Draco kept a stash of illegals in his penthouse. A variety pack that included nearly an ounce of pure Wild Rabbit.”

“Creep.”

“You bet. Also a number of inventive sex toys, some of which were out of the scope of even my wide range of experience. He had a collection of video discs, and a large percentage of them are personal sexual encounters.”

“So we have a dead sexual deviant.”

“The toys and the discs are personal choice, but the Rabbit shuffles him over into SD territory. It could go to motive, or motives, since they’re piling up like Free-Agers at a protest rally. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“We’ve got, as potentials, ambition, personal gain, money, sex, illegals, woman or women scorned, and all-around general dislike. He enjoyed preying on women, generally pushing members of both sexes around. He had a regular illegals habit. He was also an irritating son of a bitch, and had everyone who knew him wanting to string him up by his intestines. It doesn’t cut the list by much. But.”

She shifted in her chair. “I started running probabilities last night. Made some headway. My handy new XE- 5000 will copy that data to you so you can continue to run scans. I have a consult with Mira shortly. That may help shave the working list down. Set up a conference with our pals in EDD for eleven.”

“And the interviews this afternoon?”

“Go as scheduled. I’ll be back in an hour, two at most.” She pushed away from her desk. “If I get held up, contact the lab and nag Dickhead into verifying the illegals I sent down this morning.”

“A pleasure. Bribe or threat?”

“How long have you worked with me now, Peabody?”

“Almost a year, sir.”

Eve nodded as she strode out. “Long enough. Use your own judgment.”

Mira’s area was more civilized—Eve imagined that was the word—compared with the warrens and hives of the majority of Cop Central. A bubble of calm, she supposed, especially if you didn’t know what went on behind the doors of Testing.

Eve knew, and she hoped eons passed before she was forced to step through them again.

But Mira’s individual space was a world away from the depersonalizing and demoralizing cage of Testing. She favored shades of blues in her cozy scoop chairs, in the soothing ocean waves she often set on her mood screen.

Today she was dressed in one of her soft and snazzy pastel suits. A hopeful green, the color of spring leaf buds. Her hair waved back from a face of composed beauty Eve constantly admired. There were teardrop pearls at her ears that matched the single dangle on a gold-linked chain at her throat.

She was, to Eve’s mind, the perfect example of gracious femininity.

“I appreciate you fitting me in this morning.”

“I feel a vested interest,” Mira began as she programmed her AutoChef for tea. “Being a witness. In all my years attached to the NYPSD, I’ve never witnessed a murder.” She turned with two cups of floral-scented tea in her hand and caught the dark flicker in Eve’s eyes. “Richard Draco was not a murder, Eve. It was an execution. An entirely different matter.”

She took her seat, handing Eve the tea they both knew she’d barely sip. “I study murder. Murderers. I listen to them, and I analyze them. I profile them. And as a doctor, I know, understand, and respect death. But, having a murder take place right in front of my eyes, not to know it was real. Well, it’s given me some bad moments. It’s difficult.”

“I was thinking ingenious.”

“Well.” A ghost of a smile curved Mira’s lips. “Your viewpoint and mine come from different angles, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” And Eve’s angle was often standing over the dead with blood on her boots. It occurred to her now she hadn’t taken Mira’s state of mind into consideration that night at the theater. She had simply drafted her onto the team and used her as it seemed most efficient.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it. I never gave you a choice.”

“You had no reason to think of it. And at the time, neither did I.” She shook it off, lifted her tea. “You were backstage and at work very quickly. How soon did you realize the knife was real?”

“Not soon enough to stop it. That’s what counts. I’ve started my interviews, concentrating on the actors first.”

“Yes, the crime’s steeped in theatrics. The method, the timing, the staging.” More comfortable with the analytical distance, Mira ran the scene in her mind. “An actor or someone who aspires or aspired to be one fits the profile. On the other hand, the murder was clean, well produced, carefully executed. Your killer is bold, Eve, but also cool-headed.”

“Would they have needed to see it happen?”

“Yes, I think so. To see it, under the lights, on the stage, with the audience gasping in shock. That, in my opinion, was as important to this individual as Draco’s death. The thrill of it and the ensuing act. Their own shock and horror, well rehearsed.”

She considered. “It was too well staged not to have been rehearsed. Draco was touted as one of the greatest actors of our time. Killing him was one step. Replacing him, even if only in the killer’s mind, was an essential second.”

“You’re saying it was professionally motivated.”

“Yes, on one level. But it was also very personal. If we look at an actor, or an aspiring one, professional and personal motives could be easily blended.”

“The only one to tangibly benefit from Draco’s death, professionally, is Michael Proctor. The understudy.”

“Logically, yes. Yet everyone onstage or attached to that performance benefits. The media attention, the names fixed in the minds of the public, that indelible moment in time. Isn’t that what an actor aspires to? The indelible moment?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand people who spend their lives being other people.”

“The work, the skill, is in making the viewing audience believe they are other people. The theater is more than a job to those who do it well, who devote their life to it. It is, just as your job is to you, a way of life. And on the night Draco was murdered, the spotlight shone a little brighter for everyone in that play.”

“In the play, or involved with the play. Not in the audience.”

“With current data, I can’t eliminate audience members, but am more inclined toward a person or persons closer to the stage.” Mira set her cup aside, laid a hand over Eve’s. “You’re concerned about Nadine.”

Eve opened her mouth, shut it again.

“Nadine’s a patient, and she’s very open with me. I’m fully aware of her history with the victim, and I’m fully prepared, should it become necessary, to give my professional opinion that she isn’t capable of planning and executing a violent crime. If she’d wanted to punish Draco, she would have found a way to do so through the media. She’s capable of that, very capable.”

“Okay, good.”

“I’ve spoken with her,” Mira went on. “I know you’re interviewing her formally today.”

“After I leave here. Just me, Nadine, and her lawyer. I want it on record that she came to me with the information. I can bury the statement for a few days, give her some breathing room.”

“That will help.” But Mira scanned Eve’s face, saw more. “What else?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”

Eve took a sip of the tea, then told Mira about the video disc in Draco’s penthouse.

“She doesn’t know,” Mira said immediately. “She would have told me. It would have troubled and infuriated her. Embarrassed her. He must have taped it without her knowledge.”

“Then the next line would be: What if he showed it to her when she went to see him the day he was murdered?”

“Housekeeping would have reported considerable damage to the suite, and Draco would have been forced to seek emergency medical care before his performance.” Mira sat back. “It’s good to see you smile. I’m sorry you’ve been worried about her.”

“She was shook when we had our meet. Really shook.” Eve pushed out of the chair, wandered to the mood screen, and watched the waves ebb and flow. “I’ve got too many people buzzing in my ears. It’s distracting.”

“Would you go back to your life as it was a year ago, Eve? Two years ago?”

“Parts of it were easier. I got up in the morning and did my job. Maybe hung out with Mavis a couple of times a week.” She blew out a breath. “No, I wouldn’t go back. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m where I am. So . . . back to Draco.”

Eve continued. “He was a sexual predator.”

“Yes, I read your updated report just before you arrived. I will agree that sex was one of his favored weapons. But it wasn’t the sex itself that fulfilled him. It was the control, the package of his looks, his style, his talent, and sexuality used to control women. Women whom he considered his playthings. And through them, showing his superiority to other men. He was obsessed with being the center.”

“And the illegal? A guy uses Rabbit on a woman because he doesn’t think he’s going to score with her. It takes away her right to choose.”

“Agreed, but in this case, I would say it was just another prop to him. No different in his mind than candlelight and romantic music. He believed himself a great lover, just as he knew himself to be a great actor. His indulgences, in his mind, were no more than his right as a star. I’m not saying that sex doesn’t play a part in the motive, Eve. I believe, in this case, you have layers and layers of motives, and a very complex killer. Very likely every bit as egocentric as the victim.”

“Two of a kind,” Eve murmured.

He had it figured. Actors, they thought they were so fucking brilliant, so special, so important. Well, he could’ve been an actor if he’d really wanted. But it was just like his father had always told him. You work backstage, you work forever.

Actors, they came and they went, but a good stagehand never had to go looking for work.

Linus Quim had been a stagehand for thirty years. For the last ten, he’d been top dog. That’s why he’d been offered the head job at the New Globe, that’s why he pulled in the highest wage the union could squeeze out of the stingy bastards of management.

And even then, his pay didn’t come close to what the actors raked in.

And where would they be without him?

That was going to change now. Because he had it figured.

Pretty shortly the New Globe was going to be looking for a new head stagehand. Linus Quim was going to retire in style.

When he worked, he kept his eyes and his ears open. He studied. Nobody knew what was what and who was what to who in a theater company the way Linus Quim knew.

Above all, he was an expert on timing. Cues were never missed when Linus was in charge.

He knew the last time he’d seen the prop knife. Exactly when and where. And knowing that left only one window of opportunity for the switch. And only one person, to Linus’s thinking, who could have managed it so slick. Could have had just enough time to stick the dummy knife in Areena Mansfield’s dressing room.

It had taken guts, he’d give ’em that.

Linus stopped by a corner glide-cart for a late-morning snack, loading down a pretzel with bright yellow mustard.

“Hey!” The operator snatched at the tube with a hand protected with ratty, fingerless gloves. “You gonna use that much, you gonna pay extra.”

“Up yours, wigwam.” Linus added another blob for the hell of it.

“You use twice too much.” The operator, a battle-scarred Asian with less than three months on the corner, danced in place on tiny feet. “You pay extra.”

Linus considered squirting what was left in the tube in the man’s pruney face, then remembered his upcoming fortune. It made him feel generous. He dug a fifty-cent credit out of his pocket, flipped it in the air.

“Now you can retire,” he said as the operator snagged it on the downward arc.

He sucked at the mustard-drowned pretzel as he strolled away.

He was a little man, and skinny, too, but for the soccer ball–sized potbelly over his belt. His arms were long for his height, and ropey with muscle. His face was like a smashed dish badly glued back together, flat and round and cracked with lines. His ex-wife had often urged him to spend a little of his hoarded savings on some simple cosmetic repair.

Linus didn’t see the point. What did it matter how he looked when his job was, essentially, not to be seen?

But he thought he might spring for some work now. He was going to take himself off to Tahiti, or Bali, or maybe even to one of the resort satellites. Bask in sun and sand and women.

The half million he’d be paid to keep his little observations to himself would pump up his life’s savings nicely.

He wondered if he should have asked for more. He’d kept the payoff on the low end—nothing an actor couldn’t scrape up, in Linus’s opinion. He’d even be willing to take it in installments. He could be reasonable. And the fact was, he had to admire the guts and skill involved here, and the choice of target.

He’d never met an actor he’d despised more than Draco, and Linus hated actors with almost religious equality.

He stuffed the rest of the pretzel in his mouth, wiped mustard from his chin. The letter he’d sent would have been delivered first thing that morning. He’d paid the extra freight for that. An investment.

The letter was better than a ’link call or a personal visit. Those sorts of things could be traced. Cops might have everybody’s ’links bugged. He wouldn’t put it past the cops, who he distrusted nearly as much as actors.

He’d kept the note simple and direct, he recalled.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID AND HOW YOU DID IT. GOOD JOB. MEET ME AT THE THEATER, BACKSTAGE, LOWER LEVEL. ELEVEN O’CLOCK. I WANT $500,000. I WON’T GO TO THE COPS. HE WAS A SON OF A BITCH ANYWAY.

He hadn’t signed it. Everyone who worked with him knew his square block printing. He’d had some bad moments worrying that the note would be passed to the cops, and he’d be arrested for attempted blackmail. But he’d put that possibility away.

What was half a million to an actor?

He used the stage door, keying in his code. His palms were a little sweaty. Nerves and excitement. The door closed behind him with a metallic, echoing clang. Then he breathed in the scent of the theater, drew in the glorious silence of it. He felt a tug at his heart, sharp and unexpected.

After today, he’d be giving this up. The smells, the sounds, the lights, and lines. It was all he’d really ever known, and the sudden realization of love for it rocked him.

Didn’t matter a damn, he reminded himself, and turned to the stairs that led below the stage. They had theaters on Tahiti if he wanted a busman’s holiday. He could even maybe open his own little regional place. A theater-casino palace.

That was a thought.

The Linus Quim Theater. Had a ring to it.

At the base of the stairs, he turned right, down the twisty corridor. He was humming now, happy in his own space, bubbling lightly with anticipation of what was to come.

An arm snaked out, hooked around his neck. He yelped, more in surprise than fear, started to turn.

Fumes poured into his mouth and nose. His vision blurred, his head rang. He couldn’t feel his extremities.

“What? What?”

“You need a drink.” The voice whispered in his ear, friendly, comforting. “Come on, Linus, you need a drink. I got the bottle out of your locker.”

His head drooped down, weighing like a stone on his skinny neck. All he could see behind his eyelids were bleeding colors. His feet shuffled over the floor as he was gently led to a seat. He swallowed obediently when a glass was held to his lips.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“Dizzy.”

“That’ll pass.” The voice stayed soft and soothing. “You’ll just feel very calm. The tranq’s mild. Hardly more than a kiss. You just sit there. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay.” He smiled vaguely. “Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.”

The noose had already been prepared from a long length of rope culled from the fly floor. Gloved hands slipped it smoothly around Linus’s neck, snugged and straightened it.

“How do you feel now, Linus?”

“Pretty good. Pretty damn good. I thought you’d be pissed.”

“No.” But there was a sigh that might have been regret.

“I’m taking the money and going to Tahiti.”

“Are you? I’m sure you’ll enjoy that. Linus, I want you to write something for me. Here’s your pen. That’s the way. Here’s the pad you always use to make your notes. You never use an e-pad, do you?”

“Paper’s good enough for me, goddamn it.” He hiccupped, grinned.

“Of course. Write this down, would you? ‘I did it.’ That’s all you have to say. Just write ‘I did it,’ then sign your name. Perfect. That’s just perfect.”

“I did it.” He signed his name in a stingy little scrawl. “I figured it out.”

“Yes, you did. That was very clever of you, Linus. Are you still dizzy?”

“Nope. I feel okay. I feel fine. Did you bring money? I’m going to Tahiti. You did everybody a favor by wasting that stupid bastard.”

“Thank you. I thought so, too, Let’s stand up now. Steady?”

“As a rock.”

“Good. Would you do me a favor? Could you climb up the ladder here? I’d like you to loop this end of the rope over that pole and tie it off. Nice and snug. Nobody ties knots like a veteran stagehand.”

“Sure thing.” He went up, humming.

On the ground, his killer watched with heart-thrumming anticipation. There had been fear when the note had arrived. Tidal waves of fear and panic and despair.

Those were done now. Had to be done. Only mild irritation and the spur of challenge remained.

How to deal with it? The answer had come so smoothly, so clearly. Eliminate the threat, give the police their killer. All in one stroke.

In moments, only moments now, it would all be done.

“All tied off!” Linus called. “She’ll hold.”

“I’m sure. Oh no, Linus, don’t walk back down.”

Confused, he shifted on the ladder, looked down at the smiling face below. “Don’t walk down?”

“No. Jump. Jump off the ladder, Linus. Won’t that be fun? Just like jumping into the pretty blue water in Tahiti.”

“Like in Tahiti? That’s where I’m going once I’m flush.”

“Yes, like Tahiti.” The laughter was delighted, encouraging. A careful ear might have heard the strain beneath it, but Linus only laughed in return. “Come on, Linus. Dive right in! The water’s fine.”

He grinned, held his nose. And jumped.

This time death wasn’t quiet. The panicked, kicking feet knocked the ladder down with a thunderous clatter. It hit the bottle of brew in an explosion of glass. Choked gasps forced their way through the tightened noose, became rattles. For seconds, only seconds, but the air seemed to scream with them.

And then there was only the faint creak of the rope swinging. Like the creak of a mast in high seas, it was curiously romantic.

“Weighing in Mira’s profile of the killer, the scales drop on the side of a performer. An actor,” Eve continued. “Or someone who wants or wanted to be one.”

“Well, you got your headliners.” Feeney stretched out his legs. “Your second string, your extras. Add them all up, you still got more than thirty potentials. You add the wanna-bes to that, and Christ knows.”

“We divvy them up and cut them down. The same way Baxter should cut down audience members.”

Feeney spread his lips in a grin. “We heard his whining all the way over in EDD.”

“Then my job there is done. We factor in connections to the victim,” Eve went on, “placement during the last act. We haul the most probables into Interview and start sweating them.”

McNab shifted in his chair, lifted a finger. “It’s still possible that the killer was someone in the audience. Somebody who knew Draco, had theater experience. Even working Baxter and whoever he drags into it with him twenty-four/seven on probabilities and backgrounds, it’ll take weeks to eliminate.”

“We don’t have weeks,” Eve shot back. “This is high profile. Pressure’s going to build on The Tower,” she said, referring to the office of the commissioner. “That means it’s going to squeeze us, and squeeze us soon. We run the audience as Baxter passes on potentials, and keep running them until we whittle it down. Meantime, we focus on the stage.”

She moved to the board where the stills of the murder scene, the body, the graphs and charts from the probability scans and background checks run to date were already tacked.

“This wasn’t a spree killing. It wasn’t an impulse. It was planned, staged. It was performed. And it was recorded. I’ve got copies of the discs for everyone. We’re going to watch the play, each of us, study it until we know the lines, the moves, so well we could go on the road with it ourselves.

“It’s about twisting the law,” she murmured. “About playing with it. And in the end, it’s about a kind of justice. The murderer might see Draco’s death that way. A kind of justice.”

Feeney rattled the sugared nuts in the bag in his pocket. “Nobody loved him.”

“Then we figure out who hated him most.”

The boy’s name was Ralph, and he looked both terrified and excited. He wore a battered Yankees jacket over his dull brown janitorial uniform. He either had a very bad haircut or, Roarke supposed, was sporting some new fashion. Whichever, he was forced to blow, sweep, or shake the ragged streams of dark hair out of his eyes on a continual basis.

“I didn’t think you’d come yourself, sir.” Part of Ralph’s panicked excitement came from the idea of speaking face-to-face with the legendary Roarke. Everybody knew the man was totally ice. “Orders are to report anything out of the ordinary to control, so when I saw how the stage door wasn’t locked and coded, I figured how I should report it right off.”

“That’s right. Did you go inside?”

“Well, I . . .” Ralph didn’t see any point in admitting his overactive imagination hadn’t let him get two feet beyond the door. “I started to, you know. Then I saw how there were lights on that aren’t supposed to be on. I thought it was smarter to stay out here and . . . be guarding the door, like.”

“Good thinking.” Roarke crouched down, studied the locks, glanced up idly at the security camera. Its indicator light was off, and it shouldn’t have been. “Do you usually work alone?”

“Oh no, sir. But since, you know, the building’s closed because of that guy getting dead and stuff, my super asked one of the cleaning crew to volunteer for light maintenance. With the whole deal on opening night, nobody ever got to cleaning the bathrooms and stuff. The super, he said how the cops gave us clearance to go back in since they got what they needed already.”

“Yes.” Roarke had been informed only that morning that certain areas of the building were not cleared.

“We’re not supposed to pass the police barriers onstage or back. Super said they’ll give you a bitch of a shock if you try to mess with them.”

“Super is quite correct.”

“So, I’m just supposed to deal with the bathrooms is all. I popped for it ’cause I can use the money, you know?”

“Yes.” Roarke straightened, smiled at the boy. “I know very well. Well then, Ralph is it? We’ll just go in and see what’s what.”

“Sure.” There was an audible gulp as Ralph stepped inside behind Roarke. “You know, they say a murderer always returns, like, to the scene of his crime.”

“Do they?” Roarke’s voice was mild as he scanned the area. “You’ll learn there’s very little always in the world, Ralph. But it’s possible they could be right this time around.”

The rooms beyond the anteroom were dark, but there was a backwash of light shining up the stairs from the lower level. Roarke started down, tucked a hand in his pocket where he’d slipped a small, illegal-for-civilian-use stunner when he’d gotten the call of a potential break-in.

He followed the glow toward the under-stage area.

He smelled home brew, the just-going-sour punch of it, and a nasty undertone he recognized as death.

“Yes, I’m afraid they’re right this time,” he murmured, then turned the corner.

“Oh, shit. Oh, man.” Ralph’s voice jumped over the words, and his eyes goggled at the figure dangling from a stout length of rope. “Is that a guy?”

“It was. If you’re going to be sick, there’s no shame in it, but find another place.”

“Huh?”

Roarke glanced back. The boy’s face was sheet white, his eyes going glassy. To keep it simple, Roarke simply pressed a hand on Ralph’s shoulder and lowered him to the floor. “Put your head down, take slow breaths. That’s the way, son. You’ll do fine.”

Turning from the boy, Roarke walked to the hanged man. “Poor, stupid bastard,” he thought aloud, and took out his palm ’link to call his wife.

“Dallas. What? Roarke, I can’t talk to you now. I’m up to my neck here.”

“Speaking of necks. I’m looking at one now that’s been considerably stretched. You’ll need to come to the theater, Lieutenant, lower level. I’ve found another body for you.”

Death demanded routine, even if the primary investigator’s husband discovered the body.

“Can you identify him?” she asked Roarke, and signaled for Peabody to record the scene.

“Quim. Linus Quim. I checked the employment records after I called you. Head stagehand. He was fifty-six. Divorced, no children. He lived on Seventh—alone, according to his file.”

“Did you know him personally?”

“No.”

“Okay, stand by. Peabody, get me a ladder. I don’t want to use this one until we’ve done a full sweep. Who’s the kid?” she asked Roarke.

“Ralph Biden. One of the janitorial team. He was going to work solo today, saw the stage door was unlocked, and called it in.”

“Give me times,” Eve demanded as she studied the angle of the fallen ladder, the pattern of shattered glass from the broken brew bottle.

After one long stare, Roarke took out his log. “He contacted maintenance control at eleven twenty-three. I was alerted six minutes later and arrived on-scene at noon, precisely. Is that exact enough to satisfy, Lieutenant?”

She knew the tone and couldn’t help it if he decided to be annoyed. Still, she scowled at his back and he walked away to take a small stepladder from Peabody.

“Did you or the kid touch anything?”

“I know the routine.” Roarke set the ladder under the body. “Nearly as well as you by now.”

She merely grunted, shouldered her field kit, and started up the ladder.

Hanging is an unpleasant death, and the shell left behind reflects it. It bulges the eyes, purples the face. He hadn’t weighed more than one-twenty, Eve thought. Not enough, not nearly enough for the weight to drop down fast and heavy and mercifully snap his neck.

Instead, he’d choked to death, slowly enough to be aware, to fight, to regret.

With hands coated with Seal-It, she tugged the single sheet of cheap recycled paper out of his belt. After a quick scan, she handed the paper down. “Bag it, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. Self-termination?”

“Cops who jump to conclusions trip over same and fall on their asses. Call for a Crime Scene team, alert the ME we have an unattended death.”

Chastised, Peabody pulled out her communicator.

Eve logged time of death for the recorder and examined the very precise hangman’s knot. “Why self-termination, Officer Peabody?”

“Ah . . . subject is found hanged to death, a traditional method of self-termination, in his place of employment. There is a signed suicide note, a broken bottle of home brew with a single glass. There are no apparent signs of struggle or violence.”

“First, people have been hanged as an execution method for centuries. Second, we have no evidence at this time the subject wrote the note found on-scene. Last, until a full examination of the body is complete, we cannot determine if there are other marks of violence. Even if there are not,” Eve continued, backing down the ladder, “a man can be coerced into a noose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the surface, it looks like self-termination. It’s not our job to stop at the surface and assume but to observe, record, gather evidence, and eventually conclude.”

Eve stepped away, studied the scene. “Why would a man come here to an empty theater; sit and drink a glass of brew; write a brief note; fashion himself a nice, tidy noose; secure it; walk up a ladder; then step off?”

Since she understood she was expected to answer, Peabody gave it her best. “The theater is his workplace. Self-terminators often take this step in their place of employment.”

“I’m talking about Quim, Linus. Specifics, Peabody, not generalities.”

“Yes, sir. If he was responsible for Draco’s death, which could be the meaning of the note, he may have been overcome by guilt, and he returned here, to where Draco was killed, balancing the scales by taking his own life under the stage.”

“Think of the profile, Peabody. Think of the original crime and its method of execution. I find calculation, ruthlessness, and daring. Tell me, where do you find guilt?”

With this, Eve strode off to where Ralph was sitting, pale and silent in a corner.

“Screwed that up,” Peabody muttered. “Big time.” She blew out a breath, trying not to be embarrassed she’d had her wings pinned in front of Roarke. “She’s pissed now.”

“She’s angry. Not at you, particularly,” Roarke added, “nor at me.” He looked back at the corpse, the pathetic waste of it, and understood his wife perfectly. “Death offends her. Each time. Every time she deals with it.”

“She’ll tell you that you can’t take it personally.”

“Yes.” He watched Eve sit beside Ralph, automatically shielding his view of death with her body. “She’ll tell you that.”

He could be patient. Roarke knew how to wait, to choose his time and his place. Just as he knew that Eve would seek him out, would find him, if for no other reason than to assure herself he hadn’t stuck his fingers too deeply into her work.

So he sat on the stage, still dressed with the final courtroom set. An odd place for a man with his background, he thought with some amusement, as he used his personal palm computer to scan updated stock reports and revise a departmental memo.

He’d turned the stage lights on, though that had simply been for convenience. When she tracked him down, he sat in the dock under a cool blue spot, and he looked as seductive as a condemned angel.

“They ever get you that far?”

“Hmm?” He glanced up. “You’ve seen my records. No arrests.”

“I’ve seen what’s left of your records after you played with them.”

“Lieutenant, that’s a serious accusation.” Still, a smile flirted with his mouth. “But no, I’ve never had the pleasure of defending myself in a court of law on a criminal matter. How’s the boy?”

“Who? Oh. Ralph. A little shaky.” She climbed the stairs to the dock. “I had a couple of uniforms take him home. We shouldn’t need to talk to him again. And after he recovers, he’ll have all his pals buying him a beer to hear the story.”

“Exactly so. You’re a fine judge of human nature. And how’s our Peabody?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a good teacher, Lieutenant, but a fierce one. I wondered if she’d recovered from the bruising you gave her.”

“She wants to make detective. She wants to work murders. First rule, you go on a scene, you don’t bring anything with you. No preconceptions, no conclusions. And you don’t take what you see at first glance on face value. You think Feeney didn’t slap me upside the head with that a few times when he was my trainer?”

“I imagine he did and had plenty of bruises of his own when he hit the rock of it.”

“If that’s a fancy way of saying I’m hardheaded, it doesn’t insult me. She’ll learn, and she’ll think more carefully next time. She hates screwing up.”

He reached up idly to brush his knuckles over her cheek. “I thought the same myself. Now, why don’t you think this is self-termination?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t. There are a number of tests to be run. The ME will make the call.”

“I wasn’t asking for the medical examiner’s opinion but yours.”

She started to speak, then set her teeth and jammed her hands in her pockets. “You know what that was down there? That was a fucking insult. That was a stage carefully set for my benefit. Somebody thinks I’m stupid.”

Now he did smile. “No. Someone knows you’re smart—very smart—and took great care, right down to the bottle of what will undoubtedly turn out to be Quim’s own home brew.”

“I’ve checked his locker. You can still smell the stuff. He kept a bottle in there, all right. What did he know?” she muttered. “Head stagehand? That means he’d have to know where everything needs to be and when. People, props, the works.”

“Yes, I’d assume so.”

“What did he know?” she said again. “What did he see, what did he think? What did he die for? He wrote down stuff in this little notebook. The handwriting on the death note looks like a match. If the ME doesn’t find something off, he’s likely to rule it self-termination.”

Roarke rose. “You’ll be working late.”

“Yeah. Looks like.”

“See that you eat something other than a candy bar.”

Her mouth went grim. “Somebody stole my candy bars again.”

“The bastard.” He leaned down, kissed her lightly. “I’ll see you at home.”

If Eve’s preconception that theater people led richly bohemian lives had taken a dent after a look at Michael Proctor’s living quarters, it suffered a major blow when she reached Linus Quim’s excuse for an apartment.

“One step up from street-sleeping.” She shook her head as she took her first scan of the single, street-level room. The antiburglar bars covering the two grimy, arrow-slot windows were coated with muck and caged out whatever pitiful sunlight might have struggled to fight its way into the gloom.

But bars and muck weren’t enough to keep out the constant clamor of street traffic or the uneasy vibrations from the subway that ran directly under the ugly room.

“Lights on,” she ordered and was rewarded with a flickering, hopeless yellow glow from the dusty ceiling unit.

Absently, she stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. It was colder inside than it was out in the frisky, late-winter wind. The entire place, such as it was, smelled of old sweat, older dust, and what she assumed was last night’s dinner of hash and beans.

“What did you say this guy pulled down a year?” she asked Peabody.

Peabody pulled out her PPC, scanned. “Union scale for his position is eight hundred and fifty a show, with ascending hourly wage for put-ups, tear-downs, turnaround, and overtime pay. Union takes a twenty-five percent bite for dues, retirement, health plans, and blah-blah, but our guy still raked in about three hundred thousand annually.”

“And chose to live like this. Well, he was either spending it or stashing it somewhere.” She strode across the bare floor to the computer unit. “This piece of crap’s older than the piece of crap I just got rid of. Computer on.”

It coughed, wheezed, snorted, then emitted a sickly blue light. “Display financial records for Quim, Linus.”

Password required for data display . . .

“I’ll give you a password.” Halfheartedly, she rapped the unit with her fist and recited her rank and badge number.

Privacy Act protects requested data. Password required . . .

“Peabody, deal with this thing.” Eve turned her back on it and began riffling through the drawers in a cabinet that had the consistency of cardboard. “Arena ball programs,” she announced while Peabody tried to reason with the computer. “And more notebooks. Our boy liked to bet on the games, which might explain where his salary went. He’s got it all written down here, wins and losses. Mostly losses. Petty-ante stuff, though. Doesn’t look like he was spine-cracker material.”

She moved on to the next drawer. “Well, well, look at this. Brochures of tropical islands. Forget the financials, Peabody. See if he went searching for data on Tahiti.”

She moved onto the closet, pushed through a handful of shirts, feeling the pockets, checking for hiding places in the two pairs of shoes.

As far as she could see, the guy had kept nothing—no mementos, no photographs, no personal discs. Just his notebooks.

He had a week’s worth of clothes, obviously old, which included one wrinkled suit. His cupboards turned up several dehydrated single packs of hash, several bottles of brew, one jumbo bag of soy chips, as yet unopened.

She took the bag out, frowned over it. “Why does a man so obviously tight with his money spring for a jumbo bag of chips, then hang himself before he eats them?”

“Maybe he was too depressed. Some people can’t eat when they’re depressed. Me, I head right for the highest caloric content available.”

“Looks to me like he ate last night and again this morning. Autopsy will confirm that, but his recycler’s overstuffed.” Wincing, she reached into the slot and pulled out an empty bag. “Soy chips. My guess is he finished them off yesterday and had his backup bag ready for his next nutritious meal. There’s a half bottle of brew chilling in his friggie box, and two backups in the cupboard.”

“Well, maybe . . . Good call on Tahiti, Dallas.” Peabody straightened. “It was his last data search. We’ve got pictures, tourist data, climate scans.” As she spoke, the machine began to play exotic music, heavy on the drums. “And half-naked dancing girls.”

“Why does our urbanite do scans of faraway islands?” Eve walked back over, watched the native women shake impressively in some tribal dance. “Computer, replay most recent search for transpo choices and costs from New York City to Tahiti.”

Working . . . Last search for transpo data initiated oh three thirty-five, twenty-eight March, 2059, by Quim, Linus. Data as follows: Roarke Airlines offers the most direct flights daily . . .

“Naturally,” Eve said dryly. “Computer hold. Quim spent time just this morning researching flights to Tahiti. Doesn’t sound like a guy suffering from guilt and depression. Computer, list Quim, Linus, passport and/or visa data.”

Working . . . Quim, Linus: Request for passport initiated fourteen hundred hours, twenty-six March, 2059.

“Going on a trip, weren’t you, Linus?” She stepped back. “What did you see, what did you know?” she murmured. “And who were you going to tap for the money to pay for your island vacation? Let’s take this unit in to Feeney, Peabody.”

Eliza Rothchild had made her debut on stage at the age of six months as a fretful baby causing her parents distress in a drawing room comedy. The play had flopped, but Eliza had been the critic’s darling.

Her own mother had pushed her, pulled her, from audition to audition. By the age of ten, Eliza was a veteran of stage and screen. By twenty, she’d been a respected character actress, with a room full of awards, homes on three continents, and her first—and last—unhappy marriage behind her.

At forty, she’d been around so long no one wanted to see her, including producers. She claimed to be retired rather than used up, and had spent the next decade of her life traveling, throwing lavish parties, and fighting excruciating boredom.

When the opportunity arose to play the nagging nurse Miss Plimsoll in the stage production of Witness, she’d pretended reluctance, allowed herself to be wooed, and had privately wept copious tears of relief and gratitude.

She loved the theater more than she had ever loved any man or any woman.

Now, as her security screen announced the arrival of the police, she prepared to play her role with dignity and discretion.

She answered the door herself, a sternly attractive woman who didn’t bother to disguise her age. Her hair was a rich auburn threaded with silver. The lines around her hazel eyes fanned out without apology. She wore a hip-skimming tunic and sweeping trousers over a short, sturdy body. She offered Eve a hand glittering with rings, smiled coolly, and stepped back.

“Good afternoon,” she said in her smooth voice that held the granite of New England. “It’s comforting to see the police are prompt.”

“I appreciate your time, Ms. Rothchild.”

“Well, I don’t really have a choice, do I, but to give it to you.”

“You’re free to speak through or with a lawyer or representative.”

“Of course. My lawyer is standing by, should I decide to do so.” She gestured toward the living area. “I know your husband, Lieutenant. Quite the most fatally attractive man I’ve ever encountered. He may have told you I was reluctant to come out of retirement and accept the role of Miss Plimsoll. But quite frankly, I couldn’t resist him.”

She smiled again, sat in an elegant high-backed chair with a tapestry seat, rested her elbows on the wide arms, folded her hands. “Who could?”

“Roarke persuaded you to come out of retirement.”

“Lieutenant, I’m sure you’re aware there’s nothing Roarke couldn’t talk a woman into. Or out of.”

Her eyes measured and judged Eve, then shifted idly to Peabody. “Still, you’re not here to discuss Roarke but another fatally attractive man. Though, in my opinion, Richard lacked your husband’s charm and underlying . . . we’ll say decency, for lack of a better word.”

“Were you and Richard Draco involved romantically?”

Eliza blinked several times, then laughed. The sound was a steady, bubbling gurgle. “Oh, my dear girl, should I be flattered or insulted? Oh me.”

With a sigh, she patted her breast, as if the bout of humor had been a strain on the heart. “Let me say that Richard would never have wasted that particular area of his skills on me. Even when we were young, he considered me much too plain, too physically ordinary. ‘Too intellectual,’ I believe was one of his terms. He considered cultural intellect a flaw in a woman.”

She paused, as if realizing she’d gone too far in the wrong direction, then opted to finish it out. “Gallantry was not one of his talents. He often made snide little jokes about my lack of appeal. I chose to be neither amused nor offended as what it came down to was simple. We were of an age, you see. Which meant I was years too old for his taste. And if I may say, several notches too self-reliant. He preferred the young and the vulnerable.”

And that, Eve thought, had come out in a flood, as if it had been dammed up quite some time. “Then your relationship with him would have been strictly professional?”

“Yes. We certainly socialized. Theater people tend to be an incestuous little group—metaphorically, and literally as well, I suppose. We attended many of the same parties, performances, and benefits over the years. Never as a couple. We were civil enough, as we both knew he wasn’t interested in me in a sexual manner, it took away that tension.”

“Civil,” Eve repeated. “But not friendly.”

“No, I can’t claim we were ever friendly.”

“Can you tell me where you were on opening night, between the scenes that took place in the bar and the courtroom? The scene where Christine Vole is called back as a witness.”

“Yes, of course, as it’s as much a routine as what I do onstage. I went back to my dressing room to check my makeup. I prefer doing my own makeup, as most of us do. Then I was backstage for a time. My next scene has me in the balcony, watching the courtroom—and Sir Wilfred—along with the character of Diana and a number of extras.”

“Did you see or speak with anyone between those scenes?”

“I’m sure I did.” Eliza lifted her fingers, making a little steeple. Then collapsed them. “A number of the technical crew would have been backstage, and I might have exchanged a word or two. Carly and I passed each other.”

“Passed each other?”

“Yes. As I was coming out of my dressing room, she was going toward hers. Hurriedly, as our cue was coming up shortly. Did we speak?”

She paused, pursing her lips, searching the ceiling as if for the memory. “I believe we did. She made some offhand complaint about Richard. I think she said he’d given her ass a bit of a pinch or pat. It annoyed her, as well it should, given his treatment of her.”

She continued to sit, regally, her eyes bright and fixed on Eve’s. “I find it hard to sympathize, as she’s smart enough to know better than to get involved with a man of his nature. I believe I made just that sort of comment to Kenneth before I started up to the second level of the set to take my mark.”

“You saw him as well.”

“Yes, pacing about, muttering to himself. He often does so before a scene. I couldn’t tell you if he heard me or noticed. Kenneth tries to stay in character and he works very hard to ignore Nurse Plimsoll.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well, I . . . Yes, I saw Michael Proctor. He was in the wings. I’m sure he was dreaming of the night when he might have his chance to play Vole. Not that I believe for a moment he arranged to do so. He has such a helpless air, doesn’t he? I can see this business devouring him whole in another year or so.”

“And Areena Mansfield. Did you see her as well?”

“Certainly. She made the dash to her dressing room. She had a full costume and makeup change between those scenes. She raced right past me. But honestly, Lieutenant, if you want the positions and activities of the cast between scenes, you don’t want to talk to one of us. You want Quim. He’s head stagehand, a rumpled little man with sneaky eyes that miss little to nothing. He’s everywhere.”

“Not anymore,” Eve said quietly. “Linus Quim was found hanged this morning in the theater. Lower level.”

For the first time, Eliza’s polished veneer cracked. Her hand went to her heart, trembled there. “Hanged?” The well-trained voice was husky on the single word. “Hanged?” she repeated. “There must be a mistake. Who would kill a harmless little toad like Quim?”

“It appeared to be self-termination.”

“Nonsense.” Eliza got to her feet. “Why, that’s nonsense. It takes great bravery or great cowardice to end your own life. He had neither. He was just an irritating little man, one who did his job well and never seemed to enjoy it. If he’s dead, someone killed him. That’s two,” she said almost to herself. “Two deaths in the theater. Tragedies come in threes. Who’s next?”

She shuddered, lowered herself to her chair again. “Someone’s killing us.” The avid interest in her eyes was gone, the play of amusement around her mouth turned down to worry. “There’s another play, Lieutenant Dallas, by the late Dame Christie. And Then There Were None. Ten people, subtly linked, who are murdered one at a time. I don’t intend to have a role in it. You have to stop this.”

“I intend to. Is there a reason anyone would wish you harm, Ms. Rothchild?”

“No. No. I have no enemies on the scope that leads to murder. But there will be at least one more. It’s theater, and we’re a superstitious lot. If there’s two, there must be three. There will be three,” she said. “Unless you do something about it.”

She jolted when her security beeped. The lobby clerk’s face came cheerfully on-screen. “Ms. Landsdowne is here to see you, Ms. Rothchild. Shall I send her up?”

“I’m engaged at the moment,” she began, but Eve held up a hand.

“Please, have her come up.”

“I—” Eliza lifted a hand to her hair, patted it. “Yes, yes, please send her up.”

“Does Carly often drop by?” Eve asked.

“Not really. She’s been here, of course. I enjoy entertaining. I don’t recall her simply popping in this way. I’m really not up to chatting with her at the moment.”

“That’s all right. I am. I’ll get the door,” Eve said when the buzzer sounded.

Eve took a moment to study Carly’s face on the security screen. Frantic would have been her description. She watched it change to shock, then smooth out quickly to careless curiosity after she opened the door.

“Lieutenant. I didn’t realize you were here. Apparently I’ve chosen a bad time to pay a call on Eliza.”

“Saves me tracking you down for a follow-up interview.”

“Too bad I don’t have my lawyer in my pocket.” She stepped inside. “I was just out shopping and decided to drop by.” She caught Eve’s speculative look at her empty hands. “I had a few things sent on to my apartment. I do hate lugging parcels. Eliza.”

Carly swept in, arms spread, and met Eliza in the center of the living area. They exchanged light hugs and double-cheeked air kisses. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining the NYPSD. Shall I leave you alone?”

“No.” Eliza gripped her arm. “Carly, the lieutenant’s just told me Quim’s dead. Linus Quim.”

“I know.” Turning, she linked arms with Eliza. “I caught the news on-screen.”

“I thought you were shopping.”

“I was.” Carly nodded at Eve. “There was a young man entertaining himself with a palm unit while his young woman tried on half the wardrobe in sportswear and separates. I heard the name.”

She lifted a hand, appeared to struggle with herself briefly. “It upset me—panicked me, frankly. I didn’t know what to think when I heard the report. I was just a few blocks away, and I came here. I wanted to tell someone who’d understand.”

“Understand what?” Eve prompted.

“The report said it’s believed his death is linked to Richard’s. I don’t see how it could be. Richard never took notice of techs or crew. As far as he was concerned, the sets were dressed and changed by magic. Unless there was a problem. Then he’d abuse them verbally or physically. Quim never missed a cue, so Richard wouldn’t have known he existed. How could there be a link?”

“But you noticed him?”

“Of course. Creepy little man.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Eliza, I hate to impose, but I could really use a drink.”

“I could use one myself,” she decided and rang for a serving droid.

“Did you notice Quim on opening night?” Eve asked.

“Just that he was doing what he did in his usual silent, scowling way.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I may have. I don’t recall. I’d like a vodka, rocks,” Carly added when the droid appeared. “A double.”

“You didn’t appear this upset when Draco was killed, and in front of your eyes.”

“I can think of a dozen reasons any number of people would want to kill Richard,” Carly snapped back.

“Including yourself.”

“Yes.” She took the glass from the droid, took one quick sip. “Most definitely including myself. But Quim changes everything. If their deaths are connected, I want to know. Because the idea scares me.”

“Tragedies happen in threes,” Eliza stated, her voice round and full and passionate.

“Oh, thanks, darling. Just what I needed to hear.” Carly lifted her glass, drained the contents.

“Weird. These people are fucking weird.” Eve got in her vehicle and headed back to Central. “One of their associates gets stuck in the heart basically at their feet, and they’re like—my goodness, would you look at that. A tech is hanged, and they fall apart.”

She flipped on her car link and contacted Feeney.

“No home ’link calls in or out in a forty-eight-hour period,” he reported. “No calls to anyone on your list, period. He had biweekly contact with a bookie for bets on arena ball, kept it under the legal limit.”

“Tell me something interesting, I’m dozing off here.”

“He put a hold on a royal-class ticket to Tahiti but didn’t book it. One way, heading out a week from Tuesday. Also put a hold on a VIP suite at the Island Pleasure Resort. A full month’s stay. Made some inquiries about real estate, looking into some cliff-side house in the neighborhood of two mil. The guy’s financials add up to about a quarter of that. The ticket and the suite would have gobbled most of that up.”

“So he was looking to come into a nice pile.”

“Or he was a hell of a dreamer. Can’t find anything on his unit to indicate he did previous scans, you know, like a hobby.”

“Blackmailing a murderer might net you a nice pile.”

“Or a noose,” Feeney added.

“Yeah. I’m heading by the morgue to nag Morse.”

“Nobody does it better,” Feeney said before Eve cut him off.

“Ah, Lieutenant Dallas.” Chief Medical Examiner Morse’s dark eyes glittered behind his microgoggles. Above the serviceable lenses, his eyebrows arched in two long, slim triangles. At the peak of the left was a small, shiny silver hoop.

He snapped his fingers, held out his sealed hand, palm up. A grumbling assistant flipped a twenty-dollar credit into it. “Dallas, you never disappoint me. You see, Rochinsky, never bet against the house.”

The credit disappeared into one of the pockets of his puke-green protective jumpsuit.

“Win a bet?” Eve asked.

“Oh, yes indeed. A small wager with my associate that you would show up in our happy home before five P.M.”

“It’s nice to be predicable.” She looked down at the middle-aged, mixed-race woman currently stretched out under Morse’s laser scalpel. The Y cut had already been made.

“That’s not my dead guy.”

“Very observant. Meet Allyanne Preen, Detective Harrison’s dead gal, who was several slots ahead of yours. Licensed companion, street level. She was found stretched out in an abandoned ’49 Lexus coupe, in the great automotive morgue we call long-term parking, La Guardia.”

“Trouble with a john?”

“No outward signs of violence, no recent sexual encounters.” He scooped out her liver, weighed and logged it.

“She’s got a faint blue tinge to her skin.” Eve bent down to examine the hands. “Most noticeable under the nails. Looks like an OD, probably Exotica and Jumper.”

“Very good. Any time you want to switch to my side of the slab, just let me know. I can promise, we have a lot more fun around here.”

“Yeah, word’s out on you party animals.”

“The reports of the Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in the ice room were . . .” His eyes laughed behind his goggles. “Accurate.”

“Sorry I missed it. Where’s my guy? I need his tox report.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Morse poked at a kidney before removing it. His hands were quick and skilled and seemed to keep time to the beat of the rebel rock music playing over the speakers. “I assumed you’d be in a hurry. I gave your guy to young Finestein. He just started here last month. Has potential.”

“You gave mine to some rookie?”

“We were all rookies once, Dallas. Speaking of which, where’s the stalwart Peabody?”

“She’s outside, doing some runs. Listen, Morse, this is a tricky one.”

“So they say, all the time, every time.”

“I’m betting on homicide, but it was set up to look like self-termination. I need good hands and eyes on my guy.”

“I don’t take on anyone without them. Relax, Dallas. Stress can kill you.” Unruffled, he strolled over to a ’link, put out a call for Herbert Finestein. “He’ll be right along. Rochinsky, run this young lady’s internals to the lab. Start the blood work.”

“Morse, I’ve got two bodies, and the probability is that they’re linked.”

“Yes, yes, but that’s your area.” He wandered to a detox bowl, washed the soiled sealant from his hands, ran them under the radiant heat in the drying hood. “I’ll look over the boy’s work, Dallas, but give him a chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.”

Morse pulled off his goggles and mask, smiled. His black hair was intricately braided to hang down to the middle of his back. He disposed of his protective suit to reveal the stunning pink of his shirt and electric blue of his trousers.

“Nice threads,” Eve said dryly. “Going to another party?”

“I’m telling you, every day’s a party around here.”

She imagined he habitually chose snazzy clothes to distance himself from the starkness of his job, the brutality of it. Whatever works, Eve thought. Wading through blood and gore and the misery human beings inflicted on each other on a daily basis wore on you. Without an escape valve, you’d explode.

And what was hers?

“And how’s Roarke?” Morse asked.

“Good. Fine.” Roarke. Yes, he was hers. Before him there had just been work. Only been work. And would she have, one day, reached the limit, felt her own soul shatter?

Hell of a thought.

“Ah, here’s Finestein. Be nice,” Morse murmured to Eve.

“What am I?”

“An ass-kicker,” Morse said pleasantly and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Herbert, Lieutenant Dallas would like an update on the DOS I assigned to you this afternoon.”

“Yes, the Dead on-Scene. Quim, Linus, white male, fifty-six years. Cause of death strangulation by hanging.” Finestein, a skinny mixed race with black skin and pale eyes, spoke in quick, piping tones and fiddled nervously with a small forest of pencils tucked in a breast pocket protector.

Not only a rookie, Eve thought with frustration, a nerd rookie.

“Did you want to review the body?”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Eve began, then relented with a quick gnashing of teeth when Morse’s long fingers squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, thank you, I’d like to review the body and your report. Please.”

“Just this way.”

Eve rolled her eyes at Morse as Finestein hurried across the room. “He’s fucking twelve years old.”

“He’s twenty-six. Patience, Dallas.”

“I hate patience. Slows everything down.” But she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling line of drawers, waited while Finestein uncoded one, pulled it open with a frigid puff of cold gas.

“As you can see . . .” Finestein cleared his throat. “There are no marks of violence on the body other than those caused by the strangulation. No offensive or defensive wounds. There were microscopic fibers of the rope found under the subject’s nails, indicating he secured the rope personally. By all appearances, the subject willingly hanged himself.”

“You’re handing me self-termination?” Eve demanded. “Just like that? Where’s the tox report, the blood work?”

“I’m—I’m getting to that, Lieutenant. There were traces of ageloxite and—”

“Give her the street names, Herbert,” Morse said mildly. “She’s a cop, not a scientist.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Traces of um . . . Ease-Up were found in the victim’s system, along with a small amount of home brew. This mix is quite commonly ingested by self-terminators to calm any nerves.”

“This guy didn’t pull his own plug, damn it.”

“Yes, sir, I agree.” Finestein’s quiet agreement cut off Eve’s tirade before it could begin.

“You agree?”

“Yes. The victim also ingested a large pretzel with considerable mustard less than an hour before death. Prior to this, he enjoyed a breakfast of wheat wafers, powdered eggs, and the equivalent of three cups of coffee.”

“So?”

“If the subject knew enough to mix a cocktail of Ease-Up and alcohol before termination, he would have known that coffee can potentially counteract and cause anxiety. This, and the fact that the alcohol consumed was in very small proportion to the drug casts some doubt on self-termination.”

“So, you’re ruling homicide.”

“I’m ruling suspicious death—undetermined.” He swallowed as Eve’s eyes bored into him. “Until more evidence weighs in on either side, I feel it’s impossible to make the call.”

“Just so. Well done, Herbert.” Morse nodded. “The lieutenant will feed you details as she finds them.”

Finestein looked relieved, and he fled.

“You give me nothing,” Eve complained.

“On the contrary. Herbert’s given you a window. Most MEs would have slammed it shut, ruling ST. Instead, he’s cautious, exacting, and thorough, and he considers the attitude of the victim rather than only the cold facts. Medically, undetermined was the best you were going to get.”

“Undetermined,” Eve muttered as she slid behind the wheel.

“Well, it gives us a window.” Peabody glanced up from her palm unit, caught the coldly narrowed stare Eve aimed at her. “What? What did I say?”

“Next person says that, I’m throwing them out the goddamn window.” She started the car. “Peabody, am I an ass-kicker?”

“Are you asking to see my scars, or is that a trick question?”

“Shut up, Peabody,” Eve suggested, and headed back to Central.

“Quim had a hundred on tonight’s arena ball game.” Peabody’s smile was thin and self-satisfied. “McNab just relayed the data. A hundred’s his top bet. Odd he’d place a bet a few hours before offing himself, then not even wait around to see if he won. I’ve got the name and address of his bookie here. Oh, but I’m supposed to shut up. Sorry, sir.”

“You want more scars?”

“I really don’t. Now that I have a sex life, they’re embarrassing. Maylou Jorgensen. She’s got a hole in the West Village.”

Peabody loved the West Village. She loved the way it ran from bohemian chic to pinstriped drones who wanted to be bohemian chic. She liked to watch the street traffic stroll by in ankle dusters or buttoned-up jumpsuits. The shaved heads, the wild tangles of multicolored curls. She liked watching the sidewalk artists pretend they were too cool to worry about selling their work.

Even the street thieves had a veneer of polish.

The glide-cart operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.

She thought longingly of dinner.

Eve pulled up in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On Duty sign.

“One of these days, I’d like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the street.” Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. “Look, there’s a nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other.”

“You look for living quarters due to the proximity of food?”

“It’s a consideration.”

Eve flashed her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.

“Four units in a building this size.” Peabody heaved a sigh. “Imagine.”

“I’m imagining a bookie shouldn’t be able to afford a place in here.” On a hunch, Eve bypassed the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. “We’ll go up this way, surprise Maylou.”

The building was utterly silent, telling her the soundproofing was first-rate. She thought of Quim’s miserable flop a few telling blocks away. Bookies apparently did a lot better than the majority of their clients.

“Never bet against the house,” Morse had said.

Truer words.

She pressed the buzzer on 2-A, waited. Moments later, the door swung open in front of an enormous redhead and a small, white, yapping dog.

“About time you—” The woman blinked hard gold eyes, narrowed them in a wild and striking face the tone and texture of alabaster. “I thought you were the dog walker. He’s late. If you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“Maylou Jorgensen?”

“So what?”

“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge then found her arms full of barking fur.

“Well, hell.” Eve tossed the yelping dog at Peabody, then charged into the loft. Leaping, she tackled the redhead as the woman scrambled for a wide console, studded with controls and facing a wall of busy screens.

They went down like felled trees.

Before Eve could catch her breath, she was flipped to her back, pinned under a hundred eighty-five pounds of panicked female. She took a knee to the groin, spit in the eye, and only through lightning reflexes managed to avoid the rake of inch-long blue nails down her face.

Instead, they dug rivers in the side of her neck.

The smell of her own blood irritated her.

She bucked once, swore, then swung up, elbow in the lead. It slammed satisfactorily into Maylou’s white face. Her nose erupted with blood.

She said, quite clearly: “Eek!”

Her gold eyes rolled up white, and her considerable weight flopped lifelessly on Eve.

“Get her off of me, for Christ’s sake. There’s a ton of her, and all of it’s smothering me.”

“Give me a hand. Dallas, she’s like a slab of granite. Must be six-three. Push!”

Sweating, liberally sprayed with blood, Eve shoved. Peabody pulled. Eventually, Maylou was rolled onto her back, and Eve came up, gasping for air. “It was like being buried under a mountain. Jesus, shut that dog up.”

“I can’t. He’s terrified.” Peabody glanced over, with some sympathy, as the little dog backed his white butt into a corner and sent out high, ear-piercing barks.

“Stun it.”

“Oh, Dallas.” Peabody’s tone was a whisper of utter horror.

“Never mind.” Eve looked down at the blood spray on her shirt and jacket, gingerly lifted a hand to her raw neck. “Is much of this mine?”

“She made some mag grooves,” Peabody announced after a quick exam. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“Later.” Eve crouched down, frowned at the unconscious woman. “Let’s roll her over and get the restraints on her before she wakes up.”

It took some time, brought on more sweat, but they managed to secure her wrists behind her back. Eve straightened, studied the console.

“She’s got something going on here. Thought we were a bust. Let’s see what I remember about Vice and Bunko.”

“Do you want me to call for a warrant?”

“Here’s my warrant.” Eve rubbed her fingers over her throbbing neck as she sat at the console. “Lots of numbers, lots of games. So what? Names, accounts, bets wagered, money owed. Looks clean enough on the surface.” She glanced back. “Is she coming around yet?”

“Dead out, sir. You knocked her cold.”

“Go find something to stuff in that dog’s mouth before I use my foot.”

“He’s just a little dog,” Peabody murmured and went to search out the kitchen.

“Too many numbers,” Eve said to herself. “The pool’s too damn deep for a nice little betting parlor. Loan-sharking. Yeah, I bet we got some loan-sharking here, and where you got sharks, you’ve got spine crackers. What else, what else?”

She turned, saw Peabody cooing to the dog and holding out a biscuit of some kind. Eve slipped out her pocket-link and called the one person she knew who could cut through the ocean of numbers and ride the right wave.

“I need Roarke a minute.” She hissed it to his assistant when she came on-screen. “Just one quick minute.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. Hold please.”

“There’s a sweet little dog, there’s a nice little doggie. Aren’t you pretty?”

Instead of razzing Peabody over the baby talk, Eve left her at it.

“Lieutenant.” Roarke’s face filled the screen. “What can I—” Instantly his easy smile vanished, and his eyes were bright and hard. “What happened, how badly are you hurt?”

“Not much. Mostly it’s somebody else’s blood. Look, I’m in a private betting parlor, and something’s off. I’ve got some ideas, but take a quick look, give me your take.”

“All right, if your next stop is a health center.”

“I haven’t got time for a health center.”

“Then I haven’t time for a consult.”

“Goddamn it.” She was tempted just to cut transmission, but took a steadying breath instead. “Peabody’s going to get the first aid kit. I got a couple of scratches, that’s all. I swear.”

“Turn your head to the left.”

She rolled her eyes but complied.

“Get them seen to.” He snapped it out, then shrugged as if in acceptance. “Let me see what you’re looking at.”

“Lots of numbers. Different games,” she began as she turned her unit so that he’d have her view. “Arena ball, baseball, the horses, the droid rats. I think the third screen from the right is—”

“Overdue loans on bets. Interest compounded well above legal limits. The screen directly below is outlay, for loan collection. On the screen beside that, you have what looks like private games—casino style. Look on your console, see if you find a control that’s linked to that screen. If it’s simple, it’ll be something like 3-C, for the placement of the screen in the grid.”

“Yeah, here.”

“Give it a flip. Ah,” he said as the screen switched to monitor and played a busy casino, full of smoke and tables and glassy-eyed patrons. “What kind of building are you in?”

“Loft, West Village, two levels, four units.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the other level isn’t very busy at this moment.”

“This area isn’t zoned for gambling.”

“Well then.” He grinned at her. “Shame on them.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“My pleasure, Lieutenant. See to that injury, Darling Eve, or I’ll be seeing to it myself first chance. I won’t be happy with you.”

He cut her off before she could make some snippy remark, which she figured was just as well. She turned and caught Peabody, the little white dog nestled in her arms, watching her with speculation.

“He knows a lot about illegal gambling runs.”

“He knows a lot about legal ones, too. He gave us a lever with Maylou here. Do you care how or why?”

“No.” Peabody rubbed her cheek on the dog’s fur, smiled. “It’s just interesting. You going to bust the operation?”

“That’s going to depend on Maylou here.” Eve rose as the woman began to moan and stir. She made bubbling sounds, coughed, then began to buck, her enormous butt humping up, her surprisingly small feet kicking.

Eve simply crouched down. “Assaulting an officer,” she began in an easy voice. “Resisting arrest, loan-sharking, spine cracking, running an illegal gambling facility. How’s that for starters, Maylou?”

“You broke my nose.”

At least that’s what Eve assumed she said as the words were muffled and slurred. “Yep, looks like.”

“You have to call the MTs. It’s the law.”

“Interesting, you refreshing me on the law. I think we can hold off on the broken nose a little while. Of course, the broken arm’s going to need attention.”

“I don’t have a broken arm.”

“Yet.” Eve bared her teeth. “Now, Maylou, if you want medical attention and want me to consider looking the other way as regards your enterprise downstairs, tell me all there is to tell about Linus Quim.”

“You’re not here to bust me?”

“That’s up to you. Quim.”

“Penny-ante. Not a gambler, he just plays at it. Like a hobby. He’s lousy at it. Costs him an average of a hundred K a year. Never bets more than a hundred bills straight, and usually half that, but he’s regular. Jesus, my face is killing me. Can’t I have some Go-Numb?”

“When did you talk to him last?”

“Last night. He likes to do the e-betting deal rather than over the ’link. Transmits twice a week, minimum. Last night, he laid a hundred on the Brawlers on tonight’s arena ball—and that’s rich, for him. Said he was feeling lucky.”

“Did he?” Eve leaned closer. “Did he say that, exactly?”

“Yeah. He says, put me down a hundred on the Brawlers for tomorrow night. I’m feeling lucky. He even smiled, sort of. Said he was going to double it and let it ride on the next night once he won.”

“In a good mood, was he?”

“For Quim, he was doing a happy dance. Guy’s mostly a pain in the ass, a whiner. But he pays up, and he’s regular, so I got no beef with him.”

“Good thing. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Maylou?”

“You’re not going to bust me?”

“I don’t work Vice or Bunko. You’re not my problem.” She released the restraints, hooked them in her back pocket. “If I were you, I’d call the MTs and tell them I walked into a wall—tripped over your little dog.”

“Squeakie!” Maylou rolled over to her ample butt, threw open her arms. The dog leaped out of Peabody’s hold and into Maylou’s lap. “Did the nasty cop hurt Mama’s baby girl?”

With a shake of her head, Eve headed out. “Give it two weeks,” she told Peabody, “then call Hanson in Vice and give him this address.”

“You said you weren’t going to bust her.”

“No, I said she wasn’t my problem. She’s going to be Hanson’s.”

Peabody glanced back. “What’s going to happen to the dog? Hey, and the apartment. Maybe the bust will drive down the rent. You should see the kitchen, Dallas. It’s mag.”

“Keep dreaming.” She got in the car, then scowled when Peabody popped the dash compartment. “What are you doing?”

“First aid kit.”

“Stay away from me.”

“It’s either me or the health center.”

“I don’t need a health center. Don’t touch me.”

“Stop being a baby.” Enjoying the role of nurse, Peabody chose her tools. “Ass-kickers aren’t afraid of a little first aid kit. Close your eyes if you don’t want to see.”

Trapped, Eve gripped the wheel, closed her eyes. She felt the quick, biting sting of the antiseptic before the numbing properties took hold. The smell of it spun in her head, rolled into her belly.

She heard the low hum of the suture wand.

She started to make some sarcastic comment to take her mind off the annoyance of the procedure. Then suddenly, she was sucked back.

The dim and dingy health center ward. The hundreds of stings as hundreds of cuts were treated. The vile buzz of the machines as her broken arm was examined.

“What’s your name? You have to give us your name. Tell us who hurt you? What’s your name? What happened to you?”

I don’t know. In her mind she screamed it, again and again. But she lay still, she lay silent, trapped in terror as strangers poked and prodded, as they stared and they questioned.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know!”

“Sir. Dallas. Hey.”

Eve opened her eyes, stared into Peabody’s wide ones. “What? What is it?”

“You’re really pale. Dallas, you look a little sick. Maybe we should swing by a health center after all.”

“I’m all right.” Her hands fisted hard until she felt herself steady again. “I’m okay. Just need some air.” She ordered the window down, started the car.

And pushed the helpless young girl back into the darkest corner of her mind.

Needs must when the devil drives. I can’t remember who said that, but I don’t suppose it’s important. Whoever it was is long dead now. As Linus Quim is dead now.

Needs must. My needs must. But who was the devil in this coupling? Foolish, greedy Quim or myself?

Perhaps that’s not important either, for it’s done. There can be no going back, no staging events to another outcome. I can only hope events were staged convincingly enough to satisfy those sharp eyes of Lieutenant Dallas.

She is an exacting audience and, I fear, the most severe of critics.

Yes, with her in the house, I fear. My performance must be perfection in every way. Every line, every gesture, every nuance. Or her view will no doubt ruin me.

Motive and opportunity, Eve thought as she walked to her own front door. Too many people had both. Richard Draco would be memorialized the next day, and she had no doubt there would be a lavish display of grief, passionate and emotional eulogies, copious tears.

And it would all be just another show.

He’d helped seduce Areena Mansfield into drugs and put a smear on her rise to stardom.

He’d stood in the spotlight Michael Proctor desperately wanted for his own.

He’d humiliated and used Carly Landsdowne in a very public fashion.

He’d been a splinter under the well-manicured fingernail of Kenneth Stiles.

He’d considered Eliza Rothchild too old and unattractive to bother with.

There had been others, so many others it was impossible to count, who had reason to wish Richard Draco ill.

But whoever had acted on it, planned and executed the murder, had enough cool, enough will to have lured a greedy theater tech into a hangman’s noose.

She wasn’t looking for brutality or rage but for cold blood and a clear mind. Those qualities in a killer were much more difficult to root out.

She wasn’t moving forward, she thought with frustration. Every step she took simply pushed her further into the artifice of a world she found mildly annoying.

What kind of people spent their lives dressing up and playing make-believe?

Children. It struck her as she closed her hand around the doorknob. On some level, wasn’t she looking for a very clever, very angry child?

She gave a half laugh. Great. What she knew about children wouldn’t fill the pinhole made by a laser drill.

She flung open the front door, intending to throw herself into a blisteringly hot shower, then back into work.

The music pierced her ears, rattled her teeth. She all but felt her eyes jiggle in her head. It was a screech of sound, punctuated by a blast of noise, layered with braying waves of chaos.

It was Mavis.

The irritable mood that had come through the door with Eve didn’t have a chance. It exploded in the sheer volume and exuberance of Mavis Freestone’s unique musical style. Eve found herself grinning as she stepped up to the doorway of what Roarke referred to as the parlor.

There in all the splendor, the elegance, the antiquity, Mavis danced—Eve supposed that was the closest word for it—bouncing and jiggling atop graduated stacked heels that lifted her tiny frame a full six inches from the floor. Their swirling pink and green pattern matched the hair that flew in yard-long braids around her flushed, delighted face and fairy body.

Her slim legs were green, with little pink butterflies fluttering up in a spiral pattern, then disappearing under the tiny, flippy skirt of fuschia that barely covered her crotch. Her torso was decorated in a crisscross of the two colors with one pretty breast in pink, another in green.

Eve could only be relieved that Mavis had chosen to go with the green for both eyes. You just never knew.

Roarke sat in one of his lovely antique chairs, a glass of straw-colored wine in one hand. He was either relaxing into the show, Eve thought, or he’d lapsed into a protective coma.

The music, such as it was, crescendoed, led by a long, plaintive wail from the singer. Blessed silence fell like a cargo ship of bricks.

“What do you think?” Mavis tossed back the mop of bicolored braids. “It’s a good follow-up number for the new video. Not too tame, is it?”

“Ah.” Roarke took a moment to sip his wine. There’d been a moment when he’d been mildly concerned that the decibel level would shatter the crystal. “No. No indeed. Tame isn’t the word that comes to mind.”

“Mag!” She bounced over, and her little butt wriggled with energy as she bent down to kiss him. “I wanted you to see it first since you’re, like, the money man.”

“Money always bows to talent.”

If Eve hadn’t already loved him, she’d have fallen face first then and there, seeing the absolute joy his words put in Mavis’s eyes.

“It’s so much fun! The recordings, the concerts, the way iced costumes Leonardo gets to design for me. It’s hardly even like work. If it weren’t for you and Dallas, I’d still be scraping gigs at joints like the Blue Squirrel.”

She did a quick spin as she spoke, spotted Eve, and beamed like sunshine. “Hey! I’ve got a new number.”

“I heard. Totally mag.”

“Roarke said you’d be late, and you—Oh wow, is that blood?”

“What? Where?” Because her mind had switched channels, Eve whipped her gaze around the room before Mavis leaped toward her.

“It’s all over you.” Mavis’s panicked hands patted Eve’s breasts, shoulders. “We should call a doctor, a medi-unit. Roarke, make her lie down.”

“And there is my constant goal in life.”

“Har har. It’s not my blood, Mavis.”

“Oh.” Instantly, Mavis’s hands jumped back. “Ick.”

“Don’t worry, it’s dry. I was going to shower and change at Central, but I weighed the potential of a piss stream of chilly water against a flood of hot and came home instead. Got another of those around?” she asked Roarke with a nod toward his wine.

“Absolutely. Turn your head.”

She made a sound of annoyance, but tilted her head to show the treated scratches already healing.

“Man-o,” Mavis said with admiration in her voice. “Somebody swiped you good. Musta had mag nails.”

“But bad aim. She missed the eyes.” She took the wine Roarke brought her. “Thanks for the tip before,” she told him. “It panned out.”

“Happy to oblige. Tilt your head up.”

“Why? I showed you the nail rakes.”

“Up,” he repeated, nudging it back himself with the tip of his finger, then closing his mouth warm and firmly over hers. “As you can see, I have excellent aim.”

“Awwww. You guys are so cute.” With her hands folded at breast level, Mavis beamed at them.

“Yeah, we’re just like a couple of puppies.” Amused, Eve sat on the arm of a sofa, sipped at her wine. “It’s a great new number, Mavis. All you.”

“You think? I ran it for Leonardo, and now you two, but nobody else’s seen it.”

“It’s . . .” Eve remembered Whitney’s comment. “Got juice.”

“That’s what I thought. Roarke, can I tell her?”

“Tell me what?”

Mavis bit her lip, looked to Roarke for agreement, then, at his nod, drew two deep breaths. “Okay. My last disc cut, Curl Your Hair, Roarke got early word that it’s hitting in the top five of next week’s Vid-Tracks. Dallas, I’m fucking number three, right behind the Butt-Busters and Indigo.”

She might not have had a clue who Butt-Busters or Indigo might be, but Eve knew Vid-Tracks was Mavis’s bible. “That’s fabulous.” Eve rose quickly, gave Mavis a hard hug. “You kick ass.”

“Thanks.” Mavis sniffed, wiped a tear off silver-tipped lashes. “You’re the first person I’ve told. I started to call Leonardo, but I want to tell him up-face, you know. And I’m glad I got to tell you first, anyhow. He’ll understand.”

“He’ll go nuts.”

“Yeah. We’ve got some serious celebrating to do. I’m really glad you weren’t late after all, so I could tell you and so you didn’t miss the girl deal.”

Instantly, warning flags sprang up in Eve’s gut, fluttered nervously. “Girl deal?”

“Yeah, you know. Trina’s already down in the pool house setting up. Figured we could use a swim and a spin in the relaxation tank. We’re up for the full treatment.”

“Full treatment?” No, was all Eve could think. Not the full treatment. Anything but that. “Look, Mavis, I just came home to work. I’ve got this case—”

“You’ve always got a case.” Undeterred, Mavis poured herself a glass of wine, then brought the bottle to top Eve’s off as Roarke lazily lighted a cigarette and smiled. “You’ve got to take time for you, or your internal organs get all shriveled and your skin goes saggy. I read all about it. Anyway, Trina’s got some outrageous new body paint.”

“No. Absolutely. I don’t do body paint.”

Mavis rolled her eyes. “For me, Dallas. We know you. But I think you should give it a try one of these days. I bet Roarke would really go for the Gold-Dust. It does amazing things for the boobs. Makes them sparkle.”

“I don’t want sparkling boobs.”

“It’s flavored, too. Frangipani.”

“Really?” Roarke blew out a stream of smoke. “I’m very fond of tropical flavors.”

“See? Anyway, you can think about that after you’re all relaxed and your hair’s gooped up. Summerset made snacks.”

“Goodie. But really, I—oops, there’s the door. I’ll get it.”

She escaped, forcing herself not to simply break into a run, bowl over whoever was at the door, and just keep running until she reached the sanctuary of Cop Central. She beat Summerset there by half a step.

“I’m getting it.”

“Greeting and escorting guests falls into my job requirements,” he reminded her. “Miss Furst is here to see you.” So saying, he bumped Eve aside and opened the door.

“I should have called.” Nadine knew just how Eve felt about reporters in her home. “I’m not here for 75,” she continued quickly. “It’s personal.”

“Good. Fine. Come in.” To Nadine’s surprise, Eve clamped a hand on hers and all but dragged her toward the parlor.

“I’ve taken a couple of days off,” Nadine began.

“I noticed. I didn’t much care for your on-air substitute.”

“He’s a putz. But anyway, I wanted to come by and tell you . . .” She paused, pulled herself back. “Oh, hi, Mavis.”

“Nadine, hi! Hey, it’s practically a party.” However flighty Mavis seemed on the surface, she had a solid core of sense, with compassion and loyalty wrapped tightly around it. It took less than two seconds for her to see the strain in Nadine’s eyes.

“Listen, I’m just going to run down and see how Trina’s doing. Back in a flash.” She went out in one, dashing through the door in a blur of color.

“Sit down, Nadine.” Roarke was already up, leading her to a chair. “Would you like some wine?”

“I would, thanks, I would. But I’d really like one of those cigarettes.”

“I thought you were quitting,” Eve said as Roarke offered one.

“I am.” Nadine sent Roarke a look of gratitude as he flicked on his lighter. “I quit regularly. Listen, I’m sorry to bust in on you both this way.”

“Friends are always welcome.” He poured the wine, gave it to her. “I assume you want to talk to Eve. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, don’t feel you have to go.” Nadine took another long drag of the pricey tobacco. “Jesus, I forget you have the real thing. A bigger kick than herbals. No, don’t go,” she said again. “Dallas tells you everything anyway.”

Roarke’s face showed surprise. “Does she?”

“No,” Eve said definitely but lowered to the arm of a chair. “I did tell him about your problem because of his connection to Draco. And his connection to you.”

“It’s all right.” Nadine managed a weak smile. “Mortification builds character.”

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Life would be awfully dull if we could look back without regretting at least one affair.”

Her smile relaxed. “You plucked a winner here, Dallas. Nothing like a man who says the right thing at the right time. Well, Richard Draco is my regret. Dallas.” She shifted her gaze to Eve’s. “I know you don’t have to tell me, couldn’t obviously during the interview earlier. Maybe you can’t tell me at all, but I have to ask. Am I in trouble?”

“What did your lawyer say?”

“Not to worry and not to talk to you without him present.” She smiled grimly. “I’m having a hard time following his advice.”

“I can’t scratch you off the list, Nadine. But,” she added as Nadine closed her eyes and nodded. “Since you’re coming in dead last, I’d give taking the first part of your lawyer’s advice another try.”

Nadine huffed out a breath, sipped her wine. “First time I’ve ever been happy to be a loser.”

“Mira’s opinion weighs heavily, and she doesn’t believe you’re capable of calculated murder. Neither does the primary on a personal level or, considering the current evidence, on a professional one.”

“Thank you. Thanks.” Nadine lifted a hand to her head, pressed her fingers to the center of her brow. “I keep telling myself this is going to go away soon. That you’ll wrap it up. But the stress is like a spike through my brain.”

“I’m going to have to give you just a little more. Were you aware Draco had a video of you?”

“Video?” Nadine dropped her hand, frowned. “You mean of my work?”

“Well, some people consider sex work.”

Nadine stared, eyes blank with confusion. Then they cleared, and Eve saw exactly what she wanted to see: shock, fury, embarrassment. “He had a video of . . . He took—he had a camera when we—” She slammed down the wine, surged to her feet. “That slimy son of a bitch. That perverted bastard.”

“I’d say the answer’s no,” Roarke murmured, and Nadine whirled on him.

“What kind of man takes videos of a woman in his bed when she doesn’t consent? What kind of sick thrill does he get from raping her that way? Because that’s just what it is.”

She jabbed a finger in his chest, for no other reason than he was a man. “Would you do that to Dallas? She’d kick your butt from here to Tarus III if you did. That’s just what I’d like to do to Draco. No, no, I’d like to take his puny dick in my hands and twist it until it popped right off.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d prefer not to be his stand-in.”

She hissed out a breath, sucked one in, then held up her hands, palms out. “Sorry. It’s not your fault.” To find control again, she paced, then turned to face Eve.

“I guess that little display of temper moved me up the list a few notches.”

“Just the opposite. If you’d known about the disc, you’d have attempted a quick castration. You wouldn’t have let someone else stick him. You just verified your own profile.”

“Well, good for me. Yippee.” Nadine dropped into the chair again. “I guess the disc’s in evidence.”

“Has to be. No one’s going to view it for thrills, Nadine. If it helps, you don’t show up that much. He angled things so he’s in the spotlight, so to speak.”

“Yes, he would. Dallas, if the media gets hold of that—”

“They won’t. If you want my advice, go back to work. Keep your mind busy, and let me do my job. I’m good at it.”

“If I didn’t know that, I’d be on tranqs.”

Inspiration struck. “How about a girl night instead?”

“Huh?”

“Mavis and Trina are all set. I don’t have time for it, and there’s no point in Trina dragging her whole bag of tricks over here and not putting it to full use. Take my place. Go have the works.”

“I could use some relaxation therapy.”

“There you go.” Eve hauled her out of the chair. “You’ll feel like a new woman in no time. Go for the body paint,” she suggested as she pulled Nadine out of the room. “It’ll give you a fresh outlook and sparkling boobs.”

Moments later, Eve came back into the parlor, dusting her hands.

“Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, that was pretty slick. They’re all down there cooing like . . . what coos?”

“Doves?” he suggested.

“Yeah, like doves. Now everybody’s happy, and I can go back to work. So, you up for a video?”

“Nadine’s? Can we have popcorn?”

“Men are perverts. No, not Nadine’s, funny guy. But the popcorn’s a good idea.”

She’d intended to set up in her office, to keep it official. She should have known better. She ended up in one of the second-level lounging rooms, snuggled into the sinfully soft cushions of the mile-long sofa, watching the taped play on a huge wall screen, and with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

The size of the screen had been Roarke’s selling point. It was impossible to miss even the smallest detail when every feature was larger than life.

It was, she realized, almost like being onstage herself. She had to give Roarke points for that one.

Eliza, she noted, had embraced her role of the fussy, irritating nurse assigned to monitor Sir Wilfred. Her period costume was anything but flattering. Her hair was scraped back, her mouth a constant purse. She affected an annoyingly lilting voice like the ones Eve had heard some parents use on recalcitrant offspring.

Kenneth hadn’t stinted on his portrayal of the pompous, cranky barrister. His movements were jerky, restless. His eyes sly. His voice would, by turns boom loud enough to shake the rafters, then drop into a crafty murmur.

But it was Draco who owned the play during the first scenes. He was undeniably handsome, outrageously charming, carelessly amused. Yes, she could see how a vulnerable woman would fall for him—as Vole or as himself.

“Freeze screen.” She pushed the bowl at Roarke and rose to move closer to the image of Draco. “Here’s what I see. The others are acting. They’re good, they’re skilled, they’re enjoying the roles. He is the role. He doesn’t have to act. He’s an egocentric, as arrogant and as smooth as Vole. It’s a part tailored for him.”

“So I thought, when I put his name forward for the play. What does that tell you?”

“That whoever planned his murder probably thought the same thing. And saw the irony of it. Vole dies in the last act. Draco dies in the last act. A dramatic bit of justice. Executed, before witnesses.”

She walked back to sit. “It doesn’t tell me anything new, really. But it solidifies the angles. Resume play.”

She waited, watched. Areena’s entrance, she saw now, was brilliant in its timing. That was the writer, of course, the director, but the style of it had to come from the actor.

Beautiful, classy, mysterious, and coolly sexy. That was the role. But that wasn’t the true character, Eve remembered. The real Christine Vole revealed herself to be a woman consumed by love. One who would lie for the man she knew to be a murderer, who would sacrifice her dignity, her reputation to save him from the law. And who, in the end, executed him for dismissing that love.

“It’s acting on two levels,” Eve murmured. “Just as Draco is. Neither of them show the face of their character until the last scene.”

“They’re both very skilled.”

“No, they’re all skilled. All used to manipulating words and actions to present an image. I haven’t chipped through the image yet. Sir Wilfred believes he’s defending an innocent man, and in the end learns he was duped. That’s enough to piss you off. If we’re correlating life and make-believe. It’s enough to kill for.”

He’d thought the same himself, and nodded. “Go on.”

“The character of Diana believed every bullshit line Vole fed her. That his wife was a cold bitch, that he was innocent, that he was going to leave her.”

“The other woman,” Roarke put in. “The younger one. A little naive, a little grasping.”

“In the end, won’t she figure out she was duped and used and be mortified? Just as Carly learned she was duped and used and mortified. As Christine learned. And there’s Michael Proctor standing in the wings, hungry to take it all on.”

She studied the faces, listened to the voices, measured the connections. “It’s one of them, one of the players. I know it. It’s not some tech with a grudge, or with dreams of being in the lights. It’s someone who’s been in the lights and knows how to wear the right face at the right time.”

She fell silent again, watching the play progress, searching for some chink, some instant when a glance, a gesture indicated the feelings and plans beneath the facade.

But no, they were good, she mused. Every one of them.

“That’s the dummy knife, first courtroom scene. Freeze screen, enhance sector P-Q, twenty-five percent.”

The screen shifted smoothly, with the evidence table enlarging. The knife on it was in clear view from this angle, and enlarged, Eve could see the subtle differences between it and the murder weapon.

“The blade’s nearly the same size and shape, but the handle’s a bit wider, thicker. It’s the same color, but it’s not the same material.” She let out a breath. “But you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it. You expect to see the prop, so you see it. Draco could have looked right at it, hell, he might have picked it up himself, and he wouldn’t have noticed. Resume normal play.”

Her head was beginning to throb lightly. She barely noticed when Roarke began to rub her shoulders. She watched the change of scenes, the curtain drop, the soundless circling of one set for another. A few techs slipped across behind the curtain, nearly indistinguishable in their traditional black.

But she spotted Quim. He was clearly in charge now, in his element. He gestured, a kind of theater sign language that meant little to her. She saw him consult briefly with the prop master, nod, then glance downstage left.

“There.” Eve leaped to her feet again. “He sees something, something that doesn’t fit. He’s hesitating, yeah, just for a second, studying. And now he’s moving off in the same direction. What did you see? Who did you see? Damn it.”

She turned back to Roarke. “That was the switch. The real knife’s on the courtroom set now. Waiting.”

She ordered the disc to reverse, then set her wrist unit to time, and replayed. “Okay, now he spots it.”

Behind her, Roarke rose, moved to the AutoChef and ordered her coffee. When he stepped beside her, she took the cup without realizing it, drank.

On-screen, extras moved out to their marks. The bartender took his position, techs vanished. Areena, dressed in the cheap and gaudy costume that suited a mid-twentieth-century barfly, took her seat on a stool at the end of a bar. She angled herself away from the audience.

A train whistle blew. Curtain up.

“Two minutes, twelve seconds. Time enough to stash the knife. Right in the roses, or somewhere no one would notice until it could be moved. But it’s close. Very close. And very ballsy.”

“Sex and ambition,” Roarke murmured.

“What?”

“Sex and ambition, That’s what killed Leonard Vole, and that’s what killed Richard Draco. Life imitates art.”

Peabody wouldn’t have said so, at least not if she used the animated painting she was currently trying to study. And pretend she understood. She sipped the champagne Charles had given her and struggled to look as sophisticated as the rest of the guests at the art show.

She was dressed for it, at least, she thought with some relief. Eve’s Christmas present to her had been her gorgeous undercover wardrobe designed by Mavis’s wonderful lover, Leonardo. But the shimmering sweep of blue silk couldn’t transform the Midwestern sensibility.

She couldn’t make head nor tail of the creeping movement of shape and color.

“Well, it’s really . . . something.” Since that was the best she could come up with, she drank more champagne.

Charles chuckled and gave her shoulder an affectionate rub. “You’re a sweetheart for putting up with me, Delia. You must be bored to death.”

“No, I’m not.” She glanced up at his marvelous face, smiled. “I’m just art-stupid.”

“There’s nothing stupid about you.” He bent down, gave her a light kiss.

She wanted to sigh. It was still next to impossible to believe she could be in a place like this, dressed like this, with a gorgeous man on her arm. And it galled, galled to think that she was much more suited to take-out Chinese in McNab’s pitiful apartment.

Well, she was just going to keep going to art shows, operas, and ballets until some of it rubbed off on her, even if it all made her feel as if she was acting in some classy play and didn’t quite have her lines down.

“Ready for supper?”

“I’m always ready for supper.” That line, she realized, came straight from the heart. Or the gut.

He’d reserved an intimate private room at some swank restaurant with candlelight and flowers. He was always doing something like that, Peabody mused as he pulled out her chair at a pretty table with pink roses and white candles. She let him order for both of them because he’d know just the right thing.

He seemed to know all the right things. And all the right people. She wondered if Eve ever felt so clunky and out of place when she found herself with Roarke in posh surroundings.

She couldn’t imagine her lieutenant ever feeling clunky.

Besides, Roarke loved her. No, the man adored her. Everything had to be different when you were sitting across candlelight with a man who thought you were the most vital woman in the world. The only woman in the world.

“Where have you gone?” Charles asked quietly.

She jerked herself back. “Sorry. I guess there’s a lot on my mind.” She picked up her fork to sample the saucy seafood appetizer. The perfection of it on the tongue nearly had her eyes crossing in ecstasy.

“Your work.” He reached across the table to pat her hand. “I’m glad you were able to take a break from it after all and come out tonight.”

“We didn’t work as late as I thought we would.”

“The Draco matter. Do you want to talk about it?”

It was just one more perfect thing about him. He would ask and listen if she chose to unburden herself. “No, not really. Can’t anyway at this stage. Except to say Dallas is frustrated. So many levels and angles make it slow going.”

“I’m sure it does. Still, she seemed her usual competent self when she spoke to me.”

Peabody’s hand froze as she reached for her wineglass. “She spoke to you? About the case?”

Caught off guard, Charles set his fork down. “She didn’t mention it to you?”

“No. Did you know Draco?”

Charles cursed himself, briefly considered dancing around the truth, then shrugged. He’d never been anything but honest with Peabody and didn’t want that to change. “No, not really. I happened to be with Areena Mansfield the other night when Dallas and Roarke dropped by to speak with her. I was working.”

“Oh.” Charles’s profession didn’t bother Peabody. He did what he did, just as she did what she did. Maybe if they’d been lovers, she’d have a different attitude, but they weren’t.

Damn it.

“Oh.” She said again, because his profession did a lot more than bother her lieutenant. “Shit.”

“Put simply, yeah. It was awkward, but Dallas and I came to terms.”

“What kind of terms?”

“We talked. Delia, I’ve tried not to say too much because it puts you in the middle. I never wanted that.”

“You never put me there,” she said immediately. “Dallas did.”

“Because you matter very much to her.”

“My personal life is—”

“A concern to her, as a friend, Delia.”

The quiet censure in his tone made her wince, then give up. “Okay, I know it. I don’t have to like it.”

“I think things should be smoother now. She had her say, I had mine, and we both felt better for it. And when I explained to her that we weren’t having sex, she—”

“What?” The word squeaked out as Peabody jumped to her feet. Sparkling silver, glittering crystal danced on the white linen cloth. “You told her that? That? Good God. Why don’t you just strip me naked and push me into the squad room?”

“I wanted her to know we had a friendship, not a professional agreement. I’m sorry.” Recognizing his misstep too late, Charles rose, lifted his hands. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You tell my immediate superior that I’ve been seeing a professional for what, nearly three months, and haven’t done the mattress dance. No, no, jeez, what could be embarrassing about that?”

“I didn’t realize you’d wanted sex to be part of our relationship.” He spoke stiffly now. “If you had, you had only to ask.”

“Oh yeah, right. I say, how about it, Charles, and I’m a client.”

The muscles in his belly went taunt as wire. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think.” She dropped into her chair again, briefly held her head in her hand. “Why did you have to tell her that?”

“I suppose I was defending myself.” It was a tough admission to swallow. “I didn’t think beyond it. I’m very sorry.” He moved his chair over so that he could sit close and take her hand. “Delia, I didn’t want to spoil our friendship, and for the first stages of it, I was hung up on someone who couldn’t, who wouldn’t be with me because of what I am. You helped me through that. I care very much about you. If you want more . . .”

He lifted her hand, brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist.

Her pulse gave a little dance. It was only natural, she supposed. Just as it was natural for her blood to go warm, very warm, when he shifted that skilled mouth from her wrist to her lips.

But doubts churned inside of her, side by side with simple lust. It was infuriating to realize not all the doubts were directed at Charles.

“Sorry.” She broke the kiss, eased back, and wondered when she’d lost her mind. There was a gorgeous man she liked very much, and who knew all there was to know about sexual pleasures, ready to show her just what could be done to the human body, and she was playing coy.

“I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“No. Well, maybe a little.” She drummed up a smile. “Fact is, this is a first for me. I’ve completely lost my appetite. All across the board.”

Working out of her home office could be an advantage. The equipment, even counting her new computer system at Central, was far superior. There were fewer distractions. And it was next to impossible to run out of coffee.

Eve chose to do so from time to time, even if only to have a fresh view to clear her mind.

Her plan today was to start the morning with something fulfilling. She stood in the center of her home office, smirking down at her old, despised, computer.

“Today,” she told it, “death comes to all your circuits. Will it be slow and systematic or fast and brutal?” Considering, she circled it. “Tough decision. I’ve waited so long for this moment. Dreamed of it.”

Showing her teeth, she began to roll up her sleeves.

“What,” Roarke asked from the doorway that connected their work areas, “is that?”

“The former bane of my existence. The Antichrist of technology. Do we have a hammer?”

Studying the pile on the floor, he walked in. “Several, I imagine, of various types.”

“I want all of them. Tiny little hammers, big, wall-bangers, and everything in between.”

“Might one ask why?”

“I’m going to beat this thing apart, byte by byte, until there’s nothing left but dust from the last trembling chip.”

“Hmmm.” Roarke crouched down, examined the pitifully out-of-date system. “When did you haul this mess in here?”

“Just now. I had it in the car. Maybe I should use acid, just stand here and watch it hiss and dissolve. That could be good.”

Saying nothing, Roarke took a small case out of his pocket, opened it, and chose a slim tool. With a few deft moves, he had the housing open.

“Hey! Hey! What’re you doing?”

“I haven’t seen anything like this in a decade. Fascinating. Look at this corrosion. Christ, this is a SOC chip system. And it’s cross-wired.”

When he began to fiddle, she rushed over and slapped at his hands. “Mine. I get to kill it.”

“Get a grip on yourself,” he said absently and delved deeper into the guts. “I’ll take this into research.”

“No. Uh-uh. I have to bust it apart. What if it breeds?”

He grinned and quickly replaced the housing. “This is an excellent learning tool. I’d like to give it to Jamie.”

“What’re you talking about? Jamie Lingstrom, the e-prodigy?”

“Mmm. He does a little work for me now and then.”

“He’s a kid.”

“A very bright one. Bright enough that I prefer having him on my team rather than competing with him. It’ll be interesting to see what he can do with an old, defective system like this.”

“But I want it dead.”

He had to smother a chuckle. It was as close to a whine as he’d ever heard from her. “There, there, darling. I’ll find you something else to beat up. Or better,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, “another outlet entirely for all that delightful natural aggression.”

“Sex wouldn’t give me the same rush.”

“Ah. A dare.” He accepted it by leaning down and biting her jaw. When she swore at him, he took her mouth in a hot, hungry, brain-sucking kiss.

“Okay, that was pretty good, but just what are you doing with your hands back there?”

“Hardly anything until I lock the door, and then—”

“Okay, okay, you can have the damn thing.” She shoved away from him, tried to catch her breath. Her system was vibrating. “Just get it out of my sight.”

“Thank you.” He caught her hand, lifted it, nibbled on her fingers as he watched her. One taste of her always made him crave another. And another. He tugged her forward, intending to nudge her into his office.

Peabody walked in.

“Sorry.” She averted her eyes, tilting her head to study the ceiling. “Summerset said I should come right up.”

“Good morning, Peabody.” Roarke gave his wife’s furrowed brow a quick brush of his lips. “Can we get you some coffee?”

“I’ll get it. Don’t mind me. Just a lowly aide.” She muttered it as she crossed the room, giving Eve a wide berth as she aimed for the kitchen.

“She’s upset about something.” Roarke frowned toward the kitchen area as he listened to Peabody muttering as she programmed the AutoChef.

“She just hasn’t had her morning fix yet. Take that heap of junk out of here if you want it so much. I have to get to work.”

He hefted the system, discovered he had to put his back into it. “They made them a lot heavier back then. I’ll be working from home until noon,” he called over his shoulder, then his door closed behind him.

It was probably shallow, it was definitely girlie to have gotten such a rise out of watching that ripple of muscle. Eve told herself she wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stirred her up in the first place.

“Peabody, bring me a cup of that.”

She went behind her desk, called up the Draco file, and separating it into suspects, witnesses, evidence gathered, and lab reports, ordered all data on the screens.

“I reviewed the disc of the play last night,” she began when she heard the sturdy clop of Peabody’s hard-soled cop shoes cross the room. “I have a theory.”

“Your coffee, Lieutenant. Shall I record, sir?”

“Huh?” Eve was studying the screens, trying to shift and rearrange data in her mind. But Peabody’s stiff tone distracted her. “No, I’m just running it by you.”

She turned back and saw that once again Roarke was right. Something was up with her aide. She ordered herself not to poke into the personal, and sat. “We’ve pretty well nailed down the time of the switch. The prop knife is clearly visible here. Computer, Visual Evidence 6-B, on screen five.”

“You’ve marked and recorded this VE?” Peabody asked, her voice cold as February.

“Last night, after my review.” Eve moved her shoulders. The snipe was like a hot itch between her shoulder blades. “So?”

“Just updating my own records, Lieutenant. It is my job.”

Fuck it. “Nobody’s telling you not to do your job. I’m briefing you, aren’t I?”

“Selectively, it appears.”

“Okay, what the hell does that mean?”

“I had occasion to return to Central last night.” That just added to her slow burn. “In the process of reviewing the file, assimilating evidence and the time line, certain pieces of that evidence, marked and sealed for Level Five, came to my attention. I was unaware, until that point, that there were areas of this investigation considered off limits to your aide and your team. Respectfully, sir, this policy can and will hamper the efficiency of said aide and said team.”

“Don’t use that snotty tone on me, pal. I marked Level Five what, in my judgment, required Level Five. You don’t need to know every goddamn thing.”

Little spots of heat bloomed on Peabody’s cheeks, but her voice was frosty. “So I am now aware, Lieutenant.”

“I said knock it off.”

“It’s always your way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, damn right. I’m your superior, and I’m the primary on this investigation, so you bet your tight ass it’s my way.”

“Then you should have advised subject Monroe, Charles, to keep his mouth shut. Shouldn’t you? Sir.”

Eve set her teeth, ground them. Try to spare feelings, she thought, and you get kicked in the face. “Subject Monroe, Charles, has, in my opinion, no connection to this investigation. Therefore any communication I’ve had with him is none of your goddamn business.”

“It’s my goddamn business when you interrogate him over my goddamn personal relationship with him.”

“I didn’t interrogate him.” Her voice spiked with frustrated fury. “He spilled it all over me.”

They were both standing now, leaning over the desk nearly nose-to-nose. Eve’s face was pale with temper, Peabody’s flushed with it.

When McNab walked in, the scene had him letting out a low, nervous whistle. “Um, hey, guys.”

Neither of them bothered to so much as glance in his direction, and said, in unison, at a roar: “Out!”

“You bet. I’m gone.”

To insure it, Eve marched over and slammed the door in his fearful and fascinated face.

“Sit down,” she ordered Peabody.

“I prefer to stand.”

“And I prefer to give you a good boot in the ass, but I’m restraining myself.” Eve reached up, fisted her hands in her own hair and yanked until the pain cleared most of the rage.

“Okay, stand. You couldn’t sit with that stick up your butt, anyway. One you shove up it every time Subject Monroe, Charles, is mentioned. You want to be filled in, you want to be briefed? Fine. Here it is.”

She had to take another deep breath to insure her tone was professional. “On the evening of March twenty-six, at or about nineteen-thirty, I, accompanied by Roarke, had occasion to visit Areena Mansfield’s penthouse suite at The Palace Hotel, this city. Upon entering said premises, investigation officer found subject Mansfield in the company of one Charles Monroe, licensed companion. It was ascertained and confirmed that LC Monroe was there in a professional capacity and had no links to the deceased or the current investigation. His presence, and the salient details pertaining to it, were noted in the report of the interview and marked Level Five in a stupid, ill-conceived attempt by the investigating officer to spare her fat-headed aide any unnecessary embarrassment.”

Eve stomped back to her desk, snatched up her coffee, gulped some down. “Record that,” she snapped.

Peabody’s lip trembled. She sat. She sniffled.

“Oh, no.” In genuine panic, Eve stabbed out a finger. “No, you don’t. No crying. We’re on duty. There is no crying on duty.”

“I’m sorry.” Knowing she was close to blubbering, Peabody fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose lavishly. “I’m just so mad, so embarrassed. He told you we’ve never had sex.”

“Jesus, Peabody, do you think I put that in the report?”

“No. I don’t know. No.” She sniffled again. “But you know. I’ve been seeing him for weeks and weeks, and we’ve never . . . We never even got close to it.”

“Well, he explained that when—” At Peabody’s howl of horror, Eve winced. Wrong thing to say. Very wrong. But what the hell was the right thing? “Look, he’s a nice guy. I didn’t give him enough credit. He likes you.”

“Then why hasn’t he ever jumped me?” Peabody lifted drenched eyes.

“Um . . . sex isn’t everything?” Eve hazarded.

“Oh sure, easy for you to say. You’re married to the mongo sex god of the century.”

“Jesus, Peabody.”

“You are. He’s gorgeous, he’s built, he’s smart and sexy and . . . and dangerous. And he loves you. No, he adores you. He’d jump in front of a speeding maxibus for you.”

“They don’t go very fast,” Eve murmured and was relieved when Peabody gave a watery laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Eve glanced toward the connecting doors, felt a hard, almost painful tug. “Yeah, I know. It’s, ah, it’s not that Charles isn’t attracted to you. It’s that . . .” Where the hell was Mira when she needed her? “That he respects you. That’s it.”

Peabody crumpled her handkerchief and moped. “I’ve had too much respect, if you ask me. I know I’m not beautiful or anything.”

“You look good.”

“I’m not really sexy.”

“Sure you are.” At her wit’s end, Eve came around the desk, patted Peabody’s head.

“If you were a guy, or into same-sex relationships, would you want to have sex with me?”

“Absolutely. I’d jump you in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” Brightening at the idea, Peabody wiped her eyes. “Well, McNab can’t keep his hands off me.”

“Oh man. Peabody, please.”

“I don’t want him to know. I don’t want McNab to know that Charles and I haven’t been hitting the sheets.”

“He’ll never hear it from me. I can guarantee it.”

“Okay. Sorry, Dallas. After Charles told me, and I went back to work to take my mind off it, and found those sealed files . . . It kept me up most of the night. I mean, if he didn’t say anything relevant, I couldn’t figure out why you had two reports and a video disc sealed.”

Eve blew out a breath. Interpersonal relationships were tough, she thought. And tricky. “One of the reports and the disc don’t involve Charles.” Damn it, Peabody was right about one thing, covering them up hampered the investigation. “They involve Nadine.”

“Oh. I thought something was up there.”

“Look, she had a thing with Draco years ago. She came to me about it. He used her, dumped her, in his usual pattern. When Roarke and I went through his penthouse, we found those personal discs. The one I sealed—”

“Oh. He recorded sex with Nadine. Scum.” Peabody sighed. “She’s not a suspect, at least not one we’re looking at, so you wanted to spare her the embarrassment. Dallas, I’m sorry. All around sorry.”

“Okay, let’s forget it. Go wash your face or something so McNab doesn’t think I’ve been slapping you around.”

“Right. Boy, I feel like an idiot.”

“Good, that bucks me right up. Now, go pull yourself together so I can pry McNab out of whatever corner he’s hiding in, and we can get to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time they were assembled in her office, Feeney had arrived. He’d reviewed the video of the play himself, had enlarged, refocused, enhanced, and worked his e-magic so that the team was able to confirm the time frame of the switch.

The two courtroom scenes were side by side on a split screen, with Feeney in front, showing the minute difference in the shape of the knife, its angle of placement from one to the other.

“Whoever did the switch copped a knife that so closely resembled the dummy nobody would have noticed it without picking it up and giving it a good looking over.”

“The prop master?” McNab asked.

“He’d have no reason to do more than check to see that the knife was still on its mark. The courtroom set stayed—what do you call it—dressed throughout the performance. He’d have noticed if the knife was missing,” Feeney added. “According to his statement, he checked the set immediately after the scene change and immediately before it changed again. He had no reason to check otherwise.”

“That gives the perpetrator approximately five minutes.” Eve tapped her fingers on her mug. “However, we narrow that if we follow the line that Quim saw something or someone suspicious, as it appears he did during the scene break. Under three minutes to get the dummy knife hidden and be back wherever he needed to be. Onstage or in the wings.”

“Then the perp had to wait.” Peabody narrowed her eyes. “Wait, and count on no one making the switch through the next courtroom scene, through the dialogue and action. Wait out the play until Christine Vole grabs it up and uses it. That’s about thirty minutes. A long time to wait.”

“Our killer’s patient, systematic. I think he or she enjoyed the wait, watching Draco prance around, emoting, drawing applause, all the while knowing it was his last act. I think the killer reveled in it.”

Eve set down her coffee, sat on the edge of her desk. “Roarke said something last night. Life imitates art.”

Peabody scratched her nose. “I thought it was the opposite.”

“Not this time. Why this play? Why this time? There were easier, less risky, more subtle ways to off Draco. I’m thinking the play itself meant something to the killer. The theme of love and betrayal, of false faces. Sacrifice and revenge. The characters of Leonard and Christine Vole have a history. Maybe Draco had a history with his killer. Something that goes back into the past that twisted their relationship.”

Feeney nodded, munched on a handful of nuts. “A lot of the players and techs had worked with him before. Theater’s like a little world, and the people in it bump into each other over and over.”

“Not a professional connection. A personal one. Look, Vole comes off charming, handsome, even a little naive, until you find out he’s a heartless, ruthless opportunist. From what we’ve uncovered, this mirrors Draco. So who did he betray? Whose life did he ruin?”

“From the interviews, he fucked over everybody.” McNab lifted his hands. “Nobody’s pretending they loved the guy.”

“So we go deeper. We go back. I want you to run the players. Look for the history. Something that pops out. Vole destroyed a marriage or relationship, ruined someone financially. Seduced someone’s sister. Set back their career. You look for the data,” she told McNab and Feeney. “Peabody and I will chip away at the players.”

Eve decided to start with Carly Landsdowne. Something about the woman had set off alarms in her head since their first conversation.

The actress lived in a glossy building with full security, glitzy shops, and circling people glides. The expansive lobby area was elegantly spare, with water-toned tile floors, modest indoor shrubbery, and a discreet security panel worked into an arty geometric design in the wall.

“Good morning,” the panel announced in a pleasant male voice when Eve approached. “Please state your business in The Broadway View.”

“My business is with Carly Landsdowne.”

“One moment, please.” There was a quiet tinkle of music to fill the silence. “Thank you for waiting. According to our logs, Ms. Landsdowne has not informed us of any expected visitors. I’ll be happy to contact her for you and ask if she is able to receive guests at this time. Please state your name and produce a photo ID.”

“You want ID? Here’s some ID.” Eve shoved her badge up to the needle-sized lens of the camera. “Tell Ms. Landsdowne Lieutenant Dallas doesn’t like waiting in lobbies.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. One moment, please.”

The music picked up where it had left off, and it had Eve gritting her teeth. “I hate this shit. Why do they think recorded strings do anything but cause annoyance and an urgent desire to find the speakers and rip them out?”

“I think it’s kind of nice,” Peabody said. “I like violins. Reminds me of my mother. She plays,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her.

“Thank you for waiting. Ms. Landsdowne will be happy to see you, Lieutenant Dallas. If you would proceed to elevator number two. You have been cleared. Have a safe and happy day.”

“I hate when they say that.” Eve strode to the proper elevator. The doors opened, and the same violin music seeped out. It made her snarl.

“Welcome to The Broadway View.” A voice oozed over the strings. “We are a fully self-contained, fully secured building. You are welcome to apply for a day pass in order to tour our facilities, including our state-of-the-art fitness and spa center, which offers complete cosmetic, physical, and mental therapies and treatments. Our shopping area can be reached through public or private access and welcomes all major debit cards. The View also offers its patrons and, with proper reservations, the public, three five-star restaurants as well as the popular Times Square Café for those casual dining needs.”

“When is it going to shut up?”

“I wonder if they have a swimming pool.”

“If you are interested in joining our exclusive community, just press extension ninety-four on any house-link and request an appointment with one of our friendly concierges for a tour of our three model units.”

“I’d rather have all the skin peeled from my bones,” Eve decided.

“I wonder if they have efficiencies.”

“Please exit to the left and proceed to apartment number two thousand eight. We at The View wish you a pleasant visit.”

Eve stepped out of the car and headed left. The apartment doors were widely spaced down a generously sized hallway. Whoever’d designed the place hadn’t worried about wasted space, she decided. Then she had the uncomfortable feeling she was going to discover her husband owned the building.

Carly opened the door before Eve could buzz. The actress wore a deep blue lounging robe, her feet bare and tipped with ripe pink. But her hair and face were done and done well, Eve noted.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Carly leaned against the door for a moment, a deliberately cocky pose. “How nice of you to drop by.”

“You’re up early,” Eve commented. “And here I thought theater people weren’t morning people.”

Carly’s smirk wavered a bit, but she firmed it again as she stepped back. “I have a performance today. Richard’s memorial service.”

“You consider that a performance?”

“Of course. I have to be sober and sad and spout all the platitudes. It’s going to be a hell of an act for the media.” Carly gestured toward an attractive curved sofa of soft green in the living area. “I could have put on the same act for you, and quite convincingly. But it seemed such a waste of your time and my talent. Can I offer you coffee?”

“No. It doesn’t worry you to be a suspect in a murder investigation?”

“No, because I didn’t do it and because it’s good research. I may be called on to play one eventually.”

Eve wandered to the window wall, privacy screened, and lifted her brows at the killer view of Times Square. The animated billboards were alive with color and promises, the air traffic thick as fleas on a big, sloppy dog.

If she looked over and down, and it was the down that always bothered her, she could see the Gothic spires of Roarke’s New Globe Theater.

“What’s your motivation?”

“For murder?” Carly sat, obviously enjoying the morning duel. “It would, of course, depend on the victim. But parallelling life, let’s call him a former lover who done me wrong. The motivation would be a combination of pride, scorn, and glee.”

“And hurt?” Eve turned back, pinned her before Carly could mask the shadow of distress.

“Perhaps. You want to know if Richard hurt me. Yes, he did. But I know how to bind my wounds, Lieutenant. A man isn’t worth bleeding over, not for long.”

“Did you love him?”

“I thought I did at the time. But it was astonishingly easy to switch that emotion to hate. If I’d wanted to kill him, well, I couldn’t have done it better than it was done. Except I would never have sacrificed the satisfaction of delivering the killing blow personally. Using a proxy takes all the fun out of it.”

“Is this a joke to you? The end of a life by violent means?”

“Do you want me to pretend to grieve? Believe me, Lieutenant, I could call up huge, choking and rather gorgeous tears for you.” Though her mouth continued to smile, little darts of angry lights played in her eyes. “But I won’t. I have too much respect for myself and, as it happens, for you, to do something so pitifully obvious. I’m not sorry he’s dead. I just didn’t kill him.”

“And Linus Quim.”

Carly’s defiant face softened. “I didn’t know him very well. But I am sorry he died. You don’t believe he killed Richard, then hanged himself, or you wouldn’t be here. I suppose I don’t, either, however convenient it would be. He was a little, sour-faced man, and in my opinion didn’t think of Richard any more than he thought of the rest of us actors. We were part of his scenery. Hanging, it takes time, doesn’t it? Not like with Richard.”

“Yes. It takes time.”

“I don’t like suffering.”

It was, Eve thought, the first simple statement the woman had made. “I doubt whoever helped him into the noose thought about it. Are you worried, Ms. Landsdowne, that tragedies come in threes?”

Carly started to make some careless remark, then looking into Eve’s eyes changed her mind. “Yes. Yes, I am. Theater people are a superstitious lot, and I’m no exception. I don’t speak the name of the Scottish play, I don’t whistle in a dressing room or wish another performer good luck. But superstitious won’t stop me from going back on that stage the moment we’re allowed to do so. I won’t let it change how I live my life. I’ve wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember. Not just an actor,” she added with a slow smile. “A star. I’m on my way, and I won’t take a detour from the goal.”

“The publicity from Draco’s murder may just give you a boost toward that goal.”

“That’s right. If you think I won’t exploit it, you haven’t taken a good look at me.”

“I’ve taken a look at you. A good look.” Eve glanced around the lovely room, toward the staggering view from the window. “For someone who hasn’t yet achieved that goal, you live very well.”

“I like living well.” Carly shrugged. “I’m lucky to have generous and financially responsible parents. I have a trust fund, and I make use of it. As I said, I don’t like suffering. I’m not the starving-for-art type. It doesn’t mean I don’t work at my craft and work hard. I simply enjoy comfortable surroundings.”

“Did Draco come here?”

“Once or twice. He preferred using his place. In hindsight, I see it gave him more control.”

“And were you aware he recorded your sexual activities?”

It was a bombshell. Eve had her rhythm now, and recognized simple and utter shock in the eyes, in the sudden draining of color. “That’s a lie.”

“Draco had a recording unit installed in his bedroom. He had a collection of personal discs detailing certain sexual partners. There’s one of you, recorded in February. It included the use of a certain apparatus fashioned of black leather and—”

Carly leaped off the sofa. “Stop. You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t. You were unaware of the recording.”

“Yes, I was unaware,” Carly snapped back. “I might very well have agreed to one, have been intrigued by the idea if he’d suggested it. But I detest knowing it was done without my consent. That a bunch of snickering cops can view it and get their kicks.”

“I’m the only cop who’s viewed it so far, and I didn’t get any kick out of it. You weren’t the only woman he recorded, Ms. Landsdowne, without her consent.”

“Pardon me if I don’t give a fuck.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes until she could find a thread of control. “All right, what do I have to do to get it?”

“It’s in evidence, and I’ve had it sealed. It won’t be used unless it has to be used. When the case is closed, and you prove to be cleared, I’ll see that the disc is given to you.”

“I guess that’s the best I can expect.” She took a long breath. “Thank you.”

“Ms. Landsdowne, did you employ illegals in the company of Richard Draco, for sexual stimulation or any reason?”

“I don’t do illegals. I prefer using my own mind, my own imagination, not chemicals.”

You used them, Eve thought. But maybe you didn’t know what he was slipping into that pretty glass of champagne.

Roarke had two holo-conferences, an interspace transmission, and a head-of-departments meeting, all scheduled for the afternoon and all dealing with his Olympus Resort project. It was over a year in the works, and he intended for it to be open for business by summer.

Not all of the enormous planetwide pleasure resort would be complete, but the main core, with its luxury hotels and villas, its plush gambling and entertainment complexes, was good to go. He had taken Eve there on part of their honeymoon. It had been her first off-planet trip.

He intended to take her back, kicking and screaming no doubt, as interplanetary travel was not on her list of favorite delights.

He wanted time away with her, away from work. His and hers. Not just one of the quick forty-eight-hour jaunts he managed to push her into, but real time, intimate time.

As he pushed away from his in-home control center, he rotated his shoulder. It was nearly healed and didn’t trouble him overmuch. But now and again, a faint twinge reminded him of how close both of them had come to dying. Only weeks before, he’d looked at death, then into Eve’s eyes.

They’d both faced bloody and violent ends before. But there was more at stake now. That moment of connection, the sheer will in her eyes, the grip of her hand on his, had pulled him back.

They needed each other.

Two lost souls, he thought, taking a moment to walk to the tall windows that looked out on part of the world he’d built for himself out of will, desire, sweat, and dubiously accumulated funds. Two lost souls whose miserable beginnings had forged them into what appeared to be polar opposites.

Love had narrowed the distance, then had all but eradicated it.

She’d saved him. The night his life had hung in her furious and unbreakable grip. She’d saved him, he mused, the first moment he’d locked eyes with her. As impossible as it should have been, she was his answer. He was hers.

He had a need to give her things. The tangible things wealth could command. Though he knew the gifts most often puzzled and flustered her. Maybe because they did, he corrected with a grin. But underlying that overt giving was the fierce foundation to give her comfort, security, trust, love. All the things they’d both lived without most of their lives.

He wondered that a woman who was so skilled in observation, in studying the human condition, couldn’t see that what he felt for her was often as baffling and as frightening to him as it was to her.

Nothing had been the same for him since she’d walked into his life wearing an ugly suit and cool-eyed suspicion. He thanked God for it.

Feeling sentimental, he realized. He supposed it was the Irish that popped out of him at unexpected moments. More, he kept replaying the nightmare she’d suffered through a few nights before.

They came more rarely now, but still they came, torturing her sleep, sucking her back into a past she couldn’t quite remember. He wanted to erase them from her mind, eradicate them. And knew he never would. Never could.

For months, he’d been tempted to do a full search and scan, to dig out the data on that tragic child found broken and battered in a Dallas alley. He had the skill, and he had the technology to find everything there was to find: details the social workers, the police, the child authorities couldn’t.

He could fill in the blanks for her, and, he admitted, for himself.

But it wasn’t the way. He understood her well enough to know that if he took on the task, gave her the answers to questions she wasn’t ready to ask, it would hurt more than heal.

Wasn’t it the same for him? When he’d returned to Dublin after so many years, he’d needed to study some of the shattered pieces of his childhood. Alone. Even then, he’d only glanced at the surface of them. What was left of them were buried. At least for now, he intended to leave them buried.

The now was what required his attention, he reminded himself. And brooding over the past—there was the Irish again—solved nothing. Whether the past was his or Eve’s, it solved nothing.

He gathered up the discs and hard copies he’d need for his afternoon meetings. Then hesitated. He wanted another look at her before he left for the day.

But when he opened the connecting doors, he saw only McNab, stuffing what appeared to be an entire burger in his mouth while the computer droned through a background search.

“Solo today, Ian?”

McNab jerked from a lounging to a sitting position, swallowed too fast, choked. Amused, Roarke strolled over and slapped him smartly on the back.

“It helps to chew first.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Ah . . . I didn’t have much breakfast, so I thought it’d be okay if I . . .”

“My AutoChef is your AutoChef. The lieutenant’s in the field, I take it.”

“Yeah. She hauled Peabody out about an hour ago. Feeney headed into Central to tie up some threads. I’m working here.” He smiled then, a quick flash of strong white teeth. “I got the best gig.”

“Lucky you.” Roarke managed to find a French fry on McNab’s plate that hadn’t been drowned in ketchup. He sampled it while he studied the screen. “Running backgrounds? Again?”

“Yeah, well.” McNab rolled his eyes, shifting so his silver ear loops clanged cheerfully together. “Dallas has some wild hair about there might be some way-back connection, some business between Draco and one of the players that simmered all these years. Me, I figure we already scanned all the data and found zippo, but she wants another run, below the surface. I’m here to serve. Especially when real cow meat’s on the menu.”

“Well now, if there is some bit of business, you’re unlikely to find it this way, aren’t you?”

“I’m not?”

“Something old and simmering, you say.” Considering the possibility, Roarke hooked another fry. “If I wanted to find something long buried, so to speak, I’d figure on getting a bit of dirt under my nails.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Sealed records.”

“I don’t have the authority to open sealeds. You gotta have probable cause, and a warrant, and all that happy shit.” When Roarke merely smiled, McNab straightened, glanced at the entrance door. “Of course, if there was a way around all that off the record—”

“There are ways, Ian. And there are ways.”

“Yeah, but there’s also the CYA factor.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to make sure your ass is covered. Won’t we?”

“Dallas is going to know, isn’t she?” McNab said a few minutes later, when their positions were reversed and Roarke sat at the computer.

“Of course. But you’ll find that knowing and proving are far different matters, even to the redoubtable lieutenant.”

In any case, Roarke enjoyed his little forays into police work. And he was a man who rarely saw a need to limit his enjoyments.

“Now you see here, Ian, we’ve accessed the on-record fingerprints and DNA pattern of your primary suspects. Perfectly legitimate.”

“Yeah, if I was doing the accessing.”

“Only a technicality. Computer, match current identification codes with any and all criminal records, civil actions and suits, including all juvenile and sealed data. A good place to start,” he said to McNab.

Working . . . Access to sealed data is denied without proper authority or judicial code. Open records are available. Shall I continue?

“Hold.” Roarke sat back, examined his nails. Clean as a whistle, he thought. For the moment. “McNab, be a pal, would you, and fetch me some coffee?”

McNab stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, did a quick mental dance over the thin line between procedure and progress. “Um. Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He ducked into the kitchen area, ordered up the coffee. He dawdled. McNab didn’t have a clue how long it would take to bypass the red tape and access what was not supposed to be accessed. To calm himself, he decided to see if there was any pie available.

He discovered to his great delight that he had a choice of six types and agonized over which to go for.

“Ian, are you growing the coffee beans in there?”

“Huh?” He poked his head back in. “I was just . . . figured you’d need some time.”

He was a sharp tech, Roarke thought, and a delightfully naive young man. “I think this might interest you.”

“You got in? Already? But how—” McNab cut himself off as he hurried back to the desk. “No, I’d better not know how. That way, when I’m being charged and booked, I can claim ignorance.”

“Charged and booked for what?” Roarke tapped a finger on a sheet of paper. “Here’s your warrant for the sealeds.”

“My—” Eyes goggling, McNab snatched up the sheet. “It looks real. It’s signed by Judge Nettles.”

“So it appears.”

“Wow. You’re not just ice,” McNab said reverently. “You’re fucking Antarctica.”

“Ian, please. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Right. Um. Why did I ask for Judge Nettles for the warrant again?”

With a laugh, Roarke got to his feet. “I’m sure you can come up with some appropriately convoluted cop speak to justify the request if and when you’re asked. My suggestion would be a variation on a shot in the dark.”

“Yeah. That’s a good one.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

“Okay. Thanks. Ah, hey, Roarke?”

“Yes?”

“There’s this other thing.” McNab shifted from foot to foot on his purple airboots. “It’s kind of personal. I was going to work around to talking to the lieutenant about it, but, well, you know how she is.”

“I know precisely.” He studied McNab’s face, felt a stir of pity wrapped around amusement. “Women, Ian?”

“Oh yeah. Well, woman, I guess. I gotta figure a guy like you knows how to handle them as well as you handle electronics. I just don’t get women. I mean I get them,” he rushed on. “I don’t have any problem with sex. I just don’t get them, in an intellectual sense. I guess.”

“I see. Ian, if you want me to discuss the intricacies and capriciousness of the female mind, we’ll need several days and a great deal of liquor.”

“Yeah. Ha. I guess you’re in a hurry right now.”

Actually, time was short. There were a few billion dollars waiting to be shifted, juggled, and consumed. But Roarke eased a hip on the corner of the desk. The money would wait. “I imagine this involves Peabody.”

“We’re, you know, doing it.”

“Ian, I had no idea you were such a wild romantic. A virtual poet.”

Roarke’s dry tone had McNab flushing, then grinning. “We have really amazing sex.”

“That’s lovely for both of you, and congratulations. But I’m not sure Peabody would appreciate you sharing that piece of information with me.”

“It’s not really about sex,” McNab said quickly, afraid he’d lose his sounding board before he’d sounded off. “I mean, it is, because we have it. A lot of it. And it rocks, so that’s mag and all. That’s how I figured it would be if I could ever get her out of that uniform for five damn minutes. But that’s like it, that’s all. Every time we finish, you know, the naked pretzel, I have to bribe her with food or get her going about a case or she’s out the door. Or booting me out, if we landed at her place.”

Roarke understood the frustration. He’d only had one woman ever try to shake him off. The only woman who mattered. “And you’re looking for more.”

“Weird, huh?” With a half laugh, McNab began to pace. “I really like women. All sorts of women. I especially like them naked.”

“Who could blame you?”

“Exactly. So I finally get a chance to bounce on the naked She-Body, and it’s making me crazy. I’m all tied up inside and she’s cruising right along. I always figured women, you know, mostly they were supposed to want the whole relationship thing. Talking about stuff so you come up with all those nice lies. I mean, they know you’re lying, but they go along with it because maybe you won’t be later on. Or something.”

“That’s a fascinating view on the male/female dynamic.” One, Roarke was certain, would earn the boy a female knee to the balls if ever voiced in mixed company. “I take it Peabody isn’t interested in pleasant lies.”

“I don’t know what she’s interested in; that’s the whole deal.” Wound up now, he waved his arms. “I mean, she likes sex, she’s into her work, she looks at Dallas like the lieutenant has the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Then she goes off with that goddamn Monroe son of a bitch to the opera.”

It was the last, delivered with vitriol, that had Roarke nodding. “It’s perfectly natural to be jealous of a rival.”

“Rival, my ass. What the hell’s wrong with her, going around with that slick LC? Fancy dinners and art shows. Listening to music you can’t even dance to. I ought to smash his face in.”

Roarke thought about it a moment and decided, under similar circumstances, he’d be tempted to do just that. “It would be satisfying, no doubt, but bound to annoy the woman in question. Have you tried romance?”

“What do you mean? Like goofy stuff?”

Roarke sighed. “Let’s try this. Have you ever asked her out?”

“Sure. We see each other a couple, three nights a week.”

“Out, Ian. In public. In places where you’re both required, by law, to wear clothes of some kind.”

“Oh. Not really.”

“It might be a place to start. A date, where you’d pick her up at her apartment at a time agreed upon, then take her to a place where food and entertainment are offered. While enjoying that food and/or entertainment, you might try having a conversation with her, one that doesn’t directly involve sex or work.”

“I know what a date is,” McNab grumbled, and felt put upon. “I haven’t got the credit base to take her places like that bastard Monroe.”

“Ah, therein lies one of the wonders of the female mind and heart. Go with your strengths, take her places that appeal to her sense of adventure, romance, humor. Don’t compete with Monroe, Ian. Contrast with him. He gives her orchids grown in greenhouses on Flora I, you give her daisies you picked from the public field in Greenpeace Park.”

As the information, the idea of it, processed, McNab’s eyes cleared. Brightened. “Hey, that’s good. That could work. I guess I could try it. You’re really into this shit. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Roarke picked up his briefcase. “I’ve always been a gambling man, Ian, and one who likes to win. If I were to wager on your little triangle, I’d put my money on you.”

The idea pumped up McNab’s mood so high he forgot about the pie in the kitchen and got straight to work. He was having such a good time planning out his first date with Peabody, he nearly missed the data that scrolled on-screen.

“Holy shit!” He jumped back up on his boots, did a little dance, and grabbed his communicator.

“Dallas.”

“Hey, Lieutenant, hey. I think I’ve got something. Criminal charges, assault and a civil suit—bodily harm, property damage and blah blah, both filed by Richard Draco, June 2035. Charges were dropped, then sealed. Civil action settled to the tune of five million smackeroonies and sealed. Defendant in both cases was—”

“How did you access sealeds, McNab?”

He blinked, and his mind went blank. “How did I what?”

“Detective, how did you access sealed records without the proper authority or the orders of the primary investigation to obtain said authority?”

“I . . .”

“Where’s Roarke?”

Even on the small communicator screen he could see flames leap into her eyes. “Roarke?” Though he had a bad feeling it was already too late, McNab tried to shift his expression into innocence, confusion, and righteousness all at once. “I don’t know. I guess he’s working somewhere. Um . . . did you want him for something?”

“Has he been playing with you?”

“No, sir! Absolutely not. I’m on duty.”

Her eyes stared out from the communicator screen for a very long twenty seconds. He felt sweat begin to slip greasily down the center of his back.

“I . . . as to how I accessed data, Lieutenant, it occurred to me that, well, previous backgrounds had been negative, and your instincts, which I respect and admire and trust absolutely, indicated there should be something. So I took what you could call a shot in the dark. That’s it, a shot in the dark, and communicated our position to Judge Nettles, who agreed to issue the proper authority. I have the warrant.”

He picked it up, waved it. “It’s signed and everything.”

“I just bet it is. Is this going to spring back and bite my ass, McNab? Think carefully before you answer, because I promise you, if it bites mine, it’s going to have a chew fest on yours.”

“No, sir.” He hoped. “Everything’s in proper order.”

“I’m ten minutes away. Hold everything . . . in proper order. And McNab, if I see Roarke’s fingerprints anywhere, I’m going to wring your skinny neck.”

The first thing Eve did when she walked back into the house was hit the house scanner. “Where is Roarke?” she demanded.

Roarke is not currently on the premises. He is logged, at this time, at his midtown offices. Shall I direct a transmission for you, Darling Eve?

“No. Sneaky bastard.”

“It called you darling, sir. That’s so sweet.”

“One of Roarke’s little jokes. And if I hear it repeated, I’ll have to kill you.”

She headed up the stairs out of habit. Peabody sighed again, knowing there were numerous elevators that would be delighted to save them the climb.

When they walked into the office, she smirked at McNab on principle, but she did offer up a quick little prayer for his skinny neck. She’d grown, however reluctantly, fond of it.

He sprang to his feet, leading with the warrant. “All proper and official, sir.”

Eve snatched it away, took a good, hard look. The tension in her shoulders unknotted muscle by muscle. She was dead sure Roarke was behind this sudden bounty of data, but the warrant would pass muster.

“Okay, McNab. You can live for the time being. Contact Feeney, put him on a conference-link and let’s see what we’ve got.”

What they had was twenty-four years old, but it was violent, petty, mean-spirited, and provocative.

“So the sophisticated Kenneth whopped big time on one Richard Draco.”

“Really big time,” Peabody put in. “He knocked out two teeth, busted his nose, bruised his ribs, and managed to break several articles of furniture before security got through the door and pulled him off.”

“It says in the civil action that Draco was unable to work for three weeks, suffered emotional damage, extreme embarrassment, physical trauma, and, this is my personal favorite, loss of consortium. Both the criminal charges and the civil action were taken against Stiles in his birth name, Stipple, which he legally changed to his current stage name immediately after the suit was settled.”

Eve turned the new data over in her mind. “He made a deal with Draco to take the payment and I’m banking it was more than the aforesaid five million smackeroon-ies to agree to having all of it sealed. The media didn’t get hold of it, and that had to cost, too.”

“Twenty-four years ago,” Peabody pointed out. “Neither of them were major names. But from what we know of Draco, he’d have whined to the press unless it was worth his while not to.”

“He could have spewed it out any time. Could have continued to hold it over Stiles’s head. Bad for the image developed.” Still she shook her head. “I can’t see Stiles being overly worried about this coming out now. He’s an established celebrity. He could spin it into a positive. ‘Ah, my wild youth’ or some such thing. It’s why he broke Draco’s balls that’s the key.”

She checked her wrist unit, figured angles. “McNab, continue search and scan. If you turn up anything else interesting, relay it to me or Feeney. I’ll be at Central. Feeney? Reserve us an interview room, first available.”

“You hauling him in?” Feeney asked.

“Yeah. Let’s see how he does on my stage. Peabody, have Dispatch send some uniforms to Kenneth Stiles’s address. I want him to have a ride in a black and white.”

She started out while Peabody dug for her communicator.

“Hey, Peabody, just a minute.”

She hesitated, glanced over her shoulder. “I’m busy, McNab.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed her hand, gave her a tug.

“Cut it out.” But her own hand reached back and gave his butt a quick squeeze. “I’ve got real cop work to do.”

“You uniforms only wish you could dance the cop dance like us EDDs. Listen, you want to go out tonight?”

Being pressed against him always managed to get her lust quotient hopping. “I guess I could come by after shift.”

He nearly let it go at that as an image of her out of that uniform swirled into his mind. Still, Roarke hadn’t said they couldn’t have sex after the date. “No, I was thinking we could go out.”

“It’s too cold to have sex outdoors.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again as the image in his mind switched to rolling naked with Peabody in the shadows of Central Park. If they didn’t get mugged, knifed, or murdered, it would be incredible.

“Is sex all you think about? Not that I’m against it, but how about we go to the Nexus Club, catch some music. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Pick me up? You’ll pick me up?”

“That’ll give you time to change.” It was interesting, he thought, seeing her look at him as if he’d grown a third ear in the center of his forehead.

“Peabody! Move your ass!”

“You better go.” He smiled as Eve’s irritated voice boomed up the stairs. “I’ll catch you later.”

And because he was feeling lucky, he crushed his mouth down on hers, sucking until the kiss broke with a wet, sexy sound.

Peabody stumbled back and staggered out the door.

Eve grabbed a cup of coffee and was forced to settle for an energy bar as the candy thief had hit her again. The first chance she got, she was setting a trap for the sneaky bastard. But at the moment, she had other priorities.

She caught the glide to the interview area and picked up Feeney on the way.

“This guy likes to role play,” Eve began. “I don’t want to give him the chance to latch onto a character type. Let’s mess with his rhythm.”

“I want to be bad cop this time.”

“Feeney, you’re—” She stopped, sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

Feeney hunched his shoulder. “I don’t smell anything. I’m taking bad cop.” He said it so decisively, Eve rolled her eyes, then shrugged.

“Okay, fine. I’ll start off being pleasant and reasonable, then we’ll jam him. If he’s lawyered . . .” She sniffed again, scenting the air like a bloodhound as other cops and Central personnel streamed by. “It smells, I don’t know, green,” she decided. “Like a salad.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s keep focused, okay? A guy whips hell out of somebody like this one did, he’s got a temper. Let’s see if we can heat it up.”

“Fine.” As they stepped off the glide, she leaned in, sniffed at Feeney. “Hey, it’s you.”

“Shut up, Dallas.”

She grinned now, as the back of the neck she’d just sniffed turned cherry red. “How come you smell like a fancy green salad, Feeney?”

“Quiet down, will you? Christ.” He darted looks right and left until he was sure no one was close enough to hear. Then he lowered his voice to a mutter, just in case. “Look, my wife gave me this stuff for our anniversary.”

“You’re supposed to put salad dressing on lettuce and stuff, Feeney.”

“It’s not salad dressing, it’s cologne.”

“You smell good enough to eat.”

His mouth found a spot between a snarl and a sneer. “Yeah, that’s what she says. Keep it down, will you? I couldn’t get out of the house this morning without putting it on, or I’d’ve hurt her feelings. You have to get pretty close to catch it, but the damn stuff lasts hours. I’ve been taking stairs and glides all day. I can’t risk an elevator.”

“Gee, that’s really sweet, Feeney. Maybe you could tell her you want to save it for special occasions.”

“You think she’d tumble for that? Dallas, you don’t understand women.”

“Got me there.” They turned the corner and saw Peabody outside Interview Three talking to another uniform. Eve recognized the tall young cop, sent him a nod when he turned, saw her, flushed.

“Well, it’s Officer Trueheart. How’s it going?”

“It’s going good, Lieutenant. The suspect’s inside.”

“Subject,” Eve corrected. “We’re not calling him suspect at this point.” She watched him process the difference in procedure. She could smell rookie on him as clearly as she could smell Feeney’s cologne. “Did the subject request a lawyer or representative?”

“No, sir. I think—” He cut himself off, stiffened his already soldierly back. “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.”

“You’re allowed to think, Trueheart. In fact, we encourage thinking around here.” She remembered, with some bitterness, his first trainer who’d not only discouraged thinking, but humanity. “Give me your take.”

“Yes, sir. Well, sir, I think he’s too mad to ask for representation at this time. Mad, Lieutenant, plus he wants to go a few rounds with you. In my opinion. The subject referred to you in . . . inflammatory terms during transport.”

“And here I was planning to be nice to him. Stand by, Trueheart. You can go to Observation if you want. We’ll need you to transport the subject, one way or the other, after interview.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. And I’d like to express my appreciation for your assistance in having me transferred from stiff-scooping detail to Central.”

“The transfer was easy, Trueheart. Staying here will be up to you. Are we set?” she asked Peabody and Feeney.

She opened the door, strolled inside.

Stiles sat at the small table, his arms crossed, his face mutinous. He sent Eve one steely glare. “And what is the meaning of this outrage, Lieutenant Dallas? I want an explanation as to why I was removed from my home by two uniformed officers and shoved into the backseat of a police car.”

“Peabody, make a note to speak with said uniformed officers. No shoving.”

“So noted, sir.”

“Record on,” she said meandering to the table. “Interview with subject Kenneth Stiles, regarding case number HS46178-C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, as primary. Also in attendance Feeney, Captain Ryan, and Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Stiles, have you been informed of your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“The cop with peach fuzz on his chin recited the standard. I want to know—”

“And do you understand these rights and obligations, Mr. Stiles?”

He showed his teeth. “I’m not a nitwit; of course I understand them. I insist—”

“I apologize for the inconvenience.” She settled back, tried out a smile. There was no need to repeat the revised Miranda and remind him he could holler lawyer. “I realize this is unpleasant for you, again apologize for the inconvenience, and will try to expedite this interview.”

Feeney gave a sharp snort so that Eve sent him a quick, worried look that had Stiles shifting in his seat.

“What is this about?” Stiles demanded. “I have a right to know why I’ve been dragged down here like a common criminal.”

“You’ve been read your rights, Stiles.” Feeney’s voice was clipped and harsh. “Now we’re the ones who ask the questions.”

“I’ve already answered questions. I don’t know anything other than what I’ve already told Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I guess you don’t know anything about that poor slob who ended up dangling by his neck a couple feet off the floor, either.”

“Feeney.” Eve held up her hands for peace. “Easy.”

Feeney folded his arms over his chest and tried to look burly. “He keeps pulling my chain, I’m pulling his back.”

“Let’s take a minute. Want some water?”

Stiles blinked at her, baffled. He’d been ready to rip into Eve, and now she was giving him sympathetic looks and offering him water. “Yes, yes, I would.”

“Why don’t you offer him a snack while you’re at it?”

Ignoring Feeney, Eve rose to fill a small cup with lukewarm water. “Mr. Stiles, some new information has come to light regarding your relationship with Richard Draco.”

“What new information? I told you—”

“I said we ask the questions.” Feeney came half out of his chair. “You didn’t tell us squat. You didn’t tell us you kicked Draco’s face in, did you? A guy puts another guy in the hospital, maybe he finds a way to come back around and put him in the ground.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stiles’s voice was smooth, even, but his hand trembled lightly as he took the cup of water.

“Mr. Stiles, I’m going to warn you that there’s a very stiff penalty for lying in interview.” Eve leaned forward so that Stiles would focus on her face. “You don’t want that kind of trouble; take my word for it. You cooperate with me, and I’m going to do what I can to straighten this out. If you’re not straight with me, I can’t help you. And it’s going to be tough for you to help yourself.”

“Guy’s a coward,” Feeney said in disgust. “Takes Draco out, but hides behind some poor woman to do it.”

“I never—” The mutiny in Stiles’s eyes turned to horrified shock. “My God, you can’t believe I actually arranged Richard’s death. That’s absurd.”

“At least he used to have some guts,” Feeney went on, and deliberately cracked his knuckles in three nasty little pops. “Used his own hands to pound Draco’s face in. Must’ve really ticked him off, huh, Stiles. You actor guys are fussy about your pretty faces.”

Stiles moistened his lips. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Richard’s death. I’ve told you everything I know about it.”

Eve put a hand on Feeney’s shoulder as if to restrain him, then with a sigh, rose. “The file, Officer Peabody. Hard copy.”

“Yes, sir.” Keeping her face blank, Peabody offered Eve a folder.

Eve sat with it, opened it, gave Stiles a chance to read as much as he could manage upside down. And watched his color drain. “I have documents here relating to both criminal and civil actions, which involve you, as defendant.”

“Those matters were resolved years ago. Years. And sealed. I was assured they were sealed.”

“This is murder, pal.” Feeney’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Seal’s broken.”

“Let’s give the guy a chance to settle into this, Feeney. Mr. Stiles, we were authorized to break the seal due to the course of this investigation.”

“You don’t owe him explanations.”

“Let’s just keep it smooth,” Eve murmured to Feeney. “You were charged with assaulting Richard Draco, causing extensive bodily harm, mental and emotional trauma.”

“It was twenty-four years ago. For God’s sake.”

“I know. I understand that. But . . . you indicated to me in your previous statement, on record, that you and the deceased had no overt difficulties. And yet . . .” Eve said, letting the silence hang a moment. “At one time you were driven to assault him seriously enough to result in his hospitalization, in your arrest, in a seven-figure civil suit.”

The paper cup crumpled in Stiles’s hand. Little drops of water flew. “It was all resolved.”

“Look, Kenneth.” She used his first name now, establishing intimacy. “The fact is, everything I’ve come up with on Draco points to him being a sorry son of a bitch. I have to figure you had cause to lay into him. Good cause. You were seriously provoked. You don’t strike me as a violent man.”

“I’m not.” The sheen of sophistication had turned into a sheen of sweat. It gleamed on his face as he nodded at Eve. “No, I’m not. Of course, I’m not.”

Feeney snorted again. “I’ll buy that one. Didn’t even have the nerve to stick Draco himself.”

“I didn’t kill Richard!” Stiles’s voice rose, boomed as he looked at Feeney. “I had nothing to do with it. What happened before, good Lord, I was hardly more than a boy.”

“I understand that, Mr. Stiles. You were young, you were provoked.” Sympathy rang in Eve’s voice. She got up, filled another cup with water, brought it back to him. “Tell me how it happened. Why it happened. All I want to do is clear this up so you can go home.”

Stiles closed his eyes, drew air in slowly, released it. “We’d both begun to make our marks in theater, in small regional theaters. Not much of a mark, of course, but we were beginning. We were both aiming for New York. Broadway was enjoying a rich revival in those days.”

His voice warmed a bit as he remembered his youth, that sense of anticipation, invulnerability. Color came back to his cheeks. “It was a return to the lights, the glamour, the brilliance after the destruction of the Urban Wars. People were looking for entertainment, for escape and, I suppose, for heros who didn’t carry weapons. We were a tight and perhaps an arrogant circle. It was a heady time, Lieutenant, a renaissance. We were treated like royalty. Offstage, we lived very large lives. Excessive lives. Sex, illegals, lavish parties.”

He picked up his water again, drank deeply. “It ruined some of us. I would say it ruined Richard. He reveled in the fame, in the excesses. It never affected his work, that was his genius, but offstage, he indulged in every possible vice. There was a cruelty to him, particularly toward women. He crushed more than one on his way. He liked to brag about it, to make bets about which woman he’d have next. I found it . . . unpleasant.”

He cleared his throat, shoved his cup away. “There was a woman, a girl, really. We were seeing each other. It wasn’t serious, but we enjoyed each other’s company. Then Richard began the hunt. He stalked her, lured her, and in the end, ruined her. When he cast her off, it broke her. I went to her apartment. I don’t know what instinct sent me there. When I found her, she . . . she was on the point of taking her own life. She had already slashed her wrists. I got her to a health center. I . . .”

He trailed off, hesitated, then continued with obvious difficulty. “They saved her, but something inside me snapped when I looked at her lying there, so pale, so used. I got drunk, then I went after Richard.”

Stiles ran his hands over his face. “I might have killed him that night. I admit it. But people from the neighboring apartments stopped me. Afterward, I realized what a useless gesture it had been. It changed nothing and cost me a great deal. Instead of damaging Richard, I could have destroyed my own career, my own life. I put myself at his mercy, you see. He agreed to the settlements and the seals to protect his own image. I had reason to be grateful he was just that self-interested. It took me three years to pay off the suit, with merciless interest. Then I put it behind me.”

“Seems to me you had plenty of reason to hate the son of a bitch,” Feeney put in.

“Perhaps.” Steadier now that the story was told, Stiles nodded. “But hate takes enormous amounts of time and energy. I prefer employing mine in more positive channels. I have everything I want; I enjoy my life. I would never risk it again on the likes of Richard Draco.”

“Not such a risk when you put the knife in the hands of a woman.”

Stiles’s head snapped up. His eyes burned. “I don’t use women. I’ve had nearly twenty-five years to learn a lesson, Lieutenant. Richard Draco stopped mattering to me a very long time ago.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“I don’t know.” He heaved a huge sigh, full of regret. “She ceased to be part of my life. I believe the fact that I knew what had happened made it difficult for her to be around me, to maintain our friendship.”

“Seems to me she’d have been grateful.”

“She was, Lieutenant. But like me, she had to put the incident, all of it, behind her. I went to London very shortly after the incident, worked there, and then in California, in Canada. We didn’t keep in touch, and I never heard of her again.”

Convenient, Eve thought. Maybe just a little too convenient. “What was her name?”

“Is that necessary?”

“It’s a sad story you tell, Mr. Stiles. An effective one. But there’s no one here to back it up. What was her name?”

“Anja Carvell.” He looked back into the past, then down at his hands. “Her name was Anja. I’ve told you all I can.”

“One more thing. Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of ten and eleven?”

“Yesterday? It’s the hour I take my daily exercise. A brisk walk in the park.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“I was alone.” His voice was cold again. The temper was coming back, but it was more controlled. “Am I to be detained any longer? I have a memorial service to attend.”

“You’re advised not to leave the city.” Eve studied his face. There was something off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Any attempt to do so will result in an immediate warrant for your detention.”

She rose, signaled toward Observation and Trueheart.

“An officer will take you back to your apartment. Oh, Mr. Stiles, one last thing. Did you ever have occasion to converse with Linus Quim?”

“Quim?” Stiles got to his feet, brushed the back of his fingertips down his lapel. “No. One didn’t converse with Quim. He had a disdain for people in my profession. An odd little man. I wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered he’d switched the knives. He really couldn’t stand actors.”

“Peabody, start tracking down Anja Carvell.”

“I don’t like the way it plays,” Feeney commented. “Too slick.”

“Yeah, I was waiting for the lights to come up and the music to start. Still, it could’ve gone down pretty much like he said.”

“Even if it did, it doesn’t change anything. He had a hard-on for Draco, a big, fat one. He strikes me as the type who’d chew on it for at least two decades.”

“I like him for a long-term planner,” Eve agreed. “Somebody who keeps slights and annoyances tucked in little boxes. And as someone who wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty, not a second time.”

But something was out of step. Details left out, or details added in. “We’ll see how the Carvell connection shakes out,” she decided. “He was leaving holes, picking what he wanted to tell us, how he wanted it told. Adlibbing,” she mused. “Isn’t that what they call it? He did a good job of it.”

“I think he was in love with Anja.” Peabody had her palm unit out but hadn’t yet started the scan. “It makes a difference if he was.”

Eve shuffled back her own thoughts, turned to her aide. “Where do you get that from?”

“It was the way he talked about her before he started to think it through, before he started picking his way. He got this look in his eyes. Wistful.”

Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “He got a wistful look in his eye?”

“Yeah, just for a minute, he was really thinking about her, about the way it was, or the way he’d wanted it to be. I think she was the love of his life. When you’ve got one of those, it does stuff to you.”

“Define stuff.”

“It makes you think about them even when you’re doing routine things. It makes you want to protect them, to make them happy and safe. You know,” Peabody said with some frustration. “You’ve got one.”

“One what?”

“Love of your life, jeez, Dallas. But see, you’re the love of his right back. This wasn’t the same way, because she threw him over for Draco. If you were to go insane and throw Roarke over for somebody, what do you think he’d do?”

“Before or after this somebody was no more than a smudge on the bottom of Roarke’s shoe?”

“See?” Pleased, Peabody grinned. “If you’ve got a love of your life, you know.” She paused, sniffed. “Something smells really good.”

“Just keep going,” Feeney ordered quickly. “If the theory is that Stiles was stuck on this Carvell woman, how does that change the picture?”

“Because you never get over the love of your life. That’s the whole definition, isn’t it? You only get one. So that bit about him losing touch with her was bull.”

“I like it. If we find that Stiles had some contact with the woman, we’ve got a motive that spans a quarter century. The setup suits him in both murders. He had opportunity.”

“It’s all circumstantial,” Feeney reminded her.

“Yeah, but we pile on enough, we might finesse a confession out of him. Find the woman, Peabody. If you run into snags, hook up with McNab on it. Feeney, how do you feel about going to a splashy memorial service?”

“My wife loves it when I rub elbows with celebrities.”

“Peabody, we’re in the field.”

“Yes, sir.” She watched them head off, and had a sudden craving for a big, chunky salad.

Feeney’s wife was going to be delirious. Performers from every medium were in attendance. The service was held at Radio City. Though Draco had never performed there, its Art Deco glamour had just the right ambiance. Word was Draco’s agent had hired the top Mourner’s Association company to arrange the affair.

And as it was, technically, Draco’s last performance, he’d skimmed off 15 percent of the gross.

Enormous screens flickered with Draco in dozens of images. There was a holo-performance running on a side stage, with Draco in full costume, defending country and womankind with sword and fancy footwork.

For two hundred and fifty dollars a pop, a thousand lucky fans could attend. The rest were invited guests.

There were seas of flowers, islands of people in sophisticated black, streams of gawkers who, despite the posted request, were busy immortalizing the event on disc.

On the main stage, atop a white pedestal, was Draco himself, resting in a coffin of pale blue glass.

“Hell of a show.”

Eve just shook her head. “They’re selling souvenirs. Did you see? Little Draco dolls, T-shirts.”

“There’s nothing like free enterprise,” Roarke said from behind her. She turned, eyed him up and down.

“Why are you here?”

“Lieutenant, have you forgotten? The deceased met his end while starring in a play in my theater. How could I stay away? Besides . . .” He patted the pocket of his elegant suit. “I got an invitation.”

“I thought you had meetings all day.”

“The advantage of being in charge . . . is being in charge. I took an hour.” With his hand lightly on her shoulder, he scanned the crowd, the lights, the screens. “Appalling, isn’t it?”

“And then some. Feeney, let’s split up, see what we see. I’ll meet you at the main entrance, one hour.”

“You got it.” He spotted several faces he knew from on-screen and a banquet table. No reason he couldn’t see what he saw with his mouth full.

“Roarke, if I ditched you twenty-five years ago, would you still be hung up about it?”

He smiled, caressed her hair. “Difficult to say, as I’d have spent that time hounding you and making your life a living hell.”

“No, seriously.”

“Who said I wasn’t?” He took her arm, led her through the crowd.

“Let’s pretend you’re someone less annoying.”

“Ah. All right. If you’d broken my heart, I’d attempt to pick up the shattered pieces and rebuild my life. But I’d never forget you. What have you got?”

“Peabody’s got a theory about love, the love of your life. I’m playing with it.”

“I can tell you, you’re mine.”

“No kissing,” she hissed, seeing the intent in his eyes. “I’m on duty here. There’s Michael Proctor. Smiling. I went over his financials, and he paid over ten K for that dental work, while he lives in a sty. He’s chatting with that slick-looking woman over there. He doesn’t look so shook up or bumbling now.”

“He’s talking with Marcina, one of the top screen producers in the business. Could be your boy is hoping for a career shift.”

“Less than a week ago, the stage was his life. Interesting. Let’s see how he holds up.”

She worked her way over, noted the instant Proctor saw her. His eyes widened, his head drooped, and his shoulders hunched in. Presto-chango, Eve thought, from debonair leading man to fumbling second lead in a blink. The magic of theater.

“Proctor.”

“Ah, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. I didn’t realize you’d be attending.”

“I get around.” Deliberately, she scanned the theater. “I guess Quim can’t expect this kind of send-off.”

“Quim? Oh.” He had the grace, or the skill, to flush. “No, no, I suppose not. Richard was . . . he was known and respected by so many people.”

“A lot of them sure are toasting him.” She leaned over, studied the pretty bubbles in the glass he held. “With premium champagne.”

“He would have expected no less.” This from the woman Roarke had identified as Marcina. “This event suits him perfectly.” She shifted her gaze over Eve’s shoulder, then beamed. “Roarke! I wondered if I’d see you here.”

“Marcina.” He stepped up, lightly kissed her cheek. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m very well. Dallas,” she said after a moment, and pinned Eve with her sharp gaze. “Of course. This must be your wife. I’ve heard a great deal about you, Lieutenant.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Proctor said.

“Don’t run off on my account,” Eve told Proctor, but he was already edging away.

“I see a friend.” He dived into the crowd like a man leaping overboard.

“I assume you’re on duty?” Marcina skimmed a glance over Eve’s trousers and serviceable jacket. “You’re investigating Richard’s death.”

“That’s right. Would you mind telling me what you and Proctor were talking about?”

“Is he a suspect?” Lips pursed, Marcina looked over to where Proctor had disappeared. “Fascinating. Actually, it was shop talk. Michael has the right look for a screen project I’m putting together. We were discussing the possibility of him coming out to New L.A. for a few days.”

“And is he?”

“Perhaps. But he’s committed to his current play. He’s quite looking forward to taking Richard’s place onstage. Not that he put it quite so tactlessly. My people will be talking to his people, as it were, over the next week or two to see if we can work something out. He hoped that the theater will reopen very soon.”

The minute Eve stepped outside, she took a deep gulp of air thick with the stink of smoke from glide-carts, screaming with the noise of street and air traffic. She preferred it over the sweetly perfumed air inside.

“Proctor isn’t letting Draco get cold before he steps into his shoes.”

“He sees an opportunity,” Roarke commented.

“Yeah. So did the killer.”

“Point taken.” He traced a fingertip over the dent in her chin. “I might be a little late tonight. I should be home by eight.”

“Okay.”

“I have something for you.”

“Oh, come on.” When he reached in his pocket, she stuffed her hands in hers. “This isn’t the time or place for presents.”

“I see. Then I guess I’ll just keep this for myself.”

Instead of the jewelry case she’d expected, he pulled out a jumbo chocolate bar. Her hand whipped out of her pocket, snatched it.

“Then again,” Roarke murmured.

“You bought me a candy bar.”

“I know the way to your heart, Lieutenant.”

She tore off the wrapping, bit in. “I guess you do. Thanks.”

“It’s not dinner,” he said with a narrowed eye. “But if you can hold off, we’ll have some together when I get home.”

“Sure. You got transpo?”

“I’ll walk. It’s a nice day.” He caught her face, kissed her before she could tell him not to.

Chewing her candy, she watched him walk away. And thought she understood exactly what Peabody meant by the love of a lifetime.

Mira studied the record of the interview with Kenneth Stiles. She sipped her tea while Eve paced. In another five minutes, she would have been on her way home. Eve had caught her as she’d been locking up.

Now she would be late. That thought shifted through the back of her mind as she focused on the interview. Her husband would understand, particularly if she made a quick detour on the way and picked up a carton of his favorite ice cream.

She’d learned long ago the tricks and balances of blending a demanding career and a successful marriage.

“You and Feeney are an excellent interview team,” she commented. “You read each other well.”

“We’ve been doing it awhile.” Eve wanted to hurry Mira along but knew better. “I think he’s been practicing that hard-ass look in the mirror.”

That brought out a smile. “I imagine so. Given his comfortable face, it’s surprisingly effective. Am I correct in assuming you don’t believe Stiles told the whole truth?”

“Are you ever wrong?”

“Now and again. You’re looking for this Anja Carvell?”

“Peabody’s tracking her.”

“He had, and has, strong feelings for her. I’d say she was a turning point for him. If it had been a storybook, the woman would have come to him after he defended her. Happily ever after. But—”

“She didn’t want him.”

“Or didn’t love him enough, felt unworthy, humiliated, scarred.” Mira lifted a hand. “There are countless reasons why she and Stiles didn’t match. Without observing her, I couldn’t say. Still, it’s Stiles’s emotional and mental state that interests you.”

“Peabody’s idea is that this woman was the love of his life, and because of that, he’d never have completely lost touch with her.”

“I think Peabody has good instincts. He protected her, defended her. A man with his sense of theater or drama would tend to put himself in the role of hero, and she his damsel in distress. He may very well still be doing so.”

“She’s key,” Eve murmured. “Maybe not the key, but a key.” With her hands in her pockets, she wandered to Mira’s window. She was feeling closed in today and couldn’t say why. “I don’t get it,” she said at length. “The woman shrugs him off, sleeps with another guy, folds herself into this other guy so completely that when he tosses her away, she tries to self-terminate. And still Stiles is hung up on her. He beats hell out of Draco, gets himself arrested, gets skinned in a civil suit. And when he talks about her twenty-five years later, he goes soft. Why isn’t he bitter? Why isn’t he pissed? Is he jamming me here?”

“I can’t say with absolute certainty. He’s a talented actor. But my evaluation at this point is no, as far as his feelings for the woman, he’s not jamming you. Eve, the human heart is a mystery we’ll never completely solve. You’re putting yourself in this man’s place. That’s one of the skills you have, what makes you so good at what you do. But you can’t quite get into his heart. You would look at this woman and see weakness.”

Mira sipped more tea as Eve turned. “She was weak. Weak and careless.”

“And quite young, I imagine, but that’s beside the point. You look at love differently because you’re strong and because of where and in whom you found it. The love of your life, Eve, would never betray you or hurt you or, where it matters most, ever let you down. He accepts who you are, absolutely. As much as you love him, I don’t think you fully understand how rare and how precious that is. Stiles loved, and perhaps still loves, a fantasy. You have the reality.”

“People kill for both.”

“Yes.” Mira ejected the disc, held it out to Eve. “They do.”

All the talk about love and lifetimes got under Eve’s skin and made her feel uncomfortably guilty. She played back what others had said and realized everyone who had mentioned her relationship with Roarke as an example had spoken of what he would do for her or wouldn’t do to her.

It wasn’t, she decided, a very pretty picture of her participation in the whole love and marriage deal.

She never really did anything, she thought. She still had a miserable time finding the right words, the right gesture, the right moment. Roarke seemed to pluck them out of the air as easily, as smoothly, as he plucked his fortune.

So she’d make an effort. She’d push the case onto the back burner, okay, the side burner, she admitted, and do something, Jesus, romantic.

In her current state of mind, she wanted to avoid Summerset at all costs, so she actually put her car in the garage. Then, like a thief, she snuck in the house through one of the side doors.

She was about to plan her first intimate dinner.

How hard could it be? she asked herself as she jumped into the shower. She’d led tactical teams in hostage situations, tracked psychopaths, outwitted the deranged.

She was smart enough to put a fancy meal on a fancy table. Probably.

She zipped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Not in the bedroom, she decided, because that was, well, obvious, and she thought, most likely, romance should be subtle.

She’d use one of the lounging rooms.

As the hot air whirled around her, she began to plot.

Thirty minutes later, she was feeling both satisfied and frazzled. There were so many damn rooms in the house, she still didn’t believe she’d been in all of them. And all the damn rooms had stuff, enormous amounts of stuff. How was she supposed to figure out what was needed?

Candles, she got that, but when she ran an inventory scan, she discovered a veritable forest of candles in several areas. Still, the satisfaction came from skulking through the house, evading the ever-watchful Summerset.

She decided on white, because color meant she’d most likely have to match it with more colors, and that was just more than she could handle. She spent another twenty minutes dealing with the menu, then had to face the frightening ordeal of selecting plates, flatware, crystal.

It had been a shock to run an inventory on something as basic as dinner plates and find her husband had over fifty types of varying material and patterns.

What kind of maniac needed over five thousand plates?

Her maniac, she reminded herself, then nearly choked when she ran the crystal.

“Okay, that’s got to be wrong.” She was at the point of choosing at random because her time was running short.

“Might I ask precisely what you’re doing?”

A lesser woman would have yelped. Eve managed, just barely, to bite it back. “Get lost. I’m busy.”

Summerset simply strode over, the cat at his heels. “So I observe. If you wish to know the contents of the house, I suggest you discuss it with Roarke.”

“I can’t because I’ve killed him, disposed of his body, and now I’m going to hold the biggest auction, on or off planet, in the history of civilization.”

She jabbed a finger against something called Waterford, Dublin pattern, only because she recognized it as the city where Roarke had been born. Then she looked up with a scowl toward the hovering Summerset. “Go away.”

But his attention had shifted from her to the table under the glass dome of the observation balcony. She’d used the Irish linen, he noted. An excellent choice, which was probably blind luck. The Georgian candlesticks, white tapers. There were dozens of other candles, all white, scattered around the lounging room, as yet unlighted.

Galahad the cat pranced over and leaped onto the satin pillows on the love seat.

“Jesus Christ, they’re just forks and knives!”

The combination of horror and frustration in her tone had Summerset’s lips twitching. “Which china pattern have you selected?”

“I don’t know. Will you get out of here? This is a private party.”

He tapped her hand aside before she could select, scanned her other choices, and ordered the proper flatware. “You’ve neglected to order napkins.”

“I was getting to them.”

He turned a pitying eye on her. She was wearing a cotton robe, had yet to enhance her face. Her hair was standing in spikes from the constant swipe of her fingers.

But he gave her points for the attempt. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by her taste. Though some of her selections were unconventional in combinations, they managed to blend into a rather charming ambiance.

“When one plans a special meal,” he said, taking care to look down the long line of his nose at her, “One requires the proper accompaniments.”

“What am I doing here? Playing Space Attack? Now, if you’d just go slither under the door again, I could finish up.”

“Flowers are necessary.”

“Flowers?” Her stomach pitched to her feet. “I knew that.” She wasn’t going to ask. She’d saw her tongue off with her teeth before she asked.

For a humming ten seconds they simply stared at each other. He took pity on her, though he told himself he was simply maintaining his authority as majordomo. “I would suggest roses, the Royal Silver.”

“I guess we’ve got those.”

“Yes, they can be accessed. You’ll also require music.”

Her palms started to sweat. Annoyed, she rubbed them on the robe. “I was going to program something.” Or other.

“I assume you intend to dress for the evening.”

“Shit.” She heaved out a breath, stared hard at the cat who was staring hard back at her. She suspected he was grinning.

“It’s part of my duties to organize matters such as this. If you’ll go put on something . . . more, I’ll arrange the rest.”

She opened her mouth to agree. Already the knots in her stomach loosened. Then she shook her head and felt them tighten right back up again. “No, I have to do it myself. That’s the point.” She massaged her forehead. She was getting a headache. Perfect.

His face remained stern, cold, but inside, he softened like jelly. “Then you’d better hurry. Roarke will be home within the hour.”

She would, Summerset concluded as he left her alone, need every minute of it.

His mind was on business when he got home. His last meeting of the day had involved a textile conglomerate looking for a buyout. He had to decide if he was looking to buy.

The company, and most of its subsidiaries, had been sloppily run. Roarke had no sympathy for sloppy business practices. As a result, his initial offer had been insultingly low.

The fact that their negotiator hadn’t been nearly as insulted as he should have been sent up red flags. He would have to do more research before he took the next step.

The problem would be on one of their two off-planet sites, he calculated. It might be worth a trip to study them firsthand.

There had been a time he would have simply arranged his schedule and done so. But in the past year it had become increasingly less appealing to leave home, even for the short term.

He had, he thought with some amusement at himself, become rooted.

He stopped by Eve’s office on the way to his own, was mildly surprised not to find her there, neck deep in her current case. Curiosity had him setting his own work aside and moving to the house scanner.

“Where is Eve?”

Eve is currently in Lounging Room Four, third level, south wing.

“What the hell is she doing in there?”

Would you like to engage monitor?

“No, I’ll go see for myself.”

He’d never known her to loiter in that area of the house. The fact was, he’d never known her to lounge unless he nagged, seduced, or conned her into it.

It occurred to him it might be pleasant to have their meal there, relax together with a bottle of wine, and shake their respective days from their minds.

He’d have to talk her into it.

Thinking this, he walked into the room. If she’d been looking in his direction, she would have caught one of the rare moments when her husband was completely flabbergasted.

The room was lit with dozens of white candles, and the fragrance of them waltzed with the tender perfume of dozens of silver roses. Crystal glinted, silver gleamed, and the romance of harp strings wept in the air.

In the midst of it, Eve stood in an alarm-red dress that left her arms and shoulders bare as it skimmed down her long, slim body like an avid lover’s hungry hands.

Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with concentration, as she twisted the wire on a bottle of champagne.

“Excuse me.” He saw her lovely shoulders jerk, her only sign of surprise. “I’m looking for my wife.”

Her stomach jittered a little, but she turned, smiled. He had a face made for candlelight, she thought. For slow and simmering fires. Looking at it never failed to start one in her blood. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Glancing around the room, he walked toward her. “What’s all this?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner,” he repeated, and his eyes narrowed. “What have you done? You’re not hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” Still smiling, she popped the cork, relieved when champagne didn’t come spraying out.

He frowned as she poured champagne into crystal flutes. “All right, what do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I know a setup when I see one. What do you want?”

Her smile wavered. It took a great deal of effort to keep it from turning into a snarl. Sticking to the steps she’d carefully outlined, she handed him his wine, gently tapped her glass to his. “What, I can’t put together a nice dinner without ulterior motives?”

He thought about it. “No.”

She set the bottle on the table with an ominous crack. “Look, it’s dinner, okay? You don’t want to eat, fine.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to eat.” She was wearing perfume, he noted. And lip dye. She’d fussed with her eyes. He reached out to toy with the tear-shaped diamond pendant he’d given her. “What are you up to, Eve?”

That tore it. “Nothing. Forget it. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I lost my mind for a minute. No, for two sweaty, stupid hours. That’s what it took to put this fiasco together. I’m going to work.”

He caught her arm before she could march past him and wasn’t the least surprised to see the quick flare of violence in her eyes. But he was surprised to see hurt.

“I don’t think so.”

“You want to keep that hand, pal, you’ll move it.”

“Ah, there she is. For a moment, I thought you’d been replaced by a droid. It gave me a bad start.”

“I bet you think that’s funny.”

“I think I’ve hurt your feelings, and I’m sorry.” He brushed his lips over her forehead even as he flipped desperately through his mental calendar. “Have I forgotten an occasion?”

“No. No.” She stepped back. “No,” she said again, and felt ridiculous. “I just wanted to do something for you. To give you something. And you can just stop looking at me like I’ve fried a few circuits. You think you’re the only one who can put this kind of deal together? Well, you’re right. You are. I nearly stunned myself with my own weapon a half a dozen times tonight just to put myself out of my misery. Oh fuck it.”

She picked up her glass again, stalked to the wide, curved window.

Roarke winced and began the delicate task of extracting his feet from his mouth. “It’s lovely, Eve. And so are you.”

“Oh, don’t start with me.”

“Eve—”

“Just because I don’t do this kind of thing, because I don’t take the time—hell because I don’t think of it, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.” She spun around, and he wouldn’t have described the look on her face as particularly loving. She’d gone back to fury. “You’re the one who’s always doing the things, saying the words. Giving . . .” She fumbled a moment. “Just giving. I wanted to give something back.”

She was beautiful. Hurt and angry, passionate and pissed, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. “You steal my breath,” he murmured.

“I’ve got this whole love of a lifetime thing in my head. Murder, betrayal, rage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” She paused, took a deep breath. “The last couple of days people have said things that keep sticking in my brain. Would you jump in front of a maxibus for me?”

“Absolutely. They don’t go very fast.”

She laughed, relieving him considerably. “That’s what I said. Oh hell, I messed this up. I knew I would.”

“No, I took care of that.” He moved to her, took her hand. “Do you love me enough to give me another chance at this?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling Eve.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “What you’ve done here means a great deal to me. You, you mean everything to me.”

“See how you do that. Slick as spit.”

He trailed his fingers over the curve of her shoulder. “I like the dress.”

It was a good thing, she thought, he hadn’t seen her frozen panic when she’d opened her closet. “I thought it would work.”

“It does. Very well.” He picked up her glass, then his own. “Let’s try this again. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I’d say it was nothing, but that would be a big, fat lie. Just tell me this one thing. Why do you have a million plates?”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“Not by much.”

“Well, you never know who might be coming to dinner, do you?”

“Including the entire population of New Zealand.” She sipped champagne. “Now, I’m behind schedule.”

“Have we a schedule?”

“Yeah. You know, drinks, dinner, conversation. Blah blah. It all ends up with me getting you drunk and seducing you.”

“I like the end goal. Since I came close to spoiling things, the least I can do now is cooperate.” He started to pick up the bottle, but she laid a hand on his arm.

“Dance with me.” She slid her hands up his chest, linked them behind his neck. “Close. And slow.”

His arms came around her. His body swayed with hers. And his blood leapt with love, with lust, as her mouth brushed silkily over his.

“I love the taste of you.” Her voice was husky now, soft. “It always makes me want more.”

“Have more.”

But when he attempted to deepen the kiss, she turned her head, skimmed those heated lips along his jaw. “Slow,” she said again. “The way I’m going to make love with you.” She nibbled her way to his ear. “So that it’s almost torture.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair, all that gorgeous black, fisted them, drew his head back until their eyes met. His were deep and blue and already hot.

“I want you to say my name when I take you.” She teased his mouth with hers again, retreated, felt his body tighten like a bow against hers. “Say it so that I know nothing exists for you but me at that moment. Nothing exists for me but you. You’re all there is.”

Her mouth took his now, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues. She felt his moan start low, start deep, then merge with her own. She let herself tremble, let herself ache, then pulled back, pulled away a breath before surrender.

“Eve.”

She heard the strain in his voice, enjoyed it as she picked up their glasses again. “Thirsty?”

“No.” He started to reach for her, but she shifted away, thrust out his glass. “I am. Have a drink. I want to go to your head.”

“You do. Let me have you.”

“I will. After I’ve had you.” She picked up a small remote, pressed a series of buttons. On the side wall, panels opened. The bed that had been tucked behind them was heaped with pillows. “That’s where I want you. Eventually.”

She took a long sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “You’re not drinking.”

“You’re killing me.”

Delighted, she laughed, and the sound was like smoke. “It’s going to get worse.”

Now he did drink, then set his glass aside. “Praise God.”

She walked back to him, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. “I love your body,” she murmured, slowly working open the buttons of his shirt. “I’m going to spend a lot of time enjoying it tonight.”

It was a powerful rush, she thought, to make a strong man quiver. She felt that dance of muscles as she traced a fingertip down his chest to the hook of his trousers.

Instead of releasing them, she smiled. “You’d better sit down.”

There was a throbbing in his blood, primal, edging toward violent. It took a great deal of effort not to yield to it, to drag her to the floor and answer that urgent beat.

“No, not here,” she said, and lifting his hand, nipped lightly at his knuckles. “I don’t think you’ll be able to manage to cross the room when I’m done.”

It wasn’t the wine making his head swim. She guided him across the room, a kind of lazy, circling dance with her in the lead. When she eased him down to sit on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, brushed her hands slowly, intimately down his legs. And took off his shoes.

She rose. “I’ll just go get the wine.”

“I’m not interested in wine.”

She walked away, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You will be. When I start licking it off you.”

She topped off the glasses, brought them back to set them on the small, carved table by the bed. Then, watching him, her eyes gold and full of the light from the candles, she began to peel the dress down her body.

He wondered that his system didn’t simply implode.

“Christ. Christ Jesus.”

The Irish had leaped back into his voice, as she knew it did when he was distracted, angry, aroused. The simple sign made her glad she’d taken the time and trouble to, well, dress for the evening.

The siren-red lingerie was an erotic contrast against her skin. The silk and lace body skimmer rode low over her breasts so they all but spilled out of the top. Then it cinched in, sheer and seductive, slicked over her hips. Her hose was sheer and shimmering, and braked to a teasing halt at mid-thigh.

She stepped out of the dress, kicked it aside with the toe of one spiked heel.

“I thought we’d have dinner first.”

He managed to lift his gaze to her face even as his mouth fell open.

“But . . . I guess it’ll keep.” She stepped forward, planted herself between his legs. “I want you to touch me.”

His hands burned to take, but he skimmed them lightly over her, following angle, curve. “I’m lost in you already.”

“Stay there.” She bent down, took his mouth.

She knew he held back, let her hold the reins. And because she knew it, she gave him everything she had.

The candlelight glimmered, warming the scent of the roses as she slid onto the bed with him. As she took her hands, her mouth over him. Erotic and tender, passionate and loving. She wanted to show him all, everything.

And as she did, he gave back. Long drugging kisses that weighed the limbs, lazy, lingering caresses that thrilled the blood.

The bed, with its thick mattress of gel, undulated beneath them.

She rolled, leaned away, so he contented himself with the flavor just above the silk hose on the back of her thigh.

Then she straddled him, drank from the glass of champagne. Upending it, she began to drink him.

His vision blurred, the breath clogging in his lungs to burning. She tormented him. Pleasured him. Her agile body slid and slithered over his while her mouth drove him to the verge of madness.

His control snapped, steel rending steel. The sound of silk tearing inflamed him as he ripped at it. And with a sound of greed, he filled his hands, his mouth with her.

She came, a wild, shock slap to her system. Her head fell back as she gulped for air. Her body shuddered as he feasted on it.

He said something she couldn’t understand, in the language of his homeland that so rarely passed his lips. Then his face was pressed against her, his breath hot on her skin.

“I need you. Eve. I need you.”

“I know.” Tenderness washed into her, balm over a burn. She cupped his face, lifted it. Her lips met his, soft as a whisper. “Don’t ever stop.”

There were tears in her eyes. The shifting light caught the glint of them. He drew her closer, kissed them away. “Eve—”

“No, let me say it first. This time let me remember to say it first. I love you. I always will. Be with me,” she murmured as she took him inside her. “Oh. Stay with me.”

She wrapped herself around him, rose to him, matching stroke to stroke, beat to beat. Then his hands clasped hers, locked tight. Their eyes held in a bond just as fierce.

When she saw his, that wild blue, go blind, when she heard him say her name, her lips curved into a smile. And she surrendered.

She was sprawled across the bed, facedown, in a position Roarke knew she assumed when her system had, finally, shut down. He stretched out beside her, sipping what champagne was left and trailing a fingertip absently up and down her spine.

“I’ll give you an hour and a half to stop that.”

“Ah, she lives.”

She stirred herself enough to turn her head and look at him. “You look pretty smug.”

“As it happens, darling Eve, I’m feeling pretty smug.”

“It was all my idea.”

“And a fine one it was, too. Would I be risking my skin if I asked just what inspired you?”

“Well . . .” She curved her back into the brush of his finger. “You bought me a candy bar.”

“Remind me to arrange for a truckload tomorrow.”

“A truckload would kill us.” She pushed to her knees, shoved back her hair. She looked soft and used and content.

“I’ll risk it.”

With a laugh, she leaned over to rest her forehead to his. “One last mushy thing before it becomes a habit. You make me happy. I’m starting to get used to it.”

“That’s a very nice way to end the mush.”

“I guess we should eat.”

“I’d hate to think of you slaving over a hot stove and not have the results appreciated.”

Her eyes slitted. “Is that a dig?”

“No, indeed. What’s for dinner?”

“Lots of stuff with weird, fancy names.”

“Yum.”

“I figured if you didn’t like it, it wouldn’t be programmed.” She scooted off the bed, stood naked, glancing around. “I don’t guess there’s a robe in here.”

“Afraid not.” He dug through the tangle of sheets and pillows and came up with the now tattered body skimmer. “You could wear what’s left of this.”

“Never mind.” She picked up her discarded dress, shimmied into it.

“Well now, that stirs the appetite considerably.”

“Even you couldn’t go another round after that last one.” When he grinned, she thought it wise to move out of reach.

She couldn’t pronounce half the food she put in her mouth, but it was damn tasty. “What is this called again?”

“Fruit de le mer a la parisienne.”

“I guess if they called it a bunch of fish in a fancy sauce, it wouldn’t have the same ring.”

“A rose by any other name.” He refilled her water glass. “Lieutenant?”

“Huh?”

“You’re trying not to think about your day. Why don’t you just tell me about it instead?”

She stabbed another scallop. “I’ve got a lead on—” She cut herself off, sucked it in. “No, you tell me about your day.”

“My day?” he asked in surprise.

“Yeah, what did you do today, how’d it go, that sort of thing.”

“You’re in a mood,” he murmured, then shrugged. “I dealt with some financial reorganization.”

“What does that mean?”

“I bought some stock on its way down, sold some that I believe had topped off, studied the daily analysis of several companies and adjusted accordingly.”

“I guess that kept you busy.”

“Enough, until about noon when I went into the office.” He wondered how long it would take until her eyes glazed over. “I had a holo-conference regarding the Olympus Resort. Cost overruns remain under the acceptable five percent. However, on a point-by-point project analysis, I find indications of a downturn in resource productivity that warrants closer study and a correction.”

Ninety seconds, he calculated, watching her eyes. He’d figured she’d drop off at sixty. “Then, I bought you a candy bar.”

“I liked that part.”

He broke off a chunk of his roll, buttered it. “Eve, did you marry me for my money?”

“You bet your ass. And you’d better hold on to it, or I’m history.”

“It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

That made her grin. “I guess we’re finished talking about your day.”

“I thought we were. What’s your lead?”

“Love. At least that’s where all the arrows are pointing right now.” She filled him in while she polished off her meal.

“Kenneth Stiles attacked Draco and beat him badly enough for medical intervention.” Roarke cocked his head. “Interesting, isn’t it, when you compare the two men. Draco was taller, considerably heftier, and certainly, on the surface, a great deal tougher. No indication that Stiles was injured?”

“None. I thought about that, too. It comes down to the pussy and the pissed. Draco being the pussy, Stiles the pissed.”

“And being the pissed cost Stiles several million dollars.”

“And he didn’t even end up with the girl.”

“Anja.”

“Peabody found a handful of Carvells in the city. Wrong age span, so we’re widening the scan. My gut tells me she has some of the answers.”

“Cherchez la femme.”

“What?”

“Find the woman,” he translated.

She lifted her glass in a quick toast. “You can count on it.”

“Anja.” He said the name softly, a bare whisper of sound. And heard the gasp of surprise and recognition that followed it. “Don’t say anything. Please. Just listen. I have to speak with you. It’s important. Not over the ’link. Will you meet me?”

“This is about Richard.”

“It’s about everything.”

It took time. He was certain he was being watched and feared his own shadow. Stiles sat at the mirror in his dressing area and skillfully, painstakingly altered his appearance. He changed the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw, the color of his skin. He covered his hair with a wig, a thick mane of deep brown. He supposed it was vanity that prevented him from using the more ordinary gray one.

He couldn’t bear to look old in her eyes.

He added a slim mustache, a slender brush of beard in the center of his chin.

All of this came naturally, despite the anxiety. He had donned a hundred characters in his life, sliding into them as smoothly as a man slips into favorite slippers after a long day.

He added girth to his small frame—shoulders, chest, then covered the padding with a simple dark suit. The lifts in his shoes would give him another inch of height.

He took his time, studying the results in the long triple mirror, searching for any sign of Kenneth Stiles. For the first time in over an hour he allowed himself a small smile.

He could walk right up to Lieutenant Eve Dallas and kiss her on the mouth. He’d be damned if she’d recognize him.

Empowered, as he always was by a new role, Stiles swirled on a cape and went out to meet the woman he’d loved all his life.

She kept him waiting. She always had. He’d chosen a small nostalgia club that had fallen out of fashion. But the music was low and bluesy, the patrons minded their own, and the drinks came quickly.

He sipped at gin and paged through the battered volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was their signal.

She had given him the book all those years ago. He had taken it for a token of love instead of the friendship she’d intended. Even when he’d realized his mistake, he’d treasured it. As much as he’d treasured her.

He’d lied to the police, of course. He’d never broken contact with her, had known where she was, what she was doing. He had simply assumed another role with her, that of confidant and friend.

And after a time, living the part for so many years, he grew comfortable with it.

Yet, when she slid into the booth across from him, held out a hand for his, his heart leapt.

She’d changed her hair. It was a glorious tangle of smoky red. Her skin was a pale, pale gold. He knew it was soft to the touch. Her eyes were deep, tawny, and concerned. But she smiled at him, a hesitant curve of a lush mouth.

“So, you still read it?” Her voice was soft and lightly French.

“Yes, often. Anja.” His fingers flexed on hers, then deliberately relaxed. “Let me order you a drink.”

She sat back, watching him, waiting, as he signaled a waiter and ordered her a glass of sauvignon blanc.

“You never forget.”

“Why would I?”

“Oh, Kenneth.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I wish things had been different. Could have been.”

“Don’t.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended. It could still sting. “We’re beyond regrets.”

“I don’t think we ever get beyond them.” She let out a small sigh. “I’ve spent more than half my life regretting Richard.”

He said nothing until her drink was served and she’d taken the first sip. “The police think I killed him.”

Her eyes went wide, and wine sloshed toward the rim of her glass as her hand jerked. “But no! No, that’s impossible. Ridiculous.”

“They know what happened twenty-four years ago.”

“What do you mean?” Her hand darted out for his, squeezed like a vise. “What do they know?”

“Steady now. They know about the assault, my arrest, the suit.”

“But how is that possible? It was so long ago, and all the details were put away.”

“Eve Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas,” he said with some bitterness as he lifted his own drink. “She’s relentless. She managed to break the seal. They took me in, put me in a room, hammered at me.”

“Oh, Kenneth. Kenneth, mon cher, I’m so sorry. It must have been hideous.”

“They think I’ve harbored a grudge against Richard all this time.” He laughed a little, drank. “I suppose they’re right.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

“No, but they’ll continue to dig into the past. You need to be prepared. I had to tell them why I attacked Richard. I had to give them your name.” When the blood drained from her face, he leaned over, clasped both of her hands. “Anja,” he said deliberately, “I told them I’d lost track of you, that we’ve had no contact in all these years. That I didn’t know how to find you. I told them Richard had seduced you, then when he was certain you were in love with him, he cast you off. I told them about the attempt to take your own life. That’s all I told them.”

She made a small sound of despair and lowered her head. “It still shames me.”

“You were young, brokenhearted. You survived. Anja, I’m sorry. I panicked. But the fact is, I had to give them something. I thought it would be enough, but I realize now, she won’t stop. Dallas will keep searching, keep digging until she finds you. Finds the rest.”

She steadied, nodded. “Anja Carvell has disappeared before. I could make it impossible for her to find me. But that won’t do. I’ll go to see her.”

“You can’t. For God’s sake.”

“I can. I must. Would you still protect me?” she said quietly. “Kenneth, I don’t deserve you. I never did. I’ll speak with her, explain how it was, how you are,” she added.

“I don’t want you involved.”

“My dearest, you can’t stop what Richard started a lifetime ago. You’re my friend, and I intend to protect what’s mine. Whatever the risk,” she added, and her eyes hardened. “Whatever the consequences.”

“There has to be more.”

Roarke ran his hand over Eve’s naked ass. “Well. If you insist.”

She lifted her head. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”

“Oh. Pity.”

He’d managed to peel the red dress off her again, and then it had been a simple matter of one thing leading to another. Now she was sprawled over him, all warm and loose.

But apparently, she didn’t intend to stay that way.

“They all hated him.” She scooted up to straddle him and gave Roarke a very pleasant view of slender torso and firm breasts. “Or at least actively disliked him. Maybe feared him,” she considered. “Nobody in that cast is particularly sorry to see him dead. Several of the actors had worked with each other before. Had histories, links, connections. To Draco, to each other. Maybe it was more than one of them.”

“Murder on the Orient Express.”

“What’s that? An Asian transpo system?”

“No, darling, it’s yet another play by Dame Christie. She seems to be popping up. A man is murdered in his bed, in the sleeping car of a train. Stabbed. Repeatedly. Among the passengers is a very clever detective, not nearly as attractive as my cop,” he added.

“What does a make-believe dead guy on a train have to do with my case?”

“Just enhancing your theory. In this fictional murder, there were a number of varied and seemingly unconnected passengers. However, our dogged detective refused to take such matters at face value, poked around, and discovered links, connections, histories. Disguises and deceptions,” he added. “When he did, he discovered they all had motives for murder.”

“Interesting. Who did it?”

“All of them.” When her eyes narrowed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her. “Each of them took a turn with the knife, plunging it into his unconscious body in return for the wrong he’d done to them.”

“Pretty gruesome. And pretty cagey. No one could betray anyone else without betraying themselves. They back up each other’s alibis. Play the role,” she murmured.

“Very nearly a perfect murder.”

“There are no perfect murders. There are always mistakes, with the murder itself the biggest of them.”

“Spoken like a cop.”

“I am a cop. And I’m going back to work.”

She wiggled away, slid off the bed, and once again reached down for the dress.

“You put that red number back on, baby, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Simmer down. I’m not strolling around naked. You never know where Summerset’s skulking.” She began pulling the dress up and glanced around the room. “I guess we should clean up some.”

“Why?”

“Because it looks like we’ve—”

“Had a very enjoyable evening,” Roarke finished. “This may shock you, but Summerset knows we have sex.”

“Don’t mention his name and sex in the same sentence. Gives me the creeps. I’m going to grab a shower, then work awhile.”

“All right. I’ll join you.”

“Uh-uh. I’m not showering with you, ace. I know your games.”

“I won’t lay a hand on you.”

He didn’t say anything about his mouth.

“What do you do? Take a pill?”

Limber, refreshed, and utterly satisfied, Roarke buttoned his shirt. “You’re stimulation enough.”

“Apparently.”

He took her hand, led her to the elevator, requested her office.

The cat was stretched across her sleep chair and gave a twitch of his tail when they walked in.

“Coffee?” Roarke asked.

“Yeah, thanks.”

The minute he turned toward the kitchen, Galahad leaped down and bolted into the room ahead of him. Eve heard the single demanding meow.

She sat at her desk, stared at her computer, tapped her fingers.

“Computer, Draco case file. Cross-reference task. Find and list any and all connections, professional, personal, medical, financial, criminal, civil, between cast members.”

Working . . .

“I assumed you ran that already.”

She glanced over as Roarke came back with coffee. “I’m running it again, with a few added details.

“Computer, highlight any name with sealed files, all areas.”

That information requires authorization. Please submit same . . .

“Would you like me to get around that little hitch for you?”

She made a low sound, a definite warning. Roarke merely shrugged and sipped his coffee.

“Authorization Code Yellow, slash Dallas, slash five-oh-six. Request from Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, regarding double homicide. You are authorized to flag sealeds.”

Authorization correct. Sealeds will be flagged. Data contained in sealed files requires warrant, signed and dated, for access . . .

“Did I ask you to access the data? Just flag the damned sealeds.”

Working . . . Multitask process will require approximately eight minutes, thirty seconds . . .

“Then get started. And no,” she said to Roarke. “We’re not opening the sealeds.”

“My goodness, Lieutenant, I don’t believe I suggested anything of the kind.”

“You think you and McNab scammed me on that warrant today?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He eased a hip onto the desk. “I did give Ian some advice, but it was of a personal nature. Man talk.”

“Yeah, right.” She tipped back in her chair, eyed him over her coffee cup. “You and McNab sat around talking about women and sports.”

“I don’t believe we got to sports. He had a woman on his mind.”

Eve’s sneer vanished. “You talked to him about Peabody? Damn it, Roarke.”

“I could hardly slap him back. He’s so pitifully smitten.”

“Oh.” She winced. “Don’t use that word.”

“It fits. In fact, if he took my advice . . .” He turned his wrist, glanced at the unit fastened there. “They should be well into their first date by now.”

“Date? Date? Why did you do that? Why did you go and do something like that? Couldn’t you leave it alone? They’d have had sex until they burned out on it, and everything would go back to normal.”

He angled his head. “That didn’t work for us, did it?”

“We don’t work together.” Then, when his eyes brightened with pure amusement, she showed her teeth. “Officially. You start mixing cops and romance and case files and gooey looks at briefings, you’ve got nothing but a mess. Next thing you know, Peabody will be wearing lip dye and smelly girl stuff and dragging body skimmers under her uniform.”

She dropped her head in her hands. “Then they’ll have tiffs and misunderstandings that have nothing whatsoever to do with the job. They’ll come at me from both sides, and before you know it, they’ll be telling me things I absolutely do not want to know. And when they break it off and decide they hate each other down to the guts, I’ll have to hear about that, too, and why they can’t possibly work together, or breathe the same air, until I have no choice, absolutely no choice, but to kick both of their asses.”

“Eve, your sunny view on life never fails to lift my spirits.”

“And—” She poked him in the chest. “It’s all your fault.”

He grabbed her finger, nipped it, not so gently. “If that’s the case, I’m going to insist they name their first child after me.”

“Are you trying to make me crazy?”

“Well, darling, it’s so easy, I find it difficult to resist. Why don’t you put the entire matter out of your mind before it gives you a headache? Your data’s coming up.”

She shot him one fierce look, then turned to the screen.

Connections within connections, she thought as she scanned. Lives bumping up against lives. And every time they did, they left a little mark. Sometimes the mark was a bruise that never fully healed.

“Well, well, this didn’t come up before. Michael Proctor’s mother was an actress. She had a small part in a play. Twenty-four years ago.” Eve sat back. “And just look who was onstage with her. Draco, Stiles, Mansfield, Rothchild. That correlates to the trouble between Draco and Stiles. Where’s Anja Carvell?” she murmured.

“Perhaps she had, or has, a stage name.”

“Maybe. No sealeds on Proctor’s mother.” She ordered the computer to do a run on one Natalie Brooks.

“Interesting. This was her last performance. Retired, returned to place of birth. Omaha, Nebraska. Married the following year. Looks squeaky clean. Attractive,” she added when she ordered the computer to show her ID picture from twenty-four years before. “Young, got a fresh sort of look. Right up Draco’s alley.”

“You think she might be Anja?”

“Maybe. Either way, I can’t see Draco passing her up. That adds another layer to Michael Proctor. He didn’t mention his mother knew Draco.”

“He might not have been aware of it.”

“Unlikely. Let’s take a look at the flags. Hmm, Draco’s got a few sealeds of his own.”

“Money, prominence, connections,” Roarke said. “It buys silence.”

“You ought to know.” She said it with a smirk, then jerked up in her chair. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. What’s this? Carly Landsdowne’s got a sealed.”

“More secrets? More silence?”

“Not this time. I know this code. It’s an old one. It was in use when I went into the system. A lot of the kids in state homes wanted that code more than they wanted to eat their next meal. It’s the code for adoption. Sealed,” she added. “With the birth mother’s data inside. Look at the date.”

“Eight months after Stiles’s assault on Draco. It won’t be a coincidence.”

“This plays for me. Draco got Anja Carvell pregnant. She tells him, he dumps her. Dumps her hard. She falls apart, tries self-termination, but Stiles gets to her before she’s finished. She has a change of heart and decides to complete the pregnancy. Gives the kid away, and pays a hefty fee for a seal.”

“It wouldn’t have been easy.”

Eve’s eyes went flat. “It’s plenty easy for some. Kids are tossed aside every day.”

To comfort her, he put his hands on her shoulders, rubbed. “By Stiles’s account, she was in love with the baby’s father and nearly destroyed by him. Yet she didn’t terminate the pregnancy. She gave the child up, which is different, Eve, than giving the child away. She paid for the seal to protect the child.”

“It protects her, too.”

“Yes, but there are other ways. She could have sold the baby on the black market. No questions asked. She chose legal channels.”

“Stiles knew. She’d have spilled it. We’re going to have to have another chat. Now, let’s see. Which judge should I wake up for the warrant and authorization to crack the seal?” She looked up at Roarke. “Any suggestions?”

“Lieutenant, I’m sure you know best.”

Before she roused a judge out of bed and risked irritating him, she tried to tag Peabody through her communicator.

“Off duty?” Sheer shock glazed Eve’s eyes at the blinking red light on her pocket unit. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Why, the nerve!” Roarke clucked his tongue. “I bet she’s got some insane idea that she’s entitled to a life.”

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault,” Eve chanted under her breath while she sent the transmission to Peabody’s palm ’link.

After six beeps, Eve was up and pacing. “If she doesn’t answer, I’m going to—” Abruptly, Eve’s desk ’link exploded with noise. Her angry yelp had the cat racing back into the kitchen.

“Peabody! For God’s sake, where are you?”

“Sir? Sir, is that you? I can’t really hear over the music.”

The audio might have been chaos, but the video shimmered clear and gave Eve a close-up view of her aide, complete with fussy hair, lip dye, and slumberous eyes.

I knew it, was all Eve could think. I just knew it.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I have?” The vague eyes blinked at the information, then Eve heard what could only be described as a giggle. “Well, maybe. A couple. I’m in a club, and they have drinking here. Really rocking screamers. Is it morning already?”

“Hey, Dallas!” McNab’s face pushed against Peabody’s so the two of them, equally plowed by the look of things, shared the screen. “This band is ice. Why don’t you get your main squeeze and come on down.”

“Peabody, where are you?”

“I’m in New York City. I live here.”

Drunk, Eve thought in frustration. Drunk as a Station Caspian colonist. “Never mind. Take this outside before I go deaf.”

“What? I can’t hear you!”

Ignoring Roarke’s amused chuckle, Eve leaned into her ’link. “Officer Peabody, go outside, keep the transmission open. I need to talk to you.”

“You’re outside? Well, hell, come on in.”

Eve sucked in a breath. “Go. Out. Side.”

“Oh, okay, sure thing.”

There was a great deal of fumbling, more giggling, bumpy views of a crowd of what Eve decided were maniacs leaping and spinning as the band crashed out noise. To her great pain, she heard, very clearly, McNab’s hissed suggestion of what would be fun to do in one of the club’s privacy rooms.

“You have to give him points for imagination,” Roarke pointed out.

“I hate you for this.” Patience straining, Eve held the transmission while Peabody and McNab stumbled out of the club. The noise level dropped, but not by much. Apparently McNab’s choice of club was in the core of Broadway’s never-ending party district.

“Dallas? Dallas? Where are you?”

“Your ’link, Peabody. I’m on your ’link.”

“Oh.” She lifted it again, peered at the screen. “What are you doing in there?”

“Have you got any Sober-Up in your bag?”

“Betcha. You gotta be prepared, right?”

“Take some. Now.”

“Aw.” Peabody’s cheerfully colored lips moved into a pout. “I don’t wanna. Hey, that’s Roarke. I heard Roarke. Hi, Roarke.”

He couldn’t resist and moved into view. “Hello, Peabody. You’re looking particularly delicious tonight.”

“Golly, you’re pretty. I could just look at you and look at you and—”

“Sober-Up, Peabody. Now. That’s an order.”

“Damn.” Peabody rummaged through her bag, came up with the little tin. “If I gotta, you gotta,” she said, plucking out two pills before shoving the tin at McNab.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Oh.”

“Peabody, I need all current data on Anja Carvell, all search and scan results.”

“ ’Kay.”

“Shoot them to my car unit. Then I want you to meet me, in uniform, at Kenneth Stiles’s address. Thirty minutes. Understood?”

“Yeah, sort of . . . Could you repeat the question?”

“It’s not a question. It’s an order,” Eve corrected and repeated it. “Got that now?”

“Yeah. Um, yes, sir.”

“And leave your trained monkey at home.”

“Sir?”

“McNab,” Eve snapped, and cut transmission.

“Party pooper,” Roarke murmured.

“Don’t give me any lip.” She rose, pulled her shoulder harness out of the desk drawer, strapped it on. “Go do some financial adjustments and point by point analyses.”

“Darling, you were listening.”

“I’m not laughing,” she told him, and was annoyed because she wanted to. “Stay out of trouble.”

He only smiled, waiting until he heard her jog down the stairs.

She was going to ease her way around the seal instead of breaking through it, he thought. There was no reason he should have the same limitations.

He strolled down the corridor to a private room. His voice and palm prints were checked and verified. The locks disengaged.

“Lights on,” he ordered. “Full.”

The room streamed with light, blocked from the outside by the secured privacy screens on the bank of windows. He crossed the wide squares of tile while the door behind him closed, resecured.

Only three people had entry to this room. Three people he trusted without reservation. Eve, Summerset, and himself.

The slick black control panel formed a wide U. The equipment, unregistered and illegal, hummed softly in sleep mode. The wide eye of CompuGuard couldn’t restrict what it couldn’t see.

He’d restructured most of his questionable holdings over the years. After Eve, he’d disposed of or legitimized the rest. But, he thought as he helped himself to a brandy, a man had to have some small reminders of the past that made him.

And in his rebel’s heart, the idea of a system like CompuGuard that monitored all computer business was an annoying pebble in his shoe. He was honor bound to shake it out.

He stepped to the control, swirled his brandy. “System up,” he ordered, and a rainbow of lights bloomed over black. “Now, let’s have a look.”

Eve left her vehicle in a second-level parking slot a half a block from Stiles’s apartment. She’d walked half that distance when she spotted the figure trying to blend with the trees at the edge of the facing park.

“Trueheart.”

“Sir!” She heard the squeak of surprise in his voice, but he’d schooled his face into calm lines by the time he stepped out of the shadows. “Lieutenant.”

“Report.”

“Sir, I’ve had the subject’s building under surveillance since his return at eighteen-twenty-three. My counterpart is surveilling the rear exit. We have maintained regular communications at intervals of thirty minutes.”

When she made no comment, he cleared his throat. “Subject lowered privacy screens on all windows at eighteen-thirty-eight. They have remained engaged since that time.”

“That’s good, Trueheart, gives me a really clear picture. Now, tell me if he’s in there.”

“Lieutenant, subject has not left the surveilled premises.”

“Fine.” She watched a Rapid Cab swing toward the opposing curb. Peabody, looking considerably more official in full uniform with her hair straight under her cap, climbed out. “Stand by, Officer Trueheart.”

“Yes, sir. Sir? I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for this assignment.”

Eve looked up into his very young, very earnest face. “You want to thank me for duty that has you standing out in the dark, in the cold, for . . .” She glanced at her wrist unit. “For approximately five and a half hours?”

“It’s a homicide investigation,” he said with such reverence she nearly patted his cheek.

“Glad you’re enjoying it.” She headed across the street, where Peabody waited. “Look me in the eye,” Eve demanded.

“I’m sober, sir.”

“Stick out your tongue.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to. Now, stop sulking.” With this, Eve walked toward the building. “And no rolling your eyes at the back of my head.”

Peabody’s eyes stopped in mid-roll. “Am I to be informed of the reason I’ve been called back on duty?”

“You’ll be informed. If all your surviving brain cells are in working order, you’ll get the drift when I corner Stiles. I’ll fill in the blanks when we’re done.”

She gave her badge and palm print to the night guard for verification, got clearance. Eve ran it through quickly on the way up.

“Wow, it’s like one of those daytime serials. Not that I watch them,” Peabody said quickly when Eve’s eyes slid coolly in her direction. “One of my sisters is addicted though. She’s totally hooked on The Heart of Desire. See, Desire’s this small and charming seaside town, but under the surface, there’s all this intrigue and—”

“Don’t. Really.”

She hurried out of the elevator to prevent any possibility of a rundown of anything called The Heart of Desire. She pressed the buzzer at Stiles’s apartment, held her badge up toward the security peep.

“Maybe he’s asleep,” Peabody said a few moments later.

“He’s got a house droid.” Eve pressed the buzzer again and felt the ache of tension squeeze in her gut.

She’d assigned a rookie, a rookie for Christ’s sake, to surveillance on a lead suspect in two homicides. Because she’d wanted to give the kid a break.

If Stiles had slipped past him, she had no one to blame but herself.

“We’re going in.” She reached for her master code.

“A warrant—”

“We don’t need one. Subject is suspect, dual homicide, also potential victim. There’s reason to believe subject has fled or is inside, unable to respond.”

She bypassed the locks with her master. “Draw your weapon, Peabody,” she ordered as she reached for her own. “Go in high, to the right. Ready?”

Peabody nodded. Her mouth might have been brightly painted, but it was firm.

At Eve’s signal, they went through the door, sweeping opposite directions. Eve ordered lights, narrowed her eyes against the sudden flash of them, scanned, sweeping as she angled herself to guard Peabody’s back.

“Police! Kenneth Stiles, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I am armed. You’re ordered to step out into the living area immediately.”

She moved toward the bedroom as she spoke, ears cocked for any sound. “He’s not here.” Every instinct told her the place was empty, but she gestured Peabody to the far side of the room. “Check that area. Watch your back.”

She booted open the door, led with her weapon.

She saw a neatly made bed, a tidy sitting area, and the dark pool of the suit Stiles had worn to the memorial service on the floor.

“The droid’s here, Dallas,” Peabody called out. “Deactivated. No sign of Stiles.”

“He’s gone rabbit. Goddamn it.” Still, she kept her weapon out and ready as she moved into the bath, through the adjoining door.

One look at the dressing room had her holstering it again. “I guess that lets Trueheart off the hook,” she said to Peabody when her aide joined her. Eve fingered a pot of skin toner, then lifted a wig. “Stiles is probably damn good with this stuff. Call it in, Peabody. Suspect in flight.”

“Sir.” Trueheart stood stiff as a petrified redwood in the entry to Stiles’s dressing room. His face was white but for the high color skimming along his cheekbones. “I take full responsibility for the failure of the assignment given to me. I will accept, without qualification, any reprimand you deem appropriate.”

“First, stop talking like that droid Peabody’s reactivating. Second, you’re not responsible for the flight of this suspect. That’s on me.”

“Lieutenant, I appreciate you taking my inexperience into consideration in my failure to perform my duty and complete this assignment in a satisfactory manner—”

“Shut up, Trueheart.” Jesus God, spare her from rookies. “Peabody! Come in here.”

“I’ve nearly got the droid up and running, Dallas.”

“Peabody, tell Officer Trueheart here how I deal with cops who botch assignments or fail to complete same in what I deem a satisfactory manner.”

“Sir, you bust their balls, mercilessly. It can be very entertaining to watch. From a discreet and safe distance.”

“Thank you, Peabody. You make me proud. Trueheart, am I busting your balls?”

His flush spread. “Ah, no, sir. Lieutenant.”

“Then it follows that in my opinion, you didn’t botch this assignment. If my opinion was otherwise, you’d be curled on the floor, clutching said balls and begging for mercy, which Officer Peabody has succinctly pointed out I do not have. Are we clear?”

He hesitated. “Yes, sir?”

“That’s the right answer.” She turned away from him, studied the dressing area. The forest of clothes in different styles and sizes; the long, wide counter covered with bottles and tubes and sprays. Cubbyholes loaded with hairpieces, wigs. Drawers ruthlessly organized with other tools of the trade.

“He can make himself into anyone. I should’ve factored that in. Tell me who you did see leaving the building between eighteen-thirty and when I arrived on-scene. We’ll verify with the security discs from the exits, but be thorough.”

He nodded, and his eyes unfocused with concentration. “A couple, man and woman, white and white, thirty-five to forty. They hailed a Rapid and headed east. A single woman, mixed race, late twenties. She left on foot, in a westerly direction. Two men, black and white, early thirties. They returned within thirty minutes, carrying what appeared to be a twelve-pack of beer and a large pizza. A single man, mixed race, late forties, some facial hair.”

He stopped when Eve held up a hand. She lifted a small bag to show him a few strands of hair she’d already sealed for evidence. “Is this a color match?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again to press his lips together. “It’s difficult to say with certainty, Lieutenant, as the light was going. But the subject in question appeared to have dark hair very similar in shade to the bagged evidence.”

“Give me details. Height, weight, style of dress, appearance.”

She listened, trying to paint a picture of the transformation from Trueheart’s report.

“Okay, anyone else?”

He ran through the few people who’d left the building, but no one rang bells like the single mixed-race male.

“Was he carrying anything? A bag, a box, a parcel?”

“No, sir. He didn’t have anything with him.”

“Okay, then he’s likely still running with the same look. Call it in.”

“Sir?”

“Call in your description, Trueheart. Add it to the all-points.”

His face lit up like a birthday candle. “Yes, sir!”

It was blind luck that he was spotted. Eve would think about that later, and for a long time after. Blind luck.

It was a twist of fate that the express running to and from Toronto experienced a malfunction on its way into Grand Central. The delay would make all the difference.

But when the break came, Eve jammed her communicator back in her pocket. “Grand Central. Let’s move.”

She was halfway to the apartment door when she shot a glance over her shoulder. “Trueheart, is there a reason you’re not one step behind me?”

“Sir?”

“When the officer in command says to move, you get your bony butt in gear and move.”

He blinked rapidly, then appeared to process the information that she wanted him on the team. A goofy smile spread over his face as he rushed to the door. “Yes, sir.”

“Transit cops are blocking exits, spreading to all gates. Backup’s on the way.” Eve relayed the information as they headed down to street level. “Suspect’s bought a one-way express to Toronto.”

“It’s cold up there.” Peabody flipped up the collar of her coat as they ran down the block to Eve’s vehicle. “If I were fleeing the country, I’d head south. I’ve never been to the Caribbean.”

“You can point that out to him when he’s in lockup. Strap in,” she suggested when they dived inside. She shot down the parking ramp like a rocket, hit the sirens, and did a screaming two-wheel around the corner.

Flopping in the backseat, stomach at knee level, Trueheart was in heaven.

He was in pursuit, not of a scrounging street thief, not of a whiny traffic violation, but of a murder suspect. He gripped the chicken stick to keep his balance as Eve wove fast and nervelessly through traffic. He wanted to imprint every detail on his mind. The wild speed, the flash of lights, the sudden jolt and jerk as his lieutenant—God, wasn’t she amazing?—shot the vehicle into a fast vertical lift to bypass a jam on Lexington.

He listened to Peabody’s clear, practical voice as she coordinated with the backup on her communicator. To Eve’s low, careless cursing as she was forced to swerve sharply to avoid a pair of “fucking brain-dead morons” on a scooter.

She squealed to a halt on the west side of the transpo center. “Peabody, Trueheart, with me. Let’s see what the transit boys have for us.”

There were two transit cops sealing the exit. Both came to attention when Eve held up her badge. “Status?”

“Your suspect’s inside, Lieutenant. Level Two, Area C. There are a number of passengers in that area. The express for Toronto was sold out. There are several shops, eateries, and rest room facilities. Men are posted at all lifts, glides, and walkways leading in or out of the area. He’s in there.”

“Stand by.”

She walked into the great sea of noise and movement.

“Lieutenant, Feeney and McNab approaching south side of the building.”

“Give them the target location. We don’t have data on weapons, but we go in assuming he’s armed.” She crossed the wide expanse of floor while people rushing home or away streamed past her. “Alert the commanding officer we’re heading down.”

“Captain Stuart, sir. Channel B on your communicator. She’s standing by.”

“Captain Stuart, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Lieutenant, we have our net in place. Traffic Control Center will continue to announce delays for the twelve-oh-five to Toronto.”

“Where’s my suspect?”

Stuart’s face stayed blank and hard, but her voice tightened. “We’ve lost direct visual of the subject. He has not, I repeat, has not exited the patrolled area. Our security cameras are executing a full sweep. We’ll pick him up.”

“Contact me, this channel, when you spot him,” Eve said briefly. “Inform your men that NYPSD is now on-scene and taking charge. Their full cooperation and assistance is appreciated.”

“This is my turf, Lieutenant. My command.”

“Target is suspected of two homicides on my turf, Captain. That’s an override, and we both know it. Let’s get the job done. We can have a pissing contest later.” Eve waited a beat. “We’re approaching Level Two. Please inform your men. Weapons are to be programmed to lowest setting and to be deployed only in extreme circumstances and for the protection of bystanders. I want a clean snatch.”

“I’m fully aware how to perform an operation of this nature. I was informed the target may be armed.”

“We can’t confirm. Use caution and minimal force. Minimal force, Captain; that’s priority. The area is packed with civilians. I’ll maintain this channel for further communications.”

Eve tucked the communicator back in her pocket. “Hear that, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir. She wants the collar. ‘This evening, the New York City Transit Authority, led by Captain Stuart, captured the primary suspect in Richard Draco’s murder, in flight. Pictures at eleven.’ ”

“And what is our objective?”

“To identify, restrain, and incarcerate target. In one piece, and with no civilian injuries.”

“You following that, Trueheart?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eve noted the transit officers holding the perimeter of Area C. And the flood of people who milled, loitered, or rushed over the wide platform and through the snaking corridors that opened into shops and eateries.

She smelled the greasy aroma of fast food, the hot scent of humanity. Babies were crying. The latest urban rock was pumping out of someone’s tune box in direct violation of the noise pollution code. A small band of sidewalk singers was struggling to compete.

She saw weariness, excitement, boredom on the sea of faces. And with mild annoyance, she saw a strolling pocket-dipper snag a wallet.

“Trueheart, you’re the only one who got a look at him. Keep your eyes open. We want to take this down smooth, but we don’t want to waste time. The longer that express is delayed, the more nervous Stiles is going to get.”

“Dallas, Feeney and McNab at nine o’clock.”

“Yeah, I see them.” She saw them, the surging tide of civilians, the dozens of byways. “This place is like an insect hive. We’re going to spread out. Peabody, troll the right. Trueheart, take the left. Maintain visual contact.”

She took the center, cutting through the crowd, eyes scanning. Across the tracks, a southbound train shot down the tunnel with a hot whoosh of air. A panhandler, his beggar’s license smeared with something indefinable, worked the passengers waiting for the delayed Toronto express.

She was about to overlap with Feeney, shifted her gaze to lock Peabody’s position, turned her head to lock Trueheart’s.

She heard the shout, a series of screams, an explosion of glass as the panel on one of the busy storefronts shattered. Even as she spun, she saw Stiles shove his way through the panicked crowd, pursued by a transit cop.

“Hold your fire!” She shouted it, grabbing both weapon and communicator. “Stuart, order your man to cease fire! Target is cornered. Do not deploy weapons.”

She was using elbows, boots, knees, to fight her way through the surge of people fleeing the area. Someone fell against her, all wild eyes and grabbing hands. Gritting her teeth, she shoved him away, bulled through an opening.

The next wave of people swarmed like bees, screaming as windows on the storefronts spat glass. She felt heat on her face, something wet ran down her neck.

She saw Stiles leap over the fallen and the cowering. Then she saw Trueheart.

He had long legs, and they moved fast. Eve used her own, burst free. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a jerk of movement.

“No! Hold your fire!” Her shouted order was drowned out in the chaos. Even as she jumped toward the transit cop, he shifted to shooting position and took aim. At the same instant, Trueheart bunched for a leap and tackle.

The shock of the beam hit him midair, turned his body into a missle that rammed hard against Stiles’s retreating back. The forward force sent them both tumbling off the platform, onto the tracks below.

“No. Goddamn it. No!” She shoved the transit cop, spun to the side, and rushed to the edge of the platform. “Hold all northbound trains! There are injured on the track. Hold all trains! Oh Jesus. Oh Christ.”

A tangle of bodies, a splatter of blood. She jumped down to the tracks, feeling the shock sing up her legs. Her breath panted out as she searched for the pulse in Trueheart’s throat.

“Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Officer down!” Her voice cracked out of a dry throat and into her communicator. “Officer down! Require immediate medical assistance, Grand Central, Level Two, Area C as in Charlie. Deploy medi-vac units. Officer and suspect down. Hold on, Trueheart.”

She yanked off her jacket, spread it over his chest, then used her hands to press down on the long gash running down his thigh.

Feeney, out of breath and sweating, landed beside her. “Ah, Christ. How bad?”

“Bad. He took a hit, jumped right into the fucking beam.” She’d been a step too late. One step too late. “Then the fall. We can’t risk moving him without stabilizers. Where are the MTs? Where are the fucking MTs?”

“On the way. Here.” He unfastened his belt, nudged her to the side, and fastened a tourniquet. “Stiles?”

She ordered herself to maintain, crab-walked to where Stiles lay facedown, checked for a pulse. “Alive. He didn’t catch the hit, and the way they went down, it looked like the kid broke the worst of his fall.”

“Your face is bleeding, Dallas.”

“I caught some glass, that’s all.” She swiped at the trickle with the back of her hand, mixing her blood with Trueheart’s. “When I get done with Stuart and her hotshots—”

She broke off, looked back down at Trueheart’s young, pale face. “Jesus, Feeney. He’s just a kid.”

Eve burst through the emergency room doors in the wake of the gurney and fast-talking MTs. The words were like slaps, hard and ringing. Under the barrage of them she heard something about spinal injuries, internal bleeding.

When they hit the doors of an examining room, an enormous nurse, her skin a gleaming ebony against the pale blue of her tunic, blocked Eve’s path.

“Step aside, sister. That’s my man down in there.”

“No, you step aside, sister.” The nurse laid a boulder-sized hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Medical personnel only beyond this point. You’ve got some pretty good facial lacerations there. Take Exam Four. Someone will be along to clean you up.”

“I can clean myself up. That boy in there belongs to me. I’m his lieutenant.”

“Well, Lieutenant, you’re just going to have to let the doctors do what they do.” She pulled out a memo board. “You want to help, give me his personal data.”

Eve elbowed the nurse aside, moved to the observation glass, but didn’t attempt to push through again. God, she hated hospitals. Hated them. All she could see was a flurry of movement, green scrubs for the doctors, blue for the nursing staff.

And Trueheart unconscious on the table under harsh lights while they worked on him.

“Lieutenant.” The nurse’s voice softened. “Let’s help each other out here. We both want the same thing. Give me what you can on the patient.”

“Trueheart. Christ, what’s his first name. Peabody?”

“Troy,” Peabody said from behind her. “It’s Troy. He’s twenty-two.”

Eve simply laid her brow against the glass, shut her eyes and relayed the cause of injuries.

“We’ll take care of him,” the nurse told her. “Now get yourself into Four.” She swung through the doors, became part of the blue and green wall.

“Peabody, find his family. Have a couple of counselors contact them.”

“Yes, sir. Feeney and McNab are monitoring Stiles. He’s in the next room.”

More gurneys were streaming in. The injured at Grand Central were going to keep the ER busy for the rest of the night with cuts, bruises, and broken bones. “I’ll inform the commander of the current status.” She stepped back from the glass so that she could give her report without wavering.

When she was done, she took her position by the doors and called home.

“Roarke.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I—I’m at the hospital.”

“Where? Which one?”

“Roosevelt. Listen—”

“I’m on my way.”

“No, wait. I’m okay. I’ve got a man down. A boy,” she said and nearly broke. “He’s a goddamn boy. They’re working on him. I need to stay until . . . I need to stay.”

“I’m on my way,” he said again.

She started to protest, then simply nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The nurse pushed back through the doors, sent Eve one smoking look. “Why aren’t you in Room Four?”

“What’s Trueheart’s condition?”

“They’re stabilizing him. He’ll be heading up to surgery shortly. Op-Six. I’ll get you to a waiting area after you’re treated.”

“I want a full report on his condition.”

“You want it, you’ll get it. After you’re treated.”

The waiting was the worst. It gave her too much time to think, to replay, to second-guess. To spot every small misstep.

She couldn’t sit. She paced, drank vile coffee, and stared out the window at the wall of the next wing.

“He’s young. Healthy,” Peabody said because she could no longer stand saying nothing. “That weighs on his side.”

“I should’ve sent him home. I should’ve relieved him. I had no business taking a rookie on this kind of operation.”

“You wanted to give him a break.”

“A break?” She spun around, and her eyes were fierce, brilliant with emotion. “I put his life on the line, into a situation he wasn’t prepared for. He went down. I’m responsible for that.”

“The hell you are.” Peabody’s chin lifted mutinously. “He’s a cop. When you put on the uniform, you take on the risk. He’s on the job, and that means facing the potential of taking a hit in the line of duty every day. If I’d taken the left instead of the right, I’d have done exactly what Trueheart did, and I’d be in surgery. And it would seriously piss me off to know you’re standing out here taking away from actions I took to do my job.”

“Peabody—” Eve broke off, shook her head, and walked back to the overburdened coffee machine.

“Well done.” Roarke moved over, rubbed a hand on Peabody’s shoulder. “You’re a jewel, Peabody.”

“It wasn’t her fault. I can’t stand seeing her take it on.”

“If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be who she is.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m going to see if I can tag McNab and get an update on Stiles’s condition. Maybe you can talk her into taking a walk, getting some air.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He crossed to Eve. “You keep drinking that coffee, you’ll have holes in your stomach lining I could put my fist through. You’re tired, Lieutenant. Sit down.”

“I can’t.” She turned, saw the room was momentarily empty. Let herself crumple. “Oh God,” she murmured with her face pressed to his shoulder. “He got this stupid grin on his face when I told him I was pulling him with me. I thought I had him covered, then everything went wrong. People trampling people, screaming. I couldn’t get through fast enough. I didn’t get to him in time.”

He knew her well enough to say nothing, just to hold on until she steadied herself. “I need to know something. You’ve got strings here,” she said, easing back. “Pull a few, would you, and find out what’s happening in surgery?”

“All right.” He took the recycled cup out of her hand, set it aside. “Sit down for a few minutes. I’ll go pull those strings.”

She tried to sit, managed to for nearly a full minute before she was up and after the coffee again. As she drew another cup, a woman stepped into the room.

She was tall, slim, and had Trueheart’s guileless eyes. “Excuse me.” She looked around the room, back at Eve. “I’m looking for a Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I’m Dallas.”

“Oh yes, I should have known. Troy’s told me so much about you. I’m Pauline Trueheart, Troy’s mother.”

Eve expected panic, grief, anger, demands, and instead stared blankly as Pauline walked to her, held out a hand. “Ms. Trueheart, I very much regret that your son was injured in the line of duty. I’d like you to know that he performed that duty in an exemplary fashion.”

“He’d be so pleased to hear you say so. He admires you a great deal. In fact, I hope it won’t embarrass you, but I think Troy has a little crush on you.”

Instead of drinking the coffee, Eve set it down. “Ms. Trueheart, your son was under my hand when he was injured.”

“Yes, I know. The counselors explained what happened. I’ve already spoken with the patient liaison. They’re doing everything they can to help him. He’ll be fine.”

She smiled, and still holding Eve’s hand, drew her toward the seats. “In my heart I’d know if it was otherwise. He’s all I have, you see.”

Eve sat on the table, facing Pauline as the woman lowered into a chair. “He’s young and strong.”

“Oh yes, and a fighter. He’s wanted to be a policeman as long as I can remember. It means so much to him, that uniform. He’s a wonderful young man, Lieutenant, has never been anything but a joy to me.” She glanced toward the doorway. “I hate thinking about him in pain.”

“Ms. Trueheart . . .” Eve fumbled, tried again. “I don’t believe he was in pain. At least, he was unconscious when I reached him.”

“That’s good, that helps. Thank you.”

“How can you thank me? I put him in this position.”

“Of course you didn’t.” She took Eve’s hand again. “You must be an excellent commanding officer, to care so much. My son wants to serve. Serve and protect, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“I worry. It’s very difficult for those of us who love the ones who serve and protect. But I believe in Troy. Absolutely. I’m sure your mother would say the same about you.”

Eve jerked back, bore down on the ache that centered in her gut. “I don’t have a mother.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well.” She touched Eve’s wedding ring. “Someone who loves you, then. He believes in you.”

“Yeah.” Eve looked over, met Roarke’s eyes as he came in. “I guess he does.”

“Ms. Trueheart.” Roarke crossed to her. “I’ve just been informed that your son will be out of surgery shortly.”

Eve felt the quick, light tremble of Pauline’s fingers. “Are you a doctor?”

“No. I’m Lieutenant Dallas’s husband.”

“Oh. Did they tell you how—what Troy’s condition is?”

“He’s stabilized. They’re very hopeful. One of the surgical team will speak with you in a little while.”

“Thank you. They said there was a chapel on this floor. I think I’ll sit there until they’re ready for me. You look so tired, Lieutenant. Troy wouldn’t mind if you went home and got some rest.”

When she was alone with Roarke again, Eve simply braced her elbows on her thighs and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Tell me what you didn’t tell her. Give it to me straight.”

“The spinal injury is giving them some concern.”

“Is he paralyzed?”

“They’re hopeful it’s temporary, due to swelling. If it proves to be more serious, there are treatments with high success rates.”

“He needs to be a cop. Can you get a specialist?”

“I’ve taken care of it.”

She stayed in the same position, rocked a little. “I owe you.”

“Don’t insult me, Eve.”

“Did you see his mother? See how she was? How can anyone be that strong, that brave?”

Roarke cuffed her wrists, drew her hands down. “Look in the mirror.”

She shook her head. “It’s love with her. She’ll will him to be safe and whole and happy because she loves him. I think she’ll pull it off, too.”

“Mother love is a fierce and powerful force.”

Steadier, she rolled her aching shoulders. “Do you ever think of yours? Your mother?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the hesitation had her frowning at him. “I was going to say no,” he explained. “But that was knee-jerk. Yes, I suppose I do, occasionally. I wonder now and then what became of her.”

“And why she left you?”

“I know why she left me.” The steel was back in his voice, in his eyes. Cold steel. “I held no particular interest for her.”

“I don’t know why mine left me. That’s the worst of it, I think. The not knowing why. The not remembering.” She hissed out a breath, annoyed with herself. “And that’s useless speculation.

“I guess I’ve got mothers on the brain. I need to talk to Carly about hers.”

She got to her feet, shoved back the fatigue. “I want to check on Stiles’s condition, interview him if he’s conscious. I’m going to have to go into Central, file my report. I have a meet with the commander first thing in the morning.”

He rose as well. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised. The nicks and scratches on her face stood out like badges of honor. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll catch some at Central. Anyway, as things stand, it should be wrapped up in a few hours. I’ll take some personal time when it is.”

“When it is, let’s take a few days. You could use some sun.”

“I’ll think about it.” Because they were alone, she leaned forward to kiss him.

At oh seven ten, Eve stood in Whitney’s office. He had her written report on disc and hard copy, was listening to her oral follow-up.

“The doctor over Stiles estimates midday before he can be questioned. At this point, he’s sedated. His condition is stable. Officer Trueheart remains in serious condition. His lower extremities are not yet responding to stimuli, and he has not, at this point, regained full consciousness. I would like to recommend Officer Trueheart for a citation for his conduct. His quick actions and disregard for personal safety were directly responsible for the apprehension of the suspect. The injuries sustained by him during the operation were not due to any negligence on his part but on mine.”

“So you state in your written report. I disagree with your analysis.”

“Sir, Officer Trueheart displayed courage and clear thinking under difficult and dangerous circumstances.”

“I don’t doubt that, Lieutenant.” He leaned back. “You’re admirably controlled in both your written and oral reports. Are you considering discussing the problems with the operation personally with Captain Stuart? Because if you are, I will have to issue a direct order that you make no contact with Captain Stuart. She is, at this moment, being reprimanded by her superiors. You don’t think that’s enough?” he asked after a moment of thrumming silence.

“It’s not for me to say.”

“Admirably controlled,” he repeated. “She fucked it up. Through her disregard for your authority, your orders, the chain of command, and all reasonable common sense, she botched the entire situation, is responsible for dozens of civilian injuries, thousands in property damage, offered the suspect the opportunity to flee, and put one of my men in the hospital.”

He leaned forward, spoke through his teeth. “Do you think I am not pissed?”

“You are admirably controlled, sir.”

He let out a short blast of sound that might have been a laugh. “Did you advise Captain Stuart that you were in command, that you were on the scene, and had said scene under control, that all weapons were to be set to low stun and there was to be no discharging of same without extreme circumstance?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Captain Stuart will be dealt with, I promise you. She’ll be lucky to work System Control when the internal investigation is complete. Be satisfied with that.”

“Trueheart’s twenty-two years old.” And it weighed on her, like a stone on the heart.

“I’m aware of that. I’m aware of how it feels to have a man go down under your hand. Suck it in, Lieutenant, and do the job. Sit down.”

When she obeyed, he set her written report aside. “When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

“I’m all right.”

“When we’re done here, you’ll take two hours. That’s an order. Anja Carvell,” he began. “Do you consider her an essential element in this case?”

“She’s a loose thread. Any thread that isn’t knotted off is an essential element.”

“And her alleged relationships to Kenneth Stiles and Richard Draco?”

“The number of connections crossed in this case result in too many triangles to be ignored. It appears that Stiles arranged for Draco’s murder, and as a result, Linus Quim’s. However, there are a number of others with motive and opportunity. It isn’t absolute that Stiles acted, more, that he acted alone. Before I moved on him, I was on the point of requesting a warrant to break the seal on Carly Landsdowne’s adoption.”

“Take your two hours, then try Judge Levinsky. Most judges are reluctant to open seals on private adoptions. He may be your best bet, particularly if you catch him after he’s had breakfast.”

She intended to follow orders. Finding a flat surface and sprawling over it would help clear her mind.

She closed the door to her office, locked it, then simply stretched out on the floor. Before she could close her eyes, her palm ’link beeped.

“Yeah, what?”

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“No nagging,” she muttered and pillowed her cheek on her hand. “I’m lying down right now.”

“Good.” Roarke studied her face. “Though you’d be better off in a bed than on your office floor.”

“Do you know everything?”

“I know you. Which is why I decided to contact you. I neglected to pass on some information last night. The name of the birth mother in Carly Landsdowne’s file.”

“What’re you talking about? I told you to leave that alone.”

“I disobeyed. I’ll look forward to you punishing me later. It’s listed as Anja Carvell. She gave birth at a private woman’s clinic in Switzerland. The adoption was preset and legal. She was given the mandatory twenty-four-hour period to withdraw her decision, stuck with it, and signed the final papers. She listed the father as Richard Draco, and included, per law, a sworn document that he had been informed of the pregnancy, her decision to complete it, and the adoption. The document was verified by voluntary truth testing.”

“Was he notified of the live birth?”

“Yes. The file’s complete, and as efficient as one expects from the Swiss. He was aware he had a child, a daughter. Mandatory DNA testing verified he was the father. He made no objections to the adoption.”

She shifted to her back, let the information slide into her brain. “The adoptive parents are entitled to all this information except for the names. They’re given medical histories of the birth parents, their cultural and ethnic backgrounds, intellectual, artistic, technical skills. All that can paint a pretty clear picture. The adoptee is also entitled to all this data upon request, including the legal names of the birth parents.”

“I didn’t find any request for that data from the adoptee,” Roarke told her.

“There are ways around it. Carly could have known. She could have put it together and suspected Draco was her father. There’s physical resemblance if you know to look for it. How much did she know?”

“You’ll find out. Get some sleep.”

“Right. Remind me to slap you around later for electronic trespass.”

“I’m excited already.”

She drifted off, thinking of fathers and daughters, of deceit and murder.

And woke with the old nightmare screaming in her throat, her skin bathed with the sweat of it and a violent pounding in her head.

She rolled over, pushed up to her hands and knees to struggle against the nausea. It took her several trembling seconds to realize not all the pounding was in her head. Some of it was at her door.

“Yeah. Hold on. Damn it.” She rocked back to her heels, forced herself to breathe. She pushed to her feet, braced a hand on the desk until her legs were steady again.

After flipping the locks, she yanked open the door. “What?”

“You didn’t answer the ’link,” Peabody said in a rush. Her face was still flushed from the morning chill. “I was—are you all right? You look—” Haunted, she thought, but followed instinct and amended the word. “Out of it.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Oh, sorry.” Peabody unbuttoned her coat. In her latest attempt to lose weight, she’d taken to getting off the subway five blocks from Central. Winter had decided to come back for another kick that morning. “I just got in, and ran into the commander on his way out. He’s heading to the hospital.”

“Trueheart?” She gripped Peabody’s arm. “Did we lose him?”

“No. He’s conscious. The commander said he surfaced about twenty minutes ago, and here’s the best part, he’s responding to stimuli. There’s no paralysis, and they’ve upgraded him to guarded condition.”

“Okay.” The relief shuddered through her on bat wings. “Okay, good. We’ll stop by and see him when we go in to interview Stiles.”

“The squad’s chipping in for a flower arrangement. Everybody likes Trueheart.”

“All right, put me down.” She sat behind her desk. “Get me some coffee, will you? I’m punchy.”

“You didn’t go home at all, did you? You said when you sent me off that you were going home.”

“I lied. Coffee. I’ve got some information from an anonymous source. We’re going over to reinterview Carly Landsdowne.”

Peabody sniffed and stalked over to the AutoChef. “I guess your aide’s not supposed to ask the name of the source?”

“My aide’s supposed to get me coffee before I bite her throat.”

“I’m getting it,” Peabody muttered. “Why Carly, at this stage of the investigation?”

“I’ve just verified Richard Draco was her father.”

“But they were . . .” A dozen emotions flew across Peabody’s face. “Oh, yuck.”

“In words of one syllable.” Eve grabbed the coffee. “I want a formal request put in to Judge Levinsky to break adoption seal. We have to make it official. Meanwhile—” She broke off when her desk ’link signaled an incoming.

“Homicide. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant Eve Dallas?”

Eve studied the woman. “That’s right.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, my name is Anja Carvell. I’d like to speak with you on a very important matter, as soon as possible.”

“I’ve been looking for you, Ms. Carvell.”

“I thought you might be. Would it be possible for you to meet me at my hotel? I’m staying at The Palace.”

“Popular spot. I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”

“Thank you. I think I can help you clear up a number of matters.”

“Jeez.” Peabody snagged her own coffee when Eve broke transmission. “We look for her all over hell and back, and here she just drops into our laps.”

“Yeah, nice coincidence.” Eve shoved away from the desk. “I don’t like coincidence.”

TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH

Yes, that had a nice ring, a dramatic touch. One never wants to lose one’s sense of style, even under pressure. Particularly under pressure. The pills are where they can be easily reached, should they be needed. A last resort, of course, but they’ll be quick. They’ll be gentle.

“Do not go gentle into that good night.” Well, what the hell did he know? If it comes down to death or prison, death is preferable.

Life is a series of choices. One twists into the next, and the path shifts. It never really rides straight, unless there are no joys, no sorrows. I would always prefer the road that wanders. I made my choices, for better or worse, they were mine to make. I take full responsibility for the results of those choices.

Even Richard Draco. No, especially Richard Draco. His life was not a series of choices, but a compilation of cruel acts, small and large. Everyone he touched was damaged somehow. His death does not weigh on my conscience. What he did, knowingly, deliberately, viciously, deserved extermination.

I only wish there had been pain, great waves of pain, huge sweeps of knowledge, of fear, of grief in that instant before the knife pierced his heart.

But in planning his execution, I had self-preservation in mind as well. I suppose I still do.

Should I be given the opportunity to do it over again, I would change nothing. I will not feign remorse for disposing of a leech.

I have some regret for luring Linus Quim to his death. It was necessary, and God knows he was an ugly, cold-hearted little man. My choice could have been to pay him off, but blackmail is a kind of disease, isn’t it? Once the body is infected by it, it spreads and returns at inopportune moments. Why risk it?

Still, it brought me no pleasure to arrange his death. In fact, it was necessary to sedate my nerves and anxiety. I made certain he felt no pain, no fear, but died with the illusion of pleasure.

But that, I suppose, doesn’t negate the act of ending yet another life.

I thought I was so clever, staging Richard’s murder in front of so many, knowing that all those surrounding him had reason to wish him harm. There was such a whippy thrill at the idea of having the knife Christine Vole would plunge into the black, miserable heart of Leonard Vole be a real one. It was so beautifully apt.

I regret and apologize for causing my friends and associates any distress, putting them, even for the short term, under any suspicion. Foolish of me, foolish to have believed it would never go this far.

No one, I told myself, cared about Richard. His death would be mourned by no one who knew him except with crocodile tears turned to glimmer on pale cheeks for the audience.

But I miscalculated. Lieutenant Dallas cares. Oh, not about Richard perhaps. She has certainly unearthed enough truth about him by this time to stir her disgust. But she cares about the law. I believe it’s her religion, this standing for the murdered dead.

I realized that very soon after looking into her eyes. After all, I’ve spent my life studying people, measuring them, mimicking them.

In the end, I’ve done what I set out to do, what I believe with all my heart and soul I had to do. I have, ruthlessly perhaps, righted incalculable wrongs.

Isn’t that justice?

Anja Carvell was beautiful, with the curvy body style women sweat or pay for. And men fall for. Her mouth was full, sensuous, and painted with the gleam of polished copper. Her skin had the delicate sheen of gold dust so that with the smoked red of her hair, the tawny eyes, she resembled a flame barely banked to simmer.

She sent Eve a long, level look, shifted her gaze briefly to Peabody, then stepped back, widening the door into her modest suite.

“Thank you for coming so quickly. I realized after we spoke that I should have offered to come to you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Well, you’ll forgive me, I trust, for not knowing the proper procedure in such matters as this. My experience with people in your profession is severely limited. I’ve ordered a pot of chocolate.”

She gestured to the living area where a white pot and two matching cups sat on a low table. “Would you care to join me? It’s so cold and gloomy out. I’ll just get another cup for your assistant.”

“Don’t bother.” Eve heard, and ignored, Peabody’s soft, windy sigh at her back. “You go ahead.”

“In that case, shall we sit down?”

Anja led the way to the sofa, smoothed her long bronze colored skirts, then lifted the pot. There was quiet music playing, something with a bird trill of piano. A squat vase of cabbage roses stood beside the lamp. Their fragrance, and the woman’s, perfumed the room.

It was, Eve thought, a pretty and civilized scene.

“I came to New York only last night,” Anja began. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the city. The rush and energy of it. The heat of it, even in this endless winter. You Americans fill all the spaces and still find more.”

“Where did you come in from?”

“Montreal.” She sipped her chocolate, balanced the cup with the same female delicacy Eve had often admired in Mira. “Lieutenant, I’m afraid Kenneth wasn’t completely truthful with you during your discussion with him. I hope you won’t blame him for it. He was thinking of me.”

“Ms. Carvell, I need your permission to record this conversation.”

“Oh.” After one disconcerted blink, Anja nodded. “Yes, of course. I suppose it must be done officially.”

“Record on, Peabody.” As Eve recited the standard rights and obligations, Anja’s eyes widened with surprise, then warmed again with what might have been amusement.

“Am I a suspect then?”

“It’s procedure. For your protection. Do you understand the rights and obligations I’ve outlined for you?”

“Yes, you were quite clear.”

“Ms. Carvell, why did you come to New York from Montreal yesterday?”

“Kenneth . . . Kenneth Stiles contacted me. He needed to see me. He was quite distraught and anxious. He believes you think he killed Richard Draco. Lieutenant Dallas, such a thing is not possible.”

“And why is that?”

“Kenneth is a kind and gentle man.”

“The kind and gentle man put Richard Draco in the hospital twenty-four years ago after a violent assault.”

Anja made an impatient sound, and her cup clicked into her saucer. “The rashness of youth. Must a man be hounded by a single foolish act committed so long ago? An act committed out of love and concern?”

“Whatever we do follows us, Ms. Carvell.”

“I don’t believe that. I’m proof a life can be changed through will.” Her hand curled tight a moment, as if making a fist of that will. “Lieutenant Dallas, when I saw Kenneth last night, he was frightened and upset. I can swear to you, he would never have called me if he had indeed done what you suspect he has done.”

“When did you see him last?”

“About eight o’clock. We met in a little club. I believe it was called Alley Cat.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“We spoke over drinks. It was then he told me he’s given you my name, that you would look for me in regard to my one-time relationship with Richard.”

Her smile bloomed as beautifully as the roses beside her. “He wanted to warn me, you see, so that I could hide myself, spare myself the discomfort of a meeting such as this. I calmed him as best I could and told him I would speak with you.”

“He hasn’t contacted you again?”

“No. I hope to speak with him after we’re done here, hope to be able to reassure him that you no longer believe he could have done this thing.”

“Kenneth Stiles attempted to leave the city last night.” Eve watched Anja carefully as she spoke. “When an attempt was made to detain him, he fled and was injured during apprehension.”

“No. No, no.” Anja’s hand shot out, gripped Eve by the wrist. “Injured? How badly? Where have you taken him?”

“He’s in the hospital. His condition is stable. His doctors expect a full recovery. Why, Ms. Carvell, does an innocent man attempt to flee?”

She released Eve’s wrist, rose to walk to the shielded window. Her hand pressed against her lips, as if to hold words back, then dropped to twist around the top button of her dress. When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t so cool, wasn’t so steady.

“Oh, Kenneth. Perhaps you’re right, Lieutenant. Perhaps what we do echoes back to us the whole of our lives. He did it for me, you see. Just as before.” She turned back, stood framed by the gray sky. There were tears glimmering in her eyes, but they did not spill onto her cheeks. “Will I be allowed to see him?”

“Possibly. Ms. Carvell, was Kenneth Stiles aware that you carried and gave birth to Richard Draco’s child?”

Anja’s head snapped back, as if struck by Eve’s fist rather than her words. She gave a shaky laugh. Then, composing herself, she walked back to sit. “I see you’re very thorough. Yes, Kenneth knew. He helped me through a very difficult situation.”

“Is he aware Carly Landsdowne is that child?”

“He would not have the name the child’s parents gave her. The files were sealed. I told no one but the attorney who drew up the documents where the child was placed and with whom. That is the point of sealed files, Lieutenant. What does this child—no, she would be a young woman now—have to do with this matter?”

“You’ve had no contact with Carly Landsdowne?”

“Why would I? Ah, you think I’m a liar or cold-blooded.”

Anja topped off her cup of chocolate. But she didn’t drink. Her only outward sign of distress was the restless fingers at her throat.

“I think I’m neither,” she said after a moment. “I discovered myself pregnant. I was very young, very much in love, or what I perceived as love. I gave myself to Richard Draco. He was my first. He enjoyed being the first. I was not as careful with conception control as I should have been.”

She gave a little shrug of the shoulder, settled back. “Being young and in love, when I learned I carried Richard’s child, I was thrilled, swept away with the romantic notion that we would marry. He soon turned that thrill into despair. There was no anger, no passionate quarrel, and certainly there were none of the tender words and promises I had so happily scripted for him to say to me. Instead, he looked at me with disinterest, a faint annoyance.”

Her eyes hardened, her hand dropped once more into her lap. “I will never forget how he looked at me. He told me it was my problem, and that if I expected him to pay for a termination of the pregnancy, I should think again. I wept, of course, and pleaded. He called me a few vile names, claimed that my sexual skills had been mediocre at best, and that he was bored with me. He left me where I was, on my knees. Weeping.”

She sipped her chocolate again with no apparent distress. “You can understand, I hope, why I don’t mourn his death. He was quite the most detestable man I’ve ever known. Unfortunately, at that point in my life, I didn’t see that so clearly. I knew he was flawed,” she continued. “But with that blind and beautiful optimism of youth, I’d believed, until that moment when he turned from me, that I could change him.”

“Then you stopped believing it.”

“Oh yes. I stopped believing I could change Richard Draco. But I thought I couldn’t possibly live without him. I was also very frightened. Barely eighteen, pregnant, alone. I had dreams of becoming a great actress, and these were dashed. How could I go on?”

She paused for a moment, as if looking back. “We’re so dramatic at eighteen. Do you remember when you were eighteen, Lieutenant Dallas, how you believed, somehow, everything was acute, vital, and the world, of course, revolved around you? Ah well.”

She shrugged again. “I tried to end my life. I fumbled that, thank God, though I might have gotten it right if Kenneth hadn’t come. If he hadn’t stopped me, gotten me help.”

“Yet you didn’t terminate the pregnancy.”

“No. I had time to think, to calm. I hadn’t thought of the child when I took the razor to my wrists. Only of myself. It seemed to me that I’d been given another chance, and the only way to survive now was to do what was right for the life I’d started inside me. I might not have gotten through that without Kenneth.”

She shifted her eyes, eloquent eyes, to Eve’s. “He saved my life and the life of the child. He helped me find the clinic in Switzerland and the child placement attorney. He lent me money and a supporting arm.”

“He’s in love with you.”

“Yes.” Her agreement was simple, and sad. “My deepest regret is that I couldn’t, and can’t love him back, in the way he deserves. His attack on Richard all those years ago was an aberration, and one that cost Kenneth dearly.”

“And after you placed the child?”

“I got back to my life. I never picked up that dream of becoming an actress again. I didn’t have the heart for it any longer.”

“As birth mother, you have the right to make regular inquiries about the child you placed.”

“I never executed them. I had done what was best for her, best for myself. She was no longer mine. What interest could we have in each other?”

“She had an interest in Richard Draco. Carly Landsdowne was onstage the night he was killed.”

“Yes?” Surprise, consideration flashed over her face. “She is an actress? Here in New York? Well, how many circles run within the circle of one life? And she was in the play with Richard and Kenneth. How strange, and how apt.”

Eve waited. Watched. “You don’t ask any questions about her.”

“Lieutenant, you want me to pretend some connection, some spiritual bond? Your Carly Landsdowne is a stranger to me. I wish her well, of course. But the link between us, a tenuous and temporary one, was broken years ago. My only connection with those days is Kenneth.”

“Were you acquainted with Areena Mansfield?”

“Slightly, yes. She was very promising, even so long ago. She’s done quite well for herself, hasn’t she? I believe Richard toyed with her as well at some point. Why do you ask?”

“She was also in the cast. Natalie Brooks?”

“Natalie Brooks?” A little smile curved her mouth. “There is a name I haven’t heard in many years. Yes, I remember she had a small part in the play Richard was in when he and I were lovers. She was very young, too. Pretty, fresh in a country girl sort of way. And, of course, easy prey. He seduced her when he turned from me. Perhaps even before. It’s difficult to know. Was she, too, in this play?”

“No, but her son was Draco’s understudy.”

“Fascinating.” Her eyes danced with amusement. “Please, you must tell me who else.”

“Eliza Rothchild.”

“But yes! A delightful woman. So dignified and acerbic. She had no tolerance for Richard. Of course, she was hardly his type and he took no pains to disguise that. Yes, this is fascinating. So many ghosts of the past moving like shadows on the stage. And Richard in the center, where he liked it best.

“I no longer follow theater, but if I’d known, I might have bought a ticket. Yes, I might very well have paid to see that final performance.”

“You’ve had no contact with any of these people in the last twenty-four years?”

“But for Kenneth, no, as I’ve already said. I realize Kenneth told you that he hadn’t seen or spoken to me over the years, didn’t know where I was. The lie was not for himself, but for me. And now that you’ve told me all who are involved, it comes even more clear why he did so. He would have worried that these ghosts would haunt me. I assure you, and will assure him, they don’t.”

“Did he tell you that Richard Draco and Carly Landsdowne had been lovers?”

The cup jerked to a halt before it reached her lips. With her eyes on Eve’s, she lowered it slowly to the table. “What are you saying?”

“That your former lover and the child you made together were intimate. They had a sexual affair that ended shortly before his death.”

“Mother of God.” Anja squeezed her eyes shut. “Is this the payment for a small sin committed so many years ago? You’ve disturbed me, Lieutenant.” She opened her eyes again, and they were hard, glinting. “If that was your purpose, you’ve succeeded. Surely neither of them knew.”

She rose, prowled the room. “She’s young. Attractive?” she asked with a glance back at Eve.

“Yes. Very attractive.”

“He would find her hard to resist. Would see no reason to resist. And he has always been able to lure women into bed.”

“She might have lured him, knowing.”

“What woman chooses to sleep with her own father?” Anja shot back. Her hands fisted, her body trembled once as she spun around. “Why would she have known? The files were sealed.”

“Seals crack,” Eve said mildly. “Any and all of the parties involved can request the file. Perhaps she was curious about who made her.”

“I would have been informed if a request was made and granted. It is the law.”

“Laws are broken. That’s why I have a job. Draco might have opened the file himself.”

At this, Anja merely laughed, a cold and brittle sound. “For what purpose? He had no interest whatsoever at the time. It’s unlikely he remembered a child existed after all these years.”

“There was a resemblance, Ms. Carvell. She has his coloring, the shape of his eyes, his jaw.”

“So.” She drew a breath, nodded, ordered herself to sit again. “He might have looked at her and seen himself. Might have,” she murmured, toying with her button again. “Might have. Then taken her to his bed for some narcissistic thrill. I can’t say. I can’t tell you. Richard has become as much of a stranger to me as the young woman you speak of. I don’t know them.”

“Kenneth Stiles did.”

Eve watched the realization and the horror bloom on Anja’s face. Color rushed into her cheeks and just as quickly drained away again. “No. Whatever he knew or suspected, he wouldn’t have turned to murder. I tell you, the violence of twenty-four years ago was an impulse, a rage of the moment. You said that the affair had ended. Before Richard was killed. Kenneth wouldn’t have harbored violence. He couldn’t have maintained it.”

“Maybe not. Maybe not without help. Where were you on the night of March twenty-fifth?”

“Ah. I see. I see,” she repeated softly, and folded her hands. “I would have been at home. And quite alone.”

“You saw no one, spoke to no one, during that evening?”

“Not that I recall. I have no proof that comes to mind that I was where I say I was.”

“Your family, Ms. Carvell?”

“I have no one. I can only swear to you that I did not travel from Montreal to New York and conspire to cause Richard Draco’s death.” She rose. “Lieutenant, I believe at this point, I would like to consult an attorney. I have nothing more to say on any of these matters until I have done so.”

“That’s your right. Thank you for your cooperation. Record off, Peabody.”

“Would you be so kind as to tell me which hospital is caring for Kenneth? I’d like to contact them and inquire about his condition.”

“He’s at Roosevelt.” Eve got to her feet. “Your attorney, when you engage one, can reach me at Cop Central.”

“Very well.” Anja walked to the door, opened it. “Good day, Lieutenant.” She said it quietly, closed the door, engaged the locks.

Then, covering her face with her hands, she let herself weep.

“Impressions, Peabody.”

“She’s cool, sophisticated, sure of herself. She either believes Stiles is innocent or is determined to protect him. Her concern about him came off as genuine to me. She doesn’t have a lot of concern left over to spare for Carly.”

Eve frowned through the windscreen as she slipped behind the wheel of her vehicle. “Should she?”

“Well, it just seems to me there should be some, you know, emotional connection.”

“Why? She conceived, gestated, delivered. That’s nine months out of her life. Where’s the emotional connection in that?”

“Because the baby grew inside her. She felt it kick and move around, and . . . I don’t know, Dallas. I’ve never conceived, gestated, and delivered. I’m giving you my take, that’s all.”

Peabody shifted uneasily, feeling out of her depth. There was a darkness in the air, swirling around Eve. She didn’t know what to make of it. She cut her eyes toward Eve, then away again. Eve was still staring out of the glass, brooding. “If she’s giving it to us straight,” Peabody ventured. “She placed the baby, then walked away. I just don’t buy it could be as cut and dried, as easy as that. I thought you were leading toward her being in on the murder.”

“I haven’t discounted it.” But she’d let something slip because her own emotions had been rattled. “Go back in, find out when Carvell registered, if she prebooked, and when she’s scheduled to leave.”

“Right.” With some relief, Peabody scurried out into the fresh air.

What sort of woman chooses to sleep with her own father?

Eve’s stomach had been in knots since that question had been tossed at her. What if there is no choice? What then? She let her head fall back. There was another question: What sort of man chooses to sleep with his own daughter?

That was one she had the answer to. She knew that kind of man, and he still whispered his candy breath in her ear.

“What are you doing, little girl?”

The breath exploded out of her lungs. She sucked it greedily back in.

What about the mother? she asked herself and wiped her damp palms on the thighs of her trousers. What made a mother? She didn’t believe it was the bulk of life stirring in the belly. Eve angled her head, looked up toward the windows where Anja Carvell sat with her pot of chocolate and her ghosts. No, she didn’t believe it was as simple as that.

There was more. There had to be more.

Most rational, decent human beings would instinctively protect an infant, a helpless child. But the need to protect another adult stemmed from duty. Or love.

She straightened in her seat as Peabody climbed back in. “She checks out. Called in yesterday, after six, requested a reservation. She got into the hotel some time just before eight. She’s scheduled to leave tomorrow, but arranged for an option to extend.”

“Mother, father, devoted friend,” Eve murmured. “Let’s move on to child.”

“Carly. We’re going to go right by a couple 24/7s crossing town. Maybe we could stop and get some hot chocolate.”

“That stuff they sell in those places is swill.”

“Yeah, but it’s chocolate swill.” Peabody tried a pitiful, pleading look. “You wouldn’t let her give us any of the good stuff.”

“Maybe you’d like some cookies, too. Or little frosted cakes.”

“That would be nice. Thanks for asking.”

“That was sarcasm, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. I know. Responded in kind.”

The easy laugh had the black cloud lifting. Because it did, Eve pulled over at a cross-street 24/7 and waited while Peabody ran in and loaded up.

“You know, I’m really trying to cut down on this stuff. But . . .” Peabody ripped into the pack of cookies. “Thing is, weird, McNab doesn’t think I’m chubby. And when a guy sees you naked, he knows where the extra layers are.”

“Peabody, do you have some delusion that I want to hear how McNab sees you naked?”

She crunched into a cookie. “I’m just saying. Anyway, you know we have sex, so you’ve probably reached the conclusion we’re naked when we’re having it. You being an ace detective and all.”

“Peabody, in the chain of command, you may, on rare occasions and due to my astonishing good nature, respond to sarcasm with sarcasm. You are not permitted to lead with it. Give me a damn cookie.”

“They’re coconut crunchies. You hate coconut.”

“Then why did you buy coconut?”

“To piss you off.” Grinning now, Peabody pulled another pack of cookies from her bag. “Then I bought chocolate chip, just for you.”

“Well, hand them over then.”

“Okay, so . . .” Peabody ripped open the second pack, offered Eve a cookie. “Anyway, McNab’s got a little, bitty butt, and hardly any shoulders. Still—”

“Stop. Stop right there. If I get an image of a naked McNab in my head, you’re going back to traffic detail.”

Peabody munched, hummed, waited.

“Damn it! There he is.”

Hooting with laughter, Peabody polished off the last cookie. “Sorry. Dallas, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. Kinda cute, isn’t he?”

And, she thought, it had bumped whatever had been troubling her lieutenant out of the way.

“Button it up,” Eve warned, but she had to swallow a chuckle along with her cookie. “Brush the crumbs off your shirt and try to find your dignity somewhere.” She pulled to the curb in front of Carly’s building.

The high-end neighborhood, the exclusive building, the plush lobby sent a different signal to Eve now. Anja Carvell had selected wealthy parents for the child. The kind of parents who could assure the child would grow up with privilege, security, luxuries.

Had she taken as much care in researching the kind of people they were? Stable, loving, wise, supporting?

“Peabody, we did the run on Carly Landsdowne’s educational history? It was private schools, right?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.” To verify, Peabody pulled out her PPC as they entered the lobby elevator. “Private and top rated, preschool through college. They sprang for a bunch of extras including drama, dance, music, voice. All private tutors.”

“What do the parents do?”

“Father’s a doctor, microsurgeon. Mother’s a travel agent, her own company. But she filed as professional mother from 2036 until 2056, the full twenty years allotted per child.”

“No siblings?”

“None.”

“She picked winners. She was careful. It mattered,” she said to herself as she stepped out and walked to Carly’s door.

It took two long buzzes before the door opened. Heavy-eyed, her hair sleep-tumbled, Carly gave a careless yawn. “What now?”

“A moment of your time.”

“At dawn?”

“It’s after nine.”

“I repeat, at dawn?” Then she shrugged, stepped back. “Don’t ask me anything until I get a cup of coffee. That should be added to those rights and obligations you’re so fond of spouting.”

“Cranky,” Peabody whispered as Carly strode away.

Eve scanned the room, listened to the beep of the AutoChef, then tried not to let her mouth water when she caught the scent of rich and real coffee.

“I saw you at Richard’s memorial yesterday,” Carly said as she breezed back in. Her robe slipped silkily off one shoulder as she sat, crossed long, bare legs. “You do get around.”

“Some of the matters I’m here to discuss with you are of a personal nature. You might want to ask your companion to leave.”

“My companion?”

“Two wineglasses,” Eve pointed out, with a nod at the low table. “Crushed pillows on the end of the sofa.” She reached under one, tugged out one sheer leg of black hose. “Undergarments in unusual places.”

“So your clever deductive powers lead you to the correct conclusion that I had sex last night.” She shrugged and her robe slid down a little lower. “Why do you think he’s still here?”

“Because you were having sex this morning before I so rudely interrupted. That little mating bite on your neck’s very fresh.”

“Ah.” She sighed with a sound of amusement. “I suppose he was feeling a little frisky. Why don’t you come on out, sweetheart?” She lifted her voice and kept her eyes on Eve. “Lieutenant Dallas has spoiled the moment anyway.”

A door creaked open. There was the hesitant pad of bare feet on the floor. Rumpled and flushing, Michael Proctor stepped into the room.

“Ah . . .” He cleared his throat, tried to find something to do with his hands, and ended up letting them dangle from his arms at his sides. He was rumpled, wrinkled, and had misbuttoned his shirt. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Carly’s long, delighted roll of laughter filled the room. “Oh, Michael, do better. At least try to look satisfied and defiant instead of embarrassed and guilty. She’s not the morals police.”

“Carly.” Her name was a vocal wince.

She waved a hand. “Go get yourself some coffee, you’ll feel better.”

“Um . . . Can I get anyone . . . anything?”

“Isn’t he sweet?” Carly beamed, like a proud mother over a well-mannered child. “Go on, darling.”

She turned back to Eve as Michael shuffled from the room. Her expression transformed, like a mask removed, from silk to steel. “I believe sex between consenting adults is legal in this state, so shall we move on?”

“How long have you and Michael been lovers?”

Carly examined her nails, picked idly at a minute chip in the polish. “Since you tell me it’s after nine, for about twelve hours. I’m afraid I can’t give you the exact time the act was consummated. I wasn’t wearing my wrist unit.”

“You want points for attitude?” Eve said evenly. “Fine with me. We can take this down to Central and see who’s the biggest hard-ass. Or you can give me straight answers on how Michael Proctor ended up sharing your bed this morning.”

Carly’s lips twisted, but the idea of a session at Cop Central had her reaching for control. “We ran into each other at the memorial, ended up going out for a drink, came back here. One thing led very enjoyably to another. Is there a problem with that?”

“Bury one lover, pick up a fresh one? That might be a problem for some people.”

Temper flashed into Carly’s eyes, but she kept her voice level. “Save your narrow-minded view for someone who’s interested. It happens that Michael and I have a great deal in common, some chemistry stirred, and we acted on it. Above that, I like him very much.”

“One of the things you have in common is Richard Draco.”

“True enough. But Richard’s dead. We’re not.”

Michael walked slowly back in. “Carly, would you like me to go?”

“Not on my account.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down.” It was as much a challenge as a request. When he sat, she gave a pleased smile, hooked her arm through his. “So, Lieutenant, you were saying?”

“Michael, you didn’t mention your mother knew Richard Draco.”

The cup jumped in his hand, sloshed coffee on his slacks. “My mother? What does she have to do with it?”

“She worked in a play with Draco.”

“Your mother’s an actress?” Carly angled her head.

“She was. She retired years ago. Before I was born.” He set his cup down, rubbed ineffectually at his slacks. “Leave my mother alone. She hasn’t done anything.”

“Did I say she had?” Nerves, Eve thought. He couldn’t keep his hands still for them. “You know then, that she had been intimate with Draco at one time.”

“It was nothing. It was years ago.”

“Your mother and Richard?” Carly drew back to study his face. “Oh. Sticky.” And there was sympathy in her eyes. “Don’t let it rattle you, sweetie.”

But it had, obviously. “Look, she had a bit part, that’s all. She wasn’t a serious actress. She told me. She and my father have been together ever since . . .She wouldn’t have told me except she knew I admired him, that I was going to audition for his stand-in. He used her. He liked using women.”

He looked steadily at Carly now. “She got over him. Smart women do.”

His mother, Eve decided, or maybe women in general, was his weak spot. “Yeah, he liked using women. Young, pretty women. They were toys to him, and he got bored with his toys fairly quickly. Your mother gave up her career, her hopes for it, because of him.”

“Maybe.” Michael blew out a breath. “Maybe that was part of it. But she made a new life, she’s happy in it.”

“He hurt her.”

“Yeah.” His gaze flashed up, ripe with bitterness. “Yeah, he hurt her. You want me to say I hated him for it? Maybe I did, on some level.”

“Michael, don’t say any more,” Carly warned.

“The hell with that.” His voice took on conviction as well as anger. “She’s talking about my mother. She wasn’t some cheap tramp, some toy he picked up then tossed aside. She was a nice, naive girl. He took advantage of that, of her.”

“Did he give her illegals, Michael?” Eve asked. “Did he give her a taste for them?”

“No. He tried. The son of a bitch.”

“Michael, you don’t have to answer her questions.”

“I’m going to straighten this out, right now.” Heat rolled off him in violent waves. “She told me that she came into the room and he was putting drops of something in her drink. She asked him what it was, and he just laughed. He said . . . my mother doesn’t use hard language, but she told me exactly what he said. It would make her fuck like a rabbit.”

Muscles quivered in his jaw as he stared at Eve. “She didn’t even know what it meant. But I knew, when she told me, I knew. The bastard tried to slip her Wild Rabbit.”

“But she didn’t drink it?”

“No, it scared her. She told him she didn’t want anything to drink, and that’s when he got mad. He called her names, tried to make her drink it. She realized then what kind of man he was and she ran. She was crushed, disillusioned. She went back home. She told me that was the best thing that ever happened to her, going home.

“He didn’t even remember her,” Michael added. “He didn’t even have the decency to remember her name.”

“You spoke to him about her?”

“I wanted to see how he’d react. He didn’t even pretend to remember. She meant nothing to him. No one did.”

“Did you tell him? Remind him?”

“No.” He deflated, the heat evaporating. “No, I didn’t see the point. And if I’d pushed it, I’d have lost the job.”

“Don’t. Don’t let it hurt you.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed in speculation as Carly slipped her arms around him, soothed. They stayed narrowed and cool when Carly shot her a burning glare. “Leave him alone. Do you get your kicks picking on people weaker than you?”

“It’s what gets me through the day.” You’re not weak, Eve thought. Did the people who made you form you, she wondered. Or the people who raised you?

“It must have been hard on you, Michael, knowing all that and seeing Draco day after day.”

“I had to put it out of my mind. I couldn’t change what had happened, could I?” He gave a shrug that tried to be defiant. “And nothing I could do would make any difference. And one day, I’d step out onstage in his place, and I’d be better. That would be enough.”

“You’ve got that chance now, don’t you? A chance to stand in his light. A chance to be with one of his lovers.”

His tightly compressed lips trembled apart. “Carly. It wasn’t like that. I don’t want you to think—”

“Of course it wasn’t.” She put a hand over his. “The lieutenant has a foul mind.”

“Ms. Landsdowne.”

Carly ignored Eve for a moment and laid gentle kisses on both of Michael’s cheeks. “You’ve spilled your coffee. Why don’t you go back and get us both a fresh cup?”

“Yeah. All right.” He got to his feet. “My mother is a wonderful woman.”

“Of course she is,” Carly replied.

When he went back into the kitchen, she turned to face Eve fully. “I don’t like seeing Michael’s vulnerabilities exploited, Lieutenant. The strong are supposed to protect the weak, not kick them in the face.”

“Maybe you’re not giving him enough credit for spine.” Eve moved over, eased down on the arm of a chair. “He defended his mother very well. For some, family ties are the strongest. You didn’t mention you were adopted, Ms. Landsdowne.”

“What?” Confusion clouded her eyes. “For heaven’s sakes, why should I have? I don’t remember it half the time. What business is that of yours?”

“It was a private adoption, at birth.”

“Yes. My parents never hid it from me. Neither was it made a particular issue in our home.”

“Did they give you the details of your heritage?”

“Details? Medical history, ethnicity, of course. I was told my birth mother arranged for my placement because she wanted the best for me, and so on and so forth. Whether that was true or not never mattered. I had my mother.”

She paused, then asked, “Are you speculating that my mother had a relationship with Richard at one time?” She let out a rolling laugh and shook back her cloud of tousled hair. “I can assure you she didn’t. My mother never met Richard Draco. She and my father have been happily married for nearly thirty years. Before I was born she was a travel agent, not an actress.”

“You were never curious about the woman who gave you up?”

“Not particularly. I have wonderful parents whom I love, and who love me. Why should I wonder about a woman who’s nothing but a stranger to me?”

Like mother, like daughter, Eve thought.

“Many adoptees want contact, want answers, even a relationship with their birth parents.”

“I didn’t. Don’t. There was no hole in my life to fill. I’m sure my parents would have helped me find her if I’d asked. If I’d needed that. I didn’t. And it would have hurt them,” she said quietly. “I would never hurt them. How is this relevant?”

“Do you recognize the name Anja Carvell?”

“No.” She stiffened slightly. “Are you telling me that’s the name of the woman who placed me? I didn’t ask for a name. I didn’t want a name.”

“You have no knowledge, have had no contact with a woman by that name?”

“No, and I don’t want any.” Carly got to her feet. “You’ve no right to do this. To play with my life this way.”

“You never asked about your birth father.”

“Goddamn it, if she’s nothing to me, he’s less than nothing. A lucky sperm. You wanted a rise out of me, you got one. Now, what does this have to do with Richard Draco’s death?”

Eve said nothing, and in the silence she watched denial, disbelief, then horror flash into Carly’s eyes. “No, that’s a lie. A revolting, vicious lie. You hideous bitch.”

She grabbed the little pot of violets on the table, heaved them to shower glass and petals down the wall. “It’s not true.”

“It’s documented,” Eve said flatly. “Richard Draco was your birth father.”

“No. No.” Carly sprang at Eve, shoved her roughly against a table and upended a lamp. The china exploded like a bomb. Before Peabody could intervene, Eve signaled her back, and took the hard slap to the face without attempting to block.

“Take it back! Take it back!”

She shouted it, tears spurting out of her eyes. Her beauty was stark now, white face, dark eyes. She grabbed Eve’s shirt, shook, then with a moan, collapsed on her.

“Oh God. Oh my God.”

“Carly.” Michael bolted in from the kitchen. One look at his face told Eve he’d listened, he’d heard. When he rushed to Carly, tried to turn her into his own arms, she shoved away, crossed her arms defensively over her breasts.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.” Like a candle burned to wax, she slid to the floor in a shuddering puddle.

“Peabody, take Michael back into the kitchen.”

He stepped back, stared at Eve. “It was cruel what you did. Cruel.” He walked toward the kitchen with Peabody behind him.

Eve crouched. She could still feel the heat from the crack of Carly’s hand across her face. But her gut was iced over. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Carly lifted her face, and her eyes were ravaged. “I don’t know who I loathe more at this moment: myself or you.”

“If you were unaware of your blood tie to him, you have nothing to loathe yourself for.”

“I had sex with him. I put my hands on him. Allowed him to put his on me. Can you conceive how that makes me feel? How dirty that makes me feel?”

Oh God, yes. She was suddenly and brutally tired. She fought off her own demons and stared into Carly’s eyes. “He was a stranger to you.”

Carly’s breath hitched. “He knew, didn’t he? It all makes such horrible sense. The way he pursued me, the way he looked at me. The things he said. We’re two of a kind, he told me, and he laughed.” She gripped Eve’s shirt again. “Did he know?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’m glad he’s dead. I wish I’d killed him myself. I wish to God almighty it had been my hand on the knife. I’ll never stop wishing that.”

“No comments, Peabody?”

“No, sir.” They rode down in the elevator with Peabody looking straight ahead.

There was an ache, churning, pulsing, swelling, in every part of her body. “You didn’t like the way I handled that.”

“It’s not for me to say, Lieutenant.”

“Fuck that.”

“All right. I don’t understand why you had to tell her.”

“It’s relevant,” Eve snapped. “Every connection matters.”

“You punched her in the gut with it.”

“So now it’s my method that doesn’t meet your standards.”

“You asked,” Peabody shot back. “If she had to be told, I don’t see why you shoved it in her face the way you did. Why you couldn’t have found a way to soften it.”

“Soften it? Her father was fucking her. You tell me how you soften that. You tell me how you put that in a pretty box with a bow on it.”

She turned on Peabody, and like Carly’s, Eve’s eyes were ravaged. “What the hell do you know? What do you know about it with your big, sprawling, happy, Free-Ager family where everybody gathers around the dinner table with clean faces and chirpy news of the day.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw in enough air. She was strangling. But she couldn’t stop the words.

“When Daddy came in to kiss you good night, he didn’t crawl into bed with you, did he, and put his sweaty hands all over you. Fathers don’t jam themselves into their little girls in your tidy world.”

She strode off the elevator, through the lobby, and out to the street, while Peabody stood stiff with shock.

Eve paced the sidewalk, barely restrained herself from kicking the duet of white poodles and the droid that walked them. A headache was raging, a rocket blast that screamed inside her skull. She could feel her hands tremble, even though they were balled into tight fists in her pockets.

“Dallas.”

“Don’t,” she warned Peabody. “Keep back a minute.”

She could walk it off, she promised herself. She could walk off the leading edge of the fury that made her want to scream and pound and rip. And when she had, all that was left was the headache and the sick misery deep in her gut.

Her face was pale but composed when she walked up to Peabody. “My personal remarks were over the line. I apologize for them.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“It is. In my opinion, it was also necessary to be cruel up there. It doesn’t make me feel any better about it. But you’re not here to be a punching bag for my foul moods.”

“That’s okay. I’m kind of used to it.”

Peabody tried a smile, then gaped with horror when Eve’s eyes filled. “Oh, jeez. Dallas.”

“Don’t. Shit. I need some time.” She bore down, stared hard at the face of the building. “I’m taking a couple of hours’ personal time. Grab some public transpo back to Central.” Her chest wanted to heave, to throw the tears up and out. “I’ll meet you at Roosevelt in two hours.”

“All right, but—”

“Two hours,” Eve repeated and all but launched herself into the car.

She needed to go home. She needed to hold on and to go home. Not trusting herself, she set the car on auto and rode with her head back and her hands balled in her lap.

From the age of eight, she’d built a wall or her subconscious had mercifully built one for her to block out the ugliness that had happened to her. It left a blank, and on that blank she’d created herself. Piece by painful piece.

She knew what it was to feel that wall crumble, to have the cracks form so the ugliness oozed in.

She knew what Carly faced. And what she would go through to live with it.

The headache kicked like a tornado inside her skull by the time she drove through the gates. Her eyes were glazed with it, with the greasy churn of nausea in her belly. She ordered herself to hold on, to hold it in, and staggered up the steps.

“Lieutenant,” Summerset began when she stumbled inside.

“Don’t mess with me.” She tried to snap it out, but her voice wavered. Even as she bolted upstairs, he moved to the house intercom.

She wanted to lie down. She’d be all right if she could just lie down for an hour. But the churning defeated her. She turned into the bathroom, went down on her knees, and was vilely ill.

When she was empty, too weak to stand, she simply curled on the tiles.

She felt a hand on her brow, cool. Blessedly cool. And opened her eyes.

“Roarke. Leave me alone.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

She tried to turn away from him, but he slipped his arms under her.

“Sick.”

“Yes, baby, I know.” She felt fragile as glass when he lifted her, carried her to bed.

She began to shiver as he drew off her boots, covered her with a blanket. “I wanted to come home.”

He said nothing, only got a damp cloth and bathed her face. She was too pale, the shadows under her eyes too deep. When he held a glass to her lips, she turned her face away.

“No. No soothers. No tranqs.”

“It’s for the nausea. Here now.” He brushed her damp hair back and hoped he wouldn’t be forced to pour it down her throat. “That’s all. I promise.”

She drank because her stomach was quivering again, and her throat felt as if it had been raked by claws. “I didn’t know you were here.” She opened her eyes again, and the tears that burned in her chest flooded into her eyes. “Roarke. Oh God.”

She pressed herself against him. Burrowed. As her body shook, he tightened his arms around her. “Get rid of it,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, let it go.”

“I hate what I did. I hate myself for doing it.”

“Ssh. Whatever it was, you wouldn’t have had a choice.”

“I should have found one.” She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his shoulder, and with her eyes closed, she told him everything.

“I know what went through her.” She was better now, the worst of the sickness eased. “I know what she felt. And I saw myself in her when she looked at me.”

“Eve. No one knows better than you, or I, what vileness there is in the world. You did what you had to do.”

“I could’ve—”

“No.” He leaned back, cupped her face so that their eyes met. There wasn’t pity in his, which she would have hated. There wasn’t sympathy, which would have scraped her raw.

There was simply understanding.

“You couldn’t have. Not you. You had to know, didn’t you? You had to be sure if she’d known who he was to her. Now you do.”

“Yeah, now I do. No one’s that good an actress. She’ll see herself, again and again, together with him. Over and over.”

“Stop. You couldn’t have changed that, no matter how she found out.”

“Maybe not.” She closed her eyes again, sighed. “I swiped at Peabody.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“I came close to losing it, right out on the street. I nearly—”

“But you didn’t.” He gave her a little shake before she could speak again. “You irritate me, Eve. Why must you beat yourself up like this? You haven’t slept in over thirty hours. You’ve entered into a phase of this investigation that hits so close to a personal horror most people would run away or shatter. You’ve done neither.”

“I broke.”

“No, Eve. You chipped.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Then you came home. Lie down for a bit. Close your eyes. Turn it off.”

“I shouldn’t have told you to leave me alone. I didn’t mean it.”

“It hardly matters.” The innate arrogance in his voice nearly made her smile. “I wouldn’t have. I won’t.”

“I know. I wanted you to be here.” She slid into him before he could nudge her back. “I needed you to be. And you were.” Her mouth turned to his. Seeking. “Roarke.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’m empty, and it hurts.” Her hands roamed up his back, kneading. “Fill me with something. Please.”

Love filled the voids and hollows, no matter how deep, no matter how wide. He would give it to her, take it for himself. With patience, with tenderness.

His lips brushed hers, settled, sank, until he felt hers warm and yield. Gathering her, he trailed kisses over her face, her hair, her throat. First to comfort.

She turned into him, offering more. But his hands were light as wings, floating over her, slipping under her shirt to her flesh with long, slow strokes. Then to soothe.

And when she sighed, when her body melted back against the pillows, he undressed her. His lips followed the trace of his fingers, gently stirring pulses. Now to arouse.

She opened for him, as she never had for anyone else. For him, she could lay herself bare. Body, heart, and mind. And know, and trust, he would do the same.

Without heat or demands or urgency, he nudged her up, let her linger on the crest, slide over, until her system glowed with the pleasure of belonging.

Her heart swelled, matched its beat to his, and her arms wrapped around him like ribbons to draw him close.

“I love you.” He watched her face as he slipped inside her. “Completely. Endlessly.”

Her breath caught, sighed out again. She closed her eyes to hold on to the beauty of the moment. And let him bring her home.

She held him close, needing for just a bit longer to have his body pressed so intimately to hers. “Thanks.”

“I hate to state the obvious, but it was my pleasure. Better now?”

“A lot. Roarke—no, just stay like this a minute.” She kept her face turned into his shoulder. “When we’re together like this, it’s not like it’s ever been with anyone else. It’s like there never was anyone else.”

“For me either.”

She laughed, relieved that she could. “You’ve had a lot more anyones.”

“Who’s counting?” He shifted, rolling over so that she ranged over him. The fragility was gone, he noted. There was the smooth and agile flow to her movements that characterized her.

Her cheeks were no longer pale, but her eyes were heavy, bruised, exhausted. It made him regret not pouring a tranq into her after all.

“Cut it out.” She scooped her hair back and nearly managed a scowl.

“Cut what out?”

“Thinking about fussing over me. You don’t have to take care of me.” She didn’t need the amused glint in his eyes to tell her how ridiculous that sounded under the circumstances. “All the time,” she amended.

“Let’s take a nap.”

“I can’t. I don’t imagine you can, either. I’ve already messed up your day. You were probably buying a solar system or something.”

“Only a small, largely uninhabited planet. It’s not going anywhere. I can use a break, and you need to sleep.”

“Yeah, I do, but I can’t.”

“Eve—”

“Look, I’ll catch some downtime soon. You’re one to talk. You haven’t had much more than me lately.”

“Our engines don’t run at the same speed.”

That stopped her from her slide off the bed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Just that.”

She frowned, considered. “It sounds like something that ought to piss me off. But I can’t figure out exactly why. When I do, I might have to pop you one.”

“I’ll look forward to it. If you won’t sleep, eat. You need something in your stomach. And what are you grinning at?”

“You. You’re such a wife,” she said as she headed toward the shower.

He sat for a minute, stunned. “Now I’m pissed off.”

“See, now you know how it feels. Well, order me something to eat,” she called out. “Water on, one hundred and two degrees.”

“Bite me,” he muttered and ordered her some soup with a high-protein additive.

She ate every drop, as much to please him as to kill the hunger. Her mind clear again, she dressed, strapped on her weapon. “I have to go by the hospital, see what I can get out of Stiles.”

“Why? You’ve already figured it out.” When she just stared at him, he shrugged. “I know you, Lieutenant. You let it churn around while you were eating, settle into place. Now you’re revving up to finish it.”

“I haven’t filled all the gaps yet. I want to cover a few more bases, and I need to run something by Whitney. It sort of involves you.”

“And what might that be?”

She shook her head. “If he doesn’t clear it, it won’t matter. I’ll be able to reach you, right? If I need to talk to you before I get back.”

“I’ll be available. I thought I’d bake some cookies.”

The dry tone had her snorting as she picked up her jacket. “You do that, honey.” She turned to kiss him, then yelped when he twisted her earlobe. “Hey!”

“Don’t work too hard, darling.”

“Man.” Pouting, she rubbed her ear as she walked to the door. “If I did that every time you used the W word, you wouldn’t have any ears left.”

She stopped at the door, looked back. “But you’re beautiful when you’re angry,” she said, and fled.

Peabody stood outside the hospital’s main doors, shoulders hunched against the brisk wind, nose red from it.

“Why the hell didn’t you wait inside?” Eve demanded. “It’s freezing out here.”

“I wanted to catch you before you went in. Can we take a minute?”

Eve studied Peabody’s set and serious face. Personal business, she decided, not official. Well, she deserved it. “All right. Let’s walk, keep the blood moving.” She headed away from the ramps and glides, as sirens announced another unlucky resident of New York was about to enjoy the building’s facilities.

“About before,” Peabody began.

“Look, I was out of line, and you were the closest target. I’m sorry about it.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I figured it out. Took me a while,” she added. “What you did, telling her cold like that was because you had to see how she’d react. If she knew Draco was her father, well, it bumped up her motive. Either way, if she knew it before they . . . you know, or if she knew it after they got going, it went to her frame of mind.”

Eve watched a medi-van whip past. “She didn’t know.”

“I don’t think so either. If you’d eased her into it, it would’ve given her time to think, to figure out how best to react, what to say. I should’ve known that right off instead of working around to it an hour later.”

“I could have clued you in before we got there.” With a shake of her head, she turned around, started back. “I hadn’t settled myself into it yet.”

“It was a hard thing to do. I don’t think I’d’ve had the guts for it.”

“It has nothing to do with guts.”

“Yeah, it does.” Peabody stopped, waited for Eve to turn to face her. “If you didn’t have feelings, it wouldn’t have been hard. But you do. Guts can be the same thing as mean without compassion. It was hard, but you did it anyway. A better cop would have realized that quicker.”

“I didn’t give you much of a chance since I was busy jumping down your throat. You worked it out, came around to it on your own. I must be doing something right with you. So, are we square now?”

“Yeah, all four corners.”

“Good, let’s get inside. I’m freezing my ass off.”