Taken in Death
Author: J.D. Robb
Date: 2013-09-24T07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Romance; Crime; Futuristic; Romantic Suspense; Fiction; Audiobook; Suspense; Novella; Science Fiction
Description: A new and fantastically gripping Eve Dallas short story 'The evil witch killed Darcia. Henry knew it because he'd seen Darcia on the floor, and all the blood. Everything felt funny and sleepy and wrong. He knew he was under a spell. The evil witch's magic spell.' When twins Henry and Gala are kidnapped and their nanny killed, Lieutenant Eve Dallas steps in to take control. But video footage shows what appears to be their mother arriving and leaving with the obviously drugged seven-year-olds. Something is wrong, and Eve, her husband Roarke and her brilliant team are ready to work round the cloc
Publisher: Piatkus

Nora Roberts

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Series

IRISH BORN TRILOGY
Born in Fire
Born in Ice
Born in Shame

DREAM TRILOGY
Daring to Dream
Holding the Dream
Finding the Dream

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Inner Harbor
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GALLAGHERS OF ARDMORE TRILOGY
Jewels of the Sun
Tears of the Moon
Heart of the Sea

THREE SISTERS ISLAND TRILOGY
Dance Upon the Air
Heaven and Earth
Face the Fire

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Key of Light
Key of Knowledge
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Black Rose
Red Lily

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Dance of the Gods
Valley of Silence

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Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

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J. D. Robb

Naked in Death
Glory in Death
Immortal in Death
Rapture in Death
Ceremony in Death
Vengeance in Death
Holiday in Death
Conspiracy in Death
Loyalty in Death
Witness in Death
Judgment in Death
Betrayal in Death
Seduction in Death
Reunion in Death
Purity in Death
Portrait in Death
Imitation in Death
Divided in Death
Visions in Death
Survivor in Death
Origin in Death
Memory in Death
Born in Death
Innocent in Death
Creation in Death
Strangers in Death
Salvation in Death
Promises in Death
Kindred in Death
Fantasy in Death
Indulgence in Death
Treachery in Death

Anthologies

From the Heart
A Little Magic
A Little Fate

Moon Shadows
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

THE ONCE UPON SERIES
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
Once Upon a Castle
Once Upon a Star
Once Upon a Dream
Once Upon a Rose
Once Upon a Kiss
Once Upon a Midnight

Silent Night
(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

Out of This World
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

Bump in the Night
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Dead of Night
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Three in Death

Suite 606
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

In Death

The Lost
(with Patricia Gaffney, Mary Blayney, and Ruth Ryan Langan)

The Other Side
(with Mary Blaney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Also available…

The Official Nora Roberts Companion
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

Table of Contents

Naked in Death

Glory in Death

Immortal in Death

Rapture in Death

Ceremony in Death

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.

NAKED IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1995 by Nora Roberts

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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: 978-1-1012-0354-5

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.

Electronic edition: May, 2002

What’s past is prologue.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Violence is as American as cherry pie.

—RAP (HUBERT GEROLD) BROWN

Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty

chapter one

She woke in the dark. Through the slats on the window shades, the first murky hint of dawn slipped, slanting shadowy bars over the bed. It was like waking in a cell.

For a moment she simply lay there, shuddering, imprisoned, while the dream faded. After ten years on the force, Eve still had dreams.

Six hours before, she’d killed a man, had watched death creep into his eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d exercised maximum force, or dreamed. She’d learned to accept the action and the consequences.

But it was the child that haunted her. The child she hadn’t been in time to save. The child whose screams had echoed in the dreams with her own.

All the blood, Eve thought, scrubbing sweat from her face with her hands. Such a small little girl to have had so much blood in her. And she knew it was vital that she push it aside.

Standard departmental procedure meant that she would spend the morning in Testing. Any officer whose discharge of weapon resulted in termination of life was required to undergo emotional and psychiatric clearance before resuming duty. Eve considered the tests a mild pain in the ass.

She would beat them, as she’d beaten them before.

When she rose, the overheads went automatically to low setting, lighting her way into the bath. She winced once at her reflection. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep, her skin nearly as pale as the corpses she’d delegated to the ME.

Rather than dwell on it, she stepped into the shower, yawning.

“Give me one oh one degrees, full force,” she said and shifted so that the shower spray hit her straight in the face.

She let it steam, lathered listlessly while she played through the events of the night before. She wasn’t due in Testing until nine, and would use the next three hours to settle and let the dream fade away completely.

Small doubts and little regrets were often detected and could mean a second and more intense round with the machines and the owl-eyed technicians who ran them.

Eve didn’t intend to be off the streets longer than twenty-four hours.

After pulling on a robe, she walked into the kitchen and programmed her AutoChef for coffee, black; toast, light. Through her window she could hear the heavy hum of air traffic carrying early commuters to offices, late ones home. She’d chosen the apartment years before because it was in a heavy ground and air pattern, and she liked the noise and crowds. On another yawn, she glanced out the window, followed the rattling journey of an aging airbus hauling laborers not fortunate enough to work in the city or by home-links.

She brought the New York Times up on her monitor and scanned the headlines while the faux caffeine bolstered her system. The AutoChef had burned her toast again, but she ate it anyway, with a vague thought of springing for a replacement unit.

She was frowning over an article on a mass recall of droid cocker spaniels when her tele-link blipped. Eve shifted to communications and watched her commanding officer flash onto the screen.

“Commander.”

“Lieutenant.” He gave her a brisk nod, noted the still wet hair and sleepy eyes. “Incident at Twenty-seven West Broadway, eighteenth floor. You’re primary.”

Eve lifted a brow. “I’m on Testing. Subject terminated at twenty-two thirty-five.”

“We have override,” he said, without inflection. “Pick up your shield and weapon on the way to the incident. Code Five, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” His face flashed off even as she pushed back from the screen. Code Five meant she would report directly to her commander, and there would be no unsealed interdepartmental reports and no cooperation with the press.

In essence, it meant she was on her own.

Broadway was noisy and crowded, a party where rowdy guests never left. Street, pedestrian, and sky traffic were miserable, choking the air with bodies and vehicles. In her old days in uniform she remembered it as a hot spot for wrecks and crushed tourists who were too busy gaping at the show to get out of the way.

Even at this hour there was steam rising from the stationary and portable food stands that offered everything from rice noodles to soydogs for the teeming crowds. She had to swerve to avoid an eager merchant on his smoking Glida-Grill, and took his flipped middle finger as a matter of course.

Eve double-parked and, skirting a man who smelled worse than his bottle of brew, stepped onto the sidewalk. She scanned the building first, fifty floors of gleaming metal that knifed into the sky from a hilt of concrete. She was propositioned twice before she reached the door.

Since this five-block area of Broadway was affectionately termed Prostitute’s Walk, she wasn’t surprised. She flashed her badge for the uniform guarding the entrance.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Yes, sir.” He skimmed his official compu-seal over the door to keep out the curious, then led the way to the bank of elevators. “Eighteenth floor,” he said when the doors swished shut behind them.

“Fill me in, officer.” Eve switched on her recorder and waited.

“I wasn’t first on the scene, lieutenant. Whatever happened upstairs is being kept upstairs. There’s a badge inside waiting for you. We have a Homicide, and a Code Five in number Eighteen-oh-three.”

“Who called it in?”

“I don’t have that information.”

He stayed where he was when the elevator opened. Eve stepped out and was alone in a narrow hallway. Security cameras tilted down at her and her feet were almost soundless on the worn nap of the carpet as she approached 1803. Ignoring the handplate, she announced herself, holding her badge up to eye level for the peep cam until the door opened.

“Dallas.”

“Feeney.” She smiled, pleased to see a familiar face. Ryan Feeney was an old friend and former partner who’d traded the street for a desk and a top level position in the Electronics Detection Division. “So, they’re sending computer pluckers these days.”

“They wanted brass, and the best.” His lips curved in his wide, rumpled face, but his eyes remained sober. He was a small, stubby man with small, stubby hands and rust colored hair. “You look beat.”

“Rough night.”

“So I heard.” He offered her one of the sugared nuts from the bag he habitually carried, studying her, and measuring if she was up to what was waiting in the bedroom beyond.

She was young for her rank, barely thirty, with wide brown eyes that had never had a chance to be naive. Her doe-brown hair was cropped short, for convenience rather than style, but suited her triangular face with its razor-edge cheekbones and slight dent in the chin.

She was tall, rangy, with a tendency to look thin, but Feeney knew there were solid muscles beneath the leather jacket. More, there was a brain, and a heart.

“This one’s going to be touchy, Dallas.”

“I picked that up already. Who’s the victim?”

“Sharon DeBlass, granddaughter of Senator DeBlass.”

Neither meant anything to her. “Politics isn’t my forte, Feeney.”

“The gentleman from Virginia, extreme right, old money. The granddaughter took a sharp left a few years back, moved to New York, and became a licensed companion.”

“She was a hooker.” Dallas glanced around the apartment. It was furnished in obsessive modern—glass and thin chrome, signed holograms on the walls, recessed bar in bold red. The wide mood screen behind the bar bled with mixing and merging shapes and colors in cool pastels.

Neat as a virgin, Eve mused, and cold as a whore. “No surprise, given her choice of real estate.”

“Politics makes it delicate. Victim was twenty-four, Caucasian female. She bought it in bed.”

Eve only lifted a brow. “Seems poetic, since she’d been bought there. How’d she die?”

“That’s the next problem. I want you to see for yourself.”

As they crossed the room, each took out a slim container, sprayed their hands front and back to seal in oils and fingerprints. At the doorway, Eve sprayed the bottom of her boots to slicken them so that she would pick up no fibers, stray hairs, or skin.

Eve was already wary. Under normal circumstances there would have been two other investigators on a homicide scene, with recorders for sound and pictures. Forensics would have been waiting with their usual snarly impatience to sweep the scene.

The fact that only Feeney had been assigned with her meant that there were a lot of eggshells to be walked over.

“Security cameras in the lobby, elevator, and hallways,” Eve commented.

“I’ve already tagged the discs.” Feeney opened the bedroom door and let her enter first.

It wasn’t pretty. Death rarely was a peaceful, religious experience to Eve’s mind. It was the nasty end, indifferent to saint and sinner. But this was shocking, like a stage deliberately set to offend.

The bed was huge, slicked with what appeared to be genuine satin sheets the color of ripe peaches. Small, soft focused spotlights were trained on its center where the naked woman was cupped in the gentle dip of the floating mattress.

The mattress moved with obscenely graceful undulations to the rhythm of programmed music slipping through the headboard.

She was beautiful still, a cameo face with a tumbling waterfall of flaming red hair, emerald eyes that stared glassily at the mirrored ceiling, long, milk white limbs that called to mind visions of Swan Lake as the motion of the bed gently rocked them.

They weren’t artistically arranged now, but spread lewdly so that the dead woman formed a final X dead center of the bed.

There was a hole in her forehead, one in her chest, another horribly gaping between the open thighs. Blood had splattered on the glossy sheets, pooled, dripped, and stained.

There were splashes of it on the lacquered walls, like lethal paintings scrawled by an evil child.

So much blood was a rare thing, and she had seen much too much of it the night before to take the scene as calmly as she would have preferred.

She had to swallow once, hard, and force herself to block out the image of a small child.

“You got the scene on record?”

“Yep.”

“Then turn that damn thing off.” She let out a breath after Feeney located the controls that silenced the music. The bed flowed to stillness. “The wounds,” Eve murmured, stepping closer to examine them. “Too neat for a knife. Too messy for a laser.” A flash came to her—old training films, old videos, old viciousness.

“Christ, Feeney, these look like bullet wounds.”

Feeney reached into his pocket and drew out a sealed bag. “Whoever did it left a souvenir.” He passed the bag to Eve. “An antique like this has to go for eight, ten thousand for a legal collection, twice that on the black market.”

Fascinated, Eve turned the sealed revolver over in her hand. “It’s heavy,” she said half to herself. “Bulky.”

“Thirty-eight caliber,” he told her. “First one I’ve seen outside of a museum. This one’s a Smith & Wesson, Model Ten, blue steel.” He looked at it with some affection. “Real classic piece, used to be standard police issue up until the latter part of the twentieth. They stopped making them in about twenty-two, twenty-three, when the gun ban was passed.”

“You’re the history buff.” Which explained why he was with her. “Looks new.” She sniffed through the bag, caught the scent of oil and burning. “Somebody took good care of this. Steel fired into flesh,” she mused as she passed the bag back to Feeney. “Ugly way to die, and the first I’ve seen it in my ten years with the department.”

“Second for me. About fifteen years ago, Lower East Side, party got out of hand. Guy shot five people with a twenty-two before he realized it wasn’t a toy. Hell of a mess.”

“Fun and games,” Eve murmured. “We’ll scan the collectors, see how many we can locate who own one like this. Somebody might have reported a robbery.”

“Might have.”

“It’s more likely it came through the black market.” Eve glanced back at the body. “If she’s been in the business for a few years, she’d have discs, records of her clients, her trick books.” She frowned. “With Code Five, I’ll have to do the door-to-door myself. Not a simple sex crime,” she said with a sigh. “Whoever did it set it up. The antique weapon, the wounds themselves, almost ruler straight down the body, the lights, the pose. Who called it in, Feeney?”

“The killer.” He waited until her eyes came back to him. “From right here. Called the station. See how the bedside unit’s aimed at her face? That’s what came in. Video, no audio.”

“He’s into showmanship.” Eve let out a breath. “Clever bastard, arrogant, cocky. He had sex with her first. I’d bet my badge on it. Then he gets up and does it.” She lifted her arm, aiming, lowering it as she counted off, “One, two, three.”

“That’s cold,” murmured Feeney.

“He’s cold. He smooths down the sheets after. See how neat they are? He arranges her, spreads her open so nobody can have any doubts as to how she made her living. He does it carefully, practically measuring, so that she’s perfectly aligned. Center of the bed, arms and legs equally apart. Doesn’t turn off the bed ’cause it’s part of the show. He leaves the gun because he wants us to know right away he’s no ordinary man. He’s got an ego. He doesn’t want to waste time letting the body be discovered eventually. He wants it now. That instant gratification.”

“She was licensed for men and women,” Feeney pointed out, but Eve shook her head.

“It’s not a woman. A woman wouldn’t have left her looking both beautiful and obscene. No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Let’s see what we can find. Have you gone into her computer yet?”

“No. It’s your case, Dallas. I’m only authorized to assist.”

“See if you can access her client files.” Eve went to the dresser and began to carefully search drawers.

Expensive taste, Eve reflected. There were several items of real silk, the kind no simulation could match. The bottle of scent on the dresser was exclusive, and smelled, after a quick sniff, like expensive sex.

The contents of the drawers were meticulously ordered, lingerie folded precisely, sweaters arranged according to color and material. The closet was the same.

Obviously the victim had a love affair with clothes and a taste for the best and took scrupulous care of what she owned.

And she’d died naked.

“Kept good records,” Feeney called out. “It’s all here. Her client list, appointments—including her required monthly health exam and her weekly trip to the beauty salon. She used the Trident Clinic for the first and Paradise for the second.”

“Both top of the line. I’ve got a friend who saved for a year so she could have one day for the works at Paradise. Takes all kinds.”

“My wife’s sister went for it for her twenty-fifth anniversary. Cost damn near as much as my kid’s wedding. Hello, we’ve got her personal address book.”

“Good. Copy all of it, will you, Feeney?” At his low whistle, she looked over her shoulder, glimpsed the small gold-edged palm computer in his hand. “What?”

“We’ve got a lot of high-powered names in here. Politics, entertainment, money, money, money. Interesting, our girl has Roarke’s private number.”

“Roarke who?”

“Just Roarke, as far as I know. Big money there. Kind of guy that touches shit and turns it into gold bricks. You’ve got to start reading more than the sports page, Dallas.”

“Hey, I read the headlines. Did you hear about the cocker spaniel recall?”

“Roarke’s always big news,” Feeney said patiently. “He’s got one of the finest art collections in the world. Arts and antiques,” he continued, noting when Eve clicked in and turned to him. “He’s a licensed gun collector. Rumor is he knows how to use them.”

“I’ll pay him a visit.”

“You’ll be lucky to get within a mile of him.”

“I’m feeling lucky.” Eve crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets.

“The man’s got powerful friends, Dallas. You can’t afford to so much as whisper he’s linked to this until you’ve got something solid.”

“Feeney, you know it’s a mistake to tell me that.” But even as she started to smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. “There’s something under her.” Carefully, Eve lifted the shoulder, eased her fingers over.

“Paper,” she murmured. “Sealed.” With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet.

ONE OF SIX

“It looks hand printed,” she said to Feeney and held it out. “Our boy’s more than clever, more than arrogant. And he isn’t finished.”

Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim’s neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions.

She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she’d nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she’d put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she’d recently scraped herself off the sidewalk.

Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city’s most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary.

The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon’s figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes.

Eve couldn’t have been more delighted.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. “We serve by appointment only.”

“That’s okay.” Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She offered her badge. “Who works on Sharon DeBlass?”

The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.”

“I bet.” Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s breast. “Or I can talk louder, so everyone understands. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Sharon DeBlass’s operator. Or whatever term you use.”

“Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.”

“My pleasure.”

And it was.

Outside of movies or videos, Eve had never seen anything so lush. The carpet was a red cushion your feet could sink blissfully into. Crystal drops hung from the ceiling and spun light. The air smelled of flowers and pampered flesh.

She might not have been able to imagine herself there, spending hours having herself creamed, oiled, pummeled, and sculpted, but if she were going to waste such time on vanity, it would certainly have been interesting to do so under such civilized conditions.

The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and breezes sweetened the air.

“If you’d just wait here.”

“No problem.” Eve waited for the door to close then, with an indulgent sigh, she lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the monitor beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only be a droid’s beamed smiles.

“Good afternoon. Welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you wait for your personal consultant?”

“Sure. Coffee, black, coffee.”

“Of course. What sort would you prefer? Press C on your keyboard for the list of choices.”

Smothering a chuckle, Eve followed instructions. She spent the next two minutes pondering over her options, then narrowed it down to French Riviera or Caribbean Cream.

The door opened again before she could decide. Resigned, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed scarecrow.

Over his fuchsia shirt and plum colored slacks, he wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Eve a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry, officer. I’m baffled.”

“I want information on Sharon DeBlass.” Again, Eve took out her badge and offered it for inspection.

“Yes, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. That was my understanding. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.”

“And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?”

“Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand, sparkling with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your motives for the inquiry?”

“I’m inquiring into the motives for the murder of DeBlass.” She waited a beat, judged the shock that shot into his eyes and drained his face of color. “Other than that, my data is strictly confidential.”

“Murder. My dear God, our lovely Sharon is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but slid into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. When the monitor offered him refreshment, he waved a hand again. Light shot from his jeweled fingers. “God, yes. I need a brandy, darling. A snifter of Trevalli.”

Eve sat beside him, took out her recorder. “Tell me about Sharon.”

“A marvelous creature. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper.” His brandy came into the room on a silent automated cart. Sebastian plucked the snifter and took one deep swallow. “She had flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.”

He turned the doe eyes on Eve again. “I saw her only two days ago.”

“Professionally?”

“She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Sharon took care of herself, believed strongly in the presentation of self.”

“It would be an asset in her line of work.”

“Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need, with her family background. She enjoyed sex.”

“With you?”

His artistic face winced, the rosy lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” Sebastian said stiffly and draped the scarf with casual flare over his left shoulder. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.”

“So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?”

“It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She . . .” He gestured grandly. “Exuded sex as others might exude an expensive perfume. My God.” He took another shaky sip of brandy. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back to Eve. “You said murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk to her about moving to a more acceptable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it all under her family’s aristocratic noses.”

“She and her family were at odds?”

“Oh definitely. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they so . . . ordinary.” He said it in a tone that indicated ordinary was more mortal a sin than murder itself. “Her grandfather continues to introduce bills that would make prostitution illegal. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such matters need to be regulated for health and crime security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.”

Eve’s ears pricked. “The senator opposes the gun ban?”

“It’s one of his pets. Sharon told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and spouts off regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.”

“Murder still happens,” Eve murmured. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who might have been dissatisfied or overly aggressive?”

“Sharon had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like . . .” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the scarf again. “Like an exotic and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully. All of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, breeding, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was . . . adventurous.”

That fit with the toys Eve had unearthed in the apartment. The velvet handcuffs and whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. The offerings on the two sets of colinked virtual reality headphones had been a shock even to Eve’s jaded system.

“Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?”

“There were men occasionally, but she lost interest quickly. Recently she’d spoken about Roarke. She’d met him at a party and was attracted. In fact, she was seeing him for dinner the very night she came in for her consultation. She’d wanted something exotic because they were dining in Mexico.”

“In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.”

“Yes. She was just bubbling over about him. We did her hair in a gypsy look, gave her a bit more gold to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour facial cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “And she kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.”

chapter two

No sperm. Eve swore over the autopsy report. If she’d had sex with her killer, the victim’s choice of birth control had killed the little soldiers on contact, eliminating all trace of them within thirty minutes after ejaculation.

The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. He’d blown her apart either for symbolism or for his own protection.

No sperm, no blood but for the victim’s. No DNA.

The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none: not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaning specialist, certainly not the murderer’s.

Every surface had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon.

Most telling of all, in Eve’s judgment, were the security discs. Once again, she slipped the elevator surveillance into her desk monitor.

The discs were initialed.

Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00.

Eve zipped through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed, giving her unit a quick smack with the heel of her hand when the image bobbled, then studied the nervous little man who entered and asked for the fifth floor.

A jumpy john, she decided, amused when he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady white-collar job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his nooner.

He got off the elevator at five.

Activity was light for several hours, the occasional prostitute riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments.

At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and a tattoo of a rosebud with the stem starting at the crotch and the flower artistically teasing the left nipple. He fondled her, a technically illegal act in a secured area. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, chatting about the play they’d just seen.

Eve made a note to interview the man the following day. It was he who was the victim’s neighbor and associate.

The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46.

Two hours and forty-one minutes lost.

The hallway disc of the eighteenth floor was the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Eve picked up her cooling coffee as she thought it through. The man understood security, she mused, was familiar enough with the building to know where and how to doctor the discs. And he’d taken his time, she thought. The autopsy put the victim’s death at two A.M.

He’d spent nearly two hours with her before he’d killed her, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet he hadn’t left a trace.

Clever boy.

If Sharon DeBlass had recorded an appointment, personal or professional, for midnight, that, too, had been wiped.

So he’d known her intimately enough to be sure where she kept her files and how to access them.

On a hunch, Eve leaned forward again. “Gorham Complex, Broadway, New York. Owner.”

Her eyes narrowed as the date flashed onto her screen.

Gorham Complex, owned by Roarke Industries, headquarters 500 Fifth Avenue. Roarke, president and CEO. New York residence, 222 Central Park West.

“Roarke,” Eve murmured. “You just keep turning up, don’t you. Roarke?” she repeated. “All data, view and print.”

Ignoring the incoming call on the ’link beside her, Eve sipped her coffee and read.

Roarke—no known given name—born 10-06-2023, Dublin, Ireland. ID number 33492-ABR-50. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. President and CEO of Roarke Industries, established 2042. Main branches New York, Chicago, New Los Angeles, Dublin, London, Bonn, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Milan, Sydney. Off-planet branches, Station45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, FreeStar One. Interests in real estate, import-export, shipping, entertainment, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, transportation. Estimated gross worth, three billion, eight hundred million.

Busy boy, Eve thought, lifting a brow as a list of his companies clicked on-screen.

“Education,” she demanded.

Unknown.

“Criminal record?”

No data.

“Access Roarke, Dublin.”

No additional data.

“Well, shit. Mr. Mystery. Description and visual.” Roarke. Black hair, blue eyes, 6 feet, 2 inches, 173 pounds.

Eve grunted as the computer listed the description. She had to agree that in Roarke’s case, a picture was worth a couple hundred words.

His image stared back at her from the screen. He was almost ridiculously handsome: the narrow, aesthetic face; the slash of cheekbones; and sculpted mouth. Yes, his hair was black, but the computer didn’t say it was thick and full and swept back from a strong forehead to fall inches above broad shoulders. His eyes were blue, but the word was much too simple for the intensity of color or the power in them.

Even on an image, Eve could see this was a man who hunted down what or who he wanted, bagged it, used it, and didn’t bother with frivolities such as trophies.

And yes, she thought, this was a man who could kill if and when it suited him. He would do so coolly, methodically, and without breaking a sweat.

Gathering up the hard data, she decided she’d have a talk with Roarke. Very soon.

By the time Eve left the station to head home, the sky was miserably spitting snow. She checked her pockets without hope and found she had indeed left her gloves in her apartment. Hatless, gloveless, with only her leather jacket as protection against the biting wind, she drove across town.

She’d meant to get her vehicle into repair. There just hadn’t been time. But there was plenty of time to regret it now as she fought traffic and shivered, thanks to a faulty heating system.

She swore if she got home without turning into a block of ice, she’d make the appointment with the mechanic.

But when she did arrive home, her primary thought was food. Even as she unlocked her door, she was dreaming about a hot bowl of soup, maybe a mound of chips, if she had any left, and coffee that didn’t taste like someone had spilled sewage into the water system.

She saw the package immediately, the slim square just inside the door. Her weapon was out and in her hand before she drew the next breath. Sweeping with weapon and eyes, she kicked the door shut behind her. She left the package where it was and moved from room to room until she was satisfied she was alone.

After holstering her weapon, she peeled out of her jacket and tossed it aside. Bending, she picked up the sealed disc by the edges. There was no label, no message.

Eve took it into the kitchen, tapping it carefully out of its seal, and slipped it into her computer.

And forgot all about food.

The video was top quality, as was the sound. She sat down slowly as the scene played on her monitor.

Naked, Sharon DeBlass lounged on the lake-size bed, rustling satin sheets. She lifted a hand, skimming it through that glorious tumbled mane of russet hair as the bed’s floating motion rocked her.

“Want me to do anything special, darling?” She chuckled, rose up on her knees, cupped her own breasts. “Why don’t you come back over here . . .” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “We’ll do it all again.” Her gaze lowered, and a little cat smile curved her lips. “Looks like you’re more than ready.” She laughed again, shook back her hair. “Oh, we want to play a game.” Still smiling, Sharon put her hands up. “Don’t hurt me.” She whimpered, shivering even as her eyes glinted with excitement. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Come on over here and force me. I want you to.” Lowering her hands, she began to stroke herself. “Hold that big bad gun on me while you rape me. I want you to. I want you to—”

The explosion had Eve jolting. Her stomach twisted as she saw the woman fly backward like a broken doll, the blood spurting out of her forehead. The second shot wasn’t such a shock, but Eve had to force herself to keep her eyes on the screen. After the final report there was silence, but for the quiet music, the fractured breathing. The killer’s breathing.

The camera moved in, panned the body in grisly detail. Then, through the magic of video, DeBlass was as Eve had first seen her, spread-eagled in a perfect x over bloody sheets. The image ended with a graphic overlay.

ONE OF SIX

It was easier to watch it through the second time. Or so Eve told herself. This time she noticed a slight bobble of the camera after the first shot, a quick, quiet gasp. She ran it back again, listening to each word, studying each movement, hoping for some clue. But he was too clever for that. And they both knew it.

He’d wanted her to see just how good he was. Just how cold.

And he wanted her to know that he knew just where to find her. Whenever he chose.

Furious that her hands weren’t quite steady, she rose. Rather than the coffee she’d intended, Eve took out a bottle of wine from the small cold cell, poured half a glass.

She drank it down quickly, promised herself the other half shortly, then punched in the code for her commander.

It was the commander’s wife who answered, and from the glittering drops at her ears and the perfect coiffure, Eve calculated that she’d interrupted one of the woman’s famous dinner parties.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Mrs. Whitney. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need to speak to the commander.”

“We’re entertaining, lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” Fucking politics, Eve thought as she forced a smile. “It’s urgent.”

“Isn’t it always?”

The machine hummed on hold, mercifully without hideous background music or updated news reports, for a full three minutes before the commander came on.

“Dallas.”

“Commander, I need to send you something over a coded line.”

“It better be urgent, Dallas. My wife’s going to make me pay for this.”

“Yes, sir.” Cops, she thought as she prepared to send the image to his monitor, should stay single.

She waited, folding her restless hands on the table. As the images played again, she watched again, ignoring the clenching in her gut. When it was over, Whitney came back on-screen. His eyes were grim.

“Where did you get this?”

“He sent it to me. A disc was here, in my apartment, when I got back from the station.” Her voice was flat and careful. “He knows who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing.”

Whitney was silent for a moment. “My office, oh seven hundred. Bring the disc, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the transmission ended, she did the two things her instincts dictated. She made herself a copy of the disc, and she poured another glass of wine.

She woke at three, shuddering, clammy, fighting for the breath to scream. Whimpers sounded in her throat as she croaked out an order for lights. Dreams were always more frightening in the dark.

Trembling, she lay back. This one had been worse, much worse, than any she’d experienced before.

She’d killed the man. What choice had she had? He’d been too buzzed on chemicals to be stunned. Christ, she’d tried, but he’d just keep coming, and coming, and coming, with that wild look in his eyes and the already bloodied knife in his hand.

The little girl had already been dead. There was nothing Eve could have done to stop it. Please God, don’t let there have been anything that could have been done.

The little body hacked to pieces, the frenzied man with the dripping knife. Then the look in his eyes when she’d fired on full, and the life had slipped out of them.

But that hadn’t been all. Not this time. This time he’d kept coming. And she’d been naked, kneeling in a pool of satin. The knife had become a gun, held by the man whose face she’d studied hours before. The man called Roarke.

He’d smiled, and she’d wanted him. Her body had tingled with terror and sexual desperation even as he’d shot her. Head, heart, and loins.

And somewhere through it all, the little girl, the poor little girl, had been screaming for help.

Too tired to fight it, Eve simply rolled over, pressed her face into her pillow and wept.

“Lieutenant.” At precisely seven A.M., Commander Whitney gestured Eve toward a chair in his office. Despite the fact, or perhaps due to the fact that he’d been riding a desk for twelve years, he had sharp eyes.

He could see that she’d slept badly and had worked to disguise the signs of a disturbed night. In silence, he held out a hand.

She’d put the disc and its cover into an evidence bag. Whitney glanced at it, then laid it in the center of his desk.

“According to protocol, I’m obliged to ask you if you want to be relieved from this case.” He waited a beat. “We’ll pretend I did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is your residence secure, Dallas?”

“I thought so.” She took hard copy out of her briefcase. “I reviewed the security discs after I contacted you. There’s a ten minute time lapse. As you’ll see in my report, he has the capability of undermining security, a knowledge of videos, editing, and, of course, antique weapons.”

Whitney took her report, set it aside. “That doesn’t narrow the field overmuch.”

“No, sir. I have several more people I need to interview. With this perpetrator, electronic investigation isn’t primary, though Captain Feeney’s help is invaluable. This guy covers his tracks. We have no physical evidence other than the weapon he chose to leave at the scene. Feeney hadn’t been able to trace it through normal channels. We have to assume it was black market. I’ve started on her trick books and her personal appointments, but she wasn’t the retiring kind. It’s going to take time.”

“Time’s part of the problem. One of six, lieutenant. What does that say to you?”

“That he has five more in mind, and wants us to know it. He enjoys his work and wants to be the focus of our attention.” She took a careful breath. “There’s not enough for a full psychiatric profile. We can’t say how long he’ll be satisfied by the thrill of this murder, when he’ll need his next fix. It could be today. It could be a year from now. We can’t bank on him being careless.”

Whitney merely nodded. “Are you having problems with the rightful termination?”

The knife slicked with blood. The small ruined body at her feet. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Be sure of it, Dallas. I don’t need an officer on a sensitive case like this who’s worried whether she should or shouldn’t use her weapon.”

“I’m sure of it.”

She was the best he had, and he couldn’t afford to doubt her. “Are you up to playing politics?” His lips curved thinly. “Senator DeBlass is on his way over. He flew into New York last night.”

“Diplomacy isn’t my strong suit.”

“I’m aware of that. But you’re going to work on it. He wants to talk to the investigating officer, and he went over my head to arrange it. Orders came down from the chief. You’re to give the senator your full cooperation.”

“This is a Code Five investigation,” Eve said stiffly. “I don’t care if orders came down from God Almighty, I’m not giving confidential data to a civilian.”

Whitney’s smile widened. He had a good, ordinary face, probably the one he was born with. But when he smiled and meant it, the flash of white teeth against the cocoa colored skin turned the plain features into the special.

“I didn’t hear that. And you didn’t hear me tell you to give him no more than the obvious facts. What you do hear me tell you, Lieutenant Dallas, is that the gentleman from Virginia is a pompous, arrogant asshole. Unfortunately, the asshole has power. So watch your step.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at his watch, then slipped the file and disc into his safe drawer. “You’ve got time for a cup of coffee . . . and, lieutenant,” he added as she rose. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, take your authorized sedative. I want my officers sharp.”

“I’m sharp enough.”

Senator Gerald DeBlass was undoubtedly pompous. He was unquestionably arrogant. After one full minute in his company, Eve agreed that he was undeniably an asshole.

He was a compact, bull of a man, perhaps six feet, two hundred and twenty. His crop of white hair was cut sharp and thin as a razor so that his head seemed huge and bullet sleek. His eyes were nearly black, as were the heavy brows over them. They were large, like his nose, his mouth.

His hands were enormous, and when he clasped Eve’s briefly on introduction, she noted they were smooth and soft as a baby’s.

He brought his adjutant with him. Derrick Rockman was a whiplike man in his early forties. Though he was nearly six-five, Eve gave DeBlass twenty pounds on him. Neat, tidy, his pin-striped suit and slate blue tie showed not a crease. His face was solemn, attractively even featured, his movements restrained and controlled as he assisted the more flamboyant senator out of his cashmere overcoat.

“What the hell have you done to find the monster who killed my granddaughter?” DeBlass demanded.

“Everything possible, senator.” Commander Whitney remained standing. Though he offered DeBlass a seat, the man prowled the room, as he was given to prowl the New Senate Gallery in East Washington.

“You’ve had twenty-four hours and more,” DeBlass shot back, his voice deep and booming. “It’s my understanding you’ve assigned only two officers to the investigation.”

“For security purposes, yes. Two of my best officers,” the commander added. “Lieutenant Dallas heads the investigation and reports solely to me.”

DeBlass turned those hard black eyes on Eve. “What progress have you made?”

“We identified the weapon, ascertained the time of death. We’re gathering evidence and interviewing residents of Ms. DeBlass’s building, and tracking the names in her personal and business logs. I’m working to reconstruct the last twenty-four hours of her life.”

“It should be obvious, even to the slowest mind, that she was murdered by one of her clients.” He said the word in a hiss.

“There was no appointment listed for several hours prior to her death. Her last client has an alibi for the critical hour.”

“Break it,” DeBlass demanded. “A man who would pay for sexual favors would have no compunction about murder.”

Though Eve failed to see the correlation, she remembered her job and nodded. “I’m working on it, senator.”

“I want copies of her appointment books.”

“That’s not possible, senator,” Whitney said mildly. “All evidence of a capital crime is confidential.”

DeBlass merely snorted and gestured toward Rockman.

“Commander.” Rockman reached in his left breast pocket and drew out a sheet of paper affixed with a holographic seal. “This document from your chief of police authorizes the senator access to any and all evidence and investigative data on Ms. DeBlass’s murder.”

Whitney barely glanced at the document before setting it aside. He’d always considered politics a coward’s game, and hated that he was forced to play it. “I’ll speak to the chief personally. If the authorization holds, we’ll have copies to you by this afternoon.” Dismissing Rockman, he looked back at DeBlass. “The confidentiality of evidence is a major tool in the investigative process. If you insist on this, you risk undermining the case.”

“The case, as you put it, commander, was my flesh and blood.”

“And as such, I’d hope your first priority would be assisting us to bring her killer to justice.”

“I’ve served justice for more than fifty years. I want that information by noon.” He picked up his coat, tossed it over one beefy arm. “If I’m not satisfied that you’re doing everything in your power to find this maniac, I’ll see that you’re removed from this office.” He turned toward Eve. “And that the next thing you investigate, lieutenant, will be sticky fingered teenagers at a shop-com.”

After he stormed out, Rockman used his quiet, solemn eyes to apologize. “You must forgive the senator. He’s overwrought. However much strain there was between him and his granddaughter, she was family. Nothing is more vital to the senator than his family. Her death, this kind of violent, senseless death, is devastating to him.”

“Right,” Eve muttered. “He looked all choked up.”

Rockman smiled; he managed to look amused and sorrowful at once. “Proud men often disguise their grief behind aggression. We have every confidence in your abilities and your tenacity, lieutenant. Commander,” he nodded. “We’ll expect the data this afternoon. Thank you for your time.”

“He’s a smooth one,” Eve muttered when Rockman shut the door quietly behind him. “You’re not going to cave, commander.”

“I’ll give them what I have to.” His voice was sharp and edged with suppressed fury. “Now, go get me more.”

Police work was too often drudgery. After five hours of staring at her monitor as she ran makes on the names in DeBlass’s books, Eve was more exhausted than she would have been after a marathon race.

Even with Feeney taking a portion of the names with his skill and superior equipment, there were too many for such a small investigative unit to handle quickly.

Sharon had been a very popular girl.

Feeling discretion would gain her more than aggression, Eve contacted the clients by ’link and explained herself. Those who balked at the idea of an interview were cheerfully invited to come into Cop Central, charged with obstruction of justice.

By midafternoon she had spoken personally with the first dozen on the client list, and took a detour back to the Gorham.

DeBlass’s neighbor, the elegant man from the elevator, was Charles Monroe. Eve found him in, and entertaining a client.

Slickly handsome in a black silk robe, and smelling seductively of sex, Charles smiled engagingly.

“I’m terribly sorry, lieutenant. My three o’clock appointment has another fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll wait.” Without invitation, Eve stepped inside. Unlike DeBlass’s apartment, this one ran to deep, cushy chairs in leather and thick carpets.

“Ah . . .” Obviously amused, Charles glanced behind him, where a door was discreetly closed at the end of a short hallway. “Privacy and confidentiality are, you understand, vital to my profession. My client is apt to be disconcerted if she discovers the police on my doorstep.”

“No problem. Got a kitchen?”

He let out a weighty sigh. “Sure. Right through that doorway. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time.” Eve strolled off to the kitchen. In contrast to the elaborate living area, this was spartan. It seemed Charles spent little time eating in. Still, he had a full-size friggie unit rather than a cold cell, and she found the treasure of a Pepsi chilling. Satisfied for the moment, she sat down to enjoy it while Charles finished off his three o’clock.

Soon enough, she heard the murmur of voices, a man’s, a woman’s, a light laugh. Moments later, he came in, the same easy smile on his face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. Are you expecting anyone else?”

“Not until later this evening.” He took out a Pepsi for himself, broke the freshness seal from the tube, and poured it into a tall glass. He rolled the tube into a ball and popped it into the recycler. “Dinner, the opera, and a romantic rendezvous.”

“You like that stuff? Opera?” she asked when he flashed a grin.

“Hate it. Can you think of anything more tedious than some big-chested woman screaming in German half the night?”

Eve thought it over. “Nope.”

“But there you are. Tastes vary.” His smile faded as he joined her at the little nook under the kitchen window. “I heard about Sharon on the news this morning. I’ve been expecting someone to come by. It’s horrible. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“You knew her well?”

“We’ve been neighbors more than three years—and occasionally we worked together. Now and again, one of our clients would request a trio, and we’d share the business.”

“And when it wasn’t business, did you still share?”

“She was a beautiful woman, and she found me attractive.” He moved his silk-clad shoulders, his eyes shifting to the tinted glass of the window as a tourist tram streamed by. “If one of us was in the mood for a busman’s holiday, the other usually obliged.” He smiled again. “That was rare. Like working in a candy store, after a while you lose your taste for chocolate. She was a friend, lieutenant. And I was very fond of her.”

“Can you tell me where you were the night of her death between midnight and three A.M. ?”

His brows shot up. If it hadn’t just occurred to him that he could be considered a suspect, he was an excellent actor. Then again, Eve thought, people in his line of work had to be.

“I was with a client, here. She stayed overnight.”

“Is that usual?”

“This client prefers that arrangement. Lieutenant, I’ll give you her name if absolutely necessary, but I’d prefer not to. At least until I’ve explained the circumstances to her.”

“It’s murder, Mr. Monroe, so it’s necessary. What time did you bring your client here?”

“About ten. We had dinner at Miranda’s, the sky café above Sixth.”

“Ten.” Eve nodded, and saw the moment he remembered.

“The security camera in the elevator.” His smile was all charm again. “It’s an antiquated law. I suppose you could bust me, but it’s hardly worth your time.”

“Any sexual act in a secured area is a misdemeanor, Mr. Monroe.”

“Charles, please.”

“It’s a nitpick, Charles, but they could suspend your license for six months. Give me her name, and we’ll clear it up as quietly as possible.”

“You’re going to lose me one of my best clients,” he muttered. “Darleen Howe. I’ll get you the address.” He rose to get his electronic datebook, then read off the information.

“Thanks. Did Sharon talk about her clients with you?”

“We were friends,” he said wearily. “Yeah, we talked shop, though it’s not strictly ethical. She had some funny stories. I’m more conventional in style. Sharon was . . . open to the unusual. Sometimes we’d get together for a drink, and she’d talk. No names. She had her own little terms for them. The emperor, the weasel, the milkmaid, that kind of thing.”

“Was there anyone she mentioned who worried her, made her uneasy? Someone who might have been violent?”

“She didn’t mind violence, and no, nobody worried her. One thing about Sharon, she always felt in control. That’s the way she wanted it because she said she’d been under someone else’s control most of her life. She had a lot of bitterness toward her family. She told me once she’d never planned on making a career out of professional sex. She’d only gotten into it to make her family crazy. But then, after she got into it, she decided she liked it.”

He moved his shoulders again, sipped from his glass. “So she stayed in the life, and killed two birds with one fuck. Her phrase.”

He lifted his eyes again. “Looks like one of the fucks killed her.”

“Yeah.” Eve rose, tucked her recorder away. “Don’t take any out-of-town trips, Charles. I’ll be in touch.”

“That’s it?”

“For the moment.”

He stood as well, smiled again. “You’re easy to talk to for a cop . . . Eve.” Experimentally, he skimmed a fingertip down her arm. When her brows lifted, he took the fingertip over her jawline. “In a hurry?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve got a couple of hours, and you’re very attractive. Big golden eyes,” he murmured. “This little dip right in your chin. Why don’t we both go off the clock for awhile?”

She waited while he lowered his head, while his lips hovered just above hers. “Is this a bribe, Charles? Because if it is, and you’re half as good as I think you are . . .”

“I’m better.” He nibbled at her bottom lip, let his hand slide down to toy with her breast. “I’m much better.”

“In that case . . . I’d have to charge you with a felony.” She smiled as he jerked back. “And that would make both of us really sad.” Amused, she patted his cheek. “But, thanks for the thought.”

He scratched his chin as he followed her to the door. “Eve?”

She paused, hand on the knob, and glanced back at him. “Yes?”

“Bribes aside, if you change your mind, I’d be interested in seeing more of you.”

“I’ll let you know.” She closed the door and headed for the elevator.

It wouldn’t have been difficult, she mused, for Charles Monroe to slip out of his apartment, leaving his client sleeping, and slip into Sharon’s. A little sex, a little murder . . .

Thoughtful, she stepped into the elevator.

Doctor the discs. As a resident of the building, it would have been simple for him to gain access to security. Then he could have popped back into bed with his client.

It was too bad that the scenario was plausible, Eve thought as she reached the lobby. She liked him. But until she checked his alibi thoroughly, Charles Monroe was now at the top of her short list.

chapter three

Eve hated funerals. She detested the rite human beings insisted on giving death. The flowers, the music, the endless words and weeping.

There might be a God. She hadn’t completely ruled such things out. And if there were, she thought, It must have enjoyed a good laugh over Its creations’ useless rituals and passages.

Still, she had made the trip to Virginia to attend Sharon DeBlass’s funeral. She wanted to see the dead’s family and friends gathered together, to observe, and analyze, and judge.

The senator stood grim-faced and dry-eyed, with Rockman, his shadow, one pew behind. Beside DeBlass was his son and daughter-in-law.

Sharon’s parents were young, attractive, successful attorneys who headed their own law firm.

Richard DeBlass stood with his head bowed and his eyes hooded, a trimmer and somehow less dynamic version of his father. Was it coincidence, Eve wondered, or design that he stood at equal distance between his father and wife?

Elizabeth Barrister was sleek and chic in her dark suit, her waving mahogany hair glossy, her posture rigid. And, Eve, noted, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with constant tears.

What did a mother feel, Eve wondered, as she had wondered all of her life, when she lost a child?

Senator DeBlass had a daughter as well, and she flanked his right side. Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass had followed in her father’s political footsteps. Painfully thin, she stood militarily straight, her arms looking like brittle twigs in her black dress. Beside her, her husband Justin Summit stared at the glossy coffin draped with roses at the front of the church. At his side, their son Franklin, still trapped in the gangly stage of adolescence, shifted restlessly.

At the end of the pew, somehow separate from the rest of the family, was DeBlass’s wife, Anna.

She neither shifted nor wept. Not once did Eve see her so much as glance at the flower-strewn box that held what was left of her only granddaughter.

There were others, of course. Elizabeth’s parents stood together, hands linked, and cried openly. Cousins, acquaintances, and friends dabbed at their eyes or simply looked around in fascination or horror. The President had sent an envoy, and the church was packed with more politicians than the Senate lunchroom.

Though there were more than a hundred faces, Eve had no trouble picking Roarke out of the crowd. He was alone. There were others lined in the pew with him, but Eve recognized the solitary quality that surrounded him. There could have been ten thousand in the building, and he would have remained aloof from them.

His striking face gave away nothing: no guilt, no grief, no interest. He might have been watching a mildly inferior play. Eve could think of no better description for a funeral.

More than one head turned in his direction for a quick study or, in the case of a shapely brunette, a not so subtle flirtation. Roarke responded to both the same way: he ignored them.

At first study, she would have judged him as cold, an icy fortress of a man who guarded himself against any and all. But there must have been heat. It took more than discipline and intelligence to rise so high so young. It took ambition, and to Eve’s mind, ambition was a flammable fuel.

He looked straight ahead as the dirge swelled, then without warning, he turned his head, looked five pews back across the aisle and directly into Eve’s eyes.

It was surprise that had her fighting not to jolt at that sudden and unexpected punch of power. It was will that kept her from blinking or shifting her gaze. For one humming minute they stared at each other. Then there was movement, and mourners came between them as they left the church.

When Eve stepped into the aisle to search him out again, he was gone.

She joined the long line of cars and limos on the journey to the cemetery. Above, the hearse and the family vehicles flew solemnly. Only the very rich could afford body internment. Only the obsessively traditional still put their dead into the ground.

Frowning, her fingers tapping the wheel, she relayed her observations into her recorder. When she got to Roarke, she hesitated and her frown deepened.

“Why would he trouble himself to attend the funeral of such a casual acquaintance?” She murmured into the recorder in her pocket. “According to data, they had met only recently and had a single date. Behavior seems inconsistent and questionable.”

She shivered once, glad she was alone as she drove through the arching gates of the cemetery. As far as Eve was concerned, there should be a law against putting someone in a hole.

More words and weeping, more flowers. The sun was bright as a sword but the air had the snapping bite of a petulant child. Near the gravesite, she slipped her hands into her pockets. She’d forgotten her gloves again. The long, dark coat she wore was borrowed. Beneath it, the single gray suit she owned had a loose button that seemed to beg her to tug at it. Inside her thin leather boots, her toes were tiny blocks of ice.

The discomfort helped distract her from the misery of headstones and the smell of cold, fresh earth. She bided her time, waiting until the last mournful word about everlasting life echoed away, then approached the senator.

“My sympathies, Senator DeBlass, to you and your family.”

His eyes were hard; sharp and black, like the hewed edge of a stone. “Save your sympathies, lieutenant. I want justice.”

“So do I. Mrs. DeBlass.” Eve held out a hand to the senator’s wife and found her fingers clutching a bundle of brittle twigs.

“Thank you for coming.”

Eve nodded. One close look had shown her Anna DeBlass was skimming under the edge of emotion on a buffering layer of chemicals. Her eyes passed over Eve’s face and settled just above her shoulder as she withdrew her hand.

“Thank you for coming,” she said in exactly the same flat tone to the next offer of condolence.

Before Eve could speak again, her arm was taken in a firm grip. Rockman smiled solemnly down at her. “Lieutenant Dallas, the Senator and his family appreciate the compassion and interest you’ve shown in attending the service.” In his quiet manner, he edged her away. “I’m sure you’ll understand that, under the circumstances, it would be difficult for Sharon’s parents to meet the officer in charge of their daughter’s investigation over her grave.”

Eve allowed him to lead her five feet away before she jerked her arm free. “You’re in the right business, Rockman. That’s a very delicate and diplomatic way of telling me to get my ass out.”

“Not at all.” He continued to smile, smoothly polite. “There’s simply a time and place. You have our complete cooperation, lieutenant. If you wish to interview the senator’s family, I’d be more than happy to arrange it.”

“I’ll arrange my own interviews, at my own time and place.” Because his placid smile irked her, she decided to see if she could wipe it off his face. “What about you, Rockman? Got an alibi for the night in question?”

The smile did falter—that was some satisfaction. He recovered quickly, however. “I dislike the word alibi.”

“Me, too,” she returned with a smile of her own. “That’s why I like nothing better than to break them. You didn’t answer the question, Rockman.”

“I was in East Washington on the night Sharon was murdered. The senator and I worked quite late refining a bill he intends to present next month.”

“It’s a quick trip from EW to New York,” she commented.

“It is. However, I didn’t make it on that particular night. We worked until nearly midnight, then I retired to the senator’s guest room. We had breakfast together at seven the next morning. As Sharon, according to your own reports, was killed at two, it gives me a very narrow window of opportunity.”

“Narrow windows still provide access.” But she said it only to irritate him as she turned away. She’d held back the information on the doctored security discs from the file she’d given DeBlass. The murderer had been in the Gorham by midnight. Rockman would hardly use the victim’s grandfather for an alibi unless it was solid. Rockman’s working in East Washington at midnight slammed even that narrow window closed.

She saw Roarke again, and watched with interest as Elizabeth Barrister clung to him, as he bent his head and murmured to her. Not the usual offer and acceptance of sympathy from strangers, Eve mused.

Her brow lifted as Roarke laid a hand on Elizabeth’s right cheek, kissed her left before stepping back to speak quietly to Richard DeBlass.

He crossed to the senator, but there was no contact between them, and the conversation was brief. Alone, as Eve had suspected, Roarke began to walk across the winter grass, between the cold monuments the living raised for the dead.

“Roarke.”

He stopped, and as he had at the service, turned and met her eyes. She thought she caught a flash of something in them: anger, sorrow, impatience. Then it was gone and they were simply cool, blue, and unfathomable.

She didn’t hurry as she walked to him. Something told her he was a man too used to people—women certainly—rushing toward him. So she took her time, her long, slow strides flapping her borrowed coat around her chilly legs.

“I’d like to speak with you,” she said when she faced him. She took out her badge, watched him give it a brief glance before lifting his eyes back to hers. “I’m investigating Sharon DeBlass’s murder.”

“Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of murder victims, Lieutenant Dallas?”

His voice was smooth, with a whisper of the charm of Ireland over it, like rich cream over warmed whiskey. “Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of women you barely know, Roarke?”

“I’m a friend of the family,” he said simply. “You’re freezing, lieutenant.”

She plunged her icy fingers into the pockets of the coat. “How well do you know the victim’s family?”

“Well enough.” He tilted his head. In a minute, he thought, her teeth would chatter. The nasty little wind was blowing her poorly cut hair around a very interesting face. Intelligent, stubborn, sexy. Three very good reasons in his mind to take a second look at a woman. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to talk someplace warmer?”

“I’ve been unable to reach you,” she began.

“I’ve been traveling. You’ve reached me now. I assume you’re returning to New York. Today?”

“Yes. I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the shuttle. So . . .”

“So we’ll go back together. That should give you time enough to grill me.”

“Question you,” she said between her teeth, annoyed that he turned and walked away from her. She lengthened her stride to catch up. “A few simple answers now, Roarke, and we can arrange a more formal interview in New York.”

“I hate to waste time,” he said easily. “You strike me as someone who feels the same. Did you rent a car?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll arrange to have it returned.” He held out a hand, waiting for the key card.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“It’s simpler. I appreciate complications, lieutenant, and I appreciate simplicity. You and I are going to the same destination at the same approximate time. You want to talk to me, and I’m willing to oblige.” He stopped by a black limo where a uniformed driver waited, holding the rear door open. “My transport’s routed for New York. You can, of course, follow me to the airport, take public transportation, then call my office for an appointment. Or you can drive with me, enjoy the privacy of my jet, and have my full attention during the trip.”

She hesitated only a moment, then took the key card for the rental from her pocket and dropped it into his hand. Smiling, he gestured her into the limo where she settled as he instructed his driver to deal with the rental car.

“Now then.” Roarke slid in beside her, reached for a decanter. “Would you like a brandy to fight off the chill?”

“No.” She felt the warmth of the car sweep up from her feet and was afraid she’d begin to shiver in reaction.

“Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps.”

“Great.”

Gold winked at his wrist as he pressed his choice for two coffees on the AutoChef built into the side panel. “Cream?”

“Black.”

“A woman after my own heart.” Moments later, he opened the protective door and offered her a china cup in a delicate saucer. “We have more of a selection on the plane,” he said, then settled back with his coffee.

“I bet.” The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Eve took a tentative sip—and nearly moaned.

It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.

She sipped again, and could have wept.

“Problem?” He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes—a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man’s hands.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I had real coffee?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Neither do I.” Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. “You’ll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We’ll talk on the plane.”

“As you like.”

He gave himself the pleasure of watching her as the car traveled smoothly over the road.

Odd, he thought, he hadn’t pegged her for a cop. His instincts were usually keen about such matters. At the funeral, he’d been thinking only what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Sharon to be dead.

Then he’d sensed something, something that had coiled his muscles, tightened his gut. He’d felt her gaze, as physical as a blow. When he’d turned, when he’d seen her, another blow. A slow motion one-two punch he hadn’t been able to evade.

It was fascinating.

But the warning blip hadn’t gone off. Not the warning blip that should have relayed cop. He’d seen a tall, willowy brunette with short, tumbled hair, eyes the color of honeycombs and a mouth made for sex.

If she hadn’t sought him out, he’d intended to seek her.

Too damn bad she was a cop.

She didn’t speak again until they were at the airport, stepping into the cabin of his JetStar 6000.

She hated being impressed, again. Coffee was one thing, and a small weakness was permitted, but she didn’t care for her goggle-eyed reaction to the lush cabin with its deep chairs, sofas, the antique carpet, and crystal vases filled with flowers.

There was a viewing screen recessed in the forward wall and a uniformed flight attendant who showed no surprise at seeing Roarke board with a strange woman.

“Brandy, sir?”

“My companion prefers coffee, Diana, black.” He lifted a brow until Eve nodded. “I’ll have brandy.”

“I’ve heard about the JetStar.” Eve shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Roarke’s by the attendant. “It’s a nice form of transportation.”

“Thanks. We spent two years designing it.”

“Roarke Industries?” she said as she took a chair.

“That’s right. I prefer using my own whenever possible. You’ll need to strap in for takeoff,” he told her, then leaned forward to flip on an intercom. “Ready.”

“We’ve been cleared,” they were told. “Thirty seconds.”

Almost before Eve could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the g’s. It beat the hell, she thought, out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time.

They were served drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Eve’s mouth watering. It was time, she decided, to get to work.

“How long did you know Sharon DeBlass?”

“I met her recently, at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”

“You said you were a friend of the family.”

“Of her parents,” Roarke said easily. “I’ve known Beth and Richard for several years. First on a business level, then on a personal one. Sharon was in school, then in Europe, and our paths didn’t cross. I met her for the first time a few days ago, took her to dinner. Then she was dead.”

He took a flat gold case from his inside pocket. Eve’s eyes narrowed as she watched him light a cigarette. “Tobacco’s illegal, Roarke.”

“Not in free air space, international waters, or on private property.” He smiled at her through a haze of smoke. “Don’t you think, lieutenant, that the police have enough to do without trying to legislate our morality and personal lifestyles?”

She hated to admit even to herself that the tobacco smelled enticing. “Is that why you collect guns? As part of your personal lifestyle?”

“I find them fascinating. Your grandfather and mine considered owning one a constitutional right. We’ve toyed quite a bit with constitutional rights as we’ve civilized ourselves.”

“And murder and injury by that particular type of weapon is now an aberration rather than the norm.”

“You like rules, lieutenant?”

The question was mild, as was the insult under it. Her shoulders stiffened. “Without rules, chaos.”

“With chaos, life.”

Screw philosophy, she thought, annoyed. “Do you own a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson, Model Ten, circa 1990?”

He took another slow, considering drag. The tobacco burned expensively between his long, elegant fingers. “I believe I own one of that model. Is that what killed her?”

“Would you be willing to show it to me?”

“Of course, at your convenience.”

Too easy, she thought. She suspected anything that came easily. “You had dinner with the deceased the night before her death. In Mexico.”

“That’s right.” Roarke crushed out his cigarette and settled back with his brandy. “I have a small villa on the west coast. I thought she’d enjoy it. She did.”

“Did you have a physical relationship with Sharon DeBlass?”

His eyes glittered for a moment, but whether with amusement or with anger, she couldn’t be sure. “By that, I take you to mean did I have sex with her. No, lieutenant, though it hardly seems relevant. We had dinner.”

“You took a beautiful woman, a professional companion, to your villa in Mexico, and all you shared with her was dinner.”

He took his time choosing a glossy green grape. “I appreciate beautiful women for a variety of reasons, and enjoy spending time with them. I don’t employ professionals for two reasons. First, I don’t find it necessary to pay for sex.” He sipped his brandy, watching her over the rim. “And second, I don’t choose to share.” He paused, very briefly. “Do you?”

Her stomach fluttered, was ignored. “We’re not talking about me.”

“I was. You’re a beautiful woman, and we’re quite alone, at least for the next fifteen minutes. Yet all we’ve shared has been coffee and brandy.” He smiled at the temper smoldering in her eyes. “Heroic, isn’t it, what restraint I have?”

“I’d say your relationship with Sharon DeBlass had a different flavor.”

“Oh, I certainly agree.” He chose another grape, offered it.

Appetite was a weakness, Eve reminded herself even as she accepted the grape and bit through its thin, tart skin. “Did you see her after your dinner in Mexico?”

“No, I dropped her off about three A.M. and went home. Alone.”

“Can you tell me your whereabouts for the forty-eight hours after you went home—alone?”

“I was in bed for the first five of them. I took a conference call over breakfast. About eight-fifteen. You can check the records.”

“I will.”

This time he grinned, a quick flash of undiluted charm that had her pulse skipping. “I have no doubt of it. You fascinate me, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“After the conference call?”

“It ended about nine. I worked out until ten, spent the next several hours in my midtown office with various appointments.” He took out a small, slim card that she recognized as a daybook. “Shall I list them for you?”

“I’d prefer you to arrange to have a hard copy sent to my office.”

“I’ll see to it. I was back home by seven. I had a dinner meeting with several members of my Japanese manufacturing firm—in my home. We dined at eight. Shall I send you the menu?”

“Don’t be snide, Roarke.”

“Merely thorough, lieutenant. It was an early evening. By eleven I was alone, with a book and a brandy, until about seven A.M., when I had my first cup of coffee. Would you like another?”

She’d have killed for another cup of coffee, but she shook her head. “Alone for eight hours, Roarke. Did you speak with anyone, see anyone during that time?”

“No. No one. I had to be in Paris the next day and wanted a quiet evening. Poor timing on my part. Then again, if I were going to murder someone, it would have been ill advised not to protect myself with an alibi.”

“Or arrogant not to bother,” she returned. “Do you just collect antique weapons, Roarke, or do you use them?”

“I’m an excellent shot.” He set his empty snifter aside. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate for you when you come to see my collection. Does tomorrow suit you?”

“Fine.”

“Seven o’clock? I assume you have the address.” When he leaned over, she stiffened and nearly hissed as his hand brushed her arm. He only smiled, his face close, his eyes level. “You need to strap in,” he said quietly. “We’ll be landing in a moment.”

He fastened her harness himself, wondering if he made her nervous as a man, or a murder suspect, or a combination of both. Just then, any choice had its own interest—and its own possibilities.

“Eve,” he murmured. “Such a simple and feminine name. I wonder if it suits you.”

She said nothing while the flight attendant came in to remove the dishes. “Have you ever been in Sharon DeBlass’s apartment?”

A tough shell, he mused, but he was certain there would be something soft and hot beneath. He wondered if—no, when—he’d have the opportunity to uncover it.

“Not while she was a tenant,” Roarke said as he sat back again. “And not at all that I recall, though it’s certainly possible.” He smiled again and fastened his own harness. “I own the Gorham Complex, as I’m sure you already know.”

Idly, he glanced out the window as earth hurtled toward them. “Do you have transportation at the airport, lieutenant, or can I give you a lift?”

chapter four

Eve was more than tired by the time she filed her report for Whitney and returned home. She was pissed. She’d wanted, badly, to zing Roarke with the fact that she knew he owned the Gorham. His telling her in the same carelessly polite tone he used to offer her coffee had ended their first interview with him one point up.

She didn’t like the score.

It was time to even things up. Alone in her living room, and technically off the clock, she sat down in front of her computer.

“Engage, Dallas, Code Five access. ID 53478Q. Open file DeBlass.

Voice print and ID recognized, Dallas. Proceed.

“Open subfile Roarke. Suspect Roarke—known to victim. According to Source C, Sebastian, victim desired suspect. Suspect met her requirements for sexual partner. Possibility of emotional involvement high.

“Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect owns victim’s apartment building, equaling easy access and probably knowledge of security of murder scene. Suspect has no alibi for eight-hour period on the night of the murder, which includes the time span erased from security discs. Suspect owns large collection of antique weapons, including the type used on victim. Suspect admits to being expert marksman.

“Factor in personality of suspect. Aloof, confident, self-indulgent, highly intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive and charming.

“Motive.”

And there, she ran into trouble. Calculating, she rose, did a pass through the room while the computer waited for more data. Why would a man like Roarke kill? For gain, in passion? She didn’t think so. Wealth and status he would, and could gain by other means. Women—for sex and otherwise—certainly he could win without breaking a sweat. She suspected he was capable of violence, and that he would execute it coldly.

Sharon DeBlass’s murder had been charged with sex. There had been a crudeness overlaying it. Eve couldn’t quite reconcile that with the elegant man she’d shared coffee with.

Perhaps that was the point.

“Suspect considers morality a personal rather than legislative area,” she continued, pacing still. "Sex, weapon restriction, drug, tobacco, and alcohol restrictions, and murder deal with morality that has been outlawed or regulated. The murder of a licensed companion, the only daughter of friends, the only granddaughter of one of the country’s most outspoken and conservative legislators, by a banned weapon. Was this an illustration of the flaws the suspect considers are inherent in the legal system?

“Motive,” she concluded, settling again. “Self-indulgence.” She took a deep, satisfied breath. “Compute probability.”

Her system whined, reminded her it was one more piece of hardware that needed replacement, then settled into a jerky hum.

Probability Roarke perpetrator given current data and supposition, eighty-two point six per cent.

Oh, it was possible, Eve thought, leaning back in her chair. There was a time, in the not so distant past, when a child could be gunned down by another child for the shoes on his feet.

What was that if not obscene self-indulgence?

He had the opportunity. He had the means. And if his own arrogance could be taken into account, he had the motive.

So why, Eve thought as she watched her own words blink on the monitor, as she studied her computer’s impersonal analysis, couldn’t she make it play in her own head?

She just couldn’t see it, she admitted. She just couldn’t visualize Roarke standing behind the camera, aiming the gun at the defenseless, naked, smiling woman, and pumping steel into her perhaps only moments after he’d pumped his seed into her.

Still, certain facts couldn’t be overlooked. If she could gather enough of them, she could issue a warrant for a psychiatric evaluation.

Wouldn’t that be interesting? she thought with a half smile. Traveling into Roarke’s head would be a fascinating journey.

She’d take the next step at seven the following evening.

The buzz at her door brought a frown of annoyance to her eyes. “Save and lock on voice print, Dallas. Code Five. Disengage.”

The monitor blipped off as she rose to see who was interrupting her. A glance at her security screen wiped the frown away.

“Hey, Mavis.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Mavis Freestone whirled in, a jangle of bracelets, a puff of scent. Her hair was a glittery silver tonight, a shade that would change with her next mood. She flipped it back where it sparkled like stars down to her impossibly tiny waist.

“No, I didn’t.” Eve shut the door, reengaged the locks. “Forgot what?”

“Dinner, dancing, debauchery.” With a heavy sigh, Mavis dropped her slinkily attired nighty-eight pounds onto the sofa where she could eye Eve’s simple gray suit with disdain. “You can’t be going out in that.”

Feeling drab, as she often did within twenty feet of Mavis’s outrageous color, Eve looked down at her suit. “No, I guess not.”

“So.” Mavis gestured with one emerald-tipped finger. “You forgot.”

She had, but she was remembering now. They had made plans to check out the new club Mavis had discovered at the space docks in Jersey. According to Mavis, the space jocks were perennially horny. Something to do with extended weightlessness.

“Sorry. You look great.”

It was true, inevitably. Eight years before, when Eve had busted Mavis for petty theft, she’d looked great. A silk swirling street urchin with quick fingers and a brilliant smile.

In the intervening years, they’d somehow become friends. For Eve, who could count on one hand the number of friends she had who weren’t cops, the relationship was precious.

“You look tired,” Mavis said, more in accusation than sympathy. “And you’re missing a button.”

Eve’s fingers went automatically to her jacket, felt the loose threads. “Shit. I knew it.” In disgust she shrugged out of the jacket, tossed it aside. “Look, I’m sorry. I did forget. I had a lot on my mind today.”

“Including the reason you needed my black coat?”

“Yeah, thanks. It came in handy.”

Mavis sat a minute, tapping those emerald-tipped nails on the arm of the couch. “Police business. Here I was hoping you had a date. You really need to start seeing men who aren’t criminals, Dallas.”

“I saw that image consultant you fixed me up with. He wasn’t a criminal. He was just an idiot.”

“You’re too picky—and that was six months ago.”

Since he’d tried to get her in the sack by offering a free lip tattoo, Eve thought it was not nearly long enough, but kept the opinion to herself. “I’ll go change.”

“You don’t want to go out and bump butts with the space boys.” Mavis sprang up again, the shoulder-length crystals at her ears sparkling. “But go ahead and get out of that ugly skirt. I’ll order Chinese.”

Relief had Eve’s shoulders sagging. For Mavis, she would have tolerated an evening at a loud, crowded, obnoxious club, peeling randy pilots and sex-starved sky station techs off her chest. The idea of eating Chinese with her feet up was like heaven.

“You don’t mind?”

Mavis waved the words away as she tapped in the restaurant she wanted on the computer. “I spend every night in a club.”

“That’s work,” Eve called out as she went into the bedroom.

“You’re telling me.” Tongue between her teeth, Mavis perused the menu on-screen. “A few years ago I’d have said singing for my supper was the world’s biggest scam, the best grift I could run. Turns out I’m working harder than I ever did bilking tourists. You want egg rolls?”

“Sure. You’re not thinking of quitting, are you?”

Mavis was silent a moment as she made her choices. “No. I’m hooked on applause.” Feeling generous, she charged dinner to her World Card. “And since we renegotiated my contract so I get ten percent of the gate, I’m a regular businesswoman.”

“There’s nothing regular about you,” Eve disagreed. She came back in, comfortable in jeans and a NYPSD sweatshirt.

“True. Got any of that wine I brought over last time?”

“Most of the second bottle.” Because it sounded like the best idea she’d had all day, Eve detoured into the kitchen to pour it. “So, are you still seeing the dentist?”

“Nope.” Idly, Mavis wandered to the entertainment unit and programmed in music. “It was getting too intense. I didn’t mind him falling in love with my teeth, but he decided to go for the whole package. He wanted to get married.”

“The bastard.”

“You can’t trust anybody,” Mavis agreed. “How’s the law and order business?”

“It’s a little intense right now.” She glanced up from the wine she was pouring when the buzzer sounded. “That can’t be dinner already.” Even as she said it, she heard Mavis clipping cheerfully toward the door in her five-inch spikes. “Check the security screen,” she said quickly and was halfway to the door herself when Mavis pulled it open.

She had one moment to curse, another to reach for the weapon she wasn’t wearing. Then Mavis’s quick, flirtatious laugh had her adrenaline draining again.

Eve recognized the uniform of the delivery company, saw nothing but embarrassed pleasure in the young, fresh face of the boy who handed the package to Mavis.

“I just love presents,” Mavis said with a flutter of her silver-tipped lashes as the boy backed away, blushing. “Don’t you come with it?”

“Leave the kid alone.” With a shake of her head, Eve took the package from Mavis and closed the door again.

“They’re so cute at that age.” She blew a kiss at the security screen before turning to Eve. “What are you so nervous about, Dallas?”

“The case I’m working on has me jumpy, I guess.” She eyed the gold foil and elaborate bow on the package she held with more suspicion than pleasure. “I don’t know who’d be sending me anything.”

“There’s a card,” Mavis pointed out dryly. “You could always read it. There might be a clue.”

“Now look who’s cute.” Eve tugged the card out of its gold envelope.

Roarke

As she read over Eve’s shoulder, Mavis let out a low whistle. “Not the Roarke! The incredibly wealthy, fabulous to look at, sexily mysterious Roarke who owns approximately twenty-eight percent of the world, and its satellites?”

All Eve felt was irritation. “He’s the only one I know.”

“You know him.” Mavis rolled her green shadowed eyes. “Dallas, I’ve underestimated you unforgivably. Tell me everything. How, when, why? Did you sleep with him? Tell me you slept with him, then give me every tiny detail.”

“We’ve had a secret, passionate affair for the last three years, during which time I bore him a son who’s being raised on the far side of the moon by Buddhist monks.” Brows knit, Eve shook the box. “Get a grip, Mavis. It has to do with a case, and,” she added before Mavis could open her mouth, “it’s confidential.”

Mavis didn’t bother to roll her eyes again. When Eve said confidential, no amount of cajoling, pleading or whining could budge her an inch. “Okay, but you can tell me if he looks as good in person as he does in pictures.”

“Better,” Eve muttered.

“Jesus, really?” Mavis moaned and let herself fall onto the sofa. “I think I just had an orgasm.”

“You ought to know.” Eve set the package down, scowled at it. “And how did he know where I live? You can’t pluck a cop’s address out of the directory file. How did he know?” she repeated quietly. “And what’s he up to?”

“For God’s sake, Dallas, open it. He probably took a shine to you. Some men find the cool, disinterested, and understated attractive. Makes them think you’re deep. I bet it’s diamonds,” Mavis said, pouncing on the box as her patience snapped. “A necklace. A diamond necklace. Maybe rubies. You’d look sensational in rubies.”

She ripped ruthlessly through the pricey paper, tossed aside the lid of the box, and plunged her hand through the gold-edged tissue. “What the hell is this?”

But Eve had already scented it, already—despite herself—begun to smile. “It’s coffee,” she murmured, unaware of the way her voice softened as she reached for the simple brown bag Mavis held.

“Coffee.” Illusions shattered, Mavis stared. “The man’s got more money than God, and he sends you a bag of coffee?”

“Real coffee.”

“Oh, well then.” In disgust, Mavis waved a hand. “I don’t care what the damn stuff costs a pound, Dallas. A woman wants glitter.”

Eve brought the bag to her face and sniffed deep. “Not this woman. The son of a bitch knew just how to get to me.” She sighed. “In more ways than one.”

Eve treated herself to one precious cup the next morning. Even her temperamental AutoChef hadn’t been able to spoil the dark, rich flavor. She drove to the station, with her faulty heater, under sleeting skies, in a wild chill that came in just under five degrees, with a smile on her face.

It was still there when she walked into her office and found Feeney waiting for her.

“Well, well.” He studied her. “What’d you have for breakfast, ace?”

“Nothing but coffee. Just coffee. Got anything for me?”

“Ran a full check on Richard DeBlass, Elizabeth Barrister, and the rest of the clan.” He handed her a disc marked Code Five in bold red. “No real surprises. Nothing much out of the ordinary on Rockman, either. In his twenties, he belonged to a paramilitary group known as SafeNet.”

“SafeNet,” Eve repeated, brow wrinkling.

“You’d have been about eight when it was disbanded, kid,” Feeney told her with a smirk. “Should have heard of it in your history lessons.”

“Rings a distant bell. Was that one of the groups that got worked up when we had that skirmish with China?”

“It was, and if they’d had their way, it would have been a lot more than a skirmish. A disagreement over international space could have gotten ugly. But the diplomats managed to fight that war before they could. Few years later, they were disbanded, though there are rumors on and off about a faction of SafeNet going underground.”

“I’ve heard of them. Still hear about them. You think Rockman’s involved with a fanatic splinter group like that?”

It only took Feeney a moment to shake his head. “I think he watches his step. Power reflects power, and DeBlass has plenty. If he ever gets into the White House, Rockman would be right beside him.”

“Please.” Eve pressed a hand to her stomach. “You’ll give me nightmares.”

“It’s a long shot, but he’s got some backing for the next election.” Feeney moved his shoulders.

“Rockman’s alibied, anyway. By DeBlass. They were in East Washington.” She sat. “Anything else?”

“Charles Monroe. He’s had an interesting life, nothing shady that shows. I’m working on the victim’s logs. You know, sometimes if you’re careless in altering files, you leave shadows floating. Seems to me somebody just kills a woman could get careless.”

“You find a shadow, Feeney, clear away the gray, and I’ll buy you a case of that lousy whiskey you like.”

“Deal. I’m still working on Roarke,” he added. “There’s a guy who isn’t careless. Every time I think I’ve gotten over one wall of security, I hit another. Whatever data there is on him is well guarded.”

“Keep scaling those walls. I’ll try digging under them.”

When Feeney left, Eve shifted to her terminal. She hadn’t wanted to check in front of Mavis, and preferred, in this case, using her office unit. The question was simple.

Eve entered the name and address of her apartment complex. Asked: Owner?

And so the answer was simple: Roarke.

Lola Starr’s license for sex was only three months old. She’d applied for it on her eighteenth birthday, the earliest possible date. She liked to tell her friends she’d been an amateur until then.

It was the same day she’d left her home in Toledo, the same day she’d changed her name from Alice Williams. Both home and name had been far too boring for Lola.

She had a cute, pixie face. She’d nagged and begged and wept until her parents had agreed to buy her a more pointed chin and a tip-tilted nose for her sixteenth birthday.

Lola had wanted to look like a sexy elf and thought she’d succeeded. Her hair was coal black, cut in short, sassy spikes. Her skin was milk white and firm. She was saving for enough money to have her eyes changed from brown to emerald green, which she thought would suit her image better. But she’d been lucky enough to have been born with a lush little body that needed no more than basic maintenance.

She’d wanted to be a licensed companion all of her life. Other girls might have dreamed of careers in law or finance, studied their way into medicine or industry. But Lola had always known she was born for sex.

And why not make a living from what you did best?

She wanted to be rich and desired and pampered. The desire part she found easy. Men, particularly older men, were willing to pay well for someone with Lola’s attributes. But the expenses of her profession were more stringent than she’d anticipated when she’d dreamed away in her pretty room in Toledo.

The licensing fees, the mandatory health exams, the rent, and sin tax all ate into profits. Once she’d finished paying for her training, she’d only had enough left to afford a small, one-room apartment at the ragged edges of Prostitute Walk.

Still, it was better than working the streets as many still did. And Lola had plans for bigger and better things.

One day she’d live in a penthouse and take only the cream of clients. She’d be wined and dined in the best restaurants, jetted to exotic places to entertain royalty and wealth.

She was good enough, and she didn’t intend to stay at the bottom of the ladder for long.

The tips helped. A professional wasn’t supposed to accept cash or credit bonuses. Not technically. But everyone did. She was still girl enough to prefer the pretty little gifts some of her clients offered. But she banked the money religiously and dreamed of her penthouse.

Tonight, she was going to entertain a new client, one who had requested she call him Daddy. She’d agreed, and had waited until the arrangements were made before she allowed herself a smirk. The guy probably thought he was the first one to want her to be his little girl. The fact was, after only a few short months on the job, pedophilia was rapidly becoming her specialty.

So, she’d sit on his lap, let him spank her, while telling her solemnly that she needed to be punished. Really, it was like playing a game, and most of the men were kind of sweet.

With that in mind, she chose a flirty skirted dress with a scalloped white collar. Beneath she wore nothing but white stockings. She’d removed her pubic hair, and was as bare and smooth as a ten year old.

After studying the reflection, she added a bit more color to her cheeks and clear gloss on her pouty lips.

At the knock on the door she grinned, and her young and still guileless face grinned back in the mirror.

She couldn’t yet afford video security, and used the Judas hole to check her visitor.

He was handsome, which pleased her. And, she assumed, old enough to be her father, which would please him.

She opened the door, aimed a shy, coy smile. “Hi, Daddy.”

He didn’t want to waste time. It was the one asset he had little of at the moment. He smiled at her. For a whore, she was a pretty little thing. When the door was shut at his back, he reached under her skirt and was pleased to find her naked. It would speed matters along if he could become aroused quickly.

“Daddy!” Playing her part, Lola let out a shrieking giggle. “That’s naughty.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been naughty.” He removed his coat and set it neatly aside while she pouted at him. Though he’d taken the precaution of clear sealing his hands, he would touch nothing in the room but her.

“I’ve been good, Daddy. Very good.”

“You’ve been naughty, little girl.” From his pocket he took a small video camera, which he set up, aimed toward the narrow bed she’d piled with pillows and stuffed animals.

“Are you going to take pictures?”

“That’s right.”

She’d have to tell him that would cost him extra, but decided to wait until the deed was done. Clients didn’t care to have their fantasies broken with reality. She’d learned that in training.

“Go lie down on the bed.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She lay among the pillows and grinning animals.

“I’ve heard you’ve been touching yourself.”

“No, Daddy.”

“It isn’t good to tell lies to your Daddy. I have to punish you, but then I’ll kiss it and make it better.” When she smiled, he walked to the bed. “Lift your skirt, little girl, and show me how you touched yourself.”

Lola didn’t care for this part. She liked being touched, but the feel of her own hands brought her little excitement. Still, she lifted her skirt, stroked herself, keeping her movements shy and hesitant as she expected he wanted.

It excited him, the glide of her small fingers. After all, that was what a woman was made for. To use herself, to use the men who wanted her.

“How does it feel?”

“Soft,” she murmured. “You touch, Daddy. Feel how soft.”

He laid a hand over hers, felt himself harden satisfactorily as he slipped a finger inside her. It would be quick, for both of them.

“Unbutton your dress,” he ordered, and continued to manipulate her as she opened it from its prim collar down. “Turn over.”

When she did, he brought his hand down on her pert bottom in smart slaps that reddened the creamy flesh while she whimpered in programmed response.

It didn’t matter if he hurt her or not. She’d sold herself to him.

“That’s a good girl.” He was fully erect now, beginning to throb. Still, his movements were careful and precise as he undressed. Naked, he straddled her, slipped his hands beneath her so that he could squeeze her breasts. So young, he thought, and let himself shudder from the pleasure of flesh that had yet to need refining.

“Daddy’s going to show you how he rewards good girls.”

He wanted her to take him into her mouth, but couldn’t risk it. The birth control her file listed she used would eradicate his sperm vaginally, but not orally.

Instead, he vaulted up her hips, taking the time to stroke his hands over that firm, young flesh as he drove himself into her.

He was rougher than either of them expected. After that first violent thrust, he held himself back. He had no wish to hurt her to the point where she would cry out. Though in a place such as this, he doubted anyone would notice or care.

Still, she was rather charmingly unskilled and naive. He settled on a slower, more gentle rhythm, which he discovered drew out his own pleasure.

She moved well, meeting him, matching him. Unless he was very mistaken, not all her groans and cries were simulated. He felt her tense, shudder, and he smiled, pleased that he’d been able to bring a whore to a genuine climax.

He closed his eyes and let himself come.

She sighed and cuddled into one of the pillows. It had been good, much, much better than she’d expected. And she hoped she’d found another regular.

“Was I a good girl, Daddy?”

“A very, very good girl. But we’re not done. Roll over.”

As she shifted, he rose and moved out of camera range. “Are we going to watch the video, Daddy?”

He only shook his head.

Remembering her role, she pouted. “I like videos. We can watch, and then you can show me how to be a good girl again.” She smiled at him, hoping for a bonus. “I could touch you this time. I’d like to touch you.”

He smiled and took the SIG 210 with silencer out of his coat pocket. He watched her blink in curiosity as he aimed the gun.

“What’s that? Is it a toy for me to play with?”

He shot her in the head first, the weapon barely making more than a pop as she jerked back. Coolly, he shot again, between those young, firm breasts, and last, as the silencer eroded, into her smooth, bare pubis.

Switching the camera off, he arranged her carefully among blood-soaked pillows and soiled, smiling animals while she stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise.

“It was no life for a young girl,” he told her gently, then went back to the camera to record the last scene.

chapter five

All Eve wanted was a candy bar. She’d spent most of the day testifying in court, and her lunch break had been eaten up by a call from a snitch that had cost her fifty dollars and gained her a slim lead on a smuggling case that had resulted in two homicides, which she’d been beating her head against for two months.

All she wanted was a quick hit of sugar substitute before she headed home to prep for her seven o’clock meeting with Roarke.

She could have zipped through any number of drive-through InstaStores, but she preferred the little deli on the corner of West Seventy-eighth—despite, or perhaps because of the fact that it was owned and run by Francois, a rude, snake-eyed refugee who’d fled to America after the Social Reform Army had overthrown the French government some forty years before.

He hated America and Americans, and the SRA had been dispatched within six months of the coup, but Francois remained, bitching and complaining behind the counter of the Seventy-eighth Street deli where he enjoyed dispensing insults and political absurdities.

Eve called him Frank to annoy him, and dropped in at least once a week to see what scheme he’d devised to try to short credit her.

Her mind on the candy bar, she stepped through the automatic door. It had no more than begun to whisper shut behind her when instinct kicked in.

The man standing at the counter had his back to her, his heavy, hooded jacket masking all but his size, and that was impressive.

Six-five, she estimated, easily two-fifty. She didn’t need to see Francois’s thin, terrified face to know there was trouble. She could smell it, as ripe and sour as the vegetable hash that was today’s special.

In the seconds it took the door to clink shut, she’d considered and rejected the idea of drawing her weapon.

“Over here, bitch. Now.”

The man turned. Eve saw he had the pale gold complexion of a multiracial heritage and the eyes of a very desperate man. Even as she filed the description, she looked at the small round object he held in his hand.

The homemade explosive device was worry enough. The fact that it shook as the hand that held it trembled with nerves was a great deal worse.

Homemade boomers were notoriously unstable. The idiot was likely to kill all of them by sweating too freely.

She shot Francois a quick, warning look. If he called her lieutenant, they were all going to be meat very quickly. Keeping her hands in plain sight, she crossed to the counter.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said, letting her voice tremble as nervously as the thief’s hand. “Please, I got kids at home.”

“Shut up. Just shut up. Down on the floor. Down on the fucking floor.”

Eve knelt, slipping a hand under her jacket where the weapon waited.

“All of it,” the man ordered, gesturing with the deadly little ball. “I want all of it. Cash, credit tokens. Make it fast.”

“It’s been a slow day,” Francois whined. “You must understand business is not what it was. You Americans—”

“You want to eat this?” the man invited, shoving the explosive in Francois’s face.

“No, no.” Panicked, Francois punched in the security code with his shaking fingers. As the till opened, Eve saw the thief glance at the money inside, then up at the camera that was busily recording the entire transaction.

She saw it in his face. He knew his image was locked there, and that all the money in New York wouldn’t erase it. The explosive would, tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he raced out to the street to be swallowed in traffic.

She sucked in a breath, like a diver going under. She came up hard, under his arm. The solid jolt had the device flying free. Screams, curses, prayers. She caught it in her fingertips, a high fly, shagged with two men out and the bases loaded. Even as she closed her hand around it, the thief swung out.

It was the back of his hand rather than a fist, and Eve considered herself lucky. She saw stars as she hit a stand of soy chips, but she held on to the homemade boomer.

Wrong hand, goddamn it, wrong hand, she had time to think as the stand collapsed under her. She tried to use her left to free her weapon, but the two hundred and fifty pounds of fury and desperation fell on her.

“Hit the alarm, you asshole,” she shouted as Francois stood like a statue with his mouth opening and closing. “Hit the fucking alarm.” Then she grunted as the blow to her ribs stole her breath. This time he’d used his fist.

He was weeping now, scratching and clawing up her arm in an attempt to reach the explosive. “I need the money. I got to have it. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.”

She managed to bring her knee up. The age old defense bought her a few seconds, but lacked the power to debilitate.

She saw stars again as her head smacked sharply into the side of a counter. Dozens of the candy bars she’d craved rained down on her.

“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.” She heard herself saying it, over and over as she landed three hard short arm blows to his face. Blood spurting from his nose, he grabbed her arm.

And she knew it was going to break. Knew she would feel that sharp, sweet pain, hear the thin crack as bone fractured.

But just as she drew in breath to scream, as her vision began to gray with agony, his weight was off her.

The ball still cupped in her hand, she rolled over onto her haunches, struggling to breathe and fighting the need to retch. From that position she saw the shiny black shoes that always said beat cop.

“Book him.” She coughed once, painfully. “Attempted robbery, armed, carrying an explosive, assault.” She’d have liked to have added assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, but as she hadn’t identified herself, she’d be skirting the line.

“You all right, ma’am? Want the MTs?”

She didn’t want the medi-techs. She wanted a fucking candy bar. “Lieutenant,” she corrected, pushing herself up and reaching for her ID. She noted that the perp was in restraints and that one of the two cops had been wise enough to use his stunner to take the fight out of him.

“We need a safe box—quick.” She watched both cops pale as they saw what she held in her hand. “This little boomer’s had quite a ride. Let’s get it neutralized.”

“Sir.” The first cop was out of the store in a flash. In the ninety seconds it took him to return with the black box used for transporting and deactivating explosives, no one spoke.

They hardly breathed.

“Book him,” Eve repeated. The moment the explosive was contained, her stomach muscles began to tremble. “I’ll transmit my report. You guys with the Hundred and twenty-third?”

“You bet, lieutenant.”

“Good job.” She reached down, favoring her injured arm and chose a Galaxy bar that hadn’t been flattened by the wrestling match. “I’m going home.”

“You didn’t pay for that,” Francois shouted after her.

“Fuck you, Frank,” she shouted back and kept going.

The incident put her behind schedule. By the time she reached Roarke’s mansion, it was 7:10. She’d used over the counter medication to ease the pain in her arm and shoulder. If it wasn’t better in a couple of days, she knew she’d have to go in for an exam. She hated doctors.

She parked the car and spent a moment studying Roarke’s house. Fortress, more like, she thought. Its four stories towered over the frosted trees of Central Park. It was one of the old buildings, close to two hundred years old, built of actual stone, if her eyes didn’t deceive her.

There was lots of glass, and lights burning gold behind the windows. There was also a security gate, behind which evergreen shrubs and elegant trees were artistically arranged.

Even more impressive than the magnificence of architecture and landscaping was the quiet. She heard no city noises here. No traffic snarls, no pedestrian chaos. Even the sky overhead was subtly different than the one she was accustomed to farther downtown. Here, you could actually see stars rather than the glint and gleam of transports.

Nice life if you can get it, she mused, and started her car again. She approached the gate, prepared to identify herself. She saw the tiny red eye of a scanner blink, then hold steady. The gates opened soundlessly.

So, he’d programmed her in, she thought, unsure if she was amused or uneasy. She went through the gate, up the short drive, and left her car at the base of granite steps.

A butler opened the door for her. She’d never actually seen a butler outside of old videos, but this one didn’t disappoint the fantasy. He was silver haired, implacably eyed and dressed in a dark suit and ruthlessly knotted old-fashioned tie.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

There was an accent, a faint one that sounded British and Slavic at once. “I have an appointment with Roarke.”

“He’s expecting you.” He ushered her into a wide, towering hallway that looked more like the entrance to a museum than a home.

There was a chandelier of star-shaped glass dripping light onto a glossy wood floor that was graced by a boldly patterned rug in shades of red and teal. A stairway curved away to the left with a carved griffin for its newel post.

There were paintings on the walls—the kind she had once seen on a school field trip to the Met. French Impressionists from what century she couldn’t quite recall. The Revisited Period that had come into being in the early twenty-first century complimented them with their pastoral scenes and gloriously muted colors.

No holograms or living sculpture. Just paint and canvas.

“May I take your coat?”

She brought herself back and thought she caught a flicker of smug condescension in those inscrutable eyes. Eve shrugged out of her jacket, watched him take the leather somewhat gingerly between his manicured fingers.

Hell, she’d gotten most of the blood off it.

“This way, Lieutenant Dallas. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlor, Roarke is detained on a transpacific call.”

“No problem.”

The museum quality continued there. A fire was burning sedately. A fire out of genuine logs in a hearth carved from lapis and malachite. Two lamps burned with light like colored gems. The twin sofas had curved backs and lush upholstery that echoed the jewel tones of the room in sapphire. The furniture was wood, polished to an almost painful gloss. Here and there objects d’art were arranged. Sculptures, bowls, faceted glass.

Her boots clicked over wood, then muffled over carpet.

“Would you like a refreshment, lieutenant?”

She glanced back, saw with amusement that he continued to hold her jacket between his fingers like a soiled rag. “Sure. What have you got, Mr.—?”

“Summerset, lieutenant. Simply Summerset, and I’m sure we can provide you with whatever suits your taste.”

“She’s fond of coffee,” Roarke said from the doorway, “but I think she’d like to try the Montcart forty-nine.”

Summerset’s eyes flickered again, with horror, Eve thought. “The forty-nine, sir?”

“That’s right. Thank you, Summerset.”

“Yes, sir.” Dangling the jacket, he exited, stiff-spined.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Roarke began, then his eyes narrowed, darkened.

“No problem,” Eve said as he crossed to her. “I was just . . . Hey—”

She jerked her chin as his hand cupped it, but his fingers held firm, turning her left cheek to the light. “Your face is bruised.” His voice was cool on the statement, icily so. His eyes as they flicked over the injury betrayed nothing.

But his fingers were warm, tensed, and jolted something in her gut. “A scuffle over a candy bar,” she said with a shrug.

His eyes met hers, held just an instant longer than comfortable. “Who won?”

“I did. It’s a mistake to come between me and food.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He released her, dipped the hand that had touched her into his pocket. Because he wanted to touch her again. It worried him that he wanted, very much, to stroke away the bruise that marred her cheek. “I think you’ll approve of tonight’s menu.”

“Menu? I didn’t come here to eat, Roarke. I came here to look over your collection.”

“You’ll do both.” He turned when Summerset brought in a tray that held an uncorked bottle of wine the color of ripened wheat and two crystal glasses.

“The forty-nine, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll pour out.” He spoke to Eve as he did so. “I thought this vintage would suit you. What it lacks in subtlety . . .” He turned back, offering her a glass. “It makes up for in sensuality.” He tapped his glass against hers so the crystal sang, then watched as she sipped.

God, what a face, he thought. All those angles and expressions, all that emotion and control. Just now she was fighting off showing both surprise and pleasure as the taste of the wine settled on her tongue. He was looking forward to the moment when the taste of her settled on his.

“You approve?” he asked.

“It’s good.” It was the equivalent of sipping gold.

“I’m glad. The Montcart was my first venture into wineries. Shall we sit and enjoy the fire?”

It was tempting. She could almost see herself sitting there, legs angled toward the fragrant heat, sipping wine as the jeweled light danced.

“This isn’t a social call, Roarke. It’s a murder investigation.”

“Then you can investigate me over dinner.” He took her arm, lifting a brow as she stiffened. “I’d think a woman who’d fight for a candy bar would appreciate a two-inch fillet, medium rare.”

“Steak?” She struggled not to drool. “Real steak, from a cow?”

A smile curved his lips. “Just flown in from Montana. The steak, not the cow.” When she continued to hesitate, he tilted his head. “Come now, lieutenant, I doubt if a little red meat will clog your considerable investigative skills.”

“Someone tried to bribe me the other day,” she muttered, thinking of Charles Monroe and his black silk robe.

“With?”

“Nothing as interesting as steak.” She aimed one long, level look. “If the evidence points in your direction, Roarke, I’m still bringing you down.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Let’s eat.”

He led her into the dining room. More crystal, more gleaming wood, yet another shimmering fire, this time cupped in rose-veined marble. A woman in a black suit served them appetizers of shrimp swimming in creamy sauce. The wine was brought in, their glasses topped off.

Eve, who rarely gave a thought to her appearance, wished she’d worn something more suitable to the occasion than jeans and a sweater.

“So, how’d you get rich?” she asked him.

“Various ways.” He liked to watch her eat, he discovered. There was a single-mindedness to it.

“Name one.”

“Desire,” he said, and let the word hum between them.

“Not good enough.” She picked up her wine again, meeting his eyes straight on. “Most people want to be rich.”

“They don’t want it enough. To fight for it. Take risks for it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Being poor is . . . uncomfortable. I like comfort.” He offered her a roll from a silver bowl as their salads were served—crisp greens tossed with delicate herbs. “We’re not so different, Eve.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You wanted to be a cop enough to fight for it. To take risks for it. You find the breaking of laws uncomfortable. I make money, you make justice. Neither is a simple matter.” He waited a moment. “Do you know what Sharon DeBlass wanted?”

Her fork hesitated, then pierced a tender shoot of endive that had been plucked only an hour before. “What do you think she wanted?”

“Power. Sex is often a way to gain it. She had enough money to be comfortable, but she wanted more. Because money is also power. She wanted power over her clients, over herself, and most of all, she wanted power over her family.”

Eve set her fork down. In the firelight, the dancing glow of candle and crystal, he looked dangerous. Not because a woman would fear him, she thought, but because she would desire him. Shadows played in his eyes, making them unreadable.

“That’s quite an analysis of a woman you claim you hardly knew.”

“It doesn’t take long to form an opinion, particularly if that person is obvious. She didn’t have your depth, Eve, your control, or your rather enviable focus.”

“We’re not talking about me.” No, she didn’t want him to talk about her—or to look at her in quite that way. “Your opinion is that she was hungry for power. Hungry enough to be killed before she could take too big a bite?”

“An interesting theory. The question would be, too big a bite of what? Or whom?”

The same silent servant cleared the salads, brought in oversize china plates heavy with sizzling meat and thin, golden slices of grilled potatoes.

Eve waited until they were alone again, then cut into her steak. “When a man accumulates a great deal of money, possessions, and status, he then has a great deal to lose.”

“Now we’re speaking of me—another interesting theory.” He sat there, his eyes interested, yet still amused. “She threatened me with some sort of blackmail and, rather than pay or dismiss her as ridiculous, I killed her. Did I sleep with her first?”

“You tell me,” Eve said evenly.

“It would fit the scenario, considering her choice of profession. There may be a blackout on the press on this particular case, but it takes little deductive power to conclude sex reared its head. I had her, then I shot her . . . if one subscribes to the theory.” He took a bite of steak, chewed, swallowed. “There’s a problem, however.”

“Which is?”

“I have what you might consider an old-fashioned quirk. I dislike brutalizing women, in any form.”

“It’s old-fashioned in that it would be more apt to say you dislike brutalizing people, in any form.”

He moved those elegant shoulders. “As I say, it’s a quirk. I find it distasteful to look at you and watch the candlelight shift over a bruise on your face.”

He surprised her by reaching out, running a finger down the mark, very gently.

“I believe I would have found it even more distasteful to kill Sharon DeBlass.” He dropped his hand and went back to his meal. “Though I have, occasionally, been known to do what is distasteful to me. When necessary. How is your dinner?”

“It’s fine.” The room, the light, the food, was all more than fine. It was like sitting in another world, in another time. “Who the hell are you, Roarke?”

He smiled and topped off their glasses. “You’re the cop. Figure it out.”

She would, she promised herself. By God she would, before it was done. “What other theories do you have about Sharon DeBlass?”

“None to speak of. She liked excitement and risk and didn’t flinch from causing those who loved her embarrassment. Yet she was . . .”

Intrigued, Eve leaned closer. “What? Go ahead, finish.”

“Pitiable,” he said, in a tone that made Eve believe he meant no more and no less that just that. “There was something sad about her under all that bright, bright gloss. Her body was the only thing about herself she respected. So she used it to give pleasure and to cause pain.”

“And did she offer it to you?”

“Naturally, and assumed I’d accept the invitation.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve already explained that. I can elaborate and add that I prefer a different type of bedmate, and that I prefer to make my own moves.”

There was more, but he chose to keep it to himself.

“Would you like more steak, lieutenant?”

She glanced down, saw that she’d all but eaten the pattern off the plate. “No. Thanks.”

“Dessert?”

She hated to turn it down, but she’d already indulged herself enough. “No. I want to look at your collection.”

“Then we’ll save the coffee and dessert for later.” He rose, offered a hand.

Eve merely frowned at it and pushed back from the table. Amused, Roarke gestured toward the doorway and led her back into the hall, up the curving stairs.

“It’s a lot of house for one guy.”

“Do you think so? I’m more of the opinion that your apartment is small for one woman.” When she stopped dead at the top of the stairs, he grinned. “Eve, you know I own the building. You’d have checked after I sent my little token.”

“You ought to have someone out to look at the plumbing,” she told him. “I can’t keep the water hot in the shower for more than ten minutes.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Next flight up.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have elevators,” she commented as they climbed again.

“I do. Just because I prefer the stairs doesn’t mean the staff shouldn’t have a choice.”

“And staff,” she continued. “I haven’t seen one remote domestic in the place.”

“I have a few. But I prefer people to machines, most of the time. Here.”

He used a palm scanner, coded in a key, then opened carved double doors. The sensor switched on the lights as they crossed the threshold. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

It was a museum of weapons: guns, knives, swords, crossbows. Armor was displayed, from medieval ages to the thin, impenetrable vests that were current military issue. Chrome and steel and jeweled handles winked behind glass, shimmered on the walls.

If the rest of the house seemed another world, perhaps a more civilized one than what she knew, this veered jarringly in the other direction. A celebration of violence.

“Why?” was all she could say.

“It interests me, what humans have used to damage humans through history.” He crossed over, touching a wickedly toothed ball that hung from a chain. “Knights farther back than Arthur carried these into jousts and battles. A thousand years . . .” He pressed a series of buttons on a display cabinet and took out a sleek, palm-sized weapon, the preferred killing tool of twenty-first century street gangs during the Urban Revolt. “And we have something less cumbersome and equally lethal. Progression without progress.”

He put the weapon back, closed and secured the case. “But you’re interested in something newer than the first, and older than the second. You said a thirty-eight, Smith & Wesson. Model Ten.”

It was a terrible room, she thought. Terrible and fascinating. She stared at him across it, realizing that the elegant violence suited him perfectly.

“It must have taken years to collect all of this.”

“Fifteen,” he said as he walked across the uncarpeted floor to another section. “Nearly sixteen now. I acquired my first handgun when I was nineteen—from the man who was aiming it at my head.”

He frowned. He hadn’t meant to tell her that.

“I guess he missed,” Eve commented as she joined him.

“Fortunately, he was distracted by my foot in his crotch. It was a nine-millimeter Baretta semiautomatic he’d smuggled out of Germany. He thought to use it to relieve me of the cargo I was delivering to him and save the transportation fee. In the end, I had the fee, the cargo, and the Baretta. And so, Roarke Industries was born out of his poor judgment. The one you’re interested in,” he added, pointing as the wall display opened. “You’ll want to take it, I imagine, to see if it’s been fired recently, check for prints, and so forth.”

She nodded slowly while her mind worked. Only four people knew the murder weapon had been left at the scene. Herself, Feeney, the commander, and the killer. Roarke was either innocent or very, very clever.

She wondered if he could be both.

“I appreciate your cooperation.” She took an evidence seal out of her shoulder bag and reached for the weapon that matched the one already in police possession. It took her only a heartbeat to realize it wasn’t the one Roarke had pointed to.

Her eyes slid to his, held. Oh, he was watching her all right, carefully. Though she let her hand hesitate now over her selection, she thought they understood each other. “Which?”

“This.” He tapped the display just under the .38. Once she’d sealed it and slipped it into her bag, he closed the glass. “It’s not loaded, of course, but I do have ammo, if you’d like to take a sample.”

“Thanks. Your cooperation will be noted in my report.”

“Will it?” He smiled, took a box out of a drawer, and offered it. “What else will be noted, lieutenant?”

“Whatever is applicable.” She added the box of ammo to her bag, took out a notebook, and punched in her ID number, the date, and a description of everything she’d taken. “Your receipt.” She offered him the slip after the notebook spit it out. “These will be returned to you as quickly as possible unless they’re called into evidence. You’ll be notified one way or the other.”

He tucked the paper into his pocket, fingered what else he’d tucked there. “The music room’s in the next wing. We can have coffee and brandy there.”

“I doubt we’d share the same taste in music, Roarke.”

“You might be surprised,” he murmured, “at what we share.” He touched her cheek again, this time sliding his hand around until it cupped the back of her neck. “At what we will share.”

She went rigid and lifted a hand to shove his arm away. He simply closed his fingers over her wrist. She could have had him flat on his back in a heartbeat—so she told herself. Still, she only stood there, the breath backing up in her lungs and her pulse throbbing hard and thick.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“You’re not a coward, Eve.” He said it softly when his lips were an inch from hers. The kiss hovered there, a breath away until the hand she’d levered against his arm changed its grip. And she moved into him.

She didn’t think. If she had, even for an instant, she would have known she was breaking all the rules. But she’d wanted to see, wanted to know. Wanted to feel.

His mouth was soft, more persuasive than possessive. His lips nibbled hers open so that he could slide his tongue over them, between them, to cloud her senses with flavor.

Heat gathered like a fireball in her lungs even before he touched her, those clever hands molding over the snug denim over her hips, slipping seductively under her sweater to flesh.

With a kind of edgy delight, she felt herself go damp.

It was the mouth, just that generous and tempting mouth he’d thought he’d wanted. But the moment he’d tasted it, he’d wanted all of her.

She was pressed against him; that tough, angular body beginning to vibrate. Her small, firm breast weighed gloriously in his palm. He could hear the hum of passion that sounded in her throat, all but taste it as her mouth moved eagerly on his.

He wanted to forget the patience and control he’d taught himself to live by, and just ravage.

Here. The violence of the need all but erupted inside him. Here and now.

He would have dragged her to the floor if she hadn’t struggled back, pale and panting.

“This isn’t going to happen.”

“The hell it isn’t,” he shot back.

The danger was shimmering around him now. She saw it as clearly as she saw the tools of violence and death surrounding them.

There were men who negotiated when they wanted something. There were men who just took.

“Some of us aren’t allowed to indulge ourselves.”

“Fuck the rules, Eve.”

He stepped toward her. If she had stepped back, he would have pursued, like any hunter after the prize. But she faced him squarely, and shook her head.

“I can’t compromise a murder investigation because I’m physically attracted to a suspect.”

“Goddamn it, I didn’t kill her.”

It was a shock to see his control snap. To hear the fury and frustration in his voice, to witness it wash vividly across his face. And it was terrifying to realize she believed him, and not be sure, not be absolutely certain if she believed because she needed to.

“It’s not as simple as taking your word for it. I have a job to do, a responsibility to the victim, to the system. I have to stay objective, and I—”

Can’t, she realized. Can’t.

They stared at each other as the communicator in her bag began to beep.

Her hands weren’t quite steady as she turned away, took the unit out. She recognized the code for the station on the display and entered her ID. After a deep breath, she answered the request for voice print verification.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. No audio please, display only.”

Roarke could just see her profile as she read the transmission. It was enough to measure the change in her eyes, the way they darkened, then went flat and cool.

She put the communicator away, and when she turned back to him, there was very little of the woman who’d vibrated in his arms in the woman who faced him now.

“I have to go. We’ll be in touch about your property.”

“You do that very well,” Roarke murmured. “Slide right into the cop’s skin. And it fits you perfectly.”

“It better. Don’t bother seeing me out. I can find my way.”

“Eve.”

She stopped at the doorway, looked back. There he was, a figure in black surrounded by eons of violence. Inside the cop’s skin, the woman’s heart stuttered.

“We’ll see each other again.”

She nodded. “Count on it.”

He let her go, knowing Summerset would slip out of some shadow to give her the leather jacket, bid her good night.

Alone, Roarke took the gray fabric button from his pocket, the one he’d found on the floor of his limo. The one that had fallen from the jacket of that drab gray suit she’d worn the first time he’d seen her.

Studying it, knowing he had no intention of giving it back to her, he felt like a fool.

chapter six

A rookie was guarding the door to Lola Starr’s apartment. Eve pegged him as such because he barely looked old enough to order a beer, his uniform looked as if it had just been lifted from the supply rack, and from the faint green cast of his skin.

A few months of working this neighborhood, and a cop stopped needing to puke at the sight of a corpse. Chemi-heads, the street LCs, and just plain bad asses liked to wale on each other along these nasty blocks as much for entertainment as for business profits. From the smell that had greeted her outside, someone had died out there recently, or the recycle trucks hadn’t been through in the last week.

“Officer.” She paused, flashed her badge. He’d gone on alert the moment she’d stepped out of the pitiful excuse for an elevator. Instinct warned her, rightly enough, that without the quick ID, she’d have been treated to a stun from the weapon his shaky hand was gripping.

“Sir.” His eyes were spooked and unwilling to settle on one spot.

“Give me the status.”

“Sir,” he said again, and took a long unsteady breath. “The landlord flagged down my unit, said there was a dead woman in the apartment.”

“And is there . . .” Her gaze flicked down to the name pinned over his breast pocket. “Officer Prosky?”

“Yes, sir, she’s . . .” He swallowed, hard, and Eve could see the horror flit over his face again.

“And how did you determine the subject is terminated, Prosky? You take her pulse?”

A flush, no healthier than the green hue, tinted his cheeks. “No, sir. I followed procedure, preserved crime scene, notified headquarters. Visual confirmation of termination, the scene is uncorrupted.”

“The landlord went in?” All of this she could learn later, but she could see that he was steadying as she forced him to go over the steps.

“No, sir, he says not. After a complaint by one of the victim’s clients who had an appointment for nine P.M., the landlord checked the apartment. He unlocked the door and saw her. It’s only one room, Lieutenant Dallas, and she’s—You see her as soon as you open the door. Following the discovery, the landlord, in a state of panic, went down to the street and flagged down my patrol unit. I immediately accompanied him back to the scene, made visual confirmation of suspicious death, and reported in.”

“Have you left your post, officer? However briefly?”

His eyes settled finally, met hers. “No, sir, lieutenant. I thought I’d have to, for a minute. It’s my first, and I had some trouble maintaining.”

“Looks like you maintained fine to me, Prosky.” Out of the crime bag she’d brought up with her, she took out the protective spray, used it. “Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room needs to be swept, and she’ll need to be bagged and tagged.”

“Yes, sir. Should I remain on post?”

“Until the first team gets here. Then you can report in.” She finished coating her boots, glanced up at him. “You married, Prosky?” she asked as she snapped her recorder to her shirt.

“No, sir. Sort of engaged though.”

“After you report in, go find your lady. The ones who go for the liquor don’t last as long as the ones who have a nice warm body to lose it in. Where do I find the landlord?” she asked and turned the knob on the unsecured door.

“He’s down in one-A.”

“Then tell him to stay put. I’ll take his statement when I’m done here.”

She stepped inside, closed the door. Eve, no longer a rookie, didn’t feel her stomach revolt at the sight of the body, the torn flesh, or the blood-splattered child’s toys.

But her heart ached.

Then came the anger, a sharp red spear of it when she spotted the antique weapon cradled in the arms of a teddy bear.

“She was just a kid.”

It was seven A.M. Eve hadn’t been home. She’d caught one hour’s rough and restless sleep at her office desk between computer searches and reports. Without a Code Five attached to Lola Starr, Eve was free to access the data banks of the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity. So far, IRCCA had come up empty on matches.

Now, pale with fatigue, jittery with the false energy of false caffeine, she faced Feeney.

“She was a pro, Dallas.”

“Her fucking license was barely three months old. There were dolls on her bed. There was Kool-Aid in her kitchen.”

She couldn’t get past it—all those silly, girlish things she’d had to paw through while the victim’s pitiful body lay on the cheap, fussy pillows and dolls. Enraged, Eve slapped one of the official photos onto her desk.

“She looks like she should have been leading cheers at the high school. Instead, she’s running tricks and collecting pictures of fancy apartments and fancier clothes. You figure she knew what she was getting into?”

“I don’t figure she thought she’d end up dead,” Feeney said evenly. “You want to debate the sex codes, Dallas?”

“No.” Wearily, she looked down at her hard copy again. “No, but it bums me, Feeney. A kid like this.”

“You know better than that, Dallas.”

“Yeah, I know better.” She forced herself to snap back. “Autopsy should be in this morning, but my prelim puts her dead for twenty-four hours minimum at discovery. You’ve identified the weapon?”

“SIG two-ten—a real Rolls-Royce of handguns, about 1980, Swiss import. Silenced. Those old timey silencers were only good for a couple, three shots. He’d have needed it because the victim’s place wasn’t soundproofed like DeBlass’s.”

“And he didn’t phone it in, which tells me he didn’t want her found as quickly. Had to get himself someplace else,” she mused. Thoughtful, she picked up a small square of paper, officially sealed.

TWO OF SIX

“One a week,” she said softly. “Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn’t giving us much time.”

“I’m running her logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 P.M., night before last. If your prelim checks, he’s our guy.” Feeney smiled thinly. “John Smith.”

“That’s older than the murder weapon.” She rubbed her hands hard over her face. “IRCCA’s bound to spit our boy out from that tag.”

“They’re still running data,” Feeney muttered. He was protective, even sentimental about the IRCCA.

“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney.”

He snorted. “Yeah, a real Jules Verne.”

“We’ve got a twentieth-century crime,” she said through her hands. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”

“Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s lousy with theme parks.”

Thinking, she dropped her hands. “IRCCA isn’t going to help us get into this guy’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What’s he doing, Feeney? Why’s he doing it?”

“He’s killing LCs.”

“Hookers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It’s a vulnerable job, even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them.”

“Doesn’t happen much,” Feeney mused. “Sometimes with the S and M trade you get a party that gets too enthusiastic. Most LCs are safer than teachers.”

“They still run a risk, the oldest profession with the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. People don’t kill with guns as a rule anymore. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn’t the strong motivator it used to be, too cheap, too easy to come by. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. When you brush all that away, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Feeney. I’ve got people to talk to.”

“What you need’s some sleep, kid.”

“Let him sleep,” Eve muttered. “Let that bastard sleep.” Steeling herself, she turned to her tele-link. It was time to contact the victim’s parents.

By the time Eve walked into the sumptuous foyer of Roarke’s midtown office, she’d been up for more than thirty-two hours. She’d gotten through the misery of having to tell two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She’d stared at her monitor until the data swam in front of her eyes.

Her follow-up interview with Lola’s landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover, he’d spent thirty minutes whining about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.

So much, Eve thought, for human empathy.

Roarke Industries, New York, was very much what she’d expected. Slick, shiny, sleek, the building itself spread one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was an ebony lance, glossy as wet stone, ringed by transport tubes and diamond-bright skyways.

No tacky Glida-Grills on this corner, she mused. No street hawkers with their hot pocket PCs dodging security on their colorful air boards. Out-of-doors vending was off limits on this bite of Fifth. The zoning made things quieter, if a little less adventuresome.

Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high priced boutique, a handful of specialty shops, and a small theater that played art films.

The white floor tiles were a full yard square and gleamed like the moon. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides zigzagged left and right, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the proper office.

For those who wanted to wander about on their own, there were more than a dozen moving maps.

Eve marched to a monitor and was politely offered assistance.

“Roarke,” she said, annoyed that his name hadn’t been listed on the main directory.

“I’m sorry.” The computer’s voice was that overly mannered tone that was meant to be soothing, and instead grated on Eve’s already raw nerves. “I’m not at liberty to access that information.”

“Roarke,” Eve repeated, holding up her badge for the computer to scan. She waited impatiently as the computer hummed, undoubtedly checking and verifying her ID, notifying the man himself.

“Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met.”

“Right.”

Eve turned down a corridor, passed a marble run that held a forest of snowy white impatiens.

“Lieutenant.” A woman in a killer red suit and hair as white as the impatiens smiled coolly. “Come with me, please.”

The woman slipped a thin security card into a slot, laid her palm against a sheet of black glass for a handprint. The wall slid open, revealing a private elevator.

Eve stepped inside with her, and was unsurprised when her escort requested the top floor.

Eve had been certain Roarke would be satisfied with nothing but the top.

Her guide was silent on the ride up and exuded a discreet whiff of sensible scent that matched her sensible shoes and neat, sleek coif. Eve secretly admired women who put themselves together, top to toe, with such seeming effortlessness.

Faced with such quiet magnificence, she tugged self-consciously at her worn leather jacket and wondered if it was time she actually spent money on a haircut rather than hacking away at it herself.

Before she could decide on such earth-shattering matters, the doors whooshed open into a silent, white carpeted foyer the size of a small home. There were lush green plants—real plants: ficus, palm, what appeared to be a dogwood flowering off season. There was a sharp spicy scent from a bank of dianthus, blooming in shades of rose and vivid purple.

The garden surrounded a comfortable waiting area of mauve sofas and glossy wood tables, lamps that were surely solid brass with jeweled colored shades.

In the center of this was a circular workstation, equipped as efficiently as a cockpit with monitors and keyboards, gauges and tele-links. Two men and a woman worked at it busily, with a seamless ballet of competence in motion.

She was led past them into a glass-sided breezeway. A peek down, and she could see Manhattan. There was music piped in she didn’t recognize as Mozart. For Eve, music began sometime after her tenth birthday.

The woman in the killer suit paused again, flashed her cool, perfect smile, then spoke into a hidden speaker. “Lieutenant Dallas, sir.”

“Send her in, Caro. Thank you.”

Again Caro pressed her palm to a slick black glass. “Go right in, lieutenant,” she invited as a panel slid open.

“Thanks.” Out of curiosity, Eve watched her walk away, wondering how anyone could stride so gracefully on three-inch heels. She walked into Roarke’s office.

It was, as she expected, as impressive as the rest of his New York headquarters. Despite the soaring, three-sided view of New York, the lofty ceiling with its pinprick lights, the vibrant tones of topaz and emerald in the thickly cushioned furnishings, it was the man behind the ebony slab desk that dominated.

What in hell was it about him? Eve thought again as Roarke rose and slanted a smile at her.

“Lieutenant Dallas,” he said in that faint and fascinating Irish lilt, “a pleasure, as always.”

“You might not think so when I’m finished.”

He lifted a brow. “Why don’t you come the rest of the way in and get started? Then we’ll see. Coffee?”

“Don’t try to distract me, Roarke.” She walked closer. Then, to satisfy her curiosity, she took a brief turn around the room. It was as big as a heliport, with all the amenities of a first-class hotel: automated service bar, a padded relaxation chair complete with VR and mood settings, an oversize wall screen, currently blank. To the left, there was a full bath including whirl tub and drying tube. All the standard office equipment, of the highest high-tech, was built in.

Roarke watched her with a bland expression. He admired the way she moved, the way those cool, quick eyes took in everything.

“Would you like a tour, Eve?”

“No. How do you work with all this . . .” Using both hands, she gestured widely at the treated glass walls. “Open.”

“I don’t like being closed in. Are you going to sit, or prowl?”

“I’m going to stand. I have some questions to ask you, Roarke. You’re entitled to have counsel present.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then we’ll save the lawyers until I am. Ask.”

Though she kept her eyes level on his, she knew where his hands were, tucked casually in the pockets of his slacks. Hands revealed emotions.

“Night before last,” she said, “between the hours of eight and ten P.M. Can you verify your whereabouts?”

“I believe I was here until shortly after eight.” With a steady hand he touched his desk log. “I shut down my monitor at 8:17. I left the building, drove home.”

“Drove,” she interrupted, “or were driven?”

“Drove. I keep a car here. I don’t believe in keeping my employees waiting on my whims.”

“Damned democratic of you.” And, she thought, damned inconvenient. She’d wanted him to have an alibi. “And then?”

“I poured myself a brandy, had a shower, changed. I had a late supper with a friend.”

“How late, and what friend?”

“I believe I arrived at about ten. I like to be prompt. At Madeline Montmart’s townhouse.”

Eve had a quick vision of a curvy blond with a sultry mouth and almond eyes. “Madeline Montmart, the actress?”

“Yes. I believe we had squab, if that’s helpful.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “No one can verify your movements between eight-seventeen and ten P.M. ?”

“One of the staff might have noticed, but then, I pay them well and they’re likely to say what I tell them to say.” His voice took on an edge. “There’s been another murder.”

“Lola Starr, licensed companion. Certain details will be released to the media within the hour.”

“And certain details will not.”

“Do you own a silencer, Roarke?”

His expression didn’t change. “Several. You look exhausted, Eve. Have you been up all night?”

“Goes with the job. Do you own a Swiss handgun, SIG two-ten, circa 1980?”

“I acquired one about six weeks ago. Sit down.”

“Were you acquainted with Lola Starr?” Reaching into her briefcase, she pulled out a photo she’d found in Lola’s apartment. The pretty, elfin girl beamed out, full of sassy fun.

Roarke lowered his gaze to it as it landed on his desk. His eyes flickered. This time his voice was tinged with something Eve thought sounded like pity.

“She isn’t old enough to be licensed.”

“She turned eighteen four months ago. Applied on her birthday.”

“She didn’t have time to change her mind, did she?” His eyes lifted to Eve’s. And yes, it was pity. “I didn’t know her. I don’t use prostitutes—or children.” He picked up the photo, skirted the desk, and offered it back to Eve. “Sit down.”

“Have you ever—”

“Goddamn it, sit down.” In sudden fury, he took her shoulders, pushed her into a chair. Her case tipped, spilling out photos of Lola that had nothing to do with sassy fun.

She might have reached them first—her reflexes were as good as his. Perhaps she wanted him to see them. Perhaps she needed him to.

Crouching, Roarke picked up a photo taken at the scene. He stared at it. “Christ Jesus,” he said softly. “You believe I’m capable of this?”

“My beliefs aren’t the issue. Investigating—” She broke off when his eyes whipped to hers.

“You believe I’m capable of this?” he repeated in an undertone that cut like a blade.

“No, but I have a job to do.”

“Your job sucks.”

She took the photos back, stored them. “From time to time.”

“How do you sleep at night, after looking at something like this?”

She flinched. Though she recovered in a snap, he’d seen it. As intrigued as he was by her instinctive and emotional reaction, he was sorry he’d caused it.

“By knowing I’ll take down the bastard who did it. Get out of my way.”

He stayed where he was, laid a hand on her rigid arm. “A man in my position has to read people quickly and accurately, Eve. I’m reading you as someone close to the edge.”

“I said, get out of my way.”

He rose, but shifting his grip on her arm, pulled her to her feet. He was still in her way. “He’ll do it again,” Roarke said quietly. “And it’s eating at you wondering when and where and who.”

“Don’t analyze me. We’ve got a whole department of shrinks on the payroll for that.”

“Why haven’t you been to see one? You’ve been slipping through loopholes to avoid Testing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He smiled, but there was no amusement in it.

“I have connections, lieutenant. You were due in Testing several days ago, standard department procedure after a justifiable termination, one you executed the night Sharon was killed.”

“Keep out of my business,” she said furiously. “And fuck your connections.”

“What are you afraid of? What are you afraid they’ll find if they get a look inside of that head of yours? That heart of yours?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.” She jerked her arm free, but he merely laid his hand on her cheek. A gesture so unexpected, so gentle, her stomach quivered.

“Let me help you.”

“I—” Something nearly spilled out, as the photos had. But this time her reflexes kept it tucked away. “I’m handling it.” She turned away. “You can pick up your property anytime after nine A.M. tomorrow.”

“Eve.”

She kept her eyes focused on the doorway, kept walking. “What?”

“I want to see you tonight.”

“No.”

He was tempted—very tempted—to lunge after her. Instead, he stayed where he was. “I can help you with the case.”

Cautious, she stopped, turned back. If he hadn’t been experiencing an uncomfortable twist of sexual frustration, he might have laughed aloud at the combination of suspicion and derision in her eyes.

“How?”

“I know people Sharon knew.” As he spoke, he saw the derision alter to interest. But the suspicion remained. “It doesn’t take a long mental leap to realize you’ll be looking for a connection between Sharon and the girl whose photos you’re carrying. I’ll see if I can find one.”

“Information from a suspect doesn’t carry much weight in an investigation. But,” she added before he could speak, “you can let me know.”

He smiled after all. “Is it any wonder I want you naked, and in bed? I’ll let you know, lieutenant.” And walked back behind his desk. “In the meantime, get some sleep.”

When the door closed behind her, the smile went out of his eyes. For a long moment he sat in silence. Fingering the button he carried in his pocket, he engaged his private, secure line.

He didn’t want this call on his log.

chapter seven

Eve stepped up to the peep screen at Charles Monroe’s door and started to announce herself when it slid open. He was in black tie, a cashmere cape swung negligently over his shoulders, offset by the cream of a silk scarf. His smile was every bit as well turned out as his wardrobe.

“Lieutenant Dallas. How lovely to see you again.” His eyes, full of compliments she knew she didn’t deserve, skimmed over her. “And how unfortunate I’m just on my way out.”

“I won’t keep you long.” She stepped forward, he stepped back. “A couple of questions, Mr. Monroe, here, informally, or formally, at the station with your representative or counsel.”

His well shaped brows shot up. “I see. I thought we’d progressed beyond that. Very well, lieutenant, ask away.” He let the door slide shut again. “We’ll keep it informal.”

“Your whereabouts night before last, between the hours of eight and eleven?”

“Night before last?” He slipped a diary out of his pocket, keyed it in. “Ah, yes. I picked up a client at seven-thirty for an eight o’clock curtain at the Grande Theater. They’re doing a reprise of Ibsen—depressing stuff. We sat third row, center. It ended just before eleven, and we had a late supper, catered. Here. I was engaged with her until three A.M.”

His smile flashed as he tucked the diary away again. “Does that clear me?”

“If your client will corroborate.”

The smile faded into a look of pain. “Lieutenant, you’re killing me.”

“Someone’s killing people in your profession,” she snapped back. “Name and number, Mr. Monroe.” She waited until he’d mournfully given the data. “Are you acquainted with a Lola Starr?”

“Lola, Lola Starr . . . doesn’t sound familiar.” He took out the diary again, scanning through his address section. “Apparently not. Why?”

“You’ll hear about it on the news by morning,” was all Eve told him as she opened the door again. “So far, it’s only been women, Mr. Monroe, but if I were you, I’d be very careful about taking on new clients.”

With a headache drumming at her, she strode to the elevator. Unable to resist, she glanced toward the door of Sharon DeBlass’s apartment, where the red police security light blinked.

She needed to sleep, she told herself. She needed to go home and empty her mind for an hour. But she was keying in her ID to disengage the seal, and walking into the home of a dead woman.

It was silent. And it was empty. She’d expected nothing else. Somehow she hoped there would be some flash of intuition, but there was only the steady pounding in her temples. Ignoring it, she went into the bedroom.

The windows had been sealed as well with concealing spray to prevent the media or the morbidly curious from doing fly-bys and checking out the scene. She ordered lights, and the shadows bounced back to reveal the bed.

The sheets had been stripped off and taken into forensics. Body fluids, hair, and skin had already been analyzed and logged. There was a stain on the floating mattress where blood had seeped through those satin sheets.

The pillowed headboard was splattered with it. She wondered if anyone would care enough to have it cleaned.

She glanced toward the table. Feeney had taken the small desktop PC so that he could search through the hard drive as well as the discs. The room had been searched and swept. There was nothing left to do.

Yet Eve went to the dresser, going methodically through the drawers again. Who would claim all these clothes? she wondered. The silks and lace, the cashmeres and satins of a woman who had preferred the textures of the rich against her skin.

The mother, she imagined. Why hadn’t she sent in a request for the return of her daughter’s things?

Something to think about.

She went through the closet, again going through skirts, dresses, trousers, the trendy capes and caftans, jackets and blouses, checking pockets, linings. She moved onto shoes, all kept neatly in acrylic boxes.

The woman had only had two feet, she thought with some annoyance. No one needed sixty pairs of shoes. With a little snort, she reached into toes, deep inside the tunnel of boots, into the springy softness of inflatable platforms.

Lola hadn’t had so much, she thought now. Two pairs of ridiculously high heels, a pair of girlish vinyl straps, and a simple pair of air pump sneakers, all jumbled in her narrow closet.

But Sharon had been an organized as well as a vain soul. Her shoes were carefully stacked in rows of—

Wrong. Skin prickling, Eve stepped back. It was wrong. The closet was as big as a room, and every inch of space had been ruthlessly utilized. Now, there was a full foot empty on the shelves. Because the shoes were stacked six high in a row of eight.

It wasn’t the way Eve had found them or the way she’d left them. They’d been organized according to color and style. In stacks, she remembered perfectly, of four, a row of twelve.

Such a little mistake, she thought with a small smile. But a man who made one was bound to make another.

“Would you repeat that, lieutenant?”

“He restacked the shoe boxes wrong, commander.” Negotiating traffic, shivering as her car heater offered a tepid puff of air around her toes, Eve checked in. A tourist blimp crept by at low altitude, the guide’s voice booming out tips on sky walk shopping as they crossed toward Fifth. Some idiotic road crew with a special daylight license power drilled a tunnel access on the corner of Sixth and Seventy-eighth. Eve pitched her voice above the din.

“You can review the discs of the scene. I know how the closet was arranged. It made an impression on me that any one person should have so many clothes, and keep them so organized. He went back.”

“Returned to the scene of the crime?” Whitney’s voice was dry as dust.

“Clichés have a basis in fact.” Hoping for relative quiet, she jogged west down a cross street and ended up fuming behind a clicking microbus. Didn’t anyone stay home in New York? “Or they wouldn’t be clichés,” she finished and switched to automatic drive so that she could warm her hands in her pockets. “There were other things. She kept her costume jewelry in a partitioned drawer. Rings in one section, bracelets in another, and so on. Some of the chains were tangled when I looked again.”

“The sweepers—”

“Sir, I went through the place again after the sweepers. I know he’s been there.” Eve bit back on frustration and reminded herself that Whitney was a cautious man. Administrators had to be. “He got through the security, and he went in. He was looking for something—something he forgot. Something she had. Something we missed.”

“You want the place swept again?”

“I do. And I want Feeney to go back over Sharon’s files. Something’s there, somewhere. And it concerns him enough to risk going back for it.”

“I’ll signature the authorization. The chief isn’t going to like it.” The commander was silent for a moment. Then, as if he’d just remembered it was a fully secured line, he snorted. “Fuck the chief. Good eye, Dallas.”

“Thank you—” But he’d cut her off before she could finish being grateful.

Two of six, she thought, and in the privacy of her car, she shuddered from more than the cold. There were four more people out there whose lives were in her hands.

After pulling into her garage, she swore she’d call the damn mechanic the next day. If history ran true, it meant he’d have her vehicle in for a week, diddling with some idiotic chip in the heater control. The idea of the paperwork in accessing a replacement vehicle through the department was too daunting to consider.

Besides, she was used to the one she had, with all its little quirks. Everyone knew the uniforms copped the best air-to-land vehicles. Detectives had to make do with clinkers.

She’d have to rely on public transportation or just hook a car from the police garage and pay the bureaucratic price later.

Still frowning over the hassle to come and reminding herself to contact Feeney personally to have him go through a week’s worth of security discs on the Gorham, she rode the elevator to her floor. Eve had no more than unkeyed her locks when her hand was on her weapon, drawing it.

The silence of her apartment was wrong. She knew instantly she wasn’t alone. The prickle along her skin had her doing a quick sweep, arms and eyes, shifting fluidly left then right.

In the dim light of the room, the shadows hung and the silence remained. Then she caught a movement that had her tensed muscles rippling, her trigger finger poised.

“Excellent reflexes, lieutenant.” Roarke rose from the chair where he’d been lounging. Where he’d been watching her. “So excellent,” he continued in that same mild tone as he touched on a lamp, “that I have every faith you won’t use that on me.”

She might have. She very well might have given him one good jolt. That would have wiped that complacent smile off his face. But any discharge of a weapon meant paperwork she wasn’t prepared to face for simple revenge.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” His eyes remained on hers as he lifted his hands. “I’m unarmed. You’re welcome to check for yourself if you won’t take my word for it.”

Very slowly, and with some reluctance, she holstered her weapon. “I imagine you have a whole fleet of very expensive and very clever lawyers, Roarke, who would have you out before I finished booking you on a B and E. But why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t put myself to the trouble, and the city to the expense of throwing you in a cage for a couple of hours?”

Roarke wondered if he’d become perverse that he could so enjoy the way she slashed at him. “It wouldn’t be productive. And you’re tired, Eve. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I won’t bother to ask you how you got in here.” She could feel herself vibrating with temper, and wondered just how much satisfaction she’d gain from clamping his elegant wrists in restraints. “You own the building, so that question answers itself.”

“One of the things I admire about you is that you don’t waste time on the obvious.”

“My question is why.”

“I found myself thinking about you, on professional and personal levels, after you’d left my office.” He smiled, quick and charming. “Have you eaten?”

“Why?” she repeated.

He stepped toward her so that the slant of light from the lamp played behind him. “Professionally, I made a couple of calls that might be of interest to you. Personally . . .” He lifted a hand to her face, fingers just brushing her chin, his thumb skimming the slight dip. “I found myself concerned by that fatigue in your eyes. For some reason I feel compelled to feed you.”

Though she knew it was the gesture of a cranky child, she jerked her chin free. “What calls?”

He merely smiled again, moved to her tele-link. “May I?” he said even as he keyed in the number he wanted. “This is Roarke. You can send the meal up now.” He disengaged, smiled at her again. “You don’t object to pasta, do you?”

“Not on principle. But I object to being handled.”

“That’s something else I like about you.” Because she wouldn’t, he sat and, ignoring her frown, took out his cigarette case. “But I find it easier to relax over a hot meal. You don’t relax enough, Eve.”

“You don’t know me well enough to judge what I do or don’t do. And I didn’t say you could smoke in here.”

He lighted the cigarette, eyeing her through the faint, fragrant haze. “You didn’t arrest me for breaking and entering, you’re not going to arrest me for smoking. I brought a bottle of wine. I left it to breathe on the counter in the kitchen. Would you like some?”

“What I’d like—” She had a sudden flash, and the fury came so quickly she could barely see through it. In one leap, she was at her computer, demanding access.

That annoyed him—enough to have his voice tighten. “If I’d come in to poke through your files, I’d hardly have waited around for you.”

“The hell you wouldn’t. That kind of arrogance is just like you.” But her security was intact. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Until she saw the small package beside her monitor. “What’s this?”

“I have no idea.” He blew out another stream of smoke. “It was on the floor inside the door. I picked it up.”

Eve knew what it was—the size, the shape, the weight. And she knew when she viewed the disc she would see Lola Starr’s murder.

Something about the way her eyes changed had him rising again, had his voice gentling. “What is it, Eve?”

“Official business. Excuse me.”

She walked directly to the bedroom, closed and secured the door.

It was Roarke’s turn to frown. He went into the kitchen, located glasses, and poured the burgundy. She lived simply, he thought. Very little clutter, very little that spoke of background or family. No mementos. He’d been tempted to wander into her bedroom while he’d had the apartment to himself and see what he might have discovered about her there, but he’d resisted.

It was not so much respect for her privacy as it was the challenge she presented that provoked him to discover her from the woman alone rather than her surroundings.

Still, he found the plain colors and lack of fuss illuminating. She didn’t live here, as far as he could see, so much as she existed here. She lived, he deduced, in her work.

He sipped the wine, approved it. After dousing his cigarette, he carried both glasses back into the living room. It was going to be more than interesting to solve the puzzle of Eve Dallas.

When she came back in, nearly twenty minutes later, a white-coated waiter was just finishing setting up dishes on a small table by the window. However glorious the scents, they failed to stir her appetite. Her head was pounding again, and she’d forgotten to take medication.

With a murmur, Roarke dismissed the waiter. He said nothing until the door closed and he was alone with Eve again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For whatever’s upset you.” Except for that one flush of temper, she’d been pale when she’d come into the apartment. But her cheeks were colorless now, her eyes too dark. When he started toward her, she shook her head once, fiercely.

“Go away, Roarke.”

“Going away’s easy. Too easy.” Very deliberately, he put his arms around her, felt her stiffen. “Give yourself a minute.” His voice was smooth, persuasive. “Would it matter, really matter to anyone but you, if you took one minute to let go?”

She shook her head again, but this time there was weariness in the gesture. He heard the sigh escape, and taking advantage, he drew her closer. “You can’t tell me?”

“No.”

He nodded, but his eyes flashed with impatience. He knew better; it shouldn’t matter to him. She shouldn’t. But too much about her mattered.

“Someone else then,” he murmured.

“There’s no one else.” Then realizing how that might be construed, she pulled back. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” His smile was wry and not terribly amused. “But there isn’t going to be anyone else, for either of us, not for some time.”

Her step back wasn’t a retreat, but a statement of distance. “You’re taking too much for granted, Roarke.”

“Not at all. Nothing for granted. You’re work, lieutenant. A great deal of work. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She was too tired to make a stand, too tired to argue. She sat down, picked up her fork. “Have you been to Sharon DeBlass’s apartment during the last week?”

“No, why would I?”

She studied him carefully. “Why would anyone?”

He paused a moment, then realized the question wasn’t academic. “To relive the event,” he suggested. “To be certain nothing was left behind that would be incriminating.”

“And as owner of the building, you could get in as easily as you got in here.”

His mouth tightened briefly. Annoyance, she judged, the annoyance of a man who was weary of answering the same questions. It was a small thing, but a very good sign of his innocence. “Yes. I don’t believe I’d have a problem. My master code would get me in.”

No, she thought, his master code wouldn’t have broken the police security. That would require a different level, or an expert on security.

“I assume that you believe someone not in your department has been in that apartment since the murder.”

“You can assume that,” she agreed. “Who handles your security, Roarke?”

“I use Lorimar for both my business and my home.” He lifted his glass. “It’s simpler that way, as I own the company.”

“Of course you do. I suppose you know quite a bit about security yourself.”

“You could say I have a long-standing interest in security matters. That’s why I bought the company.” He scooped up the herbed pasta, held the fork to her lips, and was satisfied when she took the offered bite. “Eve, I’m tempted to confess all, just to wipe that unhappy look off your face and see you eat with the enthusiasm I’d enjoyed last time. But whatever my crimes, and they are undoubtedly legion, they don’t include murder.”

She looked down at her plate and began to eat. It frazzled her that he could see she was unhappy. “What did you mean when you said I was work?”

“You think things through very carefully, and you weigh the odds, the options. You’re not a creature of impulse, and though I believe you could be seduced, with the right timing, and the right touch, it wouldn’t be an ordinary occurrence.”

She lifted her gaze again. “That’s what you want to do, Roarke? Seduce me?”

“I will seduce you,” he returned. “Unfortunately, not tonight. Beyond that, I want to find out what it is that makes you what you are. And I want to help you get what you need. Right now, what you need is a murderer. You blame yourself,” he added. “That’s foolish and annoying.”

“I don’t blame myself.”

“Look in the mirror,” Roarke said quietly.

“There was nothing I could do,” Eve exploded. “Nothing I could do to stop it. Any of it.”

“Are you supposed to be able to stop it, any of it? All of it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

He tilted his head. “How?”

She pushed away from the table. “By being smart. By being in time. By doing my job.”

Something more here, he mused. Something deeper. He folded his hands on the table. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

The images flooded back into her brain. All the death. All the blood. All the waste. “Now they’re dead.” And the taste of it was bitter in her mouth. “There should have been something I could have done to stop it.”

“To stop a murder before it happens, you’d have to be inside the head of a killer,” he said quietly. “Who could live with that?”

“I can live with that.” She hurled it back at him. And it was pure truth. She could live with anything but failure. “Serve and protect—it’s not just a phrase, it’s a promise. If I can’t keep my word, I’m nothing. And I didn’t protect them, any of them. I can only serve them after they’re dead. Goddamn it, she was hardly more than a baby. Just a baby, and he cut her into pieces. I wasn’t in time. I wasn’t in time, and I should have been.”

Her breath caught on a sob, shocking her. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she lowered herself onto the sofa. “God,” was all she could say. “God. God.”

He came to her. Instinct had him taking her arms firmly rather than gathering her close. “If you can’t or won’t talk to me, you have to talk to someone. You know that.”

“I can handle it. I—” But the rest of the words slid down her throat when he shook her.

“What’s it costing you?” he demanded. “And how much would it matter to anyone if you let it go? For one minute just let it go.”

“I don’t know.” And maybe that was the fear, she realized. She wasn’t sure if she could pick up her badge, or her weapon, or her life, if she let herself think too deeply, or feel too much. “I see her,” Eve said on a deep breath. “I see her whenever I close my eyes or stop concentrating on what needs to be done.”

“Tell me.”

She rose, retrieved her wine and his, and then returned to the sofa. The long drink eased her dry throat and settled the worst of the nerves. It was fatigue, she warned herself, that weakened her enough that she couldn’t hold it in.

“The call came through when I was a half block away. I’d just closed another case, finished the data load. Dispatch called for the closest unit. Domestic violence—it’s always messy, but I was practically on the doorstep. So I took it. Some of the neighbors were outside, they were all talking at once.”

The scene came back to her, perfectly, like a video exactly cued. “A woman was in her nightgown, and she was crying. Her face was battered, and one of the neighbors was trying to bind up a gash on her arm. She was bleeding badly, so I told them to call the MTs. She kept saying, ‘He’s got her. He’s got my baby.’ ”

Eve took another drink. “She grabbed me, bleeding on me, screaming and crying and telling me I had to stop him, I had to save her baby. I should have called for backup, but I didn’t think I could wait. I took the stairs, and I could hear him before I got to the third floor where he was locked in. He was raging. I think I heard the little girl screaming, but I’m not sure.”

She closed her eyes then, praying she’d been wrong. She wanted to believe that the child had already been dead, already beyond pain. To have been that close, only steps away . . . No, she couldn’t live with that.

“When I got to the door, I used the standard. I’d gotten his name from one of the neighbors. I used his name, and the child’s name. It’s supposed to make it more personal, more real if you use names. I identified myself and said I was coming in. But he just kept raging. I could hear things breaking. I couldn’t hear the child now. I think I knew. Before I broke down the door, I knew. He’d used the kitchen knife to slice her to pieces.”

Her hand shook as she raised the glass again. “There was so much blood. She was so small, but there was so much blood. On the floor, on the wall, all over him. I could see it was still dripping off the knife. Her face was turned toward me. Her little face, with big blue eyes. Like a doll’s.”

She was silent for a moment, then set her glass aside. “He was too wired up to be stunned. He kept coming. There was blood dripping off the knife, and splattered all over him, and he kept coming. So I looked in his eyes, right in his eyes. And I killed him.”

“And the next day,” Roarke said quietly, “you dived straight into a murder investigation.”

“Testing’s postponed. I’ll get to it in another day or two.” She moved her shoulders. “The shrinks, they’ll think it’s the termination. I can make them think that if I have to. But it’s not. I had to kill him. I can accept that.” She looked straight into Roarke’s eyes and knew she could tell him what she hadn’t been able to say to herself. “I wanted to kill him. Maybe even needed to. When I watched him die, I thought, He’ll never do that to another child. And I was glad that I’d been the one to stop him.”

“You think that’s wrong.”

“I know it’s wrong. I know anytime a cop gets pleasure of any sort out of termination, she’s crossed a line.”

He leaned forward so that their faces were close. “What was the child’s name?”

“Mandy.” Her breath hitched once before she controlled it. “She was three.”

“Would you be torn up this way if you’d killed him before he’d gotten to her?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again. “I guess I’ll never know, will I?”

“Yes, you do.” He laid a hand over hers, watched her frown and look down at the contact. “You know, I’ve spent most of my life with a basic dislike of police—for one reason or another. I find it very odd that I’ve met, under such extraordinary circumstances, one I can respect and be attracted to at the same time.”

She lifted her gaze again, and though the frown remained, she didn’t draw her hand free of his. “That’s a strange compliment.”

“Apparently we have a strange relationship.” He rose, drawing her to her feet. “Now you need to sleep.” He glanced toward the dinner she’d barely touched. “You can heat that up when you’ve gotten your appetite back.”

“Thanks. Next time I’d appreciate you waiting until I’m home before you come in.”

“Progress,” he murmured when they’d reached the door. “You accept there’ll be a next time.” With a hint of a smile, he brought the hand he still held to his lips. He caught bafflement, discomfort and, he thought, a trace of embarrassment in her eyes as he brushed a light kiss over her knuckles. “Until next time,” he said, and left.

Frowning, Eve rubbed her knuckles over her jeans as she headed to the bedroom. She stripped, letting her clothes lay wherever they dropped. She climbed into bed, shut her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

She was just dozing off when she remembered Roarke had never told her who he’d called and what he’d discovered.

chapter eight

In her office, with the door locked, Eve reviewed the disc of Lola Starr’s murder with Feeney. She didn’t flinch at the little popping sound of the silenced weapon. Her system no longer recoiled at the insult the bullet caused in flesh.

The screen held steady on the ending caption: Two of Six. Then it went blank. Without a word, Eve cued up the first murder, and they watched Sharon DeBlass die again.

“What can you tell me?” Eve asked when it was finished.

“Discs were made on a Trident MicroCam, the five thousand model. It’s only been available about six months, very pricey. Big seller last Christmas, though. More than ten thousand moved in Manhattan alone during the traditional shopping season, not to mention how many went through the gray market. Not as much of a flood like less expensive models, but still too many to trace.”

He looked over at Eve with his drooping camel eyes. “Guess who owns Trident?”

“Roarke Industries.”

“Give the lady a bouquet. I’d say the odds were pretty good the boss man owns one himself.”

“He’d certainly have access.” She made a note of it and resisted the memory of how his lips had felt brushing over her knuckles. “The killer uses a fairly exclusive piece of equipment he manufactures himself. Arrogance or stupidity?”

“Stupidity doesn’t fly with this boy.”

“No, it doesn’t. The weapon?”

“We’ve got a couple thousand out there in private collections,” Feeney began, nibbling on a cashew. “Three in the boroughs. Those are the ones that’ve been registered,” he added with a thin smile. “The silencer doesn’t have to be registered, as it doesn’t qualify as deadly on its own. No way of tracing it.”

He leaned back, tapped the monitor. “As far as the first disc, I’ve been running it. I came up with a couple of shadows. Makes me certain he recorded more than the murder. But I haven’t been able to enhance anything. Whoever edited that disc knew all the tricks or had access to equipment that knew them for him.”

“What about the sweepers?”

“Commander ordered them for this morning, per your request.” Feeney glanced at his watch. “Should be there now. I picked up the security discs on my way in, ran them. We’ve got a twenty-minute time lapse starting at three-ten, night before last.”

“Bastard waltzed right in,” she muttered. “It’s a shitty neighborhood, Feeney, but an upscale building. Nobody noticed him either time, which means he blends.”

“Or they’re used to seeing him.”

“Because he was one of Sharon’s regulars. Tell me why a man who was a regular client or an expensive, sophisticated, experienced prostitute, chose a green, low-scale what do you call it, ingenue like Lola Starr for his second hit?”

Feeney pursed his lips. “He likes variety?”

Eve shook her head. “Maybe he liked it so much the first time, he’s not going to be choosy now. Four more to go, Feeney. He told us right off the bat we had a serial killer. He announced it, letting us know Sharon wasn’t particularly important. Just one of six.”

She blew out a breath, unsatisfied. “So why’d he go back?” she said to herself. “What was he looking for?”

“Maybe the sweepers’ll tell us.”

“Maybe.” She picked up a list from her desk. “I’m going to check out Sharon’s client list again, then hit Lola’s.”

Feeney cleared his throat, chose another cashew from his little bag. “I hate to be the one to tell you, Dallas. The senator’s demanding an update.”

“I have nothing to tell him.”

“You’re going to have to tell him this afternoon. In East Washington.”

She stopped a pace in front of the door. “Bullshit.”

“Commander gave me the news. We’re on the two o’clock shuttle.” Feeney thought resignedly of how his stomach reacted to air travel. “I hate politics.”

Eve was still gritting her teeth over her briefing with Whitney when she ran headlong into DeBlass’s security outside his office in the New Senate Office Building, East Washington.

Their identification aside, both she and Feeney were scanned, and according to the revised Federal Property Act of 2022, were obliged to hand over their weapons.

“Like we’re going to zap the guy while he’s sitting at his desk,” Feeney muttered as they were escorted over red, white, and blue carpet.

“I wouldn’t mind giving several of these guys a quick buzz.” Flanked by suits and shined shoes, Eve slouched in front of the glossy door of the senator’s office, waiting for the internal camera to clear them.

“If you ask me, East Washington’s been paranoid since the terrorist hit.” Feeney sneered into the camera. “Couple dozen legislators get whacked, and they never forget it.”

The door opened, and Rockman, pristine in needle-thin pin stripes, nodded. “Long memories are an advantage in politics, Captain Feeney. Lieutenant Dallas,” he added with another nod. “We appreciate your promptness.”

“I had no idea the senator and my chief were so close,” Eve said as she stepped inside. “Or that both of them would be so anxious to waste the taxpayers’ money.”

“Perhaps they both consider justice priceless.” Rockman gestured them toward the gleaming desk of cherrywood—certainly priceless—where DeBlass waited.

He had, as far as Eve could see, benefited from the change of temperature in the country—too lukewarm in her opinion—and the repeal of the Two Term Bill. Under current law, a politician could now retain his seat for life. All he had to do was buffalo his constituents into electing him.

DeBlass certainly looked at home. His paneled office was as hushed as a cathedral and every bit as reverent with its altarlike desk, the visitor chairs as subservient as pews.

“Sit,” DeBlass barked, and folded his large-knuckled hands on the desk. “My latest information is that you are no closer to finding the monster who murdered my granddaughter than you were a week ago.” His dark brows beetled over his eyes. “I find this difficult to understand, considering the resources of the New York Police Department.”

“Senator.” Eve let Commander Whitney’s terse instructions play in her head: Be tactful, respectful, and tell him nothing he doesn’t already know. “We’re using those resources to investigate and gather evidence. While the department is not now prepared to make an arrest, every possible effort is being made to bring your granddaughter’s murderer to justice. Her case is my first priority, and you have my word it will continue to be until it can be satisfactorily closed.”

The senator listened to the little speech with all apparent interest. Then he leaned forward. “I’ve been in the business of bullshit for more than twice your life, lieutenant. So don’t pull out your tap dance with me. You have nothing.”

Fuck tact, Eve decided instantly. “What we have, Senator DeBlass, is a complicated and delicate investigation. Complicated, given the nature of the crime; delicate, due to the victim’s family tree. It’s my commander’s opinion that I’m the best choice to conduct the investigation. It’s your right to disagree. But pulling me off my job to come here to defend my work is a waste of time. My time.” She rose. “I have nothing new to tell you.”

With the vision of both their butts hanging in a sling, Feeney rose as well, all respect. “I’m sure you understand, senator, that the delicacy of an investigation of this nature often means progress is slow. It’s difficult to ask you to be objective when we’re talking of your granddaughter, but Lieutenant Dallas and I have no choice but to be objective.”

With an impatient gesture, DeBlass waved them to sit again. “Obviously my emotions are involved. Sharon was an important part of my life. Whatever she became, and however I was disappointed in her choices, she was blood.” He drew a deep breath, let it loose. “I cannot and will not be placated with bits and pieces of information.”

“There’s nothing else I can tell you,” Eve repeated.

“You can tell me about the prostitute who was murdered two nights ago.” His eyes flicked up to Rockman.

“Lola Starr,” he supplied.

“I imagine your sources of information on Lola Starr are as thorough as ours.” Eve chose to speak directly to Rockman. “Yes, we believe that there is a connection between the two murders.”

“My granddaughter might have been misguided,” DeBlass broke in, “but she did not socialize with people like Lola Starr.”

So, prostitutes had class systems, Eve thought wearily. What else was new? “We haven’t determined whether they knew each other. But there’s little doubt that they both knew the same man. And that man killed them. Each murder followed a specific pattern. We’ll use that pattern to find him. Before, we hope, he kills again.”

“You believe he will,” Rockman put in.

“I’m sure he will.”

“The murder weapon,” DeBlass demanded. “Was it the same type?”

“It’s part of the pattern,” Eve told him. She’d commit no more than that. “There are basic and undeniable similarities between the two homicides. There’s no doubt the same man is responsible.”

Calmer now, Eve stood again. “Senator, I never knew your granddaughter and have no personal tie to her, but I’m personally offended by murder. I’m going after him. That’s all I can tell you.”

He studied her for a moment, saw more than he’d expected to see. “Very well, lieutenant. Thank you for coming.”

Dismissed, Eve walked with Feeney to the door. In the mirror she saw DeBlass signal to Rockman, Rockman acknowledged. She waited until she was outside before she spoke.

“The son of a bitch is going to tail us.”

“Huh?”

“DeBlass’s guard dog. He’s going to shadow us.”

“What the hell for?”

“To see what we do, where we go. Why do you tail anyone? We’re going to lose him at the transport center,” she told Feeney as she flagged down a cab. “Keep your eyes out and see if he follows you to New York.”

“Follows me? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to follow my nose.”

It wasn’t a difficult maneuver. The west wing boarding terminal at National Transport was always bedlam. It was even worse at rush hour when all northbound passengers were jammed into the security line and herded along by computerized voices. Shuttles and runabouts were going to be jammed.

Eve simply lost herself in the crowd, crammed herself into a cross terminal transport to the south wing, and caught an underground to Virginia.

After settling in her tube, ignoring the four o’clocks who were heading to the suburban havens, she took out her pocket directory. She requested Elizabeth Barrister’s address, then asked for directions.

So far her nose was just fine. She was on the right tube and would have to make only one change in Richmond. If her luck held, she could finish the trip and be back in her apartment in time for dinner.

With her chin on her fist, she toyed with the controls of her video screen. She would have bypassed the news—something she made a habit of doing—but when an all-too-familiar face flashed on-screen, she stopped scanning.

Roarke, she thought, narrowing her eyes. The guy sure kept popping up. Lips pursed, she tuned in the audio, plugged in her ear receiver.

“ . . . in this international, multibillion dollar project, Roarke Industries, Tokayamo, and Europa will join hands,” the announcer stated. “It’s taken three years, but it appears that the much debated, much anticipated Olympus Resort will begin construction.”

Olympus Resort, Eve mused, flipping through her mental files. Some high-class, high-dollar vacation paradise, she recalled. A proposed space station built for pleasure and entertainment.

She snorted. Wasn’t it just like him to spend his time and money on fripperies?

If he didn’t lose his tailored silk shirt, she imagined he’d make another fortune.

“Roarke—one question, sir.”

She watched Roarke pause on his way down a long flight of marble steps and lift a brow—exactly as she remembered he did—at the reporter’s interruption.

“Could you tell me why you’ve spent so much time and effort, and a considerable amount of your own capitol, on this project—one detractors say will never fly?”

“Fly is precisely what it will do,” Roarke replied. “In a manner of speaking. As to why, the Olympus Resort will be a haven for pleasure. I can’t think of anything more worthwhile on which to spend time, effort, and capital.”

You wouldn’t, Eve decided, and glanced up just in time to realize she was about to miss her stop. She dashed to the doors of the tube, cursed the computer voice for scolding her for running, and made the change to Fort Royal.

When she came above ground again, it was snowing. Soft, lazy flakes drifted over her hair and shoulders. Pedestrians were stomping it to mush on the sidewalks, but when she found a cab and gave her destination, she found the swirl of white more picturesque.

There was still countryside to be had, if you possessed the money or the prestige. Elizabeth Barrister and Richard DeBlass possessed both, and their home was a striking two stories of rosy brick set on a sloping hill and flanked by trees.

Snow was pristine on the expansive lawn, ermine draped on the bare branches of what Eve thought might be cherry trees. The security gate was an artful symphony of curling iron. However decorative it might have been, Eve was certain it was as practical as a vault.

She leaned out the cab window, flashed her badge at the scanner. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

“You are not listed in the appointment directory, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I’m the officer in charge of the DeBlass case. I have some questions for Ms. Barrister or Richard DeBlass.”

There was a pause, during which time Eve began to shiver in the cold.

“Please step out of the cab, Lieutenant Dallas, and up to the scanner for further identification.”

“Tough joint,” the cabbie muttered, but Eve merely shrugged and complied.

“Identification verified. Dismiss your transport, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met at the gate.”

“Heard the daughter got whacked up in New York,” the cabbie said as Eve paid the fare. “Guess they’re not taking any chances. Want I should pull back a ways and wait for you?”

“No, thanks. But I’ll ask for your number when I’m ready to go.”

With a half salute, the cabbie backed up, swung away. Eve’s nose was beginning to numb when she saw the little electric cart slide through the gate. The curved iron opened.

“Please go inside, step into the cart,” the computer invited. “You will be taken to the house. Ms. Barrister will see you.”

“Terrific.” Eve climbed into the cart and let it take her noiselessly to the front steps of the brick house. Even as she started up them, the door opened.

Either the servants were required to wear boring black suits, or the house was still in mourning. Eve was shown politely into a room off the entrance hall.

Where Roarke’s home had simply whispered money, this one said old money. The carpets were thick, the walls papered in silk. The wide windows offered a stunning view of rolling hills and falling snow. And solitude, Eve thought. The architect must have understood that those who lived here preferred to consider themselves alone.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Elizabeth rose. There was nervousness in the deliberate movement, in the rigid stance and, Eve saw, in the shadowed eyes that held grief.

“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Barrister.”

“My husband’s in a meeting. I can interrupt him if necessary.”

“I don’t think it will be.”

“You’ve come about Sharon.”

“Yes.”

“Please sit down.” Elizabeth gestured toward a chair upholstered in ivory. “Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thanks. I’ll try not to keep you very long. I don’t know how much of my report you’ve seen—”

“All of it,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I believe. It seems quite thorough. As an attorney, I have every confidence that when you find the person who killed my daughter, you’ll have built a strong case.”

“That’s the plan.” Running on nerves, Eve decided, watching the way Elizabeth’s long, graceful fingers clenched, unclenched. “This is a difficult time for you.”

“She was my only child,” Elizabeth said simply. “My husband and I were—are—proponents of the population adjustment theory. Two parents,” she said with a thin smile. “One offspring. Do you have any further information to give me?”

“Not at this time. Your daughter’s profession, Ms. Barrister. Did this cause friction in the family?”

In another of her slow, deliberate gestures, Elizabeth smoothed down the ankle-skimming skirt of her suit. “It was not a profession I dreamed of my daughter embracing. Naturally, it was her choice.”

“Your father-in-law would have been opposed. Certainly politically opposed.”

“The senator’s views on sexual legislation are well known. As a leader of the Conservative Party, he is, of course, working to change many of the current laws regarding what is popularly called the Morality Issue.”

“Do you share his views?”

“No, I don’t, though I fail to see how that applies.”

Eve cocked her head. Oh, there was friction there, all right. Eve wondered if the streamlined attorney agreed with her outspoken father-in-law on anything. “Your daughter was killed—possibly by a client, possibly by a personal friend. If you and your daughter were at odds over her lifestyle, it would be unlikely she would have confided in you about professional or personal acquaintances.”

“I see.” Elizabeth folded her hands and forced herself to think like a lawyer. “You’re assuming that, as her mother, as a woman who might have shared some of the same viewpoints, Sharon would talk to me, perhaps share with me some of the more intimate details of her life.” Despite her efforts, Elizabeth’s eyes clouded. “I’m sorry, lieutenant, that’s not the case. Sharon rarely shared anything with me. Certainly not about her business. She was . . . aloof, from both her father and me. Really, from her entire family.”

“You wouldn’t know if she had a particular lover—someone she was more personally involved with? One who might have been jealous?”

“No. I can tell you I don’t believe she did. Sharon had . . .” Elizabeth took a steadying breath. “A disdain for men. An attraction to them, yes, but an underlying disdain. She knew she could attract them. From a very early age, she knew. And she found them foolish.”

“Professional companions are rigidly screened. A dislike—or disdain, as you put it—is a usual reason for denial of licensing.”

“She was also clever. There was nothing in her life she wanted she didn’t find a way to have. Except happiness. She was not a happy woman,” Elizabeth went on, and swallowed the lump that always seemed to hover in her throat. “I spoiled her, it’s true. I have no one to blame but myself for it. I wanted more children.” She pressed a hand to her mouth until she thought her lips had stopped trembling. “I was philosophically opposed to having more, and my husband was very clear in his position. But that didn’t stop the emotion of wanting children to love. I loved Sharon, too much. The senator will tell you I smothered her, babied her, indulged her. And he would be right.”

“I would say that mothering was your privilege, not his.”

This brought a ghost of a smile to Elizabeth’s eyes. “So were the mistakes, and I made them. Richard, too, though he loved her no less than I. When Sharon moved to New York, we fought with her over it. Richard pleaded with her. I threatened her. And I pushed her away, lieutenant. She told me I didn’t understand her—never had, never would—and that I saw only what I wanted to see, unless it was in court; but what went on in my own home was invisible.”

“What did she mean?”

“That I was a better lawyer than a mother, I suppose. After she left, I was hurt, angry. I pulled back, quite certain she would come to me. She didn’t, of course.”

She stopped speaking for a moment, hoarding her regrets. “Richard went to see her once or twice, but that didn’t work, and only upset him. We let it alone, let her alone. Until recently, when I felt we had to make a new attempt.”

“Why recently?”

“The years pass,” Elizabeth murmured. “I’d hoped she would be growing tired of the lifestyle, perhaps have begun to regret the rift with family. I went to see her myself about a year ago. But she only became angry, defensive, then insulting when I tried to persuade her to come home. Richard, though he’d resigned himself, offered to go up and talk to her. But she refused to see him. Even Catherine tried,” she murmured and rubbed absently at a pain between her eyes. “She went to see Sharon only a few weeks ago.”

“Congresswoman DeBlass went to New York to see Sharon?”

“Not specifically. Catherine was there for a fund-raiser and made a point to see and try to speak with Sharon.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I asked her to. You see, when I tried to open communications again, Sharon wasn’t interested. I’d lost her,” Elizabeth said quietly, “and moved too late to get her back. I didn’t know how to get her back. I’d hoped that Catherine could help, being family, but not Sharon’s mother.”

She looked over at Eve again. “You’re thinking that I should have gone again myself. It was my place to go.”

“Ms. Barrister—”

But Elizabeth shook her head. “You’re right, of course. But she refused to confide in me. I thought I should respect her privacy, as I always had. I was never one of those mothers who peeked into her daughter’s diary.”

“Diary?” Eve’s antenna vibrated. “Did she keep one?”

“She always kept a diary, even as a child. She changed the password in it regularly.”

“And as an adult?”

“Yes. She’d refer to it now and again—joke about the secrets she had and the people she knew who would be appalled at what she’d written about them.”

There’d been no personal diary in the inventory, Eve remembered. Such things could be as small as a woman’s thumb. If the sweepers missed it the first time . . .

“Do you have any of them?”

“No.” Abruptly alert, Elizabeth looked up. “She kept them in a deposit box, I think. She kept them all.”

“Did she use a bank here in Virginia?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ll check and see what I can find out for you. I can go through the things she left here.”

“I’d appreciate that. If you think of anything—anything at all—a name, a comment, no matter how casual, please contact me.”

“I will. She never spoke of friends, lieutenant. I worried about that, even as I used it to hope that the lack of them would draw her back home. Out of the life she’d chosen. I even used one of my own, my own friends, thinking he would be more persuasive than I.”

“Who was that?”

“Roarke.” Elizabeth teared up again, fought them back. “Only days before she was murdered, I called him. We’ve known each other for years. I asked him if he would arrange for her to be invited to a certain party I knew he’d be attending. If he’d seek her out. He was reluctant. Roarke isn’t one to meddle in family business. But I used our friendship. If he would just find a way to befriend her, to show her that an attractive woman doesn’t have to use her looks to feel worthwhile. He did that for me, and for my husband.”

“You asked him to develop a relationship with her?” Eve said carefully.

“I asked him to be her friend,” Elizabeth corrected. “To be there for her. I asked him because there’s no one I trust more. She’d cut herself off from all of us, and I needed someone I could trust. He would never hurt her, you see. He would never hurt anyone I loved.”

“Because he loves you?”

“Cares.” Richard DeBlass spoke from the doorway. “Roarke cares very much for Beth and for me, and a few select others. But loves? I’m not sure he’d let himself risk quite that unstable an emotion.”

“Richard.” Elizabeth’s control wobbled as she got to her feet. “I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.”

“We finished early.” He came to her, closed his hands over hers. “You should have called me, Beth.”

“I didn’t—” She broke off, looked at him helplessly. “I’d hoped to handle it alone.”

“You don’t have to handle anything alone.” He kept his hand closed over his wife’s as he turned to Eve. “You’d be Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Yes, Mr. DeBlass. I had a few questions and hoped it would be easier if I asked them in person.”

“My wife and I are willing to cooperate in any way we can.” He remained standing, a position Eve judged as one of power and of distance.

There was none of Elizabeth’s nerves or fragility in the man who stood beside her. He was taking charge, Eve decided, protecting his wife and guarding his own emotions with equal care.

“You were asking about Roarke,” he continued. “May I ask why?”

“I told the lieutenant that I’d asked Roarke to see Sharon. To try to . . .”

“Oh, Beth.” In a gesture that was both weary and resigned, he shook his head. “What could he do? Why would you bring him into it?”

She stepped away from him, her face so filled with despair, Eve’s heart broke. “I know you told me to let it alone, that we had to let her go. But I had to try again. She might have connected with him, Richard. He has a way.” She began to speak quickly now, her words tumbling out, tripping over each other. “He might have helped her if I’d asked him sooner. With enough time, there’s very little he can’t do. But he didn’t have enough time. Neither did my child.”

“All right,” Richard murmured, and laid a hand on her arm. “All right.”

She controlled herself again, drew back, drew in. “What can I do now, lieutenant, but pray for justice?”

“I’ll get you justice, Ms. Barrister.”

She closed her eyes and clung to that. “I think you will. I wasn’t sure of that, even after Roarke called me about you.”

“He called you—to discuss the case?”

“He called to see how we were—and to tell me he thought you’d be coming to see me personally before long.” She nearly smiled. “He’s rarely wrong. He told me I’d find you competent, organized, and involved. You are. I’m grateful I’ve had the opportunity to see that for myself and to know that you’re in charge of my daughter’s murder investigation.”

“Ms. Barrister,” Eve hesitated only a moment before deciding to take the risk. “What if I told you Roarke is a suspect?”

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, then calmed again almost immediately. “I’d say you were taking an extraordinarily big wrong step.”

“Because Roarke is incapable of murder?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” It was a relief to think of it, if only for a moment, in objective terms. “Incapable of a senseless act, yes. He might kill cold-bloodedly, but never the defenseless. He might kill, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. But would he do to anyone what was done to Sharon—before, during, after? No. Not Roarke.”

“No,” Richard echoed, and his hand searched for his wife’s again. “Not Roarke.”

Not Roarke, Eve thought again when she was back in her cab and headed for the underground. Why the hell hadn’t he told her he’d met Sharon DeBlass as a favor to her mother? What else hadn’t he told her?

Blackmail. Somehow she didn’t see him as a victim of blackmail. He wouldn’t give a damn what was said or broadcast about him. But the diary changed things and made blackmail a new and intriguing motive.

Just what had Sharon recorded about whom, and where were the goddamn diaries?

chapter nine

“No problem reversing the tail,” Feeney said as he shoveled in what passed for breakfast at the eatery at Cop Central. “I see him cue in on me. He’s looking around for you, but there’s plenty of bodies. So I get on the frigging plane.”

Feeney washed down irradiated eggs with black bean coffee without a wince. “He gets on, too, but he sits up in First Class. When we get off, he’s waiting, and that’s when he knows you’re not there.” He jabbed at Eve with his fork. “He was pissed, makes a quick call. So I get behind him, trail him to the Regent Hotel. They don’t like to tell you anything at the Regent. Flash your badge and they get all offended.”

“And you explained, tactfully, about civic duty.”

“Right.” Feeney pushed his empty plate into the recycler slot, crushed his empty cup with his hand, and sent it to follow. “He made a couple of calls—one to East Washington, one to Virginia. Then he makes a local—to the chief.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Chief Simpson’s pushing buttons for DeBlass, no question. Makes you wonder what buttons.”

Before Eve could comment, her communicator beeped. She pulled it out and answered the call from her commander.

“Dallas, be in Testing. Twenty minutes.”

“Sir, I’m meeting a snitch on the Colby matter at oh nine hundred.”

“Reschedule.” His voice was flat. “Twenty minutes.”

Slowly, Dallas replaced her communicator. “I guess we know one of the buttons.”

“Seems like DeBlass is taking a personal interest in you.” Feeney studied her face. There wasn’t a cop on the force who didn’t despise Testing. “You going to handle it okay?”

“Yeah, sure. This is going to tie me up most of the day, Feeney. Do me a favor. Do a run on the banks in Manhattan. I need to know if Sharon DeBlass kept a safe deposit box. If you don’t find anything there, spread out to the other boroughs.”

“You got it.”

The Testing section was riddled with long corridors, some glassed, some done in pale green walls that were supposed to be calming. Doctors and technicians wore white. The color of innocence and, of course, power. When she entered the first set of reinforced glass doors, the computer politely ordered her to surrender her weapon. Eve took it out of her holster, set it on the tray, and watched it slide away.

It made her feel naked even before she was directed into Testing Room 1-C and told to strip.

She laid her clothes on the bench provided and tried not to think about the techs watching her on their monitors or the machines with the nastily silent glide and their impersonal blinking lights.

The physical exam was easy. All she had to do was stand on the center mark in the tubelike room and watch the lights blip and flash as her internal organs and bones were checked for flaws.

Then she was permitted to don a blue jumpsuit and sit while a machine angled over to examine her eyes and ears. Another, snicking out from one of the wall slots, did a standard reflex test. For the personal touch, a technician entered to take a blood sample.

Please exit door marked Testing 2-C. Phase one is complete, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

In the adjoining room, Eve was instructed to lie on a padded table for the brain scan. Wouldn’t want any cops out there with a brain tumor urging them to blast civilians, she thought wearily.

Eve watched the techs through the glass wall as the helmet was lowered onto her head.

Then the games began.

The bench adjusted to a sitting position and she was treated to virtual reality. The VR put her in a vehicle during a high-speed chase. Sounds exploded in her ears: the scream of sirens, the shouts of conflicting orders from the communicator on the dash. She could see that it was a standard police unit, fully charged. The control of the vehicle was hers, and she had to swerve and maneuver to avoid flattening a variety of pedestrians the VR hurled in her path.

In one part of her brain she was aware her vitals were being monitored: blood pressure, pulse, even the amount of sweat that crawled on her skin, the saliva that pooled and dried in her mouth. It was hot, almost unbearably hot. She narrowly missed a food transport that lumbered into her path.

She recognized her location. The old ports on the east side. She could smell them: water, bad fish, and old sweat. Transients wearing their uniform of blue coveralls were looking for a handout or a day’s labor. She flew by a group of them jostling for position in front of a placement center.

Subject armed. Rifle torch, hand explosive. Wanted for robbery homicide.

Great, Eve thought as she careened after him. Fucking great. She punched the accelerator, whipped the wheel, and kissed off the fender of the target vehicle in a shower of sparks. A spurt of flame whooshed by her ear as he fired at her. The proprietor of a port side roach coach dived for cover, along with several of his customers. Rice noodles flew along with curses.

She rammed the target again, ordering her backup to maneuver into a pincer position.

This time her quarry’s vehicle shuddered, tipped. As he fought for control, she used hers to batter his to a stop. She shouted the standard identification and warning as she bolted from the vehicle. He came out blasting, and she brought him down.

The shock from her weapon jolted his nervous system. She watched him jitter, wet himself, then collapse.

She’d hardly taken a breath to readjust when the bastard techs tossed her into a new scene. The screams, the little girl’s screams; the raging roar of the man who was her father.

They had reconstructed it almost too perfectly, using her own report, visuals of the site, and the mirror of her memory they’d lifted in the scan.

Eve didn’t bother to curse them, but held back her hate, her grief, and sent herself racing up the stairs and back into her nightmare.

No more screams from the little girl. She beat on the door, calling out her name and rank. Warning the man on the other side of the door, trying to calm him.

“Cunts. You’re all cunts. Come on in, cunt bitch. I’ll kill you.”

The door folded like cardboard under her ramming shoulder. She went in, weapon drawn.

“She was just like her mother—just like her fucking mother. Thought they’d get away from me. Thought they could. I fixed it. I fixed them. I’m going to fix you, cunt cop.”

The little girl was staring at her with big, dead eyes. Doll’s eyes. Her tiny, helpless body mutilated, blood spreading like a pool. And dripping from the knife.

She told him to freeze: “You son of a bitch, drop the weapon. Drop the fucking knife!” But he kept coming. Stunned him. But he kept coming.

The room smelled of blood, of urine, of burned food. The lights were too bright, unshaded and blinding so that everything, everything stood out in jarring relief. A doll with a missing arm on the ripped sofa, a crooked window shield that let in a hard red glow from the neon across the street, the overturned table of cheap molded plastic, the cracked screen of a broken ’link.

The little girl with dead eyes. The spreading pool of blood. And the sharp, sticky gleam of the blade.

“I’m going to ram this right up your cunt. Just like I did to her.”

Stunned again. His eyes were wild, jagged on homemade Zeus, that wonderful chemical that made gods out of men, with all the power and insanity that went with delusions of immortality.

The knife, with the scarlet drenched blade hacked down, whistled.

And she dropped him.

The jolt zipped through his nervous system. His brain died first, so that his body convulsed and shuddered as his eyes turned to glass. Strapping down on the need to scream, she kicked the knife away from his still twitching hand and looked at the child.

The big doll’s eyes stared at her, and told her—again—that she’d been too late.

Forcing her body to relax, she let nothing into her mind but her report.

The VR section was complete. Her vitals were checked again before she was taken to the final testing phase. The one-on-one with the psychiatrist.

Eve didn’t have anything against Dr. Mira. The woman was dedicated to her calling. In private practice, she could have earned triple the salary she pulled in under the Police and Security Department.

She had a quiet voice with the faintest hint of upper class New England. Her pale blue eyes were kind—and sharp. At sixty, she was comfortable with middle age, but far from matronly.

Her hair was a warm honey brown and scooped up in the back in a neat yet complicated twist. She wore a tidy, rose toned suit with a sedate gold circle on the lapel.

No, Eve had nothing against her personally. She just hated shrinks.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Mira rose from a soft blue scoop chair when Eve entered.

There was no desk, no computer in sight. One of the tricks, Eve knew, to make the subjects relax and forget they were under intense observation.

“Doctor.” Eve sat in the chair Mira indicated.

“I was just about to have some tea. You’ll join me?”

“Sure.”

Mira moved gracefully to the server, ordered two teas, then brought the cups to the sitting area. “It’s unfortunate that your testing was postponed, lieutenant.” With a smile, she sat, sipped. “The process is more conclusive and certainly more beneficial when run within twenty-four hours of an incident.”

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“So I’m told. Your preliminary results are satisfactory.”

“Fine.”

“You still refuse autohypnosis?”

“It’s optional.” Hating the defensive sound of her voice.

“Yes, it is.” Mira crossed her legs. “You’ve been through a difficult experience, lieutenant. There are signs of physical and emotional fatigue.”

“I’m on another case, a demanding one. It’s taking a lot of my time.”

“Yes, I have that information. Are you taking the standard sleep inducers?”

Eve tested the tea. It was, as she’d suspected, floral in scent and flavor. “No. We’ve been through that before. Night pills are optional, and I opt no.”

“Because they limit your control.”

Eve met her eyes. “That’s right. I don’t like being put to sleep, and I don’t like being here. I don’t like brain rape.”

“You consider Testing a kind of rape?”

There wasn’t a cop with a brain who didn’t. “It’s not a choice, is it?”

Mira kept her sigh to herself. “The termination of a subject, no matter the circumstances, is a traumatic experience for a police officer. If the trauma effects the emotions, the reactions, the attitude, the officer’s performance will suffer. If the use of full force was caused by a physical defect, that defect must be located and repaired.”

“I know the company line, doctor. I’m cooperating fully. But I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t.” Mira neatly balanced the cup on her knee. “Lieutenant, this is your second termination. Though that is not an unusual amount for an officer with your length of duty, there are many who never need to make that decision. I’d like to know how you feel about the choice you made, and the results.”

I wish I’d been quicker, Eve thought. I wish that child was playing with her toys right now instead of being cremated.

“As my only choice was to let him carve me into pieces, or stop him, I feel just fine about the decision. My warning was issued and ignored. Stunning was ineffective. The evidence that he would, indeed, kill was lying on the floor between us in a puddle of blood. Therefore, I have no problem with the results.”

“You were disturbed by the death of the child?”

“I believe anyone would be disturbed by the death of a child. Certainly that kind of vicious murder of the defenseless.”

“And do you see the parallel between the child and yourself?” Mira asked quietly. She could see Eve draw in and close off. “Lieutenant, we both know I’m fully aware of your background. You were abused, physically, sexually, and emotionally. You were abandoned when you were eight.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“I think it may have a great deal to do with your mental and emotional state,” Mira interrupted. “For two years between the ages of eight and ten, you lived in a communal home while your parents were searched for. You have no memory of the first eight years of your life, your name, your circumstances, your birthplace.”

However mild they were, Mira’s eyes were sharp and searching. “You were given the name Eve Dallas and eventually placed in foster care. You had no control over any of this. You were a battered child, dependent on the system, which in many ways failed you.”

It took every ounce of will for Eve to keep her eyes and her voice level. “As I, part of the system, failed to protect the child. You want to know how I feel about that, Dr. Mira?”

Wretched. Sick. Sorry.

“I feel that I did everything I could do. I went through your VR and did it again. Because there was no changing it. If I could have saved the child, I would have saved her. If I could have arrested the subject, I would have.”

“But these matters were not in your control.”

Sneaky bitch, Eve thought. “It was in my control to terminate. After employing all standard options, I exercised my control. You’ve reviewed the report. It was a clean, justifiable termination.”

Mira said nothing for a moment. Her skills, she knew, had never been able to more than scrape at Eve’s outer wall of defense. “Very well, lieutenant. You’re cleared to resume duty without restriction.” Mira held up a hand before Eve could rise. “Off the record.”

“Is anything?”

Mira only smiled. “It’s true that very often the mind protects itself. Yours refuses to acknowledge the first eight years of your life. But those years are a part of you. I can get them back for you when you’re ready. And Eve,” she added in that quiet voice, “I can help you deal with them.”

“I’ve made myself what I am, and I can live with it. Maybe I don’t want to risk living with the rest.” She got up and walked to the door. When she turned back, Mira was sitting just as she had been, legs crossed, one hand holding the pretty little cup. The scent of brewed flowers lingered in the air.

“A hypothetical case,” Eve began and waited for Mira’s nod.

“A woman, with considerable social and financial advantages, chooses to become a whore.” At Mira’s lifted brow, Eve swore impatiently. “We don’t have to pretty up the terminology here, doctor. She chose to make her living from sex. Flaunted it in front of her well-positioned family, including her arch-conservative grandfather. Why?”

“It’s difficult to come up with one specific motive from such general and sketchy information. The most obvious would be the subject could find her self-worth only in sexual skill. She either enjoyed or detested the act.”

Intrigued, Eve stepped away from the door. “If she detested it, why would she become a pro?”

“To punish.”

“Herself?”

“Certainly, and those close to her.”

To punish, Eve mused. The diary. Blackmail.

“A man kills,” she continued. “Viciously, brutally. The killing is tied to sex, and is executed in a unique and distinctive fashion. He records it, has bypassed a sophisticated security system. A recording of the murder is delivered to the investigating officer. A message is left at the scene, a boastful message. What is he?”

“You don’t give me much,” Mira complained, but Eve could see her attention was caught. “Inventive,” she began. “A planner, and a voyeur. Confident, perhaps smug. You said distinctive, so he wishes to leave his mark, and he wants to show off his skill, his brain. Using your observation and deductive talents, lieutenant, did he enjoy the act of murder?”

“Yes. I think he reveled in it.”

Mira nodded. “Then he will certainly enjoy it again.”

“He already has. Two murders, barely a week apart. He won’t wait long before the next, will he?”

“It’s doubtful.” Mira sipped her tea as if they were discussing the latest spring fashions. “Are the two murders connected in any way other than the perpetrator and the method?”

“Sex,” Eve said shortly.

“Ah.” Mira tilted her head. “With all our technology, with the amazing advances that have been made in genetics, we are still unable to control human virtues and flaws. Perhaps we are too human to permit the tampering. Passions are necessary to the human spirit. We learned that early this century when genetic engineering nearly slipped out of control. It’s unfortunate that some passions twist. Sex and violence. For some it’s still a natural marriage.”

She stood then to take the cups and place them beside the server. “I’d be interested in knowing more about this man, lieutenant. If and when you decide you want a profile, I hope you’ll come to me.”

“It’s Code Five.”

Mira glanced back. “I see.”

“If we don’t tie this up before he hits again, I may be able to swing it.”

“I’ll make myself available.”

“Thanks.”

“Eve, even strong, self-made women have weak spots. Don’t be afraid of them.”

Eve held Mira’s gaze for another moment. “I’ve got work to do.”

Testing left her shaky. Eve compensated by being surly and antagonistic with her snitch and nearly losing a lead on a case involving bootlegged chemicals. Her mood was far from cheerful when she checked back in to Cop Central. There was no message from Feeney.

Others in her department knew just where she’d spent the day and did their best to stay out of her way. As a result, she worked in solitude and annoyance for an hour.

Her last effort was to put through a call to Roarke. She was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed when he wasn’t available. She left a message on his E-mail requesting an appointment, then logged out for the day.

She intended to drown her mood in cheap liquor and mediocre music at Mavis’s latest gig at the Blue Squirrel.

It was a joint, which put it one slippery step up from a dive. The light was dim, the clientele edgy, and the service pitiful. It was exactly what Eve was looking for.

The music struck her in one clashing wave when she walked in. Mavis was managing to lift her appealing screech of a voice over the band, which consisted of one multitattooed kid on a melody master.

Eve snarled off the offer from a guy in a hooded jacket to buy her a drink in one of the private smoking booths. She jockeyed her way to a table, pressed in an order for a screamer, and settled back to watch Mavis perform.

She wasn’t half bad, Eve decided. Not half good either, but the customers weren’t choosy. Mavis was wearing paint tonight, her busty little body a canvas for splatters and streaks of orange and violet, with strategically brushed splotches of emerald. Bracelets and chains jangled as she jittered around the small, raised stage. One step below, a mass of humanity gyrated in sympathy.

Eve watched a small, sealed package pass from hand to hand on the edge of the dance floor. Drugs, of course. They’d tried a war on them, legalizing them, ignoring them, and regulating them. Nothing seemed to work.

She couldn’t raise the interest to make a bust and lifted a hand in a wave to Mavis instead.

The vocal part of the song ended—such as it was. Mavis leaped offstage, wiggled through the crowd, and plopped a painted hip on the edge of Eve’s table.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Looking good, Mavis. Who’s the artist?”

“Oh, this guy I know.” She shifted, tapped an inch-long fingernail on the left cheek of her butt. “Caruso. See, he signed me. Got the job free for passing his name around.” Her eyes rounded when the waitress set the long, slim glass filled with frothy blue liquid in front of Eve. “A screamer? Wouldn’t you rather I find a hammer and just knock you unconscious?”

“It’s been a shitty day,” Eve muttered and took the first shocking sip. “Jesus. These never get any better.”

Worried, Mavis leaned closer. “I can cut out for a little while.”

“No, I’m okay.” Eve risked her life with another sip. “I just wanted to check out your gig, let off some steam. Mavis, you’re not using, are you?”

“Hey, come on.” More concerned than insulted, Mavis shook Eve’s shoulder. “I’m clean, you know that. Some shit gets passed around in here, but it’s all minor league. Some happy pills, some calmers, a few mood patches.” She pokered up. “If you’re looking to make a bust, you could at least do it on my night off.”

“Sorry.” Annoyed with herself, Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m not fit for human consumption at the moment. Go back and sing. I like hearing you.”

“Sure. But if you want company when you split, just give me a sign. I can fix it.”

“Thanks.” Eve sat back, closed her eyes. It was a surprise when the music slowed, even mellowed. If you didn’t look around, it wasn’t so bad.

For twenty credits she could have hooked on mood enhancer goggles, treated herself to lights and shapes that fit the music. At the moment, she preferred the dark behind her eyes.

“This doesn’t seem quite your den of iniquity, lieutenant.”

Eve opened her eyes and stared up at Roarke. “Every time I turn around.”

He sat across from her. The table was small enough that their knees bumped. His way of adjusting was to slide his thighs against hers. “You called me, remember, and you’d left this address when you logged out.”

“I wanted an appointment, not a drinking buddy.”

He glanced at the drink on the table, leaned over to take a sniff. “You’re not going to get one with that poison.”

“This joint doesn’t run to fine wine and aged scotch.”

He laid a hand over hers for the simple purpose of watching her scowl and jerk away. “Why don’t we go somewhere that does?”

“I’m in a pisser of a mood. Roarke. Give me an appointment, at your convenience, then take off.”

“An appointment for what?” The singer caught his attention. He cocked a brow, watching her roll her eyes and gesture. “Unless she’s having some sort of seizure, I believe the vocalist is signaling you.”

Resigned, Eve glanced over, shook her head. “She’s a friend of mine.” She shook her head more emphatically when Mavis grinned and turned both thumbs up. “She thinks I got lucky.”

“You did.” Roarke picked the drink up and set it on an adjoining table where greedy hands fought over it. “I just saved your life.”

“Goddamn it—”

“If you want to get drunk, Eve, at least do it with something that will leave you most of your stomach lining.” He scanned the menu, winced. “Which means nothing that can be purchased here.” He took her hand as he rose. “Come on.”

“I’m fine right here.”

All patience, he bent down until his face was close to hers. “What you are is hoping to get drunk enough so that you can take a few punches at someone without worrying about the consequences. With me, you don’t have to get drunk, you don’t have to worry. You can take all the punches you want.”

“Why?”

“Because you have something sad in your eyes. And it gets to me.” While she was dealing with the surprise of that statement, he hauled her to her feet and toward the door.

“I’m going home,” she decided.

“No, you’re not.”

“Listen, pal—”

That was as far as she got before her back was shoved against the wall and his mouth crushed hard on hers. She didn’t fight. The wind had been knocked out of her by the suddenness, and the rage under it, and the shock of need that slammed into her like a fist.

It was quick, seconds only, before her mouth was free. “Stop it,” she demanded, and hated that her voice was only a shaky whisper.

“Whatever you think,” he began, struggling for his own composure, “there are times when you need someone. Right now, it’s me.” Impatience shimmering around him, he pulled her outside. “Where’s your car?”

She gestured down the block and let him propel her down the sidewalk. “I don’t know what your problem is.”

“It seems to be you. Do you know how you looked?” he demanded as he yanked open the car door. “Sitting in that place with your eyes closed, shadows under them?” Picturing it again only fired his anger. He shoved her into the passenger seat and rounded the car to take the driver’s position himself. “What’s your fucking code?”

Fascinated with the whiplash temper, she shifted to key it in herself. With the lock released, he pressed the starter and pulled away from the curb.

“I was trying to relax,” Eve said carefully.

“You don’t know how,” he shot back. “You’ve packed it in, but you haven’t gotten rid of it. You’re walking a real straight line, Eve, but it’s a damn thin one.”

“That’s what I’m trained to do.”

“You don’t know what you’re up against this time.”

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. “And you do.”

He was silent for a moment, banking his own emotions. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“I like now better. I went to see Elizabeth Barrister yesterday.”

“I know.” Calmer, he adjusted to the jerky rhythm of her car. “You’re cold. Turn up the heater.”

“It’s busted. Why didn’t you tell me that she’d asked you to meet Sharon, to talk to her?”

“Because Beth asked me in confidence.”

“What’s your relationship with Elizabeth Barrister?”

“We’re friends.” Roarke slanted her a look. “I have a few. She and Richard are among them.”

“And the senator?”

“I hate his fucking, pompous, hypocritical guts,” Roarke said calmly. “If he gets his party’s nomination for president, I’ll put everything I’ve got into his opponent’s campaign. If it’s the devil himself.”

“You should learn to speak your mind, Roarke,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “Did you know that Sharon kept a diary?”

“It’s a natural assumption. She was a businesswoman.”

“I’m not talking about a log, business records. A diary, a personal diary. Secrets, Roarke. Blackmail.”

He said nothing as he turned the idea over. “Well, well. You found your motive.”

“That remains to be seen. You have a lot of secrets, Roarke.”

He let out a half laugh as he stopped at the gates of his estate. “Do you really think I’d be a victim of blackmail, Eve? That some lost, pitiful woman like Sharon could unearth information you can’t and use it against me?”

“No.” That was simple. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not going inside with you.” That was not.

“If I were bringing you here for sex, we’d have sex. We both know it. You wanted to see me. You want to shoot the kind of weapon that was used to kill Sharon and the other, don’t you?”

She let out a short breath. “Yes.”

“Now’s your chance.”

The gates opened. He drove through.

chapter ten

The same stone-faced butler stood guard at the door. He took Eve’s coat with the same faint disapproval.

“Send coffee down to the target room, please,” Roarke ordered as he led Eve up the stairs.

He was holding her hand again, but Eve decided it was less a sentimental gesture than one to make sure she didn’t balk. She could have told him she was much too intrigued to go anywhere, but found she enjoyed that ripple of annoyance under his smooth manner.

When they’d reached the third floor, he went through his collection briskly, choosing weapons without fuss or hesitation. He handled the antiques with the competence of experience and, she thought, habitual use.

Not a man who simply bought to own, but one who made use of his possessions. She wondered if he knew that counted against him. Or if he cared.

Once his choices were secured in a leather case, he moved to a wall.

Both the security console and the door itself were so cleverly hidden in a painting of a forest, she would never have found it. The trompe l’oeil slid open to an elevator.

“This car only opens to a select number of rooms,” he explained as Eve stepped into the elevator with him. “I rarely take guests down to the target area.”

“Why?”

“My collection, and the use of it, are reserved for those who can appreciate it.”

“How much do you buy through the black market?”

“Always a cop.” He flashed that grin at her, and she was sure, tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I buy only through legal sources, naturally.” His eyes skimmed down to her shoulder bag. “As long as you’ve got your recorder on.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. Of course she had her recorder on. And of course he knew it. It was a measure of her interest that she opened the bag, took out her recorder, and manually disengaged.

“And your backup?” he said smoothly.

“You’re too smart for your own good.” Willing to take the chance, she slipped a hand into her pocket. The backup unit was nearly paper thin. She used a thumbnail to deactivate it. “What about yours?” She glanced around the elevator as the doors opened. “You’d have video and audio security in every corner of this place.”

“Of course.” He took her hand again and drew her out of the car.

The room was high ceilinged, surprisingly spartan given Roarke’s love of comfort. The lights switched on the moment they stepped in, illuminating plain, sand colored walls, a bank of simple high-backed chairs, and tables where a tray holding a silver coffeepot and china cups had already been set.

Ignoring them, Eve walked over to a long, glossy black console. “What does it do?”

“A number of things.” Roarke set the case he carried down on a flat area. He pressed his palm to an identiscreen. There was a soft green glow beneath it as his print was read and accepted, then lights and dials glowed on.

“I keep a supply of ammunition here.” He pressed a series of buttons. A cabinet in the base of the console slid open. “You’ll want these.” From a second cabinet, he took earplugs and safety glasses.

“This is, what, like a hobby?” Eve asked as she adjusted the glasses. The small, clear lenses cupped her eyes, the attached earplugs fit snugly.

“Yes. Like a hobby.”

His voice came with a faint echo through her ear protectors, linking them, closing out the rest. He chose the .38, loaded it.

“This was standard police issue in the mid-twentieth century. Toward the second millennium, nine millimeters were preferred.”

“The RS-fifties were the official weapon of choice during the Urban Revolt and into the third decade of the twenty-first century.”

He lifted a brow, pleased. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Damn right.” She glanced at the weapon in his hand. “Into the mind of a killer.”

“Then you’d be aware that the hand laser you have strapped to your side didn’t gain popular acceptance until about twenty-five years ago.”

She watched with a slight frown as he slapped the cylinder shut. “The NS laser, with modifications, has been standard police issue since 2023. I didn’t notice any lasers in your collection.”

His eyes met hers, and there was a laugh in them. “Cop toys only. They’re illegal, lieutenant, even for collectors.” He pressed a button. Against the far wall a hologram flashed, so lifelike that Eve blinked and braced before she caught herself.

“Excellent image,” she murmured, studying the big, bull-shouldered man holding a weapon she couldn’t quite identify.

“He’s a replica of a typical twentieth-century thug. That’s an AK-forty-seven he’s holding.”

“Right.” She narrowed her eyes at it. It was more dramatic than in the photos and videos she’d studied. “Very popular with urban gangs and drug dealers of the era.”

“An assault weapon,” Roarke murmured. “Fashioned to kill. Once I activate, if he hits target, you’d feel a slight jolt. Low level electrical shock, rather than the much more dramatic insult of a bullet. Want to try it?”

“You go first.”

“Fine.” Roarke activated. The hologram lunged forward, swinging up his weapon. The sound effects kicked in instantly.

The thunder of noise had Eve jerking back a step. Snarled obscenities, street sounds, the terrifyingly rapid explosion of gunfire.

She watched, slack jawed, as the image spurted what looked entirely too much like blood. The wide chest seemed to erupt with it as the man flew back. The weapon spiraled out of his hand. Then both vanished.

“Jesus.”

A little surprised that he’d been showing off, like a kid at an arcade, Roarke lowered his weapon. “It hardly makes the point of what something like this can do to flesh and bone if the image isn’t realistic.”

“Guess not.” She had to swallow. “Did he hit you?”

“Not that time. Of course, one on one, and when you can fully anticipate your opponent, doesn’t make it very difficult to win your round.”

Roarke pushed more buttons, and the dead gunman was back, whole and ready to rock. Roarke took his stance with the ease and automation, Eve thought, of a veteran cop. Or, to borrow his word, a thug.

Abruptly, the image lunged, and as Roarke fired, other holograms appeared in rapid succession. A man with some sort of wicked looking handgun, a snarling woman aiming a long barreled weapon—a .44 Magnum, Eve decided—a small, terrified child carrying a ball.

They flashed and fired, cursed, screamed, bled. When it was over, the child was sitting on the ground weeping, all alone.

“A random choice like that’s more difficult,” Roarke told her. “Caught my shoulder.”

“What?” Eve blinked, focused on him again. “Your shoulder.”

He grinned at her. “Don’t worry, darling. It’s just a flesh wound.”

Her heart was thudding in her ears, no matter how ridiculous she told herself was her reaction. “Hell of a toy, Roarke. Real fun and games time. Do you play often?”

“Now and again. Ready to try it?”

If she could handle a session with VR, Eve decided, she could handle this. “Yeah, run another random pattern.”

“That’s what I admire about you, lieutenant.” Roarke selected ammo, loaded fresh. “You jump right in. Let’s try a dry run first.”

He brought up a simple target, circles and a bull’s-eye. He stepped behind her, putting the .38 in her hands, his over them. He pressed his cheek to hers. “You have to sight it, as it doesn’t sense heat and movement as your weapon does.” He adjusted her arms until he was satisfied. “When you’re ready to fire, you want to squeeze the trigger, not pump it. It’s going to jerk a bit. It’s not as smooth or as silent as your laser.”

“I’ve got that,” she muttered. It was foolish to be susceptible to his hands over hers, the press of his body, the smell of him. “You’re crowding me.”

He turned his head, just enough to have his lips brushing up to her earlobe. It was innocently unpierced, rather sweet, like a child’s.

“I know. You need to brace yourself more than you’re used to. Your reaction will be to flinch. Don’t.”

“I don’t flinch.” To prove it, she squeezed the trigger. Her arms jerked, annoying her. She shot again, and a third time, missing the heart of the target by less than an inch. “Christ, you feel it, don’t you?” She rolled her shoulders, fascinated by the way they sang in response to the weapon in her hands.

“It makes it more personal. You’ve got a good eye.” He was impressed, but his tone was mild. “Of course, it’s one thing to shoot at a circle, another to shoot at a body. Even a reproduction.”

A challenge? she noted. Well, she was up for it. “How many more shots in this?”

“We’ll reload it full.” He programmed in a series. Curiosity and, he had to admit, ego had him choosing a tough one. “Ready?”

She flicked a glance at him, adjusted her stance. “Yeah.”

The first image was an elderly woman clutching a shopping bag with both hands. Eve nearly took the bystander’s head off before her finger froze. A movement flickered to the left, and she shot a mugger before he could bring an iron pipe down on the old woman. A slight sting in her left hip had her shifting again, and taking out a bald man with a weapon similar to her own.

They came fast and hard after that.

Roarke watched her, mesmerized. No, she didn’t flinch, he mused. Her eyes stayed flat and cool. Cop’s eyes. He knew her adrenaline was up, her pulse hammering. Her movements were quick but as smooth and studied as a dance. Her jaw was set, her hands steady.

And he wanted her, he realized as his gut churned. Quite desperately he wanted her.

“Caught me twice,” she said almost to herself. She opened the chamber herself, reloaded as she’d seen Roarke do. “Once in the hip, once in the abdomen. That makes me dead or in dire straits. Run another.”

He obliged her, then tucked his hands in his pockets and watched her work.

When she was done, she asked to try the Swiss model. She found she preferred the weight and the response of it. Definitely an advantage over a revolver, she reflected. Quicker, more responsive, better fire power, and a reload took seconds.

Neither weapon fit as comfortably in her hand as her laser, yet she found both primitively and horribly efficient.

And the damage they caused, the torn flesh, the flying blood, turned death into a gruesome affair.

“Any hits?” Roarke asked.

Though the images were gone, she stared at the wall, and the afterimages that played in her mind. “No. I’m clean. What they do to a body,” she said softly, and put the weapon down. “To have used these—to have faced having to use them day after day, and know going in they could be used against you. Who could face that,” she wondered, “without going a little insane?”

“You could.” He removed his eye and ear protectors. “Conscience and dedication to duty don’t have to equal any kind of weakness. You got through Testing. It cost you, but you got through it.”

Carefully, she set her protectors beside his. “How do you know?”

“How do I know you were in Testing today? I have contacts. How do I know it cost you?” He cupped her chin. “I can see it,” he said softly. “Your heart wars with your head. I don’t think you realize that’s what makes you so good at your job. Or so fascinating to me.”

“I’m not trying to fascinate you. I’m trying to find a man who used those weapons I just fired; not for defense, but for pleasure.” She looked straight into his eyes. “It isn’t you.”

“No, it isn’t me.”

“But you know something.”

He brushed the pad of his thumb over, into the dip in her chin before dropping his hand. “I’m not at all sure that I do.” He crossed over to the table, poured coffee. “Twentieth-century weapons, twentieth-century crimes, with twentieth-century motives?” He flicked a glance at her. “That would be my take.”

“It’s a simple enough deduction.”

“But tell me, lieutenant, can you play deductive games in history, or are you too firmly entrenched in the now?”

She’d wondered the same herself, and she was learning. “I’m flexible.”

“No, but you’re smart. Whoever killed Sharon had a knowledge, even an affection, perhaps an obsession with the past.” His brow lifted mockingly. “I do have a knowledge of certain pieces of the past, and undoubtedly an affection for them. Obsession?” He lifted a careless shoulder. “You’d have to judge for yourself.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. Let’s take a page out of old-fashioned deductive reasoning, no computers, no technical analysis. Study the victim first. You believe Sharon was a blackmailer. And it fits. She was an angry woman, a defiant one who needed power. And wanted to be loved.”

“You figured all that out after seeing her twice?”

“From that.” He offered the coffee to her. “And from talking to people who knew her. Friends and associates found her a stunning, energetic woman, yet a secretive one. A woman who dismissed her family, yet thought of them often. One who loved to live, yet one who brooded regularly. I imagine we’ve covered much of the same ground.”

Irritation jumped in. “I wasn’t aware you were covering any ground, Roarke, in a police investigation.”

“Beth and Richard are my friends. I take my friendships seriously. They’re grieving, Eve. And I don’t like knowing Beth is blaming herself.”

She remembered the haunted eyes and nerves. She sighed. “All right, I can accept that. Who have you talked to?”

“Friends, as I said, acquaintances, business associates.” He set his coffee aside as Eve sipped hers and paced. “Odd, isn’t it, how many different opinions and perceptions you find on one woman. Ask this one, and you’ll hear Sharon was loyal, generous. Ask another and she was vindictive, calculating. Still another saw her as a party addict who could never find enough excitement, while the next tells you she enjoyed quiet evenings on her own. Quite a role player, our Sharon.”

“She wore different faces for different people. It’s common enough.”

“Which face, or which role, killed her?” Roarke took out a cigarette, lighted it. “Blackmail.” Thoughtfully he blew out a fragrant stream of smoke. “She would have been good at it. She liked to dig into people and could dispense considerable charm while doing it.”

“And she dispensed it on you.”

“Lavishly.” That careless smile flashed again. “I wasn’t prepared to exchange information for sex. Even if she hadn’t been my friend’s daughter and a professional, she wouldn’t have appealed to me in that way. I prefer a different type.” His eyes rested on Eve’s again, broodingly. “Or thought I did. I haven’t yet figured out why the intense, driven, and prickly type appeals to me so unexpectedly.”

She poured more coffee, looked at him over the rim. “That isn’t flattering.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Though for someone who must have a very poor-sighted hairdresser and doesn’t choose the standard enhancements, you are surprisingly easy to look at.”

“I don’t have a hairdresser, or time for enhancements.” Or, she decided, the inclination to discuss them. “To continue the deduction. If Sharon DeBlass was murdered by one of her blackmail victims, where does Lola Starr come in?”

“A problem, isn’t it?” Roarke took a contemplative drag. “They don’t appear to have anything in common other than their choice of profession. It’s doubtful they knew each other or shared the same taste in clients. Yet there was one who, at least briefly, knew them both.”

“One who chose them both.”

Roarke lifted a brow, nodded. “You put it better.”

“What did you mean when you said I didn’t know what I was getting into?”

His hesitation was so brief, so smoothly covered, it was barely noticeable. “I’m not sure if you understand the power DeBlass has or can use. The scandal of his granddaughter’s murder could add to it. He wants the presidency, and he wants to dictate the mood and moral choices of the country and beyond.”

“You’re saying he could use Sharon’s death politically? How?”

Roarke stubbed his cigarette out. “He could paint his granddaughter as a victim of society, with sex for profit as the murder weapon. How can a world that allows legalized prostitution, full conception control, sexual adjustment, and so forth not take responsibility for the results?”

Eve could appreciate the debate, but shook her head. “DeBlass also wants to eliminate the gun ban. She was shot by a weapon not really available under current law.”

“Which makes it more insidious. Would she have been able to defend herself if she, too, had been armed?” When Eve started to disagree, he shook his head. “It hardly matters what the answer is, only the question itself. Have we forgotten our founders and the basic tenets of their blueprint for the country? Our right to bear arms. A woman murdered in her own home, her own bed, a victim of sexual freedom and defenselessness. More, yes, much more, of moral decline.”

He strolled over to disengage the console. “Oh, you’ll argue that murder by handgun was the rule rather than the exception when anyone with the desire and the finances could purchase one, but he’ll drown that out. The Conservative Party is gaining ground, and he’s the spearhead.”

He watched her assimilate as she poured yet more coffee. “Has it occurred to you that he might not want the murderer caught?”

Off guard, she looked up. “Why wouldn’t he? Over and above the personal, wouldn’t that give him even more ammunition? ‘Here’s the low-life, immoral scum that murdered my poor, misguided granddaughter.’ ”

“That’s a risk, isn’t it? Perhaps the murderer is a fine, upstanding pillar of his community who was equally misguided. But a scapegoat is certainly required.”

He waited a moment, watching her think it through. “Who do you think made certain you went to Testing in the middle of this case? Who’s watching every step you take, monitoring every stage of your investigation? Who’d digging into your background, your personal life as well as your professional one?”

Shaken, she set her cup down. “I suspect DeBlass put the pressure on about Testing. He doesn’t trust me, or he hasn’t decided I’m competent to head the investigation. And he had Feeney and me followed from East Washington.” She let out a long breath. “How do you know he’s digging on me? Because you are?”

He didn’t mind the anger in her eyes, or the accusation. He preferred it to the worry another might have shown. “No, because I’m watching him while he’s watching you. I decided I’d find it more satisfying to learn about you from the source, over time, than by reading reports.”

He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers over her choppy hair. “I respect the privacy of the people I care about. And I care about you, Eve. I don’t know why, precisely, but you pull something from me.”

When she started to step back, he tightened his fingers. “I’m tired of every time I have a moment with you, you put murder between us.”

“There is murder between us.”

“No. If anything, that’s what brought us here. Is that the problem? You can’t shed Lieutenant Dallas long enough to feel?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Then that’s who I want.” His eyes had darkened with impatient desire. The frustration he felt was only with himself, for being so impossibly driven he might, at any moment, beg. “Lieutenant Dallas wouldn’t be afraid of me, even if Eve might.”

The coffee had wired her. That’s what had her system so jittery with nerves. “I’m not afraid of you, Roarke.”

“Aren’t you?” He moved closer, curling his hands on the lapels of her shirt. “What do you think will happen if you step over the line?”

“Too much,” she murmured. “Not enough. Sex isn’t high on my priority list. It’s distracting.”

The temper in his eyes lighted to a laugh. “Damn right it is. When it’s done well. Isn’t it time you let me show you?”

She gripped his arms, not sure if she intended to move in or away. “It’s a mistake.”

“So we’ll have to make it count,” he muttered before his mouth captured hers.

She moved in.

Her arms went around him, fingers diving into his hair. Her body slammed into his, vibrating as the kiss grew rough, then nearly brutal. His mouth was hot, almost vicious. The shock of it sent flares of reaction straight to her center.

Already, his fast, impatient hands were tugging her shirt from her jeans, finding her skin. In response, she dragged at his, desperate to get through silk and to flesh.

He had a vision of himself dragging her to the floor, pounding himself into her until her screams echoed like gunshots, and his release erupted like blood. It would be quick, and fierce. And over.

With the breath shuddering in his lungs, he jerked back. Her face was flushed, her mouth already swollen. He’d torn her shirt at the shoulder.

A room filled with violence, the smell of gunsmoke still stinking the air, and weapons still within reach.

“Not here.” He half carried, half dragged her to the elevator. By the time the doors opened, he’d ripped aside the torn sleeve. He shoved her against the back wall as the doors closed them in, and fumbled with her holster. “Take this damn thing off. Take it off.”

She hit the release and let the holster dangle from one hand as she fought open his buttons with the other. “Why do you wear so many clothes?”

“I won’t next time.” He ripped the tattered shirt aside. Beneath she wore a thin, nearly transparent undershirt that revealed small, firm breasts and hardened nipples. He closed his hands over them, watched her eyes glaze. “Where do you like to be touched?”

“You’re doing fine.” She had to brace a hand on the side wall to keep from buckling.

When the doors opened again, they were fused together. They circled out with his teeth nipping and scraping along her throat. She let her bag and her holster drop.

She got a glimpse of the room: wide windows, mirrors, muted colors. She could smell flowers and felt the give of carpet under her feet. As she struggled to release his slacks, she caught sight of the bed.

“Holy God.”

It was huge, a lake of midnight blue cupped between high carved wood. It stood on a platform beneath a domed sky window. Across from it was a fireplace of pale green stone where fragrant wood sizzled.

“You sleep here?”

“I don’t intend to sleep tonight.”

He interrupted her gawking by pulling her up the two stairs to the platform and tumbling her onto the bed.

“I have to check in by oh seven hundred.”

“Shut up, lieutenant.”

“Okay.”

With a half laugh, she rolled on top of him and fastened her mouth to his. Wild, reckless energy was bursting inside her. She couldn’t move quickly enough, her hands weren’t fast enough to satisfy the craving.

She fought off her boots, let him peel the jeans over her hips. A wave of pleasure rippled through her when she heard him groan. It had been a long time since she’d felt the tension and heat of a man’s body—a very long time since she’d wanted to.

The need for release was driving and fierce. The moment they were naked, she would have straddled him and satisfied it. But he flipped their positions, muffled her edgy protests with a long, rough kiss.

“What’s your hurry?” he murmured, sliding a hand down to take her breast and watching her face while his thumb quietly tortured her nipple. “I haven’t even looked at you.”

“I want you.”

“I know.” He levered back, running a hand from her shoulder to her thigh while his gaze followed the movement. The blood was pounding in his loins. “Long, slim . . .” His hand squeezed lightly on her breast. “Small. Very nearly delicate. Who would have guessed?”

“I want you inside me.”

“You only want one aspect inside you,” he murmured.

“Goddamn it,” she began, then groaned when he dipped his head and took her breast into his mouth.

She writhed against him, against herself as he suckled, so gently at first it was torture, then harder, faster until she had to bite back a scream. His hands continued to skim over her, kindling exotic little fires of need.

It wasn’t what she was used to. Sex, when she chose to have it, was quick, simple, and satisfied a basic need. But this was tangling emotions, a war on the system, a battering of the senses.

She struggled to get a hand between them, to reach him where he lay hard and heavy against her. Pure panic set in when he braceleted her wrists and levered her hands over her head.

“Don’t.”

He’d nearly released her in reflex before he saw her eyes. Panic yes, even fear, but desire, too. “You can’t always be in control, Eve.” As he spoke he ran his free hand over her thigh. She trembled, and her eyes unfocused when his fingers brushed the back of her knee.

“Don’t,” she said again, fighting for air.

“Don’t what? Find a weakness, exploit it?” Experimentally, he caressed that sensitive skin, tracing his fingers up toward the heat, then back again. Her breath was coming in pants now as she fought to roll away from him.

“Too late, it seems,” he murmured. “You want the kick without the intimacy?” He began a trail of slow, open-mouthed kisses at the base of her throat, working his way down while her body shivered like a plucked wire beneath his. “You don’t need a partner for that. And you have one tonight. I intend to give as much pleasure as I get.”

“I can’t.” She strained against him, bucked, but each frantic movement brought only a new and devastating sensation.

“Let go.” He was mad to have her. But her struggle to hold back both challenged and infuriated.

“I can’t.”

“I’m going to make you let go, and I’m going to watch it happen.” He slid back up her, feeling every tremble and quake, until his face was close to hers again. He pressed his palm firmly on the mound between her thighs.

Her breath hissed out. “You bastard. I can’t.”

“Liar,” he said quietly, then slid a finger down, over her, into her. His groan melded with hers as he found her tight, hot, wet. Clinging to control, he focused on her face, the change from panic to shock, from shock to glazed helplessness.

She felt herself slipping, battled back, but the pull was too strong. Someone screamed as she fell, then her body imploded. One moment the tension was vicious, then the spear of pleasure arrowed into her, so sharp, so hot. Dazed, disoriented, she went limp.

He went mad.

He dragged her up so that she was kneeling, her head heavy on his shoulder. “Again,” he demanded, dragging her head back by the hair and plundering her mouth. “Again, goddamn it.”

“Yes.” It was building so quickly. The need like teeth grinding inside her. Free, her hands raced over him, and her body arched fluidly back so that his lips could taste where and how they liked.

Her next climax ripped through him like claws. With something like a snarl, he shoved her onto her back, levered her hips high, and drove himself inside her. She closed around him, a hot, greedy fist.

Her nails scraped at his back, her hips pistoned as he plunged. When her hands slid weakly from his sweat-slicked shoulders, he emptied himself into her.

chapter eleven

She didn’t speak for a long time. There really wasn’t anything to say. She had taken an inappropriate step with her eyes wide open. If there were consequences, she would pay them.

Now, she needed to gather whatever dignity she could scrape together and get out.

“I have to go.” With her face averted, she sat up and wondered how she was going to find her clothes.

“I don’t think so.” Roarke’s voice was lazy, confident, and infuriating. Even as she started to get off the bed, he snagged her arm, overbalanced her, and had her on her back again.

“Look, fun’s fun.”

“It certainly is. I don’t know as I’d qualify what just happened here as fun. I say it was too intense for that. I haven’t finished with you, lieutenant.” When her eyes narrowed, he grinned. “Good, that’s what I wanted to—”

He lost his breath and with it the words when her elbow shot into his stomach. In the blink of an eye, she’d reversed their positions. That well-aimed elbow was now pressing dangerously on his windpipe.

“Listen, pal, I come and go as I please, so check your ego.”

Like a white flag, he lifted his palms out for peace. Her elbow lifted a half inch before he shifted and sprang.

She was tough, strong, and smart. That was only one more reason why, after a sweaty struggle, she was infuriated to find herself under him again.

“Assaulting an officer will earn you one to five, Roarke. That’s in a cage, not cushy home detention.”

“You’re not wearing your badge. Or anything else, for that matter.” He gave her a friendly nip on the chin. “Be sure to put that in your report.”

So much for dignity, she decided. “I don’t want to fight with you.” It pleased her that her voice was calm, even reasonable. “I just have to go.”

He shifted, watched as her eyes widened, then fluttered half closed when he slipped inside her again. “No, don’t shut your eyes.” His voice was whisper rough.

So she watched him, incapable of resisting the fresh onslaught of pleasure. He kept the rhythm slow now, with long, deep strokes that stirred the soul.

Her breath quickened, thickened. All she could see was his face, all she could feel was that lovely, fluid slide of his body in hers, the tireless friction of it that had an orgasm shivering through her like gold.

His fingers linked with hers, and his lips curved on hers. She felt his body tighten an instant before he buried his face in her hair. They lay quiet, bodies meshed but still. He turned his head, pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Please.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes now. “All right, yes.”

They didn’t sleep. It wasn’t fatigue so much as bafflement that assaulted Eve when she stepped into Roarke’s shower in the early hours of the morning.

She didn’t spend nights with men. Always she’d been careful to keep sex simple, straightforward and, yes, impersonal. Yet here she was, the morning after, letting herself be pummeled by the hot pulse of his shower sprays. For hours, she’d let herself be pummeled by him. He’d assaulted then invaded parts of her she’d thought impregnable.

She was trying to regret it. It seemed important that she realize and recognize her mistake, and move on. But it was difficult to regret anything that made her body feel so alive and kept the dreams at bay.

“You look good wet, lieutenant.”

Eve turned her head as Roarke stepped through the criss crossing sprays. “I’m going to need to borrow a shirt.”

“We’ll find you one.” He pressed a knob on the tiled walls, cupped his hand under a fount to catch a puddle of clear, creamy liquid.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair,” he murmured and proceeded to stroke and massage the shampoo into her short, sopping cap of hair. “I’m going to enjoy smelling my soap on you.” His lips curved. “You’re a fascinating woman, Eve. Here we are, wet, naked, both of us half dead from a very memorable night, and still you watch me with very cool, very suspicious eyes.”

“You’re a suspicious character, Roarke.”

“I think that’s a compliment.” He bent his head to bite her lip, as the steam rose and the spray began to pulse like a heartbeat. “Tell me what you meant, the first time I made love to you, when you said, ‘I can’t.’ ”

He angled her head back, and Eve closed her eyes in defense as water chased the shampoo away. “I don’t remember everything I said.”

“You remember.” From another fount, he drew pale green soap that smelled of wild forests. Watching her, he slicked it over her shoulders, down her back, then around and up to her breasts. “Hadn’t you had an orgasm before?”

“Of course I have.” True, she’d always equated them with the subtle pop of a cork from a bottle of stress, not the violent explosion that destroyed a lifetime of restraint. “You’re flattering yourself, Roarke.”

“Am I?” Didn’t she know that those cool eyes, that wall of resistance she was scrambling to rebuild was an irresistible challenge? Obviously not, he mused. He tugged lightly at her soap-slicked nipples, smiling when she sucked in a breath. “I’m about to flatter myself again.”

“I haven’t got time for this,” she said quickly, and found her back pressed against the tile wall. “It was a mistake in the first place. I have to go.”

“It won’t take long.” He felt a hard slap of lust when he cupped her hips, lifted her. “It wasn’t a mistake then, or now. And I have to have you.”

His breath was coming faster. It stunned him how much he could want her still, baffled him that she could be blind to how helpless he was under the clawing need for her. It infuriated him that she could, simply by existing, be his weakness.

“Hold onto me,” he demanded, his voice harsh, edgy. “Goddamn it, hold onto me.”

She already was. He pierced her, pinned her to the wall with an erection that filled her to bursting. Her frantic, helpless mewing echoed off the walls. She wanted to hate him for that, for making her a victim of her own rampant passions. But she held onto him, and let herself spin dizzily out of control.

He climaxed violently, slapped a hand on the wall, his arm rigid to maintain balance as her legs slid slowly off his hips. Suddenly he was angry, furious that she could strip away his finesse until he was no more than a beast rutting.

“I’ll get you a shirt,” he said briskly, then stepped out, flicking a towel from a rack, and leaving her alone in the billowing steam.

By the time she was dressed, frowning over the feel of raw silk against her skin, there was a tray of coffee waiting in the sitting area of the bedroom.

The morning news chattered quietly on the view screen, the curiosity corner at the lower left running fields of figures. The stock exchange. The monitor on a console was open to a newspaper. Not the Times or one of the New York tabs, Eve noted. It looked like Japanese.

“Do you have time for breakfast?” Roarke sat, sipping his coffee. He wasn’t able to give his full attention to the morning data. He’d enjoyed watching her dress: the way her hands had hesitated over his shirt before she’d shrugged into it, how her fingers had run quickly up the buttons, the quick wriggle of hip as she’d tugged on jeans.

“No, thanks.” She wasn’t sure of her moves now. He’d fucked her blind in the shower, then had withdrawn to play well-mannered host. She strapped into her holster before crossing to accept the coffee he’d already poured her.

“You know, lieutenant, you wear your weapon the way other women wear pearls.”

“It’s not a fashion accessory.”

“You misunderstand. To some, jewelry is as vital as limbs.” He tilted his head, studying her. “The shirt’s a bit large, but it suits you.”

Eve thought anything she could wear on her back that cost close to a week’s pay couldn’t suit her. “I’ll get it back to you.”

“I have several others.” He rose, unnerving her again by tracing a fingertip over her jaw. “I was rough before. I’m sorry.”

The apology, so quiet and unexpected, embarrassed her. “Forget it.” She shifted away, drained her cup, set it aside.

“I won’t forget it; neither will you.” He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. Nothing could have pleased him more than the quick suspicion on her face. “You won’t forget me, Eve. You’ll think of me, perhaps not fondly, but you’ll think of me.”

“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. You’re part of it. Sure, I’ll think of you.”

“Darling,” he began, and watched with amusement as his use of the endearment knitted her brow. “You’ll be thinking of what I can do to you. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do more than imagine it myself for a few days.”

She tugged her hand free and reached, casually she hoped, for her bag. “Going somewhere?”

“The preliminary work on the resort requires my attention, and my presence on FreeStar One for a number of meetings with the directorship. I’ll be tied up, a few hundred thousand miles away, for a day or two.”

An emotion moved through her she wasn’t ready to admit was disappointment. “Yeah, I heard you wrapped the deal on that major indulgence for the bored rich.”

He only smiled. “When the resort’s complete, I’ll take you there. You may form another opinion. In the meantime, I have to ask you for your discretion. The meetings are confidential. There’s still a loose end or two to tie up, and it wouldn’t do for my competitors to know we’re getting under way so quickly. Only a few key people will know I’m not here in New York.”

She finger combed her hair. “Why did you tell me?”

“Apparently, I’ve decided you’re a key.” As disconcerted by that as she, Roarke led the way to the door. “If you need to contact me, tell Summerset. He’ll put you through.”

“The butler?”

Roarke smiled as they descended the stairs. “He’ll see to it,” was all he said. “I should be gone about five days, a week at the most. I want to see you again.” He stopped, took her face in his hands. “I need to see you again.”

Her pulse jumped, as if it had nothing to do with the rest of her. “Roarke, what’s going on here?”

“Lieutenant.” He leaned forward, touched his lips to hers. “Indications are we’re having a romance.” Then he laughed, kissed her again, hard and quick. “I believe I could have held a gun to your head and you wouldn’t have looked as terrified. Well, you’ll have several days to think it through, won’t you?”

She had a feeling several years wouldn’t be enough.

There, at the base of the stairs, was Summerset, stone-faced, stiff-necked, holding her jacket. She took it and glanced back at Roarke as she shrugged it on.

“Have a good trip.”

“Thanks.” Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder before she could walk out the door. “Eve, be careful.” Annoyed with himself, he dropped his hands. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure.” She hurried out, and when she glanced back, the door was closed. When she opened her car door, she noticed the electronic memo on the driver’s seat. Scooping it up, she got behind the wheel. As she headed toward the gate, she flicked on the memo. Roarke’s voice drawled out.

“I don’t like the idea of you shivering unless I cause it. Stay warm.”

Frowning, she tucked the memo in her pocket before experimentally touching the temperature gauge. The blast of heat had her yelping in shock.

She grinned all the way to Cop Central.

Eve closed herself in her office. She had two hours before her official shift began, and she wanted to use every minute of it on the DeBlass-Starr homicides. When her shift kicked in, her duties would spread to a number of cases in varying degrees of progress. This time was her own.

As a matter of routine, she cued IRCCA to transmit any and all current data and ordered it in hard copy to review later. The transmission was depressingly brief and added nothing solid.

Back, she thought, to deductive games. On her desk she’d spread out photos of both victims. She knew them intimately now, these women. Perhaps now, after the night she’d spent with Roarke, she understood something of what had driven them.

Sex was a powerful tool to use or have used against you. Both of these women had wanted to wield it, to control it. In the end, it had killed them.

A bullet in the brain had been the official cause of death, but Eve saw sex as the trigger.

It was the only connection between them, and the only link to their murderer.

Thoughtfully, she picked up the .38. It was familiar in her hand now. She knew exactly how it felt when it fired, the way the punch of it sung up the arm. The sound it made when the mechanism and basic physics sent the bullet flying.

Still holding the gun, she cued up the disc she’d requisitioned and watched Sharon DeBlass’s murder again.

What did you feel, you bastard? she wondered. What did you feel when you squeezed the trigger and sent that slug of lead into her, when the blood spewed out, when her eyes rolled up dead?

What did you feel?

Eyes narrowed, she reran the disc. She was almost immune to the nastiness of it now. There was, she noted, the slightest waver in the video, as if he’d jostled the camera.

Did your arm jerk? she wondered. Did it shock you, the way her body flew back, how far the blood splattered?

Is that why she could hear the soft sob of breath, the slow exhale before the image changed?

What did you feel? she asked again. Revulsion, pleasure, or just cold satisfaction?

She leaned closer to the monitor. Sharon was carefully arranged now, the scene set as the camera panned her objectively and, yes, Eve thought, coldly.

Then why the jostle? Why the sob?

And the note. She picked up the sealed envelope and read it again. How did you know you’d be satisfied to stop at six? Have you already picked them out? Selected them?

Dissatisfied, she ejected the disc, replaced it and the .38. Loading the Starr disc, taking the second weapon, Eve ran through the process again.

No jostle this time, she noted. No quick, indrawn breath. Everything’s smooth, precise, exact. You knew this time, she thought, how it would feel, how she’d look, how the blood would smell.

But you didn’t know her. Or she didn’t know you. You were just John Smith in her book, marked as a new client.

How did you choose her? And how are you going to pick the next one?

Just before nine, when Feeney knocked on her door, she was studying a map of Manhattan. He stepped behind her, leaned over her shoulder, and breathed candy mints.

“Thinking of relocating?”

“I’m trying geography. Widen view five percent,” she ordered the computer. The image adjusted. “First murder, second murder,” she said, nodding toward the tiny red pulses on Broadway and in the West Village. “My place.” There was a green pulse just off Ninth Avenue.

“Your place?”

“He knows where I live. He’s been there twice. These are three places we can put him. I was hoping I’d be able to confine the area, but he spreads himself out. And the security.” She indulged in one little sigh, as she eased back in her chair. “Three different systems. Starr’s was all but nonexistent. Electronic doorman, inoperable—and it had been, according to other residents, for a couple of weeks. DeBlass had top grade, key code for entry, hand plate, full building security—audio and video. Had to be breached on-site. Our time lag only hits one elevator, and the victim’s hallway. Mine’s not as fancy. I could breach the entry, any decent B and E man could. But I’ve got a System Five thousand police lock on the door. You have to be a real pro to pop it without the master code.”

Drumming her fingers on the desk, she scowled at the map. “He’s a security expert, knows his weapons—old weapons, Feeney. He’d cued in enough to department procedure to tag me for the primary investigator within hours of the first hit. He doesn’t leave fingerprints or bodily fluids. Not even a fucking pubic hair. What does that tell you?”

Feeney sucked air through his teeth, rocked back on his heels. “Cop. Military. Maybe paramilitary or government security. Could be a security hobbyist; there are plenty of them. Possible professional criminal, but unlikely.”

“Why unlikely?”

“If the guy was making a living off crime, why murder? There’s no profit in either of these hits.”

“So, he’s taking a vacation,” Eve said, but it didn’t play for her.

“Maybe. I’ve run known sex offenders, crossed with IRCCA. Nobody pops who fits the MO. You look at this report yet?” he asked, indicating the IRCCA transmission.

“No. Why?”

“I already tagged it this morning. You might be surprised that there were about a hundred gun assaults last year, country wide. About that many accidental, too.” He jerked a shoulder. “Bootlegged, homemade, black market, collectors.”

“But nobody fits our profile.”

“Nope.” He chewed contemplatively. “Perverts either, though it’s a real education to scan the data. Got a favorite. This guy in Detroit, hit on four before they tagged him. Liked to pick up a lonely heart, go back to her place. He’d tranq her, then he’d strip her down, spray her with glow-in-the-dark red paint, top to toe.”

“Weird.”

“Lethal. Skin’s gotta breathe, so she’d suffocate, and while she was smothering to death, he’d play with her. Wouldn’t bang her, no sperm or penetration. He’d just run his eager little hands over her.”

“Christ, that’s sick.”

“Yeah, well, anyway. He gets a little too eager, a little too impatient with one, starts rubbing her before she’s dry, you know. Some of the paint rubs off, and she starts to come around. So he panics, runs. Now our girl’s naked, covered with paint, wobbly from the tranq, but she’s pissed, runs right outside on the street and starts screaming. The unit comes by, catches on quick ’cause she’s glowing like a laser show, and starts a standard search. Our boy’s only a couple of blocks away. So they catch him . . .”

“Don’t say it.”

“Red-handed,” Feeney said with a wicked grin. “Kiss my ass, that’s a good one. Caught him red-handed.” When Dallas just rolled her eyes, Feeney decided the guys in his division would appreciate the story more.

“Anyway, we maybe got a pervert. I’ll bump up the pervs and the pros. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I like the idea of that better than a cop.”

“So do I.” Lips pursed, she swiveled to look at him. “Feeney, you’ve got a small collection, know something about antique firearms.”

He held out his arms, wrists tight together. “I confess. Book me.”

She nearly smiled. “You know any other cops who collect?”

“Sure, a few. It’s an expensive hobby, so most of the ones I know collect reproductions. Speaking of expensive,” he added, fingering her sleeve. “Nice shirt. You get a raise?”

“It’s borrowed,” she muttered, and was surprised that she had to control a flush. “Run them for me, Feeney. The ones that have genuine antiques.”

“Ah, Dallas.” His smile faded away at the thought of focusing in on his own people. “I hate that shit.”

“So do I. Run them anyway. Keep it to the city for now.”

“Right.” He blew out a breath, wondered if she realized his name would be on the list. “Hell of a way to start the day. Now I’ve got a present for you, kid. There was a memo on my desk when I got in. The chief’s on his way in to the commander’s office. He wants both of us.”

“Fuck that.”

Feeney just looked at his watch. “I make it in five minutes. Maybe you want to put on a sweater or something, so Simpson doesn’t get a good look at that shirt and decide we’re overpaid.”

“Fuck that, too.”

Chief Edward Simpson was an imposing figure. Well over six feet, fighting trim, he preferred dark suits and vivid ties. His waving brown hair was tipped with gray.

It was well known throughout the department that those distinguished highlights were added by his personal cosmetician. His eyes were a steely blue—a color his polls indicated inspired voter confidence—that rarely showed humor, his mouth a thin comma of command. Looking at him, you thought of power and authority.

It was disillusioning to know how carelessly he used both to do laps in the heady pool of politics.

He sat down, steepling his long, creamy hands that winked with a trio of gold rings. His voice, when he spoke, had an actor’s resonance.

“Commander, captain, lieutenant, we have a delicate situation.”

And an actor’s timing. He paused, let those hard blue eyes scan each face in turn.

“You’re all aware of how the media enjoys sensationalism,” he continued. “Our city has, in the five years of my jurisdiction, lowered its crime rate by five percent. A full percentage a year. However, with recent events, it isn’t the progress that will be touted by the press. Already there are headlines of these two killings. Stories that question the investigation and demand answers.”

Whitney, detesting Simpson in every pore, answered mildly. “The stories lack details, chief. The Code Five on the DeBlass case makes it impossible to cooperate with the press or feed it.”

“By not feeding it,” Simpson snapped back. “We allow them to speculate. I’ll be making a statement this afternoon.” He held up a hand even as Whitney started to protest. “It’s necessary to give the public something to assess, and by assessing feel confident that the department has the matter under control. Even if that isn’t the case.”

His eyes zeroed in on Eve. “As the primary, lieutenant, you’ll attend the press conference as well. My office is preparing a statement for you to give.”

“With all respect, Chief Simpson, I can’t divulge to the public any details of the case that could undermine the investigation.”

Simpson plucked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Lieutenant, I have thirty years of experience. I believe I know how to handle a press conference. Secondly,” he continued, dismissing her by turning back to Commander Whitney, “it’s imperative that the link the press has made between the DeBlass and Starr homicides be broken. The department can’t be responsible for embarrassing Senator DeBlass personally, or damaging his position, by joining these cases at the hip.”

“The murderer did that for us,” Eve said between her teeth.

Simpson spared her a glance. “Officially, there is no connection. When asked, deny.”

“When asked,” Eve corrected. “Lie.”

“Save your personal ethics. This is reality. A scandal that starts here and reverberates to East Washington will come back on us like a monsoon. Sharon DeBlass has been dead over a week, and you have nothing.”

“We have the weapon,” she disagreed. “We have possible motive as blackmail, and a list of suspects.”

His color came up as he rose out of the chair. “I’m head of this department, lieutenant, and the mess you make is left to me to clean. It’s time you stop digging at dirt and close the case.”

“Sir.” Feeney stepped forward. “Lieutenant Dallas and I—”

“Can both be on Traffic Detail in a fucking heartbeat,” Simpson finished.

Fists clenched, Whitney lunged to his feet. “Don’t threaten my officers, Simpson. You play your games, smile for the cameras, and rub asses with East Washington, but don’t you come in on my turf and threaten my people. They’re on and they stay on. You want to change that, you try going through me.”

Simpson’s color deepened further. In fascination, Eve watched a vein throb at his temple. “Your people press the wrong buttons on this, it’ll be your ass. I’ve got Senator DeBlass under control for the moment, but he’s not happy having the primary running off to pressure his daughter-in-law, to invade the privacy of her grief and ask her embarrassing, irrelevant questions. Senator DeBlass and his family are victims, not suspects, and are to be accorded respect and dignity during this investigation.”

“I accorded Elizabeth Barrister and Richard DeBlass respect and dignity.” Very deliberately Eve shut down her temper. “The interview was conducted with their consent and cooperation. I was not aware that I was required to receive permission from you or the senator to proceed as I see warranted on this case.”

“And I will not have the press speculating that this department harasses grieving parents, or why the primary resisted required testing after a termination.”

“Lieutenant Dallas’s testing was postponed at my order,” Whitney said with snarling fury. “And with your approval.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Simpson angled his head. “I’m talking about speculation in the press. We will, all of us, be under a microscope until this man is stopped. Lieutenant Dallas’s record and her actions will be up for public dissection.”

“My record’ll stand it.”

“And your actions,” Simpson said with a faint smile. “How will you answer the fact that you’re jeopardizing the case and your position by indulging in a personal relationship with a suspect? And what do you think my official position will be if and when it comes out that you spent the night with that suspect?”

Control kept her in place, made her eyes flat, had her voice even. “I’m sure you’d hang me to save yourself, Chief Simpson.”

“Without hesitation,” he agreed. “Be at City Hall. Noon, sharp.”

When the door clinked shut behind him, Commander Whitney sat again. “Dickless son of a bitch.” Then his eyes, still sharp as razors, cut into Eve. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Eve accepted—was forced to accept—that her privacy was no longer an issue. “I spent the night with Roarke. It was a personal decision, on my personal time. In my professional opinion, as primary investigator, he has been eliminated as a suspect. It doesn’t negate the fact that my behavior was inadvisable.”

“Inadvisable,” Whitney exploded. “Try asinine. Try career suicide. Goddamn it, Dallas, can’t you hold your glands in check? I don’t expect this from you.”

She didn’t expect it from herself. “It doesn’t affect the investigation, or my ability to continue it. If you think differently, you’re wrong. If you pull me off, you’ll have to take my badge, too.”

Whitney stared at her another moment, swore again. “You make damn sure Roarke is eliminated from the short list, Dallas. Damn sure he’s eliminated or booked within thirty-six hours. And you ask yourself a question.”

“I’ve already asked it,” she interrupted, with a giddy relief only she knew she experienced when he didn’t call for her badge—yet. “How did Simpson know where I spent last night? I’m being monitored. Second question is why. Is it on Simpson’s authority, is it DeBlass? Or, did someone leak the information to Simpson in order to damage my credibility and therefore, the investigation.”

“I expect you to find out.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Watch yourself at that press conference, Dallas.”

They’d taken no more than three strides down the corridor when Feeney erupted. “What the hell are you thinking of? Jesus Christ, Dallas.”

“I didn’t plan it, okay?” She jabbed for an elevator, jammed her hands in her pockets. “Back off.”

“He’s on the short list. He’s one of the last people we know of who saw Sharon DeBlass alive. He’s got more money than God, and can buy anything, including immunity.”

“He doesn’t fit type.” She stormed into the elevator, barked out her floor. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t know shit. All the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you so much as stub your toe on a guy. Now you’ve fallen fucking over on one.”

“It was just sex. Not all of us have a nice comfortable life with a nice comfortable wife. I wanted someone to touch me, and he wanted to be the one. It’s none of your goddamn business who I sleep with.”

He caught her arm before she could storm out of the elevator. “The hell with that. I care about you.”

She fought back the rage at being questioned, at being probed, at having her most private moments invaded. She turned back, lowering her voice so that those who walked the corridor wouldn’t overhear.

“Am I a good cop, Feeney?”

“You’re the best I ever worked with. That’s why—”

She held up a hand. “What makes a good cop?”

He sighed. “Brains, guts, patience, nerve, instinct.”

“My brains, my guts, my instincts tell me it’s not Roarke. Every time I try to turn it around and point it at him, I hit a wall. It’s not him. I’ve got the patience, Feeney, and the nerve to keep at it until we find out who.”

His eyes stayed on hers. “And if you’re wrong this time, Dallas?”

“If I’m wrong, they won’t have to ask for my badge.” She had to take a steadying breath. “Feeney, if I’m wrong about this, about him, I’m finished. All the way finished. Because if I’m not a good cop, I’m nothing.”

“Jesus, Dallas, don’t—”

She shook her head. “Run the cop list for me, will you? I’ve got some calls to make.”

chapter twelve

Press conferences left a bad taste in Eve’s mouth. She stood on the steps of City Hall, on a stage set by Simpson with his patriotic tie and his gold I Love New York lapel pin. In his Big Brother of the City mode, his voice rose and fell while he read his statement.

A statement, Eve thought in disgust, that was riddled with lies, half truths, and plenty of self aggrandizements. According to Simpson he would have no rest until the murderer of young Lola Starr was brought to justice.

When questioned as to whether there was any connection between the Starr homicide and the mysterious death of Senator DeBlass’s granddaughter, he flatly denied it.

It wasn’t his first mistake and, Eve thought glumly, it would hardly be his last.

The words were barely out of his mouth when he was peppered with shouts from Channel 75’s on-air ace, Nadine Furst.

“Chief Simpson, I have information that indicates the Starr homicide is linked with the DeBlass case—not only because both women were engaged in the same profession.”

“Now, Nadine.” Simpson flashed his patient, avuncular smile. “We all know that information is often passed to you and your associates, and it’s often inaccurate. That’s why I set up the Data Verification Center in the first year of my term as chief of police. You have only to check with the DVC for accuracy.”

Eve managed to hold back a snort, but Nadine, with her sharp cat’s eyes and lightning brain didn’t bother. “My source claims that Sharon DeBlass’s death was not an accident—as the DVC claims—but murder. That both DeBlass and Starr were killed by the same method and the same man.”

This caused an uproar in the huddle of news teams, a scatter shot of demands and questions that had Simpson sweating under his monogrammed shirt.

“The department stands behind its position that there is no connection between these unfortunate incidents,” Simpson shouted out, but Eve saw little lights of panic flickering in his eyes. “And my office stands behind the investigators.”

Those jittery eyes shot to Eve, and she knew, in that instant, what it was to be picked up bodily and thrown to the wolves.

“Lieutenant Dallas, a veteran officer with more than ten years of experience on the force, is in charge of the Starr homicide. She’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

Trapped, Eve stepped forward while Simpson bent down so that his weasley aide could whisper rapid-fire advice in his ear.

Questions rained down on her, and she waited, filtering them until she found one she could deal with.

“How was Lola Starr murdered?”

“In order to protect the credibility of the investigation, I’m not at liberty to divulge the method.” She suffered through the shouts, cursing Simpson. “I will state that Lola Starr, an eighteen-year-old licensed companion, was murdered, with violence and premeditation. Evidence indicates that she was murdered by a client.”

That fed them for awhile, Eve noted. Several reporters checked their links with base.

“Was it a sexual crime?” someone shouted out, and Eve lifted a brow.

“I’ve just stated that the victim was a prostitute and that she was killed by a client. Put it together.”

“Was Sharon DeBlass also killed by a client?” Nadine demanded.

Eve met those cagey feline eyes levelly. “The department has not issued any official statement that Sharon DeBlass was murdered.”

“My source names you as primary in both cases. Will you confirm?”

Boggy ground. Eve stepped onto it. “Yes. I’m the primary on several ongoing investigations.”

“Why would a ten-year vet be assigned to an accidental death?”

Eve smiled. “Want me to define bureaucracy?”

That drew some chuckles, but it didn’t pull Nadine off the scent.

“Is the DeBlass case still ongoing?”

Any answer would stir a hornet’s nest. Eve opted for the truth. “Yes. And it will remain ongoing until I, as primary, am satisfied with its disposition. However,” she continued, rolling over the shouts. “No more emphasis will be given to Sharon DeBlass’s death than any other. Including Lola Starr. Any case that comes across my desk is treated equally, regardless of family or social background. Lola Starr was a young woman from a simple family. She had no social status, no influential background, no important friends. Now, after a few short months in New York, she’s dead. Murdered. She deserves the best I can give her, and that’s what she’s going to get.”

Eve scanned the crowd, zeroed in on Nadine. “You want a story, Ms. Furst. I want a killer. I figure my wants are more important than yours, so that’s all I have to say.”

She turned on her heel, shot Simpson one fulminating look, then strode away. She could hear him fighting off questions as she headed for her car.

“Dallas.” Nadine, in low-heeled shoes built for style and movement, raced after her.

“I said I’m finished. Talk to Simpson.”

“Hey, if I want to wade through bullshit, I can call the DVC. That was a pretty impassioned statement. Didn’t sound like Simpson’s speech writer.”

“I like to talk for myself.” Eve reached her car and started to open the door when Nadine touched her shoulder.

“You like to play it straight. So do I. Look, Dallas, we’ve got different methods, but similar goals.” Satisfied that she had Eve’s attention, she smiled. When her lips curved, her face turned into a tidy triangle, dominated by those upslanted green eyes. “I’m not going to pull out the old public’s right to know.”

“You’d be wasting your time.”

“What I am going to say is we’ve got two women dead in a week. My information, and my gut tells me they were both murdered. I don’t figure you’re going to confirm that.”

“You figure right.”

“What I want’s a deal. You let me know if I’m on the right track, and I hold off going out with anything that undermines your investigation. When you’ve got something solid and you’re ready to move on it, you call me. I get an exclusive on the arrest—live.”

Almost amused, Dallas leaned against her car. “What are you going to give me for that, Nadine? A handshake and a smile?”

“For that I’m going to give you everything my source has passed to me. Everything.”

Now she was interested. “Including the source?”

“I couldn’t do that if I had to. Point is, I don’t. What I do have, Dallas, is a disc, delivered to me at the studio. On the disc are copies of police reports, including autopsies on both victims, and a couple of nasty little videos of two dead women.”

“Fuck that. If you had half of what you’re telling me, you’d have been on air in a heartbeat.”

“I thought about it,” Nadine admitted. “But this is bigger than ratings. Hell of a lot bigger. I want a story, Dallas, one that’s going to cop me the Pulitzer, the International News Award, and a few other major prizes.”

Her eyes changed, darkened. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “But I saw what someone did to those woman. Maybe the story comes first with me, but it’s not all. I pushed Simpson today, and I pushed you. I liked the way you pushed back. You can deal with me, or I can go out on my own. Your choice.”

Eve waited. A fleet of taxis cruised by, and a maxibus with its humming electric motor. “We deal.” Before Furst’s eyes could light in triumph, Eve turned on her. “You cross me on this, Nadine, you cross me by so much as an inch, and I’ll bury you.”

“Fair enough.”

“The Blue Squirrel, twenty minutes.”

The afternoon crowd at the club was too bored to do much more than huddle over their drinks. Eve found a corner table, ordered a Pepsi Classic and the veggie pasta. Nadine slid in across from her. She chose the chicken plate with no-oil fries. An indication, Eve thought glumly, of the wide difference between a cop’s salary and a reporter’s.

“What have you got?” Eve demanded.

“A picture’s worth several hundred thousand words.” Nadine took a personal palm computer out of her bag—her red leather bag, Eve noted with envy. She had a weakness for leather and bold colors that she could rarely indulge.

Nadine popped in the disc, handed Eve the PPC. There was little use in swearing, Eve decided as she watched her own reports flick on-screen. Brooding, she let the disc run over Code Five data, through official medical reports, the ME’s findings. She stopped it when the videos began. There was no need to check out death over a meal.

“Is it accurate?” Nadine asked when Eve passed back the computer.

“It’s accurate.”

“So the guy’s some sort of gun freak, a security expert who patronizes companions.”

“The evidence indicates that profile.”

“How far have you narrowed it down?”

“Obviously, not far enough.”

Nadine waited while their food was served. “There’s got to be a lot of political pressure on you—the DeBlass end.”

“I don’t play politics.”

“Your chief does.” Nadine took a bite of her chicken. Eve smirked as she winced. “Christ, this is terrible.” Philosophically, she shifted to the fries. “It’s no secret DeBlass is front runner for the Conservative Party’s nomination this summer. Or that the asshole Simpson is shooting for governor. Given the show this afternoon, it looks like cover-up.”

“At this point, publicly, there is no connection between the cases. But I meant what I said about equality, Nadine. I don’t care who Sharon DeBlass’s granddaddy is. I’m going to find the guy who did her.”

“And when you do, is he going to be charged with both murders, or only with Starr’s?”

“That’s up to the prosecuting attorney. Personally, I don’t give a shit, as long as I hang him.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Dallas.” Nadine waved a fry, then bit in. “I want it all. When you get him, and I break the story, the PA’s not going to have a choice. The fallout’s going to keep DeBlass busy for months.”

“Now who’s playing politics?”

Nadine lifted a shoulder. “Hey, I just report the story, I don’t make it. And this one’s got it all. Sex, violence, money. Having a name like Roarke’s involved is going to shoot the ratings through the roof.”

Very slowly, Eve swallowed pasta. “There’s no evidence linking Roarke to the crimes.”

“He knew DeBlass—he’s a friend of the family. Christ, he owns the building where Sharon was killed. He’s got one of the top weapon collections in the world, and rumor is he’s an expert shot.”

Eve picked up her drink. “Neither murder weapon can be traced to him. He has no connection with Lola Starr.”

“Maybe not. But even as a periphery character, Roarke sells news. And it’s no state secret that he and the senator have bumped heads in the past. The man’s got ice in his veins,” she added with a shrug. “I don’t imagine he’d have any problem with a couple of cold-blooded killings. But . . .” She paused to lift her own drink. “He’s also a fanatic about privacy. It’s hard to picture him bragging about the murders by sending discs to reporters. Somebody does that, they want publicity as much as they want to get away with the crime.”

“An interesting theory.” Eve had had enough. A headache was beginning to brew behind her eyes, and the pasta wasn’t going to sit well. She rose, then leaned over the table close to Nadine. “I’ll give you another one, formulated by a cop. Do you want to know who your source is, Nadine?”

Her eyes glittered. “Damn right.”

“Your source is the killer.” Eve paused, watching the light go out of Nadine’s eyes. “I’d watch my step if I were you, friend.”

Eve strode off, heading around behind the stage. She hoped Mavis was in the narrow cubicle that served as a dressing room. Just then, she needed a pal.

Eve found her, huddled under a blanket and sneezing into a tattered tissue.

“Got a fucking cold.” Mavis glared out of puffy eyes and blew like a bullhorn. “I had to be crazy, wearing nothing but goddamn paint for twelve hours in goddamn lousy February.”

Warily, Eve kept her distance. “Are you taking anything?”

“I’m taking everything.” She gestured to a tabletop littered with over-the-counter drugs and touch-up cosmetics. “It’s a fucking pharmaceutical conspiracy, Eve. We’ve wiped out just about every known plague, disease, and infection. Oh, we come up with a new one every now and again, to give the researchers something to do. But none of these bright-eyed medical types, none of the medi-computers can figure out how to cure the common fucking cold. You know why?”

Even couldn’t stop the smile. She waited patiently until Mavis finished another bout of explosive sneezing. “Why?”

“Because the pharmaceutical companies need to sell drugs. You know what a damn sinus tab costs? You can get anticancer injections cheaper. I swear it.”

“You can go to the doctor, get a prescription to eradicate the symptoms.”

“I got that, too. Damn stuff’s only good for eight hours, and I’ve got a performance tonight. I have to wait until seven o’clock to take it.”

“You should be home in bed.”

“They’re exterminating the building. Some wise guy said he saw a cockroach.” She sneezed again, then peered owlishly at Eve from under unpainted lashes. “What are you doing here?”

“I had some business. Look, get some rest. I’ll see you later.”

“No, stick around. I’m boring myself.” She reached for a bottle of some nasty looking pink liquid and glugged it down. “Hey, nice shirt. You get a bonus or something?”

“Or something.”

“So, sit down. I was going to call you, but I’ve been too busy hacking up my lungs. That was Roarke who came in our fine establishment last night, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was Roarke.”

“I almost passed out when he walked up to your table. What’s the story? You helping him with some security or something?”

“I slept with him,” Eve blurted out, and Mavis responded with a fit of helpless choking.

“You—Roarke.” Eyes watering, she reached for more tissue. “Jesus, Eve. Jesus Christ, you never sleep with anybody. And you’re telling me you slept with Roarke?”

“That’s not precisely accurate. We didn’t sleep.”

Mavis let out a moan. “You didn’t sleep. How long?”

Eve jerked a shoulder. “I don’t know. I stayed the night. Eight, nine hours, I guess.”

“Hours.” Mavis shuddered delicately. “And you just kept going.”

“Pretty much.”

“Is he good? Stupid question,” she said quickly. “You wouldn’t have stayed otherwise. Wow, Eve, what got into you? Besides his incredibly energetic cock?”

“I don’t know. It was stupid.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “It’s never been like that for me before. I didn’t think it could—that I could. It’s just never been important, then all of a sudden—shit.”

“Honey.” Mavis snaked a hand from under her blanket and took Eve’s tensed fingers. “You’ve been blocking off normal needs all your life because of things you barely remember. Somebody just found a way to get through. You should be happy.”

“It puts him in the pilot’s seat, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Mavis interrupted before Eve could go on. “Sex doesn’t have to be a power trip. It sure as hell doesn’t have to be a punishment. It’s supposed to be fun. And now and again, if you’re lucky, it gets to be special.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes. “Oh God, Mavis, my career’s on the line.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Roarke’s involved in a case I’m working on.”

“Oh shit.” She had to break off and blow again. “You’re not going to have to bust him for something, are you?”

“No.” Then more emphatically. “No. But if I don’t tie it all up fast, with a nice, tidy bow, I’ll be out. I’ll be finished. Somebody’s using me, Mavis.” Her eyes sharpened again. “They’re clearing the path in one direction, tossing roadblocks in the other. I don’t know why. If I don’t find out, it’s going to cost me everything I have.”

“Then you’re going to have to find out, aren’t you?” Mavis squeezed Eve’s fingers.

She would find out, Eve promised herself. It was after ten P.M. when she let herself into the lobby of her building. If she didn’t want to think just then, it wasn’t a crime. She’d had to swallow a reprimand from the chief’s office for veering from the official statement during the press conference.

The commander’s unofficial support didn’t quite ease the sting.

Once she was inside her apartment she checked her E-mail. She knew it was foolish, this nagging hope that she’d find a message from Roarke.

There wasn’t one. But what she found had her flesh crawling with ice.

The video message was unnamed, sent from a public access. The little girl. Her dead father. The blood.

Eve recognized the angles of the official department record, the one taken to document the site of murder and justified termination.

The audio came over it. A playback of her auto-record of the child’s screams. Her beating on the door. The warning, and all the horror that followed.

“You bastard,” she whispered. “You’re not going to get to me with this. You’re not going to use that baby to get to me.”

But her fingers shook as she ejected the disc. And she jolted when her intercom rang.

“Who is it?”

“Hennessy from apartment two-D.” The pale, earnest face of her downstairs neighbor flicked on screen. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Dallas. I didn’t know what to do exactly. We’ve got trouble down here in the Finestein apartment.”

Eve sighed and let the image of the elderly couple flip into her mind. Quiet, friendly, television addicts. “What’s the problem?”

“Mr. Finestein’s dead, lieutenant. Keeled over in the kitchen while his wife was out playing mah-jongg with friends. I thought maybe you could come down.”

“Yeah.” She sighed again. “I’ll be there. Don’t touch anything, Mr. Hennessy, and try to keep people out of the way.” Out of habit she called dispatch, reported an unattended death and her presence on the scene.

She found the apartment quiet, with Mrs. Finestein sitting on the living room sofa with her tiny white hands folded in her lap. Her hair was white as well, a snowfall around a face that was beginning to line despite antiaging creams and treatments.

The old woman smiled gently at Eve.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you, dear.”

“It’s okay. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Her soft blue eyes stayed on Eve’s. “It was our weekly game, the girls and mine. When I got home, I found him in the kitchen. He’d been eating a custard pie. Joe was overly fond of sweets.”

She looked over at Hennessy, who stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I didn’t know quite what to do, and went knocking on Mr. Hennessy’s door.”

“That’s fine. If you’d stay with her for a minute please,” she said to Mr. Hennessy.

The apartment was set up similarly to her own. It was meticulously neat, despite the abundance of knickknacks and memorabilia.

At the kitchen table with its centerpiece of china flowers, Joe Finestein had lost his life, and considerable dignity.

His head was slumped, half in, half out of a fluffy custard pie. Eve checked for a pulse, found none. His skin had cooled considerably. At a guess, she put his death at one-fifteen, give or take a couple of hours.

“Joseph Finestein,” she recited dutifully. “Male, approximately one hundred and fifteen years of age. No signs of forced entry, no signs of violence. There are no marks on the body.”

She leaned closer, looked into Joe’s surprised and staring eyes, sniffed the pie. After finishing her prelim notes, she went back to relieve Hennessy and interview the deceased’s widow.

It was midnight before she was able to crawl into bed. Exhaustion snatched at her like a cross and greedy child. Oblivion was what she wanted, what she prayed for.

No dreams, she ordered her subconscious. Take the night off.

Even as she closed her eyes, her bedside ’link blipped.

“Fry in hell, whoever you are,” she muttered, then dutifully wrapped the sheet around her naked shoulders and switched it on.

“Lieutenant.” Roarke’s image smiled at her. “Did I wake you?”

“You would have in another five minutes.” She shifted as the audio hissed with a bit of space interference. “I guess you got where you were going all right.”

“I did. There was only a slight delay in transport. I thought I might catch you before you turned in.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Because I like looking at you.” His smile faded as he stared at her. “What’s wrong, Eve?”

Where do you want me to start? she thought, but shrugged. “Long day—ending with one of your other tenants here croaking in his late night snack. He went facedown in a custard pie.”

“There are worse ways to go, I suppose.” He turned his head, murmured to someone nearby. Eve saw a woman move briskly behind Roarke and out of view. “I’ve just dismissed my assistant,” he explained. “I wanted to be alone when I asked if you’re wearing anything under that sheet.”

She glanced down, lifted a brow. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Why don’t you take it off?”

“No way I’m going to satisfy your prurient urges by interspace transmission, Roarke. Use your imagination.”

“I am. I’m imagining what I’m going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you. I advise you to rest up, lieutenant.”

She wanted to smile and couldn’t. “Roarke, we’re going to have to talk when you get back.”

“We can do that as well. I’ve always found conversations with you stimulating, Eve. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I will. See you, Roarke.”

“Think of me, Eve.”

He ended the transmission, then sat alone, brooding at the blank monitor. There’d been something in her eyes, he thought. He knew the moods of them now, could see beyond the training into the emotion.

The something had been worry.

Turning his chair, he looked out at his view of star splattered space. She was too far away for him to do any more than wonder about her.

And to ask himself, again, why she mattered so much.

chapter thirteen

Eve studied the report of the bank search for Sharon DeBlass’s deposit box with frustration. No record, no record, no record.

Nothing in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. Nothing in East Washington or Virginia.

She had rented one somewhere, Eve thought. She’d had diaries, and had kept them tucked away someplace where she could get to them safely and quickly.

In those diaries, Eve was convinced, was a motive for murder.

Unwilling to tag Fenney for another, broader search, she began one herself, starting with Pennsylvania, working west and north toward the borders of Canada and Quebec. In slightly less than twice the time it would have taken Feeney, she came up blank again.

Then, working south, she struck out with Maryland, and down to Florida. Her machine began to chug noisily at the work. Eve issued a warning snarl and a sharp bump to the console. She swore she’d risk the morass of requisition for a new unit if this one just held out for one more case.

More from stubbornness than hope, she did a scan of the Midwest, heading toward the Rockies.

You were too smart, Sharon, Eve thought, as the negative results flickered by. Too smart for your own good. You wouldn’t have gone out of the country, or off planet where you’d have to go through a customs scan every trip. Why go far away, someplace where you’d need transport or travel docs? You might want immediate access.

If your mother knew you kept diaries, maybe other people knew it, too. You bragged about it because you liked to make people uncomfortable. And you knew they were safely tucked away.

But close, damn it, Eve thought, closing her eyes to bring the woman she was coming to know so well into full focus. Close enough so that you could feel the power, use it, toy with people.

But not so simple that just anyone could track it down, gain access, spoil the game. You used an alias. Rented your safe box under another name—just in case. And if you were smart enough to use an alias, you’d have used one that was basic, that was familiar. One you wouldn’t have to hassle over.

It was so simple, Eve realized as she keyed in Sharon Barrister. So simple both she and Feeney had overlooked it.

She hit pay dirt at the Brinkstone International Bank and Finance, Newark, New Jersey.

Sharon Barrister not only had a safe-deposit box, she had a brokerage account in the amount of $326,000.85.

Grinning at the screen, she hit her tie-in with the PA. “I need a warrant,” she announced.

• • •

Three hours later, she was back in Commander Whitney’s office, trying not to gnash her teeth. “She’s got another one somewhere,” Eve insisted. “And the diaries are in it.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from looking for it, Dallas.”

“Fine, that’s fine.” She whirled around the office as she spoke. Energy was pumping now, and she wanted action. “What are we going to do about this?”

She jerked a hand at the file on his desk.

“You’ve got the disc I took from the safe-deposit box and the print out I ran. It’s right there, commander. A blackmail list: names and amounts. And Simpson’s name is there, in tidy alphabetical order.”

“I can read, Dallas.” He resisted the urge to rub at the tension gathering at the base of his skull. “The chief isn’t the only person named Simpson in the city, much less the country.”

“It’s him.” She was fuming and there was no place to put the steam. “We both know it. There are a number of other interesting names there, too. A governor, a Catholic bishop, a respected leader of the International Organization of Women, two high-ranking cops, an ex-Vice President—”

“I’m aware of the names,” Whitney interrupted. “Are you aware of your position, Dallas, and the consequences?” He held up a hand to silence her. “A few neat columns of names and numbers don’t mean squat. This data gets out of this office, and it’s over. You’re finished and so’s the investigation. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir.”

“You get the diaries, Dallas, find the connection between Sharon DeBlass and Lola Starr, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

“Simpson’s dirty.” She leaned over the desk. “He knew Sharon DeBlass; he was being blackmailed. And he’s doing everything he can to undermine the investigation.”

“Then we’ll have to work around him, won’t we?” Whitney put the file in his lock box. “No one knows what we have in here, Dallas. Not even Feeney. Is that clear?

“Yes, sir.” Knowing she had to be satisfied with that, she started for the door. “Commander, I’d like to point out that there’s a name absent from that list. Roarke’s not on it.”

Whitney met her eyes, nodded. “As I said, Dallas. I can read.”

Her message light was blinking when she got back to her office. A check of her E-mail turned up two calls from the medical examiner. Impatiently, Eve put the hot lead aside and returned the call.

“Finished running the tests on your neighbor, Dallas. You hit the bull’s-eye.”

“Oh, hell.” She ran her hands over her face. “Send through the results. I’ll take it from here.”

Hetta Finestein opened her door with a puff of lavender sachet and the yeasty smell of homemade bread.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

She smiled her quiet smile and stepped back in invitation. Inside, the viewing screen was tuned to a chatty talk show where interested members of the home audience could plug in and shoot their holographic images to the studio for fuller interaction. The topic seemed to be higher state salaries for professional mothers. Just now the screen was crowded with women and children of varying sizes and vocal opinions.

“How nice of you to come by. I’ve had so many visitors today. It’s a comfort. Would you like some cookies?”

“Sure,” Eve agreed, and felt like slime. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch, let her eyes scan the tidy little apartment. “You and Mr. Finestein used to run a bakery?”

“Oh, yes.” Hetta’s voice carried from the kitchen, along with her bustling movements. “Until just a few years ago. We did very well. People love real cooking, you know. And if I do say so myself, I have quite a hand with pies and cakes.”

“You do a lot of baking here, at home.”

Hetta came in with a tray of golden cookies. “One of my pleasures. Too many people never know the joy of a home-baked cookie. So many children never experience real sugar. It’s hideously expensive, of course, but worth it.”

Eve sampled a cookie and had to agree. “I guess you must have baked the pie your husband was eating when he died.”

“You won’t find store-bought or simulations in my house,” Hetta said proudly. “Of course, Joe would gobble everything up almost as soon as I took it out of the oven. There’s not an AutoChef on the market as reliable as a good baker’s instincts and creativity.”

“You did bake the pie, Mrs. Finestein.”

The woman blinked, lowered her lashes. “Yes, I did.”

“Mrs. Finestein, you know what killed your husband?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled softly. “Gluttony. I told him not to eat it. I specifically told him not to eat it. I said it was for Mrs. Hennessy across the hall.”

“Mrs. Hennessy.” That jolted Eve back several mental paces. “You—”

“Of course, I knew he’d eat it, anyway. He was very selfish that way.”

Eve cleared her throat. “Could we, ah, turn the program off?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry.” The flustered hostess tapped her cheeks with her hands. “That’s so rude. I’m so used to letting it play all day I don’t even notice it. Um, program—no, screen off.”

“And the audio,” Eve said patiently.

“Of course.” Shaking her head as the sound continued to run, Hetta looked sheepish. “I’ve just never gotten the hang of the thing since we switched from remote to voice. Sound off, please. There, that’s better, isn’t it.”

The woman could bake a poisoned pie, but couldn’t control her own television, Eve thought. It took all kinds. “Mrs. Finestein, I don’t want you to say any more until I’ve read you your rights. Until you’re sure you understand them. You’re under no obligation to make any statement,” Eve began, while Hetta continued to smile gently.

Hetta waited until the recitation was over. “I didn’t expect to get away with it. Not really.”

“Get away with what, Mrs. Finestein?”

“Poisoning Joe. Although . . .” She pursed her lips like a child. “My grandson’s a lawyer—a very clever boy. I think he’d say that since I did tell Joe, very specifically told him not to eat that pie, it was more Joe’s doing than mine. In any case,” she said and waited patiently.

“Mrs. Finestein, are you telling me that you added synthetic cyanide compound to a custard pie with the intention of killing your husband?”

“No, dear. I’m telling you I added cyanide compound, with a nice dose of extra sugar to a pie, and told my husband not to touch it. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘Don’t you so much as sniff this custard pie. I baked it special, and it’s not for you. You hear me, Joe?’ ”

Hetta smiled again. “He said he heard me all right, and then just before I left for my evening with the girls, I told him again, just to be sure. ‘I mean it, Joe. You let that pie be.’ I expected he would eat it, though, but that was up to him, wasn’t it? Let me tell you about Joe,” she continued conversationally, and picked up the cookie tray to urge another on Eve. When Eve hesitated, she laughed gaily. “Oh, dear, these are quite safe, I promise you. I just gave a dozen to the nice little boy upstairs.”

To prove her point she chose one herself and bit in.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes, about Joe. He’s my second husband, you know. We’ve been married fifty years come April. He was a good partner, and quite a fine baker himself. Some men should never retire. The last few years he’s been very hard to live with. Cross and complaining all the time, forever finding fault. And never would get flour on his fingers. Not that he’d pass by an almond tart without gobbling it down.”

Because it sounded almost reasonable, Eve waited a moment. “Mrs. Feinstein, you poisoned him because he ate too much?”

Hetta’s rosy cheeks rounded. “It does seem that way. But it goes deeper. You’re so young, dear, and you don’t have family, do you?”

“No.”

“Families are a source of comfort, and a source of irritation. No one outside can ever understand what goes on in the privacy of a home. Joe wasn’t an easy man to live with, and I’m afraid, though I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, that he had developed bad habits. He’d find a real glee in upsetting me, in ruining my small pleasures. Why just last month he deliberately ate half the Tower of Pleasure Cake I’d baked for the International Betty Crocker cook-off. Then he told me it was dry.” Her voice huffed out in obvious insult. “Can you imagine?”

“No,” Eve said weakly. “I can’t.”

“Well, he did it just to make me mad. It was the way he wielded power, you see. So I baked the pie, told him not to touch it, and went out to play mah-jongg with the girls. I wasn’t at all surprised when I got back and found he hadn’t listened. He was a glutton, you see.” She gestured with the cookie before delicately finishing the last bite. “That’s one of the seven deadly sins, gluttony. It just seemed right that he would die by sin. Are you sure you won’t have another cookie?”

The world was certainly a mad place, Eve decided, when old women poisoned custard pies. And, she thought, with Hetta’s quiet, old-fashioned, grandmotherly demeanor, the woman would probably get off.

If they sent her up, she’d get kitchen duty and happily bake pastries for the other inmates.

Eve filed her report, caught a quick dinner in the eatery, then went back to work on the still simmering lead.

She’d no more than cleared half the New York banks when the call came through. “Yeah, Dallas.”

Her answer was the image that flowed onto her screen. A dead woman, arranged all too familiarly on blood-soaked sheets.

THREE OF SIX

She stared at the message imposed over the body and snarled at her computer.

“Trace address. Now, goddamn it.”

After the computer obliged, she tagged Dispatch.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, ID 5347BQ. Priority A. Any available units to 156 West Eighty-ninth, apartment twenty-one nineteen. Do not enter premises. Repeat, do not enter premises. Detain any and all persons exiting building. Nobody goes in that apartment, uniform or civilian. My ETA, ten minutes.”

“Copy, Dallas, Lieutenant, Eve.” The droid on duty spoke coolly and without rush. “Units five-oh and three-six available to respond. Will await your arrival. Priority A. Dispatch, out.”

She grabbed her bag and her field kit and was gone.

Eve entered the apartment alone, weapon out and ready. The living room was tidy, even homey with its thick cushions and fringed area rugs. There was a book on the sofa and a slight dip in the cushion, indicating someone had spent some time curled up and reading. Frowning over the image, she moved to a door beyond.

The small room was set up as an office, the workstation tidy as a pin, with little hints of personality in the basket of perfumed silk flowers, the bowl of colorful gumdrops, the shiny white mug decorated with a glossy red heart.

The workstation faced the window, the window faced the sheer side of another building, but no one had bothered with a privacy screen. Lining one wall was a clear shelf holding several more books, a large drop box for discs, another for E-memos, a small treasure trove of pricey graphite pencils and recycled legal pads. Cuddled between was a lopsided baked clay blob that might have been a horse, and had certainly been made by a child.

Eve turned out of the room and opened the opposing door.

She knew what to expect. Her system didn’t revolt. The blood was still very fresh. With only a small sigh, she holstered her weapon, knowing she was alone with the dead.

Through the thin protective spray on her hands, she felt the body. It hadn’t had time to cool.

She’d been positioned on the bed, and the weapon had been placed neatly between her legs.

Eve pegged it as a Ruger P-90, a sleek combat weapon popular as home defense during the Urban Revolt. Light, compact, and fully automatic.

No silencer this time. But she’d be willing to bet the bedroom was soundproofed—and that the killer had known it.

She moved over to the fussily female circular dresser, opened a small burlap bag that was currently a fashion rage. Inside she found the dead woman’s companion’s license.

Pretty woman, she mused. Nice smile, direct eyes, really stunning coffee-and-cream complexion.

“Georgie Castle,” Eve recited for the record. “Female. Age fifty-three. Licensed companion. Death probably occurred between seven and seven-forty-five P.M., cause of death gunshot wounds. ME to confirm. Three visible points of violence: forehead, mid-chest, genitalia. Most likely induced with antique combat style handgun left at scene. No signs of struggle, no appearance of forced entry or robbery.”

A whisper of a sound behind her had Eve whipping out her weapon. Crouched, eyes hard and cold, she stared at a fat gray cat who slid into the room.

“Jesus, where’d you come from?” She let out a long, cleansing breath as she replaced her weapon. “There’s a cat,” she added for the record, and when it blinked at her, flashing one gold and one green eye, she bent down to scoop it up.

The purring sounded like a small, well oiled engine.

Shifting him, she took out her communicator and called for a homicide team.

A short time later, Eve was in the kitchen, watching the cat sniff with delicate disdain at a bowl of food she’d unearthed when she heard the raised voices outside the apartment door.

When she went to investigate, she found the uniform she’d posted trying to restrain a frantic and very determined woman.

“What’s the problem here, officer?”

“Lieutenant.” With obvious relief, the uniform deferred to her superior. “The civilian demands entry. I was—”

“Of course I demand entry.” The woman’s dark red hair, cut in a perfect wedge, moved and settled around her face with each jerky movement. “This is my mother’s home. I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“And your mother is?” Eve prompted.

“Mrs. Castle. Mrs. Georgie Castle. Was there a break-in?” Anger turned to worry as she tried to squeeze past Eve. “Is she all right? Mom?”

“Come with me.” Eve took a firm hold of her arm and steered her inside and into the kitchen. “What’s your name?”

“Samantha Bennett.”

The cat left his bowl and walked over to curl around and through Samantha’s legs. In a gesture Eve recognized as habitual and automatic, Samantha bent to give the cat one quick scratch between the ears.

“Where’s my mother?” Now that the worry was heading toward fear, Samantha’s voice cracked.

There was no part of the job Eve dreaded more than this, no aspect of police work that scraped at her heart with such dull blades.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. “I’m very sorry. Your mother’s dead.”

Samantha said nothing. Her eyes, the same warm honey tone as her mother’s, unfocused. Before she could fold, Eve eased her into a chair. “There’s a mistake,” she managed. “There has to be a mistake. We’re going to the movies. The nine o’clock show. We always go to the movies on Tuesdays.” She stared up at Eve with desperately hopeful eyes. “She can’t be dead. She’s barely fifty, and she’s healthy. She’s strong.”

“There’s no mistake. I’m sorry.”

“There was an accident?” Those eyes filled now, flowed over. “She had an accident?”

“It wasn’t an accident.” There was no way but one to get it down. “Your mother was murdered.”

“No, that’s impossible.” The tears kept flowing. Her voice hitched over them as she continued to shake her head in denial. “Everyone liked her. Everyone. No one would hurt her. I want to see her. I want to see her now.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“She’s my mother.” Tears plopped on her lap even as her voice rose. “I have the right. I want to see my mother.”

Eve clamped both hands on Samantha’s shoulders, forcing her back into the chair she’d sprung from. “You’re not going to see her. It wouldn’t help her. It wouldn’t help you. What you’re going to do is answer my questions, and that’s going to help me find who did this to her. Now, do you want me to get you something? Call anyone for you?”

“No. No.” Samantha fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “My husband, my children. I’ll have to tell them. My father. How can I tell them?”

“Where is your father, Samantha?”

“He lives—he lives in Westchester. They divorced about two years ago. He kept the house because she wanted to move into the city. She wanted to write books. She wanted to be a writer.”

Eve turned to the filtered water unit on the counter, glugged out a glass, pressed it on Samantha. “Do you know how your mother made her living?”

“Yes.” Samantha pressed her lips together, crushed the damp tissue in her chilled fingers. “No one could talk her out of it. She used to laugh and say it was time she did something shocking, and what wonderful research it was for her books. My mother—” Samantha broke off to drink. “She got married very young. A few years ago, she said she needed to move on, see what else there was. We couldn’t talk her out of that, either. You could never talk her out of anything.”

She began to weep again, covering her face and sobbing silently. Eve took the barely touched glass, waited, let the first wave of grief and shock roll. “Was it a difficult divorce? Was your father angry?”

“Baffled. Confused. Sad. He wanted her back, and always said this was just one of her phases. He—” The question behind the question abruptly struck her. She lowered her hands. “He would never hurt her. Never, never, never. He loved her. Everyone did. You couldn’t help it.”

“Okay.” Eve would deal with that later. “You and your mother were close?”

“Yes, very close.”

“Did she ever talk to you about her clients?”

“Sometimes. It embarrassed me, but she’d find a way to make it all so outrageously funny. She could do that. Called herself Granny Sex, and you had to laugh.”

“Did she ever mention anyone who made her uneasy?”

“No. She could handle people. It was part of her charm. She was only going to do this until she was published.”

“Did she ever mention the names Sharon DeBlass or Lola Starr?”

“No.” Samantha started to drag her hair back, then her hand froze in midair. “Starr, Lola Starr. I heard, on the news, I heard about her. She was murdered. Oh God. Oh God.” She lowered her head and her hair fell in wings to shield her face.

“I’m going to have an officer take you home, Samantha.”

“I can’t leave. I can’t leave her.”

“Yes. you can. I’m going to take care of her.” Eve laid her hands over Samantha’s. “I promise you, I’ll take care of her for you. Come on now.” Gently, she helped Samantha to her feet. She wrapped an arm around the distraught woman’s waist as she led her to the door. She wanted her out before the team had finished in the bedroom. “Is your husband home?”

“Yes. He’s home with the children. We have two children. Two years, and six months. Tony’s home with the children.”

“Good. What’s your address?”

The shock was settling in. Eve hoped the numbness she could read on Samantha’s face would help as the woman recited an upscale address in Westchester.

“Officer Banks.”

“Yes, lieutenant.”

“Take Mrs. Bennett home. I’ll call for another officer for the door. Stay with the family as long as you’re needed.”

“Yes, sir.” With compassion, Banks guided Samantha toward the elevators. “This way, Mrs. Bennett,” she murmured.

Samantha leaned drunkenly on Banks. “You’ll take care of her?”

Eve met Samantha’s ravaged eyes. “I promise.”

• • •

An hour later, Eve walked into the station house with a cat under her arm.

“Hey there, lieutenant, caught yourself a cat burglar.” The desk sergeant snorted at his own humor.

“You’re a laugh riot, Riley. Commander still here?”

“He’s waiting for you. You’re to go up as soon as you show.” He leaned forward to scratch the purring cat. “Hooked yourself another homicide?”

“Yeah.”

A kissing sound had her glancing over at a leering hunk in a spandex jumpsuit. The jumpsuit, and the blood trickling at the side of his mouth were approximately the same color. His accessories were a set of thin, black restraints that secured one arm to a nearby bench. He rubbed his crotch with his free hand and winked at her.

“Hey, baby. Got something here for you.”

“Tell Commander Whitney I’m on my way,” she told Riley as the desk sergeant rolled his eyes.

Unable to resist, she swung by the bench, leaned close enough to smell sour vomit. “That was a charming invitation,” she murmured, then arched a brow when the man peeled open his fly patch and wagged his personality at her. “Oh, look, kitty. A teeny-tiny little penis.” She smiled, leaned just a bit closer. “Better take care of it, asshole, or my pussy here might mistake it for a teeny-tiny little mouse and bite it off.”

It made her feel better to see what there was of his pride and joy shrivel before he closed his flaps. The good humor lasted almost until she stepped into the elevator and ordered Commander Whitney’s floor.

He was waiting, with Feeney, and the report she’d transmitted directly from the crime scene. In the nature of the repetition required in police work, she went over the same ground verbally.

“So that’s the cat,” Feeney said.

“I didn’t have the heart to dump him on the daughter in the state she was in.” Eve shrugged. “And I couldn’t very well just leave him there.” With her free hand, she reached into her bag. “Her discs. Everything’s labeled. I scanned through her appointments. The last one of the day was at six-thirty. John Smith. The weapon.” She laid the bagged weapon on Commander Whitney’s desk. “Looks like Ruger P-ninety.”

Feeney took a look, nodded. “You’re learning, kid.”

“I’ve been boning up.”

“Early twenty-first, probably oh eight, oh nine.” Feeney stated as he turned the sealed weapon in his hands. “Prime condition. Serial number’s intact. Won’t take long to run it,” he added, but moved his shoulders. “But he’s too smart to use a registered.”

“Run it,” Whitney ordered, and gestured to the auxiliary unit across the room. “I’ve got surveillance on your building, Dallas. If he tries to slip you another disc, we’ll spot him.”

“If he stays true to form, it’ll be within twenty-four hours. He’s holding to the pattern so far, though each of his victims has been a distinctly different type: with DeBlass you’ve got the glitz, the sophistication; with Starr you’ve got fresh, childlike; and with this one, we’ve got comfort, still young but mature.

“We’re still interviewing neighbors, and I’m going to hit the family again, look into the divorce. It looks to me like she took this guy spur of the moment. She had a standing date with her daughter for Tuesdays. I’d like Feeney to run her ’link, see if he called her direct. We’re not going to be able to keep this from the media, commander. And they’re going to hit us hard.”

“I’m already working on media control.”

“It may be hotter than we think.” Feeney looked up from the terminal. His eyes lingered on Eve’s, made her blood chill.

“The murder weapon’s registered. Purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s last fall. Roarke.”

Eve didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t care. “It breaks pattern,” she managed. “And it’s stupid. Roarke’s not a stupid man.”

“Lieutenant—”

“It’s a plant, commander. An obvious one. A silent auction. Any second-rate hacker can use someone’s ID and bid. How was it paid for?” she snapped at Feeney.

“I’ll need to access Sotheby’s records after they open tomorrow.”

“My bet’s cash, electronic transfer. The auction house gets the money, why should they question it?” Her voice might have been calm, but her mind was racing. “And the delivery. Odds are electronic pick-up station. You don’t need ID for an EPS; all you do is key in the delivery code.”

“Dallas.” Whitney spoke patiently. “Pick him up for questioning.”

“I can’t.”

His eyes remained level, cool. “That’s a direct order. If you have a personal problem, save it for personal time.”

“I can’t pick him up,” she repeated. “He’s on the FreeStar space station, a fair distance from the murder scene.”

“If he put out that he’d be on FreeStar—”

“He didn’t,” she interrupted. “And that’s where the killer made a mistake. Roarke’s trip is confidential, with only a few key people apprised. As far as it’s generally known, he’s right here in New York.”

Commander Whitney inclined his head. “Then we’d better check his whereabouts. Now.”

Her stomach churned as she engaged Whitney’s ’link. Within seconds she was listening to Summerset’s prune voice. “Summerset, Lieutenant Dallas. I have to contact Roarke.”

“Roarke is in meetings, lieutenant. He can’t be disturbed.”

“He told you to put me through, goddamn it. This is police business. Give me his access number or I’m coming over there and hauling your bony ass in for obstructing justice.”

Summerset’s face puckered up. “I am not authorized to give out that data. I will, however, transfer you. Please stand by.”

Eve’s palms began to sweat as the screen went to holding blue. She wondered whose idea it was to pipe in the sugary music. Certainly not Roarke’s. He had too much class.

Oh God, what was she going to do if he wasn’t where he said he’d be?

The blue screen contracted into a pinpoint, then opened up. There was Roarke, a trace of impatience in his eyes, a half smile on his mouth.

“Lieutenant. You’ve caught me at a bad time. Can I get back to you?”

“No.” She could see from the corner of her eye that Feeney was already tracing the transmission. “I need to verify your whereabouts.”

“My whereabouts?” His brow cocked. He must have seen something in her face, though Eve would have sworn she kept it as smooth and unreadable as stone. “What’s wrong, Eve? What’s happened?”

“Your whereabouts, Roarke. Please verify.”

He remained silent, studying her. Eve heard someone speak to him. He flicked away the interruption with a dismissing gesture. “I’m in the middle of a meeting in the presidential chamber of Station FreeStar, the location of which is Quadrant Six, Slip Alpha. Scan,” he ordered, and the intergalactic ’link circled the room. A dozen men and women sat at a wide, circular table.

The long, bowed port showed a scatter of stars and the perfect blue-green globe of Earth.

“Location of transmission confirmed,” Feeney said in an undertone. “He’s just where he says he is.”

“Roarke, please switch to privacy mode.”

Without a flicker of expression, he lifted a headset. “Yes, lieutenant?”

“A weapon registered to you was confiscated at a homicide. I have to ask you to come in for questioning at the first possible opportunity. You’re free to bring your attorney. I’m advising you to bring your attorney,” she added, hoping he understood the emphasis. “If you don’t comply within forty-eight hours, the Station Guard will escort you back on-planet. Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Certainly. I’ll make arrangements. Good-bye, lieutenant.”

The screen went blank.

chapter fourteen

More shaken than she cared to admit, Eve entered Dr. Mira’s office the following morning. At Mira’s invitation, she took a seat, folded her hands to keep them from any telltale restless movements.

“Have you had time to profile?”

“You requested urgent status.” Indeed, Mira had been up most of the night, reading reports, using her training and her psych diagnostics to compose a profile. “I’d like more time to work on this, but I can give you an overall view.”

“Okay.” Eve leaned forward. “What is he?”

“He is almost certainly correct. Traditionally, crimes of this nature are not committed within the same sex. He’s a man, above average intelligence, with sociopathic and voyeuristic tendencies. He’s bold, but not a risk taker, though he probably sees himself as such.”

In her graceful way, she linked her fingers together, crossed her legs. “His crimes are well thought out. Whether or not he has sex with his victims is incidental. His pleasure and satisfaction comes from the selection, the preparation, and the execution.”

“Why prostitutes?”

“Control. Sex is control. Death is control. And he needs to control people, situations. The first murder was probably impulse.”

“Why?”

“He was caught off guard by the violence, his own capability of violence. He had a reaction, a jerk of a movement, the indrawn breath, the shaky exhale. He recovered, systematically protected himself. He doesn’t want to be caught, but he wants—needs to be admired, feared. Hence the recordings.

“He uses collector’s weapons,” she continued in that same moderate voice, “a status symbol of money. Again, power and control. He leaves them behind so that they can show he’s unique among men. He appreciates the overt violence of guns and the impersonal aspect of them. The kill from a comfortable distance, the aloofness of that. He’s decided on the number he’ll kill to show that he’s organized, precise. Ambitious.”

“Could he have had the six women in mind from the beginning? Six targets?”

“The only verified connection between the three victims is their profession,” Mira began, and saw that Eve had already reached the same conclusion, but wanted it confirmed. “He had the profession in mind. It would be my opinion the women are incidental. It’s likely he holds a high-level position, certainly a responsible one. If he has a sexual or marriage partner, he or she is subservient. His opinion of women is low. He debases and humiliates them after death to show his disgust and his superiority. He doesn’t perceive these as crimes but as moments of personal power, personal statement.

“The prostitute, male or female, remains a profession of low esteem in many minds. Women are not his equals; a prostitute is beneath his contempt, even when he uses her for his own release. He enjoys his work, lieutenant. He enjoys it very much.”

“Is it work, doctor, or a mission?”

“He has no mission. Only ambitions. It isn’t religion, not a moral statement, not a societal stance.”

“No, the statement’s personal, the stance is control.”

“I would agree,” Mira said, pleased with the straightforward workings of Eve’s mind. “It is, to him, an interest, a new and somewhat fascinating hobby that he has discovered himself adept at. He’s dangerous, lieutenant, not simply because he has no conscience, but because he’s good at what he does. And his success feeds him.”

“He’ll stop at six,” Eve murmured. “With this method. But he’ll find another creative way to kill. He’s too vain to go back on his word to the authorities, but he’s enjoying his hobby too much to give it up.”

Mira angled her head. “One would think, lieutenant, that you’ve already read my report. I believe you’re coming to understand him very well.”

Eve nodded. “Yeah, piece by piece.” There was a question she had to ask, one she had suffered over through a long, sleepless night. “To protect himself, to make the game more difficult, would he hire someone, pay someone to kill a victim he’d chosen while he was alibied?”

“No.” Mira’s eyes softened with compassion as she watched Eve’s close in relief. “In my opinion, he needs to be there. To watch, to record, most of all to experience. He doesn’t want vicarious satisfaction. Nor does he believe you’ll outsmart him. He enjoys watching you sweat, lieutenant. He’s an observer of people, and I believe he focused on you the moment he learned you were primary. He studies you, and knows you care. He sees that as a weakness to exploit, and does so by presenting you with the murders—not at your place of work, but where you live.”

“He sent the last disc. It was in my morning mail drop, posted from a midtown slot about an hour after the murder. We had my building under surveillance. He’d have figured that and found a way to get around it.”

“He’s a born button pusher.” Mira handed Eve a disc and a hard copy of the initial profile. “He is an intelligent and a mature man. Mature enough to restrain his impulses, a man of means and imagination. He would rarely show his emotions, rarely have them to show. It’s an intellect with him—and, as you said, vanity.”

“I appreciate you getting this for me so quickly.”

“Eve,” Mira said before Eve could rise. “There’s an addendum. The weapon that was left at the last murder. The man who committed these crimes would not make so foolish a mistake to leave a traceable weapon behind. The diagnostic rejected it at a probability of ninety-three point four percent.”

“It was there,” Eve said flatly. “I bagged it myself.”

“As I’m sure he wanted you to. It’s likely he enjoyed implicating someone else to further bog the system, twist the investigation process. And it’s likely he chose this particular person to upset you, to distract you, even to hurt you. I’ve included that in the profile. Personally, I want to tell you that I’m concerned about his interest in you.”

“I’m going to see to it that he’s a hell of a lot more concerned with my interest in him. Thank you, doctor.”

Eve went directly to Whitney’s office to deliver the psychiatric profile. With any luck at all, Feeney would have verified her suspicions about the purchase and delivery of the murder weapon.

If she was right, and she had to believe she was, that and the weight of Mira’s profile would clear Roarke.

She already knew, by the way Roarke had looked at her—through her—during their last transmission, that her professional duties had destroyed whatever personal bridge they’d been building.

She was only more sure of it when she was cleared into the office, and found Roarke there.

He must have used a private transport, she decided. It would have been impossible for him to have arrived so quickly through normal channels. He only inclined his head, said nothing as she crossed to give Commander Whitney the disc and file.

“Dr. Mira’s profile.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.” His eyes shifted to Roarke’s. “Lieutenant Dallas will show you to an interview area. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Still, he said nothing, only rose and waited for Eve to go to the door. “You’re entitled to have your attorney present,” she began as she called for an elevator.

“I’m aware of that. Am I being charged with any crime, lieutenant?”

“No.” Cursing him, she stepped inside, requested Area B. “This is just standard procedure.” His silence continued until she wanted to scream. “Damn it, I don’t have a choice here.”

“Don’t you?” he murmured and preceded her out of the car when the doors opened.

“This is my job.” The doors of the interview area whisked open, then snapped closed behind them. The surveillance cameras any petty thief would know were hidden in every wall engaged automatically. Eve took a seat at a small table and waited for him to sit across from her.

“These proceedings are being recorded. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, ID 5347BQ, interviewer. Subject, Roarke. Initial date and time. Subject has waived the presence of an attorney. Is that correct?”

“Yes, the subject has waived the presence of an attorney.”

“Are you acquainted with a licensed companion, Georgie Castle?”

“No.”

“Have you been to 156 West Eighty-ninth Street?”

“No, I don’t believe I have.”

“Do you own a Ruger P-ninety, automatic combat weapon, circa 2005?”

“It’s likely that I own a weapon of that make and era. I’d have to check to be certain. But for argument’s sake, we’ll say I do.”

“When did you purchase said weapon?”

“Again, I’d have to check.” He never blinked, never took his eyes from hers. “I have an extensive collection, and don’t carry all the details of it in my head or in my pocket log.”

“Did you purchase said weapon at Sotheby’s?”

“It’s possible. I often add to my collection through auctions.”

“Silent auctions?”

“Occasionally.”

Her stomach, already knotted, began to roll. “Did you add to your collection with the aforesaid weapon at a silent auction at Sotheby’s on October second of last year?”

Roarke slipped his log out of his pocket, skimmed back to the date. “No. I don’t have a record of that. It seems I was in Tokyo on that date, engaged in meetings. You can verify that easily.”

Damn you, damn you, she thought. You know that’s no answer. “Representatives are often used in auctions.”

“They are.” Watching her dispassionately, he tucked the log away again. “If you check with Sotheby’s, you’ll be told that I don’t use representatives. When I decide to acquire something, it’s because I’ve seen it—with my own eyes. Gauged its worth to me. If and when I decide to bid, I do so personally. In a silent auction, I would either attend, or participate by ’link.”

“Isn’t it traditional to use a sealed electronic bid, or a representative authorized to go to a certain ceiling?”

“I don’t worry about traditions overmuch. The fact is, I could change my mind as to whether I want something. For one reason or another, it could lose its appeal.”

She understood the underlying meaning of his statement, tried to accept that he was done with her. “The aforesaid weapon, registered in your name and purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s in October of last year was used to murder Georgie Castle at approximately seven-thirty last evening.”

“You and I both know I wasn’t in New York at seven-thirty last evening.” His gaze skimmed over her face. “You traced the transmission, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “Your weapon was found at the scene.”

“Have we established it was mine?”

“Who has access to your collection?”

“I do. Only I do.”

“Your staff?”

“No. If you recall, lieutenant, my display cases are locked. Only I have the code.”

“Codes can be broken.”

“Unlikely, but possible,” he agreed. “However, unless my palm print is used for entry, any case that is opened by any means triggers an alarm.”

Goddamn it, give me an opening. Couldn’t he see she was pleading with him, trying to save him? “Alarm’s can be bypassed.”

“True. When any case is opened without my authorization, all entry to the room is sealed off. There’s no way to get out, and security is notified simultaneously. I can assure you, lieutenant, it’s quite foolproof. I believe in protecting what’s mine.”

She glanced up as Feeney came in. He jerked his head, and she rose.

“Excuse me.”

When the doors shut behind them, he dipped his hands into his pockets. “You called it, Dallas. Electronic bid, cash deal, delivered to an EPS. The head snoot at Sotheby’s claims this was an unusual procedure for Roarke. He always attends in person, or by direct ’link. Never used this line before in the fifteen years or so he’s dealt with them.”

She allowed herself one satisfied breath. “That checks with Roarke’s statement. What else?”

“Ran an undercheck on the registration. The Ruger only appeared on the books in Roarke’s name a week ago. No way in hell we can pin it on him. The commander says to spring him.”

She couldn’t afford to be relieved, not yet, and only nodded. “Thanks, Feeney.”

She slipped back inside. “You’re free to go.”

He stood as she stepped backward through the open door. “Just like that?”

“We have no reason, at this time, to detain or inconvenience you any further.”

“Inconvenience?” He walked toward her until the doors snicked shut at his back. “Is that what you call this? An inconvenience?”

He was, she told herself entitled to his anger, to his bitterness. She was obliged to do her job. “Three women are dead. Every possibility has to be explored.”

“And I’m just one of your possibilities?” He reached out, the sudden violent movement of his hands closing over her shirt, surprising her. “Is that what it comes down to between us?”

“I’m a cop. I can’t afford to overlook anything, to assume anything.”

“To trust,” he interrupted. “Anything. Or anyone. If it had leaned a little the other way, would you have locked me up? Would you have put me in a cage, Eve?”

“Back off.” Eyes blazing, Feeney strode down the corridor. “Back fucking off.”

“Leave us alone, Feeney.”

“Hell I will.” Ignoring Eve, he shoved against Roarke. “Don’t you come down on her, big shot. She went to bat for you. And the way things stand, it could have cost her the job. Simpson’s already prepping her as sacrificial lamb because she was dumb enough to sleep with you.”

“Shut up, Feeney.”

“Goddamn it, Dallas.”

“I said shut up.” Calm again, detached, she looked at Roarke. “The department appreciates your cooperation,” she said to Roarke and, prying his hand from her shirt, turned and hurried off.

“What the hell did you mean by that?” Roarke demanded.

Feeney only snorted. “I got better things to do than waste my time on you.”

Roarke backed him into a wall. “You’re going to be free to book me for assaulting an officer in about two breaths, Feeney. Tell me what you meant about Simpson?”

“You want to know, big shot?” Feeney looked around for a place of comparative privacy, jerked a head toward the door of a men’s room. “Come into my office, and I’ll tell you.”

She had the cat for company. Eve was already regretting the fact that she’d have to turn the useless, overweight feline over to Georgie’s family. She should have done so already, but found solace in even a pitiful furball’s worth of companionship.

Nonetheless, she was nothing but irritated by the beep of her intercom. Human company was not welcomed. Particularly, as she checked her viewing screen, Roarke.

She was raw enough to take the coward’s way. Leaving the summons unanswered, she walked back to the couch, curled up with the cat. If she’d had a blanket handy, she’d have pulled it over her head.

The sound of her locks disengaging moments later had her springing to her feet. “You son of a bitch,” she said when Roarke walked in. “You cross too many lines.”

He simply tucked his master code back in his pocket. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to see you.” She hated that her voice sounded desperate rather than angry. “Take a hint.”

“I don’t like being used to hurt you.”

“You do fine on your own.”

“You expect me to have no reaction when you accuse me of murder? When you believe it?”

“I never believed it.” It came out in a hiss, a passionate whisper. “I never believed it,” she repeated. “But I put my personal feelings aside and did my job. Now get out.”

She headed for the door. When he grabbed her, she swung out, fast and hard. He didn’t even attempt to block the blow. Calmly he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand while she stood rigid, her breathing fast and audible.

“Go ahead,” he invited. “Take another shot. You needn’t worry. I don’t hit women—or murder them.”

“Just leave me alone.” She turned away, gripped the back of the sofa where the cat sat eyeing her coolly. The emotions were welling up, threatening to fill her chest to bursting. “You’re not going to make me feel guilty for doing what I had to do.”

“You sliced me in two, Eve.” It infuriated him anew to admit it, to know she could so easily devastate him. “Couldn’t you have told me you believe in me?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “God, don’t you realize it would have been worse if I had? If Whitney couldn’t believe I’d be objective, if Simpson even got a whiff that I showed you any degree of preferential treatment, it would have been worse. I couldn’t have moved on the psych profile so fast. Couldn’t have put Feeney on a priority basis to check the trail of the weapon to eliminate probable cause.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t thought.” When he laid a hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it off, turned on him with blazing eyes.

“Goddamn it, I told you to bring an attorney. I told you. If Feeney hadn’t hit the right buttons, they could have held you. You’re only out because he did, and the profile didn’t fit.”

He touched her again; she jerked back again. “It appears I didn’t need an attorney. All I needed was you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She battled control back into place. “It’s done. The fact that you have an unassailable alibi for the time of the murder, and that the gun was an obvious plant shifts the focus away from you.” She felt sick, unbearably tired. “It may not eliminate you completely, but Dr. Mira’s profiles are gold. Nobody overturns her diagnostics. She’s eliminated you, and that carries a lot of weight with the department and the PA.”

“I wasn’t worried about the department or the PA.”

“You should have been.”

“It seems you’ve worried enough for me. I’m very sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“I’ve seen shadows under your eyes too often since I’ve known you.” He traced a thumb along them. “I don’t like being responsible for the ones I see now.”

“I’m responsible for myself.”

“And I had nothing to do with putting your job in jeopardy?”

Damn Feeney, she thought viciously. “I make my own decisions. I pay my own consequences.”

Not this time, he thought. Not alone. “The night after we’d been together, I called. I could see you were worried, but you brushed it off. Feeney told me exactly why you were worried that night. Your angry friend wanted to pay me back for making you unhappy. He did.”

“Feeney had no right—”

“Perhaps not. He wouldn’t have had to if you’d confided in me.” He took both her arms to stop her quick movement. “Don’t turn away from me,” he warned, his voice low. “You’re good at shutting people out, Eve. But it won’t work with me.”

“What did you expect, that I’d come crying to you? ‘Roarke, you seduced me, and now I’m in trouble. Help.’ The hell with that, you didn’t seduce me. I went to bed with you because I wanted to. Wanted to enough that I didn’t think about ethics. I got slammed for it, and I’m handling it. I don’t need help.”

“Don’t want it, certainly.”

“Don’t need it.” She wouldn’t humiliate herself by struggling away now, but stood passive. “The commander’s satisfied that you’re not involved in the murders. You’re clear, so other than what the department will officially term an error in judgment on my part, so am I. If I’d been wrong about you, it’d be different.”

“If you’d been wrong about me, it would have cost you your badge.”

“Yes. I’d have lost my badge. I’d have lost everything. I’d have deserved to. But it didn’t happen, so it’s over. Move on.”

“Do you really think I’m going to walk away?”

It weakened her, that soft, gentle lilt that came into his voice. “I can’t afford you, Roarke. I can’t afford to get involved.”

He stepped forward, laid his hands on the back of the couch, caged her in. “I can’t afford you, either. It doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Look—”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he murmured. “Very sorry that I didn’t trust you, then accused you of not trusting me.”

“I didn’t expect you to think any differently. To act any differently.”

That stung more than the blow to the face. “No. I’m sorry for that, too. You risked a great deal for me. Why?”

There were no easy answers. “I believed you.”

He pressed his lips to her brow. “Thank you.”

“It was a judgment call,” she began, letting out a shaky breath when he touched his mouth to her cheek.

“I’m going to stay with you tonight.” Then to her temple. “I’m going to see that you sleep.”

“Sex as a sedative?”

He frowned, but brushed his lips lightly over hers. “If you like.” He lifted her off her feet, flustering her. “Let’s see if we can find the right dosage.”

Later, with the lights still on low, he watched her. She slept facedown, a limp sprawl of exhaustion. To please himself, he stroked a hand down her back—smooth skin, slim bones, lean muscle. She didn’t stir.

Experimentally, he let his fingers comb through her hair. Thick as mink pelt, shades of aged brandy and old gold, poorly cut. It made him smile as he traced those fingers over her lips. Full, firm, fiercely responsive.

However surprised he was that he’d been able to take her beyond what she’d experienced before, he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that had, unknowingly, taken him.

How much farther, he wondered, would they go?

He knew it had ripped him when he’d believed she’d thought him guilty. The sense of betrayal, disillusionment was huge, weakening, and something he hadn’t felt in too many years to count.

She’d taken him back to a point of vulnerability he’d escaped from. She could hurt him. They could hurt each other. That was something he would have to consider carefully.

But at the moment, the pressing question was who wanted to hurt them both. And why.

He was still gnawing at the problem when he took her hand, linked fingers, and let himself slide into sleep with her.

chapter fifteen

He was gone when she woke. It was better that way. Mornings after carried a casual intimacy that made her nervous. She was already more involved with him than she had ever been with anyone. That click between them had the potential, she knew, to reverberate through the rest of her life.

She took a quick shower, bundled into a robe, then headed into the kitchen. There was Roarke, in trousers and a shirt he’d yet to button, scanning the morning paper on her monitor.

Looking, she realized with a quick tug-of-war of delight and dismay, very much at home.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmmm?” He glanced up, reached behind him to open the AutoChef. “Making you coffee.”

“Making me coffee?”

“I heard you moving around.” He took the cups out, carried them to where she was still hovering in the doorway. “You don’t do that often enough.”

“Move around?”

“No.” He chuckled and touched her lips to hers. “Smile at me. Just smile at me.”

Was she smiling? She hadn’t realized. “I thought you’d left.” She walked around the small table, glanced at the monitor. The stock reports. Naturally. “You must have gotten up early.”

“I had some calls to make.” He watched her, enjoying the way she raked her fingers through her damp hair. A nervous habit he was certain she was unaware of. He picked up the portalink he’d left on the table, slipped it back into his pocket. “I had a conference call scheduled with the station—five A.M. our time.”

“Oh.” She sipped her coffee, wondering how she had ever lived without the zip of the real thing in the morning. “I know those meetings were important. I’m sorry.”

“We’d managed to hammer down most of the details. I can handle the rest from here.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No.”

She turned to the AutoChef, fiddled with her rather limited menu. “I’m out of most everything. Want a bagel or something?”

“Eve.” Roarke set his coffee down, laid his hands on her shoulders. “Why don’t you want me to know you’re pleased I’m staying?”

“Your alibi holds. It’s none of my business if you—” She broke off when he turned her to face him. He was angry. She could see it in his eyes and prepared for the argument to come. She hadn’t prepared for the kiss, the way his mouth closed firmly over hers, the way her heart rolled over slow and dreamy in her chest.

So she let herself be held, let her head nestle in the curve of his shoulder. “I don’t know how to handle this,” she murmured. “I don’t have any precedent here. I need rules, Roarke. Solid rules.”

“I’m not a case you need to solve.”

“I don’t know what you are. But I know this is going too fast. It shouldn’t have even started. I shouldn’t have been able to get started with you.”

He drew her back so that he could study her face. “Why?”

“It’s complicated. I have to get dressed. I have to get to work.”

“Give me something.” His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “I don’t know what you are, either.”

“I’m a cop,” she blurted out. “That’s all I am. I’m thirty years old and I’ve only been close to two people in my entire life. And even with them, it’s easy to hold back.”

“Hold back what?”

“Letting it matter too much. If it matters too much, it can grind you down until you’re nothing. I’ve been nothing. I can’t be nothing ever again.”

“Who hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. She did. “I don’t remember, and I don’t want to remember. I’ve been a victim, and once you have, you need to do whatever it takes not to be one again. That’s all I was before I got into the academy. A victim, with other people pushing the buttons, making the decisions, pushing me one way, pulling me another.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“That’s what’s happening.”

There were questions he needed to ask. Questions, he could see by her face, that needed to wait. Perhaps it was time he took a risk. He dipped a hand into his pocket, drew out what he carried there.

Baffled, Eve stared down at the simple gray button in his palm. “That’s off my suit.”

“Yes. Not a particularly flattering suit—you need stronger colors. I found it in my limo. I meant to give it back to you.”

“Oh.” But when she reached out, he closed his fingers over the button.

“A very smooth lie.” Amused, he laughed at himself. “I had no intention of giving it back to you.”

“You got a button fetish, Roarke?”

“I’ve been carrying this around like a schoolboy carries a lock of his sweetheart’s hair.”

Her eyes came back to his, and something sweet moved through her. Sweeter yet as she could see he was embarrassed. “That’s weird.”

“I thought so, myself.” But he slipped the button back in his pocket. “Do you know what else I think, Eve?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

She felt the color drain out of her cheeks, felt her muscles go lax, even as her heart shot like a missile to her throat. “That’s . . .”

“Yes, difficult to come up with the proper word, isn’t it?” He slid his hands down her back, up again, but brought her no closer. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and haven’t hit on one myself. But I should circle back to my point.”

She moistened her lips. “There’s a point?”

“A very interesting and important point. I’m every bit as much in your hands as you are in mine. Every bit as uncomfortable, though perhaps not as resistant, to finding myself in that position. I’m not going to let you walk away until we’ve figured out what to do about it.”

“It, ah, complicates things.”

“Outrageously,” he agreed.

“Roarke, we don’t even know each other. Outside of the bedroom.”

“Yes, we do. Two lost souls. We’ve both turned away from something and made ourselves something else. It’s hardly a wonder that fate decided to throw a curve into what had been, for both of us, a straight path. We have to decide how far we want to follow the curve.”

“I have to concentrate on the investigation. It has to be my priority.”

“I understand. But you’re entitled to a personal life.”

“My personal life, this part of it, grew out of the investigation. And the killer’s making it more personal. Planting that gun so that suspicion would swing toward you was a direct response to my involvement with you. He’s focused on me.”

Roarke’s hand jerked up to the lapels of her robe. “What do you mean?”

Rules, she reminded herself. There were rules. And she was about to break them. “I’ll tell you what I can while I’m getting dressed.”

Eve went to the bedroom with the cat sliding and weaving in front of her. “Do you remember that night you were here when I got home? The package that you’d found on the floor?”

“Yes, it upset you.”

With a half laugh she peeled out of her robe. “I’ve got a rep for having the best poker face in the station.”

“I made my first million gambling.”

“Really?” She tugged a sweater over her head, reminded herself not to be distracted. “It was a recording of Lola Starr’s murder. He sent me Sharon DeBlass’s as well.”

A cold lance of fear stabbed. “He was in your apartment.”

She was busy discovering she had no clean underwear and didn’t notice the iced edge of his voice. “Maybe, maybe not. I think not. No signs of forced entry. He could have shoved it under the door. That’s what he did the first time. He mailed Georgie’s disc. We had the building under surveillance.”

Resigned, she pulled slacks over bare skin. “He either knew it or smelled it. But he saw I got the discs, all three of them. He knew I was primary almost before I did.”

She searched for socks, got lucky, and found a pair that matched. “He called me, transmitted the video of Georgie Castle’s murder scene minutes after he’d whacked her.” She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on the socks. “He planted a weapon, made sure it was traceable. To you. Not to knock how inconvenient a murder charge would have made your life, Roarke, if I hadn’t had the commander behind me on this, I’d have been off the case, and out of the department in a blink. He knows what goes on inside Cop Central. He knows what’s going on in my life.”

“Fortunately, he didn’t know that I wasn’t even on the planet.”

“That was a break for both of us.” She located her boots, tugged them on. “But it’s not going to stop him.” She rose, picked up her holster. “He’s still going to try to get to me, and you’re his best bet.”

Roarke watched her automatically check her laser before strapping it on. “Why you?”

“He doesn’t have a high opinion of women. I’d have to say it burns his ass to have a female heading the investigation. It lowers his status.” She shrugged, raked her fingers through her hair to whip it into place. “At least that’s the shrink’s opinion.”

Philosophically, she pried the cat free when he started to climb up her leg, gave him a light toss to the bed where he turned his butt in her direction and began to wash.

“And is it the shrink’s opinion that he could try to eliminate you by more direct means?”

“I don’t fit the pattern.”

Fighting back the slippery edge of fear, Roarke fisted his hands in his pockets. “And if he breaks the pattern?”

“I can handle myself.”

“It’s worth risking your life for three women who are already dead?”

“Yes.” She heard the fury pulsing in his voice and faced it. “It’s worth risking my life to find justice for three women who are already dead, and to try to prevent three more from dying. He’s only half through. He’s left a note under each body. He’s wanted us to know, right from the start that he had a plan. And he’s daring us to stop him. One of six, two of six, three of six. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him from having the fourth.”

“Full-out guts. That’s what I first admired about you. Now it terrifies me.”

For the first time she moved to him, laid a hand on his cheek. Almost as soon as she had, she dropped her hand and stepped back again, embarrassed. “I’ve been a cop for ten years, Roarke, never had more than some bumps and bruises. Don’t worry about it.”

“I think you’re going to have to get used to having someone worry about you, Eve.”

That hadn’t been the plan. She walked out of the bedroom to get her jacket and bag. “I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand what I’m up against. Why I can’t split my energies and start analyzing what’s between us.”

“There’ll always be cases.”

“I hope to God there won’t always be cases like this one. This isn’t murder for gain, or out of passion. It isn’t desperate or frenzied. It’s cold and calculated. It’s . . .”

“Evil?”

“Yes.” It relieved her that he’d said it first. It didn’t sound so foolish. “Whatever we’ve done in genetic engineering, in vitro, with social programs, we still can’t control basic human failings: violence, lust, envy.”

“The seven deadly sins.”

She thought of the old woman and her poisoned pie. “Yeah. I’ve got to go.”

“Will you come to me when you’re off duty tonight?”

“I don’t know when I’ll log out. It could be—”

“Will you come?”

“Yeah.”

Then he smiled, and she knew he was waiting for her to make the move. She was sure he knew just how hard it was for her to cross to him, to bring her lips up, to press them, however casually, to his.

“See you.”

“Eve. You should have gloves.”

She decoded the door, tossed a quick smile over her shoulder. “I know—but I just keep losing them.”

Her up mood lasted until she walked into her office and found DeBlass and his aide waiting for her.

Deliberately, DeBlass stared at his gold watch. “More banker’s hours than police hours, Lieutenant Dallas.”

She knew damn well it was only minutes past eight, but shrugged out of her jacket. “Yeah, it’s a pretty lush life around here. Is there something I can do for you, senator?”

“I’m aware there’s been yet another murder. I’m obviously dissatisfied with your progress. However, I’m here for damage control. I do not want my granddaughter’s name linked with the two other victims.”

“You want Simpson for that, or his press secretary.”

“Don’t smirk at me, young woman.” DeBlass leaned forward. “My granddaughter is dead. Nothing can change that. But I will not have the DeBlass name sullied, muddied by the death of two common whores.”

“You seem to have a low opinion of women, senator.” She was careful not to smirk this time, but watched him, and considered.

“On the contrary; I revere them. Which is why those who sell themselves, those who disregard morality and common decency, revolt me.”

“Including your granddaughter?”

He lurched out of his chair, his face purpling, eyes bulging. Eve was quite certain he would have struck her if Rockman hadn’t stepped between them.

“Senator, the lieutenant is only baiting you. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“You will not besmirch my family.” DeBlass was breathing fast, and Eve wondered if he had any history of heart trouble. “My granddaughter paid dearly for her sins, and I will not see the rest of my loved ones dragged down into public ridicule. And I will not tolerate your vile insinuations.”

“Just trying to get my facts straight.” It was fascinating watching him battle for composure. He was having a rough time of it, she noted, hands shaking, chest heaving. “I’m trying to find the man who killed Sharon, senator. I assume that’s also high on your agenda.”

“Finding him won’t get her back.” He sat again, obviously exhausted by the outburst. “What’s important now is to protect what’s left. To do that, Sharon must be segregated from the other women.”

She didn’t like his opinion, but neither did she care for his color. It was still alarmingly high. “Can I get you some water, Senator DeBlass?”

He nodded, waved at her. Eve slipped into the corridor and dispensed a cup of bottled water. When she came back, his breathing was more regular, his hands a bit steadier.

“The senator has been overtaxing himself,” Rockman put in. “His Morals Bill goes before the House tomorrow. The pressure of this family tragedy is a great weight.”

“I appreciate that. I’m doing everything I can to close the case.” She tilted her head. “Political pressure is also a great weight on an investigation. I don’t care to be monitored on my personal time.”

Rockman gave her a mild smile. “I’m sorry. Could you qualify that?”

“I was monitored, and my personal relationship with a civilian reported to Chief Simpson. It’s no secret that Simpson and the senator are tight.”

“The senator and Chief Simpson have a personal and a political allegiance,” Rockman agreed. “However, it would hardly be ethical, or in the senator’s best interest, to monitor a member of the police force. I assure you, lieutenant, Senator DeBlass has been much too involved with his own grief and his responsibilities to the country to worry about your . . . personal relationships. It has come to our attention, however, through Chief Simpson, that you’ve had a number of liaisons with Roarke.”

“An amoral opportunist.” The senator set his cup aside with a snap. “A man who would stop at nothing to add to his own power.”

“A man,” Eve added, “who has been cleared of any connection with this investigation.”

“Money buys immunity,” DeBlass said in disgust.

“Not in this office. I’m sure you’ll request the report from the commander. In the meantime, whether or not it assuages your grief, I intend to find the man who killed your granddaughter.”

“I suppose I should commend your dedication.” DeBlass rose. “See that your dedication doesn’t jeopardize my family’s reputation.”

“What changed your mind, senator?” Eve wondered. “The first time we spoke, you threatened to have my job if I didn’t bring Sharon’s murderer to justice, and quickly.”

“She’s buried,” was all he said, and strode out.

“Lieutenant.” Rockman kept his voice low. “I will repeat that the pressure on Senator DeBlass is enormous, enough to crush a lesser man.” He let out a slow breath. “The fact is, it’s destroyed his wife. She’s had a breakdown.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The doctors don’t know if she’ll recover. This additional tragedy has his son crazed with grief; his daughter has closed herself off from her family and gone into retreat. The senator’s only hope of restoring his family is to let Sharon’s death, the horror of it, pass.”

“Then it might be wise for the senator to take a step back and leave due process to the department.”

“Lieutenant—Eve,” he said with that rare and quick flash of charm. “I wish I could convince him of that. But I believe that would be as fruitless an endeavor as convincing you to let Sharon rest in peace.”

“You’d be right.”

“Well then.” He laid a hand on her arm briefly. “We must all do what we can to set things right. It was good to see you again.”

Eve closed the door behind him and considered. DeBlass certainly had the kind of hair-trigger temper that could lead to violence. She was almost sorry he didn’t also have the control, the calculation, to have meticulously planned three murders.

In any case, she’d have a hard time connecting a rabidly right-wing senator to a couple of New York prostitutes.

Maybe he was protecting his family, she mused. Or maybe he was protecting Simpson, a political ally.

That was crap, Eve decided. He might work on Simpson’s behalf if the chief was involved in the Starr and Castle homicides. But a man didn’t protect the killer of his grandchild.

Too bad she wasn’t looking for two men, Eve mused. Regardless, she was going to do some pecking away at Simpson’s underpinnings.

Objectively, she warned herself. And it wouldn’t do to forget that there was a strong possibility that DeBlass didn’t know one of his favorite political cronies had been blackmailed by his only granddaughter.

She’d have to find out.

But for now, she had another hunch to follow. She located Charles Monroe’s number and put through a call.

His voice was smeared with sleep, his eyes heavy. “You spend all your time in bed, Charles?”

“All I can, Lieutenant Sugar.” He rubbed a hand over his face and grinned at her. “That’s how I think of you.”

“Well, don’t. Couple of questions.”

“Ah, can’t you come on over and ask in person? I’m warm and naked and all alone.”

“Pal, don’t you know there’s a law against soliciting a police officer?”

“I’m talking freebie here. I told you—we’d keep it strictly personal.”

“We’re keeping it strictly impersonal. You had an associate. Georgie Castle. Did you know her?”

The seductive smile faded from his face. “Yeah, actually, I did. Not well, but I met her at a party about a year ago. She was new in the business. Fun, attractive. Game, you know. We hit it off.”

“In what way?”

“In a friendly way. We had a drink now and again. Once when Sharon had an overbooking, I had her send a couple of clients Georgie’s way.”

“They knew each other.” Eva pounced on it. “Sharon and Gerogie?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I remember, Sharon contacted Georgie, asked her if she was interested in a couple of fresh tricks. Georgie gave it the green light, and that was that. Oh, yeah, Sharon said something about Georgie sending her a dozen roses. Real ones, like a thank-you gift. Sharon got a real kick out of the old-fashioned etiquette.”

“Just an old-fashioned girl,” Eve said under her breath.

“When I heard Georgie was dead, it hit hard. I gotta tell you. With Sharon it was a jolt, but not that much of a surprise. She lived on the edge. But Georgie, she was centered, you know?”

“I may need to follow up on this, Charles. Stay available.”

“For you—”

“Knock it off,” she ordered, before he could get cute. “What do you know about Sharon’s diaries?”

“She never let me read one,” he said easily. “I used to tease her about them. Seems to me she said she’d kept them since she was a kid. You got one? Hey, am I in it?”

“Where’d she keep them?”

“In her apartment, I guess. Where else?”

That was the question, Eve mused. “If you think of anything else about Georgie or about the diaries, contact me.”

“Day or night, Lieutenant Sugar. Count on me.”

“Right.” But she was laughing when she broke transmission.

The sun was just setting when she arrived at Roarke’s. She didn’t consider herself off duty. The favor she was going to ask had been simmering in her mind all day. She’d decided on it, rejected it, and generally vacillated until she’d disgusted herself.

In the end, she’d left the station for the first time in months right on the dot of the end of her shift. With what limited progress she’d made, she’d hardly needed to be there at all.

Feeney had hit nothing but a dead end in his search for a second lock box. He had, with obvious reluctance, given her the list of cops she’d requested. Eve intended to run a make on each of them—on her own time and in her own way.

With some regret, she realized she was going to use Roarke.

Summerset opened the door with his usual disdain. “You’re earlier than expected, lieutenant.”

“If he isn’t in, I can wait.”

“He’s in the library.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

Summerset permitted himself the tiniest huff. If Roarke hadn’t ordered him to show the woman in immediately he would have shuffled her off to some small, poorly lit room. “This way, please.”

“What exactly is it about me that rubs you wrong, Summerset?”

With his back poker straight, he led her up a flight and down the wide corridor. “I have no idea what you mean, lieutenant. The library,” he announced in reverent terms, and opened the door for her.

She’d never in her life seen so many books. She never would have believed so many existed outside of museums. The walls were lined with them so that the two-level room positively reeked with books.

On the lower level, on what was surely a leather sofa, Roarke lounged, a book in his hand, the cat on his lap.

“Eve. You’re early.” He set the book aside, picked up the cat as he rose.

“Jesus, Roarke, where did you get all these?”

“The books?” He let his gaze roam the room. Firelight danced and shifted over colorful spines. “Another of my interests. Don’t you like to read?”

“Sure, now and again. But discs are so much more convenient.”

“And so much less aesthetic.” He stroked the cat’s neck and sent him into ecstasy. “You’re welcome to borrow any you like.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about a drink?”

“I could handle that.”

His ’link beeped. “This is the call I’ve been waiting for. Why don’t you get us both a glass of wine I’ve had breathing over on the table?”

“Sure.” She took the cat from him and walked over to oblige. Because she wanted to eavesdrop, she forced herself to stay the length of the room away from where he sat murmuring.

It gave her a chance to browse the books, to puzzle over the titles. Some she had heard of. Even with a state education, she’d been required to read Steinbeck and Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens. The curriculum had taken her through King and Grisham, Morrison and Grafton.

But there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of names here she’d never heard of. She wondered if anyone could handle so many books, much less read them.

“I’m sorry,” he said when the call was complete. “That couldn’t wait.”

“No problem.”

He took the wine she’d poured him. “The cat’s becoming quite attached to you.”

“I don’t think he has any particular loyalties.” But Eve had to admit, she enjoyed the way he curled under her stroking hand. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about him. I called Georgie’s daughter and she said she just couldn’t face taking him. Pressing the matter only made her cry.”

“You could keep him.”

“I don’t know. You have to take care of pets.”

“Cats are remarkably self-sufficient.” He sat on the sofa and waited for her to join him. “Want to tell me about your day?”

“Not very productive. Yours?”

“Very productive.”

“A lot of books,” Eve said lamely, knowing she was stalling.

“I have an affection for them. I could barely read my name when I was six. Then I came across a battered copy of Yeats. An Irish writer of some note,” he said when Eve looked blank. “I badly wanted to figure it out, so I taught myself.”

“Didn’t you go to school?”

“Not if I could help it. You’ve got trouble in your eyes, Eve,” he murmured.

She blew out a breath. What was the use of stalling when he could see right through her? “I’ve got a problem. I want to do a run on Simpson. Obviously, I can’t go through channels or use either my home or office units. The minute I tried to dig on the chief of police, I’d be flagged.”

“And you’re wondering if I have a secured, unregistered system. Of course I do.”

“Of course,” she muttered. “A nonregistered system is in violation of Code four fifty-three-B, section thirty-five.”

“I can’t tell you how aroused it makes me when you quote codes, lieutenant.”

“It’s not funny. And what I’m going to ask you to do is illegal. It’s a serious offense to electronically breach the privacy of a state official.”

“You could arrest both of us afterward.”

“This is serious, Roarke. I go by the book, and now I’m asking you to help me break the law.”

He rose, drew her to her feet. “Darling Eve, you have no idea how many I’ve already broken.” He fetched the wine bottle, letting it dangle from two fingers of the hand he slipped around her waist. “I ran an underground dice game when I was ten,” he began, leading her from the room. “A legacy from my dear old father who’d earned himself a knife through the gullet in a Dublin alley.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We weren’t close. He was a bastard and no one loved him, least of all me. Summerset, we’ll have dinner at seven-thirty,” Roarke added as he turned toward the stairs. “But he taught me, by means of a fist to the face, to read the dice, the cards, the odds. He was a thief, not a good one, as his end proved. I was better. I stole, I cheated, I spent some time learning the smuggling trade. So you see, you’re hardly corrupting me with such a nominal request.”

She didn’t look at him as he decoded a locked door on the second floor. “Do you . . .”

“Do I steal, cheat, and smuggle now?” He turned and touched a hand to her face. “Oh, you’d hate that, wouldn’t you? I almost wish I could say yes, then give it all up for you. I learned a long time ago that there are gambles more exciting for their legitimacy. And winning is so much more satisfying when you’ve dealt from the top of the deck.”

He pressed a kiss to her brow, then stepped into the room. “But, we have to keep our hand in.”

chapter sixteen

Compared to the rest of the house she’d seen, this room was spartan, designed rigidly for work. No fancy statues, dripping chandeliers. The wide, U-shaped console, the base for communication, research, and information retrieving devices, was unrelieved black, studded with controls, sliced with slots and screens.

Eve had heard that IRCCA had the swankiest base system in the country. She suspected Roarke’s matched it.

Eve was no compu-jock, but she knew at a glance that the equipment here was vastly superior to any the New York Police and Security Department used—or could afford—even in the lofty Electronic Detection Division.

The long wall facing the console was taken up by six large monitor screens. A second, auxiliary station held a sleek little tele-link, a second laser fax, a hologram send-receive unit, and several other pieces of hardware she didn’t recognize.

The trio of comp stations boasted personal monitors with attached ’links.

The floor was glazed tile, the diamond patterns in muted colors that bled together like liquid. The single window looked over the city and pulsed with the last lights of the setting sun.

It seemed even here, Roarke demanded ambiance.

“Quite a setup,” Eve commented.

“Not quite as comfortable as my office, but it has the basics.” He moved behind the main console, placed his palm on the identiscreen. “Roarke. Open operations.”

After a discreet hum, the lights on the console glowed on. “New palm and voice print clearance,” he continued and gestured to Eve. “Cleared for yellow status.”

At his nod, Eve pressed her hand to the screen, felt the faint warmth of the reading. “Dallas.”

“There you are.” Roarke took his seat. “The system will accept your voice and hand commands.”

“What’s yellow status?”

He smiled. “Enough to give you everything you need to know—not quite enough to override my commands.”

“Hmmm.” She scanned the controls, the patiently blinking lights, the myriad screens and gauges. She wished for Feeney and his computer-minded brain. “Search on Edward T. Simpson, Chief of Police and Security, New York City. All financial data.”

“Going right to the heart,” Roarke murmured.

“I don’t have time to waste. This can’t be traced?”

“Not only can’t it be traced, but there’ll be no record of the search.”

“Simpson, Edward T.,” the computer announced in a warm, female tone. “Financial records. Searching.”

At Eve’s lifted brow, Roarke grinned. “I prefer to work with melodious voices.”

“I was going to ask,” she returned, “how you can access data without alerting the Compuguard.”

“No system’s foolproof, or completely breach resistant—even the ubiquitous Compuguard. The system is an excellent deterrent to your average hacker or electronic thief. But with the right equipment, it can be compromised. I have the right equipment. Here comes the data. On viewing screen one,” he ordered.

Eve glanced up and saw Simpson’s credit report flash onto the large monitor. It was the standard business: vehicle loans, mortgages, credit card balances. All the automatic E-transactions.

“That’s a hefty AmEx bill,” she mused. “And I don’t think it’s common knowledge he owns a place on Long Island.”

“Hardly murderous motives. He maintains a Class A rating, which means he pays what he owes. Ah, here’s a bank account. Screen two.”

Eve studied the numbers, dissatisfied. “Nothing out of line, pretty average deposits and withdrawals—mostly automatic bill paying transfers that jibe with the credit report. What’s Jeremy’s?”

“Men’s clothier,” Roarke told her with the smallest sneer of disdain. “Somewhat second rate.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hell of a lot to spend on clothes.”

“Darling, I’m going to have to corrupt you. It’s only too much if they’re inferior clothes.”

She sniffed, stuck her thumbs in the front pockets of her baggy brown trousers.

“Here’s his brokerage account. Screen three. Spineless,” Roarke added after a quick scan.

“What do you mean?”

“His investments, such as they are. All no risk. Government issue, a few mutual funds, a smattering of blue chip. Everything on-planet.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing if you’re content to let your money gather dust.” He slanted her a look. “Do you invest, lieutenant?”

“Yeah, right.” She was still trying to make sense of the abbreviations and percentage points. “I watch the stock reports twice a day.”

“Not a standard credit account.” He nearly shuddered.

“So what?”

“Give me what you have, I’ll double it within six months.”

She only frowned, struggling to read the brokerage report. “I’m not here to get rich.”

“Darling,” he corrected in that flowing Irish lilt. “We all are.”

“How about contributions, political, charities, that kind of thing?”

“Access tax saving outlay,” Roarke ordered. “Viewing screen two.”

She waited, impatiently tapping a hand on her thigh. Data scrolled on. “He puts his money where his heart is,” she muttered, scanning his payments to the Conservative Party, DeBlass’s campaign fund.

“Not particularly generous otherwise. Hmm.” Roarke’s brow lifted. “Interesting, a very hefty gift to Moral Values.”

“That’s an extremist group, isn’t it?”

“I’d call it that, the faithful prefer to think of it as an organization dedicated to saving all of us sinners from ourselves. DeBlass is a strong proponent.”

But she was flipping through her own mental files. “They’re suspected of sabotaging the main data banks at several large contraception control clinics.”

Roarke clucked his tongue. “All those women deciding for themselves if and when they want to conceive, how many children they want. What’s the world coming to? Obviously, someone has to bring them back to their senses.”

“Right.” Dissatisfied, Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. “It’s a dangerous connection for someone like Simpson. He likes to play middle of the road. He ran on a Moderate ticket.”

“Cloaking his Conservative ties and leanings. In the last few years he’s been cautiously removing the layers. He wants to be governor, perhaps believes DeBlass can put him there. Politics is a bartering game.”

“Politics. Sharon DeBlass’s blackmail disc was heavy on politicians. Sex, murder, politics,” Eve murmured. “The more things change . . .”

“Yes, the more they remain the same. Couples still indulge in courting rituals, humans still kill humans, and politicians still kiss babies and lie.”

Something wasn’t quite right, and she wished for Feeney again. Twentieth-century murders, she thought, twentieth-century motives. There was one other thing that hadn’t changed over the last millennium. Taxes.

“Can we get his IRS data? The past three years?”

“That’s a little trickier.” His mouth had already quirked up at the challenge.

“It’s also a federal offense. Listen, Roarke—”

“Just hold on a minute.” He pressed a button and a manual keyboard slipped out of the console. With some surprise, Eve watched his fingers fly over the keys. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Even with required department training, she was barely competent on manual.

“Here and there,” he said absently, “in my misspent youth. I have to get around the security. It’s going to take some time. Why don’t you pour us some more wine?”

“Roarke, I shouldn’t have asked.” An attack of conscience had her walking to him. “I can’t let this come back on you—”

“Ssh.” His brows drew together in concentration as he maneuvered his way through the security labyrinth.

“But—”

He head snapped up, impatience vivid in his eyes. “We’ve already opened the door, Eve. Now we go through, or we turn away from it.”

Eve thought of three women, dead because she hadn’t been able to stop it. Hadn’t known enough to stop it. With a nod, she turned away again. The clatter of the keyboard resumed.

She poured the wine, then moved to stand in front of the screens. Tidy as they came, she mused. Top credit rating, prompt payment of debts, conservative and, she assumed, relatively small investments. Surely that was more money than average spent on clothes, wine shops, and jewelry. But it wasn’t a crime to have expensive taste. Not when you paid for it. Even the second home wasn’t a criminal offense.

Some of the contributions were dicey for a registered Moderate, but still, not criminal.

She heard Roarke curse softly and looked back. But he was hunkered over the keyboard. She might not have been there. Odd, she wouldn’t have guessed he had the technical skills to access manually. According to Feeney, it was almost a lost art except in tech-clerks and hackers.

Yet here he was, the rich, the privileged, the elegant, clattering over a problem usually delegated to a low-paid, overworked office drone.

For a moment, she let herself forget about the business at hand and smiled at him.

“You know, Roarke, you’re kind of cute.”

She realized it was the first time she’d really surprised him. His head came up, and his eyes were startled—for perhaps two heartbeats. Then that sly smile came into them. The one that made her own pulse jitter.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, lieutenant. I’ve got you in.”

“No shit?” Excitement flooded through her as she whirled back to the screens. “Put it up.”

“Screens four, five, six.”

“There’s his bottom line.” She frowned over gross income. “It’s about right, wouldn’t you say—salarywise.”

“A bit of interest and dividends from investments.” Roarke scrolled pages. “A few honorariums for personal appearances and speeches. He lives close, but just within his means, according to all of the data shown.”

“Hell.” She tossed back wine. “What other data is there?”

“For a sharp woman, that’s an incredibly naive question. Underground accounts,” he explained. “Two sets of books is a tried and true and very traditional method of hiding illicit income.”

“If you had illicit income, why would you be stupid enough to document it?”

“A question for the ages. But people do. Oh yes, they do. Yes,” he said, answering her unspoken question as to his own bookkeeping methods. “Of course I do.”

She shot him a hard look. “I don’t want to know about it.”

He only moved his shoulders. “The point being, because I do, I know how it’s done. Everything’s above board here, wouldn’t you say?” With a few commands he had the IRS reports merged on one screen. “Now let’s go down a level. Computer, Simpson, Edward T., foreign accounts.”

“No known data.”

“There’s always more data,” Roarke murmured, undeterred. He went back to the keyboard, and something began to hum.

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s just telling me I’m hitting a wall.” Like a laborer, he flicked open the buttons at his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves. The gesture made Eve smile. “And if there’s a wall, there’s something behind it.”

He continued to work, one handed, and sipped his wine. When he repeated his command, the response had shifted.

“Data protected.”

“Ah, now we’ve got it.”

“How can you—”

“Ssh,” he ordered again and had Eve subsiding into impatient silence. “Computer, run numerical and alphabetical combinations for passkey.”

Pleased with the progress, he pushed back. “This will take a little time. Why don’t you come here?”

“Can you show me how you—” She broke off, shocked, when Roarke pulled her into his lap. “Hey, this is important.”

“So’s this.” He took her mouth, sliding his hand up her hip to just under the curve of her breast. “It could take an hour, maybe more, to find the key.” Those quick, clever hands were already moving under her sweater. “You don’t like to waste time, as I recall.”

“No, I don’t.” It was the first time in her life she’d ever sat on anyone’s lap, and the sensation wasn’t at all unpleasant. She was sinking, but the next mechanical hum had her pulling back. Speechless, she stared at the bed gliding out of a panel in the side wall. “The man who has everything,” she managed.

“I will have.” He hooked an arm under her legs, lifted her. “Very shortly.”

“Roarke.” She had to admit, maybe just this once, she enjoyed being swept up and carried off.

“Yes.”

“I always thought too much emphasis, in society, advertisement, entertainment, was put on sex.”

“Did you?”

“I did.” Grinning, she shifted her body, quick and agile, and overbalanced him. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said as they tumbled onto the bed.

She’d already learned that lovemaking could be intense, overwhelming, even dangerously exciting. She hadn’t known it could be fun. It was a revelation to find that she could laugh and wrestle over the bed like a child.

Quick, nipping kisses, ticklish groping, breathless giggles. She couldn’t remember ever giggling before in her life as she pinned Roarke to the mattress.

“Gotcha.”

“You do indeed.” Delighted with her, he let her hold him down, rain kisses over his face. “Now that you have me, what are you going to do about it?”

“Use you, of course.” She bit down, none too gently, on his bottom lip. “Enjoy you.” With her brows arched, she unfastened his shirt, spread it open. “You do have a terrific body.” To please herself, she ran her hands over his chest. “I used to think that sort of thing was overrated, too. After all, anyone with enough money can have one.”

“I didn’t buy mine,” Roarke said, surprised into defending his physique.

“No, you’ve got a gym in this place, don’t you?” Bending, she let her lips cruise over his shoulder. “You’ll have to show it to me sometime. I think I’d like watching you sweat.”

He rolled her over, reversing positions. He felt her freeze, then relax under his restraining hands. Progress, he thought. The beginnings of trust. “I’m ready to work out with you, lieutenant, anytime.” He tugged the sweater over her head. “Anytime at all.”

He released her hands. It moved him to have her reach up, draw him down to her to embrace.

So strong, he thought, as the tone of the lovemaking changed from playful to tender. So soft. So troubled. He took her slowly, and very gently over the first rise, watched her crest, listened to the low, humming moan as her system absorbed each velvet shock.

He needed her. It still had the power to shake him to know just how much he needed her. He knelt, lifting her. Her legs wrapped silkily around him, her body bowed fluidly back. He could take his mouth over her, tasting warm flesh while he moved inside her, deep, steady, slow.

Each time she shuddered, a fresh stream of pleasure rippled through him. Her throat was a slim white feast he couldn’t resist. He laved it, nipped, nuzzled while the pulse just under that sensitized flesh throbbed like a heart.

And she gasped his name, cupping his head in her hands, pressing him against her as her body rocked, rocked, rocked.

She discovered lovemaking made her loose, and warm. The slow arousal, the long, slow finish energized her. She didn’t feel awkward climbing back into her clothes with the scent of him clinging to her. She felt smug.

“I feel good around you.” It surprised her to say it aloud, to give him—or anyone—even so slight an advantage.

He understood that such an admission, for her, was tantamount to a shouted declaration of devotion from other women.

“I’m glad.” He traced a fingertip down her cheek, dipped it into the faint dent in her chin. “I like the idea of staying around you.”

She turned away at that, crossed over to watch the number sequences fly by on the console screen. “Why did you tell me about being a kid in Dublin, about your father, the things you did?”

“You won’t stay with someone you don’t know.” He studied her back as he tucked his shirt into his trousers. “You’d told me a little, so I told you a little. And I think, eventually, you’ll tell me who hurt you when you were a child.”

“I told you I don’t remember.” She hated even the whisper of panic in her voice. “I don’t need to.”

“Don’t tighten up.” He murmured to her as he walked over to massage her shoulders. “I won’t press you. I know exactly what it is to remake yourself, Eve. To distance yourself from what was.”

What good would it do to tell her that no matter how far, how fast you ran, the past always stayed two paces behind you?

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist, satisfied when she closed her hands over his. He knew she was studying the screens across the room. Knew the instant she saw it.

“Son of a bitch, look at the numbers: income, outgo. They’re too damn close. They’re practically exact.”

“They are exact,” Roarke corrected, and released the woman, knowing the cop would want to stand clear. “To the penny.”

“But that’s impossible.” She struggled to do the math in her head. “Nobody spends exactly what they make—not on record. Everyone carries at least a little cash—for the occasional vendor on the sidewalk, the Pepsi machine, the kid who brings the pizza. Sure, it’s mostly plastic or electronic, but you’ve got to have some cash floating around.”

She paused, turned around. “You’d already seen it. Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“I thought it would be more interesting to wait until we found his cache.” He glanced down as the blinking yellow light for searching switched to green. “And it appears we have. Ah, a traditional man, our Simpson. As I suspected, he relies on the well respected and discreet Swiss. Display data on screen five.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Eve gaped at the bank listings.

“That’s in Swiss francs,” Roarke explained. “Translate to USD, screen six. About triple his tax portfolio here, wouldn’t you say, lieutenant?”

Her blood was up. “I knew he was taking. Goddamn it, I knew it. And look at the withdrawals, Roarke, in the last year. Twenty-five thousand a quarter, every quarter. A hundred thousand.” She turned back to Roarke, and her smile was thin. “That matches the figure on Sharon’s list. Simpson—one hundred K. She was bleeding him.”

“You may be able to prove it.”

“I damn well will prove it.” She began to pace. “She had something on him. Maybe it was sex, maybe it was graft. Probably a combination of a lot of ugly little sins. So he paid her to keep her quiet.”

Eve thrust her hands into her pockets, pulled them out again. “Maybe she upped the ante. Maybe he was just sick and tired of shelling out a hundred a year for insurance. So he offs her. Somebody keeps trying to scuttle the investigation. Somebody with the power and the information to complicate things. It points right at him.”

“What about the two other victims?”

She was working on it. Goddamn it, she was working on it. “He used one prostitute. He could have used others. Sharon and the third victim knew each other—or of each other. One of them might have known Lola, mentioned her, even suggested her as a change of pace. Hell, she could have been a random choice. He got caught up in the thrill of the first murder. It scared him, but it was also a high for him.”

She stopped prowling the room long enough to flick a glance at Roarke. He’d taken out a cigarette, lighted it, watching her.

“DeBlass is one of his backers,” she continued. “And Simpson’s come out strongly in favor of DeBlass’s upcoming Morals Bill. They’re just prostitutes, he’s thinking. Just legal whores, and one of them was threatening him. How much more of a danger to him would she have been once he put in his bid for governor?”

She stopped pacing again, turned back. “And that’s just shit.”

“I thought it sounded quite reasonable.”

“Not when you look at the man.” Slowly, she rubbed her fingers between her brows. “He doesn’t have the brains for it. Yeah, I think he could kill, Christ knows he’s into control, but to pull off a series of murders this slick? He’s a desk man—an administrator, an image, not a cop. He can’t even remember a penal code without an aide prompting him. Graft’s easy, it’s just business. And to kill out of panic or passion or fury, yes. But to plan, to execute the plan step by step? No. He isn’t even smart enough to juggle his public records well.”

“So he had help.”

“Possible. Maybe if I could put pressure on him, I’d find out.”

“I can help you there.” Roarke took a final, thoughtful drag before crushing out his cigarette. “What do you think the media would do if it received an anonymous transmission of Simpson’s underground accounts?”

She dropped the hand she’d lifted to rake through her hair. “They’d hang him. If he knows anything, even with a fleet of lawyers around him, we might be able to shake something loose.”

“Just so. Your call, lieutenant.”

She thought of rules, of due process, of the system she’d made herself an intregal part of. And she thought of three dead women—three more she might be able to protect.

“There’s a reporter. Nadine Furst. Give it to her.”

She wouldn’t stay with him. Eve knew a call would come, and it was best if she were home and alone when it did. She didn’t think she would sleep, but she drifted into dreams.

She dreamed first of murder. Sharon, Lola, Georgie, each of them smiling toward the camera. That instant of fear a lightning bolt in the eyes before they flew back on sex-warmed sheets.

Daddy. Lola had called him Daddy. And Eve stumbled painfully into an older, more terrifying dream.

She was a good girl. She tried to be good, not to cause trouble. If you caused trouble, the cops came and got you, and put you in a deep, dark hole where bugs skittered and spiders crept toward you on silent, slithery legs.

She didn’t have friends. If you had friends you had to make up stories about where the bruises came from. How you were clumsy when you weren’t clumsy. How you’d fallen when you hadn’t fallen. Besides, they never lived in one place very long. If you did, the fucking social workers came nosing around, asking questions. It was the fucking social workers who called the cops that put you away in that dark, bug crawling hole.

Her Daddy had warned her.

So she was a good girl, without any friends, who moved from place to place when she was taken.

But it didn’t seem to make any difference.

She could hear him coming. She always heard him. Even if she was sound asleep, the creeping shuffle of his bare feet on the floor woke her as quickly as a thunder clap.

Oh, please, oh, please, oh please. She would pray, but she wouldn’t cry. If she cried she was beaten, and he did the secret things anyway. The painful and secret thing that she knew, even at five, was somehow bad.

He told her she was good. The whole time he did the secret thing he would tell her she was good. But she knew she was bad, and she would be punished.

Sometimes he tied her up. When she heard her door open, she whimpered softly, praying he wouldn’t tie her this time. She wouldn’t fight, she wouldn’t, if he just didn’t tie her up. If he just didn’t hold his hand over her mouth, she wouldn’t scream or call out.

“Where’s my little girl? Where’s my good little girl?”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as his hands slipped under the sheets, poking, probing, pinching. She could smell his breath on her face, sweet, like candy.

His fingers rammed inside her, his other hand coming down hard over her mouth as she drew in breath to scream. She couldn’t help it.

“Be quiet.” His breath was coming in short gasps, in a sickening arousal she didn’t understand. His fingers dug into her cheeks where bruises would form by morning. “Be a good girl. There’s a good girl.”

She couldn’t hear his grunts for the screaming inside her head. She screamed it over and over and over.

No, Daddy. No, Daddy.

“No!” The scream ripped out of Eve’s throat as she reared up in bed. Gooseflesh prickled on her clammy skin, and she shivered and shivered as she tugged the blankets up.

Didn’t remember. Wouldn’t remember, she comforted herself and drew up her knees, pressed her forehead against them. Just a dream, and it was already fading. She could will it away—had done so before—until there was nothing left but the faint nausea.

Still shaky, she got up, wrapped herself in her robe to combat the chill. In the bath she ran water over her face until she was breathing evenly again. Steadier, she got herself a tube of Pepsi, huddled back into bed, and switched on one of the twenty-four-hour news stations.

And settled down to wait.

It was the lead story at six A.M., the headline read by a cat-eyed Nadine. Eve was already dressed when the call came through summoning her to Cop Central.

chapter seventeen

Whatever personal satisfaction Eve felt on finding herself part of the team who questioned Simpson, she hid it well. In deference to his position, they used the office of Security Administration rather than an interrogation area.

The clear wrap of windows and the glossy acrylic table didn’t negate the fact that Simpson was in deep trouble. The beading of sweat above his top lip indicated he knew just how deep.

“The media is trying to injure the department,” Simpson began, using the statement meticulously prepared by his senior aide. “With the very visible failure of the investigation into the brutal deaths of three women, the media is attempting to incite a witch-hunt. As chief of police, I’m an obvious target.”

“Chief Simpson.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Commander Whitney expose his inner glee. His voice was grave, his eyes somber. His heart was celebrating. “Regardless of the motive, it will be necessary for you to explain the discrepancy in your books.”

Simpson sat frozen while one of his attorneys leaned over and murmured in his ear.

“I have not admitted to any discrepancy. If one exists, I’m unaware of it.”

“Unaware, Chief Simpson, of more than two million dollars?”

“I’ve already contacted my accounting firm. Obviously, if there is a mistake of some nature, it was made by them.”

“Will you confirm or deny that the account numbered four seventy-eight nine one one two seven, four ninety-nine is yours?”

After another brief consultation, Simpson nodded. “I will confirm that.” To lie would only tighten the noose.

Whitney glanced at Eve. They’d agreed the account was an IRS matter. All they’d wanted was for Simpson to confirm.

“Will you explain, Chief Simpson, the withdrawal of one hundred thousand dollars, in twenty-five thousand dollar increments, every three months during the past year?”

Simpson tugged at the knot of his tie. “I see no reason to explain how I spend my money, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how it is those same amounts were listed by Sharon DeBlass and accredited to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We have evidence that you paid to Sharon DeBlass one hundred thousand dollars, in twenty-five thousand dollar increments in one year’s period.” Eve waited a beat. “That’s quite a large amount between casual acquaintances.”

“I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“Was she blackmailing you?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“The evidence says it for you,” Eve stated. “She was blackmailing you; you were paying her off. I’m sure you’re aware there are only two ways to stop extortion, Chief Simpson. One, you cut off the supply. Two . . . you eliminate the blackmailer.”

“This is absurd. I didn’t kill Sharon. I was paying her like clockwork. I—”

“Chief Simpson.” The elder of the team of lawyers put a hand on Simpson’s arm, squeezed. He turned his mild gaze to Eve. “My client has no statement to make regarding Sharon DeBlass. Obviously, we will cooperate in any way with the Internal Revenue Service’s investigation into my client’s records. At this time, however, no charges have been made. We’re here only as a courtesy, and to show our goodwill.”

“Were you acquainted with a woman known as Lola Starr?” Eve shot out.

“My client has no comment.”

“Did you know licensed companion, Georgie Castle?”

“Same response,” the lawyer said patiently.

“You’ve done everything you could to roadblock this murder investigation from the beginning. Why?”

“Is that a statement of fact, Lieutenant Dallas?” the lawyer asked. “Or an opinion?”

“I’ll give you facts. You knew Sharon DeBlass, intimately. She was hosing you for a hundred grand a year. She’s dead, and someone is leaking confidential information on the investigation. Two more women are dead. All the victims made their living through legal prostitution—something you oppose.”

“My opposition of prostitution is a political, moral, and a personal stance,” Simpson said tightly. “I will support wholeheartedly any legislation that outlaws it. But I would hardly eliminate the problem by picking off prostitutes one at a time.”

“You own a collection of antique weapons,” Eve persisted.

“I do,” Simpson agreed, ignoring his attorney. “A small, limited collection. All registered, secured, and inventoried. I’ll be more than happy to turn them over to Commander Whitney for testing.”

“I appreciate that,” Whitney said, shocking Simpson by agreeing. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Simpson rose, his face a battleground of emotion. “When this matter is cleared up, I won’t forget this meeting.” His eyes rested briefly on Eve. “I won’t forget who attacked the office of Chief of Police and Security.”

Commander Whitney waited until Simpson sailed out, followed by his team of attorneys. “When this is settled, he won’t get within a hundred yards of the office of Chief of Police and Security.”

“I needed more time to work on him. Why’d you let him walk?”

“His isn’t the only name on the DeBlass list,” Whitney reminded her. “And there’s no tie, as yet, between him and the other two victims. Whittle the list down, get me a tie, and I’ll give you all the time you need.” He paused, shuffling through the hard copies of the documents that had been transmitted to his office. “Dallas, you seemed very prepared for this interview. Almost as if you’d been expecting it. I don’t suppose I need remind you that tampering with private documents is against the law.”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think I did. Dismissed.”

As she headed for the door, she thought she heard him murmur “Good job” but she might have been mistaken.

She was taking the elevator to her own section when her communicator blipped. “Dallas.”

“Call for you. Charles Monroe.”

“I’ll get back to him.”

She snagged a cup of sludge masquerading as coffee, and what might have been a doughnut as she passed through the bullpen area of the records section. It took nearly twenty minutes for her to requisition copies of the discs for the three homicides.

Closeting herself in her office, she studied them again. She reviewed her notes, made fresh ones.

The victim was on the bed each time. The bed rumpled each time. They were naked each time. Their hair was mussed.

Eyes narrowed, she ordered the image of Lola Starr to freeze, pull into close-up.

“Skin reddened left buttocks,” she murmured. “Missed that before. Spanking? Domination thrill? Doesn’t appear to be bruising or welting. Have Feeney enhance and determine. Switch to DeBlass tape.”

Again, Eve ran it. Sharon laughed at the camera, taunted it, touching herself, shifting. “Freeze image. Quadrant—shit—try sixteen, increase. No marks,” she said. “Continue. Come on, Sharon, show me the right side, just in case. Little more. Freeze. Quadrant twelve, increase. No marks on you. Maybe you did the spanking, huh? Run Castle disc. Come on Georgie, let’s see.”

She watched the woman smile, flirt, lift a hand to smooth down her tousled hair. Eve already knew the dialogue perfectly: “That was wonderful. You’re terrific.”

She was kneeling, sitting back on her haunches, her eyes pleasant and companionable. Silently, Eve began to urge her to move, just a little, shift over. Then Georgia yawned delicately, turned to fluff the pillows.

“Freeze. Oh yeah, paddled you, didn’t he? Some guys get off on playing bad girl and Daddy.”

She had a flash, like a stab of a knife through the brain. Memories sliced through her, the solid slap of a hand on her bottom, stinging, the heavy breathing. “You have to be punished, little girl. Then Daddy’s going to kiss it better. He’s going to kiss it all better.”

“Jesus.” She rubbed shaking hands over her face. “Stop. Put it away. Put it away.”

She reached for cold coffee and found only dregs. The past was past, she reminded herself, and had nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with the job at hand.

“Victim Two and Three show marks of abuse on buttocks. No marks on Victim One.” She let out a long breath, took in a slow one. Steadier. “Break in pattern. Apparent emotional reaction during first murder, absent in subsequent two.”

Her ’link buzzed, she ignored it.

“Possible theory: Perpetrator gained confidence, enjoyment in subsequent murders. Note: No security on Victim Two. Time lapse on security cameras, Victim Three, thirty-three minutes less than Victim One. Possible theory: More adept, more confident, less inclined to play with victim. Wants the kick faster.”

Possible, possible, she thought, and her computer agreed after a jittery wheeze, with a ninety-six-three probability factor. But something else was clicking as she ran the three discs so closely together, interchanging sections.

“Split screen,” she ordered, “Victims One and Two, from beginning.”

Sharon’s cat smile, Lola’s pout. Both women looked toward the camera, toward the man behind it. Spoke to him.

“Freeze images,” Eve said so softly only the sharp ears of the computer could have heard her. “Oh God, what have we here?”

It was a small thing, a slight thing, and with the eyes focused on the brutality of the murders, easily missed. But she saw it now, through Sharon’s eyes. Through Lola’s.

Lola’s gaze was angled higher.

The height of the beds could account for it, Eve told herself as she added Georgie’s image to the screen. Each woman had their head tilted. After all, they were sitting, he very likely standing. But the angle of the eyes, the point at which they stared . . . Only Sharon’s was different.

Still watching the screen, Eve called Dr. Mira.

“I don’t care what she’s doing,” Eve spat out at the drone working reception. “It’s urgent.”

She snarled as she was put on hold and her ears assaulted with mindless, sugary music.

“Question,” she said the moment Mira was on the line.

“Yes, lieutenant.”

“Is it possible we have two killers?”

“A copycat? Unlikely, lieutenant, given as much of the method and style of the murders has been kept under wraps.”

“Shit leaks. I’ve got breaks in pattern. Small ones, but definite breaks.” Impatient, she outlined them. “Theory, doctor. The first murder committed by someone who knew Sharon well, who killed on impulse, then had enough control to clean up behind himself well. The second two are reflections of the first crime, fined down, thought through, committed by someone cold, calculating, with no connection to his victims. And goddamn it, he’s taller.”

“It’s a theory, lieutenant. I’m sorry, but it’s just as likely, even more so, that all three murders were committed by one man who grows more calculating with each success. In my professional opinion, no one who wasn’t privy to the first crime, to the stages of it, could have so perfectly mirrored the events in the second two.”

Her computer had ditched her theory as well, with a forty-eight-five. “Okay, thanks.” Deflated, Eve disconnected. Stupid to be disappointed, she told herself. How much worse could it be if she were after two men instead of one?

Her ’link buzzed again. Teeth bared in annoyance, she flipped on. “Dallas, What?”

“Hey, Lieutenant Sugar, a guy might think you didn’t care.”

“I don’t have time to play, Charles.”

“Hey, don’t cut me off. I got something for you.”

“Or for lame innuendos—”

“No, really. Boy, flirt with a woman once or twice and she never takes you seriously.” His perfect face registered hurt. “You asked me to call if I remembered anything, right?”

“Right.” Patience, she warned herself. “So, did you?”

“It was the diaries that got me thinking. You know how I said she was always recording everything. Since you’re looking for them, I figure they weren’t over at her place.”

“You should be a detective.”

“I like my line of work. Anyhow, I started wondering where she might put them for safekeeping. And I remembered the safe-deposit box.”

“We’ve already checked it. Thanks, anyway.”

“Oh. Well, how’d you get into it without me? She’s dead.” Eve paused on the point of cutting him off. “Without you?”

“Yeah. A couple, three years ago, she asked me to sign for one for her. Said she didn’t want her name on the record.”

Eve’s heart began to thump. “Then what good would it do her?”

Charles’s smile was sheepish and charming. “Well, technically, I signed her on as my sister. I’ve got one in Kansas City. So we listed Sharon as Annie Monroe. She paid the rent, and I just forgot about it. I can’t even say for sure if she kept it, but I thought you might want to know.”

“Where’s the bank?”

“First Manhattan, on Madison.”

“Listen to me, Charles. You’re home, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You stay there. Right there. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. We’re going to go banking, you and me.”

“If that’s the best I can do. Hey, did I give you a hot lead, Lieutenant Sugar?”

“Just stay put.”

She was up and shrugging into her jacket when her ’link buzzed again. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas. We have a transmission on hold for you. Video blocked. Refuses to identify.”

“Tracing?”

“Tracing now.”

“Then put it through.” She swung up her bag as the audio clicked. “This is Dallas.”

“Are you alone?” It was a female voice, tremulous.

“Yes. Do you want me to help you?”

“It wasn’t my fault. You have to know it wasn’t my fault.”

“No one’s blaming you.” Training had Eve picking up on both fear and grief. “Just tell me what happened.”

“He raped me. I couldn’t stop him. He raped me. He raped her, too. Then he killed her. He could kill me.”

“Tell me where you are.” She studied her screen, waiting for the trace to come through. “I want to help, but I have to know where you are.”

Breath hitching, a whimper. “He said it was supposed to be a secret. I couldn’t tell. He killed her so she couldn’t tell. Now there’s me. No one will believe me.”

“I believe you. I’ll help you. Tell me—” She swore as the transmission broke. “Where?” she demanded after switching to dispatch.

“Front Royal, Virginia. Number seven oh three, five five five, thirty-nine oh eight. Address—”

“I don’t need it. Get me Captain Ryan Feeney in EDD. Fast.”

Two minutes wasn’t fast enough. Eve nearly drilled a hole in her temple rubbing it while she waited. “Feeney, I’ve got something, and it’s big.”

“What?”

“I can’t go into it yet, but I need you to go pick up Charles Monroe.”

“Christ, Eve, have we got him?”

“Not yet. Monroe’s going to take you to Sharon’s other safe box. You take good care of him, Feeney. We’re going to need him. And you take damn good care of whatever you find in the box.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“I’ve got to catch a plane.” She broke transmission, then called Roarke. It took another three minutes of very precious time before he came on-line.

“I was about to call you, Eve. It looks like I have to fly to Dublin. Care to join me?”

“Roarke, I need your plane. Now. I have to get to Virginia fast. If I go through channels or take public transport—”

“The plane will be ready for you. Terminal C, Gate 22.”

She closed her eyes. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Her gratitude lasted until she arrived at the gate and found Roarke waiting for her.

“I don’t have time to talk.” Her voice was a snap, her long legs eating up the distance from gate to lift.

“We’ll talk on the plane.”

“You’re not going with me. This is official—”

“This is my plane, lieutenant,” he interrupted smoothly as the lift closed them in together, gliding silently up.

“Can’t you do anything without strings?”

“Yes. This isn’t one of them.” The hatch opened. The flight attendant waited efficiently.

“Welcome aboard, sir, lieutenant. Can I offer you refreshments?”

“No, thank you. Have the pilot take off as soon as we’re cleared.” Roarke took his seat while Eve stood fuming. “We can’t take off until you’re seated and secured.”

“I thought you were going to Ireland.” She could argue with him just as easily sitting down.

“It’s not a priority. This is. Eve, before you state your case, I’ll outline mine. You’re going to Virginia in quite a rush. That points to the DeBlass case and some new information. Beth and Richard are friends, close friends. I don’t have many close friends, nor do you. Reverse situations. What would you do?”

She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair as the plane began to taxi. “This can’t be personal.”

“Not for you. For me, it’s very personal. Beth contacted me even as I was arranging for the plane to be readied. She asked me to come.”

“Why?”

“She wouldn’t say. She didn’t have to—she only had to ask.”

Loyalty was a trait Eve had a difficult time arguing against. “I can’t stop you from going, but I’m warning you, this is department business.”

“And the department is in upheaval this morning,” he said evenly, “because of certain information leaked to the media—by an unnamed source.”

She hissed out a breath. Nothing like backing yourself into a corner. “I’m grateful for your help.”

“Enough to tell me the outcome?”

“I imagine the cap will be off by the end of the day.” She moved her shoulders restlessly, staring out the window, willing the miles away. “Simpson’s going to try to ditch the whole business on his accounting firm. I can’t see him pulling it off. The IRS’ll get him for tax fraud. I imagine the internal investigation will uncover where he got the money. Considering Simpson’s imagination, I’d bet on the standard kickbacks, bribes, and graft.”

“And the blackmail?”

“Oh, he was paying her. He admitted as much before his lawyer shut him up. And he’ll cop to it, once he realizes paying blackmail’s a lot less dicey than accessory to murder.”

She took out her communicator, requested Feeney’s access.

“Yo, Dallas.”

“Did you get them?”

Feeney held a small box up so that she could see it in the tiny viewing screen. “All labeled and dated. About twenty years’ worth.”

“Start with the last entry, work back. I should hit destination in about twenty minutes. I’ll contact you as soon as I can for a status report.”

“Hey, Lieutenant Sugar.” Charles edged his way on-screen and beamed at her. “How’d I do?”

“You did good. Thanks. Now, until I say different, forget about the safe box, the diaries, everything.”

“What diaries?” he said with a wink. He blew her a kiss before Feeney elbowed him aside.

“I’m heading back to Cop Central now. Stay in touch.”

“Out.” Eve switched off, slipped the communicator back in her pocket.

Roarke waited a beat. “Lieutenant Sugar?”

“Shut up, Roarke.” She closed her eyes to ignore him, but couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off her face.

When they landed, she was forced to admit that Roarke’s name worked even faster than a badge. In minutes they were in a powerful rental car and eating up the miles to Front Royal. She might have objected about being delegated to the passenger seat, but she couldn’t fault his driving.

“Ever done the Indy?”

“No.” He spared her a brief glance as they bulleted up Route 95 at just under a hundred. “But I’ve driven in a few Grand Prix.”

“Figures.” She tapped her fingers against the chicken stick when he shot the car into a vertical rise, skimmed daringly—and illegally—over the top of a small jam of cars. “You say Richard is a good friend. How would you describe him?”

“Intelligent, dedicated, quiet. He rarely speaks unless he has something to say. Overshadowed by his father, often at odds with him.”

“How would you describe his relationship with his father?”

He brought the vehicle down again, wheels barely skidding on the road surface. “From the little he might have said, and the things Beth let drop, I’d have to say combative, frustrated.”

“And his relationship with his daughter?”

“The choices she made were in direct opposition to his lifestyle, his, well, morals, if you wish. He’s a staunch believer in freedom of choice and expression. Still, I can’t imagine any father wanting his daughter to become a woman who sells herself for a living.”

“Wasn’t he involved in designing his father’s security for the last senatorial campaign?”

He took the vehicle up again, maneuvered it off the road, muttering something about a shortcut. In the time he took to skim through a glade of trees, over a few residential buildings, and down again onto a quiet suburban street, he was silent.

She stopped counting the traffic violations.

“Family loyalty transcends politics. A man with DeBlass’s views is either well loved or well hated. Richard may disagree with his father, but he’d hardly want him assassinated. And as he specializes in security law, it follows he’d assist his father in the matter.”

A son protects his father, Eve thought. “And how far would DeBlass go to protect his son?”

“From what? Richard is a moderate’s moderate. He maintains a low profile, supports his causes quietly. He—” The import of the question struck. “You’re off target,” Roarke said between his teeth. “Way off target.”

“We’ll see.”

The house on the hill looked peaceful. Under the cold blue sky, it sat serenely, warmly, with a few brave crocuses beginning to peep out of the winter stung grass.

Appearances, Eve thought, were deceiving more often than not. She knew this wasn’t a home of easy wealth, quiet happiness, and tidy lives. She was certain now that she knew what had gone on behind those rosy walls and gleaming glass.

Elizabeth opened the door herself. If anything, she was paler and more drawn than when Eve had last seen her. Her eyes were puffy from weeping, and the mannishly tailored suit she wore bagged at the hips from recent weight loss.

“Oh, Roarke.” As Elizabeth went into his arms, Eve could all but hear the fragile bones knocking together. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Don’t be silly.” He tilted her face up with a gentleness that tugged at the heart Eve was struggling to hold distant. “Beth, you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“I can’t seem to function, to think, or to do. Everything’s crumbling away at my feet, and I—” She broke off, remembering abruptly that they weren’t alone. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

Eve caught the quick accusation in Elizabeth’s eyes when she looked at Roarke. “He didn’t bring me, Ms. Barrister. I brought him. I received a call this morning from this location. Did you make it?”

“No.” Elizabeth stepped back. Her hands reached for each other, twisted. “No, I didn’t. It must have been Catherine. She arrived here last night, suddenly. Hysterical, overwrought. Her mother has been hospitalized, and the prognosis is poor. I can only think the stress of the last few weeks has been too much for her. That’s why I called you, Roarke. Richard’s at his wit’s end. I don’t seem to be any help. We needed someone.”

“Why don’t we go in and sit down?”

“They’re in the parlor.” In a jittery move, Elizabeth turned to look down the hall. “She won’t take a sedative, she won’t explain. She refused to let us do more than call her husband and son and tell them she was here, and not to come. She’s frantic at the idea they might be in some sort of danger. I suppose what happened to Sharon has made her worry more about her own child. She’s obsessed with saving him from God knows what.”

“If she called me,” Eve put in. “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

“Yes. Yes, all right.”

She led the way down the hall, and into the tidy, sunwashed parlor. Catherine DeBlass sat on a sofa, leaning into her brother’s arms. Eve couldn’t be sure if he was comforting, or restraining.

Richard raised stricken eyes to Roarke’s. “It’s good of you to come. We’re a mess, Roarke.” His voice shook, nearly broke. “We’re a mess.”

“Elizabeth.” Roarke crouched in front of Catherine. “Why don’t you ring for coffee?”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Catherine.” His voice was gentle, as was the hand he laid on her arm. But the touch had Catherine jerking up, her eyes going wide.

“Don’t. What—what are you doing here?”

“I came to see Beth and Richard. I’m sorry you’re not well.”

“Well?” She gave what might have been a laugh as she curled into herself. “None of us will ever be well again. How can we? We’re all tainted. We’re all to blame.”

“For what?”

She shook her head, pushed herself into the far corner of the sofa. “I can’t talk to you.”

“Congresswoman DeBlass, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You called me a little while ago.”

“No, no I didn’t.” Panicked, Catherine wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. “I didn’t call. I didn’t say anything.”

As Richard leaned over to touch her, Eve shot him a warning glance. Deliberately, she put herself between them, sat and took Catherine’s frigid hand. “You wanted me to help. And I will help you.”

“You can’t. No one can. I was wrong to call. We have to keep it in the family. I have a husband, I have a little boy.” Tears began to swim in her eyes. “I have to protect them. I have to go away, far away, so I can protect them.”

“We’ll protect them,” Eve said quietly. “We’ll protect you. It was too late to protect Sharon. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I didn’t try to stop it,” Catherine said in a whisper. “Maybe I was even glad, because it wasn’t me anymore. It wasn’t me.”

“Ms. DeBlass, I can help you. I can protect you and your family. Tell me who raped you.”

Richard let out a hiss of shock. “My God, what are you saying? What—”

Eve turned on him, eyes fierce. “Be quiet. There’s no more secrets here.”

“Secrets,” Catherine said between trembling lips. “It has to be a secret.”

“No, it doesn’t. This kind of secret hurts. It crawls inside you and eats at you. It makes you scared, and it makes you guilty. The ones who want it to be secret use that—the guilt, the fear, the shame. The only way you can fight back is to tell. Tell me who raped you.”

Catherine’s breath shuddered out. She looked at her brother, terror bright in her eyes. Eve turned her face back, held it.

“Look at me. Just me. And tell me who raped you. Who raped Sharon?”

“My father.” The words burst from her in a howl of pain. “My father. My father. My father.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Oh God.” Across the room, Elizabeth stumbled back into the server droid. China shattered. Coffee seeped dark into the lovely rug. “Oh my God. My baby.”

Richard shot off the couch, reaching her as she swayed. He caught her hard against him. “I’ll kill him for this. I’ll kill him.” Then he pressed his face into her hair. “Beth. Oh, Beth.”

“Do what you can for them,” Eve murmured to Roarke as she gathered Catherine to her.

“You thought it was Richard,” Roarke said in an undertone.

“Yes.” Her eyes were dull and flat when she lifted them to his. “I thought it was Sharon’s father. Maybe I didn’t want to think that something so foul could flourish in two generations.”

Roarke leaned forward. His face was hard as rock. “One way or the other, DeBlass is a dead man.”

“Help your friends,” Eve said evenly. “I have work to do here.”

chapter eighteen

She let Catherine cry it out, though she knew, too well, that the tears wouldn’t wash the wound clean. She knew, too, that she wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation alone. It was Roarke who calmed Elizabeth and Richard, who ordered in the domestic droid to gather up the broken crockery, who held their hands, and when he gauged the time was right, it was he who gently suggested bringing Catherine some tea.

Elizabeth fetched it herself, carefully closing the parlor doors behind her before she carried the cup to her sister-in-law. “Here, darling, drink a little.”

“I’m sorry.” Catherine put both shaky hands around the cup to warm them. “I’m sorry. I thought it had stopped. I made myself believe it had stopped. I couldn’t live otherwise.”

“It’s all right.” Her face blank, Elizabeth went back to her husband.

“Ms. DeBlass, I need you to tell me everything. Congresswoman DeBlass?” Eve waited until Catherine focused on her again. “Do you understand this is being recorded?”

“He’ll stop you.”

“No, he won’t. That’s why you called me, because you know I’ll stop him.”

“He’s afraid of you,” Catherine whispered. “He’s afraid of you. I could tell. He’s afraid of women. That’s why he hurts them. I think he may have given something to my mother. Broke her mind. She knew.”

“Your mother knew your father was abusing you?”

“She knew. She pretended she didn’t, but I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t want to know—she just wanted everything quiet and perfect, so she could give her parties and be the senator’s wife.” She lifted a hand, shielding her eyes. “When he would come into my room at night, I could see it on her face the next morning. But when I tried to talk to her, to tell her to make him stop, she pretended she didn’t know what I meant. She told me to stop imagining things. To be good, to respect the family.”

She lowered her hand again, cupped her tea with both hands, but didn’t drink. “When I was little, seven or eight, he would come in at night and touch me. He said it was all right, because he was Daddy, and I was going to pretend to be Mommy. It was a game, he said, a secret game. He told me I had to do things—to touch him. To—”

“It’s all right,” Eve soothed as Catherine began to tremble violently. “You don’t have to say. Tell me what you can.”

“You had to obey him. You had to. He was a force in our house. Richard?”

“Yes.” Richard caught his wife’s hand in his and squeezed, squeezed. “I know.”

“I couldn’t tell you because I was ashamed, and I was afraid, and Mom just looked away, so I thought I had to do it.” She swallowed hard. “On my twelfth birthday, we had a party. Lots of friends, and a big cake, and the ponies. You remember the ponies, Richard?”

“I remember.” Tears tracked silently down his cheeks. “I remember.”

“And that night, the night of my birthday, he came. He said I was old enough now. He said he had a present for me, a special present because I was growing up. And he raped me.” She buried her face in her hands and rocked. “He said it was a present. Oh God. And I begged him to stop, because it hurt. And because I was old enough to know it was wrong, it was evil. I was evil. But he didn’t stop. And he kept coming back. All those years until I could get away. I went to college, far away, where he couldn’t touch me. And I told myself it never happened. It never, never happened.

“I tried to be strong, to make a life. I got married because I thought I would be safe. Justin was so kind, so gentle. He never hurt me. And I never told him. I thought if he knew, he’d despise me. So I kept telling myself it never happened.”

She lowered her hands and looked at Eve. “I believed it, sometimes. Most of the time. I could lose myself in my work, in my family. But then I could see, I knew he was doing the same thing to Sharon. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. So I pushed it away, just like my mother did. He killed her. Now he’ll kill me.”

“Why do you think he killed Sharon?”

“She wasn’t weak like me. She turned it on him, used it against him. I heard them arguing. Christmas Day. When we all went to his house to pretend we were a family. I saw them go into his office, and I followed them. I opened the door, and I watched and I listened through the crack. He was so furious with her because she was making a public mockery of everything he stood for. And she said, ‘You made me what I am, you bastard.’ It warmed me to hear that. It made me want to cheer. She stood up to him. She threatened to expose him unless he paid her. She had it all documented, she said, every dirty detail. So he’d have to play the game her way. They fought, hurling words at each other. And then . . .”

Catherine glanced over at Elizabeth, at her brother, then looked away. “She took off her blouse.” Elizabeth’s moan had Catherine trembling again. “She told him he could have her, just like any client. But he’d pay more. A lot more. He was looking at her. I knew the way he was looking at her, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack. He grabbed her breasts. She looked at me. Right at me. She’d known I was there, and she looked at me with such disgust. Maybe even with hate, because she knew I’d do nothing. I closed the door, closed it and ran. I was sick. Oh, Elizabeth.”

“It’s not your fault. She must have tried to tell me. I never saw, I never heard. I never thought. I was her mother, and I didn’t protect her.”

“I tried to talk to her.” Catherine gripped her hands together. “When I went to New York for the fund-raiser. She said I’d chosen my way, and she’d chosen hers. And hers was better. I played politics, kept my head buried, and she played with power and kept her eyes opened.

“When I heard she was dead, I knew. At the funeral I watched him, and he watched me watching him. He came up to me, put his arms around me, held me close as if in comfort. And he whispered to me to pay attention. To remember, and to see what happened when families don’t keep secrets. And he said what a fine boy Franklin was. What big plans he had for him. He said how proud I should be. And how careful.” She closed her eyes. “What could I do? He’s my child.”

“No one’s going to hurt your son.” Eve closed a hand over Catherine’s rigid ones. “I promise you.”

“I’ll never know if I could have saved her. Your child, Richard.”

“You can know you’re doing everything possible now.” Hardly aware she’d taken Catherine’s hand, Eve tightened her grip in reassurance. “It’s going to be difficult for you, Ms. DeBlass, to go over all of this again, as you’ll have to. To face the publicity. To testify, should it come to trial.”

“He’ll never let it go to trial,” Catherine said wearily.

“I’m not going to give him a choice.” Maybe not on murder, she thought. Not yet. But she had him cold on sexual abuse. “Ms. Barrister, I think your sister-in-law should rest now. Could you help her upstairs?”

“Yes, of course.” Elizabeth rose, walked over to help Catherine to her feet. “Let’s go lie down for a bit, darling.”

“I’m sorry.” Catherine leaned heavily against Elizabeth as she was led from the room. “God forgive me, I’m so sorry.”

“There’s a psychiatric counselor attached to the department, Mr. DeBlass. I think your sister should see her.”

“Yes.” He said it absently, staring at the closed door. “She’ll need someone. Something.”

You all will, Eve thought. “Are you up to a few questions?”

“I don’t know. He’s a tyrant, difficult. But this makes him a monster. How am I to accept that my own father is a monster?”

“He has an alibi for the night of your daughter’s death,” Eve pointed out. “I can’t charge him without more.”

“An alibi?”

“The record shows that Rockman was with your father, working with him in his East Washington office until nearly two on the night of your daughter’s death.”

“Rockman would say whatever my father told him to say.”

“Including covering up murder?”

“It’s simply a matter of the easiest way out. Why should anyone believe my father is connected?” He shuddered once, as if blasted with a sudden chill. “Rockman’s statement merely detaches his employer from any suspicion.”

“How would your father travel back and forth to New York from East Washington if he wanted no record of the trip?”

“I don’t know. If his shuttle went out, there would be a log.”

“Logs can be altered,” Roarke said.

“Yes.” Richard looked up as if remembering all at once that his friend was there. “You’d know more about that than I.”

“A reference to my smuggling days,” Roarke explained to Eve. “Long behind me. It can be done, but it would require some payoffs. The pilot, perhaps the mechanic, certainly the air engineer.”

“So I know where to put the pressure on.” And if Eve could prove his shuttle had taken the trip on that night, she’d have probable cause. Enough to break him. “How much do you know about your father’s weapon collection?”

“More than I care to.” Richard rose on unsteady legs. He went to a cabinet, splashed liquor into a glass. He drank it fast, like medicine. “He enjoys his guns, often shows them off. When I was younger, he tried to interest me in them. Roarke can tell you, it didn’t work.”

“Richard believes guns are a dangerous symbol of power abuse. And I can tell you that yes, DeBlass occasionally used the black market.”

“Why didn’t you mention that before?”

“You didn’t ask.”

She let it drop, for now. “Does your father have a knowledge of security—the technical aspects?”

“Certainly. He takes pride in knowing how to protect himself. It’s one of the few things we can discuss without disagreeing.”

“Would you consider him an expert?”

“No,” Richard said slowly. “A talented amateur.”

“His relationship with Chief Simpson? How would you describe it?”

“Self-serving. He considered Simpson a fool. My father enjoys utilizing fools.” Abruptly, he sank into a chair. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I need some time. I need my wife.”

“All right. Mr. DeBlass, I’m going to order surveillance on your father. You won’t be able to reach him without being monitored. Please don’t try.”

“You think I’ll try to kill him?” Richard gave a mirthless laugh and stared down at his own hands. “I want to. For what he did to my daughter, to my sister, to my life. I wouldn’t have the courage.”

When they were outside again, Eve headed straight for the car without looking at Roarke. “You suspected this?” she asked.

“That DeBlass was involved? Yes, I did.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“No.” Roarke stopped her before she could wrench open the door. “It was a feeling, Eve. I had no idea about Catherine. Absolutely none. I suspected that Sharon and DeBlass were having an affair.”

“That’s too clean a word for it.”

“I suspected it,” he continued, “because of the way she spoke of him during our single dinner together. But again, it was a feeling, not a fact. That feeling would have done nothing to enhance your case. And,” he added, turning her to face him, “once I got to know you, I kept that feeling to myself, because I didn’t want to hurt you.” She jerked her head away. He brought it patiently back with his fingertips. “You had no one to help you?”

“It isn’t about me.” But she let out a shuddering breath. “I can’t think about it, Roarke. I can’t. I’ll mess up if I do, and if I mess up, he could get away with it. With rape and murder, with abusing the children he should have been protecting. I won’t let him.”

“Didn’t you say to Catherine that the only way to fight back was to tell?”

“I have work to do.”

He fought back frustration. “I assume you’ll want to go to the Washington Airport where DeBlass keeps his shuttle.”

“Yes.” She climbed in the car when Roarke walked around to get in the driver’s side. “You can drop me at the nearest transport station.”

“I’m sticking, Eve.”

“All right, fine. I need to check in.”

As he drove down the winding lane, she put in a call to Feeney. “I’ve got something hot here,” she said before he could speak. “I’m on my way to East Washington.”

“You’ve got something hot?” Feeney’s voice was almost a song. “Didn’t have to look farther than her final entry, Dallas, logged the morning of her murder. God knows why she took it to the bank. Blind luck. She had a date at midnight. You’ll never guess who.”

“Her grandfather.”

Feeney goggled, sputtered. “Fuck it, Dallas, how’d you get it?”

Eve closed her eyes briefly. “Tell me it’s documented, Feeney. Tell me she names him.”

“Calls him the senator—calls him her old fart of a granddaddy. And she writes pretty cheerfully about the five thousand she charges him for each boink. Quote: ‘It’s almost worth letting him slobber all over me—and there’s a lot of energy left in dear old Granddad. The bastard. Five thousand every couple of weeks isn’t such a bad deal. I sure as hell give him his money’s worth. Not like when I was a kid and he used me. Table’s turned. I won’t turn into a dried up prune like poor Aunt Catherine. I’m thriving on it now. And one day, when it bores me enough, I’m sending my diaries to the media. Multiple copies. It drives the bastard crazy when I threaten to do that. Maybe I’ll twist the knife a little tonight. Give the senator a good scare. Christ, it’s wonderful to have the power to make him squirm after all he’s done to me.’ ”

Feeney shook his head. “It was a long-time deal, Dallas. I’ve run through several entries. She earned a nice income from blackmail, and names names and deeds. But this puts the senator at her place on the night of her death. And that puts his balls in the old nutcracker.”

“Can you get me a warrant?”

“Commander’s orders are to patch it through the minute you called in. He says to pick him up. Murder One, three counts.”

She let out a slow breath. “Where do I find him?”

“He’s at the Senate building, hawking his Morals Bill.”

“Fucking perfect. I’m on my way.” She switched off, turned to Roarke. “How much faster can this thing go?”

“We’ll find out.”

If Whitney’s orders hadn’t come through with the warrant, instructing her to be discreet, Eve would have marched onto the Senate floor and cuffed him in front of his associates. Still, there was considerable satisfaction in the way it went down.

She waited while he completed his impassioned speech on the moral decline of the country, the insidious corruption that stemmed from promiscuity, conception control, genetic engineering. He expounded on the lack of morality in the young, the dearth of organized religion in the home, the school, the workplace. Our one nation under God had become godless. Our constitutional right to bear arms sundered by the liberal left. He touted figures on violent crime, on urban decay, on bootlegged drugs, all a result, the senator claimed, of our increasing moral decline, our softness on criminals, our indulgence in sexual freedom without responsibility.

It made Eve sick to listen.

“In the year 2016,” she said softly, “at the end of the Urban Revolt, before the gun ban, there were over ten thousand deaths and injuries from guns in the borough of Manhattan alone.”

She continued to watch DeBlass sell his snake oil while Roarke laid a hand at the base of her spine.

“Before we legalized prostitution, there was a rape or attempted rape every three seconds. Of course, we still have rape, because it has much less to do with sex than with power, but the figures have dropped. Licensed prostitutes don’t have pimps, so they aren’t beaten, battered, killed. And they can’t use drugs. There was a time when women went to butchers to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. When they had to risk their lives or ruin them. Babies were born blind, deaf, deformed before genetic engineering and the research it made possible to repair in vitro. It’s not a perfect world, but you listen to him and you realize it could be a lot worse.”

“Do you know what the media is going to do to him when this hits?”

“Crucify him,” Eve murmured. “I hope to God it doesn’t make him a martyr.”

“The voice of the moral right suspected of incest, trucking with prostitutes, committing murder. I don’t think so. He’s finished.” Roarke nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Eve heard the thunderous applause from the gallery. From the sound of it, DeBlass’s team had been careful to pepper the spectators with their own.

Discretion be damned, she thought as the gavel was struck and an hour’s recess was called. She moved through the milling aides, assistants, and pages until she came to DeBlass. He was being congratulated on his eloquence, slapped on the back by his senatorial supporters.

She waited until he saw her, until his gaze skimmed over her, then Roarke, until his mouth tightened. “Lieutenant. If you need to speak with me, we can adjourn briefly to my office. Alone. I can spare ten minutes.”

“You’re going to have plenty of time, senator. Senator DeBlass, you’re under arrest for the murders of Sharon DeBlass, Lola Starr, and Georgie Castle.” As he blustered in protest and the murmurs began, she lifted her voice. “Additional charges include the incestuous rapes of Catherine DeBlass, your daughter, and Sharon DeBlass, your granddaughter.”

He was still standing, frozen in shock when she linked the restraints over his wrist, turned him, and secured his hands behind his back. “You are under no obligation to make a statement.”

“This is an outrage.” He exploded over the standard recitation of revised Miranda. “I’m a senator of the United States. This is federal property.”

“And these two federal agents will escort you,” she added. “You are entitled to an attorney or representative.” As she continued to recite his rights, a flash from her eyes had the federal deputies and onlookers backing off. “Do you understand these rights?”

“I’ll have your badge, you bitch.” He began to wheeze as she muscled him through the crowd.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Catch your breath, senator. We can’t have you popping off with a cardiac.” She leaned closer to his ear. “And you won’t have my badge, you bastard. I’m going to have your ass.” She turned him over to the federal agents. “They’re waiting for him in New York,” she said briefly.

She could hardly be heard now. DeBlass was screaming, demanding immediate release. The Senate had erupted with voices and bodies. Through it, she spotted Rockman. He came toward her, his face a cold mask of fury.

“You’re making a mistake, lieutenant.”

“No, I’m not. But you made one in your statement. The way I see it, that’s going to make you accessory after the fact. I’m going to start working on that when I get back to New York.”

“Senator DeBlass is a great man. You’re nothing but a pawn for the Liberal Party and their plans to destroy him.”

“Senator DeBlass is an incestuous child molester. A rapist and a murderer. And what I am, pal, is the cop who’s taking him down. You’d better call a lawyer unless you want to sink with him.”

Roarke had to force himself not to snatch her up as she swept through the hallowed Senate halls. Members of the media were already leaping toward her, but she cut through them as if they weren’t there.

“I like your style, Lieutenant Dallas,” he said when they’d fought their way to the car. “I like it a lot. And by the way, I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore. I know I am.”

She swallowed hard on the nausea rising in her throat. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sheer force of will kept her steady until she got to the plane. It kept her voice flat and expressionless as she reported in to her superior. Then she stumbled, and shoving away from Roarke’s supporting arms, rushed into the head to be wretchedly and violently ill.

On the other side of the door, Roarke stood helplessly. If he understood her at all, it was to know that comforting would make it worse. He murmured instructions to the flight attendant and took his seat. While he waited, he stared out at the tarmac.

He looked up when the door opened. She was ice pale, her eyes too big, too dark. Her usually smooth gait was coltish and stiff.

“Sorry. I guess it got to me.”

When she sat, he offered a mug. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

“What is it?”

“It’s tea, a whiff of whiskey.”

“I’m on duty,” she began, but his quick, vicious eruption cut her off.

“Drink, goddamn it, or I’ll pour it into you.” He flipped a switch and ordered the pilot to take off.

Telling herself it was easier than arguing, she lifted the mug, but her hands weren’t steady. She barely managed to get a sip through her chattering teeth before she set it aside.

She couldn’t stop shaking. When Roarke reached for her, she drew herself back. The sickness was still there, sliding slyly through her stomach, making her head pound evilly.

“My father raped me.” She heard herself say it. The shock of it, hearing her own voice say the words, mirrored in her eyes. “Repeatedly. And he beat me, repeatedly. If I fought or I didn’t fight, it didn’t matter. He still raped me. He still beat me. And there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing you can do when the people who are supposed to take care of you abuse you that way. Use you. Hurt you.”

“Eve.” He took her hand then, holding firm when she tried to yank free. “I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.”

“They said I was eight when they found me, in some alley in Dallas. I was bleeding, and my arm was broken. He must have dumped me there. I don’t know. Maybe I ran away. I don’t remember. But he never came for me. No one ever came for me.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember her. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was like Catherine’s mother and pretended not to know. I only get flashes, nightmares of the worst of it. I don’t even know my name. They weren’t able to identify me.”

“You were safe then.”

“You’ve never been shuffled through the system. There’s no feeling of safety. Only impotence. They strip you bare with good intentions.” She sighed, let her head fall back, her eyes close. “I didn’t want to arrest DeBlass, Roarke. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him with my own hands because of what happened to me. I let it get personal.”

“You did your job.”

“Yeah. I did my job. And I’ll keep doing it.” But it wasn’t the job she was thinking of now. It was life. Hers, and his. “Roarke, you’ve got to know I’ve got some bad stuff inside. It’s like a virus that sneaks around the system, pops out when your resistance is low. I’m not a good bet.”

“I like long odds.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “Why don’t we see it through? Find out if we can both win.”

“I’ve never told anybody before.”

“Did it help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Christ, I’m so tired.”

“You could lean on me.” He slipped an arm around her, nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

“For a little while,” she murmured. “Until we get to New York.”

“For a little while then.” He pressed his lips to her hair and hoped she would sleep.

chapter nineteen

DeBlass wouldn’t talk. His lawyers put the muzzle on him early, and they put in on tight. The interrogation process was slow, and it was tedious. There were times Eve thought he would burst, when the temper that reddened his face would tip the scales in her favor.

She’d stopped denying it was personal. She didn’t want a tricky, media blitzed trial. She wanted a confession.

“You were engaged in an incestuous affair with your granddaughter, Sharon DeBlass.”

“My client has not confirmed those allegations.”

Eve ignored the lawyer, watched DeBlass’s face. “I have here a transcript of a portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diary, dated on the night of her murder.”

She shoved the paper across the table. DeBlass’s lawyer, a trim, tidy man with a neat sandy beard and mild blue eyes picked it up, studied it. Whatever his reaction was, he hid it behind cool indifference.

“This proves nothing, lieutenant, as I’m sure you know. The destructive fantasies of a dead woman. A woman of dubious reputation who has long been estranged from her family.”

“There’s a pattern here, Senator DeBlass.” Eve stubbornly continued to address the accused rather than his knight at arms. “You sexually abused your daughter, Catherine.”

“Preposterous,” DeBlass blurted out before his attorney lifted a hand to silence him.

“I have a statement, signed and verified before witnesses from Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass.” Eve offered it, and the lawyer nipped it out of her fingers before the senator could move.

He scanned it, then folded his carefully manicured hands over it. “You may not be aware, lieutenant, that there is an unfortunate history of mental disorder here. Senator DeBlass’s wife is even now under observation for a breakdown.”

“We are aware.” She spared the lawyer a glance. “And we will be investigating her condition, and the cause of it.”

“Congresswoman DeBlass has also been treated for symptoms of depression, paranoia, and stress,” the lawyer continued in the same neutral tone.

“If she has, Senator DeBlass, we’ll find that the roots of it are due to your systematic and continued abuse of her as a child. You were in New York on the night of Sharon DeBlass’s murder,” she said, switching gears smoothly. “Not, as you previously claimed, in East Washington.”

Before the lawyer could block her, she leaned forward, her eyes steady on DeBlass’s face. “Let me tell you how it went down. You took your private shuttle, paying the pilot and the flight engineer to doctor the log. You went to Sharon’s apartment, had sex with her, recorded it for your own purposes. You took a weapon with you, a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson antique. And because she taunted you, because she threatened you, because you couldn’t take the pressure of possible exposure any longer, you shot her. You shot her three times, in the head, in the heart and in the genitalia.”

She kept the words coming fast, kept her face close to his. It pleased her that she could smell his sweat. “The last shot was pretty clever. Messed up any chance for us to verify sexual activity. You ripped her open at the crotch. Maybe it was symbolic, maybe it was self-preservation. Why’d you take the gun with you? Had you planned it? Had you decided to end it once and for all?”

DeBlass’s eyes darted left and right. His breathing grew hard and fast.

“My client does not acknowledge ownership of the weapon in question.”

“Your client’s scum.”

The lawyer puffed up. “Lieutenant Dallas, you’re speaking of a United States Senator.”

“That makes him elected scum. It shocked you, didn’t it, senator? All the blood, the noise, the way the gun jerked in your hand. Maybe you hadn’t really believed you could go through with it. Not when push came to shove and you had to pull the trigger. But once you had, there was no going back. You had to cover it up. She would have ruined you, she never would have let you have peace. She wasn’t like Catherine. Sharon wouldn’t fade into the background and suffer all the shame and the guilt and the fear. She used it against you, so you had to kill her. Then you had to cover your tracks.”

“Lieutenant Dallas—”

She never took her eyes from DeBlass, and ignoring the lawyer’s warning, kept beating at him. “That was exciting, wasn’t it? You could get away with it. You’re a United States senator, the victim’s grandfather. Who would believe it of you? So you arranged her on the bed, indulged yourself, your ego. You could do it again, and why not? The killing had stirred something in you. What better way to hide than to make it seem as if there was some maniac at large?”

She waited while DeBlass reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily. “There was a maniac at large. You printed out the note, slipped it under her. And you dressed, calmer now, but excited. You set the ’link to call the cops at two fifty-five. You needed enough time to go down and fix the security tapes. Then you got back on your shuttle, flew back to East Washington, and waited to play the outraged grandfather.”

Through it all, DeBlass said nothing. But a muscle jerked in his cheek and his eyes couldn’t find a place to land.

“That’s a fascinating story, lieutenant,” the lawyer said. “But it remains that—a story. A supposition. A desperate attempt by the police department to fight their way out of a difficult situation with the media and the people of New York. And, of course, it’s perfect timing that such ridiculous and damaging accusation should be levied against the senator just as his Morals Bill is coming up for debate.”

“How did you pick the other two? How did you select Lola Starr and Georgie Castle? Have you already picked the fourth, the fifth, the sixth? Do you think you could have stopped there? Could you have stopped when it made you feel so powerful, so invincible, so righteous?”

DeBlass wasn’t red now. He was gray, and his breathing was harsh and choppy. When he reached for a glass again, his hand jerked and sent it rolling to the floor.

“This interview is over.” The lawyer stood, helped DeBlass to his feet. “My client’s health is precarious. He requires medical attention immediately.”

“Your client’s a murderer. He’ll get plenty of medical attention in a penal colony, for the rest of his life.” She pressed a button. When the doors of the interrogation room opened, a uniform stepped in. “Call the MTs,” she ordered. “The senator’s feeling a little stressed. It’s going to get worse,” she warned, turning back to DeBlass. “I haven’t even gotten started.”

Two hours later, after filing reports and meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Eve fought her way through traffic. She had read a good portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diaries. It was something she needed to set aside for now, the pictures of a twisted man and how he had turned a young girl into a woman almost as unbalanced as he.

Because she knew it could have been, all too easily, her story. Choices were there to be taken, she thought, brooding. Sharon’s had killed her.

She wanted to blow off some steam, go over the events step by step with someone who would listen, appreciate, support. Someone who, for a little while, would stand between her and the ghosts of what was. And what could have been.

She headed for Roarke’s.

When the call came through on her car ’link, she prayed it wasn’t a summons back to duty. “Dallas.”

“Hey, kid.” It was Feeney’s tired face on-screen. “I just watched the interrogation discs. Good job.”

“Didn’t get as far as I’d like, fencing with the damn lawyer. I’m going to break him, Feeney. I swear it.”

“Yeah, my money’s on you. But, ah, I got to tell you something that’s not going to go down well. DeBlass had a little heart blip.”

“Christ, he’s not going to code out on us?”

“No. No, they medicated him. Some talk about getting him a new one next week.”

“Good.” She blew out a stream of breath. “I want him to live a long time—behind bars.”

“We’ve got a strong case. The prosecutor’s ready to canonize you, but in the meantime, he’s sprung.”

She hit the brakes. A volley of testy horn blasts behind her had her whipping over to the edge of Tenth and blocking the turning lane. “What the hell do you mean, he’s sprung?”

Feeney winced, as much in empathy as reaction. “Released on his own recognizance. U.S. senator, lifetime of patriotic duty, salt of the earth, dinky heart—and a judge in his pocket.”

“Fuck that.” She pulled her hair until the pain equaled her frustration. “We got him on murder, three counts. Prosecutor said she was going for no bail.”

“She got shot down. DeBlass’s lawyer made a speech that would have wrung tears from a stone and had a corpse saluting the flag. DeBlass is back in East Washington by now, under doctor’s orders to rest. He got a thirty-six-hour hold on further interrogation.”

“Shit.” She punched the wheel with the heel of her hand. “It’s not going to make any difference,” she said grimly. “He can play the ill elder statesman, he can do a tap dance at the fucking Lincoln Memorial, I’ve got him.”

“Commander’s worried that the time lag will give DeBlass an opportunity to pool his resources. He wants you back working with the prosecutor, going over everything we’ve got by oh eight hundred tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there. Feeney, he’s not going to slip out of this noose.”

“Just make sure you’ve got the knot nice and tight, kid. See you at eight.”

“Yeah.” Steaming, she swung back into traffic. She considered going home, burying herself in the chain of evidence. But she was five minutes from Roarke’s. Eve opted to use him as a sounding board.

She could count on him to play devil’s advocate if she needed it, to point out flaws. And, she admitted, to calm her down so that she could think without all these violent emotions getting in the way. She couldn’t afford those emotions, couldn’t afford to let Catherine’s face pop into her head, as it had time and time again. The shame and the fear and the guilt.

It was impossibly hard to separate it. She knew she wanted DeBlass to pay every bit as much for Catherine as for the three dead women.

She was cleared through Roarke’s gate, drove quickly up the sloped driveway. Her pulse began to thud as she raced up the steps. Idiot, she told herself. Like some hormonal plagued teenager. But she was smiling when Summerset opened the door.

“I need to see Roarke,” she said, brushing by him.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. Roarke isn’t at home.”

“Oh.” The sense of deflation made her feel ridiculous. “Where is he?”

Summerset’s face pokered up. “I believe he’s in a meeting. He was forced to cancel an important trip to Europe, and was therefore compelled to work late.”

“Right.” The cat pranced down the steps and immediately began twining himself through Eve’s legs. She picked him up, stroked his underbelly. “When do you expect him?”

“Roarke’s time is his business, lieutenant. I don’t presume to expect him.”

“Look, pal, I haven’t been twisting Roarke’s arm to get him to spend his valuable time with me. So why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and tell me why you act like I’m some sort of embarrassing rodent whenever I show up.”

Shock turned Summerset’s face paper white. “I am not comfortable with crude manners, Lieutenant Dallas. Obviously, you are.”

“They fit me like old slippers.”

“Indeed.” Summerset drew himself up. “Roarke is a man of taste, of style, of influence. He has the ear of presidents and kings. He has escorted women of unimpeachable breeding and pedigree.”

“And I’ve got lousy breeding and no pedigree.” She would have laughed if the barb hadn’t stuck so close to the heart. “It seems even a man like Roarke can find the occasional mongrel appealing. Tell him I took the cat,” she added and walked out.

It helped to tell herself Summerset was an insufferable snob. And the cat’s silent interest as she vented on the drive home was curiously smoothing. She didn’t need some tight-assed butler’s approval. As if in agreement, the cat walked over onto her lap and began to knead her thighs.

She winced a little as his claws nipped through her trousers, but didn’t move him aside. “I guess we’ve got to come up with a name for you. Never had a pet before,” she murmured. “I don’t know what Georgie called you, but we’ll start fresh. Don’t worry, we won’t go for anything wimpy like Fluffy.”

She pulled into her garage, parked, saw the yellow light blipping on the wall of her spot. A warning that her payment on the space was overdue. If it went red, the barricade would engage and she’d be screwed.

She swore a little, more from habit than heat. She hadn’t had time to pay bills, damn it, and now realized she could face an evening of catching up playing the credit juggle with her bank account.

Hauling the cat under her arm, she walked to the elevator. “Fred, maybe.” She tilted her head, stared into his unreadable two-toned eyes. “No, you don’t look like Fred. Jesus, you must weigh twenty pounds.” Shifting her bag, she stepped into the car. “We’ll give the name some thought, Tubbo.”

The minute she set him down inside the apartment, he darted for the kitchen. Taking her responsibilities as pet owner seriously, and deciding it was one way to postpone crunching figures, Eve followed and came up with a saucer of milk and some leftover Chinese that smelled slightly off.

The cat apparently had no delicacies when it came to food, and attacked the meal with gusto.

She watched him a moment, letting her mind drift. She’d wanted Roarke. Needed him. That was something else she’d have to give some thought to.

She didn’t know how seriously to take the fact that he claimed to be in love with her. Love meant different things to different people. It had never been a part of her life.

She poured herself a half glass of wine, then merely frowned into it.

She felt something for him, certainly. Something new, and uncomfortably strong. Still, it was best to let things coast as they were. Decisions made quickly were almost always regretted quickly.

Why the hell hadn’t he been home?

She set the untouched wine aside, dragged a hand through her hair. That was the biggest problem with getting used to someone, she thought. You were lonely when they weren’t there.

She had work to do, she reminded herself. A case to close, a little Russian roulette with her credit status. Maybe she’d indulge in a long, hot bath, letting some of the stress steam away before prepping for her morning meeting with the prosecutor.

She left the cat gulping sweet and sour and went to the bedroom. Instincts, sluggish after a long day and personal questions, kicked in a moment too late.

Her hand was on her weapon before she fully registered the move. But it dropped away slowly as she stared into the long barrel of the revolver.

Colt, she thought. Forty-five. The kind that tamed the American west, six bullets at a time.

“This isn’t going to help your boss’s case, Rockman.”

“I disagree.” He stepped from behind the door, kept the gun pointed at her heart. “Take your weapon out slowly, lieutenant, and drop it.”

She kept her eyes on his. The laser was fast, but it wouldn’t be faster than a cocked .45. At this range, the hole it would put in her would make a nasty impression. She dropped her weapon.

“Kick it toward me. Ah!” He smiled pleasantly as her hand slid toward her pocket. “And the communicator. I prefer keeping this between you and me. Good,” he said when her unit hit the floor.

“Some people might find your loyalty to the senator admirable, Rockman. I find it stupid. Lying to give him an alibi is one thing. Threatening a police officer is another.”

“You’re a remarkably bright woman, lieutenant. Still, you make remarkably foolish mistakes. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. I’d like you to remove your jacket.”

She kept her moves slow, her eyes on his. When the jacket was off one shoulder, she engaged the recorder in its pocket. “If holding me at gunpoint isn’t due to loyalty to Senator DeBlass, Rockman, what is it?”

“It’s a matter of self-preservation and great pleasure. I’d hoped for the opportunity to kill you, lieutenant, but didn’t see clearly how to work it into the plan.”

“What plan is that?”

“Why don’t you sit down? The side of the bed. Take off your shoes and we’ll chat.”

“My shoes?”

“Yes, please. This gives me my first, and I’m sure only opportunity to discuss what I’ve managed to accomplish. Your shoes?”

She sat, choosing the side of the bed nearest her ’link. “You’ve been working with DeBlass through it all, haven’t you?”

“You want to ruin him. He could have been president, and eventually the Chair of the World Federation of Nations. The tide’s swinging, and he could have swept it along and sat in the Oval Office. Beyond.”

“With you at his side.”

“Of course. And with me at his side, we would have taken the country, then the world, in a new direction. The right direction. One of strong morals, strong defense.”

She took her time, letting one shoe drop before unstrapping the other. “Defense—like your old pals in SafeNet?”

His smile was hard, his eyes bright. “This country has been run by diplomats for too long. Our generals discuss and negotiate rather than command. With my help, DeBlass would have changed that. But you were determined to bring him down, and me with him. There’s no chance for the presidency now.”

“He’s a murderer, a child abuser—”

“A statesman,” Rockman interrupted. “You’ll never bring him to trial.”

“He’ll be brought to trial, and he’ll be convicted. Killing me won’t stop it.”

“No, but it will destroy your case against him—posthumously on both parts. You see, when I left him less than two hours ago, Senator DeBlass was in his office in East Washington. I stood by him as he chose a four fifty-seven Magnum, a very powerful gun. And I watched as he put the barrel into his mouth, and died like a patriot.”

“Christ.” It jolted her, the image of it. “Suicide.”

“The warrior falling on his sword.” Admiration shone in Rockman’s voice. “I told him it was the only way, and he agreed. He would never have been able to tolerate the humiliation. When his body is found, when yours is found, the senator’s reputation will be intact once again. It will be proven that he was dead hours before you. He couldn’t have killed you, and as the method will be exactly as the other murders, and as there will be two more, as promised, the evidence against him will cease to matter. He’ll be mourned. I’ll lead the charge of fury and insult—and step into his bloody shoes.”

“This isn’t about politics. Goddamn you.” She rose then, braced for the blow. She was grateful he didn’t use the gun, but the back of his hand to knock her back. She turned with it, fell heavily onto the night table. The glass she’d left there shattered to the floor.

“Get up.”

She moaned a little. Indeed, the flash of pain had her cheek singing and her vision blurred. She pushed herself up, turned, careful to keep her body in front of the ’link she’d switched on manually.

“What good is it going to do to kill me, Rockman?”

“It will do me a great deal of good. You were the spearhead of the investigation. You’re sexually involved with a man who was an early suspect. Your reputation, and your motives will come under close scrutiny after your death. It’s always a mistake to give a woman authority.”

She wiped the blood from her mouth. “Don’t like women, Rockman?”

“They have their uses, but under it all, they’re whores. Perhaps you didn’t sell your body to Roarke, but he bought you. Your murder won’t really break the pattern I’ve established.”

“You’ve established?”

“Did you really believe DeBlass was capable of planning out and executing such a meticulous series of murders?” He waited until he saw that she understood. “Yes, he killed Sharon. An impulse. I wasn’t even aware he was considering it. He panicked afterward.”

“You were there. You were with him the night he killed Sharon.”

“I was waiting for him in the car. I always accompanied him on his trysts with her. Driving him so that only I, who he trusted, would be involved.”

“His own granddaughter.” Eve didn’t dare turn to be certain she was transmitting. “Didn’t it disgust you?”

“She disgusted me, lieutenant. She used his weakness. Every man’s entitled to one, but she used it, exploited it, then threatened him. After she was dead, I realized it was for the best. She would have waited until he was president, then twisted the knife.”

“So you helped him cover it up.”

“Of course.” Rockman lifted his shoulders. “I’m glad we have this opportunity. It was frustrating for me not to be able to take credit. I’m delighted to share it with you.”

Ego, she remembered. Not just intelligence, but ego and vanity. “You had to think fast,” she commented. “And you did. Fast and brilliantly.”

“Yes.” His smile spread. “He called me on the car ’link, told me to come up quickly. He was half mad with fear. If I hadn’t calmed him, she might have succeeded in ruining him.”

“You can blame her?”

“She was a whore. A dead whore.” He shrugged it off, but held the gun steady. “I gave the senator a sedative, and I cleaned up the mess. As I explained to him, it was necessary to make Sharon only part of the whole. To use her failings, her pathetic choice of profession. It was a simple matter to doctor the security discs. The senator’s penchant for recording his sexual activities gave me the idea to use that as part of the pattern.”

“Yes,” she said through numbed lips. “That was clever.”

“I wiped the place down, wiped the gun. Since he’d been sensible enough not to use one that was registered, I left it behind. Again, establishing pattern.”

“So you used it,” Eve said quietly. “Used him, used Sharon.”

“Only fools waste opportunities. He was more himself once we were away,” Rockman mused. “I was able to outline the rest of my plan. Using Simpson to apply pressure, leak information. It was unfortunate that the senator didn’t remember until later to tell me about Sharon’s diaries. I had to risk going back. But, as we know now, she was clever enough to hide them well.”

“You killed Lola Starr and Georgie Castle. You killed them to cover up the first murder.”

“Yes. But unlike the senator, I enjoyed it. From beginning to end. It was a simple matter to select them, choose names, locations.”

It was a little difficult at the moment to enjoy the fact that she’d been right, and her computer wrong. Two killers after all. “You didn’t know them? You didn’t even know them?”

“Did you think I should?” He laughed at that. “Who they were hardly mattered. Only what. Whores offend me. Women who spread their legs to weaken a man offend me. You offend me, lieutenant.”

“Why the discs?” Where the hell was Feeney? Why wasn’t a roving unit breaking down her door right now? “Why did you send me the discs?”

“I liked watching you scramble around like a mouse after cheese—a woman who believed she could think like a man. I pointed you at Roarke, but you let him talk you onto your back. All too typical. You disappointed me. You were emotional, lieutenant: over the deaths, over that little girl you didn’t save. But you got lucky. Which is why you’re about to become very unlucky.”

He sidestepped over to the dresser where he had a camera waiting. He switched it on. “Take off your clothes.”

“You can kill me,” she said as her stomach began to churn. “But you’re not going to rape me.”

“You’ll do exactly what I want you to do. They always do.” He lowered the gun until it pointed at her midsection. “With the others, it was a shot to the head first. Instant death, probably painless. Do you have any idea what sort of pain you’ll experience with a forty-five slug in your gut? You’ll be begging me to kill you.”

His eyes lit brilliantly. “Strip.”

Eve’s hands fell to her sides. She’d face the pain, but not the nightmare. Neither of them saw the cat slink into the room.

“Your choice, lieutenant,” Rockman said, then jerked when the cat brushed between his legs.

Eve sprang forward, head low, and used the force of her body to drive him against the wall.

chapter twenty

Feeney stopped on his way back from the eatery, a half a soy burger in his hand. He loitered by the coffee dispenser, gossiping with a couple of cops on robbery detail. They swapped stories, and Feeney decided he could use one more cup of coffee before calling it a night.

He nearly bypassed his office altogether, with visions of an evening in front of the TV screen and a nice cold beer swimming in his head. His wife might even be up for a little cuddle if he was lucky.

But he was a creature of habit. He breezed in to make certain his precious computer was secured for the night. And heard Eve’s voice.

“Hey, Dallas, what brings you—” He stopped, scanning his empty office. “Working too hard,” he muttered, then heard her again.

“You were with him. You were with him the night he killed Sharon.”

“Oh my Jesus.”

He could see little on the screen: Eve’s back, the side of the bed. Rockman was blocked from view, but the audio was clear. Feeney was already praying when he called Dispatch.

Eve heard the cat’s annoyed screech when her foot stomped his tail, heard too, the clatter as the gun hit the floor. Rockman had her in height, he had her in weight. And he’d recovered from her full body slam too quickly. He proved graphically that he was military trained.

She fought viciously, unable to restrain herself to the cool, efficient moves of hand to hand. She used nails and teeth.

The shortened blow to the ribs stole her breath. She knew she was going down, and she made sure she took him with her. They hit the floor hard, and though she rolled, he came down on top of her.

Lights starred behind her eyes when her head rapped hard against the floor.

His hand was around her throat, bruising her windpipe. She went for the eyes, missed, and raked furrows down his cheek that had him howling like an animal. If he’d used his other hand for a blow to the face, he might have stunned her, but he was too focused on reaching the gun. Her stiff-handed chop to his elbow had his hand shaking from her throat. Painfully gasping in air, she scrambled with him for the gun.

His hand closed over it first.

Roarke tucked a package under his arm as he walked into the lobby of Eve’s building. He enjoyed the fact that she’d come to him. It was a habit he didn’t intend to see her break. He thought now that she’d closed her case, he could talk her into taking a couple of days off. He had an island in the West Indies he thought she’d enjoy.

He pressed her intercom, and was smiling over the image of swimming naked with her in clear blue water, making love under a hot, white sun when all hell broke loose behind him.

“Get the hell out of the way.” Feeney came in like a steamroller, a dozen uniforms in his wake. “Police business.”

“Eve!” Roarke’s blood drained even as he muscled his way onto the elevator.

Feeney ignored him and barked into his communicator. “Secure all exits. Get those fucking sharpshooters in position.”

Roarke fisted his hand uselessly at his sides. “DeBlass?”

“Rockman,” Feeney corrected, counting every beat of his own heart. “He’s got her. Stay out of the way, Roarke.”

“The fuck I will.”

Feeney flicked his eyes over, measured. No way he was going to spare a couple of cops to restrain a civilian, and he had a hunch this civilian would go to the wall, as he would, for Eve.

“Then do what I tell you.”

They heard the gunshot as the elevator doors opened.

Roarke was two steps ahead of Feeney when he rammed Eve’s apartment door. He swore, reared back. They hit it together.

The pain was like being stabbed with ice. Then it was gone, numbed with fury. Eve clamped her hand over the wrist of his gun hand, dug her short nails into his flesh. Rockman’s face was close to hers, his body pinning her in an obscene parody of love. His wrist was slippery with his own blood where she clawed at it.

She swore as she lost her grip, as he began to smile.

“You fight like a woman.” He shook his hair back from his eyes, and the blood from his torn cheek welled red. “I’m going to rape you. The last thing you’ll know before I kill you is that you’re no better than a whore.”

She sagged, and aroused with victory, he ripped at her blouse.

His smile shattered when she pumped her fist into his mouth. Blood splattered over her like warm rain. She hit him again, heard the crunch of cartilage as his nose fountained more blood. Quick as a snake, she scissored up.

And again, she jabbed at him, an elbow to the jaw, torn knuckles to the face, screaming and cursing as if her words would pummel him as well as her fists.

She didn’t hear the battering of the door, the crash of it falling in. With rage behind her, she shoved Rockman to his back, straddled him, and continued to plunge her fists into his face.

“Eve. Sweet God.”

It took Roarke and Feeney together to haul her off. She fought, snarling, until Roarke pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Stop. It’s done. It’s over.”

“He was going to kill me. He killed Lola and Georgie. He was going to kill me, but he was going to rape me first.” She pulled back, wiped at the blood and sweat on her face. “That’s where he made a mistake.”

“Sit down.” His hands were trembling and slicked with blood when he eased her onto the bed. “You’re hurt.”

“Not yet. It’ll start in a minute.” She gathered in a breath, let it out. She was a cop, damn it, she reminded herself. She was a cop, and she’d act like one. “You got the transmission,” she said to Feeney.

“Yeah.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe his clammy face.

“Then what the hell took you so long?” She managed a ghost of a smile. “You look a little upset, Feeney.”

“Shit. All in a day’s work.” He flipped on his communicator. “Situation under control. We need an ambulance.”

“I’m not going to any health center.”

“Not for you, champ. For him.” He glanced down at Rockman, who managed a weak groan.

“Once you clean him up, book him for the murders of Lola Starr and Georgie Castle.”

“You sure about that?”

Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she rose and picked up her jacket. “Got it all.” She held out the recorder. “DeBlass did Sharon, but our boy here is accessory after the fact. And I want him charged with the attempted rape and murder of a police officer. Toss in B and E for the hell of it.”

“You got it.” Feeney tucked the recorder into his pocket. “Christ, Dallas, you’re a mess.”

“I guess I am. Get him out of here, will you, Feeney?”

“Sure thing.”

“Let me help you.” Roarke bent down, lifted Rockman by the lapels. He jerked the man up, steadied him. “Look at me, Rockman. Vision clear?”

Rockman blinked blood out of his eyes. “I can see you.”

“Good.” Roarke’s arm shot up, quick as a bullet, and his fist connected with Rockman’s already battered face.

“Oops,” Feeney said mildly, when Rockman crumbled to the floor again. “Guess he’s not too steady on his feet.” He bent over himself, slipped on the cuffs. “Maybe a couple of you boys ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I’ll ride with him.”

He took out an evidence bag, slipped the gun into it. “Nice piece—ivory handle. Bet it packs a wallop.”

“Tell me about it.” Her hand went automatically to her arm.

Feeney stopped admiring the gun and gaped at her. “Shit, Dallas, you shot?”

“I don’t know.” She said it almost dreamily, surprised when Roarke ripped off the sleeve of her already tattered shirt. “Hey.”

“Grazed her.” His voice was hollow. He ripped the sleeve again, used it to stanch the wound. “She needs to be looked at.”

“I figure I can leave that to you,” Feeney remarked. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Dallas. Let a team come in and clean this up for you.”

“Yeah.” She smiled as the cat leaped onto the bed. “Maybe.” He whistled through his teeth. “Busy day.”

“It comes and goes,” she murmured, stroking the cat. Galahad, she thought, her white knight.

“See you around, kid.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Feeney.”

Determined to get through, Roarke crouched in front of her. He waited until Feeney’s whistling faded away. “Eve, you’re in shock.”

“Sort of. I’m starting to hurt though.”

“You need a doctor.”

She moved her shoulders. “I could use a pain pill, and I need to clean up.”

She looked down at herself, took inventory calmly. Her blouse was torn, spotted with blood. Her hands were a mess, ripped and swollen knuckles—she couldn’t quite make a fist. A hundred bruises were making themselves known and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” she decided, “but I’d better check.”

When she started to rise, he picked her up. “I kind of like when you carry me. Makes me all wobbly inside. Then I feel stupid about it after. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”

Since he wanted to see the damage for himself, he carried her in, set her on the toilet. He found strong, police issue pain pills in a nearly empty medicine cabinet. He offered one, and water, before dampening a cloth.

She pushed at her hair with her good arm. “I forgot to tell Feeney. DeBlass is dead. Suicide. What they used to call eating your gun. Hell of a phrase.”

“Don’t worry about it now.” Roarke worked on the bullet wound first. It was a nasty gash, but the bleeding had already slowed. Any competent MT could close it in a matter of minutes. It didn’t make his hands any steadier.

“There were two killers.” She frowned at the far wall. “That was the problem. I clicked onto it, but then I let it go. Data indicated low probability percentage. Stupid.”

Roarke rinsed out the cloth and started on her face. He was deliriously relieved that most of the blood on it wasn’t hers. Her mouth was cut, her left eye already beginning to swell. There was raw color along her cheekbone.

He managed to take a full, almost easy breath. “You’re going to have a hell of a bruise.”

“I’ve had them before.” The medication was seeping in, turning pain into a mist. She only smiled when he stripped her to the waist and began checking for other injuries. “You’ve got great hands. I love when you touch me. Nobody ever touched me like that. Did I tell you?”

“No.” And he doubted she’d remember she was telling him now. He’d make sure to remind her.

“And you’re so pretty. So pretty,” she repeated, lifting a bleeding hand to his face. “I keep wondering what you’re doing here.”

He took her hand, wrapped a cloth gently around it. “I’ve asked myself the same question.”

She grinned foolishly, let herself float. Need to file my report, she thought hazily. Soon. “You don’t really think we’re going to make anything out of this, do you? Roarke and the cop?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.” There were plenty of bruises, but the bluing along her ribs worried him most.

“Okay. Maybe I could lie down now? Can we go to your place, ’cause Feeney’s going to send a team in to record the scene and all that. If I could just take a little nap before I go in to make my report.”

“You’re going to the closest health center.”

“No, uh-uh. Can’t stand them. Hospitals, health centers, doctors.” She gave him a glassy-eyed smile and lifted her arms. “Let me sleep in your bed, Roarke. Okay? The great big one, up on the platform, under the sky.”

For lack of anything closer to hand, he took off his jacket and slipped it around her. When he picked her up again, her head lolled on his shoulder.

“Don’t forget Galahad. The cat saved my life. Who’d have thought?”

“Then he gets caviar for the whole of his nine lives.” Roarke snapped his fingers and the cat fell happily into step.

“Door’s broken.” Eve chuckled as Roarke stepped around it and into the hall. “Landlord’s going to be pissed. But I know how to get around him.” She pressed a kiss to Roarke’s throat. “I’m glad it’s over,” she said, sighing. “I’m glad you’re here. Be nice if you stuck around.”

“Count on it.” Shifting her, he bent down and retrieved the package he’d dropped in the hallway in his race to her door. There was a fresh pound of coffee inside. He figured he’d need it as a bribe when she woke up and found herself in a hospital bed.

“Don’t wanna dream tonight,” she murmured as she drifted off.

He stepped into the elevator, the cat at his feet. “No.” He brushed his lips over Eve’s hair. “No dreams tonight.”

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.

GLORY IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1995 by Nora Roberts

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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: 978-1-1012-2103-7

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): September 2001

Berkley Books by J. D. Robb

NAKED IN DEATH

GLORY IN DEATH

Fame then was cheap . . .
And they have kept it since, by being dead.

—DRYDEN

Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort.

—SHAKESPEARE

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

chapter one

The dead were her business. She lived with them, worked with them, studied them. She dreamed of them. And because that didn’t seem to be enough, in some deep, secret chamber of her heart, she mourned for them.

A decade as a cop had toughened her, given her a cold, clinical, and often cynical eye toward death and its many causes. It made scenes such as the one she viewed now, on a rainy night on a dark street nasty with litter, almost too usual. But still, she felt.

Murder no longer shocked, but it continued to repel.

The woman had been lovely once. Long trails of her golden hair spread out like rays on the dirty sidewalk. Her eyes, wide and still with that distressed expression death often left in them, were a deep purple against cheeks bloodlessly white and wet with rain.

She’d worn an expensive suit, the same rich color as her eyes. The jacket was neatly buttoned in contrast to the jerked-up skirt that exposed her trim thighs. Jewels glittered on her fingers, at her ears, against the sleek lapel of the jacket. A leather bag with a gold clasp lay near her outstretched fingers.

Her throat had been viciously slashed.

Lieutenant Eve Dallas crouched down beside death and studied it carefully. The sights and scents were familiar, but each time, every time, there was something new. Both victim and killer left their own imprint, their own style, and made murder personal.

The scene had already been recorded. Police sensors and the more intimate touch of the privacy screen were in place to keep the curious barricaded and to preserve the murder site. Street traffic, such as it was in this area, had been diverted. Air traffic was light at this hour of the night and caused little distraction. The backbeat from the music of the sex club across the street thrummed busily in the air, punctuated by the occasional howl from the celebrants. The colored lights from its revolving sign pulsed against the screen, splashing garish colors over the victim’s body.

Eve could have ordered it shut down for the night, but it seemed an unnecessary hassle. Even in 2058 with the gun ban, even though genetic testing often weeded out the more violent hereditary traits before they could bloom, murder happened. And it happened with enough regularity that the fun seekers across the street would be miffed at the idea of being moved along for such a minor inconvenience as death.

A uniform stood by continuing video and audio. Beside the screen a couple of forensics sweepers huddled against the driving rain and talked shop and sports. They hadn’t bothered to look at the body yet, hadn’t recognized her.

Was it worse, Eve wondered, and her eyes hardened as she watched the rain wash through blood, when you knew the victim?

She’d had only a professional relationship with Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers, but enough of one to have formed a strong opinion of a strong woman. A successful woman, Eve thought, a fighter, one who had pursued justice doggedly.

Had she been pursuing it here, in this miserable neighborhood?

With a sigh, Eve reached over and opened the elegant and expensive bag to corroborate her visual ID. “Cicely Towers,” she said for the recorder. “Female, age forty-five, divorced. Resides twenty-one thirty-two East Eighty-third, number Sixty-one B. No robbery. Victim still wearing jewelry. Approximately . . .” She flipped through the wallet. “Twenty in hard bills, fifty credit tokens, six credit cards left at scene. No overt signs of struggle or sexual assault.”

She looked back at the woman sprawled on the sidewalk. What the hell were you doing out here, Towers? she wondered. Here, away from the power center, away from your classy home address?

And dressed for business, she thought. Eve knew Cicely Towers’s authoritative wardrobe well, had admired it in court and at City Hall. Strong colors—always camera ready—coordinated accessories, always with a feminine touch.

Eve rose, rubbed absently at the wet knees of her jeans.

“Homicide,” she said briefly. “Bag her.”

It was no surprise to Eve that the media had caught the scent of murder and were already hunting it down before she’d reached the glossy building where Cicely Towers had lived. Several remotes and eager reporters were camped on the pristine sidewalk. The fact that it was three A.M. and raining buckets didn’t deter them. In their eyes, Eve saw the wolf gleam. The story was the prey, ratings the trophy.

She could ignore the cameras that swung in her direction, the questions shot out like stinging darts. She was almost used to the loss of her anonymity. The case she had investigated and closed during the past winter had catapulted her into the public eye. The case, she thought now as she aimed a steely glance at a reporter who had the nerve to block her path, and her relationship with Roarke.

The case had been murder. And violent death, however exciting, soon passed out of the public interest.

But Roarke was always news.

“What do you have, Lieutenant? Do you have a suspect? Is there a motive? Can you confirm that Prosecuting Attorney Towers was decapitated?”

Eve slowed her ground-eating stride briefly and swept her gaze over the huddle of soggy, feral-eyed reporters. She was wet, tired, and revolted, but she was careful. She’d learned that if you gave the media any part of yourself, it squeezed it, twisted it, and wrung it dry.

“The department has no comment at this time other than that the investigation into Prosecuting Attorney Towers’s death is proceeding.”

“Are you in charge of the case?”

“I’m primary,” she said shortly, then swung between the two uniforms guarding the entrance to the building.

The lobby was full of flowers: long banks and flows of fragrant, colorful blooms that made her think of spring in some exotic place—the island where she had spent three dazzling days with Roarke while she’d recovered from a bullet wound and exhaustion.

She didn’t take time to smile over the memory, as she would have under other circumstances, but flashed her badge and moved across the terra-cotta tiles to the first elevator.

There were more uniforms inside. Two were behind the lobby desk handling the computerized security, others watched the entrance, still others stood by the elevator tubes. It was more manpower than necessary, but as PA, Towers had been one of their own.

“Her apartment’s secured?” Eve asked the closest cop.

“Yes, sir. No one’s been in or out since your call at oh two ten.”

“I’ll want copies of the security discs.” She stepped into the elevator. “For the last twenty-four hours, to start.” She glanced down at the name on his uniform. “I want a detail of six, for door-to-doors beginning at seven hundred, Biggs. Floor sixty-one,” she ordered, and the elevator’s clear doors closed silently.

She stepped out into the sixty-first’s lush carpet and museum quiet. The halls were narrow, as they were in most multihabitation buildings erected within the last half century. The walls were a flawless creamy white with mirrors at rigid intervals to lend the illusion of space.

Space was no problem within the units, Eve mused. There were only three on the entire floor. She decoded the lock on 61-B using her Police and Security master card and stepped into quiet elegance.

Cicely Towers had done well for herself, Eve decided. And she liked to live well. As Eve took the pocket video from her field kit and clipped it onto her jacket, she scanned the living area. She recognized two paintings by a prominent twenty-first century artist hanging on the pale rose-toned wall above a wide U-shaped conversation area done in muted stripes of pinks and greens. It was her association with Roarke that had her identifying the paintings and the easy wealth in the simplicity of decor and selected pieces.

How much does a PA pull in per year? she wondered as the camera recorded the scene.

Everything was tidy, meticulously so. But then, Eve reflected, from what she knew of Towers, the woman had been meticulous. In her dress, in her work, in maintaining her privacy.

So, what had an elegant, smart, and meticulous woman been doing in a nasty neighborhood in the middle of a nasty night?

Eve walked through the room. The floor was white wood and shone like a mirror beneath lovely rugs that echoed the dominant colors of the room. On a table were framed holograms of children in varying stages of growth, from babyhood on through to the college years. A boy and girl, both pretty, both beaming.

Odd, Eve thought. She’d worked with Towers on countless cases over the years. Had she known the woman had children? With a shake of her head, she walked over to the small computer built into a stylish workstation in the corner of the room. Again she used her master card to engage it.

“List appointments for Cicely Towers, May two.” Eve’s lips pursed as she read the data. An hour at an upscale private health club prior to a full day in court followed by a six o’clock with a prominent defense attorney, then a dinner engagement. Eve’s brow lifted. Dinner with George Hammett.

Roarke had dealings with Hammett, Eve remembered. She’d met him now twice and knew him to be a charming and canny man who made his rather exorbitant living with transportation.

And Hammett was Cicely Towers’s final appointment of the day.

“Print,” she murmured and tucked the hard copy in her bag.

She tried the tele-link next, requesting all incoming and outgoing calls for the past forty-eight hours. It was likely she would have to dig deeper, but for now she ordered a recording of the calls, tucked the disc away, and began a long, careful search of the apartment.

By five A.M., her eyes were gritty and her head ached. The single hour’s sleep she had managed to tuck in between sex and murder was beginning to wear on her.

“According to known information,” she said wearily for the recorder, “the victim lived alone. No indication from initial investigation to the contrary. No indication that the victim left her apartment other than voluntarily, and no record of an appointment that would explain why the victim traveled to the location of the murder. Primary has secured data from her computer and tele-link for further investigation. Door-to-doors will begin at oh seven hundred and building security discs will be confiscated. Primary is leaving victim’s residence and will be en route to victim’s offices in City Hall. Lieutenant Dallas, Eve. Oh five oh eight.”

Eve switched off the audio and video, secured her field kit, and headed out.

It was past ten when she made it back to Cop Central. In concession to her hollow stomach, she zipped through the eatery, disappointed but not surprised to find most of the good stuff long gone by that hour. She settled for a soy muffin and what the eatery liked to pretend was coffee. As bad as it was, she downed everything before she settled in her office.

It was just as well, as her ’link beeped instantly.

“Lieutenant.”

She bit back a sigh as she stared into Whitney’s wide, grim-eyed face. “Commander.”

“My office, now.”

There wasn’t time to close her mouth before the screen went blank.

The hell with it, she thought. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then through her short, choppy brown hair. There went any chance of checking her messages, of calling Roarke to let him know what she was into, or of the ten-minute catnap she’d been fantasizing about.

She rose again, worked out the kinks in her shoulders. She did take the time to remove her jacket. The leather had protected her shirt, but her jeans were still damp. Philosophically, she ignored the discomfort and gathered up what little data she had. If she was lucky, she might get another cup of cop coffee in the commander’s office.

It only took Eve about ten seconds to realize the coffee would have to wait.

Whitney wasn’t sitting behind his desk, as was his habit. He was standing, facing the single-wall window that gave him his personal view of the city he’d served and protected for more than thirty years. His hands were clasped behind his back, but the relaxed pose was negated by the white knuckles.

Eve briefly studied the broad shoulders, the grizzled dark hair, and the wide back of the man who had only months before refused the office of chief to remain in command here.

“Commander.”

“It’s stopped raining.”

Her eyes narrowed in puzzlement before she carefully made them blank. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s a good city all in all, Dallas. It’s easy to forget that from up here, but it’s a good city all in all. I’m working to remember that right now.”

She said nothing, had nothing to say. She waited.

“I made you primary on this. Technically, Deblinsky was up, so I want to know if she gives you any flak.”

“Deblinsky’s a good cop.”

“Yes, she is. You’re better.”

Because her brows flew up, she was grateful he still had his back to her. “I appreciate your confidence, Commander.”

“You’ve earned it. I overrode procedure to put you in control for personal reasons. I need the best, someone who’ll go to the wall and over it.”

“Most of us knew PA Towers, Commander. There isn’t a cop in New York who wouldn’t go to the wall and over it to find who killed her.”

He sighed, and the deep inhalation of air rippled through his thick body before he turned. For a moment longer he said nothing, only studied the woman he’d put in charge. She was slim, deceptively so, for he had reason to know she had more stamina than was apparent in that long, slender body.

She was showing some fatigue now, in the shadows under her whiskey colored eyes, in the pallor of her bony face. He couldn’t let that worry him, not now.

“Cicely Towers was a personal friend—a close personal friend.”

“I see.” Eve wondered if she did. “I’m sorry, Commander.”

“I knew her for years. We started out together, a hotdogging cop and an eager-beaver criminal lawyer. My wife and I are godparents to her son.” He paused a moment and seemed to fight for control. “I’ve notified her children. My wife is meeting them. They’ll stay with us until after the memorial.”

He cleared his throat, pressed his lips together. “Cicely was one of my oldest friends, and above and beyond my professional respect and admiration for her, I loved her very much. My wife is devastated by this; Cicely’s children are shattered. All I could tell them was that I would do everything, anything in my power to find the person who did this to her, to give her what she worked for most of her life: justice.”

Now he did sit, not with authority but with weariness. “I’m telling you this, Dallas, so that you know up front I have no objectivity on this case. None. Because I don’t, I’m depending on you.”

“I appreciate you being frank, Commander.” She hesitated only an instant. “As a personal friend of the victim’s, it’ll be necessary to interview you as soon as possible.” She watched his eyes flicker and harden. “Your wife as well, Commander. If it’s more comfortable, I can conduct the interviews at your home rather than here.”

“I see.” He drew another breath. “That’s why you’re primary, Dallas. There aren’t many cops who’d have the nerve to zero in so directly. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait until tomorrow, perhaps even a day or two longer, to see my wife, and if you’d see her at home. I’ll set it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you got so far?”

“I did a recon on the victim’s residence and her office. I have files of the cases she had pending and those that she closed over the last five years. I need to cross-check names to see if anyone she sent up has been released recently, their families and associates. Particularly the violent offenders. Her batting average was very high.”

“Cicely was a tiger in the courtroom, and I never knew her to miss a detail. Until now.”

“Why was she there, Commander, in the middle of the night? Prelim autopsy puts time of death at one sixteen. It’s a rough neighborhood—shake-downs, muggings, sex joints. There’s a known chemical trading center a couple of blocks from where she was found.”

“I don’t know. She was a careful woman, but she was also . . . arrogant.” He smiled a little. “Admirably so. She’d go head to head with the worst this city’s got to offer. But to put herself in deliberate jeopardy . . . I don’t know.”

“She was trying a case, Fluentes, murder two. Strangulation of a lady friend. His lawyer’s using the passion defense, but word is Towers was going to send him away. I’m checking it out.”

“Is he on the street or in a cage?”

“On the street. First violent offense, bail was dead low. Being it was murder, he was required to wear a homing bracelet, but that doesn’t mean diddly if he knew anything about electronics. Would she have met with him?”

“Absolutely not. It would corrupt her case to meet a defendant out of the courtroom.” Thinking of Cicely, remembering Cicely, Whitney shook his head. “That she’d never risk. But he could have used other means to lure her there.”

“Like I said, I’m checking it out. She had a dinner appointment last night with George Hammett. Do you know him?”

“Socially. They saw each other occasionally. Nothing serious, according to my wife. She was always trying to find the perfect man for Cicely.”

“Commander, it’s best if I ask now, off the record. Were you sexually involved with the victim?”

A muscle in his cheek jerked, but his eyes stayed level. “No, I wasn’t. We had a friendship, and that friendship was very valuable. In essence, she was family. You wouldn’t understand family, Dallas.”

“No.” Her voice was flat. “I suppose not.”

“I’m sorry for that.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Whitney rubbed his hands over his face. “That was uncalled for, and unfair. And your question was relevant.” He dropped his hands. “You’ve never lost anyone close to you, have you, Dallas?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It shreds you to pieces,” he murmured.

She supposed it would. In the decade she had known Whitney, she had seen him furious, impatient, even coldly cruel. But she had never seen him devastated.

If that was what being close, and losing, did to a strong man, Eve supposed she was better off as she was. She had no family to lose, and only vague, ugly flashes of her childhood. Her life as it was now had begun when she was eight years old and had been found, battered and abandoned, in Texas. What had happened before that day didn’t matter. She told herself constantly that it didn’t matter. She had made herself into what she was, who she was. For friendship she had precious few she cared enough for, trusted enough in. As for more than friendship, there was Roarke. He had whittled away at her until she’d given him more. Enough more to frighten her at odd moments—frighten her because she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had all.

If she gave him all, then lost him, would she be in shreds?

Rather than dwell on it, Eve dosed herself with coffee and the remains of a candy bar she unearthed in her desk. The prospect of lunch was a fantasy right up there with spending a week in the tropics. She sipped and munched while she scanned the final autopsy report on her monitor.

The time of death remained as issued in the prelim. The cause, a severed jugular and the resulting loss of blood and oxygen. The victim had enjoyed a meal of sea scallops and wild greens, wine, real coffee, and fresh fruit with whipped cream. Ingestion estimated at five hours before death.

The call had come in quickly. Cicely Towers had been dead only ten minutes before a cab driver, brave or desperate enough to work the neighborhood, had spotted the body and reported it. The first cruiser had arrived three minutes later.

Her killer had moved fast, Eve mused. Then again, it was easy to fade in a neighborhood like that, to slip into a car, a doorway, a club. There would have been blood; the jugular gushed and sprayed. But the rain would have been an asset, washing it from the murderer’s hands.

She would have to comb the neighborhood, ask questions that were unlikely to receive any sort of viable answers. Still, bribes often worked where procedure or threats wouldn’t.

She was studying the police photo of Cicely Towers with her necklace of blood when her ’link beeped.

“Dallas, Homicide.”

A face flashed on her screen, young, beaming, and sly. “Lieutenant, what’s the word?”

Eve didn’t swear, though she wanted to. Her opinion of reporters wasn’t terribly high, but C. J. Morse was on the lowest end of her scale. “You don’t want to hear the word I’ve got for you, Morse.”

His round face split with a smile. “Come on, Dallas, the public’s right to know. Remember?”

“I’ve got nothing for you.”

“Nothing? You want me to go on air saying that Lieutenant Eve Dallas, the finest of New York’s finest, has come up empty in the investigation of the murder of one of the city’s most respected, most prominent, and most visible public figures? I could do that, Dallas,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I could, but it wouldn’t look good for you.”

“And you figure that matters to me.” Her smile was thin and laser sharp, and her finger hovered over the disconnect. “You figure wrong.”

“Maybe not to you personally, but it would reflect on the department.” His girlishly long lashes fluttered. “On Commander Whitney for pulling strings to put you on as primary. And there’s the backwash on Roarke.”

Her finger twitched, then curled into her palm. “Cicely Towers’s murder is a priority with the department, with Commander Whitney, and with me.”

“I’ll quote you.”

Fucking little bastard. “And my work with the department has nothing to do with Roarke.”

“Hey, brown-eyes, anything that touches you, touches Roarke now, and vice versa. And you know, the fact that your man had business dealings with the recently deceased, her ex-husband, and her current escort ties it up real pretty.”

Her hands balled into fists of frustration. “Roarke has a lot of business dealings with a lot of people. I didn’t know you were back on the gossip beat, C. J.”

That wiped the smarmy little smile off his face. There was nothing C. J. Morse hated more than being reminded of his roots in gossip and society news. Especially now that he’d wormed his way onto the police beat. “I’ve got contacts, Dallas.”

“Yeah, you’ve also got a pimple in the middle of your forehead. I’d have that taken care of.” With that cheap but satisfying shot, Eve cut him off.

Springing up, she paced the small square of her office, jamming her hands into her pockets, pulling them out again. Goddamn it, why did Roarke’s name have to come up in connection with the case? Just how closely was he involved with Towers’s business dealings and her associates?

Eve dropped into her chair again and scowled at the reports on her desk. She’d have to find out, and quickly.

At least this time, with this murder, she knew he had an alibi. At the time Cicely Towers was having her throat slashed, Roarke had been fucking the hell out of the investigating officer.

chapter two

Eve would have preferred to have gone back to the apartment she continued to keep despite the fact that she spent most nights at Roarke’s. There, she could have brooded, thought, slept, and walked herself back through the last day of Cicely Towers’s life. Instead, she headed for Roarke’s.

She was tired enough to give up the controls and let the auto program maneuver the car through late-evening traffic. Food was the first thing she needed, Eve decided. And if she could steal ten minutes to clear her mind, so much the better.

Spring had decided to come out and play, prettily. It tempted her to open the windows, ignore the sounds of bustling traffic, the hum of maxibuses, the griping of pedestrians, the overhead swish of air traffic.

To avoid the echoing bellow of the guides from the tourist blimps, she veered over toward Tenth. A shot through midtown and a quick zip up Park would have been quicker, but she would have been treated to the droning recitation of New York’s attractions, the history and tradition of Broadway, the brilliance of museums, the variety of shops—and the plug for the blimp’s own gift emporium.

As the blimp route skimmed over her apartment, she’d heard the spiel countless times. She didn’t care to hear about the convenience of the people glides that connected the sparkling fashion shops from Fifth to Madison or the Empire State Building’s newest sky walk.

A minor traffic snag at Fifty-second had her pondering a billboard where a stunning man and a stunning woman exchanged a passionate kiss, sweetened, they claimed each time they came up for air, by Mountain Stream Breath Freshener.

Their vehicles jammed flank to flank, a couple of cabbies shouted inventive insults at each other. A maxibus overflowing with passengers laid on its horn, adding an ear-stinging screech that had pedestrians on rampways and sidewalks shaking their heads or their fists.

A traffic hovercraft dipped low, blasted out the standard order to proceed or be cited. Traffic inched uptown, full of noise and temper.

The city changed as she moved from its core to its edges, where the wealthy and the privileged made their homes. Wider, cleaner streets, the sweep of trees from the islands of parks. Here the vehicles quieted to a whoosh of movement, and those who walked did so in tailored outfits and fine shoes.

She passed a dog walker who handled a brace of elegant gold hounds with the steady aplomb of a seasoned droid.

When she came to the gates of Roarke’s estate, her car idled until the program cleared her through. His trees were blooming. White blossoms flowed along with pink, accented by deep, rich reds and blues, all carpeted by a long sweep of emerald grass.

The house itself towered up into the deepening sky, glass sparkling in the late sun, the stone grand and gray. It had been months since she had first seen it, yet she had never grown used to the grandeur, the sumptuousness, the simple, unadulterated wealth. She had yet to stop asking herself what she was doing here—here, with him.

She left her car at the base of the granite steps and climbed them. She wouldn’t knock. That was pride, and it was ornery. Roarke’s butler despised her and didn’t trouble to hide it.

As expected, Summerset appeared in the hall like a puff of black smoke, his silver hair gleaming, a frown of disapproval ready on his long face.

“Lieutenant.” His eyes scraped her, making her aware that she was wearing the same clothes she’d left in, and they were considerably rumpled. “We were unaware of the time of your return, or indeed, if you intended to return.”

“Were we?” She shrugged, and because she knew it offended him, peeled off her scarred leather jacket and held it out to his elegant hands. “Is Roarke here?”

“He is engaged on an interspace transmission.”

“The Olympus Resort?”

Summerset’s mouth puckered like a prune. “I don’t inquire as to Roarke’s business.”

You know exactly what he’s doing and when, she thought, but turned out of the wide, glittery hall toward the curve of the stairs. “I’m going up. I need a bath.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You can let him know where I am when he’s finished his transmission.”

She climbed up to the master suite. Like Roarke, she rarely used the elevators. The moment she’d slammed the bedroom door behind her, she began to strip, leaving a trail of boots, jeans, shirt, and underwear in her wake on the way to the bath.

She ordered the water at 102 degrees Fahrenheit, and as an afterthought tossed in some of the salts Roarke had brought her back from Silas Three. They foamed into sea green froth that smelled of fairy tale woods.

She all but rolled into the oversized marble tub, all but wept when the heat seeped into her aching bones. Drawing one deep breath, she submerged, held herself down for a count of thirty seconds, and surfaced with a sigh of sheer sensual pleasure. She kept her eyes closed and drifted.

So he found her.

Most people would have said she was relaxed. But then, Roarke thought, most people didn’t really know and certainly didn’t understand Eve Dallas. He was more intimate with her, closer to her mind and heart than he had ever been with another. Yet there were still pockets of her he had yet to plumb.

She was, always, a fascinating learning experience.

She was naked, dipped to her chin in steamy water and perfumed bubbles. Her face was flushed from the heat, her eyes closed, but she wasn’t relaxed. He could see the tension in the hand that was fisted on the wide ledge of the tub, in the faint frown between her eyes.

No, Eve was thinking, he mused. And worrying. And planning. He moved quietly, as he had grown up doing in the alleyways of Dublin, along wharves and the stinking streets of cities everywhere. When he sat on the ledge to watch her, she didn’t stir for several minutes. He knew the instant she sensed him beside her.

Her eyes opened, the golden brown clear and alert as they latched onto his amused blue. As always, just the sight of him gave her a quick inner jolt. His face was like a painting, a depiction in perfect oils of some fallen angel. The sheer beauty of it, framed by all that rich black hair, was forever a surprise to her.

She cocked a brow, tilted her head. “Pervert.”

“It’s my tub.” Watching her still, he slid an elegant hand through the bubbles into the water and along the side of her breast. “You’ll boil in there.”

“I like it hot. I needed it hot.”

“You’ve had a difficult day.”

He would know, she thought, struggling not to resent it. He knew everything. She only moved her shoulder as he rose and went to the automated bar built into the tiles. It hummed briefly as it served up two glasses of wine in faceted crystal.

He came back, sat on the ledge again, and handed her a glass. “You haven’t slept; you haven’t eaten.”

“It goes with the territory.” The wine tasted like liquid gold.

“Nonetheless, you worry me, Lieutenant.”

“You worry too easily.”

“I love you.”

It flustered her to hear him say it in that lovely voice that hinted of Irish mists, to know that somehow, incredibly, it was true. Since she had no answer to give him, she frowned into her wine.

He said nothing until he’d managed to tuck away irritation at her lack of response. “Can you tell me what happened to Cicely Towers?”

“You knew her,” Eve countered.

“Not well. A light social acquaintance, some business dealings, mostly through her former husband.” He sipped his wine, watched the steam rise from her bath. “I found her admirable, wise, and dangerous.”

Eve scooted up until the water lapped at the tops of her breasts. “Dangerous? To you?”

“Not directly.” His lips curved slightly before he brought the wine to them. “To nefarious practices, to illegalities, small and large, to the criminal mind. She was very like you in that respect. It’s fortunate I’ve mended my ways.”

Eve wasn’t entirely sure of that, but she let it slide. “Through your business dealings and your light social acquaintance, are you aware of anyone who would have wanted her dead?”

He sipped again, more deeply. “Is this an interrogation, Lieutenant?”

It was the smile in his voice that rubbed her wrong. “It can be,” she said shortly.

“As you like.” He rose, set his glass aside, and began to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting into the swim, so to speak.” He tossed the shirt aside, unhooked his trousers. “If I’m going to be questioned by a naked cop, in my own tub, the least I can do is join her.”

“Damn it, Roarke, this is murder.”

He winced as the hot water all but scalded him. “You’re telling me.” He faced her across the sea of froth. “What is it in me that is so perverse it thrives on ruffling you? And,” he continued before she could give him her short, pithy opinion, “what is it about you that pulls at me, even when you’re sitting there with an invisible badge pinned to your lovely breast?”

He skimmed a hand under, along her ankle, her calf, and to the spot on the back of her knee he knew weakened her. “I want you,” he murmured. “Right now.”

Her hand had gone limp on the stem of her glass before she managed to shift away. “Talk to me about Cicely Towers.”

Philosophically, Roarke settled back. He had no intention of letting her out of the tub until he was finished, so he could afford patience. “She, her former husband, and George Hammett, were on the board of one of my divisions. Mercury, named after the god of speed. Import-export for the most part. Shipping, deliveries, rapid transports.”

“I know what Mercury is,” she said testily, dealing with the annoyance of not knowing that, too, was one of his companies.

“It was a poorly organized and failing business when I acquired it about ten years ago. Marco Angelini, Cicely’s ex, invested, as did she. They were still married at the time, I believe, or just divorced. The termination of their marriage, apparently, was as amicable as such things can be. Hammett was also an investor. I don’t believe he became personally involved with Cicely until some years later.”

“And this triangle, Angelini, Towers, Hammett, was that amicable, too?”

“It seemed so.” Idly he tapped a tile. When it flipped open to reveal the hidden panel, he programmed in music. Something low and weepy. “If you’re worried about my end of it, it was business, and successful business at that.”

“How much smuggling does Mercury do?”

His grin flashed. “Really, Lieutenant.”

Water lapped as she sat forward. “Don’t play games with me, Roarke.”

“Eve, it’s my fondest wish to do just that.”

She gritted her teeth, kicked at the hand that was sneaking up her leg. “Cicely Towers had a rep for being a no-nonsense prosecutor, dedicated, clean as they come. If she’d discovered any of Mercury’s dealings skirted the law, she’d have gone after you with a vengeance.”

“So, she discovered my perfidy, and I had her lured to a dangerous neighborhood and ordered her throat cut.” His eyes were level and entirely too bland. “Is that what you think, Lieutenant?”

“No, damn it, you know it’s not, but—”

“Others might,” he finished. “Which would put you in a delicate position.”

“I’m not worried about that.” At the moment, she was worried only about him. “Roarke, I need to know. I need you to tell me if there’s anything, anything at all, that might involve you in the investigation.”

“And if there is?”

She went cold inside. “I’ll have to turn it over to someone else.”

“Haven’t we been through this before?”

“It’s not like the DeBlass case. Not anything like that. You’re not a suspect.” When he cocked a brow, she struggled to put reason rather than irritation in her voice. Why was everything so complicated when it touched on Roarke? “I don’t think you had anything to do with Cicely Towers’s murder. Is that simple enough?”

“You haven’t finished the thought.”

“All right. I’m a cop. There are questions I have to ask. I have to ask them of you, of anyone who’s even remotely connected to the victim. I can’t change that.”

“How much do you trust me?”

“It has nothing to do with trusting you.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” His eyes went cool, remote, and she knew she’d taken the wrong step. “If you don’t trust me by now, believe in me, then we have nothing but some rather intriguing sex.”

“You’re twisting this around.” She was fighting to stay calm because he was scaring her. “I’m not accusing you of anything. If I had come into this case without knowing you or caring about you, I would have put you on the list on principle. But I do know you, and that’s not what this is about. Hell.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed wet hands over her face. It was miserable for her to try to explain her feelings. “I’m trying get answers that will help to keep you as far out of it as I can because I do care. And I can’t stop trying to think of ways I can use you because of your connection with Towers. And your connections, period. It’s hard for me to do both.”

“It shouldn’t have been so hard to simply say it,” he murmured, then shook his head. “Mercury is completely legitimate—now—because there’s no need for it to be otherwise. It runs well, makes an acceptable profit. And though you might think I’m arrogant enough to engage in criminal acts with a prosecuting attorney on my board of directors, you should know I’m not stupid enough to do so.”

Because she believed him, the tightness that she’d carried in her chest for hours broke apart. “All right. There’ll still be questions,” she told him. “And the media has already made the connection.”

“I know. I’m sorry for it. How difficult are they making it for you?”

“They haven’t even started.” In one of her rare shows of easy affection, she reached for his hand, squeezed it. “I’m sorry, too. Looks like we’re in another one.”

“I can help.” He slid forward so that he could bring their joined hands to his lips. When she smiled, he knew she was, finally, ready to relax. “It isn’t necessary for you to keep me out of anything. I can handle that myself. And there’s no need to feel guilty or uncomfortable for considering that I could be useful to you in the investigation.”

“I’ll let you know when I figure out how you might be.” This time she only arched her brows when his free hand snaked up her thigh. “If you try to pull that off in here, we’re going to need diving equipment.”

He levered himself to her, over her, so that water sloshed dangerously at the lip of the ledge. “Oh, I think we can manage just fine on our own.”

And he covered her grinning mouth with his to prove it.

Late in the night when she slept beside him, Roarke lay awake watching the stars whirl through the sky window over the bed. Worry he hadn’t let her see was in his eyes now. Their fates had intertwined, personally, professionally. It was murder that had brought them together, and murder that would continue to poke fingers into their lives. The woman beside him defended the dead.

As Cicely Towers had often done, he thought, and wondered if that representation is what had cost her her own life.

He made it a point not to worry too much or too often about how Eve made her living. Her career defined her. He was very much aware of that.

Both of them had made themselves—remade themselves—from the little or nothing they had been. He was a man who bought and sold, who controlled, and who enjoyed the power of it. And the profit.

But it occurred to him that there were pockets of his business that would cause her trouble, if the shadows came to light. It was perfectly true that Mercury was clean, but it hadn’t always been true. He had other holdings, other interests that dealt in the gray areas. He had grown up in the darker portions of those gray areas, after all. He had a knack for them.

Smuggling, both terrestrial and interstellar, was a profitable and entertaining business. The truly excellent wines of Taurus Five, the stunning blue diamonds mined in the caves of Refini, the precious transparent porcelain manufactured in the Arts Colony of Mars.

True, he no longer had to bypass the law to live, and live well. But old habits die hard.

The problem remained: What if he hadn’t yet converted Mercury into a legitimate operation? What he saw as a harmless business diversion would have weighed on Eve like a stone.

Added to that was the humbling fact that despite what they had begun to build together, she was far from sure of him.

She murmured something, shifted. Even in sleep, he mused, she hesitated before turning to him. He was having a very difficult time with that. Changes were going to be necessary, soon, for both of them.

For the moment, he would deal with what he could control. It would be very simple for him to make a few calls and ask a few questions relating to Cicely Towers. It would be less simple and take a bit more time to convert all of those gray areas of his concerns into the light.

He looked down to study her. She was sleeping well, her hand open and relaxed on the pillow. He knew sometimes she dreamed, badly. But tonight her mind was quiet. Trusting it would remain so, he slipped out of bed to begin.

Eve woke to the fragrance of coffee. Genuine, rich coffee ground from beans cultivated on Roarke’s plantation in South America. The luxury of that was, Eve could admit, one of the first things she’d grown accustomed to, indeed come to depend on, when it came to staying at Roarke’s.

Her lips were curved before her eyes opened.

“Christ, heaven couldn’t be better than this.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

Her eyes might have still been bleary, but she managed to focus on him. He was fully dressed in one of the dark suits that made him look both capable and dangerous. In the sitting area below the raised platform where the bed stood, he seemed to be enjoying breakfast and his quick daily scan of the day’s news on his monitor.

The gray cat she’d named Galahad lay like a fat slug on the arm of the chair and studied Roarke’s plate with bicolored, avaricious eyes.

“What time is it?” she demanded, and the bedside clock murmured the answer: oh six hundred. “Jesus, how long have you been up?”

“Awhile. You didn’t say when you had to be in.”

She ran her hands over her face, up through her hair. “I’ve got a couple hours.” A slow starter, she crawled out of bed and looked groggily around for something to wear.

Roarke watched her a moment. It was always a pleasure to watch Eve in the morning, when she was naked and glassy-eyed. He gestured toward the robe the bedroom droid had picked up from the floor and hung neatly over the foot of the bed. Eve groped into it, too sleepy yet to be baffled by the feel of silk against her skin.

Roarke poured her a cup of coffee and waited while she settled into the chair across from him and savored it. The cat, thinking his luck might change, thudded onto her lap with enough weight to make her grunt.

“You slept well.”

“Yeah.” She drew the coffee in like breath, winced only a little as Galahad circled her lap and kneaded her thighs with his needle claws. “I feel close to human again.”

“Hungry?”

She grunted again. Eve already knew his kitchen was staffed with artists. She took a swan-shaped pastry from the silver tray and downed it in three enthusiastic bites. When she reached for the coffeepot herself, her eyes were fully open and clear. Feeling generous, she broke off a swan’s head and gave it to Galahad.

“It’s always a pleasure watching you wake up,” he commented. “But sometimes I wonder if you want me only for my coffee.”

“Well . . .” She grinned at him and sipped again. “I really like the food, too. And the sex isn’t bad.”

“You seemed to tolerate it fairly well last night. I have to be in Australia today. I may not make it back until tomorrow or the day after.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like you to stay here while I’m gone.”

“We’ve been through that. I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Perhaps you would if you’d consider it your home as well as mine. Eve . . .” He laid a hand on hers before she could speak. “When are you going to accept what I feel for you?”

“Look, I’m just more comfortable in my own place when you’re away. And I’ve got a lot of work right now.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” he murmured. “Never mind. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.” His voice was clipped now, cool, and he turned the monitor toward her. “Speaking of your work, you might like to see what the media is saying.”

Eve read the first headline with a kind of weary resignation. Mouth grim, she scanned from paper to paper. The banners were all similar enough. Renowned New York prosecutor murdered. Police baffled. There were images, of course, of Towers. Inside courtrooms, outside courthouses. Images of her children, comments and quotes.

Eve snarled a bit at her own image and the caption that labeled her the top homicide investigator in the city.

“I’m going to get grief on that,” she muttered.

There was more, naturally. Several papers had printed a brief rundown of the case she’d closed the previous winter, involving a prominent U.S. senator and three dead whores. As expected, her relationship with Roarke was mentioned in every edition.

“What the hell does it matter who I am or who I’m with?”

“You’ve leaped into the public arena, Lieutenant. Your name now sells media chips.”

“I’m a cop, not a socialite.” Fuming, she swiveled to the elaborate grillwork along the far wall. “Open viewing screen,” she ordered. “Channel 75.”

The grill slid open, revealing the screen. The sound of the early broadcast filled the room. Eve’s eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched.

“There’s that fang-toothed, dickless weasel.”

Amused, Roarke sipped his coffee and watched C. J. Morse give his six o’clock report. He was well aware that Eve’s disdain for the media had grown into a full-fledged disgust over the last couple of months. A disgust that stemmed from the simple fact that she now had to deal with them at every turn of her professional and personal life. Even without that, he didn’t think he could blame her for despising Morse.

“And so, a great career has been cut off cruelly, violently. A woman of conviction, dedication, and integrity has been murdered on the streets of this great city, left there to bleed in the rain. Cicely Towers will not be forgotten, but will be remembered as a woman who fought for justice in a world where we struggle for it. Even death can’t dim her legacy.

“But will her killer be brought to the justice she lived her entire life upholding? The Police and Security Department of New York as yet offers no hope. Primary investigating officer, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, a jewel of the department, is unable to answer that question.”

Eve all but growled when her image filled the screen. Morse’s voice continued.

“When reached by ’link, Lieutenant Dallas refused to comment on the murder and the progress of the investigation. No denial was issued as to the speculation that a cover-up is in process . . .”

“Why that smarmy-faced bastard. He never asked about a cover-up. What cover-up?” The slap of her hand on the arm of the chair made Galahad leap away to safer ground. “I’ve barely had the case for thirty hours.”

“Ssh,” Roarke said mildly and left her to spring up and stalk the room.

“. . . the long list of prominent names that are linked with Prosecutor Towers, among them Commander Whitney, Dallas’s superior. The commander recently refused the offer of the position as Chief of Police and Security. A long-standing, intimate friend of the victim—”

“That’s it!” Furious, Eve slapped the screen off manually. “I’m going to slice that worm into pieces. Where the hell is Nadine Furst? If we’ve got to have a reporter sniffing up our ass, at least she’s got a mind.”

“I believe she’s on Penal Station Omega, a story on prison reform. You might consider a press conference, Eve. The simplest way to deal with this kind of heat is to toss a well-chosen log on the fire.”

“Fuck that. What was that broadcast anyway, a report or an editorial?”

“There’s little difference since the revised media bill passed thirty years ago. A reporter has the right to flavor a story with his opinion, as long as it’s expressed as such.”

“I know the damn law.” The robe, brilliant with color, swirled around her legs as she turned. “He’s not going to get away with insinuating a cover-up. Whitney runs a clean department. I run a clean investigation. And he’s not going to get away with using your name to cloud it, either,” she continued. “That’s what he was leading up to with that excuse for news. That was next.”

“He doesn’t worry me, Eve. He shouldn’t worry you.”

“He doesn’t worry me. He pisses me off.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to settle herself. Slowly, very slowly and very wickedly, she began to smile. “I’ve got the perfect payback.” She opened her eyes again. “How do you think that little bastard would like it if I contacted Furst, gave her an exclusive?”

Roarke set aside his cup. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.” He rose and went to her instead. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her hard. “I’m crazy about you.”

“I take that to mean you think it’s a pretty good idea.”

“My late unlamented father taught me one valuable lesson. ‘Boy,’ he would say to me in the thick brogue of a champion drunk, ‘the only way to fight is to fight dirty. The only place to hit is below the belt.’ I have a feeling you’ll have Morse nursing his balls before the day’s out.”

“No, he won’t be nursing them.” Delighted with herself, Eve kissed him back. “Because I’ll have sliced them right off.”

Roarke gave a mock shudder. “Vicious women are so attractive. Did you say you had a couple of hours?”

“Not anymore.”

“I was afraid of that.” He stepped back, took a disc from his pocket. “You might find this useful.”

“What is it?”

“Some data I put together, on Towers’s ex, on Hammett. Files on Mercury.”

Her fingers chilled as they closed over the disc. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“No, you didn’t. You’d have gotten access to it, but it would have taken you longer. You know if you require my equipment, it’s available to you.”

She understood he was talking about the room he had, the unregistered equipment that the sensors of Compuguard couldn’t detect. “I prefer going through proper channels for the moment.”

“As you like. If you change your mind while I’m gone, Summerset’s aware you have access.”

“Summerset wishes I had access to hell,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to get dressed.” She turned away, then stopped. “Roarke, I’m working on it.”

“On what?”

“On accepting what you seem to feel for me.”

He lifted a brow. “Work harder,” he suggested.

chapter three

Eve didn’t waste time. Her first order of business when she hit her office was to contact Nadine Furst. The ’link buzzed and crackled over the galactic channel. Sunspots, a satellite dink, or simply the aging equipment held up the transmission for several minutes. Finally, a picture wavered onto the screen, then popped into clear focus.

Eve had the pleasure of seeing Nadine’s pale, groggy face. She hadn’t considered the time difference.

“Dallas.” Nadine’s normally fluid voice was scratchy and weak. “Jesus, it’s the middle of the night here.”

“Sorry. You awake, Nadine?”

“Awake enough to hate you.”

“Have you been getting Earth news up there?”

“I’ve been a little busy.” Nadine pushed back her tumbled hair and reached for a cigarette.

“When did you start that?”

With a wince, Nadine drew in the first drag. “If you terrestrial cops ever came up here, you’d give tobacco a shot. Even this dog shit you can buy in this rat hole. And anything else you could get your hands on. It’s a fucking disgrace.” She hitched in more smoke. “Three people to a cage, most of them zoned on smuggled chemicals. The medical facilities are like something out of the twentieth century. They’re still sewing people up with string.”

“And limited video privileges,” Eve finished. “Imagine, treating murderers like criminals. My heart’s breaking.”

“You can’t get a decent meal anywhere in the entire colony,” Nadine griped. “What the hell do you want?”

“To make you smile, Nadine. How soon will you be finished up there and back on planet?”

“Depends.” As she began to waken fully, Nadine’s senses sharpened. “You have something for me.”

“Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers was murdered about thirty hours ago.” Ignoring Nadine’s yelp, Eve continued briskly, “Her throat was slashed, and her body was discovered on the sidewalk of Hundred and forty-fourth between Ninth and Tenth.”

“Towers. Jesus wept. I had a one-on-one with her two months ago after the DeBlass case. Hundred and forty-fourth?” The wheels were already turning. “Mugging?”

“No. She still had her jewelry and credit tokens. A mugging in that neighborhood wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”

“No.” Nadine closed her eyes a moment. “Damn. She was a hell of a woman. You’re primary?”

“Right the first time.”

“Okay.” Nadine let out a long breath. “So, why is the primary on what has to be the top case in the country contacting me?”

“The devil you know, Nadine. Your illustrious associate Morse is drooling down my neck.”

“Asshole,” Nadine muttered, tamping out the cigarette in quick, jerky bumps. “That’s why I didn’t get word of it. He’d have blocked me out.”

“You play square with me, Nadine, I play square with you.”

Nadine’s eyes sharpened, her nostrils all but quivered. “Exclusive?”

“We’ll discuss terms when you get back. Make it fast.”

“I’m practically on planet.”

Eve smiled at the blank screen. That ought to stick in your greedy craw, C. J., she mused. She was humming as she pushed away from her desk. She had people to see.

By nine A.M., Eve was cooling her heels in the plush living area of George Hammett’s uptown apartment. His taste ran to the dramatic, she noted. Huge squares of crimson and white tiles were cool under her boots. The tinkling music of water striking rock sang from the audio of the hologram sweeping an entire wall with an image of the tropics. The silver cushions of the long, low sofa glittered, and when she pushed a finger into one, it gave like silken flesh.

She decided she’d continue to stand.

Objets d’art were placed selectively around the room. A carved tower that resembled the ruins of some ancient castle, the mask of a woman’s face embedded in translucent rose-colored glass, what appeared to be a bottle that flashed with vivid, changing colors with the heat of her hand.

When Hammett entered from an adjoining room, Eve concluded that he was every bit as dramatic as his surroundings.

He looked pale, heavy eyed, but it only increased his stunning looks. He was tall and elegantly slim. His face was poetically hollowed at the cheeks. Unlike many of his contemporaries—Eve knew him to be in his sixties—he had opted to let his hair gray naturally. An excellent choice for him, she thought, as his thick lion’s mane was as gleaming a silver as one of Roarke’s Georgian candlesticks.

His eyes were the same striking color, though they were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness.

He crossed to her, cupped her hand in both of his. “Eve.” When his lips brushed her cheek, she winced. He was making the connection personal. She thought they both knew it.

“George,” she began, subtly drawing back. “I appreciate your time.”

“Nonsense. I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. A call I had to complete.” He gestured toward the sofa, the sleeves of his casual shirt billowing with the movement. Eve resigned herself to sitting on it. “What can I offer you?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Coffee.” He smiled a little. “I recall you’re very fond of it. I have some of Roarke’s blend.” He pressed a button on the arm of the sofa. A small screen popped up. “A pot of Argentine Gold,” he ordered, “two cups.” Then, with that faint and sober smile still on his lips, he turned back to her. “It’ll help me relax,” he explained. “I’m not surprised to find you here this morning, Eve. Or perhaps I should be calling you Lieutenant Dallas, under the circumstances.”

“Then you understand why I’m here.”

“Of course. Cicely. I can’t get used to it.” His cream-over-cream voice shook a little. “I’ve heard it countless times on the news. I’ve spoken with her children and with Marco. But I can’t seem to take in the fact that she’s gone.”

“You saw her the night she was killed.”

A muscle in his cheek jerked. “Yes. We had dinner. We often did when our schedules allowed. Once a week at least. More, if we could manage it. We were close.”

He paused as a small server droid glided in with the coffee. Hammett poured it himself, concentrating on the small task almost fiercely. “How close?” he murmured, and Eve saw his hand wasn’t quite steady as he lifted his cup. “Intimate. We’d been lovers, exclusive lovers, for several years. I loved her very much.”

“You maintained separate residences.”

“Yes, she—we both preferred it that way. Our tastes, aesthetically speaking, were very different, and the simple truth was we both liked our independence and personal space. We enjoyed each other more, I think, by keeping a certain distance.” He took a long breath. “But it was no secret that we had a relationship, at least not among our families and friends.” He let the breath out. “Publicly, we both preferred to keep our private lives private. I don’t expect that will be possible now.”

“I doubt it.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What should matter is finding out who did this to her. I just can’t seem to work myself up about it. Nothing can change the fact that she’s gone. Cicely was,” he said slowly, “the most admirable woman I’ve ever known.”

Every instinct, human and cop, told her this was a man in deep mourning, but she knew that even killers mourned their dead. “I need you to tell me what time you last saw her. George, I’m recording this.”

“Yes, of course. It was about ten o’clock. We had dinner at Robert’s on East Twelfth. We shared a cab after. I dropped her off first. About ten,” he repeated. “I know I got in about quarter after because I had several messages waiting.”

“Was that your usual routine?”

“What? Oh.” He snapped himself back from some inner world. “We really didn’t have one. Often we’d come back here, or go to her apartment. Now and again, when we felt adventurous, we’d take a suite at the Palace for a night.” He broke off, and his eyes were suddenly blank and devastated as he shoved off the soft, silver sofa. “Oh God. My God.”

“I’m sorry.” Useless, she knew, against grief. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m starting to believe it,” he said in a voice thick and low. “It’s worse, I realize, when you begin to believe it. She laughed when she got out of the cab, and she blew me a kiss from her fingertips. She had such beautiful hands. And I went home, and forgot about her because I had messages waiting. I was in bed by midnight, took a mild tranq because I had an early meeting. While I was in bed, safe, she was lying dead in the rain. I don’t know if I can bear that.” He turned back, his already pale face bloodless now. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

She couldn’t help him. Even though his pain was so tangible she could feel it herself, she couldn’t help him. “I wish I could do this later, give you time, but I just can’t. As far as we know, you’re the last person who saw her alive.”

“Except her killer.” He drew himself up. “Unless, of course, I killed her.”

“It would be best for everyone if I ruled that out quickly.”

“Yes, naturally, it would—Lieutenant.”

She accepted the bitterness in his voice and did her job. “If you could give me the name of the cab company so that I can verify your movements.”

“The restaurant called for one. I believe it was a Rapid.”

“Did you see or speak with anyone between the hours of midnight and two A.M.?”

“I told you, I took a pill and was in bed by midnight. Alone.”

She could verify that with the building security discs, though she had reason to know such things could be doctored. “Can you tell me her mood when you left her?”

“She was a bit distracted, the case she was prosecuting. Optimistic about it. We talked a bit about her children, her daughter in particular. Mirina’s planning on getting married next fall. Cicely was pleased with the idea, and excited because Mirina wanted a big wedding with all the old-fashioned trimmings.”

“Did she mention anything that was worrying her? Anything or anyone she was concerned about?”

“Nothing that would apply to this. The right wedding gown, flowers. Her hopes that she could swing the maximum sentence in the case.”

“Did she mention any threats, any unusual transmissions, messages, contacts?”

“No.” He put a hand over his eyes briefly, let it drop to his side. “Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had the slightest inkling of why this happened?”

“Why would she have gone to the Upper West Side at that time of night?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was she in the habit of meeting snitches, sources?”

He opened his mouth then closed it again. “I don’t know,” he murmured, struck by it. “I wouldn’t have thought . . . but she was so stubborn, so sure of herself.”

“Her relationship with her former husband. How would you describe it?”

“Friendly. A bit reserved, but amiable. They were both devoted to the children and that united them. He was a little annoyed when we became intimate, but . . .” Hammett broke off, stared at Eve. “You can’t possibly think . . .” With what might have been a laugh, he covered his face. “Marco Angelini skulking around that neighborhood with a knife, plotting to kill his ex? No, Lieutenant.” He dropped his hands again. “Marco has his flaws, but he’d never hurt Cicely. And the sight of blood would offend his sense of propriety. He’s much too cold, much too conservative to resort to violence. And he’d have no reason, no possible motive for wishing her harm.”

That, Eve thought, was for her to decide.

She tripped from one world to another by leaving Hammett’s apartment and going to the West End. Here she would find no silvery cushions, no tinkling waterfalls. Instead there were cracked sidewalks, ignored by the latest spruce-up-the-city campaign, graffiti-laced buildings that invited the onlookers to fuck all manner of man and beast. Storefronts were covered by security grills, which were so much cheaper and less effective than the force fields employed in the posher areas.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few rodents overlooked by the feline droids that roamed the alleyways.

Of the two-legged rodents, she saw plenty. One chemi-head grinned at her toothily and rubbed his crotch proudly. A street hawker sized her up quickly and accurately as cop, ducked his head under the wreath of feathers he sported around his magenta hair, and scurried off to safer pastures.

A selected list of drugs were still illegal. Some cops actually bothered to pay attention.

At the moment, Eve wasn’t one of them. Unless a little arm twisting helped her get answers.

The rain had washed most of the blood away. The sweepers from the department would have sucked up anything in the immediate area that could be sifted through for evidence. But she stood for a moment over the spot where Towers had died, and she had no trouble envisioning the scene.

Now, she needed to work backward. Had she stood here, Eve wondered, facing her killer? Most likely. Did she see the knife before it sliced across her throat? Possibly. But not quickly enough to react with anything more than a jerk, a gasp.

Lifting her gaze, Eve scanned the street. Her skin prickled, but she ignored the stares of those leaning against the buildings or loitering around rusting cars.

Cicely Towers had come uptown. Not by cab. There was, to date, no record of a pickup or drop-off from any of the official companies. Eve doubted she would have been foolish enough to try a gypsy.

The subway, she deduced. It was fast and, with the scanners and droid cops, safe as a church, at least until you hit the street. Eve spotted the signal for the underground less than half a block away.

The subway, she decided. Maybe she was in a hurry? Annoyed to be dragged out on a wet night. Sure of herself, as Hammett had said. She wouldn’t have been afraid.

She marched up the stairs to the street in her power suit, her expensive shoes. She—

Stopping, Eve narrowed her eyes. No umbrella? Where was her damn umbrella? A meticulous woman, a practical, organized woman didn’t go out in the rain without protection.Briskly, Eve pulled out her recorder and muttered a note to herself to check on it.

Was the killer waiting for her on the street? In a room? She studied the disintegrating brick of the unrehabbed buildings. A bar? One of the flesh clubs?

“Hey, white girl.”

Brows knit, Eve turned at the interruption. The man was tall as a house and from the deepness of his complexion, a full black. He sported, as many did in this part of town, feathers in his hair. His cheek tattoo was vivid green and in the shape of a grinning human skull. He wore an open red vest and matching pants snug enough to show the bulge of his cock.

“Hey, black boy,” she said in the same casually insulting tone.

He flashed a wide, dazzling grin at her from an unbelievably ugly face. “You looking for action?” He jerked his head toward the garish sign of the all-nude club across the street. “You a little skinny, but they be hiring. Don’t get many white as you. Mostly mixed.” He chucked her under the chin with fingers the width of soy wieners. “I be the bouncer, put in a word for you.”

“Now why would you do that?”

“Out of the goodness of my heart, and five percent of your tips, honeypot. A long white girl like you make plenty jiggling her stuff.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’ve got a job.” Almost with regret, she pulled out her badge.

He whistled through his teeth. “Now how come I don’t be seeing that? White girl, you just don’t smell like cop.”

“Must be the new soap I’m using. Got a name?”

“They just call me Crack. That’s the sound it makes when I bust heads.” He grinned again, and illustrated by bringing his two huge hands together. “Crack! Get it?”

“I’m catching on. Were you on the door night before last, Crack?”

“Now, I’m sorry to say I was otherwise engaged, and missed all the excitement. That be my night off, and I spent it catching up on cultural events.”

“And those events were?”

“Vampire flick festival down to Grammercy, with my current young nibble. I sure do enjoy watching them bloodsuckers. But I hear we had ourselves a show right here. Got ourselves a dead lawyer. Big, important, fancy one, too. White girl, wasn’t she? Just like you, honeypot.”

“That’s right. What else do you hear?”

“Me?” He trailed a finger down the front of his vest. The nail on his index finger was sharpened to a lethal point and painted black. “I’m too dignified to listen to street talk.”

“I bet you are.” Understanding the rules, Eve slipped a hundred-credit token from her pocket. “How about I buy a little of that dignity?”

“Well, the price, she looks right.” His big hand enveloped the tokens and made them disappear. “I hear she was hanging around in the Five Moons ’long about midnight, give or take. Like she was hanging for somebody, somebody who don’t show. Then she ditched.”

He glanced down at the sidewalk. “Didn’t go far though, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. Did she ask for anyone?”

“Not so’s I heard.”

“Anyone see her with anyone?”

“Bad night. People stay off the street mostly. Some chemi-heads maybe wander, but business going to be slow.”

“You know anyone around here who likes to cut?”

“Plenty carry blades and stickers, white girl.” His eyes rolled in amusement. “Why you going to carry if you ain’t going to use?”

“Anybody just likes to cut,” she repeated. “Somebody who doesn’t care about making a score.”

His grin spread again. The skull on his cheek seemed to nod with the movement. “Everybody cares about making a score. Ain’t you trying to?”

She accepted that. “Who do you know around here who’s out of a cage recently?”

His laugh was like mortar fire. “Better if you ask don’t I know anybody who ain’t. And your money’s done.”

“All right.” To his disappointment, she took a card rather than more tokens out of her pocket. “There may be more if you hear anything I can use.”

“Keep it in mind. You decide you want to earn a little extra shaking those little white tits, you let Crack know.” With this, he loped across the street with the surprising grace of an enormous black gazelle.

Eve turned and went in to try her luck at the Five Moons.

The dive might have seen better days, but she doubted it. It was strictly a drinking establishment: no dancers, no screens, no videos booths. The clientele who patronized the Five Moons weren’t there to socialize. From the smell that slapped Eve the moment she stepped through the door, burning off stomach lining was the order of the day.

Even at this hour, the small, square room was well populated. Silent drinkers stood at stingy pedestals knocking back their poison of choice. Others huddled by the bar, closer to the bottles. Eve rated a few glances as she crossed the sticky floor, then people got back to the business of serious drinking.

The bartender was a droid, as most were, but she doubted this one had been programmed to listen cheerfully to the customers’ hard luck stories. More likely an arm breaker, she mused, sizing it up as she sidled up to the bar. The manufacturers had given him the tilted eye, golden-skinned appearance of a mixed race. Unlike most of the drinkers, the droid didn’t sport feathers or beads, but a plain white smock over a wrestler’s body.

Droids couldn’t be bribed, she thought with some regret. And threats had to be both clever and logical.

“Drink?” the droid demanded. His voice had a ping to it, a slight echo that indicated overdue maintenance problems.

“No.” Eve wanted to keep her health. She showed her badge and had several customers shifting toward corners. “There was a murder two nights ago.”

“Not in here.”

“But the victim was.”

“She was alive then.” At some signal Eve didn’t catch, the droid took a smudged glass from a drinker midbar, poured some noxious looking liquid into it, and slid it back.

“You were on duty.”

“I’m a twenty-four/seven,” he told her, indicating he was programmed for full operation without required rest or recharge periods.

“Did you ever see the victim before, in here, around the area?”

“No.”

“Who did she meet here?”

“No one.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the cloudy surface of the bar. “Okay, let’s just make this simple. You tell me what time she came in, what she did, when she left, and how she left.”

“I am not required to maintain surveillance on the customers.”

“Right.” Slowly, Eve rubbed a finger on the bar. When she lifted it, she pursed her lips at the smear of gunk staining the tip. “I’m Homicide, but I’m not required to overlook health violations. You know, I think if I called the Sensor Bugs in here, and they did a sweep, why they’d be shocked. So shocked they’d delete the liquor license.”

As threats went, she didn’t think it was particularly clever, but it was logical.

The droid took a moment to access the probabilities. “The woman came in at oh sixteen. She didn’t drink. She left at one twelve. Alone.”

“Did she speak to anyone?”

“She said nothing.”

“Was she looking for someone?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Eve lifted a brow. “You observed her. Did it appear she was looking for someone?”

“It appeared, but she found no one.”

“But she stayed nearly an hour. What did she do?”

“Stood, looked, frowned. Checked her watch often. Left.”

“Did anyone follow her outside?”

“No.”

Absently, Eve scrubbed her soiled finger on her jeans. “Did she have an umbrella?”

The droid looked as surprised by the question as droids were capable of looking. “Yes, a purple one, the same color as her suit.”

“Did she leave with it?”

“Yes; it was raining.”

Eve nodded, then worked her way through the bar, questioning unhappy customers.

All she really wanted when she returned to Cop Central was a long shower. An hour in the Five Moons had left what felt like a thin layer of muck on her skin. Even her teeth, she thought, running her tongue over them.

But the report came first. She swung into her office, then stopped, studying the wiry-haired man sitting at her desk plucking candied almonds from a bag.

“Nice work if you can get it.”

Feeney crossed the feet he’d propped on the edge of her desk. “Good to see you, Dallas. You’re a busy lady.”

“Some of us cops actually work for a living. Others just play computer games all day.”

“You should’ve taken my advice and worked on your comp skills.”

With more affection than annoyance, she knocked his feet from the desk and plopped her butt down in the vacated space. “You just passing by?”

“I’ve come to offer my services, old pal.” Generously, he held out the bag of nuts.

She munched and watched him. He had a hangdog face, one he had never bothered to have enhanced. Baggy eyes, the beginning of jowls, ears that were slightly too big for his head. She liked it just the way it was.

“Why?”

“Well, I got three reasons. First, the commander made an unofficial request; second, I had a lot of admiration for the prosecutor.”

“Whitney called you?”

“Unofficially,” Feeney explained again. “He thought that if you had someone with my outstanding skills working the data route with you, we’d tie this thing up faster. Never hurts to have a direct line to the Electronic Detection Division.”

She considered it, and because she knew Feeney’s skills were indeed outstanding, she approved. “Are you going to sign on the case officially or unofficially?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Then let’s make it officially, Feeney.”

He grinned and winked. “I figured you’d say that.”

“The first thing I need you to do is run the victim’s ’link. There’s no record either on the log or on the security tapes that she had a visitor the night she was killed. So somebody called her, arranged a meet.”

“Good as done.”

“And I need a run on everybody she put away—”

“Everybody?” he interrupted, only slightly appalled.

“Everybody.” Her face broke into sunny smiles. “I figure you can do it in about half the time I could. I need relatives, loved ones, associates, too. Also cases in progress and pending.”

“Jesus, Dallas.” But he rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers like a pianist about to play a concert. “My wife’s going to miss me.”

“Being married to a cop sucks,” she said, patting his shoulder.

“Is that what Roarke says?”

She dropped her hand. “We’re not married.”

Feeney merely hummed in his throat. He enjoyed seeing Eve’s quick frown, quick nerves. “So how’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. He’s in Australia.” Her hands found their way into her pockets. “He’s fine.”

“Uh-huh. Caught the two of you on the news a few weeks ago. At some fancy do at the Palace. You look real sharp in a dress, Dallas.”

She shifted uncomfortably, caught herself, and shrugged. “I didn’t know you took in the gossip channels.”

“Love them,” he said unrepentantly. “Must be interesting, leading that high life.”

“It has its moments,” she muttered. “Are we going to discuss my social life, Feeney, or investigate a murder?”

“We’ll have to make time to do both.” He rose and stretched. “I’ll go run the check on the victim’s ’link before I get started on the years of perps she put away. I’ll be in touch.”

“Feeney.” When he turned at her door, she cocked her head. “You said there were three reasons you wanted in. You only gave me two.”

“Number three, I missed you, Dallas.” He grinned. “Damn if I haven’t missed you.”

She was smiling when she sat down to work. Damn if she hadn’t missed him, too.

chapter four

The Blue Squirrel was one teetering step up from the Five Moons. Eve had a cautious affection for it. There were times she even enjoyed the noise, the press of bodies, and the ever-changing costumes of the clientele. Most of the time she enjoyed the stage show.

The featured singer was one of the rare people Eve considered a genuine friend. The friendship might have had its roots in Eve’s arrest of Mavis Freestone several years earlier, but it had flowered, nonetheless. Mavis might have gone straight, but she would never go ordinary.

Tonight, the slim, exuberant woman was screeching out her lyrics against the scream of trumpets, the brass waved by a three-piece female band on the holoscreen backdrop. That, and the quality of the single wine Eve had risked were enough to make her eyes water.

For tonight’s show, Mavis’s hair was a stunning emerald green. Eve knew Mavis preferred jewel colors. She continued the theme with the single swatch of glistening sapphire material she had somehow draped over herself to cover one generous breast and her crotch. Her other breast was decorated with shimmering stones, with a strategically placed silver star over the nipple.

One misplaced stud or swatch, and the Blue Squirrel could be fined for exceeding its license. The proprietors weren’t willing to pay the hefty fee for nude class.

When Mavis whirled, Eve saw that the singer’s heart-shaped butt was similarly decorated on each slim cheek. Just, she mused, within the limits of the law.

The crowd loved her. When she stepped from the stage after her set, it was to thunderous applause and drunken cheers. Patrons in the private smoking booths thumped fists enthusiastically on their tiny tables.

“How do you sit down in that?” Eve asked when Mavis arrived at her booth.

“Slowly, carefully, and with great discomfort.” Mavis demonstrated, then let out a sigh. “What’d you think of the last number?”

“A real crowd pleaser.”

“I wrote it.”

“No shit?” Eve hadn’t understood a single word, but pride swelled, nonetheless. “That’s great, Mavis. I’m awed.”

“I might have a shot at a recording contract.” Beneath the glitter on her face, Mavis’s cheeks flushed. “And I got a raise.”

“Well, here’s to it.” In toast, Eve lifted her glass.

“I didn’t know you were coming in tonight.” Mavis punched her code into the menu and ordered bubble water. She had to baby her throat for the next set.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Roarke?” Mavis’s eyes, currently green, shone. “Is he coming? I’ll have to do that last number again.”

“He’s in Australia. I’m meeting Nadine Furst.”

Mavis’s disappointment at the opportunity to impress Roarke shifted quickly to surprise. “You’re meeting a reporter? On purpose?”

“I can trust her.” Eve lifted a shoulder. “I can use her.”

“If you say so. Hey, you think maybe she’d do a piece on me?”

Not for worlds would Eve have extinguished the light in Mavis’s eyes. “I’ll mention it.”

“Decent. Listen, tomorrow’s my night off. Want to catch some dinner or hang someplace?”

“If I can manage it. But I thought you were seeing that performance artist—the one with the pet monkey.”

“Flicked him off.” Mavis illustrated by brushing a finger over her bare shoulder. “He was just too static. Gotta go.” She slid out of the booth, her butt decor making little scraping sounds. Her emerald hair gleamed in the swirling lights as she edged through the crowd.

Eve decided she didn’t want to know what Mavis considered too static.

When her communicator hummed, Eve pulled it out and punched in her code. Roarke’s face filled the miniscreen. Her first reaction, unbidden, was a huge, delighted smile.

“Lieutenant, I’ve tracked you down.”

“Apparently so.” She worked on dimming the smile. “This is an official channel, Roarke.”

“Is it?” His brow lifted. “It doesn’t sound like official surroundings. The Blue Squirrel.”

“I’m meeting someone. How’s Australia?”

“Crowded. With luck I’ll be back within thirty-six hours. I’ll find you.”

“I’m not hard to find.” She smiled again. “Obviously. Listen.” To amuse them both, she tilted the unit as Mavis roared into her next set.

“She’s unique,” Roarke managed after several bars. “Give her my best.”

“I will. I’ll—ah—see you when you get back.”

“Count on it. You’ll think of me.”

“Sure. Safe trip, Roarke.”

“Eve, I love you.”

She let out a baffled breath when his image dissolved.

“Well, well.” Nadine Furst moved from her position behind Eve’s shoulder and slid into the booth opposite. “Wasn’t that sweet?”

Torn between annoyance and embarrassment, Eve jammed her communicator back in her pocket. “I thought you had more class than to eavesdrop.”

“Any reporter worth her salary eavesdrops, Lieutenant. Just like a good cop.” Nadine stretched back in the booth. “So, what does it feel like to have a man like Roarke in love with you?”

Even if she could have explained it, Eve wouldn’t have. “Thinking of switching from hard news to the romance channel, Nadine?”

Nadine merely held up a hand, then let out a sigh when she scanned the club. “I can’t believe you wanted to meet here again. The food’s terrible.”

“But the atmosphere, Nadine, the atmosphere.”

Mavis hit a piercing note and Nadine shuddered. “Fine, it’s your deal.”

“You got back on planet quickly.”

“I managed to catch a flash transport. One of your boyfriend’s.”

“Roarke’s not a boy.”

“You’re telling me. Anyway . . .” Nadine waved that away. She was obviously tired and a little lagged. “I’ve got to eat, even if it kills me.” She scanned the menu and settled dubiously on the stuffed shells supreme. “What are you drinking?”

“Number fifty-four; it’s supposed to be a chardonnay.” Experimentally, Eve sipped again. “It’s at least three steps up from horse piss. I recommend it.”

“Fine.” Nadine programmed her order and sat back again. “I was able to access all the data available on the Towers’s homicide on the trip back. Everything the media has broadcast so far.”

“Morse know you’re back?”

Nadine’s smile was thin and feral. “Oh, he knows. I’ve got seniority on the crime beat. I’m in, he’s out. And is he pissed!”

“Then my mission is a success.”

“But it’s not complete. You promised an exclusive.”

“And I’ll deliver.” Eve studied the noodle dish that slid through the serving slot. It didn’t look half bad. “Under my terms, Nadine. What I feed you, you broadcast when I give you the light.”

“What else is new?” Nadine sampled the first shell, decided it was nearly palatable.

“I’ll see that you get more data, and that you get it ahead of the pack.”

“And when you’ve got a suspect.”

“You’ll get the name first.”

Trusting Eve’s word, Nadine nodded as she forked up another shell. “Plus a one-on-one with the suspect and another with you.”

“I can’t guarantee the suspect. You know I can’t,” Eve continued before Nadine could interrupt. “The perp has rights to choose his own media, or to refuse it all. The best I can do is suggest, maybe even encourage.”

“I want pictures. Don’t tell me you can’t guarantee. You can find a way to see that I get video of the arrest. I want to be on the scene.”

“I’ll weigh that in when the time comes. In exchange, I want everything you have, every tip that comes in, every rumor, every story lead. No broadcast surprises.”

Nadine slipped pasta between her lips. “I can’t guarantee,” she said sweetly. “My associates have their own agenda.”

“What you know, when you know it,” Eve said flatly. “And anything that comes out of intramedia espionage.” At Nadine’s innocent expression, Eve snorted. “Stations spy on stations, reporters spy on reporters. Getting the story on air first is the name of the game. You’ve got a good batting average, Nadine, or I wouldn’t be bothering with you.”

“I’ll say the same.” Nadine sipped her wine. “And for the most part, I trust you, even if you have no taste in wine. This is barely one step up from horse piss.”

Eve sat back and laughed. It felt good, it felt easy, and when Nadine grinned in return, they had a deal.

“Let me see yours,” Nadine requested. “And I’ll let you see mine.”

“The biggest thing I’ve got,” Eve began, “is a missing umbrella.”

Eve met Feeney at Cicely Towers’s apartment at ten the following morning. One look at his hangdog expression and she knew the news wasn’t going to be sunny.

“What wall did you hit?”

“On the ’link.” He waited while Eve disarmed the police security on the door, then followed her inside. “She had plenty of transmissions, kept the unit on auto record. Your tag was on the disc.”

“That’s right, I took it into evidence. Are you trying to tell me no one contacted her to arrange a meet at the Five Moons?”

“I’m trying to tell you I can’t tell you.” In disgust, Feeney ran a hand through his wiry hair. “Her last call came in at eleven thirty, the transmission ended at eleven forty-three.”

“And?”

“She erased the recording. I can get the times, but that’s it. The communication, audio, video, are zapped. She zapped them,” he continued. “From this unit.”

“She erased the call,” Eve murmured and began to pace. “Why would she do that? She had the unit on auto; that’s standard for law enforcers, even for personal calls. But she erased this one. Because she didn’t want any record of who called and why.”

She turned back. “You’re sure nobody tampered with the disc after it was in evidence?”

Feeney looked pained, then insulted. “Dallas,” was all he said.

“Okay, okay, so she zapped it before she went out. That tells me she wasn’t afraid, personally, but was protecting herself—or somebody else. If it had to do with a case, she’d have wanted it on record. She’d have made damn sure it was on record.”

“I’d say so. If it was a snitch, she could have put a lock on it under her private code, but it doesn’t make sense to zap it.”

“We’ll check her cases anyway, all the way back.” She didn’t have to see his face to know Feeney was rolling his eyes. “Let me think,” she muttered. “She left City Hall at nineteen twenty-six. That’s on her log. And several witnesses saw her. Her last stop was the women’s lounge where she freshened up for the evening and chatted with an associate. The associate tells me her mood was calm but upbeat. She’d had a good day in court.”

“Fluentes is going up. She laid the groundwork. Taking her out won’t change that.”

“He might have thought different. We’ll see about that. She didn’t come back here.” Frowning, Eve scanned the room. “She didn’t have time, so she went straight to the restaurant and met Hammett. I’ve been by there. His story and his time frame check out with the staff.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Time’s passing. The maître d’ called them a cab, a Rapid. They were picked up at a twenty-one forty-eight. It was starting to rain.”

In her mind, Eve pictured it. The handsome couple in the back of the cab, chatting, maybe brushing fingertips while the cab zipped uptown with raindrops pattering on the roof. She’d been wearing a red dress and matching jacket, according to their server. Power colors for court that she’d dressed up with good pearls and silver heels for the evening.

“The cab dropped her off first,” Eve continued. “She told Hammett not to get out, why get wet? She was laughing when she ran for the building, then turned and blew him a kiss.”

“Your report said they were tight.”

“He loved her.” More from habit than hunger, she dipped a hand into the bag Feeney held out. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, but he loved her. According to him, they were both happy with their arrangement, but . . .” She lifted her shoulders. “If he wasn’t, and was looking to set up a good alibi, he set a nice romantic, cozy stage. It doesn’t work for me, but it’s early yet. So, she came up,” Eve continued, moving to the door. “Her dress is a little damp, so she goes to the bedroom to hang it up.”

As she spoke, Eve followed the projected route, walking over the lovely rugs into the spacious bedroom with its quiet colors and lovely antique bed.

She ordered lights to brighten the area. The police shields on the windows not only frustrated the fly-bys, but blocked most of the sunlight.

“To the closet,” she said and pressed the button that opened the long, mirrored sliding doors. “She hangs up the suit.” Eve pointed to the red dress and jacket, neatly arranged in a wardrobe ordered in sweeps of color. “Puts away her shoes, puts on a robe.”

Eve turned to the bed. A long flow of ivory was spread there. Not folded, not neatly arranged as was the rest of the room, but rumpled, as though it had been impatiently tossed.

“She puts her jewelry in the safe in the side wall of the closet, but she doesn’t go to bed. Maybe she goes out to catch the news, to have a nightcap.”

With Feeney following, Eve went back to the living area. A briefcase, neatly closed, sat on the table in front of the sofa with a single empty glass beside it.

“She’s relaxing, maybe thinking over the evening, rehearsing her court strategy for the next day or planning her daughter’s wedding. Her ’link beeps. Whoever it was, whatever they tell her, gets her moving. She’s settled in for the night, but she goes back to the bedroom, after she’s zapped the record. She dresses again. Another power suit. She’s going to the West End. She doesn’t want to blend, she wants to exude authority, confidence. She doesn’t call a cab. That’s another record. She decides she’ll take the subway. It’s raining.”

Eve moved to a closet tucked into the wall near the front door and pressed it to open. Inside were jackets, wraps, a man’s overcoat she suspected was Hammett’s, and a fleet of umbrellas in varying colors.

“She takes out the umbrella she bought to match the suit. It’s automatic, her mind is on her meet. She doesn’t take a lot of money, so it’s not a payoff. She doesn’t call anyone, because she wants to handle it herself. But when she gets to the Five Moons, nobody meets her. She waits nearly an hour, impatient, checking her watch. She leaves a few minutes after one, back into the rain. She’s got her umbrella and starts to walk back to the subway. I figure she’s steamed.”

“Classy woman, kicking in a dive for an hour for a no show.” Feeney popped another nut. “Yeah, steamed would be my take.”

“So, she heads out. It’s raining pretty hard. Her umbrella’s up. She only gets a few feet. Someone’s there, probably been close by all along, waiting for her to come out.”

“Doesn’t want to see her inside,” Feeney put in. “Doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Right. They have to talk a couple of minutes according to the time frame. Maybe they argue—not much of an argument, there isn’t time. Nobody’s on the street—nobody who’d pay attention, anyway. A couple of minutes later, her throat’s slashed, she’s bleeding on the sidewalk. Did he plan to do her all along?”

“Lotsa people carry stickers in that area.” Thoughtful, Feeney rubbed his chin. “Couldn’t get premeditated on that by itself. But the timing, the setup. Yeah, that’s how it shakes down to me.”

“Me, too. One slice. No defensive wounds, so she didn’t have time to feel threatened. The killer doesn’t take her jewelry, the leather bag, her shoes, or her credits. He just takes her umbrella, and he walks away.”

“Why the umbrella?” Feeney wondered.

“Hell, it’s raining. I don’t know, an impulse, a souvenir. As far as I can see, it’s the only mistake he made. I’ve got grunts out checking a ten-block area to see if he ditched it.”

“If he ditched it in that area, some chemi-head’s walking around with a purple parasol.”

“Yeah.” A visual of that almost made her smile. “How could he be sure she’d zap the recording, Feeney? He had to be sure.”

“Threat?”

“A PA lives with threats. One like Towers would shake them off like lint.”

“If they were aimed at her,” he agreed. “She’s got kids.” He nodded toward the framed holograms. “She wasn’t just a lawyer. She was a mother.”

With a frown, Eve walked over to the holograms. Curious, she picked up one of the boy and girl together as young teenagers. A flick of her finger over the back had the audio bubbling out.

Hey, big shot. Happy Mother’s Day. This will last longer than the flowers. We love you.

Oddly disturbed, Eve set the frame down again. “They’re adults now. They’re not kids anymore.”

“Dallas, once a parent, always a parent. You never finish the job.”

Hers had, she thought. A long time finished.

“Then I guess my next stop is Marco Angelini.”

Angelini had offices in Roarke’s building on Fifth. Eve stepped into the now familiar lobby with its huge tiles and pricey boutiques. The cooing voices of computer guides offered assistance to various locations. She scanned one of the moving maps and ignoring the glides, hiked her way to the elevators along the south end.

The glass tube shot her to the fifty-eighth floor, then opened onto solemn gray carpet and blinding white walls.

Angelini Exports claimed a suite of five offices in this location. After one quick scan, Eve noted that the company was small potatoes in relation to Roarke Industries.

Then again, she thought with a tight smile, what isn’t?

The receptionist in the greeting area showed great respect and not a little nerves at the sight of Eve’s badge. She fumbled and swallowed so much Eve wondered if the woman had a cache of illegal substances in her desk drawer.

But the fear of cop had her all but shoving Eve into Angelini’s office after less than ninety seconds of lag time.

“Mr. Angelini, I appreciate your time. My sympathies for your loss.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas, please sit.”

He wasn’t elegant, as Hammett was, but he was powerful. A small man, solidly built with jet hair combed slickly back from a prominent widow’s peak. His skin was a pale, dusky gold, his eyes bright, hard marbles of azure under thick brows. He had a long nose, thin lips, and the glitter of a diamond on his hand.

If he was grieving, the former husband of the victim hid it better than her lover had.

He sat behind a console-style desk that was smooth as satin. It was absolutely clear but for his still and folded hands. Behind him was a tinted window that blocked the UV rays while letting in the view of New York.

“You’ve come about Cicely.”

“Yes, I was hoping you could spare some time now to answer some questions.”

“You have my full cooperation, Lieutenant. Cicely and I were divorced, but we remained partners, in business and in parenthood. I admired and respected her.”

There was a hint of his native country in his voice. Just a whisper of it. It reminded her that, according to his dossier, Marco Angelini spent a large part of his time in Italy.

“Mr. Angelini, can you tell me the last time you saw or spoke with Prosecutor Towers?”

“I saw her on March eighteenth, at my home on Long Island.”

“She came to your home.”

“Yes, for my son’s twenty-fifth birthday. We gave him a party together, using my estate there, as it was most convenient. David, our son, often stays there when he is on the East Coast.”

“You hadn’t seen her since that date.”

“No, we were both busy, but we had planned to meet in the next week or two to discuss plans for Mirina’s wedding. Our daughter.” He cleared his throat gently. “I was in Europe for most of April.”

“You called Prosecutor Towers on the night of her death.”

“Yes, I left a message to see if we could meet for lunch or drinks at her convenience.”

“About the wedding,” Eve prompted.

“Yes, about Mirina’s wedding.”

“Had you spoken with Prosecutor Towers since the day of March eighteenth and the night of her death?”

“Several times.” He pulled his fingers apart, linked them again. “As I said, we considered ourselves partners. We had the children, and there were a few business interests.”

“Including Mercury.”

“Yes.” His lips curved ever so slightly. “You are an . . . acquaintance of Roarke’s.”

“That’s right. Did you and your former wife disagree on any of your partnerships, personally or professionally?”

“Naturally we did, on both. But we’d learned, as we had been unable to learn during our marriage, the value of compromise.”

“Mr. Angelini, who inherits Prosecutor Towers’s interest in Mercury after her death?”

His brow lifted. “I do, Lieutenant, according to the terms of our business contract. There are also a few holdings in some real estate that will revert to me. This was an arrangement of our divorce settlement. I would guide the interests, advise her on investments. Upon the death of one of us, the interests and profits or losses would revert to the other. We both agreed, you see, and trusted that in the end, all either of us had of value would go to our children.”

“And the rest of her estate. Her apartment, her jewelry, whatever possessions that weren’t part of your agreement?”

“Would, I assume, be left to our children. I imagine there would be a few bequests to personal friends or charities.”

Eve was going to dig quickly to learn just how much Towers had tucked away. “Mr. Angelini, you were aware that your ex-wife was intimately involved with George Hammett.”

“Naturally.”

“And this was . . . not a problem?”

“A problem? Do you mean, Lieutenant, did I, after nearly twelve years of divorce, harbor homicidal jealousy for my ex-wife? And did I slice the throat of the mother of my children and leave her dead on the street?”

“In words to that effect, Mr. Angelini.”

He said something in Italian under his breath. Something, Eve suspected, uncomplimentary. “No, I did not kill Cicely.”

“Can you tell me your whereabouts on the night of her death?”

She could see his jaw tense and noticed the control it took for him to relax it again, but his eyes never flickered. She imagined he could stare a hole through steel.

“I was at home in my townhouse from eight o’clock on.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see or speak with anyone who can verify that?”

“No. I have two domestics, and both were out on their night off, which was why I was home. I wanted quiet and privacy for an evening.”

“You made no calls, received none during the evening?”

“I received a call at about three A.M. from Commander Whitney informing me of my wife’s death. I was in bed, alone, when the call came in.”

“Mr. Angelini, your ex-wife was in a West End dive at one o’clock in the morning. Why?”

“I haven’t any idea. No idea at all.”

Later, when Eve stepped into the glass tube to descend, she beeped Feeney. “I want to know if Marco Angelini was in any kind of financial squeeze, and how much that squeeze would have loosened at his ex-wife’s sudden death.”

“You smell something, Dallas?”

“Something,” she muttered. “I just don’t know what.”

chapter five

Eve stumbled into her apartment at nearly one A.M. Her head was ringing. Mavis’s idea of dinner on her night off had been to take in a rival club. Already aware she would pay for the evening’s entertainment in the morning, Eve stripped on the way to the bedroom.

At least the evening out with Mavis had pushed the Towers case out of her mind. Eve might have worried she had no mind left, but she was too exhausted to think about it.

She fell naked and facedown on the bed and was asleep in seconds.

Eve woke, violently aroused.

It was Roarke’s hands on her. She knew their texture, their rhythm. Her heart tripped against her ribs, then bounded into her throat as his mouth covered hers. His was greedy, hot, giving her no choice, really no choice at all but to respond in kind. Even as she fumbled for him, those long, clever fingers pierced her, diving into her so that she bowed up into the frenzy of orgasm.

His mouth on her breast, sucking, teeth scraping. His elegant hands relentless so that her cries came out in whimpers of shock and gratitude. Another staggering climax to layer thick over the first.

Her hands sought purchase in the tangled sheets, but nothing could anchor her. As she flew up again, she gripped him, nails scraping down his back, up to grab handfuls of his hair.

“God!” It was the single coherent word she managed as he plunged into her, so hard, so deep she was amazed she didn’t die from the pleasure of it. Her body bucked helplessly, frantically, continued to shudder even after he’d collapsed on her.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh and lazily nuzzled her ear. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Roarke? Oh, was that you?”

He bit her.

She smiled quietly in the dark. “I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.”

“I got lucky. Then I followed your trail into the bedroom.”

“I was out with Mavis. We went to a place called Armageddon. My hearing’s starting to come back.” She stroked his back, yawned hugely. “It’s not morning, is it?”

“No.” Recognizing the weariness in her voice, he shifted, gathered her close against him, and kissed her temple. “Go to sleep, Eve.”

“Okay.” She obliged him in less than ten seconds.

He woke at first light and left her curled in the middle of the bed. In the kitchen, he programmed the AutoChef for coffee and a toasted bagel. The bagel was stale, but that was to be expected. Making himself at home, he sat by the kitchen monitor and skimmed through the paper to the financial section.

He couldn’t concentrate.

He was trying not to resent the fact that she’d chosen her bed over their bed. Or what he wanted her to think of as their bed. He didn’t begrudge her the need for personal space; he understood well the need for privacy. But his house was large enough that she could have appropriated an entire wing for herself if she wanted it.

Pushing away from the monitor, he paced to the window. He wasn’t used to this struggle, this war to balance his needs with someone else’s. He’d grown up thinking of himself first and last. He’d had to, in order to survive and then to succeed. One was every bit as important to him as the other.

The habit was difficult to break—or had been, until Eve.

It was humiliating to admit, even to himself, that every time he went away to see to business, a seed of fear rooted in his heart that she would have shaken herself loose of him by the time he returned.

The simple fact was, he needed the one thing she had refused him. A commitment.

Turning from the window, he went back to the monitor and forced himself to read.

“Good morning,” Eve said from the doorway. Her smile was quick and bright, as much from the pleasure of seeing him as from the fact that her trip to Armageddon didn’t have the consequences she’d feared. She felt terrific.

“Your bagels are stale.”

“Mmm.” She tested by trying a bite of the one on the table. “You’re right.” Coffee was always a better bet. “Anything in the news I should worry about?”

“Are you concerned with the Treegro takeover?”

Eve knuckled one eye as she sipped her first cup of coffee. “What’s Treegro and who’s taking it over?”

“Treegro’s a reforestry company, hence the overly adorable name. I’m taking it over.”

She grunted. “Figures. I was thinking more of the Towers case.”

“Cicely’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow. She was important enough, and Catholic enough, to warrant St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“Will you go?”

“If I can reschedule a few appointments. Will you?”

“Yeah.” Thinking, Eve leaned back on the counter. “Maybe her killer will be there.”

She studied him as he scanned the monitor. He should have looked out of place in her kitchen, she mused, in his expensive, meticulously tailored linen shirt and with the luxurious mane of hair swept back from that remarkable face.

She kept waiting for him to look out of place there, with her.

“Problem?” he murmured, well aware that she was staring at him.

“No. Things on my mind. How well do you know Angelini?”

“Marco?” Roarke frowned over something he saw on the monitor, took out his notebook, entered a memo. “Our paths cross often enough. Normally a careful businessman, always a devoted father. Prefers spending his time in Italy, but his power base is here in New York. Contributes generously to the Catholic Church.”

“He stands to gain financially from Towers’s death. Maybe it’s just a drop in the bucket, but Feeney’s checking it out.”

“You could have asked me,” Roarke murmured. “I would have told you Marco’s in trouble. Not desperate trouble,” he amended when Eve’s eyes sharpened. “He’s made some ill-advised acquisitions over the past year or so.”

“You said he was careful.”

“I said he was normally careful. He bought several religious artifacts without having them thoroughly authenticated. His zeal got in the way of his business sense. They were forgeries, and he’s taken a hard loss.”

“How hard?”

“In excess of three million. I can get you exact figures, if necessary. He’ll recover,” Roarke added with a shrug for three million dollars Eve knew she would never get used to. “He needs to focus and downsize a bit here and there. I’d say his pride was hurt more than his portfolio.”

“How much was Towers’s share of Mercury worth?”

“On today’s market?” He took out his pocket diary, jiggled some numbers. “Somewhere between five and seven.”

“Million?”

“Yes,” Roarke said with the faintest hint of a smile. “Of course.”

“Good Christ. No wonder she could live like a queen.”

“Marco made very good investments for her. He would have wanted the mother of his children to live comfortably.”

“You and I have dramatically different ideas about comfort.”

“Apparently.” Roarke tucked the diary away and rose to refill his coffee and hers. An airbus rumbled by the window, chased by a fleet of private shuttles. “You suspect that Marco killed her to recoup his losses?”

“Money’s a motive that never goes out of style. I interviewed him yesterday. I knew something didn’t quite fit. Now it’s beginning to.”

She took the fresh coffee he offered, paced to the window where the noise level was rising, then away again. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder. Casually, Roarke tucked it back into place. Bored commuters often carried long-range viewers for just such an opportunity.

“Then there’s the friendly divorce,” she went on, “but whose idea was it? Divorce is complicated for Catholics when there are children involved. Don’t they have to get some sort of clearance?”

“Dispensation,” Roarke corrected. “A complex business, but both Cicely and Marco had connections with the hierarchy.”

“He’s never remarried,” Eve pointed out, setting her coffee aside. “I haven’t been able to find even a whiff of a steady or serious companion. But Towers was having a long-term intimate relationship with Hammett. Just how did Angelini feel about the mother of his children snuggling with a business partner?”

“If it were me, I’d kill the business partner.”

“That’s you,” Eve said with a quick glance. “And I imagine you’d kill both of them.”

“You know me so well.” He stepped toward her, put his hands on her shoulders. “On the financial end, you may want to consider that whatever Cicely’s share of Mercury was, Angelini’s matches it. They held equal shares.”

“Fuck.” She struggled with it. “Still, money’s money. I have to follow that scent until I get a new one.” He continued to stand there, his hands cupping her shoulders, his eyes on hers. “What are you looking at?”

“The gleam in your eye.” He touched his lips to hers once, then again. “I have some sympathy for Marco, you see, because I remember what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that look, and that tenacity.”

“You hadn’t killed anyone,” she reminded him. “Lately.”

“Ah, but you weren’t sure of that for a time, and still you were . . . drawn. Now we’re—” The beeper on his watch pinged. “Hell.” He kissed her again, quick and distracted. “We’ll have to reminisce later. I have a meeting.”

Just as well, Eve thought. Hot blood interfered with a clear head. “I’ll see you later then.”

“At home?”

She fiddled with her coffee cup. “At your place, sure.”

Impatience flickered in his eyes as he shrugged into his jacket. The slight bulge in the pocket reminded him. “I’d nearly forgotten. I bought you a present in Australia.”

With some reluctance, Eve took the slim gold box. When she opened it, reluctance scattered. There was no room for it in shocked panic. “Jesus bleeding Christ, Roarke. Are you insane?”

It was a diamond. She knew enough to be sure of that. The stone graced a twisted gold chain and glinted fire. Shaped like a tear, it was as long and wide as the first joint of a man’s thumb.

“They call it the Giant’s Tear,” he said as he casually took it from the box and draped the chain over her head. “It was mined about a hundred and fifty years ago. It happened to come up for auction while I was in Sydney.” He stepped back and studied its shooting sparks against the plain blue robe she wore. “Yes, it suits you. I thought it would.” Then he looked at her face and smiled. “Oh, I see you were counting on kiwi. Well, perhaps next time.” When he leaned in to kiss her good-bye, he was brought up short by the slap of her hand against his chest. “Problem?”

“This is crazy. You can’t expect me to take something like this.”

“You do occasionally wear jewelry.” To prove his point, he flicked a finger at the gold dangling from her ear.

“Yeah, and I buy it from the street stall on Lex.”

“I don’t,” he said easily.

“You take this back.”

She started to pull at the chain, but he closed his hands over hers. “It doesn’t go with my suit. Eve, a gift is not supposed to make the blood drain out of your cheeks.” Suddenly exasperated, he gave her a quick shake. “It caught my eye, and I was thinking of you. Damn you, I always am. I bought it because I love you. Christ Jesus, when are you going to swallow that?”

“You’re not going to do this to me.” She told herself she was calm, very calm. Because she was right, very right. His temper didn’t worry her, she’d seen it flare before. But the stone weighed around her neck, and what she feared it represented worried her very much.

“Do what to you, Eve? Exactly what?”

“You’re not going to give me diamonds.” Terrified and furious, she shoved away from him. “You’re not going to pressure me into taking what I don’t want, or being what I can’t be. You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing these past few months. Do you think I’m stupid?”

His eyes flashed, hard as the stone between her breasts. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re a coward.”

Her fist came up automatically. Oh, how she would have loved to have used it to wipe that self-righteous sneer from his face. If he hadn’t been right, she could have. So she used other weapons.

“You think you can make me depend on you, get used to living in that glorified fortress of yours and wearing silk. Well, I don’t give a damn about any of that.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“I don’t need your fancy food or your fancy gifts or your fancy words. I see the pattern, Roarke. Say I love you at regular intervals until she learns to respond. Like a well-trained pet.”

“Like a pet,” he repeated as his fury froze into ice. “I see I’m wrong. You are stupid. You really think this is about power and control? Have it your way. I’m tired of having you toss my feelings back in my face. My mistake for allowing it, but that can be rectified.”

“I never—”

“No, you never,” he interrupted coolly. “Never once risked your pride by saying those words back to me. You keep this place as your escape hatch rather than commit to staying with me. I let you draw the line, Eve, and now I’m moving it.” It wasn’t just temper pushing him now, nor was it just pain. It was the truth. “I want all,” he said flatly. “Or I want nothing.”

She wouldn’t panic. He wouldn’t make her panic like a first-time rookie on a night run. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means sex isn’t enough.”

“It’s not just sex. You know—”

“No, I don’t. The choice is yours now—it always was. But now you’ll have to come to me.”

“Ultimatums just piss me off.”

“That’s a pity.” He gave her one long last look. “Good-bye, Eve.”

“You can’t just walk—”

“Oh yes.” And he didn’t look back. “I can.”

Her mouth dropped open when she heard the door slam. For a moment she simply stood, rigid, the sun glinting off the jewel around her neck. Then she began to vibrate. With fury, of course, she told herself and ripped the precious diamond off to toss it on the counter.

He thought she would go crawling after him, begging him to stay. Well, he could go on thinking that into the next millennium. Eve Dallas didn’t crawl, and she didn’t beg.

She closed her eyes against a pain more shocking than a laser strike. Who the hell is Eve Dallas? she wondered. And isn’t that the core of it all?

She blocked it out. What choice did she have? The job came first. Had to come first. If she wasn’t a good cop, she was nothing. She was as empty and as helpless as the child she had been, lying broken and traumatized in a dark alley in Dallas.

She could bury herself in work. The demands and pressures of it. When she was standing in Commander Whitney’s office, she was only a cop with murder on her hands.

“She had plenty of enemies, Commander.”

“Don’t we all.” His eyes were clear again, sharp. Grief could never outweigh responsibility.

“Feeney’s run a list of her convictions. We’re breaking them down, concentrating on the lifers first—family and known associates. Someone she put in a cage for the duration would have the strongest revenge ratio. Next down the line are the uncorrected deviants. UDs sometimes slip through the cracks. She put plenty away on mental, and some of them are bound to have crawled their way out.”

“That’s a lot of computer time, Dallas.”

It was a subtle warning about budgets, which she chose to ignore. “I appreciate you putting Feeney on this with me. I couldn’t get through it without him. Commander, these checks are SOP, but I don’t think this was an attack on the prosecutor.”

He sat back, inclined his head, waiting.

“I think it was personal. She was covering something. For herself, for somebody else. She zapped the ’link recording.”

“I read your report, Lieutenant. Are you telling me you believe Prosecuting Attorney Towers was involved in something illegal?”

“Are you asking me as my friend or as my commander?”

He bared his teeth before he could control himself. After a short internal struggle, he nodded. “Well put, Lieutenant. As your commander.”

“I don’t know if it was illegal. It’s my opinion at this stage of the investigation that there was something on that recording the victim wanted kept private. It was important enough to have her get dressed and go out again into the rain to meet someone. Whoever that was, was certain she would come alone and that she would leave no record of the contact. Commander, I need to speak with the rest of the victim’s family, her close friends, your wife.”

He’d accepted that, or tried to. Throughout his career he had worked hard to keep his loved ones out of the often nasty air of his job. Now he had to expose them.

“You have my address, Lieutenant. I’ll contact my wife now and tell her to expect you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Anna Whitney had made a fine home from the two-level house in the quiet street in the suburbs of White Plains. She had raised her children there, and raised them well, choosing the profession of mother over a teaching career. It wasn’t the state salary for full-time parents that had swayed her. It had been the thrill of being in on each and every stage of childhood development.

She’d earned her salary. Now, with her children grown, she earned her retirement stipend by putting the same dedication into nurturing her home, her husband, and her reputation as a hostess. Whenever she could, she filled the house with her grandchildren. In the evenings, she filled it with dinner parties.

Anna Whitney hated solitude.

But she was alone when Eve arrived. As always, she was perfectly groomed: her cosmetics were carefully and expertly applied, and her pale blond hair was coiffed in a swept-back style that suited her attractive face.

She wore a one-piece suit of good American cotton, and held out a hand adorned only with a wedding ring to welcome Eve.

“Lieutenant Dallas, my husband said you would come.”

“I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs. Whitney.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m a cop’s wife. Come in. I’ve made some lemonade. It’s tablet, I’m afraid. Fresh or frozen is so monstrously hard to come by. It’s a little early for lemonade, but I had a yen for it today.”

Eve let Anna chatter as they walked into the formal living area with its stiff-backed chairs and straight-edged sofa.

The lemonade was fine, and Eve said so after the first sip.

“You know the memorial service is at ten tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

“There are so many flowers already. We’ve made arrangements to have them distributed after . . . but that’s not why you’re here.”

“Prosecutor Towers was a good friend to you.”

“She was a very good friend to me and my husband.”

“Her children are staying with you?”

“Yes, they’re . . . they’ve gone with Marco just now to speak with the archbishop about the service.”

“They’re close to their father.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Whitney, why are they staying here, rather than with their father?”

“We all thought it best. The house—Marco’s house—holds so many memories. Cicely lived there when the children were young. Then there’s the media. They don’t have our address, and we wanted to keep the children from dealing with reporters. They’ve swamped poor Marco. It’ll be different tomorrow, of course.”

Her pretty hands plucked at the knee of her suit, then calmed and lay still again. “They’ll have to face it. They’re still in shock. Even Randall. Randall Slade, Mirina’s fiancé. He’d gotten very close to Cicely.”

“He’s here as well.”

“He’d never leave Mirina alone at such a time. She’s a strong young woman, Lieutenant, but even strong women need an arm to lean on now and then.”

Eve blocked out the quick image of Roarke that popped into her brain. As a result of the effort, her voice was a bit more formal than usual as she led Anna through the routine questions.

“I’ve asked myself over and over what could have possessed her to go to that neighborhood,” Anna concluded. “Cicely could be stubborn, and certainly strong willed, but she was rarely impulsive and never foolish.”

“She talked to you, confided in you.”

“We were like sisters.”

“Would she have told you if she was in trouble of some kind? If someone close to her was in trouble?”

“I would have thought so. She would have handled it herself, or tried to first.” Her eyes swam, but the tears didn’t fall. “But sooner or later she would have blown off steam with me.”

If she’d had time, Eve thought. “You can think of nothing she was concerned about before her death?”

“Nothing major. Her daughter’s wedding—getting older. We joked about her becoming a grandmother. No,” Anna said with a laugh as she recognized Eve’s look. “Mirina isn’t pregnant, though that would have only pleased her mother. She was always concerned for David as well: Would he settle down? Was he happy?”

“And is he?”

Another cloud came into her eyes before she lowered them. “David is a great deal like his father. He likes to wheel and deal. He does a great deal of traveling for the business, always looking for new arenas, new opportunities. There’s no doubt he’ll take the helm if and when Marco decided to turn it over.”

She hesitated, as if about to add something, then smoothly switched gears. “Mirina, on the other hand, prefers to live in one spot. She manages a boutique in Rome. That’s where she met Randall. He’s a designer. Her shop handles his line exclusively now. He’s quite talented. This is his,” she said, indicating the slim suit she wore.

“It’s lovely. So as far as you know, Prosecutor Towers had no reason to be concerned for her children. Nothing she would have felt obliged to smooth out or cover over?”

“Cover over? No, of course not. They’re both bright, successful people.”

“And her ex-husband. He’s having some business difficulties?”

“Marco? Is he?” Anna shrugged that off. “I’m sure he’ll straighten them out. I never shared Cicely’s interest in business.”

“She was involved then, in business. Directly?”

“Of course. Cicely insisted on knowing exactly what was going on and having a say in it. I never knew how she could keep so many things in her head. If Marco was having difficulties, she’d have known, and probably have suggested a half dozen ways to right things. She was quite brilliant.” When her voice broke, Anna pressed a hand to her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitney.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m better. Having her children with me helped so much. I feel I can stand for her with them. I can’t do what you do, and look for her killer. But I can stand for her with her children.”

“They’re very lucky to have you,” Eve murmured, surprised to hear herself say it and mean it. Odd, she’d always considered Anna Whitney a mild pain in the ass. “Mrs. Whitney, can you tell me about Prosecutor Towers’s relationship with George Hammett?”

Anna pokered up. “They were dear, good friends.”

“Mr. Hammett has told me they were lovers.”

Anna huffed out a breath. She was a traditionalist, and unashamed of it. “Very well, that’s true. But he wasn’t the right man for her.”

“Why?”

“Set in his ways. I’m very fond of George, and he made an excellent escort for Cicely. But a woman can hardly be completely happy when she goes home to an empty apartment most nights, to an empty bed. She needed a mate. George wanted it both ways, and Cicely deluded herself into thinking she wanted that, too.”

“And she didn’t.”

“She shouldn’t have,” Anna snapped, obviously going over an old argument. “Work isn’t enough, as I pointed out to her many times. She simply wasn’t serious enough about George to risk.”

“Risk?”

“I’m speaking of emotional risk,” Anna said impatiently. “You cops are so literal-minded. She wanted her life tidy more than she wanted the mess of a full-time relationship.”

“I had the impression that Mr. Hammett regretted that, that he loved her very much.”

“If he did, why didn’t he push?” Anna demanded, and tears threatened. “She wouldn’t have died alone then, would she? She wouldn’t have been alone.”

Eve drove out of the quiet suburbs, and on impulse she pulled her car over to the curb and slumped down in the seat. She needed to think. Not about Roarke, she assured herself. There was nothing to think about there. That was settled.

On a hunch, she called up her computer at her office and had it get to work on David Angelini. If he was like his father, maybe he had also made a few poor investments. While she was at it, she ordered a run on Randall Slade and the boutique in Rome.

If anything popped up, she would have a scan on the flights from Europe to New York.

Damn it, a woman who had nothing to worry about didn’t leave her warm, dry apartment in the middle of the night.

Stubbornly, Eve retraced all the steps in her head. As she thought it through, she studied the neighborhood. Nice old trees spreading shade, neat postcard-sized yards with one-and two-story fully detached houses.

What would it have been like to have been raised in a pretty, settled community? Would it make you secure, confident, the way being dragged from filthy room to filthy room, from stinking street to stinking street made her jittery, moody?

Maybe there were fathers here who snuck into their little girls’ bedrooms, too. But it was hard to believe it. The fathers here couldn’t smell of bad liquor and sour sweat and have thick fingers that pushed themselves into innocent flesh.

Eve caught herself rocking in the seat and choked back a sob.

She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t remember. She wouldn’t let herself conjure up that face looming over her in the dark, or the taste of that hand clamping over her mouth to smother her screams.

She wouldn’t do it. It had all happened to someone else, some little girl whose name she couldn’t even remember. If she tried to, if she let herself remember it all, she would become that helpless child again and lose Eve.

She laid her head back on the seat and concentrated on calming herself. If she hadn’t been wallowing in self-pity, she would have seen the woman breaking the window at the side of the modified rancher across the street before the first shard fell.

As it was, Eve scowled, asked herself why she’d had to pull over at just this spot. And did she really want the hassle of dealing with intra-jurisdiction paperwork?

Then she thought about the nice family who would come home that night and find their valuables gone.

With a long-suffering sigh, she got out of the car.

The woman was half in and half out of the window when Eve reached her. The security shield had been deactivated by a cheap jammer, available at any electronic outlet. With a shake of her head for the naïveté of suburbanites, Eve tapped the thief smartly on the butt that was struggling to wiggle through the opening.

“Forget your code, ma’am?”

Her answer was a hard donkey-style kick to the left shoulder. Eve considered herself lucky it had missed her face. Still, she went down, crushing some early tulips. The perp popped out of the window like a cork and bolted across the lawn.

If her shoulder hadn’t been aching, Eve might have let her go. She caught her quarry in a flying tackle that sent them both sprawling into a bed of sunny-faced pansies.

“Get your fucking hands off me, or I’ll kill you.”

Eve thought briefly that it was a possibility. The woman outweighed her by a good twenty pounds. To ensure it didn’t happen, she jammed an elbow against the woman’s windpipe and dug for her badge.

“You’re busted.”

The woman’s dark eyes rolled in disgust. “What the hell’s a city cop doing here? Don’t you know where Manhattan is, asshole?”

“Looks like I’m lost.” Eve kept her elbow in place, adding just a little more pressure for her own satisfaction while she pulled out her communicator and requested the closest ’burb cruiser.

chapter six

By the next morning, her shoulder was singing as fiercely as Mavis on a final set. Eve admitted the extra hours she’d put in with Feeney and a night tossing alone in bed hadn’t helped it any. She was leery of anything but the mildest painkillers, and took a single stingy dose before she dressed for the memorial service.

She and Feeney had come across one tasty little tidbit. David Angelini had withdrawn three large payments from his accounts over the last six months, to a grand total of one million six hundred and thirty-two dollars, American.

That was more than three-quarters of his personal savings, and he’d drawn it in anonymous credit tokens and cash.

They were still digging on Randall Slade and Mirina, but so far, they were both clean. Just a happy young couple on the brink of matrimony.

God knew how anybody could be happy on the brink, Eve thought as she located her gray suit.

The damn button on the jacket was still missing, she realized as she started to fasten it. And she remembered Roarke had it, carried it like some sort of superstitious talisman. She’d been wearing the suit the first time she’d seen him—at a memorial for the dead.

She ran a hasty comb through her hair and escaped the apartment and the memories.

St. Patrick’s was bulging by the time she arrived. Uniforms in the best dress blues flanked the perimeter for a full three blocks on Fifth. A kind of honor guard, Eve mused, for a lawyer who cops had respected. Both street and air traffic had been diverted from the usually choked avenue, and the media was thronged like a busy parade across the wide street.

After the third uniform stopped her, Eve attached her badge to her jacket and moved unhampered into the ancient cathedral and the sounds of the dirge.

She didn’t care for churches much. They made her feel guilty for reasons she didn’t care to explore. The scent of candle wax and incense was ripe. Some rituals, she thought as she slipped into a side pew, were as timeless as the moon. She gave up any hope of speaking directly with Cicely Towers’s family that morning and settled down to watch the show.

Catholic rites had gone back to Latin some time in the last decade. Eve supposed it added a kind of mysticism and a unity. The ancient language certainly seemed appropriate to her in the Mass for the Dead.

The priest’s voice boomed out, reaching to the lofty ceilings, and the congregation’s responses echoed after. Silent and watchful, Eve scanned the crowd. Dignitaries and politicians sat with bowed heads. She’d positioned herself just close enough to catch glimpses of the family. When Feeney slipped in beside her, she inclined her head.

“Angelini,” she murmured. “That would be the daughter beside him.”

“With her fiancé on her right.”

“Um-hmm.” Eve studied the couple: young, attractive. The woman was of slight build with golden hair, like her mother. The unrelieved black she wore swept down from a high neck, covered her arms to the wrists, and skimmed her ankles. She wore no veil or shaded glasses to shield her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Grief, simple, basic, and undiluted, seemed to shimmer around her.

Beside her, Randall Slade stood tall, one long arm supporting her shoulders. He had a striking, almost brutally handsome face, which Eve remembered well from the image she’d generated on her computer screen: large jaw, long nose, hooded eyes. He looked big and tough, but the arm around the woman lay gently.

Flanking Angelini’s other side was his son. David stood just a space apart. That sort of body language hinted at friction. He stared straight ahead, his face a blank. He stood slightly shorter than his father, as dark as his sister was fair. And he was alone, Eve thought. Very much alone.

The family pew was completed by George Hammett.

Directly behind were the commander, his wife, and his family.

She knew Roarke was there. She had already glimpsed him once at the end of an aisle beside a teary-eyed blond. Now, when Eve skimmed a glance his way, she saw him lean down to the woman and murmur something that had her turning her face into his shoulder.

Furious at the quick pang of jealousy, Eve scanned the crowd again. Her eyes met C. J. Morse’s.

“How’d that little bastard manage to get in?”

Feeney, a good Catholic, winced at the use of profanity in church. “Who?”

“Morse—at eight o’clock.”

Shifting his eyes, Feeney spotted the reporter. “A crowd like this, I guess some of the slippery ones could slide through security.”

Eve debated hauling him out just for the satisfaction of it, then decided the scuffle would give him just the kind of attention he craved.

“Fuck him.”

Feeney made a sound like a man who’d been pinched. “Christ Jesus, Dallas, you’re in St. Pat’s.”

“If God’s going to make little weasels like him, she’s going to have to listen to complaints.”

“Have some respect.”

Eve looked back to Mirina, who lifted a hand to her face. “I’ve got plenty of respect,” she murmured. “Plenty.” With this she stepped around Feeney and strode down the side to the exit.

By the time he caught up with her, she was just finishing issuing instructions to one of the uniforms.

“What’s the problem?”

“I needed some air.” Churches always smelled like the dying or the dead to her. “And I wanted to get a jump on the weasel.” Smiling now, she turned to Feeney. “I’ve got the uniforms looking out for him. They’ll confiscate any communication or recording devices he’s got on him. Privacy law.”

“You’re just going to steam him.”

“Good. He steams me.” She let out a long breath, studying the media horde across the avenue. “I’ll be damned if the public has a right to know everything. But at least those reporters are playing by the rules and showing some of that respect you were talking about for the family.”

“I take it you’re done in there.”

“There’s nothing I can do in there.”

“I figured you’d be sitting with Roarke.”

“No.”

Feeney nodded slowly and nearly dug into his pocket for his bag of nuts before he remembered the occasion. “Is that the burr up your butt, kid?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She started to walk without any destination in mind, stopped, and turned around. “Who the hell was that blonde he was wrapped around?”

“I couldn’t say.” He sucked air through his teeth. “She was a looker though. Want me to rough him up for you?”

“Just shut up.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “The commander’s wife said they were having a small, private memorial at their home. How long do you figure this sideshow will take?”

“Another hour, minimum.”

“I’m heading back to Cop Central. I’ll meet you at the commander’s in two hours.”

“You’re the boss.”

Small and private meant there were more than a hundred people packed into the commander’s suburban home. There was food to comfort the living, liquor to dull the grieving. The perfect hostess, Anna Whitney hurried over the moment she spotted Eve. She kept her voice down and a carefully pleasant expression on her face.

“Lieutenant, must you do this now, here and now?”

“Mrs. Whitney, I’ll be as discreet as I possibly can. The sooner I complete the interview stage, the sooner we’ll find Prosecutor Towers’s killer.”

“Her children are devastated. Poor Mirina can barely function. It would be more appropriate if you’d—”

“Anna.” Commander Whitney laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let Lieutenant Dallas do her job.”

Anna said nothing, merely turned and walked stiffly away.

“We said good-bye to a very dear friend today.”

“I understand, Commander. I’ll finish here as quickly as I can.”

“Be careful with Mirina, Dallas. She’s very fragile at the moment.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps I could speak to her first, privately.”

“I’ll see to it.”

When he left her alone, Eve backed up toward the foyer and turned directly into Roarke.

“Lieutenant.”

“Roarke.” She glanced at the glass of wine in his hand. “I’m on duty.”

“So I see. This wasn’t for you.”

Eve followed his gaze to the blonde sitting in the corner. “Right.” She could all but feel the marrow of her bones turn green. “You move fast.”

Before she could step aside, he put a hand on her arm. His voice, like his eyes, was carefully neutral. “Suzanna is a mutual friend of mine and Cicely’s. The widow of a cop, killed in the line of duty. Cicely put his murderer away.”

“Suzanna Kimball,” Eve said, battling back shame. “Her husband was a good cop.”

“So I’m told.” With the faintest trace of amusement shadowing his mouth, he skimmed a glance down her suit. “I’d hoped you’d burned that thing. Gray’s not your color, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not making a fashion statement. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

The fingers on her arm tightened. “You might look into Randall Slade’s gambling problem. He owes considerable sums to several people. As does David Angelini.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s quite right. I’m one of the several.”

Her eyes hardened. “And you’ve just decided I might be interested.”

“I’ve just discovered my own interest. He’s worked up a rather impressive debt at one of my casinos on Vegas II. Then there’s a matter of a little scandal some years back involving roulette, a redhead, and a fatality on an obscure gaming satellite in Sector 38.”

“What scandal?”

“You’re the cop,” he said and smiled. “Find out.”

He left Eve to go to the cop’s widow and hold her hand.

“I have Mirina in my office,” Whitney murmured at Eve’s ear. “I promised you wouldn’t keep her long.”

“I won’t.” Struggling to smooth the feathers Roarke had ruffled, she followed the commander’s broad back down the hall.

Though his home office wasn’t quite as spartan as the one at Cop Central, it was obvious that Whitney kept his wife’s lush feminine taste at bay here. The walls were a plain beige, the carpet a deeper tone, and the chairs were wide and a practical brown.

His work counter and console were in the center of the room. In the corner by the window, Mirina Angelini waited in her long sweep of mourning black. Whitney went to her first, spoke quietly, and squeezed her hand. With one warning glance at Eve, he left them alone.

“Ms. Angelini,” Eve began. “I knew your mother, worked with her, admired her. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Everyone is,” Mirina responded in a voice as fragile and pale as her white cheeks. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and glassy. “Except the person who killed her, I suppose. I’ll apologize ahead of time if I’m of little help to you, Lieutenant Dallas. I bowed to pressure and let myself be tranq’ed. I am, as anyone will tell you, taking this rather hard.”

“You and your mother were close.”

“She was the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. Why should I have to be calm and composed when I’ve lost her like this?”

Eve came closer, sat in one of the wide brown chairs. “I can’t think of any reason why you should be.”

“My father wants a public show of strength.” Mirina turned her face to the window. “I’m letting him down. Appearances are important to my father.”

“Was your mother important to him?”

“Yes. Their personal and professional lives were twined together. The divorce didn’t change that. He’s hurting.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He won’t show it because he’s too proud, but he’s hurting. He loved her. We all loved her.”

“Ms. Angelini, tell me about your mother’s mood, what you spoke of, who you spoke of, the last time you had contact.”

“The day before she died we were on the ’link for an hour, maybe more. Wedding plans.” Tears dripped out and spilled over the pale cheeks. “We were both so full of wedding plans. I’d send her transmissions of dresses: wedding dresses, mother-of-the-bride ensembles. Randall was designing them. We talked about clothes. Doesn’t that seem shallow, Lieutenant, that the last time I’ll ever speak with my mother, I spoke of fashion?”

“No, it doesn’t seem shallow. It seems friendly. Loving.”

Mirina pressed a hand to her lips. “Do you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What do you talk to your mother about?”

“I don’t have a mother. I never did.”

Mirina blinked, focused again. “How odd. What does it feel like?”

“I . . .” There was no way to describe what simply was. “It wouldn’t be the same for you, Ms. Angelini,” Eve said gently. “When you were speaking to your mother, did she mention anything, anyone who was concerning her?”

“No. If you’re thinking about her work, we rarely talked of it. I wasn’t very interested in the law. She was happy, excited that I was coming over for a few days. We laughed a lot. I know she had this image, her professional image, but with me, with the family she was . . . softer, looser. I teased her about George, saying that Randy could design her wedding dress while he was doing mine.”

“Her reaction?”

“We just laughed. Mama liked to laugh,” she said, a little dreamy now as the tranq began to work. “She said she was having too much fun being mother of the bride to spoil it with the headaches of being a bride herself. She was very fond of George, and I think they were good together. But I don’t suppose she loved him.”

“Don’t you?”

“Why, no.” There was a faint smile on her lips, a glassy gleam to her eyes. “When you love someone, you have to be with them, don’t you? To be part of their life, to have them be part of yours. She wasn’t looking for that with George. With anyone.”

“Was Mr. Hammett looking for that with her?”

“I don’t know. If he was, he was happy enough to let their relationship drift. I’m drifting now,” she murmured. “I don’t feel as though I’m here at all.”

Because she needed Mirina to hold off on the float a bit longer, Eve rose to request water from the console. Carrying the glass back, she pushed it into Mirina’s hands.

“Did that relationship cause problems between him and your father? Between your mother and father?”

“It . . . was awkward, but not uncomfortable.” Mirina smiled again. She was sleepy now, so relaxed she could have folded her arms on the window ledge and slipped away. “That sounds contradictory. You’d have to know my father. He would refuse to let it bother him, or at least to let it affect him. He’s still friendly with George.”

She blinked down at the glass in her hand as if she’d just realized it was there, and took a delicate sip. “I don’t know how he might have felt if they had decided to marry, but well, that isn’t an issue now.”

“Are you involved in your father’s business, Ms. Angelini?”

“In the fashion arm. I do all the buying for the shops in Rome and Milan, have the final say as to what’s exported to our shops in Paris and New York and so forth. Travel a bit to attend shows, though I don’t care much for traveling. I hate going off planet, don’t you?”

Eve realized she was losing her. “I haven’t done it.”

“Oh, it’s horrid. Randy likes it. Says it’s an adventure. What was I saying?” She pushed a hand through her lovely golden hair, and Eve rescued the glass before it could tumble to the floor. “About the buying. I like to buy clothes. Other aspects of the business never interested me.”

“Your parents and Mr. Hammett were all stockholders in a company called Mercury.”

“Of course. We use Mercury exclusively for our shipping needs.” Her eyelids drooped. “It’s fast, dependable.”

“There were no problems that you know of, in that or any other of your family holdings?”

“No, none at all.”

It was time to try a different tack. “Was your mother aware of Randall Slade’s gambling debts?”

For the first time Mirina showed a spark of life, and the life was anger, flashing in the pale eyes. She seemed to snap awake. “Randall’s debts were not my mother’s concern, but his, and mine. We’re dealing with them.”

“You didn’t tell her?”

“There was no reason to worry her about something that was being handled. Randall has a problem with gambling, but he’s gotten help. He doesn’t wager anymore.”

“The debts are considerable?”

“They’re being paid,” Mirina said hollowly. “Arrangements have been made.”

“Your mother was a wealthy woman in her own right. You’ll inherit a large portion of her estate.”

Either the tranqs or grief dulled Mirina’s wits. She seemed oblivious to the implication. “Yes, but I won’t have my mother, will I? I won’t have Mama. When I marry Randall, she won’t be there. She won’t be there,” she repeated, and began to weep quietly.

David Angelini wasn’t fragile. His emotions showed themselves in stiff impatience with undercurrents of chained rage. For all appearances, this was a man insulted at the very idea that he would be expected to speak to a cop.

When Eve sat across from him in Whitney’s office, he answered her questions briefly in a clipped, cultured voice.

“Obviously it was some maniac she’d prosecuted who did this to her,” he stated. “Her work brought her entirely too close to violence.”

“Did you object to her work?”

“I didn’t understand why she loved it. Why she needed it.” He lifted the glass he’d brought with him and drank. “But she did, and in the end, it killed her.”

“When did you see her last?”

“On March eighteenth. My birthday.”

“Did you have contact with her since then?”

“I spoke with her about a week before she died. Just a family call. We never went more than a week without speaking.”

“How would you describe her mood?”

“Obsessed—with Mirina’s wedding. My mother never did things by halves. She was planning the wedding as meticulously as she did any of her criminal cases. She was hoping it would rub off on me.”

“What would?”

“The wedding fever. My mother was a romantic woman under the prosecutor’s armor. She hoped I would find the right mate and make a family. I told her I’d leave that to Mirina and Randy and stay married to business awhile.”

“You’re actively involved in Angelini Exports. You’d be aware of the financial difficulties.”

His face tightened. “They’re blips, Lieutenant. Bumps. Nothing more.”

“My information indicates there are more serious difficulties than blips and bumps.”

“Angelini is solid. There’s simply a need for some reorganization, some diversification, which is being done.” He flicked a hand, elegant fingers, a sparkle of gold. “A few key people have made unfortunate mistakes that can and will be rectified. And that has nothing to do with my mother’s case.”

“It’s my job to explore all angles, Mr. Angelini. Your mother’s estate is substantial. Your father will come into a number of holdings, as will you.”

David got to his feet. “You’re speaking of my mother. If you suspect that anyone in the family would cause her harm, then Commander Whitney has made a monstrous error in judgment putting you in charge of the investigation.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion. Do you gamble, Mr. Angelini?”

“What business is that of yours?”

Since he was going to stand, Eve rose to face him. “It’s a simple question.”

“Yes, I gamble on occasion, as do countless others. I find it relaxing.”

“How much do you owe?”

His fingers tightened on the glass. “I believe at this point, my mother would have advised me to consult counsel.”

“That’s certainly your right. I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Angelini. I’m fully aware that you were in Paris on the night of your mother’s death.” Just as she was fully aware that shuttles skimmed across the Atlantic hourly. “It’s my job to get a clear picture, a full and clear picture. You’re under no obligation to answer my question. But I can, with very little trouble, access that information.”

The muscles in his jaw worked a moment. “Eight hundred thousand, give or take a few dollars.”

“Are you unable to settle the debt?”

“I am neither a welsher nor a pauper, Lieutenant Dallas,” he said stiffly. “It can and will be settled shortly.”

“Was your mother aware of it?”

“Neither am I a child, Lieutenant, who needs to run to his mother for help whenever he skins a knuckle.”

“You and Randall Slade gambled together?”

“We did. My sister disapproves, so Randy has given up the hobby.”

“Not before he incurred debts of his own.”

His eyes, very like his father’s, chilled. “I wouldn’t know about that, nor would I discuss his business with you.”

Oh yes, you would, Eve thought, but let it slide for the moment. “And the trouble in Sector 38 a few years ago? You were there?”

“Sector 38?” He looked convincingly blank.

“A gambling satellite.”

“I often go to Vegas II for a quick weekend, but I don’t recall patronizing a casino in that sector. I don’t know what trouble you’re referring to.”

“Do you play roulette?”

“No, it’s a fool’s game. Randy’s fond of it. I prefer blackjack.”

Randall Slade didn’t look like a fool. He looked to Eve like a man who could knock anything out of his path without breaking stride. Nor was he her image of a fashion designer. He dressed simply, his black suit unadorned by any of the studs or braids currently in fashion. And his wide hands had the look of a laborer rather than an artist.

“I hope you’ll be brief,” he said in the tone of a man used to giving orders. “Mirina is upstairs lying down. I don’t want to leave her for long.”

“Then I’ll be brief.” Eve didn’t object when he took out a gold case containing ten slim black cigarettes. Technically, she could have, but she waited until he’d lighted one. “What was your relationship with Prosecutor Towers?”

“We were friendly. She was soon to become my mother-in-law. We shared a deep love for Mirina.”

“She approved of you.”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Your career has benefited quite a lot through your association with Angelini Exports.”

“True.” He blew out smoke that smelled lightly of lemon mint. “I like to think Angelini has also benefited quite a lot through their association with me.” He surveyed Eve’s gray suit. “That cut and color are both incredibly unflattering. You might want to take a look at my on-the-rack line here in New York.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

“I dislike seeing attractive women in unattractive clothes.” He smiled and surprised Eve with a flare of charm. “You should wear bolder colors, sleeker lines. A woman with your build would carry them well.”

“So I’m told,” she muttered, thinking of Roarke. “You’re about to marry a very wealthy woman.”

“I’m about to marry the woman I love.”

“It’s a happy coincidence that she’s wealthy.”

“It is.”

“And money is something you have a need for.”

“Don’t we all?” Smooth, unoffended, again amused.

“You have debts, Mr. Slade. Large, outstanding debts in an area that can cause considerable pain in the collecting process.”

“That’s accurate.” He drew smoke in again. “I’m a gambling addict, Lieutenant. Recovering. With Mirina’s help and support, I’ve undergone treatment. I haven’t made a wager in two months, five days.”

“Roulette, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And the amount you owe, in round figures?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“And the amount of your fiancée’s inheritance?”

“Probably triple that, in round figures. More, considering the stocks and holdings that wouldn’t be converted into credit or cash. Killing my fiancée’s mother would certainly have been one way to solve my financial difficulties.” He stubbed his cigarette out thoughtfully. “Then again, so would the contract I’ve just signed for my fall line. Money isn’t important enough to me to kill for it.”

“But gambling was important enough?”

“Gambling was like a beautiful woman. Desirable, exciting, capricious. I had a choice between her and Mirina. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep Mirina.”

“Nothing?”

He understood, and inclined his head. “Nothing at all.”

“Does she know about the scandal in Sector 38?”

His amused, faintly smug expression froze, and he paled. “That was nearly ten years ago. That has nothing to do with Mirina. Nothing to do with anything.”

“You haven’t told her.”

“I didn’t know her. I was young, foolish, and I paid for my mistake.”

“Why don’t you explain to me, Mr. Slade, how you came to make that mistake?”

“It has nothing to do with this.”

“Indulge me.”

“Damn it, it was one night out of my life. One night. I’d had too much to drink, was stupid enough to mix the liquor with chemicals. The woman killed herself. It was proven the overdose was self-inflicted.”

Interesting, Eve thought. “But you were there,” she hazarded.

“I was zoned. I’d lost more heavily than I could afford at roulette, and between us we made a scene. I told you I was young. I blamed my bad luck on her. Maybe I did threaten her. I just don’t remember. Yes, we argued publicly, she struck me, and I struck her back. I’m not proud of it. Then I just don’t remember.”

“Don’t remember, Mr. Slade?”

“As I testified, the next thing I remember is waking up in some filthy little room. We were in bed, naked. And she was dead. I was still groggy. Security came in. I must have called them. They took pictures. I was assured the pictures were destroyed after the case was closed and I was exonerated. I barely knew the woman,” he continued, heating up. “I’d picked her up in the bar—or thought I had. My attorney discovered she was a professional companion, unlicensed, working the casinos.”

He closed his eyes. “Do you think I want Mirina to know that I was, however briefly, accused of murdering an unlicensed whore?”

“No,” Eve said quietly. “I don’t imagine you do. And as you said, Mr. Slade, you’d do anything to keep her. Anything at all.”

Hammett was waiting for her the moment she stepped out of the commander’s office. The hollows in his cheeks seemed deeper, his skin grayer.

“I’d hoped to have a moment, Lieutenant—Eve.”

She gestured behind her, let him slip into the room first, then closed the door on the murmurs of conversation.

“This is a difficult day for you, George.”

“Yes, very difficult. I wanted to ask, needed to know . . . Is there anything more? Anything at all?”

“The investigation’s proceeding. There’s nothing I can tell you that you wouldn’t have heard through the media.”

“There must be more.” His voice rose before he could control it. “Something.”

She could feel pity, even when there was suspicion. “Everything that can be done is being done.”

“You’ve interviewed Marco, her children, even Randy. If there is anything they knew, anything they told you that might help, I have a right to be told.”

Nerves? she wondered. Or grief? “No,” she said quietly, “you don’t. I can’t give you any information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure.”

“We’re talking about the murder of the woman I loved!” He exploded with it, his pale face flushing dark. “We might have been married.”

“Were you planning to be married, George?”

“We’d discussed it.” He passed a hand over his face, a hand that shook slightly. “We’d discussed it,” he repeated, and the flush washed away from his skin. “There was always another case, another summation to prepare. There was supposed to be plenty of time.”

With his hands balled into fists, he turned away from her. “I apologize for shouting at you. I’m not myself.”

“It’s all right, George. I’m very sorry.”

“She’s gone.” He said it quietly, brokenly. “She’s gone.”

There was nothing left for her to do but give him privacy. She closed the door behind her, then rubbed a hand at the back of her neck where tension was lodged.

On her way out, Eve signaled to Feeney. “Need you to do some digging,” she told him as they headed outside. “Old case, about ten years past, on one of the gambling hells in Sector 38.”

“What you got, Dallas?”

“Sex, scandal, and probable suicide. Accidental.”

“Hot damn,” Feeney said mournfully. “And I was hoping to catch a ball game on the screen tonight.”

“This should be just as entertaining.” She spied Roarke helping the blonde into his car, hesitated, then detoured past him. “Thanks for the tip, Roarke.”

“Any time, Lieutenant. Feeney,” he added with a brief nod before he slipped into the car.

“Hey,” Feeney said when the car glided away. “He’s really pissed at you.”

“He seemed fine to me,” Eve muttered and wrenched open her car door.

Feeney snorted. “Some detective you are, pal.”

“Just dig up the case, Feeney. Randall Slade’s the accused.” She slammed her door and sulked.

chapter seven

Feeney knew Eve wasn’t going to like the data he’d unearthed. Anticipating her reaction, and being a wise man, he sent it through computer rather than delivering it in person.

“I’ve got the goods on the Slade incident,” he said when his droopy face blipped onto her monitor. “I’m going to send it through. I’m—ah—going to be stuck here for awhile. I’ve got about twenty percent of Tower’s conviction list eliminated. It’s slow going.”

“Try to speed it up, Feeney. We’ve got to narrow the field.”

“Right. Ready for transmission.” His face blinked off. In its place was the police report from Sector 38.

Eve frowned over it as the data scrolled. There was little more information above what Randal Slade had already told her. Suspicious death, overdose. The victim’s name was Carolle Lee, age 24, birthplace New Chicago Colony, unemployed. The image showed a young, black-haired woman of mixed heritage with exotic eyes and coffee-toned skin. Randall looked pale, his eyes glazed, in his mug shot.

She skimmed through, searching for any detail Randall might have left out. It was bad enough as it was, Eve mused. The murder charges had been dropped, but he’d copped to soliciting an unlicensed companion, possession of illegal chemicals, and contributing to a fatality.

He’d been lucky, she decided, very lucky that the incident had occurred on such an obscure sector, in a hellhole that didn’t garner much attention. But if someone—anyone—had come across the details, had threatened to take them to his pretty, fragile fiancée, it would have been a real mess.

Had Towers known? Eve wondered. That was the big question. And if she had, how would she have handled it? The attorney might have looked at the facts, weighed them, and dismissed the case as resolved.

But the mother? Would the loving mother who chatted about fashion for an hour with her daughter, the devoted parent who carved out time to help plan the perfect wedding, have accepted the scandal as the wild oats of a young, foolish man? Or would she have stood like a barricade between the older, less foolish man and what he wanted most?

Eve narrowed her eyes and continued to scan the documents. Then she stopped cold when Roarke’s name jumped out at her.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, slamming a fist on the desk. “Son of a bitch.”

Within fifteen minutes, she was striding across the glossy tiles of the lobby of Roarke’s building in midtown. Her jaw was set as she accessed the code, then slapped her palm onto the handplate of his private elevator. She hadn’t bothered to call, but let righteous fury zip her up to the top floor.

The receptionist in his elegant outer office started to smile in greeting. One look at Eve’s face had her blinking. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Tell him I’m here, and that I see him now, or down at Cop Central.”

“He’s—he’s in a meeting.”

“Now.”

“I’ll call through.” She swiveled and punched a button for private communication. She murmured the message and apologies while Eve stood fuming.

“If you would wait in his office for a moment, Lieutenant—” the receptionist began and rose.

“I know the way,” Eve snapped, striding across the plush carpet through the towering double doors and into Roarke’s New York sanctum.

There had been a time when she would have helped herself to a cup of coffee or wandered over to admire his view from a hundred fifty stories up. Today she stood, every nerve quivering with temper. And beneath that was fear.

The panel on the east wall slid open silently, and he walked through. He still wore the dark suit he’d chosen for the memorial service. As the panel closed behind him, he fingered the button in his pocket that belonged on Eve’s gray jacket.

“You were quick,” he said easily. “I thought I would finish my board meeting before you came by.”

“You think you’re clever,” she shot back. “Giving me just enough to start digging with. Damn it, Roarke, you’re right in the middle of this.”

“Am I?” Unconcerned, he walked to a chair, sat, stretched out his legs. “And how is that, Lieutenant?”

“You owned the damn casino where Slade was gambling. You owned the fucking fleabag hotel where the woman died. You had an unlicensed hooker working your hellhole.”

“Unlicensed companions in Sector 38?” He smiled a little. “Why, I’m shocked.”

“Don’t get cute with me. It connects you. Mercury was bad enough, but this is deeper. Your statement’s on record.”

“Naturally.”

“Why are you making it so hard for me to keep your name out of this?”

“I’m not interested in making it hard or easy for you, Lieutenant.”

“Fine, then. Just fine.” If he could be cold, so could she. “Then we’ll just get the questions and answers out of the way and move on. You knew Slade.”

“Actually, I didn’t. Not personally. Actually, I’d forgotten all about it, and him, until I did some research of my own. Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”

“You forgot you were involved in a murder investigation?”

“Yes.” Idly, he steepled his hands. “It wasn’t the first brush I’d had with the police, nor apparently, is it the last. In the grand scheme of things, Lieutenant, it really didn’t concern me.”

“Didn’t concern you,” she repeated. “You had Slade tossed out of your casino.”

“I believe the manager of the casino handled that.”

“You were there.”

“Yes, I was there, somewhere on the premises, in any case. Dissatisfied clients often become rowdy. I didn’t pay much attention at that time.”

She took a deep breath. “If it meant so little, and the entire matter slipped your mind, why did you sell the casino, the hotel, everything you owned in Sector 38 within forty-eight hours of Cicely Towers’s murder?”

He said nothing for a moment, his eyes on hers. “For personal reasons.”

“Roarke, just tell me so I can put this whole connection to bed. I know the sale didn’t have anything to do with Towers’s murder, but it looks dicey. ‘For personal reasons’ isn’t good enough.”

“It was for me. At the time. Tell me, Lieutenant Dallas, are you thinking I decided to blackmail Cicely over her future son-in-law’s youthful indiscretion, had some henchman in my employ lure her to the West End, and when she didn’t cooperate, slit her throat?”

She wanted to hate him for putting her in the position of having to answer. “I told you I didn’t believe you had anything to do with her death, and I meant it. You’ve put me in a position where it’s a scenario we’ll have to work with. One that will take time and manpower away from finding the killer.”

“Damn you, Eve.” He said it quietly; so quietly, so calmly, her throat burned in reaction.

“What do you want from me, Roarke? You said you’d help, that I could use your connections. Now, because you’re pissed about something else, you’re blocking me.”

“I changed my mind.” His tone was dismissive as he rose and walked behind his desk. “About several things,” he added, watching her with eyes that sliced at her heart.

“If you would just tell me why you sold. The coincidence of that can’t be ignored.”

He considered for a moment his decision to reorganize some of his less-than-legal enterprises and shake loose of what couldn’t be changed. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t believe I will.”

“Why are you putting me in this position?” she demanded. “Is this some sort of punishment?”

He sat, leaned back, steepled his fingers. “If you like.”

“You’re going to be pulled into this, just like the last time. There’s just no need for it.” Driven by frustration, she slapped her hands on his desk. “Can’t you see that?”

He looked at her face, the dark, worried eyes, the ridiculously chopped hair. “I know what I’m doing.” He hoped he did.

“Roarke, don’t you understand, it’s not enough for me to know you had nothing to do with it. Now I have to prove it.”

He wanted to touch her, so much that his fingers ached from it. More than anything at that moment, he wished he could hate her for it. “Do you know, Eve?”

She straightened, dropped her hands to her sides. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and turned and left him.

But it did matter, he thought. At the moment, it was all that really mattered. Shaken, he shifted forward. He could curse her now, now that those big, whiskey-colored eyes were no longer staring into him. He could curse her for bringing him so low he was nearly ready to beg for whatever scraps of her life she was willing to share with him.

And if he begged, if he settled, he would probably grow to hate her almost as much as he would hate himself.

He knew how to outwait a rival, how to outmanuever an opponent. He certainly knew how to fight for what he wanted or intended to have. But he was no longer sure he could outwait, outmanuever, or fight Eve.

Taking the button out of his pocket, he toyed with it, studied it as though it were some intriguing puzzle to be solved.

He was an idiot, Roarke realized. It was humiliating to admit what an incredible fool love could make of a man. He stood, slipped the button back in his pocket. He had a board meeting to complete, business to take care of.

And, he thought, some research to do on whether any details of the Slade arrest had left Sector 38. And if they had, how and why.

Eve couldn’t put off her appointment with Nadine. The necessity of it irritated, as did the fact she had to schedule the time between Nadine’s evening and late live broadcasts.

She plopped down at a table at a small café near Channel 75 called Images. It was, with its quiet corners and leafy trees, several large steps away from the Blue Squirrel. Eve winced at the prices on the menu—broadcasters were paid a great deal more than cops—and settled on a Classic Pepsi.

“You ought to try the muffins,” Nadine told her. “The place is famous for them.”

“I bet it is.” At about five bucks a rehydrated blueberry, Eve thought. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Neither do I.” Nadine’s on-camera makeup was still perfectly in place. Eve could only wonder how anyone could stand having their pores gunked for hours at a time.

“You go first.”

“Fine.” Nadine broke open her muffin and it steamed fragrantly. “Obviously the memorial is the big news of the day. Who came, who said what. Lots of side stories about the family, focus is tight on the grieving daughter and her fiancé.”

“Why?”

“Human interest, Dallas. Big splashy wedding plans interrupted by violent murder. Word’s leaked that the ceremony will be postponed until the first part of next year.”

Nadine took a bite of muffin. Eve ignored the envious reaction of her stomach juices. “Gossip isn’t what I’m after, Nadine.”

“But it adds color. Look, it was more like a plant than a leak. Somebody wanted the media to know the wedding’s been postponed. So I wonder if this means there’ll be a wedding after all. What I smell is the scent of trouble in paradise. Why would Mirina turn away from Slade at a time like this? Seems to me they’d have a nice quiet private ceremony so he’d be there to comfort her.”

“Maybe that’s the plan exactly, and they’re throwing you off the scent.”

“It’s possible. Anyway, without Towers as buffer, speculation’s running that Angelini and Hammett will dissolve their business associations. They were very cool to each other, never spoke during the service—before or after it, either.”

“How do you know?”

Nadine smiled, feline and pleased. “I have my sources. Angelini needs income, and fast. Roarke’s made him an offer for his shares, which now include Towers’s interest, in Mercury.”

“Has he?”

“You didn’t know. Interesting.” Sly as a cat, Nadine licked crumbs from her fingertips. “I thought it was interesting, too, that you didn’t attend the service with Roarke.”

“I was there in an official capacity,” Eve said shortly. “Let’s stick to the point.”

“More trouble in paradise,” Nadine murmured, then her eyes sobered. “Look, Dallas, I like you. I don’t know why, but I do. If you and Roarke are having problems, I’m sorry for it.”

Buddy-to-buddy confidences were something Eve was never comfortable with. She shifted, surprised that she was tempted, even for an instant, to share. Then she set it down to Nadine’s skill as a reporter. “The point,” she repeated.

“Okay.” Nadine moved a shoulder and took another bite of muffin. “Nobody knows dick,” she said briefly. “We’ve got speculation. Angelini’s financial difficulties, the son’s gambling habits, the Fluentes case.”

“You can forget the Fluentes case,” Eve interrupted. “He’s going down. Both he and his lawyer know it. The evidence is clean. Taking Towers out won’t change a thing.”

“He might have been pissed.”

“Maybe. But he’s small time. He doesn’t have the contacts or the money to buy a hit the size of Towers. It doesn’t check out. We’re running everybody she ever put away. So far we’ve got zip.”

“You’ve cooled off on the revenge theory, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. I think it was closer to home.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“No.” Eve shook her head when Nadine studied her. “No,” she repeated. “I don’t have anything solid yet. Here’s what I want you to look into, and I need you to hold it off the air until I clear it.”

“That was the deal.”

Briefly, Eve told her of the incident in Sector 38.

“Holy shit, that’s hot. And it’s public record, Dallas.”

“That may be, but you wouldn’t know where to look unless I’d tipped you. Stick with the deal, Nadine. You hold it off air, and you poke around. See if you can find out if anyone know, or cares. If there’s a connection to the murder, I’ll hand it to you. If not, I guess it’ll be up to your conscience whether you want to broadcast something that could ruin the reputation of a man and his relationship with his fiancée.”

“Low blow, Dallas.”

“Depends on where you’re standing. Keep the cover on it, Nadine.”

“Um-hmm.” Her mind was humming. “Slade was in San Francisco the night of the murder.” She waited a beat. “Wasn’t he?”

“So the record shows.”

“And there are dozens of coast-to-coast shuttles, public and private, running every hour, back and forth.”

“That’s right. You keep in touch, Nadine,” Eve said as she rose. “And you keep the cover on.”

Eve made it an early night. When her ’link beeped at one, she was screaming her way out of a nightmare. Sweating, shaking, she tore off the covers that wrapped around her, fought off the hands that were groping over her body.

She choked back another scream, pressed her fingers against her eyes, and ordered herself not to be sick. She answered the call without turning the lights on, and blocked video.

“Dallas.”

“Dispatch. Voice print verified. Probable homicide, female. Report Five thirty-two Central Park South, rear of building. Code yellow.”

“Acknowledged.” Eve ended the transmission and, still trembling from the aftershocks of the dream, crawled out of bed.

It took her twenty minutes. She’d needed the comfort of a hot shower, even if it had only been for thirty seconds.

It was a trendy neighborhood, peopled by residents who patronized fashionable shops and private clubs, and who aspired to move just another notch up the social and ecomonic ladder.

The streets were quiet here, though it wasn’t quite out of the realm of public taxis and into private transpo-cars. Upper middle class all the way, she mused as she made her way around to the back of a sleek steel building with its pleasant view of the park.

Then again, murder happened everywhere.

It had certainly happened here.

The rear of the building couldn’t boast a view of the park, but the developers had made up for it with a nice plot of green. Beyond the trim trees was a security wall that separated one building from the next.

On the narrow stone path through a border of gold petunias, the body sprawled, facedown.

Female, Eve noted, flashing her badge at the waiting uniforms. Dark hair, dark skin, well dressed. She studied the stylish red-and-white-striped heel that lay point up on the path.

Death had knocked her out of her shoes.

“Pictures?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. ME on the way.”

“Who reported it?”

“Neighbor. Came out to let his dog use the facilities. We’ve got him inside.”

“Do we have a name on her?”

“Yvonne Metcalf, Lieutenant. She lives in eleven twenty-six.”

“Actress,” Eve murmured as the name struck a cord. “Up and coming.”

“Yes, sir.” One of the uniforms looked down at the body. “She won an Emmy last year. Been doing the talk show rounds. She’s pretty famous.”

“Now she’s pretty dead. Keep the camera running. I need to turn her over.”

Even before she used the protective spray to seal her hands, before she crouched down to turn the body, Eve knew. Blood was everywhere. Someone hissed sharply as the body rolled faceup, but it wasn’t Eve. She’d been braced for it.

The throat was cut, and the cut was deep. Yvonne’s lovely green eyes stared up at Eve: two blank questions.

“What the hell did you have to do with Cicely Towers?” she murmured. “Same MO: one wound to the throat, severed jugular. No robbery, no signs of sexual assault or struggle.” Gently, Eve lifted one of Yvonne’s limp hands, shone her light at the nails, under them. They were painted a sparkling scarlet with tiny white stripes. And they were perfect. No chips, no snags, no scrapes of flesh or stains of blood under them.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” Eve commented, studying the victim’s flashy red-and-white-striped bodysuit. “Let’s find out where she’d been or where she was going,” Eve began. Her head came around as she heard the sound of approaching feet.

But it wasn’t the medical examiner and his team, nor was it the sweepers. It was, she saw with disgust, C. J. Morse and a crew from Channel 75.

“Get that camera out of here.” Temper vibrating, she sprang to her feet, instinctively shielding the body. “This is a crime scene.”

“You haven’t posted it,” Morse said, smiling sweetly. “Until you do, it’s public access. Sherry, get a shot of that shoe.”

“Post the goddamn scene,” Eve ordered a uniform. “Confiscate that camera, the recorders.”

“You can’t confiscate media equipment until the scene’s posted,” C. J. reminded her, as he tried to rubberneck around her to get a good look. “Sherry, get me a nice pan, then focus on the lieutenant’s pretty face.”

“I’m going to kick your ass, Morse.”

“Oh, I wish you’d try, Dallas.” Some of his bubbling resentment simmered into his eyes. “I’d love to bring you up on charges, and broadcast it, after that stunt you pulled on me.”

“If you’re still on this scene when it’s posted, you’ll be the one facing charges.”

He only smiled again, backing off. He calculated he had another fifteen seconds of video time before he ran into trouble. “Channel 75 has a fine team of lawyers.”

“Detain him and his crew.” Eve flashed a snarl at a uniform. “Off scene, until I’m through.”

“Interfering with media—”

“Kiss ass, Morse.”

“I bet yours is tasty.” He continued to grin as he was escorted away.

When Eve came around the building, he was doing a sober stand-up report on the recent homicide. Without missing a beat, he angled himself toward her. “Lieutenant Dallas, will you confirm that Yvonne Metcalf, the star of Tune In has been murdered?”

“The department has no comment to make at this time.”

“Isn’t it true that Ms. Metcalf was a resident of this building, and that her body was discovered this morning on the rear patio? Hadn’t her throat been cut?”

“No comment.”

“Our viewing audience is waiting, Lieutenant. Two prominent women have been violently murdered by the same method, and in all likelihood by the same person, barely a week apart. And you have no comment?”

“Unlike certain irresponsible reporters, the police are more careful, and more concerned with facts than speculation.”

“Or is it that the police are simply unable to solve these crimes?” Quick on his feet, he sidestepped, came up in her face again. “Aren’t you concerned about your reputation, Lieutenant, and the connection between the two victims and your close friend Roarke?”

“My reputation isn’t at issue here. The investigation is.”

Morse turned back to the camera. “At this hour, the investigation, headed by Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is at an apparent deadlock. Another murder has taken place less than a hundred yards from where I stand. A young woman, talented, beautiful, and full of promise has had her life sliced off by a violent sweep of a knife. Just as only one week ago, the respected and dedicated defender of justice, Cicely Towers had her life brought to an end. Perhaps the question is not when will the killer be caught, but what prominent woman will be next? This is C. J. Morse for Channel 75, reporting live from Central Park South.”

He nodded to the camera operator before turning to beam at Eve. “See, if you’d cooperate, Dallas, I might be able to help you out with public opinion.”

“Fuck you, Morse.”

“Oh, well, maybe if you asked nice.” His grin never wavered when she grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Now, now, don’t touch unless you mean it.”

She was a full head taller than he, and gave serious thought to pounding him into the sidewalk. “Here’s what I want to know, Morse. I want to know how a third-rate reporter ends up on a crime scene, with a crew, ten minutes after the primary.”

He smoothed down the front of his shirt. “Sources, Lieutenant, which, as you know I’m under no obligation to share with you.” His smile dimmed into a sneer. “And at this stage, I’d say we’re talking third-rate primary. You’d have been better off hooking up with me instead of Nadine. That was a nasty turn you served, helping her bump me off the Towers story.”

“Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear that, C. J., because I just plain hate your guts. It didn’t bother you at all, did it, to go back there, camera running, and broadcast pictures of that woman? You didn’t think about her right to a little dignity or the fact that someone who cared about her might not have been notified. Her family, for instance.”

“Hey, you do your job, I do mine. You didn’t look too bothered poking at her.”

“What time did you get the tip?” Eve asked briefly.

He hesitated, stringing it out. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that. It came in on my private line at twelve thirty.”

“From?”

“Nope. I protect my sources. I called the station, drummed up a crew. Right, Sherry?”

“Right.” The camera operator moved a shoulder. “The night desk sent us out to meet C. J. here. That’s show biz.”

“I’m going to do whatever I can to confiscate your logs, Morse, to bring you in for questioning, to make your life hell.”

“Oh, I hope you do.” His round face gleamed. “You’ll give me double my usual airtime and put my popularity quotient through the roof. And you know what’s going to be fun? The side story I’m going to work up on Roarke and his cozy relationship with Yvonne Metcalf.”

Her stomach shuddered, but she kept her voice bland. “Watch your step there, C. J., Roarke’s not nearly as nice as I am. Keep your crew off scene,” she warned. “Put one toe on, and I confiscate your equipment.”

She turned, and when she was far enough away, pulled out her communicator. She was going outside of procedure, risking a reprimand or worse. But it had to be done.

She could tell when Roarke answered that he hadn’t yet been to bed.

“Well, Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”

“I’ve only got a minute. Tell me what your relationship was with Yvonne Metcalf.”

He lifted a brow. “We’re friends, were close at one time.”

“You were lovers.”

“Yes, briefly. Why?”

“Because she’s dead, Roarke.”

His faint smile faded. “Oh Christ, how?”

“She had her throat cut. Stay available.”

“Is that an official request, Lieutenant?” he asked, and his voice was hard as rock.

“It has to be. Roarke . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He ended the transmission.

chapter eight

Eve had no problem listing several connections between Cicely Towers and Yvonne Metcalf. Number one was murder. The method and the perpetrator. They had both been women in the public eye, well respected, and held in great affection. They were successful in their chosen fields and were dedicated to that field. They both had families who loved and who mourned.

Yet they had worked and played in dramatically different social and professional circles. Yvonne’s friends had been artists, actors, and musicians, while Cicely had socialized with law enforcers, businesspeople, and politicians.

Cicely had been an organized career woman of impeccable taste who had guarded her privacy fiercely.

Yvonne had been a cheerfully disorganized, borderline messy actor who courted the public eye.

But someone had known them both well enough and felt strongly enough about both to kill them.

The only name Eve found in Cicely’s tidy address book and Yvonne’s disordered one that matched was Roarke.

For the third time in an hour, Eve ran the lists through her computer, pushing for a connection. A name that clicked with another name, an address, a profession, a personal interest. The few connections that came through were so loosely linked she could barely justify taking the next step toward the interview.

But she would do it, because the alternative was Roarke.

While the computer handled the short list, she took another pass through Yvonne’s electronic diary.

“Why the hell didn’t the woman put in names?” Eve muttered. There were times, dates, occasionally initials, often little side notes or symbols of Yvonne’s mood.

1:00—lunch at the Crown Room with B. C. Yippee! Don’t be late, Yvonne, and wear the green number with the short skirt. He likes prompt women with legs.

Beauty day at Paradise. Thank God. 10:00. Should try to hit Fitness Palace at 8 for workout. Ugh.

Fancy lunches, Eve mused. Pampering in the top salon in the city. Sweating a little in a luxury gym. Not a bad life, all in all. Who had wanted to end it?

She flipped through to the day of the murder.

8:00—Power breakfast—little blue suit with matching shoes. LOOK PROFESSIONAL FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, YVONNE!!

11:00—P. P.’s office to discuss contract negotiations. Maybe sneak in some shopping first. SHOE SALE AT SAKS. Hot damn.

Lunch—skip dessert. Maybe. Tell cutie he was wonderful in show. No penalty for lying to pals about their acting. God, wasn’t he awful?

Call home.

Hit Saks if you missed it earlier.

5ish. Drinks. Stick with spring water, babe. You talk too much when you’re loose. Be bright, sparkle. Push Tune In. $$$***. Don’t forget photo layout in morning and stay away from that wine. Go home, take a nap.

Midnight meeting. Could be hot stuff. Wear the red-and-white-striped number, and smile, smile, smile. Bygones are bygones, right? Never close that door. Small world, and so on. What a dumb ass.

So she’d documented the meeting at midnight. Not who, not where, not what, but she’d wanted to be well dressed for it. Someone she’d known, had a history with. Bygones. A past problem with?

Lover? Eve mused. She didn’t think so. Yvonne hadn’t put little hearts around the notation or told herself to be sexy, sexy, sexy. Eve thought she was beginning to understand the woman. Yvonne had been amused at herself, ready for fun, enjoying her lifestyle. And she’d been ambitious.

Wouldn’t she have told herself to smile, smile, smile, for a career opportunity? A part, good press, a new script, an influential fan.

What would she have said about Roarke? Eve wondered. Most likely she’d have noted him down with a big, bold-faced capital R. She would have put hearts around the date, or dollar signs, or smiles. As she had eighteen months before she died.

Eve didn’t have to look at Yvonne’s previous diaries. She remembered perfectly the woman’s last notation on Roarke.

Dinner with R—8:30. YUM-YUM. Wear the white satin—matching teddy. Be prepared, might get lucky. The man’s body is awesome—wish I could figure out his head. Oh well, just think sexy and see what happens.

Eve didn’t particularly want to know if Yvonne had gotten lucky. Obviously they’d been lovers—Roarke had said so himself. So why hadn’t she put down any more dates with him after the white satin?

It was something, she supposed, she’d have to find out—for investigative purposes only.

Meanwhile, she would make another trip to Yvonne’s apartment, try again to reconstruct the last day of her life. She had interviews to schedule. And, as Yvonne’s parents called her at least once a day, Eve knew she would have to talk with them again, steel herself against their horrible grief and disbelief.

She didn’t mind the fourteen- and sixteen-hour days. In fact, at this stage of her life she welcomed them.

Four days after Yvonne Metcalf’s murder, Eve was running on empty. She had questioned over three dozen people extensively, exhaustively. Not only had she been unable to discover a single viable motive, she’d found no one who hadn’t adored the victim.

There wasn’t a hint of an obsessed fan. Yvonne’s mail had been mountainous, and Feeney and his computer were still scanning the correspondence. But among the first section, there had been no threats, veiled or overt, no weird or unsavory offers or suggestions.

There had been a hefty percentage of marriage proposals and other propositions. Eve culled them out with little hope or enthusiasm. There was still a chance that someone who had written to Yvonne had written or contacted Cicely. As time passed, the chance became a long shot.

Eve did what was expected in unsolved multiple homicides, what departmental procedure called for at this stage of an investigation. She made an appointment with the shrink.

While she waited, Eve struggled with her mixed feelings for Dr. Mira. The woman was brilliant, insightful, quietly efficient, and compassionate.

Those were the precise reasons Eve dragged her feet. She had to remind herself again that she hadn’t come to Mira for personal reasons or because the department was sending her for therapy. She wasn’t going through Testing, they weren’t going to discuss her thoughts, her feelings—or her memory.

They were going to dissect the mind of a killer.

Still, she had to concentrate on keeping her heart rate level, her hands still and dry. When she was gestured into Mira’s office, Eve told herself her legs were shaky because she was tired, nothing more.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Mira’s pale blue eyes skimmed over Eve’s face, noted the fatigue. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

“No problem.” Though she would have preferred standing, Eve took the blue scoop chair beside Mira’s. “I appreciate you getting to the case so quickly.”

“We all do our jobs as best we can,” Mira said in her soothing voice. “And I had a great deal of respect and affection for Cicely Towers.”

“You knew her?”

“We were contemporaries, and she consulted me on many cases. I often testified for the prosecution—as well as the defense,” she added, smiling a little. “But you knew that.”

“Just making conversation.”

“I also admired Yvonne Metcalf’s talent. She brought a lot of happiness to the world. She’ll be missed.”

“Someone isn’t going to miss either of them.”

“True enough.” In her smooth, graceful way, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. “I realize you might be a bit pressed for time, but I work better with a little stimulation. And you look as though you could use some.”

“I’m fine.”

Recognizing the tightly controlled hostility in the tone, Mira only lifted a brow. “Overworked, as usual. It happens to those who are particularly good at their jobs.” She handed Eve a cup of tea in one of the pretty china cups. “Now, I’ve read over your reports, the evidence you’ve gathered, and your theories. My psychiatric profile,” she said, tapping a sealed disc on the table between them.

“You’ve completed it.” Eve didn’t trouble to mask the irritation. “You could have transmitted the data and saved me a trip.”

“I could have, but I preferred to discuss this with you, face to face. Eve, you’re dealing with something, someone, very dangerous.”

“I think I picked up on that, Doctor. Two women have had their throats slashed.”

“Two women, thus far,” Mira said quietly and sat back. “I’m very much afraid there will be more. And soon.”

Because she believed the same, Eve ignored the quick chill that sprinted up her spine. “Why?”

“It was so easy, you see. And so simple. A job well done. There’s a satisfaction in that. There’s also the attention factor. Whoever accomplished the murders can now sit back in his or her home and watch the show. The reports, the editorials, the grieving, the services, the public arena of the investigation.”

She paused to savor her tea. “You have your theory, Eve. You’re here so that I can corroborate it or argue against it.”

“I have several theories.”

“Only one you believe in.” Mira smiled her wise smile, aware that it made Eve bristle. “Fame. What else did these two women have in common but their public prominence? They didn’t share the same social circle or professional one. Knew few of the same people, even on a casual level. They didn’t patronize the same shops, health centers, or cosmetic experts. What they did share was fame, public interest, and a kind of power.”

“Which the killer envied.”

“I would say exactly that. Resented as well and wished, by killing them, to bask in the reflected attention. The murders themselves were both vicious and uncommonly clean. Their faces weren’t marred, nor their bodies. One quick slice across the throat, according to the ME, from the front. Face to face. A blade is a personal weapon, an extension of the hand. It isn’t distant like a laser, or aloof like poison. Your murderer wanted the feel of killing, the sight of blood, the smell of it. The full experience that makes him or her one who appreciates having control, following through on a plan.”

“You don’t believe it was a hired hit.”

“There’s always that possibility, Eve, but I’m more inclined to see the killer as an active participant rather than a hireling. Then there are the souvenirs.”

“Towers’s umbrella.”

“And Metcalf’s right shoe. You’ve managed to keep that out of the press.”

“Barely.” Eve scowled over the memory of Morse and his crew invading the murder scene. “A pro wouldn’t have taken a souvenir, and the killings were too well thought out to have been planned by a street hit.”

“I agree. You have an organized mind, an ambitious one. Your murderer is enjoying his work, which is why there’ll be another.”

“Or hers,” Eve put in. “The envy factor can be leaned toward a female. These two women were what she wanted to be. Beautiful, successful, admired, famous, strong. It’s often the weak who kill.”

“Yes, quite often. No, it isn’t possible to determine gender from the data we have at this point, only to access the probability factor that the killer targets females who have reached a high level of public attention.”

“What am I supposed to do about that, Dr. Mira? Put a security beeper on every prominent, well-known, or successful woman in the city? Including yourself?”

“Odd, I was thinking more about you.”

“Me?” Eve jiggled the tea she hadn’t touched, then set it on the table with a snap. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so. You’ve become a familiar face, Eve. For your work, certainly, and most particularly since the case last winter. You’re very respected in your field. And,” she continued before Eve could interrupt, “you also have one more important connection to both victims. All of you have had a relationship with Roarke.”

Eve knew her blood drained from her face. That wasn’t something she could control. But she could keep her voice level and hard. “Roarke had a business partnership, a relatively minor one, with Towers. With Metcalf, the intimate side of their relationship has been over for quite some time.”

“Yet you feel the need to defend him to me.”

“I’m not defending him,” Eve snapped. “I’m stating facts. Roarke’s more than capable of defending himself.”

“Undoubtedly. He’s a strong, vital, and clever man. Still, you worry for him.”

“In your professional opinion, is Roarke the killer?”

“Absolutely not. I have no doubt that were I to analyze him, I would find his killer instinct well developed.” The fact was, Mira would have loved the opportunity to study Roarke’s mind. “But his motive would have to be very defined. Great love or great hate. I doubt there is much else that would push him over the line. Relax, Eve,” Mira said quietly. “You’re not in love with a murderer.”

“I’m not in love with anyone. And my personal feelings aren’t at issue here.”

“On the contrary, the investigator’s state of mind is always an issue. And, if I’m required to give my opinion on yours, I’ll have to say I found you near exhaustion, emotionally torn, and deeply troubled.”

Eve picked up the profile disc and rose. “Then it’s fortunate you’re not going to be required to give your opinion. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment. But at what cost to yourself?”

“The cost would be higher if I didn’t do it. I’m going to find who killed these women. Then it’ll be up to someone like Cicely Towers to put them away.” Eve tucked the disk in her bag. “There’s a connection you left out, Dr. Mira. Something these two women had in common.” Eve’s eyes were hard and cold. “Family. Both of them had close family that was a large and important part of their lives. I’d say that lets me out as a possible target. Wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps. Have you been thinking of your family, Eve?”

“Don’t play with me.”

“You mentioned it,” Mira pointed out. “You’re always careful in what you say to me, so I must assume family is on your mind.”

“I don’t have family,” Eve shot back. “And I’ve got murder on my mind. If you want to report to the commander that I’m unfit for duty, that’s just fine.”

“When are you going to trust me?” There was impatience, for the first time in Eve’s memory, in the careful voice. “Is it so impossible for you to believe that I care about you? Yes, I care,” Mira said when Eve blinked in surprise. “And I understand you better than you wish to admit.”

“I don’t need for you to understand me.” But there were nerves in Eve’s voice now. She heard them herself. “I’m not in Testing or here for a therapy session.”

“There are no recorders on here.” Mira set her tea down with a snap that had Eve jamming her hands in her pockets. “Do you think you’re the only child who lived with horror and abuse? The only woman who’s struggled to overcome it?”

“I don’t have to overcome anything. I don’t remember—”

“My stepfather raped me repeatedly from the time I was twelve until I was fifteen,” Mira said calmly, and stopped Eve’s protest cold. “For those three years I lived never knowing when it would happen, only that it would. And no one would listen to me.”

Shaken, sick, Eve wrapped her arms around her body. “I don’t want to know this. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I look in your eyes and see myself. But you have someone who’ll listen to you, Eve.”

Eve stood where she was, moistened her dry lips. “Why did it stop?”

“Because I finally found the courage to go to an abuse center, tell the counselor everything, to submit to the examinations, both physical and psychiatric. The terror of that, the humiliation of that, was no longer as huge as the alternative.”

“Why should I have to remember it?” Eve demanded. “It’s over.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“The investigation—”

“Eve.”

The gentle tone had Eve closing her eyes. It was so hard, so trying, to fight that quiet compassion. “Flashbacks,” she murmured, hating herself for the weakness. “Nightmares.”

“Of before you were found in Texas?”

“Just blips, just pieces.”

“I can help you put them together.”

“Why should I want to put them together?”

“Haven’t you already started to?” Now Mira rose. “You can work with this haunting your subconscious. I’ve watched you do so for years. But happiness eludes you, and will continue to do so until you’ve convinced yourself you deserve it.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“No.” Mira touched a gentle hand to Eve’s arm. “No, it wasn’t your fault.”

Tears were threatening, and that was a shock and an embarrassment. “I can’t talk about this.”

“My dear, you’ve already begun to. I’ll be here when you’re ready to do so again.” She waited until Eve had reached the door. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You always ask questions.”

“Why stop now?” Mira said and smiled. “Does Roarke make you happy?”

“Sometimes.” Eve squeezed her eyes shut and swore. “Yes, yes, he makes me happy. Unless he’s making me miserable.”

“That’s lovely. I’m very pleased for both of you. Try to get some sleep, Eve. If you won’t take chemicals, you might use simple visualization.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Eve opened the door, kept her back to the room. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Visualization wouldn’t be much help, Eve decided. Not after a rescan of autopsy reports.

The apartment was too quiet, too empty. She was sorry she’d left the cat with Roarke. At least Galahad would have been company.

Because her eyes burned from studying data, she pushed away from her desk. She didn’t have the energy to seek out Mavis, and she was bored senseless with the video offerings on her screen.

She ordered music, listened for thirty seconds, then switched it off.

Food usually worked, but when she poked into the kitchen, she was reminded she hadn’t restocked her AutoChef in weeks. The pickings were slim, and she didn’t have enough of an appetite to order in.

Determined to relax, she tried out the virtual reality goggles Mavis had given her for Christmas. Because Mavis had used them last, they were set for Nightclub, at full volume. After a hurried adjustment and a great deal of swearing, Eve programmed Tropics, Beach.

She could feel the grit of hot, white sand under her bare feet, the punch of the sun on her skin, the soft, ocean breeze. It was lovely to stand in the gentle surf, watch the swoop of gulls, and sip from an icy drink that carried the zing of rum and fruit.

There were hands on her bare shoulders, rubbing. Sighing, she leaned back into them, felt the firm length of male against her back. Far out on the blue sea a white ship sailed toward the horizon.

It was easy to turn into the arms that waited for her, to lift her mouth to the mouth she wanted. And to lie on the hot sand with the body that fit so perfectly with hers.

The excitement was as sweet as the peace. The rhythm as old as the waves that lapped over her skin. She let herself be taken, shivered as the needs built toward fulfillment. His breath was on her face, his body linked with her when she groaned out his name.

Roarke.

Furious with herself, Eve tore off the goggles and heaved them aside. He had no right to intrude, even here, inside her head. No right to bring her pain and pleasure when all she wanted was privacy.

Oh, he knew what he was doing, she thought as she sprang up to pace. He knew exactly what he was doing. And they were going to settle it, once and for all.

She slammed the apartment door behind her. It didn’t occur to her until she was speeding through his gates that he might not be alone.

The idea of that was so infuriating, so devastating, that she took the stone steps two at a time, hit the door with a fresh burst of violent energy.

Summerset was waiting for her. “Lieutenant, it’s one twenty in the morning.”

“I know what time it is.” She bared her teeth when he stepped in front of her to block the staircase. “Let’s understand each other, pal. I hate you, you hate me. The difference is I’ve got a badge. Now get the hell out of my way or I’ll haul your bony ass in for obstructing an officer.”

Dignity coated him like silk. “Do I take that to mean you’re here, at this hour, in an official capacity, Lieutenant?”

“Take it any way you want. Where is he?”

“If you’ll state your business, I’ll be happy to determine Roarke’s current whereabouts and see if he’s available to you.”

Out of patience, Eve jammed an elbow in his gut and skirted his wheezing form. “I’ll find him myself,” she stated as she bounded up the stairs.

He wasn’t in bed, alone or otherwise. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, or what she would have done if she’d found him twined around some blonde. Refusing to think about it, she turned on her heel and marched away toward his office, with Summerset hot on her trail.

“I intend to file a complaint.”

“File away,” she shot back over her shoulder.

“You have no right to intrude on private property, in the middle of the night. You will not disturb Roarke.” He slapped a hand on the door as she reached it. “I will not allow it.”

To Eve’s surprise, he was out of breath and red-faced. His eyes were all but jittering in their sockets. It was, she decided, more emotion than she’d believed him capable of.

“This really puts your jocks in a twist, doesn’t it?” Before he could prevent it, she hit the mechanism and the door slid open.

He made a grab for her, and Roarke, who turned from his study of the city, had the curious surprise of watching them grapple.

“Put a hand on me again, you tight-assed son of a bitch, and I’ll deck you.” She lifted a fist to demonstrate. “The satisfaction would be worth my badge.”

“Summerset,” Roarke said mildly. “I believe she means it. Leave us alone.”

“She’s exceeded her authority—”

“Leave us alone,” Roarke repeated. “I’ll deal with this.”

“As you wish.” Summerset jerked his starched jacket back into place and strode out—with only the slightest of limps.

“If you want to keep me out,” Eve snapped on her march toward the desk, “you’re going to have to do better than that flat-assed guard dog.”

Roarke merely folded his hands on the desktop. “If I’d wanted to keep you out, you would no longer be cleared through gate security.” Deliberately, he flicked a glance at his watch. “It’s a bit late for official interviews.”

“I’m tired of people telling me what time it is.”

“Well then.” He leaned back in the chair. “What can I do for you?”

chapter nine

Attack was the emotional choice. Eve could justify it as the logical one as well.

“You were involved with Yvonne Metcalf.”

“As I told you, we were friends.” He opened an antique silver box on the desk and took out a cigarette. “At one time, intimate friends.”

“Who changed the aspect of your relationship, and when?”

“Who? Hmmm.” Roarke thought it over as he lighted the cigarette, blew out a thin haze of smoke. “I believe it was a mutual decision. Her career was rising quickly, causing numerous demands on her time and energy. You could say we drifted apart.”

“You quarreled?”

“I don’t believe we did. Yvonne was rarely quarrelsome. She found life too . . . amusing. Would you like a brandy?”

“I’m on duty.”

“Yes, of course you are. I’m not.”

When he rose, Eve saw the cat spring from his lap. Galahad examined her with his bicolored eyes before plunking down to wash. She was too busy scowling at the cat to note that Roarke’s hands weren’t quite steady as he stood at the carved liquor cabinet pouring brandy from decanter to snifter.

“Well,” he said, swirling the glass with half the width of the room between them. “Is that all?”

No, she thought, that was far from all. If he wouldn’t help her voluntarily, she would poke and prod and use his canny brain without mercy and without a qualm. “The last time you’re noted in her diary was a year and a half ago.”

“So long,” Roarke murmured. He had regret, a great deal of it, for Yvonne. But he had his own problems at the moment, the biggest of which was standing across the room, watching him with turbulent eyes. “I didn’t realize.”

“Was that the last time you saw her?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He stared into his brandy, remembering her. “I recall dancing with her at a party, last New Year’s Eve. She came back here with me.”

“You slept with her,” Eve said evenly.

“Technically, no.” His voice took on a clip of annoyance. “I had sex with her, conversation, brunch.”

“You resumed your former relationship?”

“No.” He chose a chair and ordered himself to enjoy his brandy and cigarette. Casually, he crossed his feet at the ankles. “We might have, but we were both quite busy with our own projects. I didn’t hear from her again for six weeks, maybe seven.”

“And?”

He’d brushed her off, he recalled. Casually, easily. Perhaps thoughtlessly. “I told her I was . . . involved.” He examined the bright tip of his cigarette. “At that time I was falling in love with someone else.”

Her heartbeat hitched. She stared at him, jammed her hands in her pockets. “I can’t eliminate you from the list unless you help me.”

“Can’t you? Well, then.”

“Damn it, Roarke, you’re the only one who was involved with both victims.”

“And what’s my motive, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t use that tone with me. I hate it when you do that. Cold, controlled, superior.” Giving up, she began to pace. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with the murders, and there’s no evidence to support your involvement. But that doesn’t break the link.”

“And that makes it difficult for you, because your name is, in turn, linked with mine. Or was.”

“I can handle that.”

“Then why have you lost weight?” he demanded. “Why are there shadows under your eyes? Why do you look so unhappy?”

She yanked out her recorder, slapped it on his desk. A barrier between them. “I need you to tell me everything you know about these women. Every small, insignificant detail. Damn it, damn it, damn it, I need help. I have to know why Towers would go to the West End in the middle of the night. Why Metcalf would dress herself up and go out to the patio at midnight.”

He tapped out his cigarette, then rose slowly. “You’re giving me more credit than I deserve, Eve. I didn’t know Cicely that well. We did business, socialized in the most distant of fashions. Remember my background and her position. As to Yvonne, we were lovers. I enjoyed her, her energy, her zest. I know she had ambition. She wanted stardom and she earned it, deserved it. But I can’t tell you the minds of either of these women.”

“You know people,” she argued. “You have a way of getting inside their heads. Nothing ever surprises you.”

“You do,” he murmured. “Continually.”

She only shook her head. “Tell me why you think Yvonne Metcalf went out to meet someone on the patio.”

He sipped brandy, shrugged. “For advancement, glory, excitement, love. Probably in that order. She would have dressed carefully because she was vain, admirably so. The time of the meeting wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She was impulsive, entertainingly so.”

She let out a little breath. This was what she needed. He could help her see the victims. “Were there other men?”

He was brooding, he realized, and forced himself to stop. “She was lovely, entertaining, bright, excellent in bed. I imagine there were a great many men in her life.”

“Jealous men, angry men?”

He lifted a brow. “Do you mean someone might have killed her because she wouldn’t give him what he wanted? Needed?” His eyes stayed steady on hers. “It’s a thought. A man could do a great deal of damage to a woman for that, if he wanted or needed badly enough. Then again, I haven’t killed you. Yet.”

“This is a murder investigation, Roarke. Don’t get cute with me.”

“Cute?” He stunned them both by flinging the half-empty snifter across the room. Glass shattered on the wall, liquor sprayed. “You come bursting in here, without warning, without invitation, and expect me to sit cooperatively, like a trained dog, while you interrogate me? You ask me questions about Yvonne, a woman I cared for, and expect me to cheerfully answer them while you imagine me in bed with her.”

She’d seen his temper spurt and flash before. She usually preferred it to his icy control. But at the moment her nerves had shattered along with the glass. “It’s not personal, and it’s not an interrogation. It’s a consultation with a useful source. I’m doing my job.”

“This has nothing to do with your job, and we both know it. If there’s even a germ of belief in you that I had anything to do with slitting the throats of those two women, then I’ve made even a bigger mistake than I’d imagined. If you want to poke holes in me, Lieutenant, do it on your own time, not mine.” He scooped her recorder off the desk and tossed it to her. “Next time, bring a warrant.”

“I’m trying to eliminate you completely.”

“Haven’t you done that already?” He moved back behind his desk and sat wearily. “Get out. I’m done with this.”

She was surprised she didn’t stumble on her way to the door, the way her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. She fought for breath as she reached for it. At the desk, Roarke cursed himself for a fool and hit the button to engage the locks. Damn her, and damn himself, but she wasn’t walking out on him.

He was opening his mouth to speak when she turned, inches from the door. There was fury on her face now. “All right. Goddamn it, all right, you win. I’m miserable. Isn’t that what you want? I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. It’s like something’s broken inside me, and I can barely do my job. Happy now?”

He felt the first tingle of relief loosen the fist around his heart. “Should I be?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here because I couldn’t stay away anymore.” Dragging at the chain under her shirt, she strode to him. “I’m wearing the damn thing.”

He glanced at the diamond she thrust in his face. It flashed at him, full of fire and secrets. “As I said, it suits you.”

“A lot you know,” she muttered and swung around. “It makes me feel like an idiot. This whole thing makes me feel like an idiot. So fine; I’ll be an idiot. I’ll move in here. I’ll tolerate that insulting robot you call a butler. I’ll wear diamonds. Just don’t—” She broke, covering her face as the sobs took over. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“Don’t. For Christ’s sake, don’t cry.”

“I’m just tired.” She rocked herself for comfort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Call me names.” He rose, shaken and more than a little terrified by the storm of weeping. “Throw something. Take a swing at me.”

She jerked back when he reached for her. “Don’t. I need a minute when I’m making a fool of myself.”

Ignoring her, he gathered her close. She pulled back twice, was brought back firmly against him. Then, in a desperate move, her arms came around him, clutched. “Don’t go away.” She pressed her face to his shoulder. “Don’t go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Gently, he stroked her back, cradled her head. Was there anything more astounding or more frightening to a man, he wondered, than a strong woman in tears? “I’ve been right here all along. I love you, Eve, almost more than I can stand.”

“I need you. I can’t help it. I don’t want to.”

“I know.” He eased back, tucking a hand under her chin to lift her face to his. “We’re going to have to deal with it.” He kissed one wet cheek, then the other. “I really can’t do without you.”

“You told me to go.”

“I locked the door.” His lips curved a little before they brushed over hers. “If you’d waited a few more hours, I would have come to you. I was sitting here tonight, trying to talk myself out of it and not having any luck. Then you stalked in. I was perilously close to getting on my knees.”

“Why?” She touched his face. “You could have anyone. You probably have.”

“Why?” He tilted his head. “That’s a tricky one. Could it be your serenity, your quiet manner, your flawless fashion sense?” It did his heart good to see her quick, amused grin. “No, I must be thinking of someone else. It must be your courage, your absolute dedication to balancing scales, that restless mind, and that sweet corner of your heart that pushes you to care so much about so many.”

“That’s not me.”

“Oh, but it is you, darling Eve.” He touched his lips to hers. “Just as that taste is you, the smell, the look, the sound. You’ve undone me. We’ll talk,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs over drying tears. “We’ll figure out a way to make this work for both of us.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I love you.” And let it out. “God.”

The emotion that swept through him was like a summer storm, quick, violent, then clean. Swamped with it, he rested his brow on hers. “You didn’t choke on it.”

“I guess not. Maybe I’ll get used to it.” And maybe her stomach wouldn’t jump like a pond of frogs next time. Angling her face up, she found his mouth.

In an instant the kiss was hot, greedy, and full of edgy need. The blood was roaring in her head, so loud and fierce she didn’t hear herself say the words again, but she felt them, in the way her heart stuttered and swelled.

Breathless and already wet, she tugged at his slacks. “Now. Right now.”

“Absolutely now.” He’d dragged her shirt over her head before they hit the floor.

They rolled, groping for each other. Limbs tangled. Giddy with hunger, she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he yanked down her jeans. He had a moment to register the feel of her skin under his hands, the shape of her, the heat of her, then it was a morass of the senses, a clash of scents and textures abrading against the urgent need to mate.

Finesse would have to wait, as would tenderness. The beast clawed at them both, devouring even when he was deep inside her, pumping wildly. He could feel her body clutch and tense, heard her long, low moan of staggering release. And let himself empty, heart, soul, and seed.

She awoke in his bed with soft sunlight creeping through the window filters. With her eyes closed, she reached out and found the space beside her warm but empty.

“How the hell did I get here?” she wondered.

“I carried you.”

Her eyes sprang open and focused on Roarke. He sat naked, cross-legged at her knees, watching her. “Carried me?”

“You fell asleep on the floor.” He leaned over to rub a thumb over her cheek. “You shouldn’t work yourself into exhaustion, Eve.”

“You carried me,” she said again, too groggy to decide if she was embarrassed or not. “I guess I’m sorry I missed it.”

“We have plenty of time for repeat performances. You worry me.”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” She caught the time on the bedside clock. “Holy Christ, ten. Ten A.M.?”

He used one hand to shove her back when she started to scramble out of bed. “It’s Sunday.”

“Sunday?” Completely disoriented now, she rubbed her eyes clear. “I lost track.” She wasn’t on duty, she remembered, but regardless—

“You needed sleep,” he said, reading her mind. “And you need fuel, something other than caffeine.” He reached for the glass on the nightstand and held it out.

Eve studied the pale pink liquid dubiously. “What is it?”

“Good for you. Drink it.” To make sure she did, he held the glass to her lips. He could have given her the energy booster in pill form, but he knew well her dislike for anything resembling drugs. “It’s a little something one of my labs has been working on. We should have it on the market in about six months.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Experimental?”

“It’s quite safe.” He smiled and set the empty glass aside. “Hardly anyone’s died.”

“Ha-ha.” She sat back again, feeling amazingly relaxed, amazingly alert. “I have to go in to Cop Central, do some work on the other cases on my desk.”

“You need some time off.” He held up a hand before she could argue. “A day. Even an afternoon. I’d like you to spend it with me, but even if you spend it alone, you need it.”

“I guess I could take a couple of hours.” She sat up, linked her arms around his neck. “What did you have in mind?”

Grinning, he rolled her back onto the bed. This time there was finesse, and there was tenderness.

Eve wasn’t surprised to find a pile of messages waiting. Sunday had stopped being a day of rest decades before. Her message disc beeped along, recounting transmissions from Nadine Furst, the arrogant weasel Morse, another from Yvonne Metcalf’s parents that had her rubbing her temples, and a short message from Mirina Angelini.

“You can’t take on their grief, Eve,” Roarke said from behind her.

“What?”

“The Metcalfs. I can see it in your face.”

“I’m all they’ve got to hold onto.” She initialed the messages to document her receipt. “They have to know someone’s looking after her.”

“I’d like to say something.”

Eve rolled her eyes, prepared for him to lecture her about rest, objectivity, or professional distance. “Spit it out then so I can get to work.”

“I’ve dealt with a lot of cops in my time. Evaded them, bribed them, outmaneuvered them, or simply outran them.”

Amused, she nudged a hip onto the corner of her desk. “I’m not sure you should be telling me that. Your record’s suspiciously clean.”

“Of course it is.” On impulse he kissed the tip of her nose. “I paid for it.”

She winced. “Really, Roarke, what I don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“The point is,” he continued blandly, “I’ve dealt with a lot of cops over the years. You’re the best.”

Caught completely off guard, she blinked. “Well.”

“You’ll stand, Eve, for the dead and the grieving. I’m staggered by you.”

“Cut it out.” Miserably embarrassed, she shifted. “I mean it.”

“You can use that when you call Morse back and run up against his irritating whine.”

“I’m not calling him back.”

“You initialed the transmissions.”

“I zapped his first.” She smiled. “Oops.”

With a laugh he picked her up off the desk. “I like your style.”

She indulged herself by combing her fingers through his hair before she tried to wriggle free. “Right now you’re cramping it. So back off while I see what Mirina Angelini wants.” Brushing him off, she engaged the number, waited.

It was Mirina herself who answered, her pale, tense face on-screen. “Yes, oh, Lieutenant Dallas. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. I was afraid I wouldn’t hear from you until tomorrow.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Angelini?”

“I need to speak with you as soon as possible. I don’t want to go through the commander, Lieutenant. He’s done enough for me and my family.”

“Is this regarding the investigation?”

“Yes, at least, I suppose it is.”

Eve signaled to Roarke to leave the office. He merely leaned against the wall. She snarled at him, then looked back at the screen. “I’ll be happy to meet with you at your convenience.”

“That’s just it, Lieutenant, it’s going to have to be at my convenience. My doctors don’t want me to travel again just now. I need you to come to me.”

“You want me to come to Rome? Ms. Angelini, even if the department would clear the trip, I need something concrete to justify the time and expense.”

“I’ll take you,” Roarke said easily.

“Keep quiet.”

“Who else is there? Is someone else there?” Mirina’s voice trembled.

“Roarke is with me,” Eve said between her teeth. “Ms. Angelini—”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ve been trying to reach him. Could you come together? I realize this is an imposition, Lieutenant. I hesitate to pull strings, but I will, if necessary. The commander will clear it.”

“I’m sure he will,” Eve muttered. “I’ll leave as soon as he does. I’ll be in touch.” She broke transmission. “The spoiled rich irritate the hell out of me.”

“Grief and worry don’t have economic boundaries,” Roarke said.

“Oh shut up.” She huffed, kicked bad-temperedly at the desk.

“You’ll like Rome, darling,” Roarke said and smiled.

Eve did like Rome. At least she thought she did from the brief blur she caught of it on the zooming trip from the airport to Angelini’s flat overlooking the Spanish Steps: fountains and traffic and ruins too ancient to be believed.

From the rear of the private limo, Eve watched the fashionable pedestrians with a kind of baffled awe. Sweeping robes were in this season, apparently. Clingy, sheer, voluminous, in colors from the palest white to the deepest bronze. Jeweled belts hung from waists, coordinating with crusted gems on flat-soled shoes and little jeweled bags carried by men and women alike. Everyone looked like royalty.

Roarke hadn’t known she could gawk. It pleased him enormously to see that she could forget her mission long enough to stare and wonder. It was a shame, he thought, that they couldn’t take a day or two so that he could show her the city, the grandeur of it, and its impossible continuity.

He was sorry when the car pulled jerkily to the curb and yanked her back to reality.

“This better be good.” Without waiting for the driver, she slammed out of the car. When Roarke took her elbow to lead her inside the apartment building, she turned her head and frowned at him. “Aren’t you even the least bit annoyed at being summoned across a damn ocean for a conversation?”

“Darling, I often go a great deal farther for less. And without such charming company.”

She snorted and had nearly taken out her badge to flash at the security droid before she remembered herself. “Eve Dallas and Roarke for Mirina Angelini.”

“You’re expected, Eve Dallas and Roarke.” The droid glided to a gilt-barred elevator and keyed in a code.

“You could get one of those,” Eve nodded toward the droid before the elevator’s doors closed, “and ditch Summerset.”

“Summerset has his own charm.”

She snorted again, louder. “Yeah. You bet.”

The doors slid open into a gold and ivory foyer with a small, tinkling fountain in the shape of a mermaid.

“Jesus,” Eve whispered, scanning the palm trees and paintings. “I didn’t think anybody but you really lived like this.”

“Welcome to Rome.” Randall Slade stepped forward. “Thank you for coming. Please come in. Mirina’s in the sitting room.”

“She didn’t mention you’d be here, Mr. Slade.”

“We made the decision to call you together.”

Biding her time for questions, Eve walked passed him. The sitting room was sided on the front wall in sheer glass. One-way glass, Eve assumed, as the building was only six stories high. Despite the relatively short height, it afforded an eye-popping view of the city.

Mirina sat daintily on a curved chair, sipping tea from a hand that shook slightly.

She seemed paler, if possible, and even more fragile in her trendy robe of ice blue. Her feet were bare, the nails painted to match her robe. She’d dressed her hair up in a severe knot, secured with a jeweled comb. Eve thought she looked like one of the ancient Roman goddesses, but her mythology was too sketchy to choose which one.

Mirina didn’t rise, nor did she smile, but set her cup aside to pick up a slim white pot and pour two more.

“I hope you’ll join me for tea.”

“I didn’t come for a party, Ms. Angelini.”

“No, but you’ve come, and I’m grateful.”

“Here, let me do that.” With a smooth grace that almost masked the way the cups rattled in Mirina’s hands, Slade took them from her. “Please sit down,” he invited. “We won’t keep you any longer than necessary, but you might as well be comfortable.”

“I don’t have any jurisdiction here,” Eve began as she took a cushioned chair with a low back, “but I’d like to record this meeting, with your permission.”

Mirina looked at Slade, bit her lip. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat when Eve took out her recorder and set it on the table between them. “You know about the . . . difficulties Randy had several years ago in Sector 38.”

“I know,” Eve confirmed. “I was told you didn’t.”

“Randy told me yesterday.” Mirina reached up blindly, and his hand was there. “You’re a strong, confident woman, Lieutenant. It may be difficult for you to understand those of us who aren’t so strong. Randy didn’t tell me before because he was afraid I wouldn’t handle it well. My nerves.” She moved her thin shoulders. “Business crises energize me. Personal crises devastate me. The doctors call it an avoidance tendency. I’d rather not face trouble.”

“You’re delicate,” Slade stated, squeezing her hand. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“In any case, this is something I have to face. You were there,” she said to Roarke, “during the incident.”

“I was on the station, probably in the casino.”

“And the security at the hotel, the security Randy called, they were yours.”

“That’s right. Everyone has private security. Criminal cases are transferred to the magistrate—unless they can be dealt with privately.”

“You mean through bribes.”

“Naturally.”

“Randy could have bribed security. He didn’t.”

“Mirina.” He hushed her with another squeeze of his hand. “I didn’t bribe them because I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to bribe them. If I had, there wouldn’t have been a record, and we wouldn’t be discussing it now.”

“The heavy charges were dropped,” Eve pointed out. “You were given the minimum penalty for the ones that stood.”

“And I was assured that the entire matter would remain buried. It didn’t. I prefer something stronger than tea. Roarke?”

“Whiskey if you have it, two fingers.”

“Tell them, Randy,” Mirina whispered while he programmed two whiskeys from the recessed bar.

He nodded, brought Roarke his glass, then knocked back the contents of his own. “Cicely called me on the night she was murdered.”

Eve’s head jerked up like a hound scenting blood. “There was no record of that on her ’link. No record of an outgoing call.”

“She called from a public phone. I don’t know where. It was just after midnight, your time. She was agitated, angry.”

“Mr. Slade, you told me in our official interview that you had not had contact with Prosecutor Towers on that night.”

“I lied. I was afraid.”

“You now choose to recant your earlier statement.”

“I wish to revise it. Without benefit of counsel, Lieutenant, and fully aware of the penalty for giving a false statement during a police investigation. I’m telling you now that she contacted me shortly before she was killed. That, of course, gives me an alibi, if you like. It would have been very close to impossible for me to have traveled cross-country and killed her in the amount of time I had. You can, of course, check my transmission records.”

“Be sure that I will. What did she want?”

“She asked me if it was true. Just that, at first. I was distracted, working. It took me a moment to realize how upset she was, and then when she was more definite, to understand she was referring to Sector 38. I panicked, made some excuses. But you couldn’t lie to Cicely. She pinned me to the wall. I was angry, too, and we argued.”

He paused, his eyes going to Mirina. He watched her, Eve thought, as if he waited for her to shatter like glass.

“You argued, Mr. Slade?” Eve prompted.

“Yes. About what had happened, why. I wanted to know how she had found out about it, but she cut me off. Lieutenant, she was furious. She told me she was going to deal with it for her daughter’s sake. Then she would deal with me. She ended transmission abruptly, and I settled down to brood and to drink.”

He walked back to Mirina, laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked. “It was early in the morning, just before dawn, when I heard the news report and knew she was dead.”

“She had never spoken to you about the incident before.”

“No. We had an excellent relationship. She knew about the gambling, disapproved, but in a mild way. She was used to David. I don’t think she understood how deeply we were both involved.”

“She did,” Roarke corrected. “She asked me to cut you both off.”

“Ah.” Slade smiled into his empty glass. “That’s why I couldn’t get through the door of your place in Vegas II.”

“That’s why.”

“Why now?” Eve asked. “Why have you decided to revise your previous statement?”

“I felt it was closing in on me. I knew how hurt Mirina would be if she heard it from someone else. I needed to tell her. It was her decision to contact you.”

“Our decision.” Mirina reached for his hand again. “I can’t bring my mother back, and I know how it will affect my father when we tell him Randy was used to hurt her. Those are things I have to learn to live with. I can do that, if I know that whoever used Randy, and me, will pay for it. She would never have gone out there, she would never have gone, but to protect me.”

When they were flying west, Eve paced the comfortable cabin. “Families.” She tucked her thumbs into her back pockets. “Do you ever think about them, Roarke?”

“Occasionally.” Since she was going to talk, he switched the business news off his personal monitor.

“If we follow one theory, Cicely Towers went out on that rainy night as a mother. Someone was threatening her child’s happiness. She was going to fix it. Even if she gave Slade the heave-ho, she was going to fix it first.”

“That’s what we assume is the natural instinct of a parent.”

She slanted him a glance. “We both know better.”

“I wouldn’t claim that either of our experiences are the norm, Eve.”

“Okay.” Thoughtful, she sat on the arm of his chair. “So, if it’s normal for a mother to jump to shield her child against any trouble, Towers did exactly as her killer expected. He understood her, judged her character well.”

“Perfectly, I’d say.”

“She was also a servant of the court. It was her duty, and certainly should have been her instinct, to call the authorities, report any threats or blackmail attempts.”

“A mother’s love is stronger than the law.”

“Hers was, and whoever killed her knew it. Who knew her? Her lover, her ex-husband, her son, her daughter, Slade.”

“And others, Eve. She was a strong, vocal supporter of professional motherhood, of family rights. There have been dozens of stories about her over the years highlighting her personal commitment to her family.”

“That’s risking a lot, going by press. Media can be—and is—biased, or it slants a story to suit its own ends. I say her killer knew, not assumed, but knew. There’d been personal contact or extensive research.”

“That hardly narrows the field.”

Eve brushed that aside with a flick of the hand. “And the same goes for Metcalf. A meeting’s set, but it isn’t going to be specifically documented in her diary. How does the killer know that? Because he knows her habits. My job is to figure out his or hers. Because there’ll be another one.”

“You’re so sure?”

“I’m sure, and Mira confirmed it.”

“You’ve spoken to her then.”

Restless, she rose again. “He—it’s just easier to say he—envies, resents, is fascinated by powerful women. Women in the public eye, women who make a mark. Mira thinks the killings may be motivated by control, but I wonder. Maybe that’s giving him too much credit. Maybe it’s just the thrill. The stalking, the luring, the planning. Who is he stalking now?”

“Have you looked in the mirror?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you realize how often your face is on the screen, in the papers?” Fighting back fear, he rose and put his hands on her shoulders, and read her face. “You’ve thought of it already?”

“I’ve wished for it,” she corrected, “because I’d be ready.”

“You terrify me,” he managed.

“You said I was the best.” She grinned, patted his cheek. “Relax, Roarke, I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Oh, I’ll sleep easy now.”

“How much longer before we land?” Impatient, she turned to walk to the viewscreen.

“Thirty minutes or so, I imagine.”

“I need Nadine.”

“What are you planning, Eve?”

“Me? Oh, I’m planning on getting lots of press.” She shoveled her fingers through her untidy hair. “Haven’t you got some ritzy affairs, the kind the media just love to cover, that we can go to?”

He let out a sigh. “I suppose I could come up with a few.”

“Great. Let’s set some up.” She plopped down in a seat and tapped her fingers on her knee. “I guess I can even push it to getting a couple of new outfits.”

“Above and beyond.” He scooped her up and sat her on his lap. “But I’m sticking close, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t work with civilians.”

“I was talking about the shopping.”

Her eyes narrowed as his hand snaked under her shirt. “Is that a dig?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She swiveled around to straddle him. “Just checking.”

chapter ten

“I’m going to do my lead-in first.” Nadine looked around Eve’s office and cocked a brow. “Not much of a sanctum.”

“Excuse me?”

Casually, Nadine adjusted the angle of Eve’s monitor. It squeaked. “Up till now, you’ve guarded this room like holy ground. I expected something more than a closet with a desk and a couple of ratty chairs.”

“Home’s where the heart is,” Eve said mildly, and leaned back in one of those ratty chairs.

Nadine had never considered herself claustrophobic, but the industrial beige walls were awfully close together, making her rethink the notion. And the single, stingy window, though undoubtedly blast treated, was unshaded and offered a narrow view of an air traffic snarl over a local transport station.

The little room, Nadine mused, was full of crowds.

“I’d have thought after you broke the DeBlass case last winter, you’d have rated a snazzier office. With a real window and maybe a little carpet.”

“Are you here to decorate or to do a story?”

“And your equipment’s pathetic.” Enjoying herself, Nadine clucked her tongue over Eve’s work units. “At the station, relics like this would be delegated to some low-level drone, or more likely, kicked to a charity rehab center.”

She would not scowl, Eve told herself. She would not scowl. “Remember that, the next time you’re tagged for a donation to the Police and Security Fund.”

Nadine smiled, leaned back on the desk. “At Channel 75, even drones have their own AutoChef.”

“I’m learning to hate you, Nadine.”

“Just trying to get you pumped for the interview. You know what I’d like, Dallas, since you’re in the mood for exposure? A one-on-one, an in-depth interview with the woman behind the badge. The life and loves of Eve Dallas, NYPSD. The personal side of the public servant.”

Eve couldn’t stop it. She scowled. “Don’t push your luck, Nadine.”

“Pushing my luck’s what I do best.” Nadine dropped down into a chair, shifted it. “How’s the angle, Pete?”

The operator held his palm-sized remote up to his face. “Yo.”

“Pete’s a man of few words,” Nadine commented. “Just how I like them. Want to fix your hair?”

Eve caught herself before she tunneled her fingers through it. She hated being on camera, hated it a lot. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” Nadine took a small, mirrored compact out of her oversized bag, patted something under her eyes, checked her teeth for lipstick smears. “Okay.” She dropped the compact back in her bag, crossed her legs smoothly with the faintest whisper of silk against silk, and turned toward camera. “Roll.”

“Rolling.”

Her face changed. Eve found it interesting to watch. The minute the red light glowed, her features became glossier, more intense. Her voice, which had been brisk and light, slowed and deepened, demanding attention.

“This is Nadine Furst, reporting direct from Lieutenant Eve Dallas’s office in the Homicide Division of Cop Central. This exclusive interview centers on the violent and as yet unsolved murders of Prosecutor Cicely Towers and award-winning actor Yvonne Metcalf. Lieutenant, are these murders linked?”

“The evidence indicates that probability. We can confirm from the medical examiner’s report that both victims were killed by the same weapon, and by the same hand.”

“There’s no doubt of that?”

“None. Both women were killed by a thin, smooth-edged blade, nine inches in length, tapered from point to hilt. The point was honed to a V. In both cases, the victims were frontally attacked with one swipe of the weapon across the throat from right to left, and at a slight angle.”

Eve picked up a signature pen from her desk, causing Nadine to jerk and blink when she slashed it a fraction of an inch from Nadine’s throat. “Like that.”

“I see.”

“This would have severed the jugular, causing instant and dramatic blood loss, disabling the victim immediately, preventing her from calling for help or defending herself in any way. Death would have occurred within seconds.”

“In other words, the killer needed very little time. A frontal attack, Lieutenant. Doesn’t that indicate that the victims knew their attacker?”

“Not necessarily, but there is other evidence that leads to the conclusion that the victims knew their attacker, or were expecting to meet someone. The absence of any defense wounds for example. If I came at you . . .” Eve thrust out with the pen again, and Nadine threw a hand in front of her throat. “You see, it’s automatic defense.”

“That’s interesting,” Nadine said and had to school her face before it scowled. “We have the details on the murders themselves, but not on the motive behind them, or the killer. What is it that connects Prosecutor Towers to Yvonne Metcalf?”

“We’re investigating several lines of inquiry.”

“Prosecutor Towers was killed three weeks ago, Lieutenant, yet you have no suspects?”

“We have no evidence to support an arrest at this time.”

“Then you do have suspects?”

“The investigation is proceeding with all possible speed.”

“And motive?”

“People kill people, Ms. Furst, for all manner of reasons. They’ve done so since we crawled out of the muck.”

“Biblically speaking,” Nadine put in, “murder is the oldest crime.”

“You could say it has a long tradition. We may be able to filter out certain undesirable tendencies through genetics, chemical treatments, beta scans, we deter with penal colonies and the absence of freedom. But human nature remains human nature.”

“Those basic motives for violence that science is unable to filter: love, hate, greed, envy, anger.”

“They separate us from the droids, don’t they?”

“And make us susceptible to joy, sorrow, and passion. That’s a debate for the scientists and the intellectuals. But which of those motives killed Cicely Towers and Yvonne Metcalf?”

“A person killed them, Ms. Furst. His or her purpose remains unknown.”

“You have a psychiatric profile, of course.”

“We do,” Eve confirmed. “And we will use it and all of the tools at our disposal to find the murderer. I’ll find him,” Eve said deliberately flicking her eyes toward the camera. “And once the cage door is closed, motive won’t matter. Only justice.”

“That sounds like a promise, Lieutenant. A personal promise.”

“It is.”

“The people of New York will depend on you keeping that promise. This is Nadine Furst, reporting for Channel 75.” She waited a beat, then nodded. “Not bad, Dallas. Not bad at all. We’ll run it again at six and eleven, with the recap at midnight.”

“Good. Take a walk, Pete.”

The operator shrugged and wandered out of the room.

“Off the record,” Eve began. “How much airtime can you give me?”

“For?”

“Exposure. I want plenty of it.”

“I figured there was something behind this little gift.” Nadine let out a little breath that was nearly a sigh. “I have to say I’m disappointed, Dallas. I never figured you for a camera hound.”

“I’ve got to testify on the Mondell case in a couple of hours. Can you get a camera there?”

“Sure. The Mondell case is small ratings, but it’s worth a couple zips.” She pulled her diary out and noted it.

“I’ve got this thing tonight, too, at the New Astoria. One of those gold plate dinners.”

“The Astoria dinner ball, sure.” Her smile turned derisive. “I don’t work the social beat, Dallas, but I can tell the assignment desk to cue on you. You and Roarke are always good for the gossip eaters. It is you and Roarke, isn’t it?”

“I’ll let you know where you can catch me over the next couple of days,” Eve continued, ignoring the insult. “I’ll feed you regular updates to air.”

“Fine.” Nadine rose. “Maybe you’ll trip over the killer on your way to fame and fortune. Got an agent yet?”

For a moment, Eve said nothing, just tapped her fingertips together. “I thought it was your job to fill airtime and guard the public’s right to know, not to moralize.”

“And I thought it was yours to serve and protect, not to cash in.” Nadine snagged up her bag by the strap. “Catch you on the screen, Lieutenant.”

“Nadine.” Pleased, Eve tipped back in her chair. “You left out one of those basic human motives for violence before. Thrill.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” Nadine wrenched at the door, then let it slip out of her hands. When she turned back, her face was white and shocked under its sheen of camera makeup. “Are you out of your mind? You’re bait? You’re fucking bait?”

“Pissed you off, didn’t it?” Smiling, Eve allowed herself the luxury of propping her feet on the desk. Nadine’s reaction had brought the reporter up several notches on Eve’s opinion scale. “Thinking about me wanting all that airtime, and getting it, really steamed you. It’s going to steam him, too. Can’t you hear him, Nadine? ‘Look at that lousy cop getting all my press.’ ”

Nadine came back in and sat down carefully. “You had me. Dallas, I’m not about to tell you how to do your job—”

“Then don’t.”

“Let me see if I’m figuring this right. You deduce the motive was, at least partially, for the thrill, for the attention in the media. Kill a couple of ordinary citizens, you get press, sure, but not so intense, not so complete.”

“Kill two prominent citizens, familiar faces, and the sky’s the limit.”

“So you make yourself a target.”

“It’s just a hunch.” Thoughtfully, Eve scratched a vague itch on her knee. “It could be that all I’ll end up with is a lot of idiotic blips of me on screen.”

“Or a knife at your throat.”

“Gee, Nadine, I’m going to start to think you care.”

“I think I do.” She spent a moment studying Eve’s face. “I’ve worked with, around, and through cops for a long time now. You get instincts on who’s putting in time and who gives a damn. You know what worries me, Dallas? You give too much of a damn.”

“I carry a badge,” Eve said soberly and made Nadine laugh.

“Obviously you’ve been watching too many old videos, too. Well, it’s your neck—literally. I’ll see to it that you get it exposed.”

“Thanks. One more thing,” she added when Nadine stood again. “If this theory has weight, then future targets would fall into the well-known, media-hyped female variety. Keep an eye on your own neck, Nadine.”

“Jesus.” Shuddering, Nadine rubbed fingers over her throat. “Thanks for sharing that, Dallas.”

“My pleasure—literally.” Eve had time to chuckle between the time the door closed and the call came through from the commander’s office.

Obviously, he’d heard about the broadcast.

She was still stinging a bit when she bolted up the steps of the courthouse. The cameras were there, as Nadine had promised. They were there in the evening at the New Astoria when she stepped out of Roarke’s limo and tried to pretend she was enjoying herself.

After two days of tripping over a camera every time she took three steps, she was surprised she didn’t find one zooming over her in bed, and she said as much to Roarke.

“You asked for it, darling.”

She was straddling him, in what was left of the three-piece cocktail suit he’d chosen for her to wear to the governor’s mansion. The glittering black and gold vest skimmed her hips and was already unbuttoned to her navel.

“I don’t have to like it. How do you stand it? You live with this stuff all the time. Isn’t it creepy?”

“You just ignore it.” He flipped open another button. “And go on. I liked the way you looked tonight.” Idly he toyed with the diamond that hung between her breasts. “Of course, I’m enjoying the way you look right now more.”

“I’m never going to get used to it. All the fancy work. Small talk, big hair. And I don’t fit the clothes, either.”

“They might not suit the lieutenant, but they suit Eve. You can be both.” He watched her pupils dilate when he spread his hands over her breasts, cupped them. “You liked the food.”

“Well, sure, but . . .” She shivered into a moan as he scraped his thumbs over her nipples. “I think I was trying to make a point. I should never talk to you in bed.”

“Excellent deduction.” He reared up and replaced his thumbs with his teeth.

She was sleeping deeply, dreamlessly, when he woke her. The cop surfaced first, alert and braced.

“What?” Despite being naked, she reached for her weapon. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” When he leaned over the bed to kiss her, she could tell from the vibrations of his body that he was laughing.

“It’s not funny. If I’d been armed, you’d have been on your ass.”

“Lucky me.”

Absently, she shoved at Galahad who’d decided to sit on her head. “Why are you dressed? What’s going on?”

“I’ve had a call. I’m needed on FreeStar One.”

“The Olympus Resort. Lights, dim,” she ordered and blinked to focus as they highlighted his face. God, she thought, he looked like an angel. A fallen one. A dangerous one. “Is there a problem?”

“Apparently. Nothing that can’t be handled.” Roarke picked up the cat himself, stroked it, then set Galahad on the floor. “But I have to handle it personally. It may take a couple of days.”

“Oh.” It was because she was groggy, she told herself, that this awful sense of deflation snuck in. “Well, I’ll see you when you get back.”

He skimmed a finger over the dent in her chin. “You’ll miss me.”

“Maybe. Some.” It was his quick smile that defeated her. “Yes.”

“Here, put this on.” He shoved a robe in her hands. “There’s something I want to show you before I go.”

“You’re going now?”

“The transport’s waiting. It can wait.”

“I guess I’m supposed to come down and kiss you good-bye,” she muttered as she fumbled into the robe.

“That would be nice, but first things first.” He took her hand and pulled her from the platform to the elevator. “There isn’t any need for you to be uncomfortable here while I’m gone.”

“Right.”

He put his hands on her shoulders as the car began to glide. “Eve, it’s your home now.”

“I’m going to be busy, anyway.” She felt the slight shift as the car veered to horizontal mode. “Aren’t we going all the way down?”

“Not just yet.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders when the doors opened.

It was a room she hadn’t seen. Then again, she mused, there were probably dozens of rooms she’d yet to tour in the labyrinth of the building. But it took only one quick glimpse for her to realize it was hers.

The few things she considered of any value from her apartment were here, with new pieces added to fill it out into a pleasant, workable space. Stepping away from Roarke, she wandered in.

The floors were wood and smooth, and there was a carpet woven in slate blue and mossy green, probably from one of his factories in the East. Her desk, battered as it was, stood on the priceless wool and held her equipment.

A frosted-glass wall separated a small kitchen area, fully equipped, that led to a terrace.

There was more, of course. With Roarke there was always more. A communications board would allow her to call up any room in the house. The entertainment center offered music, video, a hologram screen with dozens of visualization options. A small indoor garden bloomed riotously below an arching window where dawn was breaking.

“You can replace what you don’t like,” he said as she ran her hand over the soft back of a sleep chair. “Everything’s been programmed for your voice and your palm print.”

“Very efficient,” she said and cleared her throat. “Very nice.”

Surprised to find himself riddled with nerves, he tucked his hands in his pockets. “Your work requires your own space. I understand that. You require your own space and privacy. My office is through there, the west panel. But it locks on either side.”

“I see.”

Now he felt temper snapping at the nerves. “If you can’t be comfortable in the house while I’m not here, you can barricade yourself in this apartment. You can damn well barricade yourself in it while I am here. It’s up to you.”

“Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath and turned to him. “You did this for me.”

Annoyed, he inclined his head. “There doesn’t seem to be much I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I think that’s starting to sink in.” No one had ever given her anything quite so perfect. No one, she realized, understood her quite so well. “That makes me a lucky woman, doesn’t it?”

He opened his mouth, bit back something particularly nasty. “The hell with it,” he decided. “I have to go.”

“Roarke, one thing.” She walked to him, well aware he was all but snarling with temper. “I haven’t kissed you good-bye,” she murmured and did so with a thoroughness that rocked him back on his heels. “Thank you.” Before he could speak, she kissed him again. “For always knowing what matters to me.”

“You’re welcome.” Possessively, he ran a hand over her tousled hair. “Miss me.”

“I already am.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances.” His hands gripped in her hair hard, briefly. “There’s no use asking you not to take the necessary ones.”

“Then don’t.” Her heart stuttered when he kissed her hand. “Safe trip,” she told him when he stepped into the elevator. She was new at it, so waited until the doors were almost shut. “I love you.”

The last thing she saw was the flash of his grin.

“What have you got, Feeney?”

“Maybe something, maybe nothing.”

It was early, just eight o’clock on the morning after Roarke left for FreeStar One, but Feeney already looked haggard. Eve punched two coffees, double strength, from her AutoChef.

“You’re in here at this hour, looking like you’ve been up all night, and in that suit, I have to deduce it’s something. And I’m a gold-star detective.”

“Yeah. I’ve been noodling the computer, going down another level on the families and personal relations of the victims like you wanted.”

“And?”

Stalling, he drank his coffee, dug out his bag of candied nuts, scratched his ear. “Saw you on the news last night. The wife did, actually. Said you looked flash. That’s one of the kid’s expressions. We try to keep up.”

“In that case, you’re rocking me, Feeney. That’s one of the kid’s expressions, too. Translation, you’re not coming clear.”

“I know what it means. Shit. This one cuts close to home, Dallas. Too close.”

“Which is why you’re here instead of trasmitting what you’ve got over a channel. So let’s have it.”

“Okay.” He puffed out a breath. “I was dicking around with David Angelini’s records. Financial stuff mostly. We knew he was into some spine twisters for gambling debts. He’s been holding them off, giving them a little trickle here and there. Could be he’s dipped into the company till, but I can’t get a lock on that. He’s covered his ass.”

“So, we’ll uncover it. I can get the name of the spine twisters,” she mused, thinking of Roarke. “Let’s see if he made them any promises—like he’d be coming into an inheritance.” Her brows knit. “If it wasn’t for Metcalf, I’d think hard about somebody he owed hurrying up on the IOUs by taking out Towers.”

“Might be that simple, even with Metcalf. She had a nice nest egg set aside. I haven’t found anybody among the beneficiaries who needed quick money, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Okay, you keep working that angle. But that isn’t why you’re here playing with your nuts.”

He nearly managed a laugh. “Cute. Okay, here it is. I turned up the commander’s wife.”

“Run that by slow, Feeney. Real slow.”

He couldn’t sit, so he sprang up to pace the small space. “David Angelini made some healthy deposits into his personal credit account. Four deposits of fifty K over the last four months. The final one was keyed in two weeks before his mother got terminated.”

“All right, he got his hands on two hundred K in four months, and banked it like a good boy. Where’d he get it? Fuck.” She already knew.

“Yeah. I accessed the E-transactions. Backtracked. She transferred it to his New York bank, and he flipped it over into his personal account in Milan. Then he withdraws it, in cash, hard bills, at an AutoTell on Vegas II.”

“Jesus Christ, why didn’t she tell me?” Eve pressed her balled fists to her temples. “Why the hell did she make us look for it?”

“It wasn’t like she tried to hide it,” Feeney said quickly. “When I clicked over to her records, it was all out front. She has an account of her own, just like the commander.” He cleared his throat at Eve’s level stare. “I had to look, Dallas. He hasn’t made any unusual transactions out of his, or out of their joint. But she’s cut her principal in half doling out to Angelini. Christ, he was bleeding her.”

“Blackmail,” Eve speculated, struggling to think coolly. “Maybe they had an affair. Maybe she was stuck on the bastard.”

“Oh man, oh Jesus.” Feeney’s stomach did a long sickening roll. “The commander.”

“I know. We have to go to him with this.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” Mournfully, Feeney took a disc out of his pocket. “I got it all. How do you want to play it?”

“What I want to do is go out to White Plains and knock Mrs. Whitney on her perfect ass. Barring that, we go to the commander’s office and lay it out for him.”

“They’ve still got some of that old body armor down in storage,” Feeney suggested as Eve rose.

“Good thinking.”

They could have used it. Whitney didn’t climb over his desk and body slam them, nor did he pull out his stunner. He did all the damage necessary with the lethal glare of his eyes.

“You accessed my wife’s personal accounts, Feeney.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And took this information to Lieutenant Dallas.”

“As per procedure.”

“As per procedure,” Whitney repeated. “Now you’re bringing it to me.”

“To the commanding officer,” Feeney began, then drooped. “Oh hell, Jack, was I supposed to bury it?”

“You could have come to me first. But then . . .” Whitney trailed off, shifted his hard eyes to Eve’s. “Your stand on this, Lieutenant?”

“Mrs. Whitney paid David Angelini a sum of two hundred thousand dollars over a four-month period. This fact was not volunteered during either primary or follow-up interviews. It’s necessary to the investigation that—” She broke off. “We have to know why, Commander.” The apology was in her eyes, lurking just behind the cop. “We have to know why the money was paid, why there have been no more payments since the death of Cicely Towers. And I have to ask, Commander, as primary, if you were aware of the transactions and the reason behind them.”

There was a clutching in his stomach, a burning that warned of untreated stress. “I’ll answer that after I’ve spoken with my wife.”

“Sir.” Eve’s voice was a quiet plea. “You know we can’t allow you to consult with Mrs. Whitney before we question her. This meeting has already risked contaminating the investigation. I’m sorry, Commander.”

“You’re not bringing my wife in to interview.”

“Jack—”

“Fuck this, Feeney, she’s not going to be dragged down here like a criminal.” He clutched his hands into fists under the desk and struggled to remain in control. “Question her at home, with our attorney present. That doesn’t violate procedure, does it, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“No, sir. With respect, Commander, will you come with us?”

“With respect, Lieutenant,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t stop me.”

chapter eleven

Anna Whitney met them at the door. Her hands fluttered, then gripped together at her waist. “Jack, what’s happening? Linda’s here. She said you called her and told her I needed counsel.” Her gaze darted from Eve to Feeney, then back to her husband. “Why would I need counsel?”

“It’s all right.” He put a tense but protective hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go inside, Anna.”

“But I haven’t done anything.” She managed one nervous laugh. “I haven’t even gotten a traffic ticket lately.”

“Just sit down, honey. Linda, thanks for coming so quickly.”

“No problem.”

The Whitneys’ attorney was young, sharp-eyed, and polished to a gleam. It took Eve several moments to remember she was also their daughter.

“Lieutenant Dallas, isn’t it?” Linda scanned and summed up quickly. “I recognize you.” She gestured to a chair before either of her parents thought of it. “Please sit.”

“Captain Feeney, EDD.”

“Yes, my father’s mentioned you many times, Captain Feeney. Now.” She laid a hand over her mother’s. “What’s this all about?”

“Information has just come to light that needs clarification.” Eve took out her recorder, offered it to Linda for examination. She tried not to think that Linda favored her father, the caramel-colored skin, the cool eyes. Genes and family traits both fascinated and frightened her.

“I take it this is going to be a formal interview.” With careful calm, Linda set the recorder on the table and took out her own.

“That’s right.” Eve recited the date and time. “Interviewing officer Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also present, Whitney, Commander Jack, and Feeney, Captain Ryan. Interviewee Whitney, Anna, represented by counsel.”

“Whitney, Linda. My client is aware of all rights and agrees to this time and place of interview. Counsel reserves the right to terminate at her discretion. Proceed, Lieutenant.”

“Mrs. Whitney,” Eve began. “You were acquainted with Cicely Towers, deceased.”

“Yes, of course. Is this about Cicely? Jack—”

He only shook his head and kept his hand on her shoulder.

“You are also acquainted with the deceased’s family. Her former husband Marco Angelini, her son, David Angelini, and her daughter, Mirina.”

“I’m more than acquainted. Her children are like family. Why, Linda even dated—”

“Mom.” With a bolstering smile, Linda interrupted. “Just answer the question. Don’t elaborate.”

“But this is ridiculous.” Some of Anna’s puzzlement edged over into irritation. It was her home, after all, her family. “Lieutenant Dallas already knows the answers.”

“I’m sorry to go over the same ground, Mrs. Whitney. Would you describe your relationship with David Angelini?”

“David? Why I’m his godmother. I watched him grow up.”

“You’re aware that David Angelini was in financial distress prior to the death of his mother.”

“Yes, he was . . .” Her eyes went huge. “You don’t seriously believe that David . . . That’s hideous.” She snapped it out before her mouth compressed into a thin red line. “I’m not going to dignify this with an answer.”

“I understand you feel protective toward your godson, Mrs. Whitney. I understand you would go to some lengths to protect him—and to some expense. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

Anna’s face whitened under her careful cosmetics. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mrs. Whitney, do you deny paying to David Angelini the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, in installments of fifty thousand dollars over a four-month period, beginning in February of this year and ending in May?”

“I . . .” She clutched at her daughter’s hand, avoided her husband’s. “Do I have to answer that, Linda?”

“A moment please, to confer with my client.” Briskly, Linda scooped an arm around her mother and led her into the next room.

“You’re very good, Lieutenant,” Whitney said tightly. “It’s been some time since I observed one of your interviews.”

“Jack.” Feeney sighed, hurting for everyone. “She’s doing her job.”

“Yes, she is. It’s what she’s best at.” He looked over as his wife came back into the room.

She was pale, trembling a little. The burning in his gut flared.

“We’ll continue,” Linda said. There was a warrior glint in her eye when she focused on Eve. “My client wishes to make a statement. Go ahead, Mom, it’s all right.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears starred on her lashes. “Jack, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. He was in trouble. I know what you said, but I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s all right.” Resigned, he took the hand that reached out for his and stood beside her. “Tell the lieutenant the truth, and we’ll deal with it.”

“I gave him the money.”

“Did he threaten you, Mrs. Whitney?”

“What?” Shock seemed to dry up the tears swimming in her eyes. “Oh my goodness. Of course he didn’t threaten me. He was in trouble,” she repeated, as if that should be enough for anyone. “He owed a very great deal of money to the wrong kind of people. His business—that portion of his father’s business that he oversaw—was in some temporary upheaval. And he had a new project he was trying to get off the ground. He explained it,” she added with a wave of her free hand. “I don’t remember precisely. I don’t bother overmuch with business.”

“Mrs. Whitney, you gave him four payments of fifty thousand. You didn’t relay this information to me in our other interviews.”

“What business of yours was it?” Her spine was back, snapped hard and cold so that she sat like a statue. “It was my money, and a personal loan to my godchild.”

“A godchild,” Eve said with straining patience, “who was being questioned in a murder investigation.”

“His mother’s murder. You might as well accuse me of killing her as David.”

“You didn’t inherit a sizable portion of her estate.”

“Now, you listen to me.” Anger suited her. Anna’s face glowed as she leaned forward. “That boy adored his mother, and she him. He was devastated by her death. I know. I sat with him, I comforted him.”

“You gave him two hundred thousand dollars.”

“It was my money to do with as I chose.” She bit her lip. “No one would help him. His parents refused. They’d agreed to refuse this time. I spoke with Cicely about it months ago. She was a wonderful mother, and she loved her children, but she was a very strong believer in discipline. She was determined that he had to handle his problem on his own, without her help. Without mine. But when he came to me, desperate, what was I to do? What was I to do?” she demanded, turning to her husband. “Jack, I know you told me to stay out of it, but he was terrified, afraid they would cripple him, even kill him. What if it had been Linda, or Steven? Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to help?”

“Anna, feeding his problem isn’t help.”

“He was going to pay me back,” she insisted. “He wasn’t going to gamble with it. He promised. He only needed to buy some time. I couldn’t turn him away.”

“Lieutenant Dallas,” Linda began. “My client lent her own money to a family member in good faith. There is no crime in that.”

“Your client hasn’t been charged with a crime, counselor.”

“Did you, in any of your previous interviews, ask my client directly about disposition of funds? Did you ask my client if she had any financial dealings with David Angelini?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then she is not required to volunteer such information, which would appear to be personal and unconnected to your investigation. To the best of her knowledge.”

“She’s a cop’s wife,” Eve said wearily. “Her knowledge ought to be better than most. Mrs. Whitney, did Cicely Towers argue with her son over money, over his gambling, over his debts and the settlement thereof?”

“She was upset. Naturally they argued. Families argue. They don’t hurt each other.”

Maybe not in your cozy little world, Eve thought. “Your last contact with Angelini?”

“A week ago. He called to make sure I was all right, that Jack was all right. We discussed plans for setting up a memorial scholarship fund in his mother’s name. His idea, Lieutenant,” she said with swimming eyes. “He wanted her to be remembered.”

“What can you tell me about his relationship with Yvonne Metcalf?”

“The actress.” Anna’s eyes went blank before she dabbed at them. “Did he know her? He never mentioned it.”

It had been a shot in the dark, and hadn’t found a target. “Thank you.” Eve picked up her recorder, logged in the end of the interview. “Counselor, you should advise your client that it would be in her best interest not to mention this interview or any portion of it to anyone outside this room.”

“I’m a cop’s wife.” Anna neatly tossed Eve’s words back in her face. “I understand the drill.”

The last glimpse Eve had of the commander as she stepped outside, he was holding his wife and daughter.

Eve wanted a drink. By the time she’d logged out for the day, she had spent the better part of the afternoon chasing after David Angelini’s tail. He was in a meeting, he was out of contact, he was anywhere but where she looked. Without any other choice, she’d left messages at every possible point on the planet and figured she’d be lucky to hear from him before the following day.

Meanwhile, she was faced with an enormous, empty house and a butler who hated the air she breathed. The impulse struck as she zipped through the gates. She grabbed her car ’link and ordered Mavis’s number.

“Your night off, right?” she asked the instant Mavis’s face blipped on screen.

“You bet. Gotta rest those vocal chords.”

“Plans?”

“Nothing that can’t be tossed out for better. What do you have in mind?”

“Roarke’s off planet. You want to come over here and hang, stay over, get drunk?”

“Hang at Roarke’s, stay over at Roarke’s, get drunk at Roarke’s? I’m on my way.”

“Wait, wait. Let’s do it up big. I’ll send a car for you.”

“A limo?” Mavis forgot her vocal chords and squealed. “Jesus, Dallas, make sure the driver wears, like, a uniform. The people in my building will be hanging out the windows with their eyes popped out.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Eve broke transmission and all but danced up the steps to the door. Summerset was there, just as expected, and she sent him a haughty nod. She’d been practicing. “I’m having a friend over for the evening. Send a car and driver to 28 Avenue C.”

“A friend.” His voice was ripe with suspicion.

“That’s right, Summerset.” She glided up the stairs. “A very good, very close friend. Be sure and tell the cook there’ll be two for dinner.”

She managed to get out of earshot before doubling over with laughter. Summerset was expecting a tryst, she was sure. But it was going to be even more of a scandal when he got a load of Mavis.

Mavis didn’t disappoint her. Though for Mavis, she was conservatively dressed. Her hair de jour was rather tame, a glittery gold fashioned in what was called a half-swing. One glistening side curved to her ear while the other half skimmed her shoulder.

She’d only worn perhaps a half dozen varied earrings—and all in her ears. A distinguished look for Mavis Freestone.

She stepped out of a torrential spring downpour, handing a speechless Summerset her transparent cloak strung with tiny lights, and turned three circles. More, Eve thought, in awe of the hallway than to show off her skin-hugging red body suit.

“Wow.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Eve said. She’d hovered near the hallway waiting, not wanting Mavis to face Summerset alone. The strategy was obviously unnecessary, as the usually disdainful butler was struck dumb.

“It’s just mag,” Mavis said in reverent tones. “Really mag. And you’ve got the whole digs to yourself.”

Eve sent Summerset a cool, sidelong glance. “Just about.”

“Decent.” With a flutter of inch-long lashes, Mavis held out a hand with interlinking hearts tattooed on the back. “And you must be Summerset. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Summerset took the hand, so staggered he nearly lifted it to his lips before he remembered himself. “Madam,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, you just call me Mavis. Great place to work, huh? You must get a hard charge out of it.”

Unsure if he was appalled or enchanted, Summerset stepped back, managed a half bow, and disappeared down the hall with her dripping cloak.

“A man of few words.” Mavis winked, giggled, then clattered down the hall on six-inch inflatable platforms. And let out a sensual groan at the first doorway. “You’ve got a real fireplace.”

“A couple dozen of them, I think.”

“Jesus, do you do it in front of the fire? Like in the old flicks?”

“I’ll leave that up to your imagination.”

“I can imagine good. Christ, Dallas, that car you sent. A real limo, a classic. It just had to be raining.” She whirled back, sending her earrings dancing. “Only about half the people I wanted to impress saw me. What are we going to do first?”

“We can eat.”

“I’m starving, but I’ve got to see the place first. Show me something.”

Eve pondered. The roof terrace was incredible, but it was raining furiously. The weapon room was out, as was the target range. Eve considered those areas off limits to guests without Roarke’s presence. There was plenty more, of course. Dubiously Eve studied Mavis’s shoes.

“Can you really walk in those?”

“They’re air glided. I hardly know I’ve got them on.”

“All right then, we’ll take the stairs. You’ll see more that way.”

She took Mavis to the solarium first, amused by her friend’s dropped-jaw reaction to the exotic plants and trees, the sparkling waterfalls, and chattering birds. The curved glass wall was battered with rain, but through it the lights of New York gleamed.

In the music room, Eve programmed a trash band and let Mavis entertain her with a glass-shattering short set of current favorites.

They spent an hour in the game room, competing with the computer, each other, and hologram opponents at Free Zone and Apocalypse.

Mavis did a lot of oohing and ahing over the bedrooms, and finally chose the suite for her overnight stay.

“I can have a fire if I want?” Mavis ran a possessive hand over the rich lapis lazuli of the hearth.

“Sure, but it is nearly June.”

“I don’t care if I roast.” Arms out, she took long swinging steps over the floor, gazed up through the sky dome, and plopped down on the lake-sized bed with its thick silver cushions. “I feel like a queen. No, no, an empress.” She rolled over and over while the floating mattress undulated beneath her. “How do you stay normal in a place like this?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t lived here very long.”

Still rolling lavishly from one side of the air cushions to the other, Mavis laughed. “It would only take me one night. I’m never going to be the same.” Scooting up to the padded headboard, she punched buttons. Lights flickered on and off, revolved, sparkled. Music throbbed, pulsed. Water began to run in the next room.

“What’s that?”

“You programmed your bath,” Eve informed her.

“Oops. Not yet.” Mavis flicked it off, tried another, and had the panel on the far wall sliding open to reveal a ten-foot video screen. “Definitely decent. Wanna eat?”

While Eve settled in the dining room with Mavis, enjoying her first full evening off in weeks, Nadine Furst scowled over the editing of her next broadcast.

“I want to enhance that, freeze on Dallas,” she ordered the tech. “Yeah, yeah, bring her up. She looks damn good on camera.”

Sitting back, she studied the five screens while the tech worked the panel. Editing Room One was quiet, but for the murmuring clash of voices from the screen. For Nadine, putting images together seamlessly was as exciting as sex. The majority of broadcasters left the process to their techs, but Nadine wanted her hand in here. Everywhere.

In the newsroom one level down, it would be bedlam. She enjoyed that, too. The scurry to beat the competition to the latest sound bite, the latest picture, the most immediate angle. Reporters manning their ’links for one more quote, bumping their computers for that last bit of data.

The competition wasn’t all outside on Broadcast Avenue. There was plenty of it right in the Channel 75 newsroom.

Everybody wanted the big story, the big picture, the big ratings. Right now, she had it all. And Nadine didn’t intend to lose it.

“There, hold it there, when I’m standing on Metcalf’s patio. Yeah, now try a split screen, use the shot of me on the sidewalk where Towers bought it. Um-hmm.” Eyes narrowed, she studied the image. She looked good, she decided. Dignified, sober-eyed. Our intrepid, clear-sighted reporter, revisiting the scenes of the crimes.

“Okay.” She folded her hands and rested her chin on them. “Cue in the voice-over.”

Two women, talented, dedicated, innocent. Two lives brutally ended. The city reels, looks over its shoulder, and asks why. Loving families mourn, bury their dead, and ask for justice. There is one person working to answer that question, to meet that demand.

“Freeze,” Nadine ordered, “Bleed to Dallas, exterior courtroom shot. Bring up audio.”

Eve’s image filled the screens, full length, with Nadine beside her. That was good, Nadine, thought. The visual lent the impression they were a team, working together. Couldn’t hurt. There had been the faintest of breezes, ruffling their hair. Behind them, the courthouse speared up, a monument to justice, its elevators busily gliding up and down, its glass walkway crowded with people.

My job is to find a killer, and I take my job seriously. When I finish mine, the courts begin theirs.

“Perfect.” Nadine fisted her hand. “Oh yes, just perfect. Fade it there, and I’ll pick it up on live. Time?”

“Three forty-five.”

“Louise, I’m a genius, and you’re not so bad yourself. Print it.”

“Printed.” Louise swiveled away from the console and stretched. They’d worked together for three years and were friends. “It’s a good piece, Nadine.”

“Damn right it is.” Nadine angled her head. “But.”

“Okay.” Louise released her stubby ponytail and ran a hand through her thick, dark curls. “We’re getting close to retreading here. We’ve had nothing new in a couple of days.”

“Neither has anybody else. And I’ve got Dallas.”

“And that’s a big one.” Louise was a pretty woman, soft-featured, bright-eyed. She’d come to Channel 75 direct from college. After less than a month on the job, Nadine had scooped her up as her main tech. The arrangement suited them both. “She’s got a solid visual and an excellent throat. The Roarke factor adds a gold edge. That’s not including the fact she’s got a rep as a good cop.”

“So?”

“So, I’m thinking,” continued Louise, “until you get some new bites on this, you might want to splice in some of the business from the DeBlass case. Remind people our lieutenant broke one of the big ones, took a hit in the line of duty. Build up confidence.”

“I don’t want to take the focus off the current investigation.”

“Maybe you do,” Louise disagreed. “At least until there’s a new lead. Or a new victim.”

Nadine grinned. “A little more blood would heat things up. Another couple of days, we’ll be out of the sweeps and into the June doldrums. Okay, I’ll keep it in mind. You might want to put something together.”

Louise cocked a brow. “I might?”

“And if I use it, you get full on-air credit, you greedy bitch.”

“Deal.” Louise tapped the pocket of her editing vest, winced. “Out of smokes.”

“You’ve got to stop that. You know how the brass feel about employees taking health risks.”

“I’m sticking with the herb shit.”

“Shit’s right. Get me a couple while you’re at it.” Nadine had the grace to look sheepish. “And keep it to yourself. They’re tougher on the on-air talent than you techs.”

“You’ve got some time before the midnight recap. Aren’t you going to take your break?”

“No, I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Besides, it’s pouring out.” Nadine patted her perfectly coiffed hair. “You go.” She reached into her bag. “I’ll pay.”

“Good deal—since I have to go all the way to Second to find a store that’s licensed to sell smokes.” Resigned, she rose. “I’m using your raincoat.”

“Go ahead.” Nadine passed her a handful of credits. “Just put my share in the pocket, okay? I’ll be in the newsroom.”

They walked out together, with Louise bundling into the stylish blue coat. “Nice material.”

“Sheds water like a duck.”

They crossed the rampway, passed a series of editing and production rooms, and walked toward a descending people glide. Noise began to filter through, so Nadine pitched her voice over it.

“Are you and Bongo still thinking of taking the big step?”

“Thinking hard enough that we’ve started looking at apartments. We’re going the traditional route. We’ll give living together a try for a year. If it works, we’ll make it legal.”

“Better you than me,” Nadine said with feeling. “I can’t think of a single reason why a rational person would lock themselves to another rational person.”

“Love.” Louise put a dramatic hand to her heart. “It makes reason and rationality fly out the old window.”

“You’re young and free, Louise.”

“And if I’m lucky, I’m going to be old and chained to Bongo.”

“Who the hell wants to be chained to anybody named Bongo?” Nadine muttered.

“Me. Catch you later.” With a quick salute, Louise continued on the descent while Nadine stepped off toward the newsroom.

And thinking of Bongo, Louise wondered if she’d be able to get home before one A.M. It was their night at her place. That was a little inconvenience that would end once they found one suitable apartment rather than shifting back and forth between his rooms and hers.

Idly, she glanced over at one of the many monitors lining the walls, playing Channel 75’s current broadcast. Right now it was a popular sitcom, a dead medium that had been revived over the past couple years by talent such as Yvonne Metcalf’s.

Louise shook her head over that thought, then chuckled a little as the life-sized actor on screen mugged outrageously for the viewing audience.

Nadine might have been married to the news, but Louise liked sheer entertainment. She looked forward to those rare evenings when she and Bongo could cuddle up in front of the screen.

In Channel 75’s wide lobby there were more monitors, security stations, and a pleasant sitting area ringed with holograms of the station’s stars. And, of course, a gift shop stocked with souvenir T-shirts, hats, signed mugs, and holograms of the station’s biggest stars.

Twice a day, between the hours of ten and four, tours were guided through the station. Louise had taken one herself as a child, had gawked with the best of them, and had, she remembered with a smug smile, decided then and there on her career.

She waved to the guard at the front entrance, detoured to the east end, which was the shortest route to Second. At the side door for employees, she passed her palm over the handplate to deactivate the lock. As the door swung open, she winced at the heavy sound of drumming rain. She almost changed her mind.

Was one sneaky smoke worth a two-block sprint through the cold and damp? Damn right, she thought and flipped up the hood. The good, expensive raincoat would keep her dry enough, and she’d been stuck in Editing with Nadine for more than an hour.

Hunching her shoulders, she bolted outside.

The wind kicked so that she broke her stride just long enough to secure the coat at the waist. Her shoes were soaked before she reached the bottom of the steps, and looking down at them, she swore under her breath.

“Well, shit.”

They were the last words she spoke.

A movement caught her attention and she looked up, blinking once to clear the rain from her eyes. She never saw the knife, already in an arching slash, glint wetly in the rain then slice viciously across her throat.

The killer studied her for only a moment, watched the blood fountain, the body collapse like a puppet cut from its strings. There was shock, then anger, then a quick, jittering fear. The gored knife hurried back into a deep pocket before the darkly clad figure ran off into the shadows.

“I think I could live like this.” After a meal of rare Montana beef accented with lobsters harvested from Icelandic waters, washed down with French champagne, Mavis lounged in the lush indoor lagoon off the solarium. She yawned, blissfully naked and just a little drunk. “You are living like this.”

“Sort of.” Not quite as free-spirited as Mavis, Eve wore a snug one-piece tank suit. She’d cozied herself on a smooth seat made of stone, and was still drinking. She hadn’t allowed herself to relax to this extent in too long to remember. “I don’t really have a lot of time for this part of it.”

“Make time, babe.” Mavis submerged, popped up again, perfect round breasts gleaming in the showy blue lights she’d programmed. Lazily, she paddled over to a water lily, gave a sniff. “Christ, this is the real thing. Do you know what you’ve got here, Dallas?”

“Indoor swimming?”

“What you’ve got,” Mavis began as she frog kicked her way over to the float that held her glass, “is a grade one fantasy. The kind you can’t get from the top-line VR goggles.” She took a long sip of icy champagne. “You’re not going to get all weirded out and blow it, are you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you. You’ll pick it apart, question everything, analyze.” Noting Eve’s glass was empty, Mavis did the honors. “Well, I’m telling you, pal. Don’t.”

“I don’t pick things apart.”

“You’re the champion picked—pick it part—damn it, pick it aparter. Whew. Try saying that five times fast when your tongue’s numb.” She used a bare hip to nudge Eve over and squeezed in next to her. “He’s crazy about you, isn’t he?”

Eve jerked her shoulders and drank.

“He’s rich, I mean mag rich, gorgeous as a god, and that body—”

“What d’you know about his body?”

“I got eyes. I use ’em. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he looks like naked.” Amused by the glint in Eve’s eyes, Mavis licked her lips. “Of course, any time you want to fill in the missing details, I’m here for you.”

“What a pal.”

“That’s me. Anyway, he’s all that stuff. Then there’s that power trip. He’s got all that power, sort of shoots out from him.” She highlighted the statement by splashing up water. “And he looks at you like he could eat you alive. In big . . . greedy . . . bites. Shit, I’m getting hot.”

“Keep your hands off me.”

Mavis snorted. “Maybe I’ll go seduce Summerset.”

“I don’t think he has a dick.”

“Bet I could find out.” But she was just too lazy at the moment. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Summerset? I’ve had a hell of a time controlling myself around him.”

“Look me dead in the eye. Come on.” To ensure obedience, Mavis snagged Eve’s chin, swiveled until they were face to face, glassy eye to glassy eye. “You’re in love with Roarke.”

“It looks that way. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Good. Don’t. Always said you thought too damn much.” Holding the glass over her head, Mavis pushed off into the lagoon. “Can we use the jets?”

“Sure.” Impaired with wine, Eve fumbled a bit for the correct control. Once the water started to bubble and spew, Mavis let out a laughing moan.

“Christ Jesus, who needs a man when you’ve got one of these? Come on, Eve, bump up the music. Let’s party.”

Obliging, Eve doubled the volume on the controls so that the music screamed off the walls and water. The Rolling Stones, Mavis’s favorite classic artists, wailed. Lounged back, Eve laughed as Mavis improvised dance steps and started to send the server droid after another bottle.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Huh?” Bleary-eyed, Eve studied the glossy black shoes at the lip of the lagoon. Slowly, and with mild curiosity, she let her gaze travel up the smoke-colored, pipe-stemmed pants, the short, stiff jacket, and into Summerset’s stony face. “Hey, you wanna take a little dip?”

“Come on in, Summerset.” Water lapped around Mavis’s waist and dripped cheerfully from her classy breasts as she waved. “The more the merrier.”

He sniffed, his lips curled. Sheer habit had the words dropping out of his mouth like knife-edged ice cubes, but his gaze kept wandering back to Mavis’s swirling body.

“There’s a transmission for you, Lieutenant. Apparently you were unable to hear my attempts to inform you.”

“What? Okay, okay.” She sniggered, paddled toward the ’link set in the side of the lagoon. “Is it Roarke?”

“It is not.” It affronted his dignity to shout, but it would have offended his pride to order the music lower. “It is Dispatch from Cop Central.”

Even as Eve reached for the ’link, she stopped, swore. Then slicked the hair back from her face. “Music off,” she snapped, and had Mick and his pals echoing into silence. “Mavis, stay out of video range, please.” Eve sucked in a deep breath, then opened the ’link. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Voice print verified. Report immediately to Broadcast Avenue, Channel 75. Confirmed Homicide. Code Yellow.”

Eve’s blood ran cold. Her fingers gripped on the edge of the pool. “Victim’s name?”

“That information is not cleared for transmission at this time. Confirm receipt of orders, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Confirmed. ETA twenty minutes. Request Feeney, Captain, EDD on scene.”

“Request verified. Dispatch out.”

“Oh God. Oh God.” Weak with guilt and liquor, Eve laid her head on the edge of the pool. “I fucking killed her.”

“Stop it.” Mavis swam over, laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Cut it out, Eve,” she said briskly.

“He took the wrong bait, the wrong bait, Mavis, and she’s dead. It was supposed to be me.”

“I said stop it.” Confused by the words, but not by the sentiment, Mavis pulled her back and gave Eve a quick shake. “Snap out of it, Dallas.”

Helpless, Eve pressed a hand to her spinning head. “Oh my Christ, I’m drunk. That’s perfect.”

“I can fix that. I’ve got some Sober Up in my bag.” At Eve’s moan, Mavis gave her another shake. “I know you hate pills, but they’ll clean the alcohol out of your bloodstream in ten minutes flat. Come on, we’ll get some into you.”

“Fine. Dandy. I’ll be sober when I have to look at her.”

She started up the steps, slipped, was surprised to find her arm taken firmly. “Lieutenant.” Summerset’s voice was still cool, but he held out a towel and helped her up onto the stone skirt of the pool. “I’ll see that your car’s ready.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

chapter twelve

Mavis’s handy antidote worked like a charm. Eve had a foul taste in the back of her throat, but she was stone-cold sober when she reached Channel 75’s sleek silver building.

It had been constructed in the mid-twenties when the media boom had hit such astronomical proportions as to generate more profits than a small country. One of the loftier buildings on Broadcast Avenue, it towered up from a wide, flat hilt, housed several thousand employees, five elaborate studios, including the most lavish new set on the East Coast, and enough power to beam transmissions to every pocket of the planet and its orbiting stations.

The east wing, where Eve was directed, faced Third with its tony mutiplexes and apartment buildings designed for the convenience of the broadcast industry.

Due to the thick air traffic, Eve realized word had already hit. Control was going to be a problem. Even as she rounded the building, she called Dispatch and requested air barricades as well as ground security. A homicide right in the lap of the media was going to be hard enough to deal with, without the vultures flying.

Steady now, she locked away guilt and stepped from her car to approach the scene. The uniforms had been busy, she saw with some relief. They’d cleared the area and had the outside door sealed off. Reporters and their teams were there, naturally. There would be no keeping them away. But she’d have room to breathe.

She’d already attached her badge to her jacket and moved through the rain to the porta-tarp some wise soul had tossed over the crime scene. Raindrops pinged musically against the strong, clear plastic.

She recognized the raincoat, dealt viciously with the quick, instinctive lurch of her stomach. She asked if the immediate scene had been scanned and recorded, and receiving the affirmative, crouched down.

Her hands were rock steady as they reached for the hood that had fallen forward over the victim’s face. She ignored the blood that pooled in a sticky puddle at the toes of her boots and managed to smother the gasp and the shudder as she tossed the hood away from a stranger’s face.

“Who the hell is this?” she demanded.

“Victim’s been preliminarily identified as Louise Kirski, editorial tech for Channel 75.” The uniform pulled a log out of the pocket of her slick black raincoat. “She was found at approximately eleven fifteen by C. J. Morse. He tossed his cookies just over there,” she went on with light disdain for civilian delicacy. “Went inside through this door, screaming his head off. Building security verified his story, such as it was, called it in. Dispatch logged the call at eleven twenty-two. I arrived on scene at eleven twenty-seven.”

“You made good time, Officer . . . ?”

“Peabody, Lieutenant. I was on a swing of First Avenue. I verified homicide, secured the outer door, called for additional uniforms and a primary.”

Eve nodded toward the building. “They get any of this on camera?”

“Sir.” Peabody’s mouth thinned. “I ordered a news team off scene when I arrived. I’d say they got plenty before we secured.”

“Okay.” With fingertips encased in clear seal, Eve did a search of the body. A few credits, a little jingling change, a pricey mini ’link attached to the belt. No defense wounds, no signs of struggle or assault.

She recorded it all dutifully, her mind working fast. Yes, she recognized the raincoat, she thought, and her initial exam complete, she straightened.

“I’m going in. I’m expecting Captain Feeney. Pass him through. She can go with the ME.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You stand, Peabody,” Eve decided. The cop had a good, firm style. “Keep those reporters in line.” Eve glanced over her shoulder, ignoring the shouted questions, the glint of lenses. “Give no comment, no statement.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to them.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Eve unsealed the door, passed through, resealed it. The lobby was nearly empty. Peabody, or someone like her, had cleared it of all but essential personnel. Eve shot a look at the security behind the main console. “C. J. Morse. Where?”

“His station’s on level six, section eight. Some of your people took him up that way.”

“I’m expecting another cop. Send him after me.” Eve turned and stepped onto the ascent.

There were people here and there, some huddled together, others standing against video backdrops talking furiously to cameras. She caught the scent of coffee, the stale just-burned fragrance so similar to a cop’s bull pen. Another time, it might have made her smile.

The noise level was climbing, even as she did. She stepped off on level six into the frantic buzz of the newsroom.

Consoles were set back to back, with traffic areas snaking through. Like police work, broadcasting was a twenty-four-hour business. Even at this hour, there were more than a dozen stations manned.

The difference, Eve noted, was that cops looked overworked, rumpled, even sweaty. This crew was video perfect. Clothes were streamlined, jewelry camera friendly, faces carefully polished.

Everyone seemed to have a job to do. Some were talking quickly to their ’link screens—feeding their satellites updates, Eve imagined. Others barked at their computers or were barked at by them as data was requested, accessed, and transmitted to the desired source.

It all looked perfectly normal, except mixed with the stale scent of bad coffee was the sticky odor of fear.

One or two noticed her, started to rise, questions in their eyes. Her brutally cold stare was as effective as a steel shield.

She turned to the wall where screens hugged against each other. Roarke had a similar setup, and she knew each screen could be used for a separate image, or in any combination. Now the wall was filled with a huge picture of Nadine Furst on the news set. The familiar three-dimensional view of New York’s skyline rose behind her.

She, too, looked polished, perfect. Her eyes seemed to meet and hold on Eve’s as Eve stepped closer to listen to the audio.

“And again tonight, a senseless killing. Louise Kirski, an employee of this station, was murdered only a few steps away from the building where I am now broadcasting this report.”

Eve didn’t bother to curse as Nadine added a few more details and segued to Morse. She’d expected this.

“An ordinary evening,” Morse said in a clear reporter’s voice. “A rainy night in the city. But once again, despite the best offered by our police force, murder happens. This reporter is now able to give you a first-hand view of the horror, the shock, and the waste.”

He paused, timing perfect, as the camera zoomed in on his face. “I found Louise Kirski’s body, crumpled, bleeding, at the bottom of the steps of this building where both she and I have worked many nights. Her throat had been slashed, her blood pouring out on the wet pavement. I’m not ashamed to say that I froze, that I was revolted, that the smell of death clogged in my lungs. I stood, looking down at her, unable to believe what I saw with my own eyes. How could this be? A woman I knew, a woman who I had often shared a friendly word with, a woman I had occasionally had the privilege of working with. How could she be lying there, lifeless?”

The screen dissolved from his pale, serious face, to a gruesomely graphic shot of the body.

They hadn’t missed a beat, Eve thought in disgust, and whirled on the closest manned console. “Where’s the studio?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, where’s the goddamn studio?” She jerked a thumb toward the screen.

“Well, ah . . .”

Furious, she leaned over, caged him between her stiffened arms. “You want to see how fast I can shut this place down?”

“Level twelve, Studio A.”

She whirled away just as Feeney stepped off the ascent. “Took your sweet time.”

“Hey, I was in New Jersey visiting my folks.” He didn’t bother to ask, but fell into step with her.

“I need a gag on the broadcast.”

“Well.” He scratched his head as they headed up. “We can probably finagle an order to confiscate the pictures of the scene.” He moved his shoulders at Eve’s glance. “I caught some of it on the screen in the car on the way here. They’ll get it back, but we can hang them up for a few hours, anyway.”

“Get to work on it. I need all the data available on the victim. They should have records here.”

“That’s simple enough.”

“Feed them to my office, will you, Feeney? I’ll be on my way there shortly.”

“No problem. Anything else?”

Eve stepped off, scowled at the thick white doors of Studio A. “I might need some backup in here.”

“That’d be my pleasure.”

The doors were locked, the On Air sign glowing. Eve struggled with a desperate urge to draw her weapon and blow the security panel apart. Instead, she jabbed the emergency button and waited for response.

“Channel 75 News now in progress, live,” came the soothing electronic voice. “What is the nature of your problem?”

“Police emergency.” She held her ID up to the small scanner.

“One moment, Lieutenant Dallas, while your request is accessed.”

“It’s not a request,” Eve said evenly. “I want these doors open now, or I’ll be forced to break in under Code 83B, subsection J.”

There was a quiet hum, an electronic hiss, as if the computer were considering, then expressing annoyance. “Clearing doors. Please remain quiet and do not pass the white line. Thank you.”

Inside the studio, the temperature dropped ten degrees. Eve stalked directly toward a glass partition facing the set and rapped hard enough to have the news director go white with worry. He held a desperate finger to his lips. Eve held up her badge.

With obvious reluctance, he clicked open the door and gestured them in. “We’re live,” he snapped and turned back to his view of the set. “Camera Three on Nadine. Back image of Louise. Mark.”

The robotics on set obeyed smoothly. Eve watched the small suspended camera shift. On the control monitor, Louise Kirski smiled cheerily.

“Slow down, Nadine. Don’t rush it. C. J., ready in ten.”

“Go to commercial,” Eve told him.

“We’re running without ads on this broadcast.”

“Go to commercial,” she repeated, “or you’re going to go to black.”

He screwed up his forehead, puffed out his chest. “Now listen here—”

“You listen.” She poked him none too gently in that expanded chest. “You’ve got my eyewitness out there. You do what you’re told, or your competitors are going to have ratings through the roof with the story I’m going to give them on how Channel 75 interfered with a police investigation on the murder of one of its own people.” She lifted a brow while he considered. “And maybe I’m going to start to think you look like a suspect. He strike you as the cold-blooded killer type, Feeney?”

“I was just thinking that. Maybe we need to take him in, have a nice long chat. After a strip search.”

“Just hold on. Hold on.” He wiped a hand across his mouth. What could a quick ninety-second commercial break hurt? “Go to Zippy spot in ten. C. J., wind it up. Cue music. Camera One pan back. Mark.”

He let out a long breath. “I’m calling legal on this.”

“You do that.” Eve stepped out of the booth and stalked to the long black console Morse and Nadine shared.

“We’ve got a right to—”

“I’m going to tell you all about your rights,” Eve interrupted Morse. “You’ve got a right to call your lawyer and have him meet you at Cop Central.”

He went dead white. “You’re arresting me. Jesus Christ, are you nuts?”

“You’re a witness, asshole. And you’re not going to make any further statements until you’ve made one to me. Officially.” She flicked a scathing gaze in Nadine’s direction. “You’ll just have to muddle through the rest on your own.”

“I want to go with you.” On shaky legs, Nadine rose. To dispense with the frantic shouts from the control booth, she tugged her earpiece free and tossed it down. “I was probably the last person to speak to her.”

“Fine. We’ll talk about that.” Eve led them out, pausing only to grin nastily toward control. “You could fill in with some old reruns of NYPD Blue. It’s a classic.”

“Well, well, C. J.” However miserable she was, Eve could appreciate the moment. “I’ve finally got you where I want you. Comfy?”

He looked a little green around the gills, but managed to sneer as he took a long scan of the interview room. “You guys could use a decorator.”

“We’re trying to work that into the budget.” She settled back at the single table in the room. “Record,” she requested. “June 1—Jeez, where did May go?—Subject C. J. Morse, position Interview Room C, Interview conducted by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, re Homicide, victim Louise Kirsky. Time oh oh forty-five. Mr. Morse, you’ve been advised of your rights. Do you want your attorney present during this interview?”

He reached for his glass of water and took a sip. “Am I being charged with anything?”

“Not at this time.”

“Then get on with it.”

“Take me back, C. J. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Fine.” He drank again, as if his throat was parched. “I was coming into the station. I had the coanchor on the midnight report.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“About quarter after eleven. I went to the east side entrance, most of us use that end because it’s more direct to the newsroom. It was raining, so I made a quick dash from the car. I saw something at the base of the steps. I couldn’t tell what it was, at first.”

He stopped speaking, covered his face with his hands, and rubbed hard. “I couldn’t tell,” he continued, “until I was practically on top of her. I thought—I don’t know what I thought, really. Somebody took a hell of a spill.”

“You didn’t recognize the victim?”

“The—the hood.” he gestured vaguely, helplessly with his hands. “It was over her face. I reached down, and I started to move it away from her face.” He gave one violent shudder. “Then I saw the blood—her throat. The blood,” he repeated, and covered his eyes.

“Did you touch the body?”

“No, I don’t think—no. She was just lying there, and her throat was wide open. Her eyes. No, I didn’t touch her.” He dropped his hand again, made what appeared to be a herculean effort for control. “I got sick. You probably don’t understand that, Dallas. Some people have basic human reactions. All that blood, her eyes. God. I got sick, and I got scared and I ran inside. The guard on the desk. I told him.”

“You knew the victim?”

“Sure, I knew her. Louise had edited a few pieces for me. Mostly she worked with Nadine, but she did some pieces for me and for some others. She was good, real good. Quick, a sharp eye. One of the best. Christ.” He reached for the pitcher on the table. Water sloshed as he poured it. “There was no reason to kill her. No reason at all.”

“Was it her habit to go out that exit at that time?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think—she should have been in Editing,” he said fiercely.

“Were you close, personally?”

His head came up, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to pin this on me, aren’t you? You’d really like that.”

“Just answer the questions, C. J. Were you involved with her?”

“She had a relationship, talked about some guy named Bongo. We worked together, Dallas. That’s all.”

“You arrived at Channel 75 at eleven fifteen. Before that?”

“Before that I was at home. When I have the midnight shift, I catch a couple hours’ sleep. I didn’t have a feature running, so I didn’t have much prep. It was supposed to be just a read, a recap of the day. I had dinner with some friends about seven, headed home around eight, and took a nap.”

He propped his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his hands. “I had my wake-up at ten, then headed out just before eleven. Gave myself a little extra travel time because of the weather. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

If Eve hadn’t watched him report on camera minutes after his discovery of the body, she might have felt sorry for him. “Did you see anyone at or near the scene?”

“Just Louise. There’s not a lot of people going in and out that time of night. I didn’t see anybody. Just Louise. Just Louise.”

“Okay, C. J., that’s about it this time around.”

He set down the glass he’d guzzled from again. “I can go?”

“Keep in mind you’re a witness. If you’re holding back, or if you remember anything not revealed in this interview, I’ll charge you with withholding evidence and impeding an investigation.” She smiled pleasantly. “Oh, and give me the names of your friends, C. J. I didn’t think you had any.”

She let him go and brooded while she waited for Nadine to be brought in. The scenario was all too clear. And the guilt came with it. To keep both fresh, she flipped open the file and studied the hard copy photos of Louise Kirski’s body. She turned them facedown when the door opened.

Nadine didn’t look polished now. The professional gloss of the on-air personality had given way to a pale, shaken woman with swollen eyes and a trembling mouth. Saying nothing, Eve gestured to the chair and poured water in a fresh glass.

“You were quick,” she said coolly, “getting your report on the air.”

“That’s my job.” Nadine didn’t touch the glass, but gripped her hands in her lap. “You do yours, I do mine.”

“Right. Just serving the public, aren’t we?”

“I’m not very interested in what you think of me right now, Dallas.”

“Just as well, because I don’t think very much of you right now.” For the second time, she started the recorder, fed in the necessary information. “When did you last see Louise Kirski alive?”

“We were working in Editing, refining and timing a piece for the midnight spot. It didn’t take as much time as we’d scheduled to finish. Louise was good, really good.” Nadine drew a deep breath and continued to stare at a spot an inch above Eve’s left shoulder. “We talked for a few minutes. She and the man she’d been seeing for the last several months were looking for an apartment together. She was happy. Louise was a happy person, easy to get along with, bright.”

She had to stop again, had to. Her breath was backing up. Carefully, firmly, she ordered herself to inhale, exhale. Twice. “Anyway, she was out of cigarettes. She liked to catch a quick smoke between assignments. Everybody looked the other way, even though she’d sneak off into a closet somewhere and light up. I told her to pick me up a couple while she was at it, gave her some credits. We went down together, and I got off at the newsroom. I had some calls to make. Otherwise, I’d have gone with her. I’d have been with her.”

“Did you usually go out together before the broadcast?”

“No. Normally, I take a short break, head out, have a quiet cup of coffee in this little café on Third. I like to—get away from the station, especially before the midnight. We’ve got a restaurant, lounges, a coffee shop in house, but I like to break off and take ten on my own.”

“Habitually?”

“Yeah.” Nadine met Eve’s eyes, veered away. “Habitually. But I wanted to make those calls, and it was raining, so . . . so I didn’t go. I lent her my raincoat, and she went out.” Her eyes shifted back, straight to Eve’s. And were devastated. “She’s dead instead of me. You know that, and I know that. Don’t we, Dallas?”

“I recognized your coat,” Eve said briefly. “I thought it was you.”

“She didn’t do anything but run out for a few cigarettes. Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong coat.”

Wrong bait, Eve thought, but didn’t say it. “Let’s take this a step at a time, Nadine. An editor has a certain amount of power, of control.”

“No.” Slowly, methodically, Nadine shook her head. The sickness in her stomach had snuck into her throat, and tasted foul. “It’s the story, Dallas, and the on-air personality. Nobody appreciates, or even thinks of an editor but the reporter. She wasn’t the target, Dallas. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“What I think and what I know are handled in different ways, Nadine. But let’s go with what I think for now. I think you were the target, and I think the killer mistook Louise for you. You’ve got different builds, but it was raining, she was wearing your coat, had the hood on. There either wasn’t time, or there wasn’t a choice once the mistake was realized.”

“What?” Dazed at having it all said so flatly, Nadine struggled to focus. “What did you say?”

“It was over quickly. I’ve got the time she left from the security desk. She waved to the guard. We’ve got Morse stumbling over her ten minutes later. Either it was timed extremely well, or our killer was cocky. And you can bet your ass he wanted to see it on the news before she’d gotten cold.”

“We accommodated him, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.” Eve nodded. “You did.”

“You think it was easy for me?” Nadine’s voice, raspy and thick, burst out. “You think it was easy to sit there and give a report knowing she was still lying outside?”

“I don’t know,” Eve said mildly. “Was it?”

“She was my friend.” Nadine began to weep, tears rushing out, pouring down her cheeks and leaving trails in her camera makeup. “I cared about her. Damn it, she mattered to me, not just a story. She isn’t just a fucking story.”

Struggling to carry her own guilt, Eve nudged the glass toward Nadine. “Drink,” she ordered. “Take a minute.”

Nadine had to use both hands to keep the glass even partially steady. She would, she realized, have preferred brandy, but that would have to wait. “I see this kind of thing all the time, not so different from you.”

“You saw the body,” Eve snapped. “You went out on the scene.”

“I had to see.” With eyes still swimming, she looked back at Eve. “That was personal, Dallas. I had to see. I didn’t want to believe it when word came up.”

“How did word come up?”

“Somebody heard Morse yelling to the guard that somebody was dead, that somebody had been murdered right outside. That drew a lot of attention,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Word travels. I hadn’t finished my second call before I caught the buzz. I hung up on my source and went down. And I saw her.” Her smile was grim and humorless. “I beat the cameras—and the cops.”

“And you and your pals risked contaminating a crime scene.” Eve swiped a hand through the air. “That’s done. Did anybody touch her? Did you see anybody touch her?”

“No, nobody was that stupid. It was obvious she was dead. You could see—you could see the wound, the blood. We sent for an ambulance anyway. The first police unit was there within minutes, ordered us back inside, sealed the door. I talked to somebody. Peabody.” She rubbed fingers over her temples. Not because they hurt; because they were numb. “I told her it was Louise, then I went up to prep for broadcast. And the whole time I was thinking, It was supposed to be me. I was alive, facing the camera, and she was dead. It was supposed to be me.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be anyone.”

“We killed her, Dallas.” Nadine’s voice was steady again. “You and me.”

“I guess we’ll have to live with that.” Eve drew a breath and leaned forward. “Let’s go over the timing again, Nadine. Step by step.”

chapter thirteen

Sometimes, Eve thought, the drudge of routine police work payed off. Like a slot machine, fed habitually, mindlessly, monotonously, so that you’re almost shocked when the jackpot falls in your lap.

That’s just the way it was when David Angelini fell into hers.

She’d had several questions on small details of the Kirski case. The timing was one of them.

Nadine skips her usual break, Kirksi goes out instead, passing the lobby desk at approximately 23:04. She steps out into the rain, and into a knife. Minutes later, running late, Morse arrives at the station lot, stumbles over the body, vomits, and runs inside to report a murder.

All of it, she mused, quick, fast, and in a hurry.

As a matter of course, she ran the discs from the security gate at Channel 75. It wasn’t possible to know if the killer had driven through them, parked a car on the station’s lot, strolled over to wait for Nadine, sliced Louise by mistake, then driven off again.

An assailant could just as easily have cut across the property from Third on foot, just as Louise had intended to do. Gate security was to make sure that there were parking facilities for station employees and that guests weren’t infringed upon by every frustrated driver looking for a place to stick his car or minishuttle off the street.

Eve reviewed the discs because it was a matter of routine, and because, she admitted to herself, she hoped Morse’s story wouldn’t gel. He’d have recognized Nadine’s raincoat, and he’d have known her habit of cutting out for some solo time before the midnight broadcast.

There was nothing she’d have enjoyed more, on a basic, even primal personal level, than nailing his skinny butt to the wall.

And that’s when she saw the sleek little two-passenger Italian model cruise like a shiny cat to the gate. She’d seen that car before, parked outside of the commander’s home after the memorial service.

“Stop,” she ordered, and the image on screen froze. “Enhance sector twenty-three through thirty, full screen.” The machine clicked, then clunked, wobbling the image. With an impatient snarl, Eve smacked the screen with the heel of her hand, jarring it back on course. “Goddamn budget cuts,” she muttered, and then her smile began, slow and savoring. “Well, well, Mr. Angelini.”

She took a deep breath as David’s face filled her screen. He looked impatient, she thought. Distracted. Nervous.

“What were you doing there?” she murmured, flicking her glance down to the digital time frozen at the bottom left corner. “At twenty-three oh two and five seconds?”

She leaned back in her chair, rifling through a drawer with one hand as she continued to study the screen. Absently, she bit into a candy bar that was going to pass for breakfast. She’d yet to go home.

“Hard copy,” she ordered. “Then go back to original view and hard copy.” She waited patiently while her machine wheezed its way through the process. “Continue disc run, normal speed.”

Nibbling on her breakfast, she watched the pricey sports car whiz past camera range. The image blinked. Channel 75 could afford the latest in motion-activated security cameras. Eleven minutes had passed on the counter when Morse’s car approached.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Copy disc, transfer copy to file 47833-K, Kirski, Louise. Homicide. Cross reference to case file 47801-T, Towers, Cicely and 47815-M, Metcalf, Yvonne. Homicides.”

Turning from the screen, she engaged her ’link. “Feeney.”

“Dallas.” He stuffed the last of a danish into his mouth. “I’m working on it. Christ, it’s barely seven A.M.”

“I know what time it is. I’ve got a sensitive matter here, Feeney.”

“Hell.” His already rumpled face grew more wrinkles. “I hate when you say that.”

“I’ve got David Angelini on the gate security disc at Channel 75, coming in about ten minutes before Louise Kirski’s body was discovered.”

“Shit, shit, shit. Who’s going to tell the commander?”

“I am—after I’ve had a talk with Angelini. I need you to cover for me, Feeney. I’m going to transmit what I’ve got, excluding Angelini. You take it in to the commander. Tell him I’m hooking a couple hours of personal time.”

“Yeah, like he’ll buy that one.”

“Feeney, tell me I need some sleep. Tell me you’ll report to the commander, and to go home and catch a couple hours of sleep.”

Feeney heaved a long sigh. “Dallas, you need some sleep. I’ll report to the commander. Go home and catch a couple hours.”

“Now you can tell him you told me,” she said, and flicked off.

•••

Like routine police work, a cop’s gut often paid off. Eve’s told her that David Angelini would close himself in with family. Her first stop was the Angelini pied-` a-terre, cozied in an affluent East Side neighborhood.

Here the brownstones had been constructed barely thirty years before, reproductions of those designed during the nineteenth, and destroyed during the dawn of the twenty-first when most of New York’s infrastructure had failed. A large portion of New York’s posher homes in this area had been condemned and razed. After much debate, this area had been rebuilt in the old tradition—a tradition only the very wealthy had been able to afford.

After a ten-minute search, Eve managed to find a spot among the expensive European and American cars. Overhead, a trio of private minishuttles jockeyed for air space, circling as they looked for a clear landing.

Apparently, public transportation wasn’t high on the list in the neighborhood, and property was too dear to waste on garage facilities.

Still, New York was New York, and she locked the doors on her battered police issue before heading up the sidewalk. She watched a teenager skim by on an airboard. He took the opportunity to impress his small audience with a few complicated maneuvers, ending with a long, looping flip. Rather than disappoint him, Eve flashed him an appreciative grin.

“Nice moves.”

“I got the groove,” he claimed in a voice that was hovering between puberty and manhood with less security than he hovered over the sidewalk. “You board?”

“No. Too risky for me.” When she continued to walk, he circled around her, pivoting on the board with quick footwork.

“I could show you some of the easy scoots in five minutes.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. You know who lives there, in twenty-one?”

“Twenty-one? Sure, Mr. Angelini. You’re not one of his nibbles.”

She stopped. “I’m not?”

“Come on.” The boy cocked a grin, showing perfect teeth. “He goes for the dignified type. Older, too.” He did a quick vertical rock, side to side. “You don’t look like a domestic, either. Anyway, he mostly does the droid thing for that.”

“Does he have a lot of nibbles?”

“Only seen a few around here. Always come up in a private car. Sometimes they’ll stay till morning, but mostly not.”

“And how would you know?”

He grinned, unabashed. “I live right over there.” He pointed to a townhouse across the street. “I like to keep my eye on what’s doing.”

“Okay, why don’t you tell me if anybody came around last night?”

He swiveled his board, spun. “How come?”

“’Cause I’m a cop.”

His eyes widened as he studied her badge. “Wow. Decent. Hey, you think he popped his old lady? Gotta keep up with current events and shit for school.”

“This isn’t a quiz. Were you keeping your eye out last night? What’s your name?”

“It’s Barry. I was kind of hanging loose last night, watching some screen, listening to some tune. Supposed to be studying for this monster final in Comp Tech.”

“Why aren’t you in school today?”

“Hey, you’re not with the Truant Division?” His grin turned a little nervous. “It’s too early for class. Anyway, I got the three-day thing, E-school at home.”

“Okay. Last night?”

“While I was hanging, I saw Mr. Angelini go out. About eight, I guess. Then, late, probably closing on midnight, this other dude, flash car pulls up. He didn’t get out for awhile, just kinda sat there like he couldn’t make up his mind.”

Barry did a quick whirl-a-loop, dancing up the length of the board. “Then he went in. Walking funny. I figured he’d been dousing a few. Went right on in, so he knew the code. Didn’t see Mr. Angelini come back. I was probably zeeing by then. You know, catching winks.”

“Sleeping, yeah. I get it. Did you see anybody leave this morning?”

“Nope, but the flash car’s still there.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“Hey.” He scooted behind her. “Is being a cop a rocking thing?”

“Sometimes it rocks, sometimes it doesn’t.” She climbed the short steps to the Angelini home and identified herself to the cool tones of the greeting scanner.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, there is no one at home. If you would like to leave a message, it will be returned at the first opportunity.”

Eve looked directly at the scanner. “Process this. If there’s no one at home, I’m going to walk back to my car, request an entry and search warrant. That should take about ten minutes.”

She stood her ground and waited less than two before David Angelini opened the door.

“Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Angelini. Here or Cop Central? Your choice.”

“Come in.” He stepped back. “I just arrived in New York last night. I’m still a bit disorganized this morning.”

He led her into a dark-toned, high-ceilinged sitting room and offered her coffee politely, which she declined with equal politeness. He wore the slim, narrow cuffed slacks she’d seen on the streets of Rome with a wide-sleeved silk shirt of the same neutral cream color. His shoes matched the tone and looked soft enough to dent with a fingertip.

But his eyes were restless, and his hands tapped rhythmically on the arms of his chair when he sat.

“You have more information about my mother’s case.”

“You know why I’m here.”

He flicked his tongue over his lips, shifted. Eve thought she understood why he did so poorly at gaming. “Excuse me?”

She set her recorder on the table in full view. “David Angelini, your rights are as follows. You are under no obligation to make a statement. If you do make a statement, it will be logged into record and can and will be used against you in court or any legal proceeding. You have a right to the presence and advice of an attorney or representative.”

She continued the brisk recitation of his rights while his breathing quickened and grew more audible. “The charges?”

“You are not yet charged. Do you understand your rights?”

“Of course I understand them.”

“Do you wish to call your attorney?”

His mouth opened, a breath shuddered out. “Not yet. I assume you’re going to make the purpose of this interrogation clear, Lieutenant.”

“I think it’s going to be crystal. Mr. Angelini, where were you between the hours of eleven P.M., May 31 and twelve A.M., June 1?”

“I told you I’d just gotten into the city. I drove in from the airport and came here.”

“You came here, directly from the airport?”

“That’s right. I had a late meeting, but I—I canceled it.” He flicked open the top hook of his shirt, as if he needed air. “Rescheduled it.”

“What time did you arrive at the airport?”

“My flight got in around ten-thirty, I believe.”

“You came here.”

“I’ve said so.”

“Yes, you did.” Eve angled her head. “And you’re a liar. A bad liar. You sweat when you bluff.”

Aware of the damp line running down his back, he rose. His voice tried for outrage but ended on fear. “I believe I’ll contact my attorney after all, Lieutenant. And your superior. Is it standard police procedure to harass innocent people in their own homes?”

“Whatever works,” she murmured. “Then again, you’re not innocent. Go ahead and call your attorney, and we’ll all go down to Cop Central.”

But he didn’t move toward his ’link. “I haven’t done anything.”

“For starters, you’ve lied on record to an investigating officer. Call your attorney.”

“Wait, wait.” Rubbing a hand over his mouth, David paced the room. “It isn’t necessary. It isn’t necessary to take this that far.”

“That’s your choice. Would you care to revise your previous statement?”

“This is a delicate matter, Lieutenant.”

“Funny, I’ve always thought of murder as a crude matter, myself.”

He continued to pace, working his hands together. “You have to understand the business is in a tenuous position at the moment. The wrong kind of publicity will influence certain transactions. In a week, two at the most, it will all be resolved.”

“And you think I should hold off on all this until you get your financial ducks in a row?”

“I’d be willing to compensate you for your time and your discretion.”

“Would you?” Eve widened her eyes. “What sort of compensation are you suggesting, Mr. Angelini?”

“I can swing ten thousand.” He struggled for a smile. “Double that if you simply bury all of this for good.”

Eve crossed her arms. “Let the record show that David Angelini offered a monetary bribe to investigating primary Lieutenant Eve Dallas, and the aforesaid bribe was refused.”

“Bitch,” he said softly.

“You bet. Why were you at Channel 75 last night?”

“I’ve never said I was.”

“Let’s cut the dreck. You were recorded by gate security entering the property.” To emphasize, she opened her bag, took out the hard copy of his face, tossed it on the table.

“Gate security.” His legs seemed to fold from under him and he groped into a chair. “I never thought—never considered. I panicked.”

“Slicing someone’s jugular can do that to you.”

“I never touched her. I never went near her. Good God, do I look like a murderer?”

“They come in all styles. You were there. I have documentation. Hands!” she said sharply as her own jumped to her shoulder harness. “Keep your hands out of your pockets.”

“Name of God, do you think I’m carrying a knife?” Slowly he drew out a handkerchief, wiped his brow. “I didn’t even know Louise Kirski.”

“But you know her name.”

“I saw it on the news.” He closed his eyes. “I saw it on the news. And I saw him kill her.”

The muscles in Eve’s shoulders bunched, but unlike David she was good at the game. Both her face and voice were bland. “Well then, why don’t you tell me all about it?”

He worked his hands together again, linking fingers, twisting. He wore two rings, one diamond, one ruby, both set in heavy gold. They clinked together musically.

“You have to keep my name out of this.”

“No,” she said evenly, “I don’t. I don’t make deals. Your mother was a PA, Mr. Angelini. You should know if there are going to be any deals, they’re going to come through that office, not me. You’ve already lied on the record.” She kept her tone flat, easy. It was best when working with a nervous suspect to ease them in. “I’m giving you a chance to revise your previous statement, and again reminding you that you have the right to contact your attorney at any time during this interview. But if you want to talk to me, talk now. And I’ll start, to make it easy for you. What were you doing at Channel 75 last night?”

“I had a late meeting. I told you that I had one and canceled. That’s the truth. We’ve been—I’ve been working on an expansion deal. Angelini has some interest in the entertainment industry. We’ve been developing projects, programs, features for in-home viewing. Carlson Young, the head of the entertainment division of the channel, had done quite a bit to bring these projects to fruition. I was to meet him in his office there.”

“A little after business hours, wasn’t it?”

“The entertainment field doesn’t have what you might call normal business hours. Both of our schedules were tight, and this was a time that suited us both.”

“Why not handle it over the ’link?”

“A great deal of our business was done that way. But we both felt it was time for a personal meeting. We’d hoped—still hope—to have the first project on air by fall. We have the script,” he continued, almost talking to himself now. “The production team’s in place. We’ve already signed some of the cast.”

“So, you had a late night meeting with Carlson Young of Channel 75.”

“Yes. The weather held me up a bit. I was running late.” His head came up. “I called him from my car. You can check that, too. You can check. I called him a few minutes before eleven when I realized I would be late.”

“We’ll check everything, Mr. Angelini. Count on it.”

“I arrived at the main gate. I was distracted, thinking of . . . of some casting problems. I turned. I should have gone straight to the main entrance, but I was thinking of something else. I stopped the car, realized I’d have to backtrack. Then I saw—” He used his handkerchief, rubbed at his mouth. “I saw someone come out of a door. Then there was someone else, he must have been standing there watching, waiting. He moved so fast. It all moved so fast. She turned, and I saw her face. Just for a second, I saw her face in the light. His hand jerked up. Fast, very fast. And . . . dear God. The blood. It gushed, like a fountain. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t believe—it just spurted out of her. She fell, and he was running, running away.”

“What did you do?”

“I—I just sat there. I don’t know how long. I was driving away. I don’t even remember. I was driving and everything was like a dream. The rain, and the lights from other cars. Then I was here. I can’t even remember how I got here. But I was outside in the car. I called Young, and told him I’d been delayed again, that we needed to reschedule. I came inside, there was no one here. I took a sedative and went to bed.”

Eve let the silence hum a moment. “Let’s see if I’ve got this. You were on your way to a meeting, took a wrong turn, and saw a woman brutally murdered. Then you drove away, canceled your meeting, and went to bed. Is that accurate?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

“It didn’t occur to you to get out of your car, to see if she could be helped? Or perhaps to use your ’link to notify the authorities, the MTs?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I was shaken.”

“You were shaken. So you came here, took a pill, and went to bed.”

“That’s what I said,” he snapped out. “I need a drink.” With sweaty fingers, he fumbled for a control. “Vodka,” he ordered. “Bring the bottle.”

Eve let him stew until the server droid arrived with a bottle of Stoli and a short thick glass on its tray. She let him drink.

“There was nothing I could do,” he mumbled, goaded, as she’d intended, by her silence. “I wasn’t involved.”

“Your mother was murdered a few weeks ago by the method you’ve just described to me. And this didn’t involve you?”

“That was part of the problem.” He poured again, drank again. Shuddered. “I was shocked, and—and afraid. Violence isn’t part of my life, Lieutenant. It was part of my mother’s, a part I could never understand. She understood violence,” he said quietly. “She understood it.”

“And did you resent that, Mr. Angelini? That she understood violence, was strong enough to face it? Fight against it?”

His breathing was shallow. “I loved my mother. When I saw this other woman murdered, as my mother had been murdered, all I could think of to do was run.”

He paused, took a last quick swallow of vodka. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve been checking on me, asking questions, digging into my personal and professional lives? I’m a suspect already. How much worse would it have been for me to be there, right there, at the scene of another murder?”

Eve rose. “You’re about to find out.”

chapter fourteen

Eve questioned him again, in the less comforting surroundings of Interview Room C. He’d finally taken up his right for counsel, and three pinstriped, cold-eyed lawyers ranged beside their client at the conference table.

Eve had privatedly dubbed them Moe, Larry, and Curly.

Moe apparently was in charge. She was a tough-voiced woman with a severe bowl-cut hairstyle that had inspired Eve to christen her. Her associates said little but looked sober and occasionally made important-looking notations on the yellow legal pads that lawyers never seemed to tire of.

Now and again Curly, his wide forehead creased, would tap a few buttons on his log book and murmur conspiratorially in Larry’s ear.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Moe folded her hands, which were tipped with wicked looking inch-long scarlet nails, on the table. “My client is eager to cooperate.”

“He wasn’t,” Eve stated, “as you’ve seen for yourself from the first interview. After recanting his original story, your client admitted to leaving the scene of a crime and failing to report said crime to the proper authorities.”

Moe sighed. It was a windy, disappointed sound. “You can, of course, charge Mr. Angelini with those lapses. We will, in turn, claim diminished capacity, shock, and the emotional trauma of his mother’s recent murder. This would all be a waste of the court’s time, and the taxpayer’s dollar.”

“I haven’t charged your client with those . . . lapses as yet. We’re dealing with a larger theme here.”

Curly scribbled something, tilted his pad for Larry to read. The two of them murmured together and looked grave.

“You have confirmed my client’s appointment at Channel 75.”

“Yeah, he had an appointment, which he canceled at eleven thirty-five. Odd that his diminished capacity and his emotional trauma eased off enough for him to take care of business.” Before Moe could speak again, Eve turned and pinned Angelini with one hard stare. “You know Nadine Furst?”

“I know who she is. I’ve seen her on the news.” He hesitated, leaned over to consult Moe. After a moment, he nodded. “I’d met her a few times socially, and spoke with her briefly after my mother’s death.”

Eve already knew all of that, and circled her quarry. “I’m sure you’ve seen her reports. You’d have a vested interest, as she’s been covering the recent murders. Your mother’s murder.”

“Lieutenant, what does my client’s interest in the news coverage of his mother’s death have to do with the murder of Ms. Kirski?”

“I’m wondering. You have seen Nadine Furst’s reports over the last couple weeks, Mr. Angelini.”

“Of course.” He’d recovered enough to sneer. “You’ve gotten a lot of airtime out of it, Lieutenant.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I think it’s appalling that a public servant, paid by the city, would seek notoriety through tragedy.”

“Sounds like it pissed you off,” Eve said with an easy shrug. “Ms. Furst has been getting plenty of notoriety out of it, too.”

“One learns to expect someone like her to use someone else’s pain for her own advancement.”

“You didn’t like the coverage?”

“Lieutenant,” Moe said with her patience obviously straining. “Where’s the point in this?”

“This isn’t a trial, yet. I don’t need a point. Were you annoyed by the coverage, Mr. Angelini? Angry?”

“I—” He broke off at a sharp look from Moe. “I come from a prominent family,” he said more carefully. “We’re accustomed to such things.”

“If we could get back to the business at hand,” Moe requested.

“This is the business at hand. Louise Kirski was wearing Nadine Furst’s raincoat when she was killed. You know what I think, Mr. Angelini? I think the killer hit the wrong target. I think he was waiting for Nadine and Louise just happened to choose the wrong time to go out in the rain for cigarettes.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” His eyes darted toward his attorneys. “It still doesn’t have anything to do with me. I saw it. That’s all.”

“You said it was a man. What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him clearly, his back was to me. It happened so fast.”

“But you saw enough to know it was a man.”

“I assumed.” He broke off, struggling to control his breathing while Moe whispered in his ear. “It was raining,” he began. “I was several meters away, in my car.”

“You said you saw the victim’s face.”

“The light, she turned her head toward the light when he—or when the killer—went toward her.”

“And this killer, who might have been a man, and who came out of nowhere. Was he tall, short, old, young?”

“I don’t know. It was dark.”

“You said there was light.”

“Just that circle of light. He’d been in the shadows. He was wearing black,” David said on a burst of inspiration. “A long black coat—and a hat, a hat that drooped down low.”

“That’s convenient. He was wearing black. It’s so original.”

“Lieutenant, I can’t advise my client to continue to cooperate if you persist in sarcasm.”

“Your client’s in hip deep. My sarcasm’s the least of his worries. We’ve got the three big ones. Means, motive, opportunity.”

“You have nothing but my client’s admission that he witnessed a crime. Further,” Moe went on, tapping those dangerous nails on the conference table, “you have absolutely nothing to link him with the other murders. What you’ve got, Lieutenant, is a maniac on the loose, and a desperate need to appease your superiors and the public with an arrest. It’s not going to be my client.”

“We’ll have to see about that. Now—” Her communicator beeped, twice, a signal from Feeney. Her adrenaline surged, and she masked it with a bland smile. “Excuse me, I’ll only be a moment.”

She stepped out of the room into the hallway. Behind her through the one-way glass, a huddle was in progress. “Give me good news, Feeney. I want to nail this son of a bitch.”

“Good news?” Feeney rubbed his chin. “Well, you might like this. Yvonne Metcalf was in negotiations with our pal in there. Covert negotiations.”

“For?”

“The lead in some flick. It was all on the Q.T. because her contract for Tune In was coming up. I finally pinned her agent down. If she snagged the part, she was willing to ditch the sitcom. But they were going to have to up the ante, guarantee a three-feature deal, international distribution, and twenty hours’ straight promo.”

“Sounds like she wanted a lot.”

“She was squeezing him some. My take from what the agent said is he needed Metcalf to guarantee some of the financial backing, but they wanted a chunk on the front end. He was scrambling to come up with it and save his project.”

“He knew her. And she had the controls.”

“According to the agent, he came in to meet Metcalf personally, several times. They had a couple of tête-à-têtes at her apartment. He got a little hot, but Metcalf laughed it off. She was banking that he’d come around.”

“I love when it falls into place, don’t you?” She turned, studying Angelini through the glass. “We’ve got a connection, Feeney. He knew them all.”

“He was supposed to be on the coast when Metcalf got whacked.”

“How much do you want to bet he’s got a private plane? You know something I’ve learned since Roarke, Feeney? Flight plans don’t mean squat if you’ve got money, and your own transpo. No, unless he comes up with ten witnesses who were kissing his ass when Metcalf went down, I’ve got him. Watch him sweat,” she muttered as she swung back into the interview room.

She sat, crossed her arms on the table, and met Angelini’s eyes. “You knew Yvonne Metcalf.”

“I—” Off balance, David reached up, tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Certainly, I . . . everyone did.”

“You had business with her, met her personally, you’d been to her apartment.”

This was obviously news to Moe, who bared her teeth, tossed up a hand. “One moment, Lieutenant. I’d like to speak to my client privately.”

“All right.” Obliging, Eve rose. Outside, she watched the show through the glass, and thought it a pity that the law prevented her from turning on the audio.

Still, she could see Moe fire questions at David and could gauge his stuttering responses while Larry and Curly looked grim and scribbled furiously on their pads.

Moe shook her head at one of David’s answers, stabbed him with one of her lethal red nails. Eve was smiling when Moe lifted a hand and signaled her back into the room.

“My client is prepared to state that he was acquainted with Yvonne Metcalf, on a professional level.”

“Uh-huh.” This time Eve leaned a hip on the table. “Yvonne Metcalf was giving you some grief, wasn’t she, Mr. Angelini?”

“We were in negotiations.” His hands linked together again, twisted. “It’s standard for the talent side of a project to demand the moon. We were . . . coming to terms.”

“You met her in her apartment. Argued?”

“We—I—we had meetings at several locations. Her home was one of them. We discussed terms and options.”

“Where were you, Mr. Angelini, on the night Yvonne Metcalf was murdered?”

“I’d have to check my diary,” he said with surprising control. “But I believe I was in New Los Angeles, the Planet Hollywood complex. I stay there whenever I’m in town.”

“And where might you have been between oh, seven and midnight, West Coast time?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“You’re going to want to say, Mr. Angelini.”

“Most likely in my room. I had a great deal of business to see to. The script needed reworking.”

“The script you were tailoring for Ms. Metcalf.”

“Yes, actually.”

“And you were working alone?”

“I prefer to be alone when I write. I wrote the script, you see.” He flushed a little, the color rising from the collar of his shirt. “I put a great deal of time and effort into preparing it.”

“You keep a plane?”

“A plane. Naturally, the way I travel, I—”

“Was your plane in New Los Angeles?”

“Yes, I—” His eyes went wide and blank as he realized the implication. “You can’t seriously believe this!”

“David, sit down,” Moe said firmly when he lurched to his feet. “You have nothing more to say at this time.”

“She thinks I killed them. That’s insane. My own mother, for God’s sake. What reason? What possible reason could there be for that?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas on that. We’ll see if the shrink agrees with me.”

“My client is under no obligation to submit to psychiatric testing.”

“I think you’re going to advise him to do just that.”

“This interview,” Moe said in snippy tones, “is terminated.”

“Fine.” Eve straightened, enjoyed the moment when her eyes met David’s. “David Angelini, you’re under arrest. You are charged with leaving the scene of a crime, obstruction of justice, and attempted bribery of a police officer.”

He lunged at her, going ironically, Eve thought, for the throat. She waited until his hands had closed over it, his eyes bulging with fury, before she knocked him down.

Ignoring the snapping orders of his attorney, Eve leaned over him. “We won’t bother with adding assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. I don’t think we’re going to need it. Book him,” she snapped at the uniforms who had charged the door.

“Nice work, Dallas,” Feeney congratulated as they watched David being led away.

“Let’s hope the PA’s office thinks so, enough to block bail. We have to hold him and sweat him. I want him on murder one, Feeney. I want him bad.”

“We’re close to it, kid.”

“We need the physical evidence. We need the damn weapon, blood, the souvenirs. Mira’s psychiatric will help, but I can’t bump up the charges without some physical.” Impatient, she consulted her watch. “Shouldn’t take too long to get a search warrant, even with the lawyers trying to block.”

“How long you been up?” he wondered. “I can count the circles under your eyes.”

“Long enough that another couple of hours won’t matter. How about I buy you a drink while we wait for the warrant?”

He put a paternal hand on her shoulder. “I think we’re both going to need one. The commander got wind of it. He wants us, Dallas. Now.”

She dug a finger along the center of her brow. “Let’s get it together then. And make it two drinks after we’re done.”

Whitney didn’t waste time. The moment Eve and Feeney stepped into his office, he scalded them both with one long look. “You brought David in to Interview.”

“I did, yes, sir.” Eve took an extra step forward to take the heat. “We have video of him on the gate security at Channel 75 at the time of Louise Kirski’s murder.” She didn’t pause, but streamed through her report, her voice brisk, her eyes level.

“David says he saw the murder.”

“He claims he saw someone, possibly male, in a long black coat and a hat, attack Kirski, then run toward Third.”

“And he panicked,” Whitney added, still in control. His hands were quiet on his desk. “Left the scene without reporting the incident.” Whitney may have been cursing inwardly, his stomach might have been in greasy knots of tension, but his eyes were cool, hard, and steady. “It’s not an atypical reaction from a witness to a violent crime.”

“He denied he was on scene,” Eve said calmly. “Tried to cover, offered a bribe. He had the opportunity, Commander. And he’s linked to all three victims. He knew Metcalf, was working with her on a project, had been to her apartment.”

Whitney’s only reaction was to curl his fingers, then uncurl them. “Motive, Lieutenant?”

“Money first,” she said. “He’s having financial difficulties that will be eased after his mother’s will is probated. The victims, or in the third case, the intended victim, were all strong women in the public eye. Were all, in some manner, causing him distress. Unless his lawyers try to block it, Doctor Mira will test him, determine his emotional and mental state, the probability factor of his aptitude toward violence.”

She thought of the press of his hands around her throat and figured the probability was going to be nice and high.

“He wasn’t in New York for the first two murders.”

“Sir.” She felt a bolt of pity, but suppressed it. “He has a private plane. He can shuttle anywhere he likes. It’s pathetically simple to doctor flight plans. I can’t book him for the murders yet, but I want him held until we gather more evidence.”

“You’re holding him on leaving the scene and the bribery charge?”

“It’s a good arrest, Commander. I’m requesting search warrants. When we find any physical evidence—”

“If,” Whitney interrupted. He rose now, no longer able to sit behind his desk. “That’s a very big difference, Dallas. Without physical evidence, your murder case can’t hold.”

“Which is why he has yet to be charged for murder.” She laid a hard copy on his desk. She and Feeney had taken the time to swing past her office and use her computer for the probability ratio. “He knew the first two victims and Nadine Furst, had contact with them, was on the scene of the last murder. We suspect that Towers was covering for someone when she zapped the last call on her ’link. She would have covered for her son. And their relationship was strained due to his gambling problem and her refusal to bail him out. With known data, the probability factor of guilt is eighty-three point one percent.”

“You haven’t taken into account that he’s incapable of that kind of violence.” Whitney laid his hands on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “You didn’t factor that in to the mix, did you, Lieutenant? I know David Angelini, Dallas. I know him as well as I know my own children. He isn’t a killer. He’s a fool, perhaps. He’s weak, perhaps. But he isn’t a cold-blooded killer.”

“Sometimes the weak and the foolish strike out. Commander, I’m sorry. I can’t kick him loose.”

“Do you have any idea what it would do to a man like him to be penned? To know he’s suspected of killing his own mother?” There was no choice left for him, in Whitney’s mind, but a plea. “I can’t deny that he was spoiled. His father wanted the best for him and for Mirina, and saw that they got it. From childhood he was accustomed to asking for something and having it fall into his lap. Yes, his life has been easy, privileged, even indulgent. He’s made mistakes, errors in judgment, and they’ve been fixed for him. But there’s no malice in him, Dallas. No violence. I know him.”

Whitney’s voice didn’t rise, but it reverberated with emotion. “You’ll never convince me that David took a knife and ripped it across his mother’s throat. I’m asking you to consider that, and to delay the paperwork on the yellow sheet and recommend his release on his own recognizance.”

Feeney started to speak, but Eve shook her head. He may have outranked her, but she was primary. She was in charge. “Three women are dead, Commander. We have a suspect in custody. I can’t do what you’re asking. You put me on as primary because you knew I wouldn’t.”

He turned and stared hard out of the window. “Compassion’s not your strong suit, is it, Dallas?”

She winced, but said nothing.

“That’s a wrong swing, Jack,” Feeney said, with heat. “And if you’re going to take one at her, then you’ll have to take one at me, ’cause I’m with Dallas on this. We’ve got enough to book him on the small shit, to take him off the street, and that’s what we’re doing.”

“You’ll ruin him.” Whitney turned back. “But that’s not your problem. You get your warrants, and you do your search. But as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to keep the case open. You keep looking. Have your reports on my desk by fourteen hundred.” He flicked a last glance at Dallas. “You’re dismissed.”

She walked out, surprised that her legs felt like glass: the thin, fragile kind that could be shattered with a careless brush of the hand.

“He was out of line, Dallas,” Feeney said, catching at her arm. “He’s hurting, and he took a bad shot at you.”

“Not so bad.” Her voice was rough and raw. “Compassion’s not my strong suit, is it? I don’t know shit about family ties and loyalties, do I?”

Uncomfortable, Feeney shifted his feet. “Come on, Dallas, you don’t want to take it personal.”

“Don’t I? He’s stood behind me plenty of times. Now he’s asking me to stand behind him, and I have to say sorry, no chance. That’s pretty fucking personal, Feeney.” She shook off his hand. “Let’s take a rain check on the drinks. I’m not feeling sociable.”

At a loss, Feeney dumped his hands in his pockets. Eve strode off in one direction, the commander remained behind closed doors in the other. Feeney stood unhappily between them.

Eve supervised the search of Marco Angelini’s brownstone personally. She wasn’t needed there. The sweepers knew their job, and their equipment was as good as the budget allowed. Still, she sprayed her hands, coated her boots, and moved through the three-story home looking for anything that would tie up the case, or, thinking of Whitney’s face, break it.

Marco Angelini remained on the premises. That was his right as owner of the property, and as the father of the prime suspect. Eve blocked out his presence, the cold azure eyes that followed her moves, the haggard look to his face, the quick muscle twitch in his jaw.

One of the sweepers did a thorough check of David’s wardrobe with a porta-sensor, looking for bloodstains. While he worked, Eve meticulously searched the rest of the room.

“Coulda ditched the weapon,” the sweeper commented. He was an old, buck-toothed vet nicknamed Beaver. He traced the sensor, the arm of it wrapped over his left shoulder, down a thousand-dollar sport coat.

“He used the same one on all three women,” Eve answered, speaking more to herself than Beaver. “The lab confirms it. Why would he ditch it now?”

“Maybe he was done.” The sensor switched from its muted hum to a quick beep. “Just a little salad oil,” Beaver announced. “Extra virgin olive. Spotted his pretty tie. Maybe he was done,” Beaver said again.

He admired detectives, had once had ambitions to become one. The closest he’d managed to get was as a field tech. But he read every detective story available on disc.

“See, three’s like a magic number. An important number.” His eyes sharpened behind his tinted glasses as the treated lenses picked up a minute spot of talc on a cuff. He moved on, warming to the theme. “So this guy, see, he fixes on three women, women he knows, sees all the time on the screen. Maybe he’s hot for them.”

“The first victim was his mother.”

“Hey.” Beaver paused long enough to swivel a look toward Eve. “You never heard of Oedipus? That Greek guy, you know, had the hots for his mama. Anyhow, he does the three, then ditches the weapon and the clothes he was wearing when he did them. This guy’s got enough clothes for six people, anyway.”

Frowning, Eve walked over to the spacious closet, scanned the automatic racks, the motorized shelves. “He doesn’t even live here.”

“Dude’s rich, right?” To Beaver that explained everything. “He’s got a couple suits in here ain’t never been worn. Shoes, too.” He reached down, picked up one of a pair of leather half boots, turned them over. “Nothing, see?” He skimmed the sensor over the unscuffed bottom. “No dirt, no dust, no sidewalk scrapes, no fibers.”

“That only makes him guilty of self-indulgence. Goddamn it, Beaver, get me some blood.”

“I’m working on it. Probably tossed what he was wearing, though.”

“You’re a real optimist, Beaver.”

In disgust, she turned toward a U-shaped lacquered desk and began to rifle through the drawers. The discs she would bag and run through her own computer. They could get lucky and find some correspondence between David Angelini and his mother or Metcalf. Or luckier yet, she mused, and find some rambling confessional diary that described the murders.

Where the hell had he put the umbrella? she wondered. The shoe? She wondered if the sweepers in N.L.A. or the ones in Europe were having any better luck. The thought of backtracking and searching all the cozy little homes and luxury hideaways of David Angelini was giving her a bad case of indigestion.

Then she found the knife.

It was so simple. Open the middle drawer of the work console, and there it was. Long, slim, and lethal. It had a fancy handle, carved out of what might have been genuine ivory, which would have made it an antique—or an international crime. Harvesting ivory, or purchasing it in any form had been outlawed planetwide for more than half a century after the near extinction of African elephants.

Eve wasn’t an antique buff, nor was she an expert on environmental crime, but she’d studied forensics enough to know that the shape and length of the blade were right.

“Well, well.” Her indigestion was gone, like a bad guest. In its place was the clear, clean high of success. “Maybe three wasn’t his magic number after all.”

“He kept it? Son of a bitch.” Disappointed in the foolishness of a murderer, Beaver shook his head. “Guy’s an idiot.”

“Scan it,” she ordered, crossing to him.

Beaver shifted the bulk of the scanner, changed the program from clothing. After a quick adjustment of his lenses, he ran the funnel of the arm up the knife. The scanner beeped helpfully.

“Got some shit on it,” Beaver muttered, his thick fingertips playing over controls like a concert pianist’s over keys. “Fiber—maybe paper. Some kind of adhesive. Prints on the handle. Want a hard copy of ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“’Kay.” The scanner spit out a square of paper dotted with fingerprints. “Turn her over. And bingo. There’s your blood. Not much of it.” He frowned, skimming the funnel along the edge of the blade. “Going to be lucky if it’s enough for typing, much less DNA.”

“You keep that positive outlook, Beaver. How old’s the blood?”

“Come on, Lieutenant.” Behind the sensor lenses, his eyes were huge and cynical. “You know I can’t give you that from one of the portables. Gotta take it in. All this little girl does is identify. No skin,” he announced. “Be better if you had some skin.”

“I’ll take the blood.” As she sealed the knife into evidence, a movement caught her eyes. She looked up and into the dark, damning eyes of Marco Angelini.

He glanced down at the knife, then back into her face. Something moved across his, something wrenching that had the muscle jerking in his jaw.

“I’d like a moment of your time, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I can’t give you much more than that.”

“It won’t take long.” His eyes flicked to Beaver, then back to the knife as Dallas slipped it into her bag. “In private, please.”

“All right.” She nodded to the uniform who stood at Angelini’s shoulder. “Tell one of the team to come up and finish the hands-on search in here,” she ordered Beaver, then followed Angelini out of the room.

He turned toward a set of narrow, carpeted steps, his hand trailing along a glossy banister as he climbed. At the top, he shifted right and stepped into a room.

An office, Eve discovered. Sunwashed now in the brilliant afternoon. Light beamed and glinted off the surfaces of communication equipment, struck and bounced from the smooth semi-circular console of sober black, flashed and pooled on the surface of the gleaming floor.

As if annoyed with the strength of the sunlight, Angelini hit a switch that had the windows tinted to a soft amber. Now the room had shadows around pale gold edges.

Angelini walked directly to a wall unit and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. He held the square glass in his hand, took one careful sip.

“You believe my son murdered his mother and two other women.”

“Your son has been questioned on those charges, Mr. Angelini. He is a suspect. If you have any questions about the procedure, you should speak with his counsel.”

“I’ve spoken with them.” He took another sip. “They believe there’s a good chance you will charge him, but that he won’t be indicted.”

“That’s up to the grand jury.”

“But you think he will.”

“Mr. Angelini, if and when I have arrested your son and charged him with three counts of first-degree murder, it will be because I believe he will be indicted, tried, and convicted on those charges, and that I have the evidence to ensure that conviction.”

He looked at her field bag where she’d put some of that evidence. “I’ve done some research on you, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Have you?”

“I like to know the odds,” he said with a humorless smile that came and went in a blink. “Commander Whitney respects you. And I respect him. My former wife admired your tenacity and your thoroughness, and she was not a fool. She spoke of you, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“She was impressed by your mind. A clean cop’s mind she called it. You’re good at your job, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, I’m good at it.”

“But you make mistakes.”

“I try to keep them to a minimum.”

“A mistake in your profession, however minimal, can cause incredible pain to the innocent.” His eyes stayed on hers, relentlessly. “You found a knife in my son’s room.”

“I can’t discuss that with you.”

“He rarely uses this house,” Angelini said carefully. “Three or four times a year perhaps. He prefers the Long Island estate when he’s in the area.”

“That may be, Mr. Angelini, but he used this house on the night Louise Kirski was killed.” Impatient now, eager to get the evidence to the lab, Eve moved a shoulder. “Mr. Angelini, I can’t debate the state’s case with you—”

“But you’re very confident that the state has a good case,” he interrupted. When she didn’t answer, he took another long study of her face. Then he finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass aside. “But you’re wrong, Lieutenant. You’ve got the wrong man.”

“You believe in your son’s innocence, Mr. Angelini. I understand that.”

“Not believe, Lieutenant, know. My son didn’t kill those women.” He took a breath, like a diver about to plunge under the surface. “I did.”

chapter fifteen

Eve had no choice. She took him in and grilled him. After a full hour, she had a vicious headache and the calm, unshakable statement from Marco Angelini that he had killed three women.

He refused counsel, and refused to or was unable to elaborate.

Each time Eve asked him why he had killed, he stared straight into her eyes and claimed it had been impulse. He’d been annoyed with his wife, he stated. Personally embarrassed by her continued intimacy with a business partner. He’d killed her because he couldn’t have her back. Then he’d gotten a taste for it.

It was all very simple, and to Eve’s mind, very rehearsed. She could picture him repeating and refining the lines in his head before he spoke them.

“This is bullshit,” she said abruptly and pushed back from the conference table. “You didn’t kill anybody.”

“I say I did.” His voice was eerily calm. “You have my confession on record.”

“Then tell me again.” Leaning forward, she slapped her hands on the table. “Why did you ask your wife to meet you at the Five Moons?”

“I wanted it to happen somewhere out of our milieu. I thought I could get away with it, you see. I told her there was trouble with Randy. She didn’t know the full problem of his gambling. I did. So, of course, she came.”

“And you slit her throat.”

“Yes.” His skin whitened slightly. “It was very quick.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went home.”

“How?”

He blinked. “I drove. I’d parked my car a couple of blocks away.”

“What about the blood?” She peered into his eyes, watching his pupils. “There’d have been a lot of it. She’d have gushed all over you.”

The pupils dilated, but his voice remained steady. “I was wearing a top coat, rain resistant. I discarded it along the way.” He smiled a little. “I imagine some itinerant found it and made use of it.”

“What did you take from the scene?”

“The knife, of course.”

“Nothing of hers?” She waited a beat. “Nothing to make it look like a robbery, a mugging?”

He hesitated. She could almost see his mind working behind his eyes. “I was shaken. I hadn’t expected it to be so unpleasant. I had planned to take her bag, the jewelry, but I forgot, and just ran.”

“You ran, taking nothing, but were smart enough to ditch your blood-splattered coat.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you went after Metcalf.”

“She was an impulse. I kept dreaming about what it had been like, and I wanted to do it again. She was easy.” His breathing leveled and his hands lay still on the table. “She was ambitious and rather naive. I knew David had written a screenplay with her in mind. He was determined to complete this entertainment project—it was something we disagreed over. It annoyed me, and it would have cost the company resources that are, at the moment, a bit strained. I decided to kill her, and I contacted her. Of course she agreed to meet me.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Wearing?” He fumbled for a moment. “I didn’t pay attention. It wasn’t important. She smiled, held out both of her hands as I walked toward her. And I did it.”

“Why are you coming forward now?”

“As I said, I thought I could get away with it. Perhaps I could have. I never expected my son to be arrested in my place.”

“So, you’re protecting him?”

“I killed them, Lieutenant. What more do you want?”

“Why did you leave the knife in his drawer, in his room?”

His eyes slid away, slid back. “As I said, he rarely stays there. I thought it was safe. Then I was contacted about the search warrant. I didn’t have time to remove it.”

“You expect me to buy this? You think you’re helping him by clouding the case, by coming forward with this lame confession. You think he’s guilty.” She lowered her voice, bit off each word. “You’re so terrified that your son is a murderer that you’re willing to take the rap rather than see him face the consequences. Are you going to let another woman die, Angelini? Or two, or three before you swallow reality?”

His lips trembled once, then firmed. “I’ve given you my statement.”

“You’ve given me bullshit.” Turning on her heel, Eve left the room. Struggling to calm herself, she stood outside, watched with a jaundiced eye as Angelini pressed his face into his hands.

She could break him, eventually. But there was always a chance that word would leak and the media would scream that there was a confession from someone other than the prime.

She looked over at the sound of footsteps, and her body stiffened like steel. “Commander.”

“Lieutenant. Progress?”

“He’s sticking to his story. It’s got holes you could drive a shuttle through. I’ve given him the opening to bring up the souvenirs from the first two hits. He didn’t bite.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Privately, Lieutenant, and off the record.” Before she could speak, he held up a hand. “I realize it’s not procedure. I’m asking you for a favor.”

“And if he incriminates himself or his son?”

Whitney’s jaw tightened. “I’m still a cop, Dallas. Goddamn it.”

“Yes, sir.” She unlocked the door, then after only a faint hesitation, darkened the two-way glass and shut off audio. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Thank you.” He stepped inside. He gave her one last look before shutting the door and turning to the man slumped at the table. “Marco,” Whitney said on a long sigh. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Jack.” Marco offered a thin smile. “I wondered if you’d be along. We never did make that golf date.”

“Talk to me.” Whitney sat down heavily.

“Hasn’t your efficient and dogged lieutenant filled you in?”

“The recorder’s off,” Whitney said sharply. “We’re alone. Talk to me, Marco. We both know you didn’t kill Cicely or anyone else.”

For a moment, Marco stared up at the ceiling, as if pondering. “People never know each other as well as they believe. Not even the people they care for. I loved her, Jack. I never stopped loving her. But she stopped loving me. Part of me was always waiting for her to start loving me again. But she never would have.”

“Damn it, Marco, do you expect me to believe that you slit her throat because she divorced you twelve years ago?”

“Maybe I thought she might have married Hammett. He wanted that,” Marco said quietly. “I could see that he wanted that. Cicely was reluctant.” His voice remained calm, quiet, faintly nostalgic. “She enjoyed her independence, but she was sorry to disappoint Hammett. Sorry enough that she might have given in eventually. Married him. It would have really been over then, wouldn’t it?”

“You killed Cicely because she might have married another man?”

“She was my wife, Jack. Whatever the courts and the Church said.”

Whitney sat a moment, silent. “I’ve played poker with you too many times over the years, Marco. You’ve got tells.” Folding his arms on the table, he leaned forward. “When you bluff, you tap your finger on your knee.”

The finger stopped tapping. “This is a long way from poker, Jack.”

“You can’t help David this way. You’ve got to let the system work.”

“David and I . . . there’s been a lot of friction between us in the last several months. Business disagreements and personal ones.” For the first time he sighed, deep and long and wearily. “There shouldn’t be distance between father and son over such foolishness.”

“This is hardly the way to mend fences, Marco.”

The steel came back into Angelini’s eyes. There would be no more sighs. “Let me ask you something, Jack, just between us. If it was one of yours, and there was the slightest chance—just the slightest—that they’d be convicted of murder, would anything stop you from protecting them?”

“You can’t protect David by stepping in with some bullshit confession.”

“Who said it was bullshit?” The word sounded like cream in Angelini’s cultured voice. “I did it, and I’m confessing because I can’t live with myself if my own child pays for my crime. Now tell me, Jack, would you stand behind your son, or in front of him?”

“Ah, hell, Marco,” was all Whitney could say.

He stayed for twenty minutes, but got nothing more. For a time he guided the conversation into casual lines, golf scores, the standings of the baseball team Marco had a piece of. Then, quick and sleek as a snake, he’d toss out a hard, leading question on the murders.

But Marco Angelini was an expert negotiator, and had already given his bottom line. He wouldn’t budge.

Guilt, grief, and the beginnings of real fear made an unsettling stew in Whitney’s stomach as he stepped into Eve’s office. She was hunched over her computer, scanning data, calling up more.

For the first time in days, his eyes cleared of their own fatigue and saw hers. She was pale, her eyes shadowed, her mouth grim. Her hair stood up in spikes as if she’d dragged her hands through it countless times. Even as he watched, she did so again, then pressed her fingers to her eyes as if they burned.

He remembered the morning in his office, the morning after Cicely had been murdered. And the responsibility he’d hung around Eve’s neck.

“Lieutenant.”

Her shoulders straightened as if she’d slammed steel poles into them. Her head came up, her eyes carefully blank.

“Commander.” She got to her feet. Got to attention, Whitney thought, annoyed by the stiff and impersonal formality.

“Marco’s in holding. We can keep him for forty-eight hours without charging him. I thought it best to let him think behind bars for a while. He still refuses counsel.”

Whitney stepped in while she stood there, and he looked around. He wasn’t often in this sector of the complex. His officers came to him. Another weight of command.

She could have had a bigger office. She’d earned one. But she seemed to prefer to work in a room so small that if three people crowded into it, they’d be in sin.

“Good thing you’re not claustrophobic,” he commented. She gave no response, didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow. Whitney muttered an oath. “Listen, Dallas—”

“Sir.” Her interruption was fast and brittle. “Forensics has the weapon retrieved from David Angelini’s room. I’m informed that there will be some delay on the results as the blood traces detected by the sweeper are of an amount borderline for typing and DNA.”

“So noted, Lieutenant.”

“The fingerprints on the weapon in evidence have been matched to those of David Angelini. My report—”

“We’ll get to your report momentarily.”

Her chin jutted up. “Yes, sir.”

“Goddamn it, Dallas, yank that stick out of your butt and sit down.”

“Is that an order, Commander?”

“Ah, hell,” he began.

Mirina Angelini burst through the doorway in a clatter of high heels and a crackle of silk. “Why are you trying to destroy my family?” she demanded, shaking off the restraining hand of Slade who had come in behind her.

“Mirina, this isn’t going to help.”

She jerked away and crowded into Eve. “Isn’t it enough that my mother was murdered on the street? Murdered because American cops are too busy chasing shadows and filling out useless reports to protect the innocent?”

“Mirina,” Whitney said, “come on to my office. We’ll talk.”

“Talk?” She turned on him like a cat, gold and sleek, teeth bared for blood. “How can I talk to you? I trusted you. I thought you cared about me, about David, about all of us. You’ve let her lock David in a cell. And now my father.”

“Mirina, Marco came in voluntarily. We’ll talk about this. I’ll explain it all to you.”

“There’s nothing to explain.” She turned her back on him and aimed her scorching fury at Eve. “I went to my father’s house. He wanted me to stay in Rome, but I couldn’t. Not when every report in the media is smearing my brother’s name. When we arrived, a neighbor was more than happy, even gleeful, to tell me that my father had been taken away by the police.”

“I can arrange for you to speak with your father, Ms. Angelini,” Eve said coolly. “And your brother.”

“You’re damn right you’ll arrange it. And now. Where is my father?” She used both hands to shove Eve back a pace before Whitney or Slade could stop her. “What have you done with him, you bitch!”

“You want to keep your hands off me,” Eve warned. “I’ve just about had my fill of Angelinis. Your father’s in holding, here. Your brother’s in the tower at Riker’s. You can see your father now. If you want to see your brother, you’ll be shuttled over.” Her gaze flicked to Whitney, and stung. “Or since you’ve got some pull around here, you can probably have him transported to Visitation for an hour.”

“I know what you’re doing.” This was no fragile flower now. Mirina fairly vibrated with power. “You need a scapegoat. You need an arrest so that the media will get out of your face. You’re playing politics, using my brother, even my murdered mother, so that you won’t lose your job.”

“Yeah, some cushy job.” She smiled sourly. “I toss innocent people in a cage every day so I can keep all the benefits.”

“It keeps your face on the screen, doesn’t it?” Mirina tossed her glorious hair. “How much publicity have you traded over my mother’s dead body?”

“That’s enough, Mirina.” Whitney’s voice lashed like a whip, in one vicious snap. “Go to my office and wait.” He looked over her shoulder at Slade. “Take her out of here.”

“Mirina, this is useless,” Slade murmured, trying to tuck her under his arm. “Let’s go now.”

“Don’t hold me.” She bit off each word as if they were stringy meat, then shrugged away from him. “I’ll go. But you’re going to pay for the grief you’ve brought my family, Lieutenant. You’re going to pay for every bit of it.”

She stalked out, giving Slade time for only a muttered apology before he followed after her.

Whitney stepped quietly into the silence. “You okay?”

“I’ve dealt with worse.” Eve jerked a shoulder. Inside she was sick with anger and guilt. Sick enough that she wanted badly to be alone behind closed doors. “If you’ll excuse me, Commander, I want to finish going over this report.”

“Dallas—Eve.” It was the weariness in his tone that had her gaze lifting warily to his. “Mirina’s upset, understandably so. But she was out of line, way out of line.”

“She was entitled to a couple of shots at me.” Because she wanted to press her hands to her throbbing head, she tucked them negligently into her pockets. “I’ve just put what’s left of her family in a cage. Who else is she going to be pissed at? I can take it.” Her gaze remained cool, steely. “Feelings aren’t my strong suit.”

He nodded slowly. “I had that coming. I put you on this case, Dallas, because you’re the best I’ve got. Your mind’s good, your gut’s good. And you care. You care about the victim.” Letting out a long breath, he dragged a hand over his hair. “I was off base this morning, Dallas, in my office. I’ve been off base a number of times with you since this whole mess began. I apologize for it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I wish it didn’t.” He searched her face, saw the stiff restraint. “But I see it does. I’ll take care of Mirina, arrange the visitations.”

“Yes, sir. I’d like to continue my interview with Marco Angelini.”

“Tomorrow,” Whitney said and set his teeth when she didn’t quite mask the sneer. “You’re tired, Lieutenant, and tired cops make mistakes and miss details. You’ll pick it up tomorrow.” He headed for the door, swore again, and stopped without looking back at her. “Get some sleep, and for Christ’s sake, take a painkiller for that headache. You look like hell.”

She resisted slamming the door after him. Resisted because it would be petty and unprofessional. But she sat down, stared at the screen, and pretended her head wasn’t shuddering with pain.

When a shadow fell over her desk moments later, she looked up, eyes fired for battle.

“Well,” Roarke said mildly and leaned over to kiss her snarling mouth. “That’s quite a welcome.” He patted his chest. “Am I bleeding?”

“Ha-ha.”

“There’s that sparkling wit I missed.” He sat on the edge of the desk where he could look at her and catch a glimpse of the data on the screen to see if that was what had put the miserable anger in her eyes. “Well, Lieutenant, and how was your day?”

“Let’s see. I booked my superior’s favorite godson on obstruction and other assorted charges, found what may be the murder weapon in his console drawer in the family town house, took a confession from the prime suspect’s father, who claims he did it, and just took a couple of shots between the eyes from the sister, who thinks I’m a media grabbing bitch.” She tried on a small smile. “Other than that, it’s been pretty quiet. How about you?”

“Fortunes won, fortunes lost,” he said mildly, worried about her. “Nothing nearly as exciting as police work.”

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back tonight.”

“Neither was I. The construction on the resort’s moving ahead well enough. I should be able to handle things from here for a time.”

She tried not to be so relieved. It irritated her that in a few short months she’d gotten so used to his being there. Even dependent upon it. “That’s good, I guess.”

“Mmm.” He read her well. “What can you tell me about the case?”

“It’s all over the media. Pick a channel.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

She brought him up to date in much the way she would file a report: in quick, efficient terms, heavy on facts, light on personal comments. And, she discovered, she felt better for it afterward. Roarke had a way of listening that made her hear herself more clearly.

“You believe it’s the younger Angelini.”

“We’ve got means and opportunity, and a good handle on motive. If the knife matches . . . Anyway, I’ll be meeting with Dr. Mira tomorrow to discuss his psych testing.”

“And Marco,” Roarke continued. “What do you think of his confession?”

“It’s a handy way to confuse things, tie up the investigation. He’s a clever man, and he’ll find a way to leak it to the media.” She scowled over Roarke’s shoulder. “It’ll jerk everything around for a while, cost us some time and trouble. But we’ll smooth it out.”

“You think he confessed to the murders to complicate the investigation?”

“That’s right.” She shifted her gaze to his, lifted a brow. “You’ve got another theory.”

“The drowning child,” Roarke murmured. “The father believes his son is about to go under for the third time, jumps into the torrent. His life for his child’s. Love, Eve.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Love stops at nothing. Marco believes his son is guilty, and would rather sacrifice himself than see his child pay the price.”

“If he knows, or even believes, that David killed those women, it would be insane to protect him.”

“No, it would be love. There’s probably none stronger than a parent’s for a child. You and I don’t have any experience with that, but it exists.”

She shook her head. “Even when the child’s defective?”

“Perhaps especially then. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a woman whose daughter had lost an arm in an accident. There was no money for a replacement. She had five children, and loved them all. But four were whole, and one was damaged. She built a shield around that girl, to protect her from the stares and the whispers and the pity. It was the damaged child she pushed to excel, who they all devoted themselves to. The others didn’t need her as much, you see, as the one who was flawed.”

“There’s a difference between a physical defect and a mental one,” Eve insisted.

“I wonder if there is, to a parent.”

“Whatever Marco Angelini’s motive, we’ll cut through to the truth in the end.”

“No doubt you will. When’s your shift over?”

“What?”

“Your shift,” he repeated. “When is it over?”

She glanced at the screen, noted the time in the bottom corner. “About an hour ago.”

“Good.” He rose and held out a hand. “Come with me.”

“Roarke, there are some things I should tie up here. I want to review the interview with Marco Angelini. I may find a hole.”

He was patient because he had no doubt he’d have his own way. “Eve, you’re so tired you wouldn’t see a hundred-meter hole until you’d fallen into it.” Determined, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”

“All right, maybe I could use a break.” Grumbling a bit, she ordered her computer off and locked. “I’m going to have to goose the techs at the lab. They’re taking forever on the knife.” Her hand felt good in his. She didn’t even worry about the ribbing she’d take from the other cops who might see them in the hall or elevator. “Where are we going?”

He brought their linked hands to his lips and smiled at her over them. “I haven’t decided.”

He opted for Mexico. It was a quick, easy flight, and his villa there on the turbulent west coast was always prepared. Unlike his home in New York, he kept it fully automated, calling in domestics only for lengthy stays.

In Roarke’s mind, droids and computers were convenient but impersonal. For the purposes of this visit, however, he was content to rely on them. He wanted Eve alone, he wanted her relaxed, and he wanted her happy.

“Jesus, Roarke.”

She took one look at the towering, multilayered building on the brink of a cliff and goggled. It looked like a extension of the rock, as if the sheer glass walls had been polished from it. Gardens tumbled over terraces in vivid colors, shapes, and fragrances.

Above, the deepening sky was devoid of any traffic. Just blue, the swirl of white clouds, the flashing wings of birds. It looked like another world.

She’d slept like a stone on the plane, barely surfacing when the pilot had executed a snazzy drop landing that had placed them neatly at the foot of zigzagging stone steps that climbed the towering cliff. She was groggy enough to reach up to be certain he hadn’t slipped VR goggles on her while she’d slept.

“Where are we?”

“Mexico,” he said simply.

“Mexico?” Stunned, she tried to rub the sleep and the shock from her eyes. Roarke thought, with affection, that she looked like a cranky child awakened from a nap. “But I can’t be in Mexico. I have to—”

“Ride or walk?” he asked, pulling her along like a stubborn puppy.

“I have to—”

“Ride,” he decided. “You’re still groggy.”

She could enjoy the climb later, he thought, and its many views of sea and cliffs. Instead, he nudged her into a sleek little air cart, taking the controls himself and shooting them up to vertical with a speed that knocked the rest of sleep out of her system.

“Christ, not so fast.” Her instinct for survival had her clutching the side, wincing as rocks, flowers, and water whizzed by. He was roaring with laughter when he slipped the little cart into place at the front patio.

“Awake now, darling?”

She had her breath back, barely. “I’m going to kill you as soon as I make sure all my internal organs are in place. What the hell are we doing in Mexico?”

“Taking a break. I need one.” He stepped out of the cart and came around to her side. “There’s no doubt you do.” Since she was still holding onto the side, knuckles white, he reached in, plucked her up, and carried her over the irregularly shaped stones toward the door.

“Cut it out. I can walk.”

“Stop complaining.” He turned his head, expertly finding her mouth, deepening the kiss until her hand stopped pushing at his shoulder and began to knead it.

“Damn it,” she murmured. “How come you can always do that to me?”

“Just lucky, I guess. Roarke, disengage,” he said, and the decorative bars across the entrance slid apart. Behind them, doors ornate with carving and etched glass clicked open and swung back in welcome. He stepped inside. “Secure,” he ordered, and the doors efficiently closed while Eve stared.

One wall of the entrance level was glass, and through it she could see the ocean. She’d never seen the Pacific, and she wondered now how it had earned its serene name when it looked so alive, so ready to boil.

They were in time for sunset, and as she watched, speechless, the sky exploded and shimmered with bolts and streams of wild color. And the fat red globe of the sun sank slowly, inevitably, toward the blue line of water.

“You’ll like it here,” he murmured.

She was staggered by the beauty of an ending day. It seemed that nature had waited for her, held the show. “It’s wonderful. I can’t stay.”

“A few hours.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Just overnight for now. We’ll come back and spend a few days when we have more time.”

Still carrying her, he walked closer to the glass wall until it seemed to Eve that the entire world was made of frantic color and shifting shapes.

“I love you, Eve.”

She looked away from the sun, the ocean, and into his eyes. And it was wonderful, and for the moment, it was simple. “I missed you.” She pressed her cheek to his and held him tightly. “I really missed you. I wore one of your shirts.” She could laugh at herself now because he was here. She could smell him, touch him. “I actually went into your closet and stole one of your shirts—one of the black silk ones you have dozens of. I put it on, then snuck out of the house like a thief so Summerset wouldn’t catch me.”

Absurdly touched, he nuzzled her neck. “At night, I’d play your transmissions over, just so I could look at you, hear your voice.”

“Really?” She giggled, a rare sound from her. “God, Roarke, we’ve gotten so sappy.”

“We’ll keep it our little secret.”

“Deal.” She leaned back to look at his face. “I have to ask you something. It’s so lame, but I have to.”

“What?”

“Was it ever . . .” She winced, wished she could muffle the need to ask. “Before, with anyone else—”

“No.” He touched his lips to her brow, her nose, the dip in her chin. “It was never, with no one else.”

“Not for me, either.” She simply breathed him in. “Put your hands on me. I want your hands on me.”

“I can do that.”

He did, tumbling with her to a spread of floor cushions while the sun died brilliantly in the ocean.

chapter sixteen

Taking a break with Roarke wasn’t quite like stopping off at the deli for a quick veggie hash salad and soy coffee. She wasn’t sure how he managed it all, but then, great quantities of money talk, and talk big.

They dined on succulent grilled lobster, drenched in real, creamy, rich butter. They sipped champagne so cold it frosted Eve’s throat. A symphony of fruit was there for the sampling, exotic hybrids that sprinkled harmonized flavors on the tongue.

Long before she could admit that she loved him, Eve had accepted the fact that she was addicted to the food he could summon up with the flick of a wrist.

She soaked naked in a small whirling lagoon cupped under palm trees and moonlight, her muscles slack from the heated water and thorough sex. She listened to the song of night birds—no simulation, but the real thing—that hung on the fragrant air like tears.

For now, for one night, the pressures of the job were light-years away.

He could do that to her, and for her, she realized. He could open little pockets of peace.

Roarke watched her, pleased at the way the tension had melted from her face with a bit of pampering. He loved seeing her this way, unwound, limp with pleasuring her senses, too lax to remember to be guilty for indulging herself. Just as he loved seeing her revved, her mind racing, her body braced for action.

No, it had never been like this for him before, with anyone. Of all the women he’d known, she was the only one he was compelled to be with, driven to touch. Beyond the physical, the basic and apparently unsatiable lust she inspired in him, was a constant fascination. Her mind, her heart, her secrets, her scars.

He had told her once they were two lost souls. He thought now he’d spoken no more than the truth. But with each other, they’d found something that rooted them.

For a man who had been wary of cops all of his life, it was staggering to know his happiness now depended on one.

Amused at himself, he slipped into the water with her. Eve managed to drum up enough energy to open her eyes to slits.

“I don’t think I can move.”

“Then don’t.” He handed her another flute of champagne, wrapping her fingers around the stem.

“I’m too relaxed to be drunk.” But she managed to find her mouth with the glass. “It’s such a weird life. Yours,” she elaborated. “I mean you can have anything you want, go anywhere, do anything. You want to take a night off, you zip over to Mexico and nibble on lobster and—what was that stuff again, the stuff you spread on crackers?”

“Goose liver.”

She winced and shuddered. “That’s not what you called it when you shoved it in my mouth. It sounded nicer.”

“Foie gras. Same thing.”

“That’s better.” She shifted her legs, tangled them with his. “Anyway, most people program a video or take a quick trip with their VR goggles, maybe plug a few credits into a simulation booth down at Times Square. But you do the real thing.”

“I prefer the real thing.”

“I know. That’s another odd piece of you. You like old stuff. You’d rather read a book than scan a disc, rather go to the trouble to come out here when you could have programmed a simulation in your holoroom.” Her lips curved a little, dreamily. “I like that about you.”

“That’s handy.”

“When you were a kid, and things were bad for you, is this what you dreamed about?”

“I dreamed about surviving, getting out. Having control. Didn’t you?”

“I guess I did.” Too many of her dreams were jumbled and dark. “After I was in the system, anyway. Then what I wanted most was to be a cop. A good cop. A smart cop. What did you want?”

“To be rich. Not to be hungry.”

“We both got what we wanted, more or less.”

“You had nightmares while I was gone.”

She didn’t have to open her eyes to see the concern in his. She could hear it in his voice. “They aren’t too bad. They’re just more regular.”

“Eve, if you’d work with Doctor Mira—”

“I’m not ready to remember it. Not all of it. Do you ever feel the scars, from what your father did to you?”

Restless with the memories, he shifted and sank deeper in the hot, frothy water. “A few beatings, careless cruelty. Why should it matter now?”

“You shrug it off.” Now she opened her eyes, looked at him, saw he was brooding. “But it made you, didn’t it? What happened then made you.”

“I suppose it did, roughly.”

She nodded, tried to speak casually. “Roarke, do you think if some people lack something, and that lack lets them brutalize their kids—the way we were—do you think it passes on? Do you think—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” He cupped a hand over her calf and squeezed. “We make ourselves, in the long run. You and I did. If that wasn’t true, I’d be drunk in some Dublin slum, looking for something weaker to pummel. And you, Eve, would be cold and brittle and without pity.”

She closed her eyes again. “Sometimes I am.”

“No, that you never are. You’re strong, and you’re moral, and sometimes you make yourself ill with compassion for the innocent.”

Her eyes stung behind her closed lids. “Someone I admire and respect asked me for help, asked me for a favor. I turned him down flat. What does that make me?”

“A woman who had a choice to make.”

“Roarke, the last woman who was killed. Louise Kirski. That’s on my head. She was twenty-four, talented, eager, in love with a second-rate musician. She had a cluttered one-room apartment on West Twenty-sixth and liked Chinese food. She had a family in Texas that will never be the same. She was innocent, Roarke, and she’s haunting me.”

Relieved, Eve let out a long breath. “I haven’t been able to tell anyone that. I wasn’t sure I could say it out loud.”

“I’m glad you could say it to me. Now, listen.” He set his glass down, scooted forward to take her face in his hands. Her skin was soft, her eyes a narrow slant of dark amber. “Fate rules, Eve. You follow the steps, and you plan and you work, then fate slips in laughing and makes fools of us. Sometimes we can trick it or outguess it, but most often it’s already written. For some, it’s written in blood. That doesn’t mean we stop, but it does mean we can’t always comfort ourselves with blame.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Comforting myself?”

“It’s easier to take the blame than it is to admit there was nothing you could do to stop what happened. You’re an arrogant woman, Eve. Just one more aspect of you that I find attractive. It’s arrogant to assume responsibility for events beyond our control.”

“I should have controlled it.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “Of course.”

“It’s not arrogance,” she insisted, miffed. “It’s my job.”

“You taunted him, assuming he’d come after you.” Because the thought of that still twisted in his gut like hissing snakes, Roarke tightened his grip on her face. “Now you’re insulted, annoyed that he didn’t follow your rules.”

“That’s a hideous thing to say. Goddamn you, I don’t—” She broke off, sucked in her breath. “You’re pissing me off so I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself.”

“It seems to have worked.”

“All right.” She let her eyes close again. “All right. I’m not going to think about it anymore right now. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll have a better shot at sorting it out. You’re pretty good, Roarke,” she said with a ghost of a smile.

“Thousands concur,” he murmured and caught her nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

The ripple effect made it all the way down to her toes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what I meant.” He tugged gently, listened to her breath catch.

“Maybe if I can manage to crawl out of here, I can take you up on your interesting offer.”

“Just relax.” Watching her face, he slid his hand between her legs, cupped her. “Let me.” He managed to catch her glass as it slipped from her hand, and he set it aside. “Let me have you, Eve.”

Before she could answer, he shot her to a fast, wracking orgasm. Her hips arched up, pumped against his busy hand, then went lax.

She wouldn’t think now, he knew. She would be wrapped in layered sensations. She never seemed to expect it. And her surprise, her sweet and naive response was, as always, murderously arousing. He could have pleasured her endlessly, for the simple delight of watching her absorb every touch, every jolt.

So he indulged himself, exploring that long, lean body, suckling the small, hot breasts, wet with perfumed water, gulping in the rapid breath that gasped from her lips.

She felt drugged, helpless, her mind and body burdened with pleasure. Part of her was shocked, or tried to be. Not so much at what she let him do, but at the fact that she allowed him complete and total control of her. She couldn’t have stopped him, wouldn’t have, even when he held her near to screaming on the edge before shoving her over into another shuddering climax.

“Again.” Greedy, he dragged her head back by the hair and stabbed his fingers inside her, worked her ruthlessly until her hands splashed bonelessly in the water. “I’m all there is tonight. We’re all there is.” He savaged her throat on the way to her mouth, and his eyes were like fierce blue suns. “Tell me you love me. Say it.”

“I do. I do love you.” A moan ripped from her throat when he plunged himself into her, jerked her hips high, and plunged deeper.

“Tell me again.” He felt her muscles squeeze him like a fist and gritted his teeth to keep from exploding. “Tell me again.”

“I love you.” Trembling from it, she wrapped her legs around him and let him batter her past delirium.

She did have to crawl out of the pool. Her head was spinning, her body limp. “I don’t have any bones left.”

Roarke chuckled and gave her a friendly slap on the butt. “I’m not carrying you this time, darling. We’d both end up on our faces.”

“Maybe I’ll just lie down right here.” It was a struggle to remain on her hands and knees on the smooth tiles.

“You’ll get cold.” With an effort, he summoned the strength to drag her to her feet where they rocked together like drunks.

She began to snicker, teetering. “What the hell did you do to me? I feel like I’ve downed a couple of Freebirds.”

He managed to grip her waist. “Since when did you play with illegals?”

“Standard police training.” She bit experimentally at her bottom lip and found that it was, indeed, numb. “We have to take a course in illegals at the academy. I palmed most of mine and flushed them. Is your head spinning?”

“I’ll let you know when I regain feeling above the waist.” He tipped her head back and kissed her lightly. “Why don’t we see if we can make it inside. We can . . .” He trailed off, eyes narrowing over her shoulder.

She might have been impaired, but she was still a cop. Instinctively, she whirled and braced, unconsciously shielding his body with hers. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat, patted her shoulder. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Go on in, I’ll be right along.”

“What?” She stood her ground, scanning for trouble.

“It’s nothing, really. I just . . . I neglected to disengage the security camera. It’s, ah, activated by motion or voice.” Naked, he strode over toward a low stone wall, flicked a switch and palmed a disc.

“Camera.” Eve held up a finger. “There was a recording on the entire time we’ve been out here?” She flicked a narrow-eyed stare at the lagoon. “The entire time.”

“Which is why I generally prefer people to automations.”

“We’re on there? All on there?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She started to speak again, then got a good look at his face. The devil took over. “I’ll be damned, Roarke. You’re embarrassed.”

“Certainly not.” If he’d been wearing anything but skin, he would have pushed his hands into his pockets. “It was simply an oversight. I said I’d take care of it.”

“Let’s play it back.”

He stopped short, and gave Eve the rare pleasure of seeing him goggle. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are embarrassed.” She leaned over to kiss him, and while he was distracted, snatched the disc. “That’s cute. Really cute.”

“Shut up. Give me that.”

“I don’t think so.” Delighted, she danced back a step and held the disc out of reach. “I bet this is very hot. Aren’t you curious?”

“No.” He made a grab, but she was very quick. “Eve, give me the damn thing.”

“This is fascinating.” She edged back toward the open patio doors. “The sophisticated, seen-it-all Roarke is blushing.”

“I am not.” He hoped to Christ he wasn’t. That would top it. “I simply see no reason to document lovemaking. It’s private.”

“I’m not going to pass it on to Nadine Furst for broadcast. I’m just going to review it. Right now.” She dashed inside while he swore and ran after her.

She walked into her office at nine A.M. sharp with a spring to her step. Her eyes were clear and unshadowed, her system toned and her shoulders free of tension. She was all but humming.

“Somebody got lucky,” Feeney said mournfully and kept his feet planted on her desk. “Roarke’s back on planet, I take it.”

“I got a good night’s sleep,” she retorted and shoved his feet aside.

He grunted. “Be grateful, ’cause you’re not going to find much peace today. Lab report’s in. The fucking knife doesn’t match.”

Her sunny mood vanished. “What do you mean, the knife doesn’t match?”

“The blade’s too thick. A centimeter. Might as well be a meter, goddamn it.”

“That could be the angle of the wounds, the thrust of the blow.” Mexico vanished like a bubble of air. Thinking fast, she began to pace. “What about the blood?”

“They managed to scrape off enough to get type, DNA.” His already gloomy face sagged. “It matches our boy. It’s David Angelini’s blood, Dallas. Lab says it’s old, six months minimum. From the fibers they got, it looks like he used it to open packages, probably nicked himself somewhere along the line. It’s not our weapon.”

“Screw it.” She heaved a breath, refused to be discouraged. “If he had one knife, he could have had two. We’ll wait to hear from the other sweepers.” Taking a moment, she scrubbed her face with her hands. “Listen to me, Feeney, if we go with Marco’s confession as bogus, we have to ask why. He’s not a crank or a loony calling in trying to take credit. He’s saving his son’s ass is what he’s doing. So we work on him, and we work hard. I’ll bring him in to interview, try to crack him.”

“I’m with you there.”

“I’ve got a session with Mira in a couple hours. We’ll just let our main boy stew for awhile.”

“While we pray one of the teams turns up something.”

“Praying can’t hurt. Here’s the big one, Feeney, our boy’s lawyers get a hold of Marco’s confession, it’s going to corrupt the hearing on the minor charges. We’ll whistle for an indictment.”

“With that, and without physical evidence, he’s going back out, Dallas.”

“Yeah. Son of a bitch.”

Marco Angelini was like a boulder cemented to concrete. He wasn’t going to budge. Two hours of intense interrogation didn’t shake his story. Though, Eve consoled herself, he hadn’t shored up any of the holes in it, either. At the moment, she had little choice but to pin her hopes on Mira’s report.

“I can tell you,” Mira said in her usual unruffled fashion, “that David Angelini is a troubled young man with a highly developed sense of self-indulgence and protection.”

“Tell me he’s capable of slicing his mother’s throat.”

“Ah.” Mira sat back and folded her neat hands. “What I can tell you is, in my opinion, he is more capable of running from trouble than confronting it, on any level. When combining and averaging his placements on the Murdock-Lowell and the Synergy Evaluations—”

“Can we skip over the psych buzz, Doctor? I can read that in the report.”

“All right.” Mira shifted away from the screen where she had been about to bring up the evaluations. “We’ll keep this in simple terms for the time being. Your man is a liar, one who convinces himself with little effort that his lies are truth in order to maintain his self-esteem. He requires good opinion, even praise, and is accustomed to having it. And having his own way.”

“And if he doesn’t get his own way?”

“He casts blame elsewhere. It is not his fault, nor his responsibility. His world is insular, Lieutenant, comprised for the most part of himself alone. He considers himself successful and talented, and when he fails, it’s because someone else made a mistake. He gambles because he doesn’t believe he can lose, and he enjoys the thrill of risk. He loses because he believes himself above the game.”

“How would he react at the risk of having his bones snapped over gambling debts?”

“He would run and he would hide, and being abnormally dependent on his parents, he would expect them to clean up the mess.”

“And if they refused?”

Mira was silent for a moment. “You want me to tell you that he would strike out, react violently, even murderously. I can’t do that. It is, of course, a possibility that can’t be ruled out in any of us. No test, no evaluation can absolutely conclude the reaction of an individual under certain circumstances. But in those tests and those evaluations, the subject reacted consistently by covering, by running, by shifting blame rather than by attacking the source of his problem.”

“And he could be covering his reaction, to skew the evaluation.”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. I’m sorry.”

Eve stopped pacing and sank into a chair. “You’re saying that in your opinion, the murderer may still be out there.”

“I’m afraid so. It makes your job more difficult.”

“If I’m looking in the wrong place,” Eve said to herself, “where’s the right place? And who’s next?”

“Unfortunately, neither science nor technology is yet able to forecast the future. You can program possibilities, even probabilities, but they can’t take into account impulse or emotion. Do you have Nadine Furst under protection?”

“As much as possible.” Eve tapped a finger on her knee. “She’s difficult, and she’s torn up about Louise Kirski.”

“And so are you.”

Eve slid her gaze over, nodded stiffly. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Yet you look uncommonly rested this morning.”

“I got a good night’s sleep.”

“Untroubled?”

Eve moved a shoulder, tucked Angelini and the case into a corner of her mind where she hoped it would simmer into something fresh. “What would you say about a woman who can’t seem to sleep well unless this man’s in bed with her?”

“I’d say she may be in love with him, is certainly growing used to him.”

“You wouldn’t say she’s overly dependent?”

“Can you function without him? Do you feel able to make a decision without asking his advice, opinion, or direction?”

“Well, sure, but . . .” She trailed off, feeling foolish. Well, if one was to feel foolish, what better place than a shrink’s office? “The other day, when he was off planet, I wore one of his shirts to work. That’s—”

“Lovely,” Mira said with a slow, easy smile. “Romantic. Why does romance worry you?”

“It doesn’t. I— Okay, it scares the shit out of me, and I don’t know why. I’m not used to having someone there, having someone look at me like—the way he does. Sometimes it’s unnerving.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I haven’t done anything to make him care about me as much as he does. I know he does.”

“Eve, your self-worth has always been focused on your job. Now a relationship has forced you to begin evaluating yourself as a woman. Are you afraid of what you’ll find?”

“I haven’t figured that out. It’s always been the job. The highs and lows, the rush, the monotony. Everything I needed to be was there. I busted my ass to make lieutenant, and I figure I can sweat my way up to captain, maybe more. Doing the job was it, all of it. It was important to be the best, to make a mark. It’s still important, but it’s not all anymore.”

“I would say, Eve, that you’ll be a better cop, and a better woman because of it. Single focus limits us, and can too often obsess us. A healthy life needs more than one goal, one passion.”

“Then I guess my life’s getting healthier.”

Eve’s communicator beeped, reminding her that she was on the clock, a cop first. “Dallas.”

“You’re going to want to switch over to public broadcast, Channel 75,” Feeney announced. “Then get your butt back here to the Tower. The new chief wants to fry our asses.”

Eve cut him off, and Mira had already opened her viewing screen. They came in on C. J. Morse’s noon update.

“. . . continuing problems with the investigation of the murders. A Cop Central source has confirmed that while David Angelini has been charged with obstruction of justice, and remains prime suspect for the three murders, Marco Angelini, the accused’s father, has confessed to those murders. The senior Angelini, president of Angelini Exports and former husband of the first victim, Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers, surrendered to the police yesterday. Though he has confessed to all three murders, he has not been charged, and the police continue to hold David Angelini.”

Morse paused, shifted slightly to face a new camera angle. His pleasant, youthful face radiated concern. “In other developments, a knife taken from the Angelini home during a police search has proven through testing not to be the murder weapon. Mirina Angelini, daughter of the late Cicely Towers, spoke to this reporter in an exclusive interview this morning.”

The screen snapped to a new video and filled with Mirina’s lovely, outraged face. “The police are persecuting my family. It isn’t enough that my mother is dead, murdered on the street. Now, in a desperate attempt to cover their own ineptitude, they’ve arrested my brother and they’re holding my father. It wouldn’t surprise me to find myself taken away in restraints at any moment.”

Eve ground her teeth while Morse led Mirina through questions, prodded her to make accusations, tears gleaming in her eyes. When the broadcast switched back to the news desk, he was frowning seriously.

“A family under siege? There are rumors of cover-ups clouding the investigation. Primary investigating officer, Lieutenant Eve Dallas could not be reached for comment.”

“Little bastard. Little bastard,” Eve muttered and swung away from the screen. “He never tried to reach me for comment. I’d give him a comment.” Furious, she snatched up her bag and shot Mira one last look. “You ought to analyze that one,” she said jerking her head toward the screen. “That little prick has delusions of grandeur.”

chapter seventeen

Harrison Tibble was a thirty-five-year vet on the police force. He’d plodded his way up from beat cop, working the West Side barrios when cops and their quarries still carried guns. He’d even taken a hit once: three nasty rounds in the abdomen that might have killed a lesser man and would certainly have given most ordinary cops cause to consider their career choices. Tibble had been back on full duty within six weeks.

He was an enormous man, a full six foot six and two hundred sixty pounds of solid muscle. After the gun ban, he’d used his bulk and cold, terrifying grin to intimidate his quarries. He still had the mind of a street cop, and his record was clean enough to serve tea on.

He had a large, square face, skin the color of polished onyx, hands the size of steamship rounds, and no patience for bullshit.

Eve liked him and could privately admit she was a little afraid of him.

“What is this pile of shit we’ve got ourselves into, Lieutenant?”

“Sir.” Eve faced him, flanked by Feeney and Whitney. But at the moment, she knew she was very much alone. “David Angelini was on scene the night Louise Kirski was killed. We have that locked. He has no solid alibi for the times of the other two murders. He’s in debt big time to the spine twisters, and with his mother’s death, he comes into a nice, healthy inheritance. It’s been confirmed that she had refused to bail him out this time.”

“Look for the money’s a tried and true investigative tool, Lieutenant. But what about the other two?”

He knew all of this, Eve thought and struggled not to squirm. Every word of every report had passed by him. “He knew Metcalf, had been to her apartment, was working with her on a project. He needed her to commit, but she was playing coy, covering her bases. The third victim was a mistake. We believe strongly that the intended victim was Nadine Furst, who at my suggestion and with my cooperation was putting a great deal of pressure on the story. He also knew her personally.”

“That’s real good so far.” His chair creaked under his weight as he shifted back. “Real good. You’ve placed him at one of the scenes, established motives, dug up the links. Now we run into the hard place. You don’t have a weapon, you don’t have any blood. You don’t have diddly as far as physical evidence.”

“Not at this time.”

“You’ve also got a confession, but not from the accused.”

“That confession’s nothing more than a smoke screen,” Whitney put in. “An attempt by a father to protect his son.”

“So you believe,” Tibble said mildly. “But the fact is, it’s now on record and is public knowledge. The psych profile doesn’t fit, the weapon doesn’t fit, and in my opinion, the PA’s office was too eager to put the spotlight on. It happens when it’s one of your own.”

He held up a plate-sized hand before Eve could speak. “I’ll tell you what we’ve got, what it looks like to all those fine people watching their screens. A grieving family hammered by cops, circumstantial evidence, and three women with their throats cut open.”

“No one’s throat’s been cut open since David Angelini’s been locked up. And the charges filed against him are clean.”

“True enough, but that handy fact won’t get an indictment on the lessers—not when the jury’s going to feel sorry for him, and the counsel starts hawking diminished capacity.”

He waited, scanning faces, tapped his fingers when no one disagreed with him. “You’re the number whiz, Feeney, the electronic genius. What are the odds on the grand jury if we send our boy over tomorrow on the obstruction and bribery charges?”

Feeney hunched his shoulders. “Fifty-fifty,” he said mournfully. “At the outside, considering that idiot Morse’s latest news flash.”

“That’s not good enough. Spring him.”

“Spring him? Chief Tibble—”

“All we’re going to get if we push those charges is bad press and public sympathy for the son of a martyred public servant. Cut him loose, Lieutenant, and dig deeper. Put someone on him,” he ordered Whitney. “And on his daddy. I don’t want them to fart without hearing about it. And find the fucking leak,” he added, his eyes going hard. “I want to know what asshole fed that idiot Morse data.” His grin spread suddenly, terrifyingly. “Then I want to talk to him, personally. Keep your distance from the Angelinis, Jack. This isn’t any time for friendship.”

“I’d hoped to talk to Mirina. I might be able to persuade her not to give any more interviews.”

“It’s a little late for damage control there,” Tibble considered. “Hold off on that. I’ve worked hard to get the stink of the word cover-up out of this office. I want to keep it that way. Get me a weapon. Get me some blood. And for Christ’s sake do it before somebody else gets sliced.”

His voice boomed out, fingers jabbing, as he snapped orders. “Feeney, work some of your magic. Go over the names from the victims’ diaries again, cross them with Furst’s. Find me somebody else who had an interest in those ladies. That’ll be all, gentlemen.” He got to his feet. “Lieutenant Dallas, another moment of your time.”

“Chief Tibble,” Whitney began formally. “I want it on record that as Lieutenant Dallas’s commanding officer, I consider her pursuit of this investigation to be exemplary. Her work has been top rate despite difficult circumstances, both professional and personal, some of which I have caused.”

Tibble cocked a bushy brow. “I’m sure the lieutenant appreciates your review, Jack.” He said nothing more, waiting until the men left. “Me and Jack, we go back a ways,” he began conversationally. “Now he thinks since I’m sitting here where that corrupt pie-faced fucker Simpson used to rest his sorry ass, I’m going to use you as a handy scapegoat and feed you to the media dogs.” He held Eve’s eyes steadily. “Is that what you think, Dallas?”

“No, sir. But you could.”

“Yeah.” He scratched the side of his neck. “I could. Have you bumbled this investigation, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe I have.” It was a hard one to swallow. “If David Angelini is innocent—”

“The courts decide innocence or guilt,” he interrupted. “You gather evidence. You gathered some nice evidence, and the jerk was there for Kirski. If he didn’t kill her, the bastard watched some woman get slaughtered and walked away. He don’t win any prizes in my book.”

Tibble steepled his fingers and peered over them. “You know what would make me take you off this case, Dallas? If I thought you were carrying around too much baggage about Kirski.” When she opened her mouth, then shut it again, he gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Yeah, best to keep it shut. You laid out some bait, took a chance. There was a pretty good shot he’d come after you. I’d have done the same thing in my glory days,” he added with some wistful regret that they were over. “Problem is, he didn’t, and some poor woman with a tobacco habit gets hit instead. You figure you’re responsible for that?”

She struggled with the lie, gave up to the truth. “Yes.”

“Get over it,” he said with a snap. “The trouble with this case is, there’s too much emotion. Jack can’t get past his grief, you can’t get past your guilt. That makes the two of you useless. You want to be guilty, you want to be pissed, wait till you nail him. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, he leaned back again. “You walk out of here, the media’s going to be all over you like lice.”

“I can handle the media.”

“I’m sure you can.” He blew out a breath. “So can I. I’ve got a fucking press conference. Clear out.”

There was only one place to go, and that was back to the beginning. Eve stood on the sidewalk outside the Five Moons and stared down. Playing the route back in her mind, she strode to the subway entrance.

It was raining, she remembered. I’d have a hand on my umbrella, my purse over my shoulder with a good grip on that, too. Bad neighborhood. I’m pissed. I walk fast, but I keep an eye shifting for anybody who wants my purse as much as I do.

She walked into the Five Moons, ignoring the quick glances and the bland face of the droid behind the bar as she tried to read Cicely Towers’s thoughts.

Disgusting place. Dirty. I’m not going to drink, not even going to sit down. God knows what I’d pick up on my suit. Check the watch. Where the hell is he? Let’s get this over with. Why the hell did I meet him here? Stupid, stupid. Should have used my office, my turf.

Why didn’t I?

Because it’s private, Eve thought, closing her eyes. It’s personal. Too many people there, too many questions. Not city business. Her business.

Why not her apartment?

Didn’t want him there. Too angry—upset—eager—to argue when he named the time and place.

No, it’s just angry, impatient, Eve decided, remembering the droid’s statement. She’d checked her watch again and again, she’d frowned, she’d given up, and walked out.

Eve followed the route, remembering the umbrella, the purse. Quick steps, heels clicking. Someone there. She stops. Does she see him, recognize him? Has to, it’s face to face. Maybe she speaks to him: “You’re late.”

He does it quick. It’s a bad neighborhood. Not much cruising traffic, but you can never tell. Security lights are dinky, always are around here. Nobody complains much because it’s safer to score in the dark.

But someone might come out of the bar, or the club across the street. One swipe and she’s down. Her blood’s all over him. The fucking blood’s got to be all over him.

He takes her umbrella. An impulse, or maybe for a shield. Walks away, fast. Not to the subway. He’s covered with blood. Even around here, somebody would notice.

She covered two blocks in either direction, then covered them again, questioning anyone who was loitering on the street. Most of the responses were shrugs, angry eyes. Cops weren’t popular on the West End.

She watched a street hawker, who she suspected was pushing more than fashion beads and feathers, skim around the corner on motor skates. She scowled after him.

“You been round here before.”

Eve glanced over. The woman was so white she was next to invisible. Her face was like bleached putty, her hair cropped so close it showed her bone-white scalp, and her eyes were colorless down to the pinprick pupil.

Funky junkie, Eve thought. They popped the white tablet that kept the mind misted and pigments bleached.

“Yeah, I’ve been around.”

“Cop.” The junkie jerked forward, stiff jointed, like a droid coming up on maintenance. A sign she was low on a fix. “Seen you talking with Crack a while ago. He’s some dude.”

“Yeah, he’s some dude. Were you around the night that woman got whacked down the street?”

“Fancy lady, rich, fancy lady. Caught it on the screen in detox.”

Eve bit back an oath, stopped, and backtracked. “If you were in detox, how’d you see me talking to Crack?”

“Went in that day. Maybe the next day. Time’s relative, right?”

“Maybe you saw the rich, fancy lady before you caught her on the screen.”

“Nope.” The albino sucked her finger. “Didn’t.”

Eve scanned the building behind the junkie, gauged the view. “Is this where you live?”

“I live here, I live there. Got me a crash flop upstairs.”

“You were there the night the lady got slashed?”

“Probably. Got a credit problem.” She flashed tiny, round teeth in a smile. And her breath was awesome. “Not much fun on the street when you ain’t got a credit.”

“It was raining,” Eve prompted.

“Oh yeah. I like the rain.” Her muscles continued to jerk, but her eyes went dreamy. “I watch it out the window.”

“Did you see anything else out the window?”

“People come, people go,” she said in a singsong voice. “Sometimes you can hear the music from down the street. But not that night. Rain’s too loud. People running to get out of it. Like they’d melt or something.”

“You saw someone running in the rain.”

The colorless eyes sharpened. “Maybe. What’s it worth?”

Eve dug into her pocket. She had enough loose credit tokens for a quick, small score. The junkie’s eyes rolled and her hand jerked out.

“What did you see?” Eve said slowly, snatching the credits out of reach.

“A guy pissing in the alley over there.” She shrugged, her eyes focused on the credits. “Maybe jerking off. Hard to tell.”

“Did he have anything with him? Was he carrying anything?”

“Just his dick.” She laughed uproariously at that and nearly tumbled. Her eyes were beginning to water heavily. “He just walked away in the rain. Hardly anybody out that night. Guy got in a car.”

“Same guy?”

“Nah, another guy, had it parked over there.” She gestured vaguely. “Not from ’round here.”

“Why?”

“Car had a shine to it. Nobody got a car with a shine to it ’round here. If they got a car. Now Crack, he’s got one, and that pissant Reeve down the hall from me. But they don’t shine.”

“Tell me about the guy who got in the car.”

“Got in the car, drove away.”

“What time was it?”

“Hey, I look like a clock. Ticktock.” She snorted another laugh. “It was nighttime. Nighttime’s the best. My eyes hurt in daytime,” she whined. “Lost my sunshields.”

Eve dragged a pair of eye protectors out of her pocket. She never remembered to wear the damn things, anyway. She shoved them at the albino, who hooked them on.

“Cheap. Cop issue. Shit.”

“What was he wearing? The guy who got in the car.”

“Hell, I don’t know.” The junkie toyed with the sunglasses. Her eyes didn’t burn quite so much behind the treated lenses. “A coat maybe. Dark coat, flapped around. Yeah, it flapped around when he was closing the umbrella.”

Eve felt a jolt, like a punch in the stomach. “He had an umbrella?”

“Hey, it was raining. Some people don’t like getting wet. Pretty,” she said, dreaming again. “Bright.”

“What color was it?”

“Bright,” she repeated. “You going to give me those credits?”

“Yeah, you’re going to get them.” But Eve took her arm, led her to the broken steps of the building, and sat her down. “But let’s talk about this a little more first.”

“The uniforms missed her.” Eve paced her office while Feeney lolled in her chair. “She went into detox the day after the first murder. I checked it. She got out a week ago.”

“You got an albino addict,” Feeney put in.

“She saw him, Feeney. She saw him get in a car, she saw the umbrella.”

“You know what a funky junkie’s vision’s like, Dallas. In the dark, in the rain, from across the street?”

“She gave me the umbrella. Goddamn it, nobody knew about the umbrella.”

“And the color was, I quote, bright.” He held up both hands before Eve could snap at him. “I’m just trying to save you some grief. You got an idea of putting the Angelinis in a lineup for a funky junkie, their lawyers are going to whip your little ass, kid.”

She had thought of it. And she, too, had rejected it. “She wouldn’t hold up on direct ID. I’m not stupid. But it was a man, she’s damn sure of that. He drove away. He had the umbrella. He was wearing a long coat, dark.”

“Which jibes with David Angelini’s statement.”

“It was a new car. I juggled that out of her. Shiny, bright.”

“Back with bright.”

“So, they don’t see colors well,” she snarled. “The guy was alone, and the car was a small, personal vehicle. The driver’s side door opened up, not to the side, and he had to swivel down to get in.”

“Could be a Rocket, a Midas, or a Spur. Maybe a Midget, if it’s a late model.”

“She said new, and she’s got a thing for cars. Likes to watch them.”

“Okay, I’ll run it.” He gave a sour smile. “Any idea how many of those models been sold in the last two years in the five boroughs alone? Now, if she’d come up with an ID plate, even a partial—”

“Quit bitching. I’ve been back over Metcalf’s. There’s a couple dozen bright new cars in the garage there.”

“Oh joy.”

“Possibility he’s a neighbor,” Eve said with a shrug. It was a very low possibility. “Wherever he lives, he has to be able to get in and out without being noticed. Or where people don’t notice. Maybe he leaves the coat in the car, or he puts it in something to get it inside and clean it up. There’s going to be blood in that car, Feeney, and on that coat, no matter how much he’s scrubbed and sprayed. I’ve got to get over to Channel 75.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I need to talk to Nadine. She’s dodging me.”

“Jesus, talk about the lion’s den.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” She smiled viciously. “I’m taking Roarke with me. They’re scared of him.”

“It’s so sweet of you to ask for my company.” Roarke pulled his car into the visitors’ lot at Channel 75 and beamed at her. “I’m touched.”

“All right, I owe you.” The man never let her get away with anything, Eve thought in disgust as she climbed out of the car.

“I’ll collect.” He caught her arm. “You can start paying off by telling me why you want me along.”

“I told you, it’ll save time, since you want to go to this opera thing.”

Very slowly, very thoroughly, he scanned over her dusty trousers and battered boots. “Darling Eve, though you always look perfect to me, you’re not going to the opera dressed like that. So we’re going to have to go home to change, anyway. Come clean.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go to the opera.”

“So you’ve already said. Several times, I believe. But we had a deal.”

She lowered her brows, toyed with one of the buttons of his shirt. “It’s just singing.”

“I’ve agreed to sit through two sets at the Blue Squirrel, with the idea of helping Mavis into a recording contract. And no one—no one with ears—would consider that singing of any kind.”

She huffed out a breath. A deal was, after all, a deal. “Okay, fine. I said I’m going.”

“Now that you’ve managed to avoid the question, I’ll repeat it. Why am I here?”

She looked up from his button, into his face. It was always hell for her to admit she could use help. “Feeney’s got to dig into the E-work. He can’t be spared right now. I want another pair of eyes, ears, another impression.”

His lips curved. “So, I’m your second choice.”

“You’re my first civilian choice. You read people well.”

“I’m flattered. And perhaps, while I’m here, I could break Morse’s face for you.”

Her grin came quickly. “I like you, Roarke. I really like you.”

“I like you, too. Is that a yes? I’d enjoy it very much.”

She laughed, but there was a part of her that warmed foolishly over the idea of having an avenger. “It’s a happy thought, Roarke, but I’d really rather break his face myself. At the right time and in the right place.”

“Can I watch?”

“Sure. But for the moment, can you just be the rich and powerful Roarke, my personal trophy?”

“Ah, how sexist. I’m excited.”

“Good. Hold that thought. Maybe we’ll skip the opera after all.”

They walked together through the main entrance, and Roarke had the pleasure of watching her shrug on the cop. She flashed her badge at security, gave him a pithy suggestion that he keep out of her face, then strode toward the ascent.

“I love to watch you work,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re so . . . forceful,” he decided as his hand slid down her back toward her butt.

“Cut it out.”

“See what I mean?” He rubbed his gut where her elbow had jabbed. “Hit me again. I could learn to love it.”

She managed, barely, to turn a chuckle into a snort. “Civilians,” was all she said.

The newsroom was busy, noisy. At least half of the on-desk reporters were plugged into ’links, headsets, or computers. Screens flashed current broadcasts. A number of conversations stopped dead when Eve and Roarke stepped from the ascent. Then, like a horde of dogs with the same scent in their nostrils, reporters scrambled forward.

“Back off,” Eve ordered with enough force to have one eager beaver stumbling backward and stomping on the foot of a cohort. “Nobody gets a comment. Nobody gets squat until I’m ready.”

“If I do buy this place,” Roarke said to Eve in a voice just loud enough to carry, “I’ll have to make several staff cuts.”

That created a swath wide enough to stride through. Eve zeroed in on a face she recognized. “Rigley, where’s Furst?”

“Hey, Lieutenant.” He was all teeth and hair and ambition. “If you’d like to step into my office,” he invited, gesturing toward his console.

“Furst,” she repeated, in a voice like a bullet. “Where?”

“I haven’t seen her all day. I covered her morning report myself.”

“She called in.” Beaming smiles, Morse sauntered over. “Taking some time off,” he explained, and his mobile face shifted to sober lines. “She’s pretty ripped up about Louise. We all are.”

“Is she at home?”

“Said she needed some time, is all I know. Management cut her a break. She’s got a couple of weeks coming. I’m taking over her beat.” His smile flashed again. “So, if you’d like a little airtime, Dallas. I’m your man.”

“I’ve had plenty of your airtime, Morse.”

“Well then.” He dismissed her and shifted toward Roarke. His smile bumped up in wattage. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re a difficult man to contact.”

Deliberately insulting, Roarke ignored Morse’s offered hand. “I only give time to people I consider interesting.”

Morse lowered his hand, but kept his smile in place. “I’m sure if you spared me a few minutes, I’d find several areas of interest for you.”

Roarke’s smile flashed, quick and lethal. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you.”

“Down, boy,” Eve murmured, patting Roarke’s arm. “Who leaked confidential data?”

Morse was obviously struggling to recover his dignity. He veered his gaze to hers and nearly managed an arrogant sneer. “Now, now, sources are protected. Let’s not forget the Constitution.” Patriotically, he laid his palm over his heart. “Now, if you wish to comment on, contradict, or add to any of my information, I’d be more than happy to listen.”

“Why don’t we try this?” she said, shifting gears. “You found Louise Kirski’s body—while it was still warm.”

“That’s right.” He folded his mouth into grim lines. “I’ve given my statement.”

“You were pretty upset, weren’t you? Jittery. Shot your dinner in the bushes. Feeling better now?”

“It’s something I’ll never forget, but yes, I’m feeling better. Thanks for asking.”

She stepped forward, backing him up. “You felt good enough to go on air within minutes, to make sure there was a camera out there getting a nice close-up of your dead associate.”

“Immediacy is part of the business. I did what I was trained to do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t feel.” His voice trembled and was manfully controlled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t see her face, her eyes, every time I try to sleep at night.”

“Did you ever wonder what would have happened if you’d gotten there five minutes sooner?”

That jarred him, and though she knew it was nasty, and personal, it pleased her.

“Yes, I have,” he said with dignity. “I might have seen him or stopped him. Louise might be alive if I hadn’t been caught in traffic. But that doesn’t change the facts. She’s dead, and so are two others. And you don’t have anyone in custody.”

“Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that you’re feeding him. That you’ve given him just what he wants.” She took her gaze from Morse long enough to scan the room and all the people who were listening eagerly. “He must love watching all the reports, hearing all the details, the speculation. You’ve made him the biggest star on the screen.”

“It’s our responsibility to report—” Morse began.

“Morse, you don’t know shit about responsibility. All you know is how to count the minutes you’re on air, front and center. The more people die, the bigger your ratings. You can quote me on that one.” She turned on her heel.

“Feel better?” Roarke asked her when they were outside again.

“Not a hell of a lot. Impressions?”

“The newsroom’s in turmoil, too many people doing too many things. They’re all jumpy. The one you talked to initially about Nadine?”

“Rigley. He’s a little fish. I think they hired him for his teeth.”

“He’s been biting his nails. There were several others who looked ashamed when you made your little speech. They turned away, got very busy, but they weren’t doing anything. Several more looked quietly pleased when you took a couple layers off Morse. I don’t believe he’s well liked.”

“Big surprise.”

“He’s better than I’d thought,” Roarke mused.

“Morse? At what? Slinging shit?”

“Image,” Roarke corrected. “Which is often the same thing. He pulls out all those emotions. He doesn’t feel any of them, but he knows how to make them play over his face, in his voice. He’s in the right field and will definitely move up.”

“God help us.” She leaned against Roarke’s car. “Do you think he knows more than he’s put on air?”

“I think it’s possible. Highly possible. He’s enjoying stringing this out, particularly now that he’s in charge of the story. And he hates your guts.”

“Oh, now I’m hurt.” She started to open the door, then turned back. “Hates me?”

“He’ll ruin you if he can. Watch yourself.”

“He can make me look foolish, but he can’t ruin me.” She wrenched the door open. “Where the hell is Nadine? It’s not like her, Roarke. I understand how she feels about Louise, but it’s not like her to take off, not to tell me, to hand a story this size to that bastard.”

“People react in different ways to shock and grief.”

“It’s stupid. She was a target. She could still be a target. We have to find her.”

“Is that your way of squirming out of the opera?”

Eve got in the car, stretched out her legs. “No, that’s just a little side benefit. Let’s run by her place, okay? She’s on Eightieth between Second and Third.”

“All right. But you have no excuse to squirm out of the cocktail party tomorrow night.”

“Cocktail party? What cocktail party?”

“The one I arranged fully a month ago,” he reminded her as he slipped in beside her. “To kick off the fund-raiser for the Art Institute on Station Grimaldi. Which you agreed to attend and to help host.”

She remembered, all right. He’d brought home some fancy dress she was supposed to wear. “Wasn’t I drunk when I agreed? The word of a drunk is worthless.”

“No, you weren’t.” He smiled as he skimmed from the visitors’ lot. “You were, however, naked, panting, and I believe very close to begging.”

“Bull.” Actually, she thought, folding her arms, he may have been right. The details were hazy. “Okay, okay, I’ll be there, I’ll be there with a stupid smile in some fancy dress that cost you too much money for too little material. Unless . . . something comes up.”

“Something?”

She sighed. He only asked her to do one of his silly gigs when it was important to him. “Police business. Only if it’s urgent police business. Barring that, I’ll stick for the whole fussy mess.”

“I don’t suppose you could try to enjoy it?”

“Maybe I could.” She turned her head and on impulse lifted a hand to his cheek. “A little.”

chapter eighteen

No one answered the buzzer at Nadine’s door. The recording requested simply that the caller leave a message, which would be returned at the earliest possible time.

“She could be in there brooding,” Eve mused, rocking on her heels as she considered. “Or she could be at some tony resort. She slipped her guard plenty over the past few days. She’s a slick one, our Nadine.”

“And you’ll feel better if you know.”

“Yeah.” Brow furrowed, Eve considered using her police emergency code to bypass security. She didn’t have enough cause, and she balled her hands in her pockets.

“Ethics,” Roarke said. “It’s always an education to watch you struggle with them. Let me help you out.” He took out a small pocket knife and pried open the handplate.

“Jesus, Roarke, tampering with security will get you six months house arrest.”

“Um-hmm.” Calmly, he studied the circuits. “I’m a bit out of practice. We make this model, you know.”

“Put that damn thing back together, and don’t—”

But he was already bypassing the main board, working with a speed and efficiency that made her wince.

“Out of practice, my butt,” she mumbled when the lock light went from red to green.

“I always had a knack.” The door slid open, and he tugged her inside.

“Security tampering, breaking and entering, private property trespass. Oh, it’s just mounting up.”

“But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?” With one hand still on Eve’s arm, he studied the living area. It was clean, cool, spare in furnishings, but with an expensive minimalistic style.

“She lives well,” he commented, noting the gleam on the tile floor, the few objects d’art on spearing clear pedestals. “But she doesn’t come here often.”

Eve knew he had a good eye, and nodded. “No, she doesn’t really live here, just sleeps here sometimes. There’s nothing out of place, no dents in the cushions.” She walked past him toward the adjoining kitchen, punched the available menu on the AutoChef. “Doesn’t keep a lot of food on hand, either. Mostly cheese and fruit.”

Eve thought about her empty stomach, was tempted, but resisted. She headed out across the wide living space toward a bedroom. “Office,” she stated, studying the equipment, the console, the wide screen it faced. “She lives here some. Shoes under the console, single earring by the link, empty cup, probably coffee.”

The second bedroom was larger, the sheets on the unmade bed twisted as if someone had wrapped and unwrapped themselves through a particularly long night.

Eve spotted the suit Nadine had been wearing on the night of Louise’s murder on the floor, kicked under a table where a vase of daisies wilted.

They were signs of pain, and they made her sorry. She walked to the closet and hit the button to open it. “Christ, how could you tell if she packed anything? She’s got enough clothes for a ten-woman model troupe.”

Still, she looked through them while Roarke moved to the bedside ’link and ran the record disc back to the beginning. Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw what he was up to. She only moved her shoulders.

“Might as well completely invade her privacy.”

Eve continued to search for some sign that Nadine had gone off on a trip while the calls and messages played back.

She listened with some amusement to some frank sexual byplay between Nadine and some man named Ralph. There were a lot of innuendos, overt suggestions, and laughter before the transmission ended with a promise to get together when he got into town.

Other calls breezed by: work-oriented, a call to a nearby restaurant for delivery. Ordinary, everyday calls. Then it changed.

Nadine was speaking to the Kirskis the day after the last murder. All of them were weeping. Maybe there was comfort in it, Eve thought as she walked toward the viewer. Maybe sharing tears and shock helped.

I don’t know if it matters right now, but the primary investigator, Dallas—Lieutenant Dallas—she won’t stop until she finds out who did this to Louise. She won’t stop.

“Oh, man.” Eve closed her eyes as the transmission ended. There was nothing more, just blank disc, and she opened her eyes again. “Where’s the call to the station?” she demanded. “Where’s the call? Morse said she called in and requested time off.”

“Could have done it from her car, from a portable. In person.”

“Let’s find out.” She whipped out her communicator. “Feeney. I need make, model, and ID number on Nadine Furst’s vehicle.”

It didn’t take long to access the data or to read the garage inventory and discover her car had been logged out the day before and hadn’t been returned.

“I don’t like it.” Eve fretted as she sat back in Roarke’s car. “She’d have left me a message. She’d have left word. I need to talk to some brass at the station, find out who took her call.” She started to key it into Roarke’s car ’link, then stopped. “One other thing.” Taking out her log, she requested a different number. “Kirski, Deborah and James, Portland, Maine.” The number beeped on, and she transferred it to the ’link. It was answered quickly by a pale-haired woman with exhausted eyes.

“Mrs. Kirski, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I remember you. Is there any news?”

“There’s nothing I can tell you right now. I’m sorry.” Damn it, she had to give the woman something. “We’re pursuing some new information. We’re hopeful, Mrs. Kirski.”

“We said good-bye to Louise today.” She struggled to smile. “It was a comfort to see how many people cared for her. So many of her friends from school, and there were flowers, messages from everyone she worked with in New York.”

“She won’t be forgotten, Mrs. Kirski. Could you tell me if Nadine Furst attended the memorial today?”

“We expected her.” The swollen eyes looked lost a moment. “I’d spoken with her at her office only a few days ago to give her the date and time of the services. She said she would be here, but something must have come up.”

“She didn’t make it.” A sour feeling spread in Eve’s stomach. “You haven’t heard from her?”

“No, not for a few days. She’s a very busy woman, I know. She has to get on with her life, of course. What else can she do?”

Eve could offer no comfort without adding worry. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kirski. If you have any questions or need to speak with me, please call. Anytime.”

“You’re very kind. Nadine said you wouldn’t stop until you’d found the man who did this to my girl. You won’t stop, will you, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.” She broke transmission, let her head fall back, closed her eyes. “I’m not kind. I didn’t call her to say I was sorry, but because she might have given me an answer.”

“But you were sorry.” Roarke closed his hand gently over hers. “And you were kind.”

“I can count the people who mean something to me without coming close to double digits. The same with the people I mean something to. If he’d have come after me, like the bastard was supposed to, I would have dealt with him. And if I hadn’t—”

“Shut up.” His hand vised over hers with a force that had her muffling a yelp, and his eyes were fierce and angry. “Just shut up.”

Absently, she nursed her hand as he raced along the street. “You’re right, I’m doing it wrong. I’m taking it in, and that doesn’t help anything. Too much emotion on the case,” she murmured, remembering the chief’s warning. “I started out today thinking clean, and that’s what I’ve got to keep doing. Next step is to find Nadine.”

She called Dispatch and ordered an all points on the woman and her vehicle.

Calmer, with the twist of her earlier words unraveling in his gut, he slowed, glanced at her. “How many homicide victims have you stood for in your illustrious career, Lieutenant?”

“Stood for? That’s an odd way of putting it.” She moved her shoulders, trying to focus her mind on a man in a long, dark coat with a shiny new car. “I don’t know. Hundreds. Murder never goes out of style.”

“Then I’d say you’re well past the double digits, on both sides. You need to eat.”

She was too hungry to argue with him.

“The trouble with the cross-check is Metcalf’s diary,” Feeney explained. “It’s full of cutesy little codes and symbols. And she changes them, so we can’t work a pattern. We’ve got names like Sweet Face, Hot Buns, Dumb Ass. We got initials, we got stars, hearts, little smiley faces or scowly faces. It’ll take time, and lots of it, to cross it with the copy of Nadine’s or the prosecutor’s.”

“So what you’re telling me is you can’t do it.”

“I didn’t say can’t.” He looked insulted.

“Okay, sorry. I know you’re busting your computer chips on this, but I don’t know how much time we’ve got. He’s got to go for somebody else. Until we find Nadine . . .”

“You think he snatched her.” Feeney scratched his nose, his chin, reached for his bag of little candied nuts. “That breaks pattern, Dallas. And all three bodies he hit he left where someone was going to stumble over them pretty quick.”

“So he’s got a new pattern.” She sat on the edge of the desk and immediately shifted off, too edgy for stillness. “Listen, he’s pissed. He missed his target. It was all going his way, then he fucks up, downloads the wrong woman. If we go with Mira, he got plenty of attention, hours of airtime, but he failed. It’s a power thing.”

She wandered to her stingy window, stared out, watched as an airbus rumbled past at eye level like an awkward, overweight bird. Below, people were scattered like ants, rushing on the sidewalks, the ramps, the handy-glides to wherever their pressing business took them.

There were so many of them, Eve thought. So many targets.

“It’s a power thing,” Eve repeated, frowning down at the pedestrian traffic. “This woman’s been getting all the attention, all the glory. His attention, his glory. When he takes them out, he gets the kick of the kill, all the publicity. The woman’s gone, and that’s good. She was trying to run everything her way. Now the public is focused on him. Who is he, what is he, where is he?”

“You’re sounding like Mira,” Feeney commented. “Without the thousand-credit words.”

“Maybe she’s nailed him. The what is he, anyway. She thinks male, she thinks unattached. Because women are a problem for him. Can’t let them get the upper hand, like his mother did. Or the prominent female figure in his life. He’s had some success, but not enough. He can’t quite get to the top. Maybe because a woman’s in the way. Or women.”

She narrowed her eyes, closed them. “Women who speak,” she murmured. “Women who use words to wield power.”

“That’s a new one.”

“That’s mine,” she said, turning back. “He cuts their throats. He doesn’t rough them up, doesn’t sexually assault or mutilate. It’s not about sexual power, though it’s about sex. If you term it as gender. There’s all sorts of ways to kill, Feeney.”

“Tell me about it. Somebody’s always finding some new, inventive way to ditch somebody else.”

“He uses a knife, and that’s an extension of the body. A personal weapon. He could stab them in the heart, rip them in the gut, disembowel—”

“Okay, okay.” He swallowed a nut manfully and waved a hand. “You don’t have to draw a picture.”

“Towers made her mark in court, her voice a powerful tool. Metcalf, the actress, dialogue. Furst, talking to viewers. Maybe that’s why he didn’t go after me,” she murmured. “Talking isn’t my source of power.”

“You’re doing all right now, kid.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” she said with a shake of the head. “What we’ve got is an unattached male, in a career where he’s unable to make a deep mark, one who had a strong, successful female influence.”

“Fits David Angelini.”

“Yeah, and his father if we add in the fact that his business is in trouble. Slade, too. Mirina Angelini isn’t the fragile flower I thought she was. There’s Hammett. He was in love with Towers but she wasn’t taking him quite as seriously. That’s a squeeze on the balls.”

Feeney grunted, shifted.

“Or there’s a couple thousand men out there, frustrated, angry, with violent tendencies.” Eve hissed a breath through her teeth. “Where the hell is Nadine?”

“Look, they haven’t located her vehicle. She hasn’t been gone that long.”

“Any record of her using credits in the last twenty-four hours?”

“No.” Feeney sighed. “Still, if she decided to go off planet, it takes longer to access.”

“She didn’t go off planet. She’d want to stay close. Damn it, I should have known she’d do something stupid. I could see how ripped she was. I could see it in her eyes.”

Frustrated, Eve dragged her hands through her hair. Then her fingers curled in, went tense. “I could see it in her eyes,” she repeated slowly. “Oh my Jesus. The eyes.”

“What? What?”

“The eyes. He saw her eyes.” She leaped toward her ’link. “Get me Peabody,” she ordered, “Field officer at the—shit, shit—what is it? The four oh two.”

“What have you got, Dallas?”

“Let’s wait.” She rubbed her fingers over her mouth. “Let’s just wait.”

“Peabody.” The officer’s face flipped on screen, irritation showing around the mouth. There was a riot of noise on audio, voices, music.

“Christ, Peabody, where are you?”

“Crowd control.” Irritation edged toward a sneer. “Parade on Lex. It’s some Irish thing.”

“Freedom of the Six Counties Day,” Feeney said with a hint of pride. “Don’t knock it.”

“Can you get away from the noise?” Eve shouted.

“Sure. If I leave my post and walk three blocks crosstown.” She remembered herself. “Sir.”

“Hell,” Eve muttered and made do. “The Kirski homicide, Peabody. I’m going to transmit a picture of the body. You take a look.”

Eve called up the file, flipped through, sent the shot of Kirski sprawled in the rain.

“Is that how you found her? Exactly how you found her?” Eve demanded over audio.

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

Eve pulled the image back, left it in the bottom corner of her screen. “The hood over her face. Nobody messed with the hood?”

“No, sir. As I stated in my report, the TV crew was taking pictures. I moved them back, sealed the door. Her face was covered to just above the mouth. She had not been officially identified when I arrived on scene. The statement from the witness who found the body was fairly useless. He was hysterical. You have the record.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the record. Thanks, Peabody.”

“So,” Feeney began when she ended the transmission. “What does that tell you?”

“Let’s look at the record again. Morse’s initial statement.” Eve eased back so that Feeney could bring it up. Together they studied Morse. His face was wet with what looked like a combination of rain and sweat, possibly tears. He was white around the lips, and his eyes jittered.

“Guy’s shook,” Feeney commented. “Dead bodies do that to some people. Peabody’s good,” he added, listening. “Slow, thorough.”

“Yeah, she’ll move up,” Eve said absently.

Then I saw it was a person. A body. God, all the blood. There was so much blood. Everywhere. And her throat . . . I got sick. You could smell—I got sick. Couldn’t help it. Then I ran inside for help.

“That’s the gist of it.” Eve steepled her hands, tapped them against her jaw. “Okay, run through to where I talked to him after we shut down the broadcast that night.”

He still looked pale, she noted, but he had that little superior smirk around his mouth. She’d run him through the details much the same as Peabody had and received basically the same responses. Calmer now. That was expected, that was usual.

Did you touch the body?

No, I don’t think—no. She was just lying there, and her throat was wide open. Her eyes. No, I didn’t touch her. I got sick. You probably don’t understand that, Dallas. Some people have basic human reactions. All that blood, her eyes. God.

“He said almost the same thing to me yesterday,” Eve murmured. “He’d never forget her face. Her eyes.”

“Dead eyes are spooky. They can stay with you.”

“Yeah, hers have stayed with me.” She shifted her gaze to Feeney’s. “But nobody saw her face until I got there that night, Feeney. The hood had fallen over it. Nobody saw her face before I did. Except the murderer.”

“Jesus, Dallas. You don’t seriously think some little media creep like Morse is slicing throats in his off time. He probably added it for impact, to make himself more important.”

Now her lips curved, just a little, in a smile more feral than amused. “Yeah, he likes being important, doesn’t he? He likes being the focus. What do you do when you’re an ambitious, unethical, second-string reporter, Feeney, and you can’t find a hot story?”

He let out a low whistle. “You make one.”

“Let’s run his background. See where our pal comes from.”

It didn’t take Feeney long to pull up a basic sheet.

C. J. Morse had been born in Stamford, Connecticut, thirty-three years before. That was the first surprise. Eve would have pegged him as several years younger. His mother, deceased, had been head of computer science at Carnegie Melon, where her son had graduated with double majors in broadcasting and compuscience.

“Smart little fucker,” Feeney commented. “Twentieth in his class.”

“I wonder if it was good enough.”

His employment record was varied. He’d bumped from station to station. One year at a small affiliate near his hometown. Six months with a satellite in Pennsylvania. Nearly two years at a top-rated channel in New Los Angeles, then a stretch in a half-baked independent in Arizona before heading back East. Another gig in Detroit before hitting New York. He’d worked on All News 60, then made the lateral transfer to Channel 75, first in the social data unit, then into hard news.

“Our boy doesn’t hold down a job long. Channel 75’s his record with three years. And there’s no mention of his father in family data.”

“Just mama,” Feeney agreed. “A successful, highly positioned mama.” A dead mama, she thought. They’d have to take time to check on how she died.

“Let’s check criminal.”

“No record,” Feeney said, frowning at the screen. “A clean-living boy.”

“Go into juvie. Well, well,” she said, reading the data. “We’ve got ourselves a sealed record here, Feeney. What do you suppose our clean-living boy did in his misspent youth bad enough that somebody used an arm to have it sealed up?”

“Won’t take me long to find out.” He was cheering up, fingers ready to dance. “I’ll want my own equipment, and a green light from the commander.”

“Do it. And dig into each of those job positions. Let’s see if there was any trouble. I think I’ll take a swing by Channel 75, have a nice, fresh chat with our boy.”

“We’re going to need more to take him down than a possible match with the psych profile.”

“Then we’ll get it.” She shrugged into her shoulder harness. “You know, if I hadn’t had such a personal beef with him, I might have seen it before. Who benefited from the murders? The media.” She locked in her weapon. “And the first murder took place when Nadine was conveniently off planet on assignment. Morse could step right in.”

“And Metcalf?”

“The fucker was on scene almost before I was. It pissed me off, but it never clicked. He was so damn cool. And then who finds Kirski’s body? Who’s on air in minutes giving his personal report?”

“It doesn’t make him a killer. That’s what the PA’s office is going to say.”

“They want a connection. Ratings,” she said as she headed for the door. “There’s the goddamn connection.”

chapter nineteen

Eve did a quick pass through the newsroom, studied the viewing screens. There was no sign of Morse, but that didn’t worry her. It was a big complex. And he had no reason to hide, no reason to worry.

She wasn’t going to give him one.

The plan she’d formulated on the trip over was simple. Not as satisfying as hauling him out by his camera-friendly hair and into lockup, but simpler.

She’d talk to him about Nadine, let it leak that she was worried. From there, it would be natural to steer things to Kirski. She could play good cop, for a good cause. She could sympathize with his trauma, add a war story from her first encounter with the dead to nudge him along. She could even ask him for help in broadcasting Nadine’s picture, her vehicle, agree to work with him.

Not too friendly, she decided. It should be grudging, with underlying urgency. If she was right about him, he’d love the fact that she needed him, and that he could use her to pump up his own airtime.

Then again, if she was right about him, Nadine could already be dead.

Eve blocked that out. It couldn’t be changed, and regrets could come later.

“Looking for something?”

Eve glanced down. The woman was so perfect, Eve might have been tempted to check for a pulse. Her face could have been carved from alabaster, her eyes painted with liquid emerald, her lips with crushed ruby. On-air talents were often known to leverage their first three years’ salaries against cosmetic enhancement.

Eve figured unless this one had been born very lucky, she’d bet the first five. Her hair was gold-tipped bronze swept up and away from that staggering face. Her voice was trained to a throaty purr that transmitted competent sex.

“Gossip line, right?”

“Social information. Larinda Mars.” She offered a perfect, long-fingered hand with tapered scarlet tips. “And you’re Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Mars. That’s familiar.”

“It should be.” If Larinda was irked that Eve didn’t place her instantly, she hid it well behind a dazzling white-toothed smile and a voice that held the faintest whiff of upper-class Brit. “I’ve been trying for weeks to nail down an interview with you and your fascinating companion. You haven’t returned my messages.”

“Bad habit of mine. Just like thinking my personal life is personal.”

“When you’re involved with a man like Roarke, personal life becomes public domain.” Her gaze skittered down, latched like a hook on a point between Eve’s breasts. “My, my, that’s quite a little bauble. A gift from Roarke?”

Eve bit off an oath, closed her hand over the diamond. She’d taken to playing with it while she was thinking and had forgotten to shove it back under her shirt.

“I’m looking for Morse.”

“Hmmm.” Larinda had already calculated the size and value of the stone. It would make a nice side piece to her broadcast. Cop wears billionaire’s ice. “I might be able to help you with that. And you’ll return the favor. There’s a little soiree at Roarke’s tonight.” She fluttered her incredible two-layer, two-toned lashes. “My invitation must have been lost.”

“That’s Roarke’s deal. Talk to him.”

“Oh.” An expert on button pushing, Larinda leaned back. “So, he runs the show, does he? I suppose when a man’s so used to making decisions, he wouldn’t consult the little woman.”

“I’m nobody’s little woman,” Eve shot back before she could stop herself. She took a breath for control, reevaluated the eerily beautiful face. “Nice one, Larinda.”

“Yes, it was. So, how about a pass for tonight? I can save you a lot of time looking for Morse,” she added, when Eve sent a new narrow-eyed stare around the room.

“Prove it, and we’ll see.”

“He left five minutes before you walked in.” Without looking, Larinda punched the call coming in on her ’link to hold. Practically, she used a slim pointer rather than her expensive manicure. “In a hurry, I’d say, as he nearly knocked me off the ascent. He looked quite ill. Poor baby.”

The venom there had Eve feeling more in tune with Larinda. “You don’t like him.”

“He’s a puss ball,” Larinda said in her melodious voice. “This is a competitive business, darling, and I’m not against stepping on someone’s back now and then to get ahead. Morse is the kind who’d step on you, then sneak in a nice kick to the crotch and never break a sweat. He tried it with me when we were on the social beat together.”

“And how did you handle that?”

She rolled a gorgeous shoulder. “Darling, I eat little weenies like him for breakfast. Still, he wasn’t altogether bad, a whiz with research, and a good camera presence. Just thought he was too manly to scoop up gossip.”

“Social information,” Eve corrected with a thin smile.

“Right. Anyway, I wasn’t sorry to see him shift over to hard news. You won’t find that he’s made many friends there, either. He’s cut Nadine.”

“What?” Bells rang in Eve’s head.

“He wants to anchor, and he wants it solo. Every time he’s on the news desk with her, he pulls little shit. Steps on her lines, adds a few seconds to his own time. Cuts her copy. Once or twice the TelePrompTer’s been screwed up on her copy, too. Nobody could prove it, but Morse is the boy genius with electronics.”

“Is he?”

“We all hate him,” she said cheerfully. “Except upstairs. The brass think he’s good ratings and appreciate his killer instinct.”

“I wonder if they do,” Eve murmured. “Where did he go?”

“We didn’t stop to chat, but the way he looked, I’d say home and bed. He really looked sagged.” She moved her curvy shoulders, sent some classy fragrance wafting up. “Maybe he’s still shaking about finding Louise, and I should have more sympathy, but it’s tough when it’s Morse. Now, about that invitation?”

“Where’s his station?”

Larinda sighed, flipped her call onto message mode and rose. “Over here.” She glided through the aisles, proving that her body was every bit as impressive as her face. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it.” She sent a wicked smile over her shoulder. “Did he do something? Did they finally pass a law making puss ball tendencies a crime?”

“I just need to talk to him. Why won’t I find anything?”

Larinda paused at a corner cubicle, the console facing out so that anyone sitting behind it had his back to the wall and his eyes on the room. Nice little sign of paranoia, Eve thought.

“He never leaves anything out, not the tiniest memo, the bitsiest note. He locks down his computer if he stands up to scratch his butt. Claims somebody stole some of his research on one of his other gigs. He even uses an audio enhance, so he can whisper on calls and nobody can hear. As if we all strain to catch those golden words from his throat.”

“So, how do you know he uses audio enhance?”

Larinda smiled. “Good one, Lieutenant. His console’s locked, too,” she added. “Discs secured.” She flicked up a glance from under gold-tipped lashes. “Being a detective, you can probably figure out how I know that. Now, the invite?”

The cubicle was perfect, Eve thought. Awfully perfect for someone who had been hard at work, then had dashed out, ill. “Does he have a source at Cop Central?”

“I guess he may, though I can’t imagine an actual human playing ball with Morse.”

“Does he talk about it, brag about it?”

“Hey, in the gospel according to Morse, he’s got top-level sources in the four corners of the universe.” Her voice lost a bit of its sophistication on the dig, and whispered unmistakably of Queens. “But he never scooped Nadine. Well, until the Towers’s murder, but he didn’t last long on that.”

Eve’s heart was pounding now, strong and steady. She nodded, turned on her heel.

“Hey,” Larinda called after her. “How about tonight? Tit for tat, Dallas.”

“No cameras, or you’re out before you’re in,” Eve warned and kept walking.

Because she remembered her days in uniform, and her ambition, Eve requested Peabody as her backup.

“He’s going to remember your face.” Eve waited impatiently as the elevator climbed to the thirty-third floor of Morse’s building. “He’s good with faces. I don’t want you to say anything unless I give you an opening, then keep it brief, official. And look stern.”

“I was born looking stern.”

“Maybe toy with the hilt of your stunner now and again. You could look a little . . . anxious.”

The corner of Peabody’s mouth twitched. “Like I’d like to use it, but can’t in the presence of a superior officer.”

“You got it.” She stepped off the elevator, turned left. “Feeney’s still working on data, so I don’t have as much as I’d like to pressure him with. The fact is, I could be wrong.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t think so. But I was wrong about David Angelini.”

“You built a good circumstantial case, and he looked guilty as hell in interview.” At Eve’s casual glance, Peabody flushed. “Officers involved in a case are entitled to review all data pertaining to said case.”

“I know the drill, Peabody.” Very cool, very official, Eve announced herself through the entrance intercom. “You looking for a detective badge, Officer?”

Peabody squared her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

Eve merely nodded, announced herself again, and waited. “Walk down the hall, Peabody, see if the emergency exit is secure.”

“Sir?”

“Walk down the hall,” Eve repeated, holding Peabody’s baffled gaze. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

The minute Peabody’s back was turned, Eve took out her master code and disengaged the locks. She slid the door open a fraction and had the code back in her bag before Peabody came back.

“Secured, sir.”

“Good. Doesn’t look like he’s home, unless . . . Well, look here, Peabody, the door isn’t fully secured.”

Peabody looked at the door, then back at Eve, and pursed her lips. “I would consider that unusual. We could have a break-in here, Lieutenant. Mr. Morse may be in trouble.”

“You’ve got a point, Peabody. Let’s put this on record.” While Peabody engaged her recorder, Eve slid the door open, drew her weapon. “Morse? This is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPDS. The entrance is unsecured. We suspect a break-in and are entering the premises.” She stepped in, signaled for Peabody to stand tight.

She slipped into the bedroom, checked closets, and skimmed a glance over the communications center that took up more room than the bed.

“No sign of an intruder,” she said to Peabody, then ducked into the kitchen. “Where has our little bird flown?” she wondered. Pulling out her communicator, she contacted Feeney. “Give me everything you’ve got so far. I’m in his apartment, and he’s not.”

“I’m only about halfway there, but I think you’re going to like it. First, the sealed juvie record—and I had to sweat for this one, kid. Little C. J. had a problem with his social science instructor when he was ten. She didn’t give him an A on an assignment.”

“Well, that bitch.”

“That’s what he figured, apparently. He broke into her house, wrecked the place. And killed her little doggie.”

“Jesus, killed her dog?”

“Sliced its throat, Dallas. Ear to floppy ear. Ended up with mandatory therapy, probation, and community service.”

“That’s good.” Eve felt the pieces shifting into place. “Keep going.”

“Okay. I’m here to serve. Our pal drives a brand-new two-passenger Rocket.”

“God bless you, Feeney.”

“More,” he said, preening a bit. “His first adult job was on dispatch at a little station in his own hometown. He quit when another reporter jogged ahead of him to an on-air assignment. A woman.”

“Don’t stop now. I think I love you.”

“All the gold shields do. It’s my pretty face. Got on air on the next gig, weekends only, subbing for the first and second string. Left in a huff, claiming discrimination. Assignment editor, female.”

“Better and better.”

“But here’s the big one. Station he worked at in California. He was making it pretty good there, scrambled up from third string, got a regular spot on the midday, coanchoring.”

“With a woman?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the big guns, Dallas. Wait for it. Pretty little weather girl that was pulling in all the mail. Brass liked her so much they let her do some of the soft features on the midday. Ratings went up when she was on, and she started to get press of her own. Morse quit, citing he refused to work with a nonprofessional. That was just before the little weather girl got her big break, a recurring bit part in a comedy. Want to guess her name?”

Eve closed her eyes. “Tell me it’s Yvonne Metcalf.”

“Give the lieutenant a cigar. Metcalf had a notation about meeting the Dumb Ass from the partly sunny days. I’d say it’s a good bet our boy looked her up in our fair city. Funny he never mentioned they were old pals in his reports. Would’ve given them such a nice shine.”

“I do love you, desperately. I’m going to kiss your ugly face.”

“Hey, it’s lived in. That’s what my wife tells me.”

“Yeah, right. I need a search warrant, Feeney, and I need you here at Morse’s to break down his computer.”

“I’ve already requested the warrant. I’ll have it transmitted to you as soon as it comes in. Then I’m on my way.”

Sometimes the wheels moved smoothly. Eve had the warrant and Feeney within thirty minutes. She did kiss him, enthusiastically enough to have him going red as a hybrid beet.

“Secure the door, Peabody, then take the living area. Don’t bother to be neat.”

Eve swung into the bedroom, two steps ahead of Feeney. He was already rubbing his hands together.

“That’s a beautiful system,” he said. “Whatever his faults, the asshole knows his computers. It’s going to be a pleasure to play with her.” He sat down as Eve started to hunt through drawers.

“Obsessively trendy,” she commented. “Nothing that shows too much sign of wear, nothing too expensive.”

“He’s putting all his money in his toys.” Feeney hunched over, brows knit. “This guy respects his equipment, and he’s careful. There are code blocks everywhere. Jesus, he’s got a fail-safe.”

“What?” Eve straightened up. “On a home unit?”

“He’s got one, all right.” Gingerly, Feeney eased back. “If I don’t use the right code, the data’s zapped. Odds are it’s voice printed, too. It’s not going to let me in easy, Dallas. I’m going to have to bring in some equipment, and it’s going to take time.”

“He’s on the run. I know he’s on the run. He knew we were coming after him.”

Rocking back on her heels, she considered the possibilities: leaks—human—or electronic leaks.

“Call in your best man to come over here. You take the computer at the station. That’s where he was when he ran.”

“It’s going to be a long night.”

“Lieutenant.” Peabody came to the door. Her face was impassive, but for the eyes. And the eyes were on fire. “I think you’d better see this.”

In the living room, Peabody gestured to the blocky platform sofa. “I was giving it the once-over. Probably would have missed it, except my dad likes to build stuff. He was always putting in hidden drawers and hidey-holes. We got a kick out of it, used to play hidden treasure. I got curious when I saw the knob on the side. It looks like an ordinary decorative device that simulates old-fashioned turn bolts.” She stepped around the front of the couch and gestured.

Eve could almost feel the vibrations rising from her skin.

Peabody’s voice rose slightly in octave. “Hidden treasure.”

Eve felt her heart kick once, hard. There in a long, wide drawer that slid from under the cushions lay a purple umbrella and a high-heeled red-and-white-striped shoe.

“Got him.” Eve turned to Peabody with a fierce and powerful grin. “Officer, you’ve just taken one giant step toward your detective shield.”

“My man says you’re harassing him.”

Eve scowled at Feeney’s face in her communicator. “I’m simply asking him for periodic updates.” She paced away from the sweepers who were scanning the living area of Morse’s apartment. They had the lights on high. The sun was going down.

“And interrupting his flow. Dallas, I told you this would be slow work. Morse was an expert on compuscience. He knew all the tricks.”

“He’d have written it down, Feeney. Like a fucking news report. And if he’s got Nadine, that’s on one of those damned discs, too.”

“I’m with you on that, kid, but breathing down my man’s neck isn’t going to free up the data any quicker. Give us some space here, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you have a fancy do tonight?”

“What?” She grimaced. “Oh hell.”

“Go put on your party dress and leave us alone.”

“I’m not going to dress up like some brainless idiot and eat canapés while he’s out there.”

“He’s going to be out there, whatever you’re wearing. Listen up, we’ve got a citywide net out on him, his car. His apartment’s under heavy surveillance, so’s the station. You can’t help us here. This part’s my job.”

“I can—”

“Slow up the process by making me talk to you,” he snapped. “Go away, Dallas. The minute I get anything, the first byte, I’ll call you in.”

“We’ve got him, Feeney. We’ve got the who, the what.”

“Let me try to find the where. If Nadine Furst is still alive, every minute counts.”

That was what haunted her. She wanted to argue, but there was no ammunition. “Okay, I’ll go, but—”

“Don’t call me,” Feeney interrupted. “I’ll call you.” He broke transmission before she could swear at him.

Eve was trying hard to understand relationships, the importance of balancing lives and obligations, the value of compromise. What she had with Roarke was still new enough to fit snugly, like a vaguely uncomfortable shoe, and lovely enough to keep wearing it until it stretched to accommodate.

So she dashed into the bedroom at a full run, saw him standing in the dressing area, and launched into the offense strategy.

“Don’t give me any grief about being late. Summerset already handled that.” She whipped off her harness, tossed it on a chair. Roarke finished securing a square of gold to his cuff, hands elegant, steady.

“You don’t answer to Summerset.” He looked at her then, a brief flick of the eyes as she tugged off her shirt. “Nor to me.”

“Look, I had work.” Naked from the waist up, she dropped into a chair to pull off her boots. “I said I’d be here, and I’m here. I know guests are going to be arriving in ten minutes.” She heaved a boot aside as Summerset’s abrasive words scraped through her head. “I’ll be ready. I don’t take hours to put some dress on and trowel a bunch of gunk on my face.”

Boots disposed of, she arched her hips and wiggled out of her jeans. Before they hit the floor she was dashing into the adjoining bath. With a smile for the exit, Roarke followed her.

“There’s no hurry, Eve. You don’t clock in to a cocktail party, or get docked for tardiness.”

“I said I’d be ready.” She stood in the crisscrossing sprays of his shower, lathering pale green liquid into her hair. Suds dripped into her eyes. “I’ll be ready.”

“Fine, but no one will be offended if you come down in twenty minutes, or thirty for that matter. Do you expect me to be annoyed with you because you have another life?”

She swiped at her stinging eyes, tried to see him through suds and steam. “Maybe.”

“Then you’re doomed to disappointment. If you recall, I met you via that other life. And I have a number of other obligations as well.” He watched her rinse her hair. It was pleasant to see the way she tilted her face back, the way water and soap sleeked down and away from her skin. “I’m not trying to box you in. I’m just trying to live with you.”

She blew her wet hair out of her eyes as he opened the body dryer for her. She stepped toward it, pivoted. Then surprised him by grabbing his face in both of her hands and kissing him with a burst of enthusiasm.

“It can’t be easy.” She stepped into the tube and hit the power that swirled warm, dry air over her. “I can have a hard time living with myself. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t just deck me when I start on you.”

“It’s occurred to me, but you’re so often armed.”

Dry and fragrant from the perfumed soap, she stepped out. “I’m not now.”

He caught her by the waist, then stroked his hands down over her firm, muscled bottom. “Other things occur to me when you’re naked.”

“Yeah.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, enjoying the fact that by rising slightly on her toes they were eye to eye, mouth to mouth. “Like what?”

With more than a little regret, he eased her back to arm’s length. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re so revved?”

“Maybe it’s because I like seeing you in a fancy shirt.” She moved away, tugged a short dressing robe off a hanger. “Or maybe it’s because I’m stimulated by the idea of wearing shoes that will make my arches scream for the next couple hours.”

She peered into the mirror, and supposed she was obliged to put on a little of the paint Mavis was always pushing off on her. Leaning closer, she steadied the lash darkener and lengthener, closed it firmly over the lashes of her left eye, and hit the plunger.

“Just maybe,” she continued glancing around, “it’s because Officer Peabody found the hidden treasure.”

“Good for Officer Peabody. What hidden treasure?”

Eve dealt with her right eyelashes, then blinked them experimentally. “One umbrella and one shoe.”

“You’ve got him.” Taking her shoulders, Roarke kissed her on the nape of the neck. “Congratulations.”

“We’ve nearly got him,” she corrected. She tried to remember what was next and chose lipstick. Mavis touted the virtues of lip dye, but Eve was wary of a color commitment that could last for three weeks. “We’ve got the evidence. The sweep confirmed his prints on the souvenirs. His and the victim’s only on the umbrella. Got a few others on the shoe, but we expect salespeople or other customers. Brand-new shoes, hardly a scuff on the bottoms, and she picked up several pairs at Saks right before she died.”

She went back to the bedroom, remembered the scented cream Roarke had brought back from Paris, and shrugged out of the robe to smear it on.

“The problem is, we don’t have him. He got tipped somehow that I was coming and skipped. Feeney’s working on his equipment now to see if we can shake loose some data that’ll lead us to him. There’s a net out, but he may have ditched the city. I wouldn’t have made it tonight, but Feeney gave me the boot. Said I was harassing his man.”

She opened the closet, pushed for revolve, and spotted the minuscule copper-colored dress. She took it out, held it in front of her. The sleeves were long and snug from a deep scooped neck. The skirt ended somewhere just south of the law.

“Am I supposed to wear anything under this?”

He reached in her top drawer, pulled out a matching colored triangle that might have laughingly been called panties. “These should do it.”

She caught them from his underhand toss, wiggled in. “Jesus,” she said after a quick look in the mirror. “Why bother?” Since it was too late to debate, she stepped into the dress and began to tug the clingy material up.

“It’s always entertaining to watch you dress, but I’m distracted at the moment.”

“I know, I know. Go on down. I’ll be right there.”

“No, Eve. Who?”

“Who?” She snapped the low shoulders into place. “Didn’t I say?”

“No,” Roarke said with admirable patience. “You didn’t.”

“Morse.” She ducked into the closet for shoes.

“You’re joking.”

“C. J. Morse.” She held the shoes as she might hold a weapon, and her eyes went dark and fixed. “And when I’m finished with the little son of a bitch, he’s going to get more airtime than he ever dreamed of.”

The in-house ’link beeped. Summerset’s disapproving voice floated out. “The first guests are arriving, sir.”

“Fine. Morse?” he said to Eve.

“That’s right. I’ll fill you in between canapés.” She scooped a hand through her hair. “Told you I’d be ready. Oh, and Roarke?” She linked fingers with him as they started from the room. “I need you to pass a last-minute guest through for me. Larinda Mars.”

chapter twenty

Eve supposed there could have been worse ways to wait through the last stages of an investigation. The atmosphere had it all over her cramped office at Cop Central, and the food was certainly a long leg up from the eatery.

Roarke had opened up his dome-ceilinged reception room with its glossy wood floors, mirrored walls, and sparkling lights. Long, curved tables followed the rounded walls and were artistically crowded with exotic finger foods.

Colorful bite-sized eggs harvested from the dwarf pigeons of the moon’s farm colony, delicate pink shrimp from the Sea of Japan, elegant cheese swirls that melted on the tongue, pastries pumped with pâtés or creams in a menagerie of shapes, the gleam of caviar heaped on shaved ice, the richness of fresh fruit with frosty sugar coating.

There was more. The hot table across the room steamed with heat and spices. One entire area was a treasure trove for those of a vegetarian persuasion, with another, at a discreet distance, decked out for carnivores.

Roarke had opted for live music rather than simulation, and the band out on the adjoining terrace played quiet conversation-enhancing tunes. They would heat up as the night went on, to seduce dancers.

Through the swirl of color, of scent, of gleam and gloss, waiters in severe black wandered with silver trays topped with crystal flutes of champagne.

“This is so decent.” Mavis popped a black button mushroom in her mouth. She’d dressed conservatively for the occasion, which meant a great deal of her skin was actually covered, and her hair was a tame medium red. Being Mavis, so were her irises. “I can’t believe Roarke actually invited me.”

“You’re my friend.”

“Yeah. Hey, you think if later on, after everybody’s imbibed freely, could I ask the band to let me do a number?”

Eve scanned the rich, privileged crowd, the glint of real gold and real stones, and smiled. “I think that would be great.”

“Superior.” Mavis gave Eve’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m going to go talk to the band now, sort of worm my way into their hearts.”

“Lieutenant.”

Eve shifted her gaze from Mavis’s retreating form over and up into Chief Tibble’s face. “Sir.”

“You’re looking . . . unprofessional tonight.” When she squirmed, he laughed. “That was a compliment. Roarke puts on quite a show.”

“Yes, sir, he does. It’s for a worthy cause.” But she couldn’t quite remember what that worthy cause was.

“I happen to think so. My wife is very involved.” He took a flute from a passing tray and sipped. “My only regret is that these monkey suits never go out of style.” With his free hand, he tugged at his collar.

It made her smile. “You should try wearing these shoes.”

“There’s a heavy price for fashion.”

“I’d rather be dowdy and comfortable.” But she resisted tugging at her butt-molding skirt.

“Well.” He took her arm, eased her toward a shielding arborvitae. “Now that we’ve exchanged the obligatory small talk, I’d like to tell you you’ve done an excellent job on the investigation.”

“I bumped with Angelini.”

“No, you pursued a logical line, then you backtracked and found pieces others had missed.”

“The albino junkie was a fluke, sir. Just luck.”

“Luck counts. So does tenacity—and attention to detail. You cornered him, Dallas.”

“He’s still at large.”

“He won’t get far. His own ambition will help us find him. His face is known.”

Eve was counting on it. “Sir, Officer Peabody did fine work. She has a sharp eye and good instincts.”

“So you noted in your report. I won’t forget it.” When he glanced at his watch, she realized he was as edgy as she. “I promised Feeney a bottle of Irish whiskey if he broke it by midnight.”

“If that doesn’t do it, nothing will.” She put on a smile. There was no use reminding the chief that they hadn’t found the murder weapon in Morse’s apartment. He already knew.

When she spotted Marco Angelini step into the room, her shoulders stiffened. “Excuse me, Chief Tibble. There’s someone I have to speak to.”

He laid a hand on her arm. “It isn’t necessary, Dallas.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

She knew the moment he became aware of her by the quick upward jut of his chin. He stopped, linked his hands behind his back, and waited.

“Mr. Angelini.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I regret the difficulties I caused you and your family during the investigation.”

“Do you?” His eyes were cool, unblinking. “Accusing my son of murder, subjecting him to terror and humiliation, bringing more grief upon already impossible grief, putting him behind bars when his only crime was witnessing violence?”

She could have justified her actions. She could have reminded him that his son had not only witnessed violence, but had turned away from it without a thought but to his own survival, and had compounded his crime by attempting to bribe his way out of involvement.

“I regret adding to your family’s emotional trauma.”

“I doubt if you understand the phrase.” He skimmed his eyes down. “And I wonder if, had you not been so busy enjoying your companion’s position, you might have caught the real murderer. It’s easy enough to see what you are. You’re an opportunist, a climber, a media whore.”

“Marco.” Roarke spoke softly as he laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder.

“No.” She went stiff under the touch. “Don’t defend me. Let him finish.”

“I can’t do that. I’m willing to take your state of mind into account, Marco, as the reason you would attack Eve in her own home. You don’t want to be here,” he said in an undertone of steel that indicated he was taking nothing into account. “I’ll show you out.”

“I know the way.” Marco’s eyes stabbed at Eve. “We’ll put our business association to an end as soon as possible, Roarke. I no longer trust your judgment.”

Hands balled into fists at her side, Eve trembled with fury as Marco strode away. “Why did you do that? I could have handled it.”

“You could have,” Roarke agreed, and turned her to face him. “But that was personal. No one, absolutely no one comes into our home and speaks to you that way.”

She tried to shrug it off. “Summerset does.”

Roarke smiled, touched his lips to hers. “The exception, for reasons too complicated to explain.” He rubbed away the frown line between her brows with his thumb.

“Okay. I guess I’m not going to be exchanging Christmas cards with the Angelinis.”

“We’ll learn to live with it. How about some champagne?”

“In a minute. I’m going to go freshen up.” She touched his face. It was getting easier to do that, to touch him when they weren’t alone. “I guess I ought to tell you that Mars has a recorder in her bag.”

Roarke gave the dent in her chin a quick flick. “She did. I have it in mine now, after I let her crowd me at the vegetarian table.”

“Very slick. You never mentioned pickpocketing as one of your skills.”

“You never asked.”

“Remind me to ask, and ask a lot. I’ll be back.”

She didn’t care about freshening up. She wanted a few minutes to simmer down, and maybe a few more to call Feeney, though she imagined he’d bite her head off for interrupting his compusearch.

He still had an hour to go before he lost his bottle of Irish. She didn’t think it would hurt to remind him. She was at the door to the library, preparing to code herself in, when Summerset melted out of the shadows behind her.

“Lieutenant, you have a call, termed both personal and urgent.”

“Feeney?”

“He did not grant me his name,” Summerset said down his nose.

“I’ll take it in here.” She had the small but worthy satisfaction of letting the door close smartly in his face. “Lights,” she ordered and the room brightened.

She’d almost gotten used to the walls of books with leather bindings and paper pages that crackled when you leafed through. For once she didn’t give them so much as a glance as she hurried to the ’link on Roarke’s library desk.

She engaged, then froze.

“Surprise, surprise.” Morse beamed at her. “Bet you weren’t expecting me. All dressed up for your party, I see. You look flash.”

“I’ve been looking for you, C. J.”

“Oh yeah, I know. You’ve been looking for a lot of things. I know this is on record, and it doesn’t matter. But you listen close. You keep this between you and me, or I’m going to start slicing off little tiny pieces of a friend of yours. Say hi to Dallas, Nadine.”

He reached out, and Nadine’s face came on screen. Eve, who’d seen terror too many times to count, looked at it now. “Has he hurt you, Nadine?”

“I—” She whimpered when he jerked her head back by the hair, touched a long slim blade to her throat.

“Now, you tell her I’ve been real nice to you. Tell her.” He skimmed the flat of the blade over her throat. “Bitch.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay.” She closed her eyes and a tear squeezed through. “I’m sorry.”

“She’s sorry,” Morse said between pursed lips and pressed his cheek to Nadine’s so both of their faces were in view. “She’s sorry she was so hungry to be top bitch that she slipped the guard you put on her and fell right into my waiting arms. Isn’t that right, Nadine?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m going to kill you, but not quick like the others. I’m going to kill you slowly, and with a lot of pain, unless your pal the lieutenant does everything I say. Isn’t that right? You tell her, Nadine.”

“He’s going to kill me.” She pressed her lips together hard, but nothing would stop the trembling. “He’s going to kill me, Dallas.”

“That’s right. You don’t want her to die, do you, Dallas? It’s your fault Louise died, yours and Nadine’s fault. She didn’t deserve it. She knew her place. She wasn’t trying to be top cunt. It’s your fault she’s dead. You don’t want that to happen again.”

He still had the knife at Nadine’s throat, and Eve could see his hand shake. “What do you want, Morse?” Calling up Mira’s profile, she carefully hit the right buttons. “You’re in control. You call the shots.”

“That’s right.” His smile exploded. “Damn right. You’ve got my position coming up on screen by now. You see I’m at a nice quiet spot in Greenpeace Park, where nobody’s going to bother us. All those nice green-lovers planted these pretty trees. It’s a wonderful spot. Of course, nobody comes here after dark. Unless they’re smart enough to know how to bypass the electronic field that discourages loiterers and chemi-heads. You’ve got exactly six minutes to get here so we can conduct our negotiations.”

“Six minutes. I can barely make that at full speed. If I run into traffic—”

“Then don’t,” he snapped. “Six minutes from end of transmission, Dallas. Ten seconds over, ten seconds you might use to call this in, to contact anyone, to so much as blink for backup, and I start ripping Nadine. You come alone. If I smell an extra cop, I start on her. You want her to come alone, right, Nadine.” As incentive, he turned the point of the blade to prick a narrow slice at the side of her throat.

“Please.” She tried to arch back as the blood trickled. “Please.”

“Cut her again, and I won’t deal.”

“You’ll deal,” Morse said. “Six minutes. Starting now.”

The screen went blank. Eve’s finger poised over the controls, thought of Dispatch, of the dozens of units that could be around the park in minutes. She thought of leaks, electronic leaks.

And she thought of the blood dribbling down Nadine’s throat.

She bolted across the room and hit the elevator panel on the run. She needed her weapon.

C. J. Morse was having the time of his life. He’d begun to see that he’d sold himself short by killing quickly. There was so much more kick in courting fear, seducing it, watching it swell and climax.

He saw it in Nadine Furst’s eyes. They were glassy now, the pupils huge, slick and black, with barely a rim of color at the edges. He was, he realized with great relish, literally scaring her to death.

He hadn’t cut her again. Oh, he wanted to, and made sure he showed her the knife often so that she would never lose the fear that he could. But a part of him worried about the cunt cop.

Not that he couldn’t handle her, Morse mused. He could handle her the only way women understood. By killing her. But he wouldn’t make it fast, like the others. She’d tried to outsmart him, and that was an insult he wouldn’t tolerate.

Women always tried to run the show, always got in the way, just when you were about to grab that fat brass ring. It had happened to him all of his life. All of his fucking life starting with his pushy bitch of a mother.

“You haven’t done your best, C. J. Use your brains, for God’s sake. You’ll never get through life on looks or charm. You haven’t got any. I expected more from you. If you can’t be the best, you’ll be nothing.”

He’d taken it, hadn’t he? Smiling to himself, he began to stroke Nadine’s hair while she shuddered. He’d taken it for years, playing the good, devoted son, while at night he’d dreamed of ways to kill her. Wonderful dreams, sweaty and sweet, where he’d finally silenced that grating, demanding voice.

“So I did,” he said conversationally, touching the tip of the knife to the pulse jerking in Nadine’s throat. “And it was so easy. She was all alone in that big, important house, busy with her big, important business. And I walked right in. ‘C. J.,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve lost your job again. You’ll never succeed in life unless you focus.’ And I just smiled at her and I said, ‘Shut up, Mother, shut the fuck up.’ And I cut her throat.”

To demonstrate, he trailed the blade over Nadine’s throat, lightly, just enough to scrape the skin. “She gushed and she goggled, and she shut the fuck up. But you know, Nadine, I learned something from the old bitch. It was time I focused. I needed a goal. And I decided that goal would be to rid the world of loudmouthed, pushy women, the ball breakers of the world. Like Towers and Metcalf. Like you, Nadine.” He leaned over, kissed her dead center of the forehead. “Just like you.”

She was reduced to whimpers. Her mind had frozen. She’d stopped trying to twist her wrists out of the restraints, stopped trying anything. She sat docile as a doll, with the occasional quiver breaking her stillness.

“You kept trying to shove me aside. You even went to management to try to get me off the news desk. You told them I was a . . .” He tapped the blade against her throat for emphasis. “Pain in the ass. You know that bitch Towers wouldn’t even give me an interview. She embarrassed me, Nadine. Wouldn’t even acknowledge me at press conferences. But I fixed her. A good reporter digs, right Nadine? And I dug, and I got a nice juicy story about her darling daughter’s idiot lover. Oh, I sat on it, and sat on it, while the happy mother of the bride to be made all her wedding plans. I could have blackmailed her, but that wasn’t the goal, was it? She was so ticked when I called her that night, when I dumped it all in her face.”

His eyes narrowed. They gleamed. “She was going to talk to me then, Nadine. Oh, you bet she was going to talk. She’d have tried to ruin me, even though I was only going to report the facts. But Towers was a big fucking deal, and she would have tried to squash me like a bug. That’s exactly what she said over the ’link. But she did exactly what she was told. And when I walked toward her on that nasty little street, she sneered at me. The bitch sneered at me and she said, ‘You’re late. Now, you little bastard, we’re going to set things straight.’”

He laughed so hard he had to press a hand to his stomach. “Oh, I set her straight. Gush and goggle, just like my dear old mother.”

He gave Nadine a quick slap on the top of the head, rose, and faced the camera he had set up. “This is C. J. Morse reporting. As the clock ticks away the seconds, it appears that the heroic Lieutenant Cunt will not arrive in time to save her fellow bitch from execution. Though it has long been considered a sexist cliché, this experiment has proven that women are always late.”

He laughed uproariously and gave Nadine a careless backhanded slap that knocked her back on the bench where he’d put her. After one last, high-pitched giggle, he controlled himself and frowned soberly into the lens.

“The public broadcasting of executions was banned in this country in 2012, five years before the Supreme Court once again ruled that capital punishment was unconstitutional. Of course, the court was forced into that decision by five idiot, bigmouthed women, so this reporter deems that ruling null and void.”

He took a small pocket beam out of his jacket before turning to Nadine. “I’m going to key into the station now, Nadine. On air in twenty.” Thoughtfully, he tilted his head. “You know, you could use a little makeup. It’s a pity there isn’t time. I’m sure you’d want to look your best for your final broadcast.”

He walked to her, laid the length of the knife at her throat, and faced the camera. “In ten, nine, eight . . .” He glanced over at the sound of rushing feet on the crushed stone path. “Well, well, here she is now. And with seconds to spare.”

Eve skidded to a halt on the path and stared. She’d seen a great deal in her decade on the force. Plenty that she often wished could be erased from her memory. But she’d never seen anything to compare with this.

She’d followed the light, the single light that beamed a circle around the tableau. The park bench where Nadine sat passively, blood drying on her skin, a knife at her throat. C. J. Morse behind her, dressed nattily in a round-collared shirt and color-coordinated jacket, facing a camera on a slim tripod. Its red light beamed as steadily as judgment’s eye.

“What the hell are you doing, Morse?”

“Live stand up,” he said cheerfully. “Please, step into the light, Lieutenant, so our viewers can see you.”

Keeping her eyes on his, Eve stepped into the circle.

She’d been gone too long, Roarke thought and found himself irritated by the party chat. Obviously, she’d been more upset than he’d realized, and he regretted not dealing with Angelini more effectively.

Damn if he’d let her brood or take on blame. The only way to make sure she didn’t was to amuse or annoy the mood out of her. He slipped quietly from the room, away from the lights and music and voices. The house was too big to search, but he could pinpoint her location with one question.

“Eve,” he said, the moment Summerset stepped from a room to the right.

“She’s gone.”

“What do you mean gone? Gone where?”

Because discussing the woman always put Summerset’s back up, he lifted his shoulders. “I couldn’t say, she simply ran out of the house, got into her vehicle, and drove off. She did not deign to inform me of her plans.”

The nasty twisting in Roarke’s gut sharpened his voice. “Don’t fuck with me, Summerset. Why did she leave?”

Insulted, Summerset tightened his jaw. “Perhaps it was due to the call she received a few moments ago. She took it in the library.”

Turning on his heel, Roarke strode to the library door, uncoded it. With Summerset at his heels, he stepped up to the table. “Replay, last call.”

As he watched, listened, the twisting in his gut turned to a burning that was fear. “Christ Jesus, she’s gone for him. She’s gone alone.”

He was out of the door and moving fast, the order shot over his shoulder like a laser. “Relay that information to Chief Tibble—privately.”

•••

“Though our time is short, Lieutenant, I’m sure our viewers would be fascinated by the investigative process.” Morse kept the pleasant, camera smile on his face, the knife at Nadine’s throat. “You did pursue a false lead for a time, and were, I believe, on the point of charging an innocent man.”

“Why did you kill them, Morse?”

“Oh, I’ve documented that extensively, for future broadcast. Let’s talk about you.”

“You must have felt terrible when you realized you’d killed Louise Kirski instead of Nadine.”

“I felt very bad about that, sickened. Louise was a nice, quiet woman with an appropriate attitude. But it wasn’t my fault. It was yours and Nadine’s for trying to bait me.”

“You wanted exposure.” She flicked a glance toward the camera. “You’re certainly getting it now. But this is putting you in a spot, Morse. You won’t get out of this park now.”

“Oh, I have a plan, don’t worry about me. And we have just a few minutes left before we have to end this. The public has a right to know. I want them to see this execution. But I wanted you to see it in person. To witness what you caused.”

She looked at Nadine. No help there, she noted. The woman was in deep shock, possibly drugged. “I won’t be as easy to take.”

“You’ll be more fun.”

“How did you take Nadine?” Eve stepped closer, keeping her eyes on his and her hands in sight. “You had to be clever.”

“I’m very clever. People—women in particular—don’t give me enough credit. I just leaked a tip to her about the murders. A message from a frightened witness who wanted to speak to her, alone. I knew she’d ditch her guard, an ambitious woman after the big story. I got her in the parking garage. Just as simple as that. Gave her a dose of a deep tranq, loaded her in her own trunk, and drove off. Left her and the car in a little rent space zone way downtown.”

“You were smart.” She stepped closer, stopping when he lifted his brows and pressed the knife more firmly. “Really smart,” she said, lifting her hands up. “You knew I was coming for you. How did you know?”

“You think your wrinkled pal Feeney knows everything about computers? Hell, I can run rings around that hacker. I’ve been keyed in to your system for weeks. Every transmission, every plan, every step you took. I was always ahead of you, Dallas.”

“Yeah, you were ahead of me. You don’t want to kill her, Morse. You want me. I’m the one who ragged on you, gave you all the grief. Why don’t you let her go? She’s zoned, anyway. Take me on.”

He flashed his quick, boyish smile. “Why don’t I kill her first, then you?”

Eve lifted a shoulder. “I thought you liked a challenge. Guess I was wrong. Towers was a challenge. You had to do a lot of fast talking to get her where you wanted her. But Metcalf was nothing.”

“Are you serious? She thought I was puss.” He bared his teeth, hissed through them. “She’d still be doing weather if she hadn’t had tits, and they were giving her my airtime. My fucking airtime! I had to pretend I was a big fan, tell her I was going to do a twenty-minute feature on her. Just her. Told her we had a shot at international satellite, and she bit good.”

“So she met you that night on the patio.”

“Yeah, she got herself all slicked up, was all smiles and no hard feelings. Tried to tell me she was glad I’d found my niche. My goddamn niche. Well, I shut her up.”

“You did. I guess you were pretty smart with her, too. But Nadine, she’s not saying anything. She can’t even think right now. She won’t know you’re paying her back.”

“I’ll know. Time’s up. You might want to stand to the side, Dallas, or you’re going to get blood all over your party dress.”

“Wait.” She took a step and, feinting to the side and reaching a hand to the small of her back, she whipped out her weapon. “Blink, you bastard, and I’ll fry you.”

He did blink, several times. It seemed to him the weapon had come from nowhere. “You use that, my hand’s going to jerk. She’ll be dead before I am.”

“Maybe,” Eve said steadily. “Maybe not. You’re dead, either way. Drop the knife, Morse, step away from her, or your nervous system’s going to go on fast overload.”

“Bitch. You think you’re going to beat me.” He jerked Nadine to her feet, shielding himself from a clean shot, then shoved her forward.

Eve caught Nadine with one arm while she aimed with her weapon hand, but he was already into the trees. Seeing no choice, Eve slapped Nadine hard, front handed, then back. “Snap out of it. Goddamn it.”

“He’s killing me.” Nadine’s eyes rolled back, then forward when Eve hit her again.

“Get moving, do you hear me? You get moving, call this in. Now.”

“Call it in.”

“That way.” Eve gave Nadine a shove toward the path, hoped she’d stay on her feet, and dashed toward the trees.

He’d said he had a plan, and she didn’t doubt it. Even if he managed to get out of the park, they’d bring him in, eventually. But he was primed to kill now—some woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, or someone coming home from a late date.

He’d use the knife on anyone now because he’d failed again.

She stopped in the shadows, ears straining for sound, breath rigidly controlled. Dimly, she could hear the sounds of street and air traffic, could see the lights of the city beyond the thick border of trees.

A dozen paths spread out before her that would wind through the glade and the gardens so lovingly planted, so carefully designed.

She heard something. Perhaps a footstep, perhaps a bush rustled by some small animal. With her weapon blinking ready, she stepped deeper into the shadows.

There was a fountain, its waters silent in the dark. A small children’s playground, with glide swings, twisty slides, the foamy jungle gym that prevented little climbers from bruising shins and elbows.

She scanned the area, cursing herself for not grabbing a search beam out of her car. There was too much dark pouring dangerously out of the trees. Too much silence hanging on the air like a shroud.

Then she heard the scream.

He’d circled back, she thought. The bastard has circled back and gone for Nadine after all. Eve spun around, and her instinct to protect saved her life.

The knife caught her on the collarbone, a long, shallow cut that stung ridiculously. She blocked with her elbow, connected with his jaw, spoiled his aim. But the blade flew out, slicing her just above the wrist. Her weapon spun uselessly out of her wounded hand.

“You thought I was going to run.” His eyes glowed sickly in the dark as he circled her. “Women always underestimate me, Dallas. I’m going to cut you to pieces. I’m going to rip your throat.” He jabbed, sending her back a step. “I’m going to rip your guts.” He swung again, and she felt the wind from the blade. “I’m in charge now, aren’t I?”

“Like hell.” Her kick was well aimed, a woman’s ultimate defense. He went down, air bursting through his lips like a popped balloon. The knife clattered on stone. And she was on him.

He fought like what he was—a madman. His fingers tore at her, his teeth snapped as they sought flesh to sink into. Her wounded arm was slick with blood, and slipped off him as she struggled to find the point under his jaw that would immobilize him.

They rolled over the crushed stone and trimmed sod, viciously silent but for grunts and labored breathing. His hand dug along the path for the hilt of the knife, hers clawing after it. Then stars exploded in her head as he pumped his fist into her face.

She was dazed for only an instant, but she knew she was dead. She saw the knife, and her fate, and sucked in her breath to meet it.

Later she would think it had sounded like a wolf, that howl of rage, a blood cry. Morse’s weight was off of her, his body spinning away. She rolled to her hands and knees, shaking her head.

The knife, she thought frantically, the goddamn knife. But she couldn’t find it, and crawled toward the dull gleam of her weapon.

It was in her hand, poised, when her mind cleared enough to understand. Two men were fighting, grappling like dogs in the pretty playground. And one of them was Roarke.

“Get away from him.” She scrambled to her feet, teetered, braced. “Get away from him so I can get a shot.”

They rolled again, end over end. Roarke’s hand gripped Morse’s, but Morse’s held the knife. Through the rage, the duty, the instinct, came a titanic, jittering fear.

Weak, still losing blood, she leaned back on the padded bars of the gym, steadied her weapon hand with the other. In the dappled moonlight she could see Roarke’s fist plunge, hear the crack of bone on bone. The knife strained, the blade angling.

Then she watched it plunge, watched it quiver as it found its home in Morse’s throat.

Someone was praying. When Roarke got to his feet, she realized it was herself. She stared at him, let her weapon lower. His face was fierce, his eyes hot enough to burn. There was blood soaking his elegant dinner jacket.

“You’re a goddamn mess,” she managed.

“You should look at yourself.” His breathing was labored, and he knew from experience that he would feel every miserable bruise and scrape later. “Don’t you know it’s rude to leave a party without making your excuses?”

Legs trembling with reaction, she took a step toward him, then stopped, swallowing the sob that was bubbled in her throat. “Sorry. I’m sorry. God, are you hurt?”

She launched herself at him, all but burrowing when he caught her close. “Did he cut you? Are you cut?” She yanked back, began to fumble at his clothes.

“Eve.” He jerked her chin up, steadied it. “You’re bleeding badly.”

“He caught me a couple times.” She swiped a hand under her nose. “It’s not bad.” But Roarke was already using a square of Irish linen from his pocket to staunch and wrap the arm wound. “And it’s my job.” She took a deep breath, felt the black edges around her vision creeping back until she could see clearly. “Where are you cut?”

“It’s his blood,” Roarke said calmly. “Not mine.”

“His blood.” She nearly wobbled again, forced her knees to lock. “You’re not hurt?”

“Nothing major.” Concerned, he angled her head back to examine the shallow slice along her collarbone, the rapidly swelling eye. “You need a medic, Lieutenant.”

“In a minute. Let me ask you something.”

“Ask away.” Having nothing else, he tore part of his ripped sleeve to dab at the blood on her shoulder.

“Do I come charging into one of your board rooms when you’re having trouble with a business deal?”

His eyes flicked to hers. Some of the fierceness died out of them into what was almost a smile. “No, Eve, you don’t. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s okay.” Since there was nowhere else to put it, she jabbed her weapon onto her lower back where she’d fixed it with adhesive. “This once,” she murmured and caught his face in her hands, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I was scared when I couldn’t get past you for a shot. I thought he would kill you before I could stop him.”

“Then you should understand the feeling.” Giving her a supporting arm around the waist, they began to limp off. After a moment, Eve realized she was limping primarily because she’d lost a shoe. Hardly breaking stride, she stepped out of the other. Then she spotted lights up ahead.

“Cops?”

“I imagine. I ran into Nadine as she was stumbling along the path toward the main gate. He’d given her a pretty rough time, but she’d pulled it together enough to tell me which direction you’d gone off in.”

“I could probably have dealt with the bastard on my own,” Eve murmured, recovered enough to worry about it. “But you sure handled yourself, Roarke. You got a real knack for hand to hand.”

Neither of them mentioned how the knife had come to be planted in Morse’s throat.

She saw Feeney in the circle of light, near the camera, with a dozen other cops. He merely shook his head and signaled for the medteam. Nadine was already on a stretcher, pale as wax.

“Dallas.” She lifted a hand, let it fall. “I blew it.”

Eve leaned over as one of the medics dispensed with Roarke’s first aid on her arm and began his own. “He pumped you full of chemicals.”

“I blew it,” Nadine repeated, as the stretcher lifted toward a medunit. “Thanks for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah.” She turned away, sat heavily on the cushioned support in the triage area. “You got something for my eye?” she asked. “It’s throbbing bad.”

“Going to be black,” she was told cheerfully as an ice gel was laid over it.

“There’s good news. No hospitals,” she said, firm. The medic just clucked his tongue and began work on cleaning and closing her wounds.

“Sorry about the dress.” She smiled up at Roarke and fingered a tattered sleeve. “It didn’t hold up very well.” Getting to her feet, she brushed the fussing medic aside. “I’m going to need to go back and change, then go in to file my report.” She looked steadily into his eyes. “It’s too bad Morse rolled on his knife. The PA’s office would have loved to bring him to trial.” She held out a hand, then examined the raw knuckles of Roarke’s and shook her head. “Did you howl?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She chuckled, leaned on him as they headed out of the park. “All in all, it was a hell of a party.”

“Hmm. We’ll have others. But there’s one thing.”

“Hmm?” She flexed her fingers, relieved that they seemed to be back in full working order. The MTs knew their stuff.

“I want you to marry me.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll—” She stopped, nearly stumbled, then gaped at him with her good eye. “You want what?”

“I want you to marry me.”

He had a bruise on his jaw, blood on his coat, and a gleam in his eye. She wondered if he’d lost his mind. “We’re standing here, beat to shit, walking away from a crime scene where either or both of us could have bought it, and you’re asking me to marry you?”

He tucked his arm around her waist again, nudged her forward. “Perfect timing.”

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
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IMMORTAL IN DEATH

She was one of the most sought after women in the world. A top model who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted—even another woman’s man. And now she was dead, the victim of a brutal murder. Lieutenant Eve Dallas put her life on the line to take the case when suspicion fell on her best friend, the other woman in the fatal love triangle. Beneath the façade of glamour, Eve found that the world of high fashion thrived on an all-consuming obsession for youth and fame. One that led from the runway to the dark underworld of New York City where drugs could be found to fulfill any desire—for a price . . .

“This series gets better with each book.”

—Publishers Weekly

Titles written as J. D. Robb

NAKED IN DEATH
GLORY IN DEATH
IMMORTAL IN DEATH
RAPTURE IN DEATH
CEREMONY IN DEATH
VENGEANCE IN DEATH
HOLIDAY IN DEATH
CONSPIRACY IN DEATH
LOYALTY IN DEATH
WITNESS IN DEATH
JUDGMENT IN DEATH
BETRAYAL IN DEATH
SEDUCTION IN DEATH
REUNION IN DEATH
PURITY IN DEATH
PORTRAIT IN DEATH
IMITATION IN DEATH
DIVIDED IN DEATH
VISIONS IN DEATH
SURVIVOR IN DEATH
ORIGIN IN DEATH
MEMORY IN DEATH
BORN IN DEATH
INNOCENT IN DEATH

Nora Roberts

HOT ICE
SACRED SINS
BRAZEN VIRTUE
SWEET REVENGE
PUBLIC SECRETS
GENUINE LIES
CARNAL INNOCENCE
DIVINE EVIL
HONEST ILLUSIONS
PRIVATE SCANDALS
HIDDEN RICHES
TRUE BETRAYALS
MONTANA SKY
SANCTUARY
HOMEPORT
THE REEF
RIVER’S END
CAROLINA MOON
THE VILLA
MIDNIGHT BAYOU
THREE FATES
BIRTHRIGHT
NORTHERN LIGHTS
BLUE SMOKE
ANGELS FALL
HIGH NOON

Series

Born In Trilogy
BORN IN FIRE
BORN IN ICE
BORN IN SHAME

Dream Trilogy
DARING TO DREAM
HOLDING THE DREAM
FINDING THE DREAM

Chesapeake Bay Saga
SEA SWEPT
RISING TIDES
INNER HARBOR
CHESAPEAKE BLUE

Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy
JEWELS OF THE SUN
TEARS OF THE MOON
HEART OF THE SEA

Three Sisters Island Trilogy
DANCE UPON THE AIR
HEAVEN AND EARTH
FACE THE FIRE

Key Trilogy
KEY OF LIGHT
KEY OF KNOWLEDGE
KEY OF VALOR

In the Garden Trilogy
BLUE DAHLIA
BLACK ROSE
RED LILY

Circle Trilogy
MORRIGAN’S CROSS
DANCE OF THE GODS
VALLEY OF SILENCE

Sign of Seven Trilogy
BLOOD BROTHERS

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IMMORTAL IN DEATH

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PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / July 1996

Copyright © 1996 by Nora Roberts.

Excerpt for Rapture in Death by J. D. Robb copyright © 1996 by Nora Roberts.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-20357-6

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http://us.penguingroup.com

The fatal gift of beauty

—Byron

Make me immortal with a kiss.

—Christopher Marlowe

Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page

chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty

chapter one

Getting married was murder. Eve wasn’t sure how it had happened in the first place. She was a cop, for God’s sake. Throughout her ten years on the force, she’d firmly believed cops should stay single, unencumbered, and focused utterly on the job. It was insane to believe one person could split time, energy, and emotion between law, with all its rights and wrongs, and family, with all its demands and personalities.

Both careers—and from what she’d observed, marriage was a job—had impossible demands and hellish hours. It might have been 2058, an enlightened time of technological advancement, but marriage was still marriage. To Eve it translated to terror.

Yet here she was on a fine day in high summer—one of her rare and precious days off—preparing to go shopping. She couldn’t stop the shudder.

Not just shopping, she reminded herself as her stomach clutched, shopping for a wedding dress.

Obviously she’d lost her mind.

It was Roarke’s doing, of course. He’d caught her at a weak moment. Both of them bleeding and bruised and lucky to be alive. When a man is clever enough and knows his quarry well enough to choose such a time and place to propose marriage, well, a woman was a goner.

At least a woman like Eve Dallas.

“You look like you’re about to take on a gang of chemi-thugs bare-handed.”

Eve tugged on a shoe, flicked her gaze up and over. He was entirely too attractive, she thought. Criminally so. The strong face, poet’s mouth, killer blue eyes. The wizard’s mane of thick black hair. If you managed to get past the face to the body, it was equally impressive. Then you added that faint wisp of Ireland in the voice, and, well, you had one hell of a package.

“What I’m about to take on is worse than any chemi-head.” Hearing the whine in her own voice, Eve scowled. She never whined. But the truth was, she’d have preferred fighting hand to hand with a souped-up addict than discussing hemlines.

Hemlines, for sweet Christ’s sake.

She bit back an oath, watching him narrowly as he crossed the spacious bedroom. He had a way of making her feel foolish at odd times. Like now as he sat beside her on the high, wide bed they shared.

He caught her chin in his hand. “I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

There he was. This man with the sinfully blue eyes, the strong, gorgeous, somehow Raphaelite looks of a doomed angel, loved her.

“Roarke.” She struggled to hold back a sigh. She could and had faced an armed laser in the hands of a mad mutant mercenary with less fear than she faced such unswerving emotion. “I’m going through with it. I said I would.”

His brow quirked, dark and wry. He wondered how she remained so unaware of her own appeal as she sat there, fretting, her poorly cut fawn-colored hair standing up in tufts and spikes, aroused by her restless hands, thin lines of annoyance and doubt running between her big, whiskey-colored eyes.

“Darling Eve.” He kissed her, lightly, once on the frowning lips, then again in the gentle dip in her chin. “I never doubted it.” Though he had, constantly. “I’ve several things I have to see to today. You were late last night. I never had a chance to ask if you had plans.”

“The stakeout on the Bines case went to after oh three hundred.”

“Did you get him?”

“Walked right into my arms—blissed on dreamers and a marathon VR session.” She smiled, but it was the hunter’s smile, dark and feral. “Murdering little bastard came along like my personal droid.”

“Well, then.” He patted her shoulder before rising. He stepped down from the platform into the dressing area where he pondered a selection of jackets. “And today? Reports to file?”

“I’m off today.”

“Oh?” Distracted, he turned back, a gorgeous silk jacket in deep charcoal in his hand. “I can reschedule some of my afternoon, if you like.”

Which would be, Eve mused, a bit like a general rescheduling battles. In Roarke’s world, business was a complicated and profitable war. “I’m already booked.” The scowl snuck back on her before she could stop it. “Shopping,” she muttered. “Wedding dress.”

Now he smiled, quickly, easily. From her, such plans were a declaration of love. “No wonder you’re so cranky. I told you I’d see to it.”

“I’ll pick out my own wedding dress. And I’ll buy it myself. I’m not marrying you for your damn money.”

Smooth and elegant as the jacket he slipped on, he continued to smile. “Why are you marrying me, Lieutenant?” Her scowl deepened, but he was, above all, a patient man. “Want a multiple choice?”

“Because you never take no for an answer.” She stood, shoving her hands into the front pockets of her jeans.

“You only get a half point for that. Try again.”

“Because I’ve lost my mind.”

“That won’t win you the trip for two to Tropic World on Star 50.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe I love you.”

“Maybe you do.” Content with that, he crossed back to her and laid his hands on her strong shoulders. “How bad can it be? You can pop a few shopping programs into the computer, look at dozens of suitable dresses, order in what appeals to you.”

“That was my idea.” She rolled her eyes. “Mavis ditched it.”

“Mavis.” He paled a bit. “Eve, tell me you’re not going shopping with Mavis.”

His reaction brightened her mood a little. “She has this friend. He’s a designer.”

“Dear Christ.”

“She says he’s mag. Just needs a break to make a name for himself. He has a little workshop in Soho.”

“Let’s elope. Now. You look fine.”

Her grin flashed. “Scared?”

“Terrified.”

“Good. Now we’re even.” Delighted to be on level footing, she leaned in and kissed him. “Now you can worry about what I’ll be wearing on the big day for the next few weeks. Gotta go.” She patted his cheek. “I’m meeting her in twenty minutes.”

“Eve.” Roarke grabbed for her hand. “You wouldn’t do something ridiculous?”

She tugged her way free. “I’m getting married, aren’t I? What could be more ridiculous?”

She hoped he stewed over it all day. The idea of marriage was daunting enough, but a wedding—clothes, flowers, music, people. It was horrifying.

She zipped downtown on Lex, braking hard and muttering curses at a sidewalk vendor who encroached on the lane with his smoking glide cart. The traffic violation was bad enough, but the scent of overcooked soydogs hit her nervous stomach like lead.

The Rapid cab behind her broke the intercity noise pollution code by blasting his horn and shouting curses through his speaker. A group, obviously tourists, loaded down with palm cams, compumaps, and binoks gaped stupidly at the whizzing traffic. Eve shook her head as a quick-fingered street thief elbowed through them.

When they got back to their hotel, they were going to find themselves several credits poorer. If she’d had the time and a place to pull over, she might have given the thief a chase. But he was lost in the crowd and a block across town on his air skates before she could blink.

That was New York, she thought with a faint smile. Take it at your own risk.

She loved the crowds, the noise, the constant frantic rush of it. You were rarely alone, but never intimate. That’s why she’d come here so many years ago.

No, she wasn’t a social animal, but too much space and too much solitude made her nervous.

She’d come to New York to be a cop, because she believed in order, needed it to survive. Her miserable and abusive childhood with all its blank spaces and dark corners couldn’t be changed. But she had changed. She had taken control, had made herself into the person some anonymous social worker had named Eve Dallas.

Now she was changing again. In a few weeks she wouldn’t just be Eve Dallas, lieutenant, homicide. She’d be Roarke’s wife. How she would manage to be both was more of a mystery to her than any case that had ever come across her desk.

Neither of them knew what it was to be family, to have family, to make a family. They knew cruelty, abuse, abandonment. She wondered if that was why they had come together. They both understood what it was to have nothing, to be nothing, to know fear and hunger and despair—and both had remade themselves.

Was it just mutual need that attracted them? Need for sex, for love, and the melding of the two that she had never thought was possible before Roarke.

A question for Dr. Mira, she mused, thinking of the police psychiatrist she often consulted.

But for now, Eve determined that she wasn’t going to think about the future or the past. The moment was complicated enough.

Three blocks from Greene Street, she seized her chance and squeezed into a parking space. After searching through her pockets, she found the credit tokens the aging meter demanded in its moronic and static jumbled tones and plugged in enough for two hours.

If it took any more than that, she’d be ready for a tranq room and a parking citation wouldn’t bother her in the least.

Taking a deep breath, she scanned the area. She wasn’t called this far downtown often. Murders happened everywhere, but Soho was an arty bastion for the young and struggling who more often debated their disagreements over tiny glasses of cheap wine or cups of café noir.

Just now, Soho was full of summer. Flower vendors burst with roses, the classic reds and pinks vying with the hybrid stripes. Traffic droned and chugged on the street, rumbled overhead, puffed a bit on the rickety passovers. Pedestrians stuck mostly with the scenic sidewalks, though the people glides were busy. The flowing robes currently hot from Europe were much in evidence, with arty sandals, headdresses, and shiny ropes swinging from earlobes to shoulder blades.

Oil, watercolor, and compu artists hawked their wares on corners and in storefronts, competing with food vendors who promised hybrid fruits, iced yogurts, or vegetable purees uncontaminated by preservatives.

Members of the Pure Sect, a Soho staple, glided in their snowy, street-dusting gowns, their eyes glowing and their heads shaved. Eve gave one particularly devout-looking supplicant a few tokens and was rewarded with a beatific smile and a glossy pebble.

“Pure love,” the devotee offered her. “Pure joy.”

“Yeah, right,” Eve murmured and sidestepped.

She had to backtrack to find Leonardo’s. The up-and-coming designer had a third-floor loft. The window that faced the street was crammed with fashions, blots and flows of color and form that had Eve swallowing nervously. Her taste leaned toward the plain—the drab, according to Mavis.

It didn’t appear, as she took the people glide up to get a closer look, that Leonardo leaned toward either.

The clutching in her stomach came back with a vengeance as she stared at the window display with its feathers and beads and dyed rubber unisuits. However much pleasure she would get from making Roarke wince, she wasn’t getting married in neon rubber.

There was more, a great deal more. It seemed Leonardo believed in advertising in a big way. His centerpiece, a ghostly white faceless model, was draped in a collection of transparent scarves that shimmered so dramatically that the material seemed alive.

Eve could all but feel it crawling over her skin.

Uh-uh, she thought. No way in heaven or hell. She turned, thinking only of escape, and rapped straight into Mavis.

“His stuff is so frigid.” Mavis slipped a friendly, restraining arm around Eve’s waist and gazed dreamily into the window.

“Look, Mavis—”

“And he’s incredibly creative. I’ve watched him come up with stuff on screen. It’s wild.”

“Yeah, wild. I’m thinking—”

“He really understands the inner soul,” Mavis hurried on. She understood Eve’s inner soul, and knew her friend was ready to bolt. Mavis Freestone, slim as a fairy in her white and gold rompers and three-inch air platforms, tossed back her curling mane of white-streaked black hair, judged her opponent, and grinned. “He’s going to make you the most rocking bride in New York.”

“Mavis.” Eve narrowed her eyes to forestall another interruption. “I just want something that won’t make me feel like an idiot.”

Mavis beamed, the new winged heart tattoo on her biceps fluttering as she lifted a hand to her breast. “Dallas, trust me.”

“No,” Eve said even as Mavis pulled her back to the glide. “I mean it, Mavis. I’ll just order something off screen.”

“Over my dead body,” Mavis muttered, clumping her way down to the street entrance, dragging Eve behind her. “The least you can do is look, talk to him. Give the guy a chance.” She thrust out her bottom lip, a formidable weapon when painted magenta. “Don’t be such a squash, Dallas.”

“Shit, I’m here, anyway.”

Flushed with success, Mavis bounced to the whining security camera. “Mavis Freestone and Eve Dallas, for Leonardo.”

The outer door opened with a grinding clunk. Mavis made a beeline for the old wire-screened elevator. “This place is really into retro. I think Leonardo might even stay here after he hits. You know, eccentric artist and all that.”

“Right.” Eve closed her eyes and prayed as the elevator bumped its way upward. She was taking the stairs down, absolutely.

“Now, keep an open mind,” Mavis ordered, “and let Leonardo take care of you. Darling!” She positively flowed out of the dinky elevator and into a cluttered, colorful space. Eve had to admire her.

“Mavis, my dove.”

Then Eve was struck dumb. The man with the artist’s name was six-five if he was an inch and built like a maxibus. Huge, rippling biceps mountained out of a sleeveless robe in the eye-searing colors of a Martian sunset. His face was wide as the moon, its copper-toned skin stretched tight as a drumhead over razor-edged cheekbones. He had a small, glinting stone winking beside his flashing grin and eyes like gold coins.

He swirled Mavis into his arms, off her feet, and around in one fast and graceful circle. And he kissed her, long, hard, and in a fashion that warned Eve the two of them had a great deal more going on than a mutual love of fashion and art.

“Leonardo.” Beaming like a fool, Mavis ran her gold-tipped fingers through his tight, shoulder-length curls.

“Babydoll.”

Eve managed not to gag as they cooed at each other, but she did roll her eyes. She was stuck now, without a doubt. Mavis was in love again.

“The hair, it’s wonderful.” Leonardo ran loving fingers, the size of soydogs, through Mavis’s streaked mop.

“I hoped you’d like it. This . . .” There was a dramatic pause, as though she were about to introduce her award-winning schnauzer. “Is Dallas.”

“Ah yes, the bride. Lovely to meet you, Lieutenant Dallas.” He kept one arm around Mavis and shot the other out to take Eve’s hand. “Mavis has told me so much about you.”

“Yeah.” Eve slanted a look toward her friend. “She’s been a little light on details on you.”

He laughed, a booming sound that made Eve’s ears ring even as her lips twitched in response. “My turtledove can be secretive. Refreshments,” he stated, then whirled off in a cloud of color and unexpected grace.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Mavis whispered, eyes dancing with love.

“You’re sleeping with him.”

“You wouldn’t believe how . . . inventive he is. How . . .” Mavis blew out a breath, patted her breast. “The man is a sexual artist.”

“I don’t want to hear about it. Absolutely don’t want to hear about it.” Drawing her brows together, Eve scanned the room.

It was wide, high ceilinged, and crowded with flows and streams of material. Fuchsia rainbows, ebony waterfalls, chartreuse pools dripped from the ceiling, along the walls, over tabletops and arms of chairs.

“Jesus,” was all she could manage.

Bowls and trays of glittering ribbons, tapes, and buttons were piled everywhere. Sashes, belts, hats, and veils crowded with half-finished outfits of shimmering materials and studded bodices.

The place smelled like an incense farm married to a flower shop.

She was terrified.

A little pale, Eve turned back. “Mavis, I love you. Maybe I haven’t told you that before, but I do. Now I’m leaving.”

“Dallas.” With a quick giggle, Mavis grabbed her arm. For a small woman, Mavis was amazingly strong. “Relax. Take a breath. I guarantee Leonardo’s going to fix you up.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mavis. Deeply afraid.”

“Lemon tea, iced,” Leonardo announced with a musical lilt as he came back through a curtain of draping simulated silk with a tray and glasses. “Please, please, sit. First we’ll relax, get to know each other.”

With her eye on the door, Eve edged toward a chair. “Look, Leonardo, Mavis might not have explained things, exactly. See, I’m—”

“You’re a homicide detective. I’ve read about you,” Leonardo said smoothly, snuggling on a curve-sided settee with Mavis all but in his lap. “Your last case generated a great deal of media. I must confess I was fascinated. You work with puzzles, Lieutenant, as I do.”

Eve sampled the tea, nearly blinked when she discovered it was full-bodied, rich, and wonderful. “You work with puzzles?”

“Naturally. I see a woman, I imagine how I would like to see her dressed. Then I must discover who she is, what she is, how does she live her life. What are her hopes, her fantasies, her vision of herself? Then I must take all of that, piece each part of her together to create the look. The image. At first, she is a mystery, and I’m compelled to solve her.”

Unashamed, Mavis sighed lustily. “Isn’t he mag, Dallas?”

Leonardo chuckled, nuzzled Mavis’s ear. “Your friend is worried, my dove. She think I’ll wrap her in electric pink and spangles.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“For you.” He beamed back at Eve. “So you’re going to marry the elusive and powerful Roarke.”

“It looks that way,” Eve muttered.

“You met him on a case. The DeBlass case, correct? And intrigued him with your tawny eyes and serious smile.”

“I wouldn’t say I—”

“You wouldn’t,” Leonardo continued, “because you don’t see yourself as he does. Or as I do. Strong, valiant, troubled, dependable.”

“Are you a designer or an analyst?” Eve demanded.

“You can’t be one without the other. Tell me, lieutenant, how did Roarke win you?”

“I’m not a prize.” She snapped it, then set her glass aside.

“Wonderful.” He clasped his hands together and almost wept. “Heat and independence, and just a little fear. You’ll make a magnificent bride. Now to work.” He rose. “Come with me.”

She stood up. “Listen, there’s no point in wasting your time, or mine. I’m just going to—”

“Come with me,” he repeated and took her hand.

“Give it a chance, Eve.”

For Mavis, she allowed Leonardo to lead her under and around falls of material and into an equally cluttered workstation on the far side of the loft.

The computer made her feel a little better. Those she understood. But the drawings it had generated, which were pinned and tacked to every available space, made her heart sink.

Fuchsia and spangles would have been a relief.

The models with their long, exaggerated bodies looked like mutants. Some were sporting feathers, others stones. A few were wearing what could have been clothes, but in such outrageous styles—pointed collars, skirts the size of washcloths, unisuits snug as skin—they looked like participants in a Halloween parade.

“Examples for my first show. High fashion is a twist on reality, you see. The bold, the unique, the impossible.”

“I love them.”

Eve curled her lip at Mavis and folded her arms. “It’s going to be a small, simple ceremony, at home.”

“Um.” Leonardo was already at his computer, using the keyboard with impressive skill. “Now this . . .” He brought up an image that made Eve’s blood chill.

The dress was the color of fresh urine, ringed with flounces of mud brown from its scalloped neck to its knifepoint hem that dripped with stones the size of a child’s fist. The sleeves were so snug Eve was certain anyone wearing it would lose all feeling in their fingers.

As the image turned, she was treated to a view of the back, dipping past the waist and trimmed in floaty feathers.

“. . . is not at all for you,” Leonardo finished, and indulged in a deep belly laugh at Eve’s blanched skin. “I apologize. I couldn’t resist. For you . . . just a sketch, you understand. Slim, long, simple. Only a column. Not too delicate.”

He continued to speak as he worked. On the screen, lines and shapes began to form. Sticking her hands in her pockets, Eve watched.

It looked so easy, Eve mused. Long lines, the most subtle of accents at the bodice, sleeves that came to soft, rounded points just at the back of the hand. Still uneasy, she waited for him to start to add the gingerbread.

“We’ll fuss with it a bit,” he said absently, and again turned the image to show a back as sleek and elegant as the front, with a slit to the knees. “You wouldn’t want a train.”

“A train?”

“No.” He only smiled, flicking a glance up at her. “You wouldn’t. A headdress. Your hair.”

Used to derogatory comments, Eve ran her fingers through it. “I can cover it up if I have to.”

“No, no, no. It suits you.”

Her hand dropped in shock. “It does?”

“Indeed. You need a bit of shaping. I know someone—” He flicked that aside. “But the color, all those tones of brown and gold, and the short, not quite tamed style is very good on you. A couple of snips.” Eyes narrowed, he studied her. “No, no headdress, no veil. Your face is enough. Now, color and material. It must be silk, of a good weight.” He grimaced a little. “Mavis tells me Roarke will not be paying.”

Eve’s back went up. “It’s my dress.”

“She’s dug in on this one,” Mavis commented. “Like Roarke would notice a few thousand credits.”

“That’s not the point—”

“No, indeed not.” Leonardo smiled again. “Well, we’ll manage. Color? I don’t think white, too stark for your skin tone.”

Pursing his lips, he went to his palette key and experimented. Fascinated despite herself, Eve watched the sketch turn from snowy white to cream, to pale blue, to vivid green and a rainbow between. Though Mavis oohed and ahed over several choices, he only shook his head.

He settled on bronze.

“This. Yes, oh yes. Your skin, your eyes, your hair. You’ll be radiant, majestic. A goddess. With it you’ll need a necklace, at least thirty-inch length. Better yet, two lengths, twenty-four and thirty inches. Copper, I think, with colored stones. Rubies, citrine, onyx. Yes, yes, and carnelian, perhaps some tourmaline. You’ll speak to Roarke about the accessories.”

Clothes never meant a damn to her, but Eve caught herself yearning. “It’s beautiful,” she said cautiously and began to calculate her credit situation. “I’m just not sure. You know, silk . . . It’s a little out of my range.”

“You’ll have the dress at my cost, and for a promise.” He enjoyed watching the wariness come into her eyes. “That I will be allowed to design Mavis’s dress as your attendant, and you will use my designs for your trousseau.”

“I haven’t thought about a trousseau. I’ve got clothes.”

“Lieutenant Dallas has clothes,” he corrected. “Roarke’s partner in marriage will need others.”

“Maybe we can make a deal.” She wanted that damn dress, she realized. She could feel it on her.

“Wonderful. Take off your clothes.”

She snapped back like a spring. “Okay, asshole—”

“For the measurements,” Leonardo said quickly. The look in her eye had him rising, stepping back. He was a man who adored women, and understood their wrath. In other words, he feared them. “You must consider me as you would your health provider. I can’t design the dress properly until I know your body. I’m an artist, and a gentleman,” he said with dignity. “But Mavis can stay if you feel uneasy.”

Eve tilted her head. “I can handle you, pal. If you get out of line, even think about it, you’ll find out for yourself.”

“I’m sure of it.” Cautiously he picked up a device. “My scanner,” he explained. “It will measure you very accurately. But you have to be naked for a true reading.”

“Stop snickering, Mavis. Go get us some more of that tea.”

“Sure. I’ve already seen you naked, anyway.” Blowing kisses to Leonardo, she headed off.

“I have other ideas . . . about clothes,” Leonardo said when Eve narrowed her eyes. “The underfoundation for the dress, of course. Evening and daywear, the formal, the casual. Your honeymoon is where?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” Resigned, she took off her shoes, unhitched her jeans.

“Roarke will surprise you then. Computer, create file, Dallas, first doc, measurements, coloring, height, and weight.” After she’d tossed her shirt aside, he stepped forward with the scanner. “Feet together please. Height, five foot nine inches, weight, one hundred and twenty.”

“How long have you been sleeping with Mavis?”

He rattled off more data. “About two weeks. She’s very dear to me. Waist twenty-six point two inches.”

“Did you start sleeping with her before or after she told you her best friend was marrying Roarke?”

He stopped cold, and his brilliant gold eyes glittered with temper. “I am not using Mavis for a commission, and you insult her by thinking it.”

“Just checking. She’s very dear to me, too. If we’re going to deal on this, I want to make sure all the cards are faceup, that’s all. So—”

The interruption came in fast, and came in furious. A woman in skintight, unadorned black burst in like a comet, perfect teeth bared, lethal red nails curled into talons.

“You two-timing, back-stabbing, mother-fucking son of a bitch.” She made her leap, rather like a gorgeous mortar locked on target, and with a speed and grace brought on by pure fear, Leonardo evaded. “Pandora, I can explain—”

“Explain this.” Turning her wrath on Eve, she swiped out, barely missing scooping Eve’s eyes out of their sockets.

There was only one thing to do. Eve decked her.

“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.” Leonardo hunched his huge shoulders and wrung his ham-size hands.

chapter two

“Did you have to hit her?”

Eve watched the woman’s eyes roll back, then roll forward. “Yeah.”

Leonardo set down his scanner and sighed. “She’s going to make my life a living hell.”

“My face, my face.” As she teetered back into full consciousness, Pandora scrambled up, patting her jaw. “Is it bruised? Does it show? I’ve got a session in an hour.”

Eve shrugged. “Tough luck.”

Jumping from mood to mood like a crazed gazelle, Pandora hissed through her teeth, “I’ll ruin you, bitch. You’ll never work on screen, on disc, and you sure as hell won’t get a runway job. Do you know who I am?”

Being naked under the circumstances just added to Eve’s mood. “Do you think I care?”

“What’s going on? Damn it, Dallas, he’s just trying to fit you—Oh.” Hurrying in with glasses in both hands, Mavis stopped dead. “Pandora.”

“You.” Obviously, Pandora’s supply of venom wasn’t running low. She sprang at Mavis, sending glasses crashing, tea flying. In seconds, the two women were wrestling on the floor and tearing at each other’s hair.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” If she’d had a stunner on her, Eve would have used it on the pair of them. “Break it up. Goddamn it, Leonardo, give me a hand here before they kill each other.” Eve dived in, pulling at arms and legs. She gave Pandora an extra elbow jab to the ribs for her own enjoyment. “I’ll haul you into a cage, I swear to God.” For lack of anything else, she sat on Pandora and tugged over her jeans to get her badge out of the pocket. “Take a good look, you idiot. I’m a cop. So far, you’ve got two counts of assault. Want to go for three?”

“Get your bony, naked ass off me.”

It wasn’t the order but the relative calm with which it was delivered that had Eve shifting. Pandora rose, brushed her hands meticulously down her black skin suit, sniffed, tossed her luxurious mane of flame-colored hair, then aimed a frigid glare with heavily lashed emerald eyes.

“So, one at a time’s not enough for you anymore, Leonardo. You scum.” Sculpted chin lifted, she cast a scornful look at Eve, then at Mavis. “Your appetite might be increasing, darling, but your taste is deteriorating.”

“Pandora.” Shaken, still wary of attack, Leonardo moistened his lips. “I said I can explain. Lieutenant Dallas is a client.”

She spit like a cobra. “Is that what you’re calling them now? You think you can just toss me aside like yesterday’s news, Leonardo? I say when it’s over.”

Limping a little, Mavis walked to Leonardo, slipped an arm around his waist. “He doesn’t need you or want you.”

“I don’t give a damn what he wants. But need?” Her full lips curved into a nasty smile. “He’ll have to tell you the facts of life, little girl. Without me, there won’t be any show next month for his second-rate clothes. And without a show, he’s not going to make any sales, and without sales, he won’t be able to pay for all that material, all that inventory, and that nice, fat loan he took from the leg breakers.”

She took a deep breath and studied the nails she’d chipped. Fury seemed to fit her as cleanly as her black skin suit. “This is going to cost you big time, Leonardo. I’ve got a busy calendar for the next couple of days, but I’m going to find a way to squeeze in some time to have a chat with your backers. What do you think they’ll say when I tell them I simply can’t lower my standards to walking the runway in your designs? Inferior as they are.”

“You can’t do that, Pandora.” Panic was in every word, a panic Eve was sure was for the glowing redhead like a fix for an addict. “It’ll ruin me. I’ve put everything into this show. Time, money—”

“Isn’t it a shame you didn’t think of that before you picked up this little piece of navel lint?” Pandora’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits. “I think I can manage to have lunch with a few of the money men by the end of the week. You’ve got a couple of days, darling, to decide how you want to play it. Get rid of the new toy, or pay the consequences. You know where to reach me.”

She went out with the exaggerated glide of a model, and punctuated the exit by slamming the door.

“Oh shit.” Leonardo sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “Her timing is perfect, as always.”

“Don’t. Don’t let her do this to you. To us.” Near tears, Mavis crouched down in front of him. “You can’t let her run your life anymore, or blackmail you—” Inspired, Mavis sprang up. “It’s blackmail, isn’t it, Dallas? Go arrest her.”

Eve finished buttoning the shirt she’d pulled on. “Honey, I can’t arrest her for saying she’s not going to wear his clothes. I can go haul her in for assault, but she’d be out almost before I closed the door on her.”

“But it is blackmail. Everything Leonardo’s got is tied up in the show. He’ll lose everything without it.”

“I’m sorry. Really. It’s just not a police or security matter.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “Look, she was hot and pissed off. Hopped on something from the look of her eyes. Odds are she’ll calm down.”

“No.” Leonardo sat back in the chair. “She’ll want to make me pay. You must have understood we were lovers. Things were cooling off between us. She’s been off planet for a few weeks, and I considered our personal relationship over. Then, I met Mavis.” His hand found hers, gripped. “And I knew it was over. I spoke with Pandora briefly, told her. Or tried to.”

“Since Dallas can’t help, there’s only one thing to do.” Mavis’s chin quivered. “You have to go back to her. It’s the only way.” She added before Leonardo could speak, “We won’t see each other, at least not until after your show. Maybe then, we can pick up the pieces. You can’t let her go to your backers and ditch your designs.”

“Do you think I could do that? Be with her? Touch her after this? After you?” He rose. “Mavis, I love you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes filled, spilled over. “Oh, Leonardo. Not now. I love you too much to watch her ruin you. I’m going away. To save you.”

She dashed out, leaving Leonardo staring after her. “I’m trapped. The vindictive bitch. She can take everything from me. The woman I love, my work, everything. I could kill her for putting that look in Mavis’s eyes.” He drew a deep breath, looked at his hands. “A man can be pulled in by beauty and not see beneath it.”

“Does what she says to these people matter so much? They wouldn’t have put money behind you if they hadn’t believed in your work.”

“Pandora is one of the top models on the planet. She has power, prestige, connections. A few words from her into the right ear can make or break a man in my position.” He lifted a hand to a fantasy of net and stones hanging beside him. “If she goes public, claiming my designs are inferior, the projected sales will drop away. She knows exactly how to accomplish that. I’ve worked all my life for this show. She knows it, and she knows how to take it from me. And it won’t end there.”

His hand fell back to his side. “Mavis doesn’t understand that, not yet. Pandora can hold that laser beam above my neck for the rest of my professional life—or hers. I’ll never be free of her, Lieutenant, until she decides she’s finished with me.”

By the time Eve got home, she was exhausted. An added session of tears and recriminations with Mavis had sapped her energy. For now, at least, Mavis was comforted with a quart of ice cream and several hours of videos in Eve’s old apartment.

Wanting to forget emotional upheavals and fashion, Eve went straight to the bedroom and fell facedown on the bed. The cat Galahad leaped up beside her, purring manically. After a few head butts brought no reaction, he settled down to sleep. When Roarke found her, she hadn’t moved a muscle.

“So, how was your day off?”

“I hate shopping.”

“You just haven’t developed the knack for it.”

“Who wants to?” Curious, she rolled over, studied him. “You like it. You really like to just buy things.”

“Sure.” Roarke stretched out beside her, stroking the cat when it pawed its way onto his chest. “It’s nearly as satisfying as having things. Being poor, Lieutenant, quite simply sucks.”

She thought it over. As she’d been poor once, had managed to lever herself up to struggling, she couldn’t disagree. “Anyway, I think I got the worst of it over with.”

“That was quick.” And the speed worried him, a little. “You know, Eve, you don’t have to settle for something.”

“Actually, I think Leonardo and I reached an understanding.” Staring up and through the sky window where the sky was the color of old bleach, she frowned. “Mavis is in love with him.”

“Um-hmm.” Eyes half closed, Roarke continued to stroke the cat and thought about switching the gesture to Eve.

“No, I’m talking the big one.” She let out a long breath. “The day didn’t go exactly smoothly.”

He had the figures for three major deals running through his head. Shuttling them aside, he shifted closer to her. “Tell me about it.”

“Leonardo—he’s this massive, and oddly attractive . . . I don’t know. Event. Heavy on the Native American blood, at a guess. He has the bone structure and coloring of an NA, biceps like astro torpedoes, and a voice that has a hint of magnolia. I’m not much of a judge, but when he settled down to sketch, he seemed very focused and talented. Anyway, I was standing there naked—”

“Were you?” Roarke said mildly, and nudging the cat away, he rolled on top of her.

“For measurements,” she said with a sneer.

“Do go on.”

“Okay. Mavis was getting some tea—”

“Convenient.”

“And this woman bursts in, all but drooling at the mouth. A jaw dropper—close to six foot, thin as a laser beam, about a yard of red hair and a face . . . well, I’ll use magnolias again. She’s screaming at him, and this big bull of a guy cowers back, so she jumps at me. I had to flatten her.”

“You hit her.”

“Well, yeah, before she sliced my face with those knifepoint nails of hers.”

“Darling Eve.” He kissed her cheek, then the other, then the dent in her chin. “What is it about you that draws the beast out of people?”

“Just lucky, I guess. So, this Pandora—”

“Pandora?” His head came up, eyes narrowing. “The model.”

“Yeah, she’s supposed to be pretty hot shit.”

He started to laugh, just a chuckle at first that grew and swelled until he had to roll over on his back again. “You punched precious Pandora in her billion-dollar face. Did you knock her on her pretty ass?”

“As a matter of fact.” Understanding bloomed and with it a surprising and unexpected twinge of jealousy. “You know her.”

“You could say that.”

“Well.”

He cocked a brow, not so much warily as with amusement. She was sitting up now and scowling down at him. For the first time in their relationship, he sensed a hint of green in the look. “There was a time—briefly.” He scratched his chin. “It’s all very vague.”

“Bull.”

“It could come back to me. But you were saying?”

“Is there any exceptionally beautiful woman you haven’t slept with?”

“I’ll make you a list. So, you knocked her down.”

“Yeah.” Eve regretted now pulling her punch. “She’s squealing and whining, then Mavis comes in and Pandora goes for her. The two of them are pulling hair and scratching; Leonardo’s wringing his hands.”

Roarke tugged her down on top of him. “You lead such an interesting life.”

“The upshot is, Pandora threatens Leonardo: he ditches Mavis for her or she’s going to wreck this fashion show he’s counting on. Apparently he’s sunk everything into it, borrowed from spine crackers, too. She blackballs the show, he’s ruined.”

“Sounds just like her.”

“After Pandora leaves, Mavis—”

“Were you still naked?”

“I was getting dressed. Mavis decides to make the supreme sacrifice. It was all pretty dramatic stuff. Leonardo declares his love, she starts crying and runs out. Jesus, Roarke, I felt like some pervert with surveillance goggles. I got Mavis settled in my old apartment, at least for the night. She doesn’t have to be in to the club until tomorrow.”

“Stay tuned,” he murmured and smiled at her blank look. “The old daytime dramas. Always end on a cliff-hanger. What is our hero going to do?”

“Some hero,” Eve muttered. “Damn it, I like him, even if he is a pussy. What he’d like to do is bash Pandora’s head in, but he’ll probably cave. Which is why I thought we could put Mavis up here for a few days if she needs it.”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“It is, as you’ve often pointed out, a big house. I’m fond of Mavis.”

“I know.” She gave him one of her quick, rare smiles. “Thanks. So, how was your day?”

“I bought a small planet. I’m joking,” he said when her mouth fell open. “I did, however, complete negotiations for a farming commune on Taurus Five.”

“Farming?”

“People have to eat. With a bit of restructuring, the commune should be able to provide grain to the manufacturing colonies of Mars, where I have a sizable investment. So, one hand washes the other.”

“I guess. Now about Pandora . . .”

He rolled her over and tugged the shirt he’d already unbuttoned off her shoulders.

“You’re not distracting me,” she told him. “Just how brief is brief in this case?”

He gave what passed for a shrug and nibbled his way from her mouth to her throat.

“Is it like a night, a week . . .” Her body flashed hot when he closed his mouth over her breast. “A month—Okay, now you’re distracting me.”

“I can do better,” he promised. And did.

Visiting the morgue was a lousy way to start the day. Eve strode down the silent, white tiled halls trying not to be annoyed that she’d been called in to view a body at six A.M.

Worse, it was a floater.

She paused at a doorway, holding her badge up for the security camera, and waited for her ID number to be accessed and approved.

Inside, a single technician waited near a wall of refrigerated holding drawers. Most would be occupied, she thought. Summer was always a hot time for dying.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Right. You got one for me.”

“Just came in.” With the careless cheer of his profession, he moved to a drawer, coded for view. Locks and refrigeration blipped off, and the drawer, with its occupant, slid out with a small burst of icy fog. “Uniform on scene thought she recognized him as one of yours.”

“Yep.” In defense, Eve drew breath in and out of her mouth. Seeing death, violent death, was nothing new. She wasn’t sure she could have explained that it was easier, less personal somehow, to study a body where it had fallen. Here, in the pristine, almost virginal surroundings of the morgue, it was all more obscene.

“Johannsen, Carter. Aka Boomer. Last known address the flop on Beacon. Petty thief, professional weasel, occasional dealer in illegals, and pitiful excuse for a humanoid.” She sighed as she studied what was left of him. “Well, hell, Boomer, what did they do to you?”

“Blunt instrument,” the tech said, taking her question seriously. “Possibly a pipe or a thin bat. We’ll have to finish testing. A lot of strength behind the blows. Only spent a couple hours at most in the river; the contusions and lacerations are evident.”

Eve tuned him out, let him ramble on importantly. She could see well enough for herself.

He’d never been a looker, but they’d left behind very little of his face. He’d been severely beaten, the nose crushed, the mouth all but obscured with blows and bloating. Bruising at the throat indicated strangulation, as did the vivid broken blood vessels that polka-dotted what remained of his face.

His torso was purpled, and from the way his body lay, she guessed his arm had been shattered. The missing finger of his left hand was an old war wound, one she recalled he’d been rather proud of.

Somebody strong, angry, and determined had gotten to poor, pathetic Boomer.

And so, in that short floating time, had the fish.

“The uniform ran the partial prints he had left for ID, you confirm with visual.”

“Yeah. Send me a copy of the post mortem.” She turned and started out. “Who was the uniform who connected me?”

The tech pulled out his notebook, tapped keys. “Peabody, Delia.”

“Peabody.” For the first time, Eve smiled a little. “She gets around. Anybody asks for or about him, I want to know about it.”

On the way to Cop Central, Eve contacted Peabody. The uniform’s calm, serious face floated on screen. “Dallas.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“You hauled in Johannsen.”

“Sir. I’m completing my report right now. I can send you a copy.”

“Appreciate it. How did you tag him?”

“I had a porta-ident in my field kit, sir. I ran his prints. The fingers were severely damaged, so I only managed a partial, but the indication was Johannsen. I’d heard he was one of your weasels.”

“Yeah, he was. Good work, Peabody.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Peabody, you interested in assisting the primary in this case?”

Control slipped for an instant, just long enough to show the glint in Peabody’s eyes. “Yes, sir. Are you the primary?”

“He was mine,” Eve said simply. “I’ll clear it. My office, Peabody. One hour.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dallas,” Eve muttered. “Just Dallas.” But Peabody had already broken transmission.

Eve scowled at the time, snarled at the traffic, and detoured three blocks to a drive-through café. The coffee was slightly less disgusting there than at Cop Central. Fueled with that and with what had probably been intended as a sweet roll, she stowed her vehicle and prepared to report to her commander.

As she rode up in the stifling excuse for an elevator, she could feel her back stiffening. Telling herself it was petty, that it should have been over, didn’t seem to matter. Resentment and hurt left over from a previous case wouldn’t completely fade.

She walked into the administration lobby with its busy consoles, dark walls, and threadbare carpeting. She announced herself at Commander Whitney’s reception station and was asked to wait by the bored voice of an office drone.

She remained where she was rather than wandering over to look out of the window or to while away time with one of the aging magazine discs. The all-news station on screen behind her had been turned to mute and didn’t interest her in any case.

A few weeks before, she had more than her fill of the media. At least, she thought, someone as low on the food chain as Boomer wouldn’t generate much publicity. The death of a weasel didn’t earn rating points.

“Commander Whitney will see you now, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She was buzzed through the security doors and turned left into Whitney’s office.

“Lieutenant.”

“Commander. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Have a seat.”

“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. I just identified a John Doe floater at the morgue. He was Carter Johannsen. One of my weasels.”

An imposing man with a hard face and tired eyes, Whitney leaned back in his chair. “Boomer? He used to wire explosives for street thieves. Blew off his right index finger.”

“Left,” Eve corrected. “Sir.”

“Left.” Whitney folded his hands on the desk and studied her. He’d made a mistake with Eve, a mistake in a case that had affected him personally. He understood she had yet to set it aside. He had her obedience and her respect, but the nebulous friendship that could have existed between them was gone.

“I take it this was homicide.”

“I haven’t gotten the post mortem, but it appears the victim was beaten and strangled before entering the river. I’d like to pursue the matter.”

“Were you working with him on any ongoing investigation?”

“Nothing ongoing, no sir. He occasionally fed the Illegals with data. I need to find out who he worked with in that department.”

Whitney nodded. “Your caseload at the moment, Lieutenant?”

“Manageable.”

“Which means you’re overloaded.” He lifted his fingers, curled them down again. “Dallas, people like Johannsen court disaster, and they usually find it. You and I both know the murder rate rises in this kind of heat. I can’t waste one of my top investigators on this kind of case.”

Eve set her jaw. “He was mine. Whatever else he was, Commander, he was mine.”

Loyalty, he mused, was one of the values that made her one of his best. “You can shuffle it to the top for twenty-four hours,” he told her. “Keep it open, in your files, for seventy-two. After that, I’ll have to transfer the case to a junior investigator.”

It was no more than she expected. “I’d like to have Officer Peabody with me on it.”

He stared at her balefully. “You want me to approve an aide for a case like this?”

“I want Peabody,” Eve returned without flinching. “She’s proven herself excellent in the field. She’s aiming for detective. I believe she’ll get it quick with some hands-on training.”

“You can have her for three days. If something more vital comes through, you’re both off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dallas,” he began when she turned to leave. He bit down on his pride. “Eve . . . I haven’t had the chance to offer my best wishes, personally, for your upcoming marriage.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes before she controlled it. “Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll be happy.”

“So do I.”

A bit unsettled, she made her way through the maze of Cop Central to her office. She had another favor to call in. Wanting privacy, she closed her door before engaging her tele-link.

“Feeney, Captain Ryan. Electronic Detective Division.”

She was relieved when his rumpled face filled her screen. “You’re in early, Feeney.”

“Shit, didn’t even have time for breakfast.” He spoke mournfully and through a mouthful of Danish. “One of the terminals springs a leak, and nobody can fix it but me.”

“Being indispensable’s tough work. Can you fit in a search for me—unofficial?”

“My favorite kind. Shoot.”

“Somebody whacked Boomer.”

“Sorry to hear it.” He took another bite of Danish. “He was a shit, but he usually came through. When?”

“I’m not sure; he was fished out of the East River early this morning. I know he sometimes fed somebody over in Illegals. Can you find out for me?”

“Linking weasels and their trainers is dicey work, Dallas. You got to be real security conscious about that stuff.”

“Yes or no, Feeney?”

“I can do it, I can do it,” he muttered. “But don’t bring this back on me. Cops hate to have their files searched.”

“Tell me about it. I appreciate it, Feeney. Whoever did him worked him over hard. If he knew something worth killing him over, I don’t think it was one of my ongoings.”

“So maybe it was somebody else’s. I’ll get back to you.”

She leaned back from the blank screen and tried to clear her mind. Into it floated Boomer’s battered face. A pipe or a bat maybe, she mused. But fists, too. She knew what hard, bare knuckles could do to a face. She knew what they felt like.

Her father had had big hands.

It was one of the things she tried to pretend she didn’t remember. But she knew how they’d felt, how the blow would shock even before the brain registered the pain.

What had been worse? The beatings or the rapes? One was so mixed with the other in her mind, in her fears.

That odd angle of Boomer’s arm. Broken, she mused, and dislocated. She had a vague, hideous memory of the brittle sound of a bone snapping, the nausea that went above the agony, the high-pitched whine that substituted for a scream when a hand was clamped over your mouth.

The cold sweat, and the bowel-loosening terror of knowing those fists would come back, and come back until you were dead. Until you wished to God Almighty that you were.

The knock at her door had her jolting, had her swallowing a yelp. Through the glass she saw Peabody, uniform pressed, shoulders straight.

Eve ran a hand over her mouth to steady herself. It was time to go to work.

chapter three

Boomer’s flop was better than some. The building had once been a low-rent hourly motel that had catered to hookers on a budget before prostitution had been licensed and legalized. It was four stories, and no one had ever bothered to put in an elevator or glide, but it did boast a dingy lobby and the dubious security of a surly-faced droid.

From the smell, the health department had recently ordered insect and rodent extermination.

The droid had a tick in her right eye from a faulty chip, but she focused her good one on Eve’s badge.

“We’re up to code,” she claimed, standing behind cloudy safety glass. “We have no trouble here.”

“Johannsen.” Eve tucked her shield away. “Anyone visit him lately?”

The droid’s dinky eye hitched and rolled. “I’m not programmed to monitor visitors, only to collect rents and maintain order.”

“I can confiscate your memory discs and play them back for myself.”

The droid said nothing, but a faint hum indicated she was running her own disc. “Johannsen, room 3C, has not returned in eight hours, twenty-eight minutes. He left alone. He had no visitors in the last two weeks.”

“Communications?”

“He does not use our communication system. He has his own.”

“We’re going to have a look at his room.”

“Third floor, second door left. Don’t alarm other tenants. We have no trouble here.”

“Yeah, it’s a paradise.” Eve headed up the steps, noting the crumbling wood, well gnawed by rodents. “Record, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.” Dutifully, Peabody clipped her recorder to her shirt. “If he was here about eight hours ago, he didn’t last long after he left. Probably no more than a couple hours.”

“Long enough to get the shit beat out of him.” Idly Eve scanned the walls. Several illegal invitations and anatomically doubtful suggestions were inscribed. One of the authors had a spelling deficiency and consistently left the c out of fuck.

Still, the message was clear enough.

“Homey little place, huh?”

“Reminds me of my granny’s house.”

At the door of 3C, Eve glanced back. “Why, Peabody, I think you made a joke.”

While Eve chuckled and took out her master code, Peabody flushed scarlet. She had herself back in line by the time the locks disengaged.

“Bolted himself in, didn’t he?” Eve muttered as the last of the three Keligh-500s opened. “And didn’t go for cheap. These babies cost about a week of my pay each. For all the good they did him.” She let out a breath. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering victim’s residence.” She pushed the door open. “Damn, Boomer, you were a pig.”

The heat was enormous. Temperature control in the flop consisted of closing the window or opening it. Boomer had opted for closed, and had trapped stifling summer inside.

The room smelled of bad food gone over, stale clothes, and spilled whiskey. Leaving Peabody to do the initial scan, Eve walked into the center of what was little more than a box and shook her head.

The sheets on the narrow bed were stained with substances she wasn’t keen to analyze. Boxes of take-out food were piled beside it. From the small mountain of dirty clothes heaped in corners, she assumed laundry hadn’t been high on Boomer’s list of household chores. Her feet stuck to the floor and made little sucking sounds as she wandered the room.

In self-defense, she fought the single window open. The sounds of air and street traffic poured in like a flood.

“Jesus, what a place. He made decent money weaseling. No way he had to live like this.”

“He must have wanted to.”

“Yep.” Wrinkling her nose, Eve eased open a door and studied the bathroom. There was a stainless steel toilet and sink, a shower stall built for the height disadvantaged. The stench roiled her stomach. “Worse then a three-day corpse.” She breathed through her mouth, turned back. “There’s where he put his money.”

In agreement, Peabody joined Eve at a sturdy counter. On it was a pricey data and communication center. Attached to the wall above was a viewing screen and a shelf overflowing with discs. Eve chose one at random, read the label.

“Boomer was into culture, I see. Bodacious Boobs of Bimbo Bitches.”

“That took the Oscar last year.”

Eve snorted and tossed the disc back. “Good one, Peabody. You want to keep that sense of humor going, ’cause we’re going to have to run all this shit. Box up the discs, record number and labels. We’ll scan them back at Cop Central.”

Eve engaged the ’link and searched through for any calls Boomer had saved. She zipped through food orders, a session with a video prostitute that had cost him five thousand. There were two calls from a suspected dealer of illegals, but the men had merely chatted about sports, heavy on baseball and arena bash. With some curiosity, she noted that her office number was logged twice in the last thirty hours, but he’d left no message.

“He was trying to get in touch with me,” she murmured. “He disengaged without leaving a message. That’s not like him.” She pulled out the disc and handed it to Peabody to put in evidence.

“There’s nothing to indicate he was afraid or worried, Lieutenant.”

“No, he was a true weasel. If he’d thought someone was going to pin him, he’d have camped on my doorstep. Okay, Peabody, I hope your immunizations are up to date. Let’s start going through this mess.”

By the time they were finished, they were filthy, sweaty, and disgusted. At Eve’s direct order, Peabody had loosened the stiff collar of her uniform and rolled up the sleeves. Still, sweat rained down her face and had her hair curling madly.

“I thought my brothers were pigs.”

Eve toed aside dirty underwear. “How many you got?”

“Two. And a sister.”

“Four of you?”

“My parents are Free-Agers, sir,” Peabody explained with twin notes of apology and embarrassment in her voice. “They’re really into rural living and propagation.”

“You continue to surprise me, Peabody. A tough urbanite like you springing from Free-Agers. How come you’re not growing alfalfa, weaving mats, and raising a brood?”

“I like to kick ass. Sir.”

“Good reason.” Eve had left what she considered the worst for last. With unconcealed revulsion, she studied the bed. The thought of body parasites scrambled through her head. “We’ve got to deal with the mattress.”

Peabody swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t know about you, Peabody, but I’m heading straight for a decontamination chamber when we’re done here.”

“I’ll be right behind you, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

The sheets came first. There was nothing but smells and stains. Eve would leave them for the sweepers to analyze, but she’d already ruled out any possibility that Boomer had been killed in his own flop.

Still, she was thorough, shaking out the pillow, manipulating the foam. At her signal, Peabody hefted one end of the mattress and she the other. It was heavy as a rock, and with a grunt they flipped it.

“Maybe there is a God,” Eve murmured.

Affixed to the bottom of the mattress were two small packs. One was filled with pale blue powder, the other a sealed disc. She tugged both free. Clamping down on the urge to break open the powder, she studied the disc. It wasn’t labeled, but unlike the others, it had been carefully encased to keep it free of dust.

Ordinarily, she would have run it immediately in Boomer’s unit. She could stand the stench, the sweat, even the dirt. But she didn’t think she could maintain another minute wondering what microcosmic parasites were crawling over her skin.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She waited until Peabody carried the evidence box out into the hall. With one last glance at the way her man had lived, Eve shut the door, sealed it, and left the red police security light beaming.

Decontamination wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant. It had the single virtue of being fairly short. Eve sat with Peabody, both of them stripped to the skin, in a two-seated chamber with curved white walls reflecting the hot white light.

“But it’s a dry heat,” Peabody stated and had Eve laughing.

“I always figured this is what Hell’s like.” She closed her eyes, willed herself to relax. She didn’t consider herself phobic, but closed-in spaces made her itchy. “You know, Peabody, I used Boomer about five years now. He wasn’t exactly the GQ type, but I wouldn’t have pegged him living like that.” She still had the smell in her nostrils. “He was clean. Tell me what you saw in the bathroom.”

“Filth, mold, scum, towels that hadn’t been washed. Two bars of soap, one unopened, a half tube of shampoo, tooth gel, an ultrasound brush and shaver. One hair comb, broken.”

“Grooming tools. He kept himself in shape, Peabody. Even liked to consider himself a lady’s man. My guess is the sweepers are going to tell me the food, the clothes, the grunge is all about two, maybe three weeks old. What does that tell you?”

“That he was holed up—worried, scared, or involved enough to let things go.”

“Exactly. Not desperate enough to come in and unload to me, but worried enough to hide a couple of things under his mattress.”

“Where no one would ever think of looking for them,” Peabody said dryly.

“He wasn’t terribly bright about some things. You got a guess on the substance?”

“An illegal.”

“I’ve never seen an illegal that color. Something new,” Eve mused. The light dimmed to gray and a beeper sounded. “Looks like we’re clean. Let’s dig up some fresh clothes and go run that disc.”

“What the hell is this?” Eve scowled at her monitor. Unconsciously she began to toy with the weighty diamond she wore around her neck.

“A formula?”

“I can figure that out, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.” Chastised, Peabody eased back.

“Shit, I hate science.” With hope, Eve glanced over her shoulder. “You any good at it?”

“No, sir. I’m not even competent.”

Eve studied the mix of numbers, figures, and symbols and crossed her eyes. “My unit’s not programmed for this crap. It’ll have to go to the lab for analysis.” Impatient, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “My hunch would be it’s the formula for that powder we found, but how the hell would a second rater like Boomer get his hands on it? And who was his other trainer? You knew he was one of mine, Peabody. How?”

Struggling with embarrassment, Peabody stared over Eve’s shoulder at the figures on the screen. “You listed him in several intradepartmental reports on closed cases, Lieutenant.”

“You make a habit of reading intradepartmental reports, Officer?”

“Yours, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because, sir, you’re the best.”

“Are you sucking up, Peabody, or bucking for my job?”

“There’ll be room when you’re promoted to captain, sir.”

“What makes you think I want a captaincy?”

“You’d be stupid if you didn’t, and you’re not. Stupid, sir.”

“Okay, we’ll let that rest. Do you scan any other reports?”

“Now and then.”

“Do you have any clue as to who Boomer’s trainer would be in Illegals?”

“No, sir. I’ve never seen his name attached to any other cop. Most weasels only have one trainer.”

“Boomer liked to diversify. Let’s hit the streets. We’ll scope a few of his usual joints, see what we turn up. We’ve only got a couple of days on this, Peabody. If you’ve got anyone warming the home fires for you, let him know you’ll be busy.”

“I’m unattached, sir. I don’t have a problem with putting in extra time.”

“Good.” Eve rose. “Then saddle up. And Peabody, we’ve been naked together. Drop all the ‘sirs,’ will you? Make it Dallas.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

It was after three A.M. when she stumbled through the front door, tripped over the cat who had decided to guard the entrance hall, swore, and turned blindly for the stairs.

In her mind were dozens of impressions: dim bars, strip clubs, the steamy streets where low-level licensed companions plied their trade. All of them ebbed and flowed together in the unappetizing stew that had been Boomer Johannsen’s life.

No one knew anything, of course. No one had seen anything. The single corroborative statement she’d gleaned from her crawl through the seamier side of the city was that no one had heard from or laid eyes on Boomer in over a week, possibly longer.

But someone had laid a great deal more than eyes on him. Her time was running low to find out who and why.

The bedroom lights were on dim. She’d already stripped off her shirt and tossed it aside when she noted the bed was empty. There was an instant flare of disappointment, a faint uncomfortable tug of panic.

He’d had to leave, she thought. He was right now heading toward any possible spot in the colonized universe. He could be gone for days.

Staring miserably at the bed, she toed off her shoes and tugged off her slacks. Groping in a drawer, she pulled out a cotton undershirt and yanked it over her head.

God, she was pitiful, mooning because Roarke had to take care of business. Because he wasn’t there for her to snuggle up against. Because he wasn’t there to ward off the nightmares that seemed to plague her with more intensity and frequency as her memories of the past grew to crowd her.

She was too tired to dream, she told herself. Too busy to brood. And strong enough not to remember anything she didn’t care to remember.

She turned, intending to go to her upstairs office to sleep when the door slid open. Relief flushed through her like shame.

“I thought you’d had to leave.”

“I was working.” Roarke crossed to her. In the dim light his black shirt was a stark contrast to the white of hers. He tipped up her chin and looked into her eyes. “Lieutenant, why do you always run until you fall down?”

“I have a deadline on this one.” Perhaps she was overtired, or perhaps love was beginning to be easier, but she lifted both hands to his face. “I’m awfully glad you’re here.” When he lifted her up and carried her toward the bed, she smiled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m tucking you in, and you’re going to sleep.”

It was hard to argue when her eyes were already closing. “Did you get my message?”

“The elaborate one that said, ‘I’ll be late’? Yes.” He kissed her forehead. “Turn yourself off.”

“In a minute.” She fought back the edges of sleep. “I only had a couple minutes to contact Mavis. She wants to stay where she is for a couple days. She isn’t going in to the Blue Squirrel either. She called in and found out Leonardo’s been by there a half a dozen times looking for her.”

“The course of true love.”

“Mmm. I’m going to try to take an hour personal time tomorrow and swing by to see her, but I may not make it until the day after.”

“She’ll be all right. I can go by, if you like.”

“Thanks, but she wouldn’t talk to you about it. I’ll take care of it as soon as I figure out what Boomer was up to. I know damn well he couldn’t read that disc.”

“Of course not,” Roarke soothed, hoping to lull her to sleep.

“Not that he wasn’t good with figures. Money figures. But scientific formulas—” She bolted straight up, nearly bashing Roarke’s nose with her head. “Your unit’ll do it.”

“It will?”

“I got the runaround from the lab. They’re backed up, this is low priority. No priority,” she added, scrambling back out of bed. “I need an edge. You’ve got scientific analysis abilities on your unlicensed unit, right?”

“Of course.” He sighed and rose. “Now, I suppose?”

“We can access the data from my office unit.” Grabbing his hand, she tugged him toward the faux panel that concealed the elevator. “It won’t take us long.”

She filled him in on the basics as they traveled up. By the time he’d coded them in to the private room, she was wide awake and revved.

The equipment was elaborate, unlicensed, and of course, illegal. Like Roarke, she used the handplate for access, then moved behind the U-shaped console.

“You can pull the data faster than I can,” she told him. “It’s under Code Two, Yellow, Johannsen. My access number’s—”

“Please.” If he was going to play cop at three A.M., he wasn’t going to be insulted. Roarke sat at the controls and manipulated a few dials manually. “Into Cop Central,” he said and smiled when she frowned.

“So much for security.”

“Anything else you’d like before I focus on your unit?”

“No.” She said it firmly, moving behind him. Manipulating a keyboard with one hand, Roarke drew one of hers over his shoulder, to his lips, to nibble on her knuckles. “Show-off.”

“It would hardly be any fun if you just plugged me in with your code. In your unit,” he murmured, and switched to auto. “File Code Two, Yellow, Johannsen.” Across the room one of the wall screens flashed.

Waiting

“Evidence number 34-J, view and copy,” Eve requested. When the formula scrolled on, Eve shook her head. “See that? It might as well be ancient hieroglyphics.”

“Chemical formula,” Roarke mused.

“How do you know?”

“I manufacture a few—legal ones. This is some sort of analgesic, but not entirely. Hallucinogenic properties . . .” He clucked his tongue, shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Not a standard. Computer, analyze and identify.”

“You say it’s a drug,” Eve began and the computer went to work.

“Most certainly.”

“That fits with my theory. But what was Boomer doing with the formula, and why would someone kill him for it?”

“That would depend on how marketable it is, I’d think. How profitable.” He frowned up at the screen as the analysis began to form. The molecular reproduction circled on the screen in colorful dots and spirals. “Okay, you have an organic stimulant, a standard chemical hallucinogenic, both in fairly low and nearly legal amounts. Ah, there’s the properties for THR-50.”

“Street name Zeus. Nasty stuff.”

“Hmm. Still, it’s low wattage. But that’s an interesting mix. There’s mint, to make it more palatable. I’d say it could also be manufactured, with some alterations, in liquid form. Blend it with Brinock—that’s a sexual stimulant and enhancer. In the right measures, it can be used to cure impotency.”

“I know what it is. We had a guy who OD’d on it. Killed himself after what appeared to be the world’s record in masturbation. Jumped out of a window in sexual frustration. His dick was swollen like a pork sausage, about the same color, and still hard as iron.”

“Thank you for sharing that. What’s this?” Puzzled, Roarke went back to the keyboard. The computer merely continued to flash the same message.

Substance unknown. Probable cell regenerator. Unable to identify.

“How is that possible?” he mused. “I have an automatic update on this. There’s nothing out there it can’t identify.”

“An unknown substance. Well, well. That might be worth killing for. What will it give us without it?”

“Identify with known data,” Roarke ordered.

FORMULA EQUALS STIMULANT WITH HALLUCINOGENIC PROPERTIES. ORGANIC BASE. WILL ENTER BLOODSTREAM QUICKLY TO AFFECT NERVOUS SYSTEM.

“Results?”

INCOMPLETE DATA.

“Hell. Probable results with known data.”

WILL CAUSE FEELINGS OF EUPHORIA, PARANOIA, SEXUAL APPETITE, DELUSIONS OF PHYSICAL AND MENTAL POWERS. DOSAGE OF 55 MG INTO AVERAGE HUMAN OF 130 POUNDS WILL LAST FOUR TO SIX HOURS. DOSAGE OF MORE THAN 100 MG WILL CAUSE DEATH IN 87.3 PERCENT OF USERS. SUBSTANCE SIMILAR TO THR-50, AKA ZEUS, WITH ADDITION OF STIMULANT TO ENHANCE SEXUAL ABILITY AND CELL REGENERATION.

“It’s not that different,” Eve murmured. “It’s not that important. We’ve already got chemi-heads mixing Zeus with Erotica. It’s a nasty combination, accounts for most of the rapes in the city, but it’s not secret or particularly profitable. Not when any average junkie can mix it up in a porta-lab.”

“Except for the unknown. Cell regeneration.” His brow quirked. “The fabled Fountain of Youth.”

“Anybody with enough credits can get youth treatments.”

“But they’re temporary,” Roarke pointed out. “You have to go back at regular intervals. Bio peels and antiaging injections are expensive, time-consuming, and often uncomfortable. And standard treatments don’t have all the extra punches of this.”

“Whatever the unknown is, it makes the whole works bigger, or deadlier. Or, as you said, more marketable.”

“You’ve got the powder,” Roarke pointed out.

“Yeah, and this might get the lab to shag their butts a bit. It’s still going to take more time than I have.”

“Can you get me a sample of it?” He swiveled in his chair and smiled up at her. “Not to denigrate your police labs, Lieutenant, but mine might prove a shade more sophisticated.”

“It’s evidence.”

His brow lifted.

“Roarke, do you know how far I’ve already crossed the line getting you to do this?” She blew out a breath, remembered Boomer’s face, his arm. “Hell with it. I’ll try.”

“Good. Disengage.” The computer shut down silently. “Now will you go to sleep?”

“For a couple hours.” She allowed the fatigue to seep back, linked her arms around his neck. “You going to tuck me in again?”

“All right.” He hitched up her hips so that her legs wrapped around him. “But this time you stay where I tuck you.”

“You know, Roarke, my heart just flutters when you get masterful.”

“Wait till I get you back in bed. It’s going to flutter plenty.”

She laughed, nuzzled her head on his shoulder, and was asleep before the elevator finished its descent.

chapter four

It was dead dark when the ’link beside Eve’s head beeped. The cop in her surfaced first, smacked the engage, and reared up.

“Dallas.”

“Dallas, oh God, Dallas. I need help.”

The woman in her caught up with the cop in a snap and stared at Mavis’s image on screen. “Lights,” she ordered, and the room brightened so that she could see clearly. The white face, a blackening bruise just under the eye, raw, bleeding scrapes on the cheek, wild disheveled hair.

“Mavis. What is it? Where are you?”

“You’ve got to come.” Her breath hitched and snarled. Her eyes were too glazed with shock to allow tears. “Hurry. Hurry, please. I think she’s dead and I don’t know what to do.”

Eve didn’t ask for location again, but punched in an order to trace transmission. Recognizing Leonardo’s address when it blipped on under Mavis’s face, she kept her voice calm and firm.

“Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything. You understand me? Don’t touch anything, and don’t let anyone in but me. Mavis?”

“Yes, yes. I will. I won’t. Hurry. It’s so awful.”

“I’m on my way.” When she turned, Roarke was already up and pulling on his trousers.

“I’ll go with you.”

She didn’t argue. In five minutes flat they were on the road and speeding through the deepest slice of night. Empty streets gave way to the constant swarm of tourists in midtown, the flash of video billboards offering every pleasure and purchase known to man, then to the trendy insomniacs of the Village who loitered over minuscule cups of flavored coffee and lofty disc ussions in outdoor cafés, and finally, to the sleepy habitats of the artists.

Other than to find out their destination, Roarke didn’t ask questions, and she was grateful for it. She could see Mavis’s face in her mind, white and terrified. Worse, much worse, she saw Mavis’s hand, trembling. And the smear that had darkened it had been blood.

A high wind that hinted of a brewing storm whipped through the city canyons. It slapped at Eve as she leaped from Roarke’s car before he’d stopped completely at the curb. She took the thirty yards of sidewalk in a dead run, smacked the security camera.

“Mavis. It’s Dallas. Mavis, damn it.” Such was her state of mind that it took her ten frustrated seconds to realize the unit was smashed.

Roarke went through the unsecured door and into the elevator beside her.

When it opened, she knew it was as bad as she’d feared. On her earlier visit, Leonardo’s loft had been cheerfully cluttered, colorfully disorganized. Now it was viciously tumbled. Long trails of material shredded, tables overturned with their contents strewn and broken.

There was blood, a great deal of it, splattered on walls and silks like a bad-tempered child’s angry fingerpaints.

“Don’t touch anything,” she snapped at Roarke, out of reflex. “Mavis?” She took two steps forward, then stopped as one of the billowing curtains of shimmery cloth rippled. Mavis moved passed it, stood swaying.

“Dallas. Dallas. Thank God.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” The minute Eve caught her close, the relief poured. The blood wasn’t Mavis’s, though it was spotted on her clothes, on her hands. “You’re hurt. How bad?”

“I’m dizzy, sick. My head.”

“Let her sit down, Eve.” Taking Mavis’s arm, Roarke led her to a chair. “Come on, darling, sit down. That’s the way. She’s in shock, Eve. Get her a blanket. Put your head back, Mavis. That’s a girl. Close your eyes and just breathe for a while.”

“It’s cold.”

“I know.” He reached down, flipped up a ragged piece of glistening satin, and draped it over her. “Deep breaths, Mavis. Slow, deep breaths.” He flicked a glance up at Eve. “She needs attention.”

“I can’t call the MTs before I know what the situation is. Do what you can for her.” All too aware of what she was likely to find, Eve moved past the curtain.

She’d died badly. It was the hair that confirmed to Eve who the woman had once been. The glorious curling flame of it. Her face, with its stunning, almost eerie perfection, was all but gone, mashed and mangled under cruel, repeated blows.

The weapon was still there, carelessly tossed aside. Eve supposed it was intended to be some sort of fancy cane or walking stick, a fashionable affectation. Under the blood and gore it was a glossy silver, perhaps an inch thick with an ornate handle in the shape of a grinning wolf.

She’d seen it, tipped into a corner of Leonardo’s work space, only two days before.

It was not necessary to check Pandora’s pulse, but Eve did so. Then she stepped back carefully so as not to contaminate the scene any further.

“Christ,” Roarke murmured from behind her, then laid both hands on her shoulders. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever I have to. Mavis wouldn’t have done this.”

He turned her to face him. “You don’t have to tell me that. She needs you, Eve. She needs a friend, and she’s going to need a good cop.”

“I know.”

“It’s not going to be easy on you being both.”

“I’d better get started.” She walked back to where Mavis sat. Her face was like softened wax, the bruise and the scratches livid against the bone-white skin. Eve crouched down and took Mavis’s icy hands in hers. “I need you to tell me everything. Take your time, but tell it all.”

“She wasn’t moving. There was all the blood, and the way her face looked. And—and she wasn’t moving.”

“Mavis.” Eve gave the hands one quick, hard squeeze. “Look at me. Tell me exactly what happened from the time you got here.”

“I came . . . I wanted . . . I thought I should talk to Leonardo.” She shivered, plucked at the scrap of material covering her with hands still stained with blood. “He was upset when he went to the club the last time looking for me. He even threatened the bouncer, and that’s not like him. I didn’t want him to ruin his career, so I thought I could talk to him. I came, and someone had broken the security unit, so I just came on up. The door wasn’t locked. Sometimes he forgets,” she murmured and trailed off.

“Mavis, was Leonardo here?”

“Leonardo?” Dulled with shock, her eyes scanned the room. “No, I don’t think so. I called out, because I saw there was such a mess. Nobody answered. And there—there was blood. I saw blood. So much blood. I was afraid, Dallas, afraid that maybe he’d killed himself or something crazy, and so I ran back into . . . back. I saw her. I think . . . I went over. I think I did because I was kneeling beside her and I was trying to scream. I couldn’t scream. It was all in my head that I was screaming, and I couldn’t stop. And then I think something hit me. I think . . .” Vaguely she touched her fingers to the back of her head. “It hurts. But everything was the same when I woke up. She was still there, and the blood was still there. And I called you.”

“Okay. Did you touch her, Mavis? Did you touch anything?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

“Who did that to your face?”

“Pandora.”

A quick spurt of fear. “Honey, you told me she was dead when you got here.”

“It was before. Earlier tonight. I went to her house.”

Eve took a careful breath to counteract the twisting in her stomach. “You went to her house tonight. When?”

“I don’t know exactly. About eleven maybe. I wanted to tell her I’d stay away from Leonardo, to make her promise not to ruin everything for him.”

“You fought with her?”

“She was jazzed up on something. There were some people there, like a small party. She was nasty, said things. I said things back. We got into it a little. She smacked me, scratched me.” Mavis tugged back her hair to reveal other wounds along her neck. “A couple of the people there broke it up, and I left.”

“Where did you go?”

“A couple of bars.” She smiled weakly. “A lot of bars, I think. Feeling sorry for myself. Just hanging. Then I got the idea to talk to Leonardo.”

“When did you get here? Do you know what time?”

“No, late, real late. Three, four o’clock.”

“Do you know where Leonardo is?”

“No. He wasn’t here. I wanted him to be here, but she . . . What’s going to happen?”

“I’m going to take care of it. I have to call this in, Mavis. If I don’t do it soon, it’s going to look bad. I’m going to have to put all of this on record, and I’m going to have to take you into Interview.”

“Into—into . . . You don’t think I—”

“Of course I don’t.” It was important to keep her voice brisk, to disguise her own fears. “But we’re going to clear it all up as quick as we can, as clean as we can. Let me do the worrying right now. Okay?”

“I can’t feel much of anything.”

“You just sit here while I start things rolling. I want you to try to remember details. Who you talked to tonight, where you were, what you saw. Everything you can remember. We’ll go over it all again in a little while.”

“Dallas.” With a little shudder, Mavis sat back. “Leonardo. He’d never do that to anyone.”

“Let me do the worrying,” Eve repeated. She glanced at Roarke, and understanding the signal, he moved over to sit with Mavis. Eve pulled out her communicator and turned away.

“Dallas. I have a homicide.”

Eve’s life had never been easy. In her career as a cop she had seen and done too many nightmarish things to count them all. But nothing had ever been more difficult for her than taking Mavis into Interview.

“Are you feeling okay? You don’t have to do this now.”

“No, the MTs gave me a local.” Mavis reached up, touched the lump on the back of her head. “Numbed it good. They fiddled around with some other stuff, kind of snapped me back into focus.”

Eve took a long study of Mavis’s eyes, her color. Everything looked normal, but it didn’t ease her dread. “Listen, it wouldn’t hurt for you to check in to health center for a day or two.”

“You’re just putting it off. I’d rather get it over with. Leonardo.” She swallowed hard. “Has anyone found Leonardo?”

“Not yet. Mavis, you can have an attorney or representative here.”

“I don’t have anything to hide. I didn’t kill her, Dallas.”

Eve flicked a glance at the recorder. It could wait just another minute. “Mavis, I have to do this by the ropes. Exactly. They can bump me off the case if I don’t. If I’m not primary, I can’t be as much help to you.”

Mavis licked her lips, her tongue quick and thirsty. “It’s going to be hard.”

“It could be really, really hard. You’re going to have to handle it.”

Mavis tried for a smile, nearly managed it. “Hey, nothing can be worse than walking in and finding Pandora. Nothing.”

Oh, yes, it could, Eve thought, but she nodded. She engaged the recorder, recited her name, ID, and officially gave Mavis her rights. Carefully, she took Mavis over the same ground she had covered on the scene, pinning down times as much as possible.

“When you went to the victim’s home to talk to her, other people were present.”

“A few. It looked like a small party. Justin Young was there. You know, the actor. Jerry Fitzgerald, the model. And another guy I didn’t recognize. Looked like a suit. You know, an exec.”

“The victim attacked you?”

“She popped me one,” Mavis said ruefully, fingering the bruise on her cheek. “She started out just being bitchy. The way her eyes were wheeling around in her head, I figured she was pumped.”

“You believe she was using illegals.”

“Big time. I mean her eyes were like crystal wheels, and that punch. I tangled with her before, you saw it,” Mavis went on while Eve winced. “She didn’t have that kind of power before.”

“You hit her back?”

“I think I got one in, at least one. She scratched me—those damn nails of hers. I went for her hair. I think it was Justin Young and the suit that pulled us apart.”

“And then?”

“I guess we spit at each other for a couple of minutes, then I left. Went bar crawling.”

“Where did you go? How long did you stay?”

“I went a couple of places. I think I hit the ZigZag first, the joint over on Sixty-first and Lex.”

“Did you speak to anyone?”

“I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My face hurt, and I was feeling lousy. I ordered a Triple Zombie and sulked.”

“How’d you pay for it?”

“I think . . . Yeah, I think I just entered my credit account on screen.”

Good. There’d be a record, time, place. “From there, where did you go?”

“I walked around, bumped into another couple of dives. I was pretty blitzed.”

“Were you still ordering drinks?”

“I must have been. I was pretty drunk when I thought about going over to Leonardo’s.”

“How’d you get downtown?”

“I walked. I needed to sober up a little, so I walked. Took a glide a couple of times, but mostly hoofed.”

Hoping to spark some memory, Eve repeated all the information Mavis had just given. “When you left the ZigZag, which direction did you walk?”

“I’d just had two Triple Zombies. I wasn’t walking, I was stumbling. I don’t know which way. Dallas, I don’t know the name of the other joints I went into, what else I drank. It’s all a blur. Music, people laughing . . . a table dancer.”

“Male or female?”

“A guy. Hung, with a tattoo, I think. Could have been paint. Pretty sure it was a snake, maybe a lizard.”

“What did he look like, the table dancer?”

“Shit, Dallas, I never looked above the waist.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Mavis put her head in her hands and struggled to bring it back. Holding onto the memory was like trying to hold a fistful of water. “I just don’t know. I was seriously impaired. I remember walking and walking. Getting to Leonardo’s, thinking it was the last time I was going to see him. I didn’t want to be drunk when I did, so I took some Sober Up before I went in. Then I found her, and it was a lot worse than being drunk.”

“What was the first thing you saw when you walked in?”

“Blood. Lots of blood. Things knocked over, ripped, more blood. I was so afraid that Leonardo had hurt himself, and I ran back to his work area, and saw her.” This was a memory she could bring back with perfect clarity. “I saw her. I recognized her because of the hair, and because she was wearing the same outfit as she’d had on earlier. But her face . . . it really wasn’t even there at all. I couldn’t scream. I knelt down beside her. I don’t know what I thought I could do, but I had to do something. Then something hit me, and when I woke up, I called you.”

“Did you see anyone as you were going into the building, on the street outside?”

“No. It was late.”

“Tell me about the security camera.”

“It was broken. Sometimes street punks get a charge out of bashing them. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“How did you get into the apartment?”

“The door wasn’t locked. I just walked in.”

“And Pandora was dead when you got there? You didn’t speak with her, argue?”

“No, I told you. She was lying there.”

“You’d fought with her earlier, twice. Did you fight with her tonight in Leonardo’s apartment?”

“No. She was dead. Dallas—”

“Why did you fight with her on the previous occasions?”

“She threatened to ruin Leonardo’s career.” Emotions flickered over Mavis’s bruised face. Hurt, fear, grief. “She wouldn’t let him go. We were in love, but she wouldn’t let him go. You saw the way she was, Dallas.”

“Leonardo and his career are very important to you.”

“I love him,” Mavis said quietly.

“You’d do anything to protect him, to see that he wasn’t harmed, personally or professionally.”

“I’d decided to get out of his life,” Mavis stated with a dignity that warmed Eve. “She’d have hurt him otherwise, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

“She couldn’t hurt him, or you, if she was dead.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You went to her home, argued, she hit you and you fought. You left and got drunk. You made your way to Leonardo’s apartment, found her there. Maybe you argued again, maybe she attacked you again. You defended yourself, and things got out of hand.”

Mavis’s big, tired eyes registered puzzlement first, then hurt. “Why are you saying that? You know it’s not true.”

Eyes flat, Eve leaned forward. “She was making your life hell, threatening the man you love. She hurt you, physically. She was stronger than you. When she saw you come into Leonardo’s she went for you again. She knocked you down, you hit your head. Then you were afraid, you grabbed the closest thing at hand. To protect yourself. You hit her with it, to protect yourself. Maybe she kept coming at you, so you hit her again. To protect yourself. Then you lost control, and kept hitting her, and kept hitting her, until you realized she was dead.”

Mavis’s breath sobbed through her lips. She shook her head, kept shaking it while her body trembled violently. “I didn’t. I didn’t kill her. She was already dead. For God’s sake, Dallas, how can you think I could do that to anybody?”

“Maybe you didn’t.” Push, Eve ordered herself as her heart bled. Push hard, for the record. “Maybe Leonardo did, and you’re protecting him. Did you see him lose control, Mavis? Did he pick up the walking stick and hit her?”

“No, no, no!”

“Or did you get there after he had done it, after he was standing over her body. Panicked. You wanted to help him cover it up, so you got him out; called it in.”

“No. It wasn’t like that.” She lunged up from her chair, cheeks white, eyes wild. “He wasn’t even there. I didn’t see anyone. He could never do that. Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“I am listening to you, Mavis. Sit down. Sit down,” Eve repeated more gently. “We’re almost done here. Is there anything you wish to add to your statement, or any change you wish to make in its content at this time?”

“No,” Mavis murmured and stared blindly over Eve’s shoulder.

“This concludes Interview One, Mavis Freestone, Homicide file, Pandora. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She noted the date and time, disengaged the recorder, took a leveling breath. “I’m sorry, Mavis. I’m so sorry.”

“How could you do that? How could you say those things to me?”

“I have to say those things to you. I have to ask those questions, and you have to answer them.” She put a firm hand over Mavis’s. “I may have to ask them again, and you’ll have to answer them again. Look at me, Mavis.” She waited until Mavis shifted her gaze. “I don’t know what the sweepers will pull in, what the lab reports will say. But if we don’t get real lucky, you’re going to need a lawyer.”

The color faded from Mavis’s face, even her lips, until she resembled a corpse with hurting eyes. “You’re going to arrest me?”

“I don’t know if it’s going to come to that, but I want you to be prepared. Now, I want you to go home with Roarke, and get some sleep. I want you to try hard, real hard, to remember times and places and people. If you remember anything, you’re going to record it for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to do my job. I’m damn good at my job, Mavis. You remember that, too, and trust me to clear this up.”

“Clear this up,” Mavis repeated, bitterness in her voice. “Clear me, you mean. I thought it was ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ ”

“That’s just one of the bigger lies we live by.” Standing, Eve ushered Mavis into the corridor. “I’ll do my best to close the case quickly. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You could tell me you believe me.”

“I can tell you that, too.” She just couldn’t let it get in the way.

There was always paperwork and procedure. Within an hour she had Mavis signed out and under voluntary holding at Roarke’s. Officially, Mavis Freestone was listed as a witness. Unofficially, Eve knew, she was the prime suspect. Intending to begin amending that immediately, she walked into her office.

“Okay, what’s this shit about Mavis whacking some fancy-faced model?”

“Feeney.” Eve could have kissed every rumpled inch of him. He sat at her desk, his ubiquitous bag of sugared nuts in his lap, and a scowl on his wrinkled face. “Word travels.”

“It was the first thing I heard when I made my stop at the eatery. One of our top cop’s pals gets collared, it makes a buzz.”

“She hasn’t been collared. She’s a witness. For now.”

“Media’s picked it up already. They don’t have Mavis’s name yet, but they’ve got the victim’s face splashed all over the screen. The wife dragged me out of the shower to hear about it. Pandora was a BFD.”

“Big fucking deal, alive or dead.” Weary, Eve eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “Want a rundown of Mavis’s statement?”

“What do you think I’m here for, the ambience?”

She gave it to him in the cop shorthand they both understood, and left him frowning. “Damn, Dallas, it doesn’t look good for her. You saw them going at it yourself.”

“Alive and in person. Why the hell she got it into her mind to confront Pandora again . . .” Rising, she paced the room. “It makes it worse. I’m hoping the lab comes back with something, anything. But I can’t count on it. What’s your caseload like, Feeney?”

“Don’t ask.” He waved that away. “What do you need?”

“I need a run on her credit account. The first place she remembers going into is ZigZag. If we can place her there, or at one of the other joints at time of death, she’s clear.”

“I can handle that for you, but . . . We got somebody hanging around the murder scene, bopping Mavis on the head. Chances are there won’t be much of a time lag.”

“I know. I’ve got to cover all the bases. I’m going to track down the people Mavis recognized at the victim’s house, get statements. I’ve got to find a table dancer with a big dick and a tattoo.”

“The fun never ends.”

She nearly smiled. “I need to find people who can testify she was really ripped. Even with a dose of Sober Up, she couldn’t have been clean enough to have taken out Pandora if she’d been drinking her way downtown.”

“She claims Pandora was using.”

“Something else I have to check out. Then there’s the elusive Leonardo. Where the fuck was he? And where is he now?”

chapter five

Leonardo was sprawled in the middle of Mavis’s living room floor, where he had fallen hours before in a drunken stupor brought on by a full bottle of synthetic whiskey and a boatload of self-pity.

He was surfacing groggily and feared he’d lost half of his face sometime during the miserable night. When he lifted a cautious hand to it, he was relieved to find his entire face in the usual place, only numbed from being mashed into Mavis’s floor.

He couldn’t remember much. It was one of the reasons he rarely drank and never permitted himself to overindulge. He was prone to blackouts and blank spaces whenever he chugged down a few too many.

He thought he remembered staggering into Mavis’s apartment building, using the key code she’d given him when they realized they were not just lovers but in love.

But she hadn’t been there. He was almost sure of that. He had a vague picture of himself lurching across town, glugging from the bottle he’d bought—stolen? Hell. Blearily he tried to sit up and pry his pasty eyes open. All he knew for certain was that he’d had the damn bottle in his hand and the whiskey in his gut.

He must have passed out. Which disgusted him. How could he expect to make Mavis see reason if he came weaving into her apartment, babbling drunk?

He could only be grateful she hadn’t been there.

Now, of course, he had a raging hangover that made him want to curl into a ball and weep for mercy. But she might come back, and he didn’t want her to see him in such a mortifying state. He made himself get up, hunted down some painkillers before programming her AutoChef for coffee, strong and black.

Then he noticed the blood.

It was dried, streaking down his arm, onto his hand. There was a gash on his forearm, long, fairly deep, that had crusted over. Blood, he thought again, stomach jittery as he noted that it stained his shirt, his pants.

Breathing shallowly, he backed away from the counter, staring down at himself. Had he been in a fight? Had he hurt anyone?

Nausea rose in his throat as his mind skipped over huge voids and blurry memories.

Oh sweet Jesus, had he killed someone?

Eve was staring grimly at the medical examiner’s preliminary report as she heard a quick, sharp rap on the door of her office. It opened before she acknowledged it.

“Lieutenant Dallas?” The man had the look of a sun-bleached cowboy, from his shit-eating grin to his worn-heeled boots. “Goddamn, it’s good to see the legend in the flesh. Seen your picture, but you’re a long sight prettier.”

“I’m all a-flutter.” Eyes narrowing, she leaned back. He was plenty pretty himself, with wheat-colored hair curling around a tan, lived-in face that creased appealingly around bottle-green eyes. A long, straight nose, the quick wink of a sly dimple at the corner of a grinning mouth. And a body that, well, looked like it could ride the range just fine. “Who the hell are you?”

“Casto, Jake T.” He tugged a shield from the snug front pocket of his faded Levi’s. “Illegals. Heard you were tracking me.”

Eve scanned the badge. “Did you? Did you hear why I might have been tracking you, Lieutenant Casto, Jake T.?”

“Our mutual weasel.” He stepped all the way in and planted a hip companionably on her desk. That brought him close enough for her to catch the scent of his skin. Soap and leather. “Goddamn shame about old Boomer. Harmless little prick.”

“If you knew Boomer was mine, what’s taken you so long to come see me?”

“I’ve been tied up on something else. And to tell the truth, I didn’t think there was much to say or do. Then I heard Feeney from EDD was poking around.” Those eyes smiled again, with just a touch of sarcasm. “Feeney’s pretty much yours, too, isn’t he?”

“Feeney’s his own. What were you working Boomer on?”

“Usual.” Casto picked up an amethyst egg from her desk, admired the inclusions, passed it from hand to hand. “Information on illegals. Small shit. Boomer liked to think he was big time, but it was always little bits and pieces.”

“Little bits and pieces can build the big picture.”

“That’s why I used him, honey. He was pretty reliable for a bust here and there. Couple of times I tagged a middle level dealer on his data.” He grinned again. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“Yeah. So who beat him into putty?”

The grin faded. Casto set the egg back down and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have a clue. Boomer wasn’t your lovable sort, but I don’t know anybody who hated him enough, or was pissed enough, to whack him that way.”

Eve studied her man. He looked solid, and there had been a tone in his voice when he’d spoken of Boomer that reminded her of her own cautious affection. Still, she believed in holding her cards close. “Was he working on anything in particular? Something different? Something bigger?”

Casto’s sandy brow lifted. “Such as?”

“I’m asking you. Illegals aren’t my game.”

“There wasn’t anything I knew of. Last I talked to him, hell, maybe two weeks before he went floating, he talked about sniffing out something outrageous. You know how he talked, Eve.”

“Yeah, I know how he talked.” It was time to lay one of her cards down. “I also know I copped some unidentified substance hidden in his apartment. It’s in the lab now, and they’re analyzing. So far, all they tell me is it’s a new blend, and it’s more potent than anything currently on the street.”

“New blend.” Casto’s brow creased. “Why the hell didn’t he tip me to that? If he tried to play both sides . . .” Casto hissed a breath between his teeth. “You think he got whacked over it?”

“That’s my best theory.”

“Yeah. Dumb shit. Probably tried to shake down the maker or the distributor. Listen, I’ll talk to the lab, and I’ll see if there’s any buzz on the street about something new coming in.”

“Appreciate it.”

“It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” He shifted, let his gaze linger on her mouth for a beat, with a kind of talent that missed insulting by miles and bull’s-eyed on flattering. “Maybe you’d like to catch a bite to eat, discuss strategy. Or whatever comes to mind.”

“No, thanks.”

“Is that no because you’re not hungry, or because you’re getting married?”

“Both.”

“Well, then.” He rose, and being human, she had to appreciate the way the denim snugged over long, lanky legs. “If you change your mind about either, you know where to find me now. I’ll be in touch.” He sauntered toward the door, paused, and turned. “You know, Eve, you’ve got eyes like good, aged whiskey. Sure brings out a powerful thirst in a man.”

She frowned at the door he closed behind him, annoyed at the fact that her pulse was a little quick, a little unsteady. Shaking it off, she dragged both hands through her hair and looked back at the report on her screen.

She hadn’t needed to be told how Pandora had died, but it was interesting to see that the ME believed the first three head blows had been fatal. Anything after that had just been indulgence on the killer’s part.

She’d put up a fight before the head blows, Eve noted. Lacerations and abrasions on other parts of the body were concordant with a struggle.

The time of death was listed at oh two fifty, and stomach contents indicated the victim had enjoyed an elegant last meal, at about twenty-one hundred, of lobster, escarole, Bavarian cream, and vintage champagne.

There had also been heavy traces of chemicals in her bloodstream which had yet to be analyzed.

So, Mavis had probably been right. It looked as though Pandora was jazzed on something, possibly on the illegals list. In the grand scheme of things, that might or might not make a difference.

But the traces of skin under the victim’s nails were going to make a difference. Eve was terrifyingly sure when the lab finished its work, it was going to prove to be Mavis’s skin. Just as the strands of hair the sweepers had bagged near the body were going to be Mavis’s hair. And most damning, she was afraid, the prints on the murder weapon could be Mavis’s.

As a setup, Eve thought and let her eyes close, it was perfect. Mavis comes in, wrong time, wrong place, and the killer sees a tailor-made scapegoat.

Had he or she known the history between Mavis and the victim, or had that just been one more stroke of luck?

In any case, he knocks Mavis out, plants some evidence, even adds the master stroke of scraping the dead woman’s nails over Mavis’s face. Easy enough to press her fingers onto the weapon, then slip out and away with the satisfaction of a job well done.

It wouldn’t take a genius, she mused. But it would take a cold, practical mind. And how did that jibe with the rage and the insanity of the attack on Pandora?

She would have to make it jibe, Eve told herself. And she would have to find a way to clear Mavis and find the kind of killer who could batter a woman’s face into nothing, then tidy up after himself.

Even as she started to rise, her door burst open. Wild-eyed, Leonardo lurched inside.

“I killed her. I killed Pandora. God help me.”

With that, his wild eyes rolled back and all two hundred and sixty pounds of him thudded to the floor in a dead faint.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.” Rather than try to catch him, Eve nipped back out of the way of his falling body. It was like watching a redwood go down. Now he was stretched, feet on her threshold, his head nearly brushing the opposite wall. She crouched down, put her back into it and managed to roll him over. She tried a couple of sharp, light slaps, then waited. Muttering to herself, she put her back into that as well as rapped his cheeks hard.

He moaned, and his bloodshot eyes fluttered open. “What—where—”

“Shut up, Leonardo.” Eve snapped out the order as she rose, went to the doorway, and kicked his feet inside. With the door firmly shut, she looked down at him. “I’m going to read you your rights.”

“My rights?” He looked dazed, but managed to heave himself up until he was sitting on the floor instead of lying on it.

“You listen up.” She gave him the standard revised Miranda, then held up a hand before he could speak. “You understand your rights and your options?”

“Yeah.” Weary, he rubbed his hands over his face. “I know what’s going on.”

“You wish to make a statement?”

“I’ve already told you—”

Eyes flat, she held up a hand again. “Yes or no. Just yes or no.”

“Yes, yes, I want to make a statement.”

“Get up off the floor. I’m going to record this.” She turned to her desk. She could have hauled him down to Interview. Probably should have, but it could wait. “You understand whatever you say now is going on record?”

“Yes.” He got to his feet, then dropped into a chair that groaned under his weight. “Dallas—”

She shook her head to cut him off. After engaging her recorder, she noted the necessary information, then gave him his Miranda again for the record. “Leonardo, you understand these rights and options, and at this time have waived counsel and are prepared to make a statement?”

“I just want to get it over with.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. Yes, damn it.”

“You were acquainted with Pandora?”

“Of course I was.”

“You had a relationship with her?”

“I did.” He covered his face again, but could still see the image that had flashed on Mavis’s viewing screen when he’d decided to flip on the news. The long black bag being carried out of his own apartment building. “I can’t believe this has happened.”

“What was the nature of your relationship with the victim?”

It was so cold, he thought, the way she said it. “The victim.” Leonardo dropped his hands into his lap and stared at Eve. “You know we were lovers. You know I was trying to break it off because—”

“You were no longer intimate,” Eve interrupted, “at the time of her death.”

“No, we hadn’t been together for weeks. She’d been off planet. Things had cooled between us even before she left. And then I met Mavis, and everything changed for me. Dallas, where is Mavis? Where is she?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you Ms. Freestone’s whereabouts at this time.”

“Just tell me she’s all right.” His eyes filled, swam. “Just tell me she’s all right.”

“She’s being taken care of,” was all Eve would say. Could say. “Leonardo, is it true that Pandora was threatening to ruin you professionally? That she demanded you continue your relationship with her, and that if you refused, she would pull out of the showing of your fashion designs. A show that you had invested with a great deal of time and money.”

“You were there, you heard her. She didn’t give a rat’s damn about me, but she wouldn’t tolerate me being the one to pull back. Unless I stopped seeing Mavis, unless I was her lapdog again, she would have seen to it that the show was a failure, if it ran at all.”

“You didn’t want to stop seeing Ms. Freestone.”

“I love Mavis,” he said with great dignity. “She’s the most important thing in my life.”

“And yet, if you didn’t accede to Pandora’s demands, you would in all probability be left with enormous debts and a stain on your professional reputation that would have been intolerable. Is this correct?”

“Yes. I put everything I had into the show. I borrowed a great deal of money. More, I put my heart into it. My soul.”

“She could have wiped that all out.”

“Oh yes.” His lips curled. “She would have enjoyed it.”

“Did you ask her to come to your apartment last night?”

“No. I never wanted to see her again.”

“What time did she come to your apartment last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did she get in? Did you let her in?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. She would have had my key code. I never thought to get it back from her or to change it. Everything’s been so crazy.”

“You argued with her.”

His eyes glazed over, went blank. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. But I must have. I would have.”

“Recently, Pandora came into your apartment uninvited, threatened you, attacked your current companion physically.”

“Yes, yes, she did.” He could remember that. It was a relief to be able to remember that.

“What was Pandora’s state of mind when she came to your apartment this time?”

“She must have been angry. I would have told her I wasn’t giving Mavis up. That would have infuriated her. Dallas . . .” His eyes focused again, and desperation shone in them. “I just don’t remember. Any of it. When I woke up this morning, I was in Mavis’s apartment. I think I remember using my key code to get in. I’d been drinking, walking and drinking. I rarely drink because I tend to lose time, black holes in my mind. When I woke up, I saw the blood.”

He held out his arm where the wound had been poorly bandaged. “There was blood on my hands, on my clothes. Dried blood. I must have fought with her. I must have killed her.”

“Where are the clothes you were wearing last night?”

“I left them at Mavis’s. I showered, and I changed. I didn’t want her to come home and find me looking like that. I was waiting for her, trying to figure out what to do, and I turned on the news. I heard—I saw. And I knew.”

“You’re saying that you don’t remember seeing Pandora last night. You don’t remember having an altercation with her. You don’t remember killing her.”

“But I must have,” he insisted. “She died in my apartment.”

“What time did you leave your apartment last night?”

“I’m not sure. I’d been drinking before. A lot. I was upset, and I was angry.”

“Did you see anyone, speak with anyone?”

“I bought another bottle. From a street hawker, I think.”

“Did you see Ms. Freestone last night?”

“No. I’m sure of that. If I’d seen her, if I could have talked to her, everything would have been all right.”

“What if I tell you Mavis was in your apartment last night?”

“Mavis came to see me.” His face brightened. “She came back to me? But that can’t be right. I couldn’t have forgotten that.”

“Was Mavis there when you fought with Pandora? When you killed Pandora?”

“No. No.”

“Did she come in after Pandora was dead, after you’d killed her? You were panicked then, weren’t you? Terrified.”

There was panic in his eyes now. “Mavis couldn’t have been there.”

“But she was. She called me from your apartment, after she found the body.”

“Mavis saw?” Beneath the copper tone, his skin went pasty. “Oh, God, no.”

“Someone struck Mavis, knocked her unconscious. Was it you, Leonardo?”

“Someone hit her? She’s hurt?” He was up, out of the chair, dragging his hands through his hair. “Where is she?”

“Was it you?”

He held out his arms. “I’d cut my hands off before I’d hurt Mavis. For Christ’s pity, Dallas, tell me where she is. Let me see if she’s all right.”

“How did you kill Pandora?”

“I—the reporter said I beat her to death.” And he shuddered.

“How did you beat her? What did you use?”

“I—My hands?” Again he held them out. Eve noted there was no sign of bruising, no tears or abrasions on the knuckles. They were perfect, as if they’d been carved from rich, glossy wood.

“She was a strong woman. She must have fought back.”

“The cut on my arm.”

“I’d like the cut to be examined, as well as the clothes you say you left at Mavis’s.”

“Are you going to arrest me now?”

“You are not being charged at this time. You will, however, be held until the results of the tests are complete.”

She took him over the same ground again, pushing for times, for places, for his movements. Again and again, she bumped up against the wall blocking his memory. Far from satisfied, she concluded the interview, took him to holding, then made arrangements for the tests.

Her next stop was Commander Whitney.

Ignoring his offer of a chair, she stood facing him as he sat behind his desk. Briskly, she gave him the results of her initial interviews. Whitney folded his hands and watched her. He had good eyes, cop’s eyes, and recognized nerves.

“You have a man who has confessed to the murder. A man with motive and opportunity.”

“A man who doesn’t remember seeing the victim on the night in question, much less bludgeoning her to death.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a perp confessed in such a way to make himself seem innocent.”

“No, sir. But I don’t believe he’s our killer. The tests may prove me wrong, but his personality type doesn’t fit the crime. I was a witness to another altercation where the victim attacked Mavis. Rather than attempting to stop the fight, or showing any signs of violence, he stood back and wrung his hands.”

“By his own statement, he was under the influence on the night of the murder. Drink can and does induce personality changes.”

“Yes, sir.” It was reasonable. In her heart she wanted to pin it on him, to take his confession at face value and run with it. Mavis would be miserable, but she’d be safe. She’d be cleared. “It’s not him,” she said flatly. “I recommend holding him for the maximum amount of time, reinterviewing to try to jog his memory. But we can’t charge him for thinking he committed murder.”

“I’ll go along with your recommendation, Dallas. The other lab reports should be in shortly. We’ll hope the results will clear everything up. You understand they may further incriminate Mavis Freestone.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that.”

“You have a long-standing friendship with her. It would be no blot on your record to withdraw as primary on this case. It would, in fact, be better for you, and certainly more rational if you were to do so.”

“No, sir, I will not withdraw as primary. If you pull me, I will take leave and pursue the case on personal time. If necessary, I will resign.”

For a moment, he rubbed his joined hands against his brow. “Your resignation would not be accepted. Sit down, Lieutenant. Damn it, Dallas,” he erupted when she remained standing. “Sit. I’ll make it a fucking order.”

“Yes, Commander.”

He sighed, reined in his temper. “I hurt you not long ago with a personal attack that was neither appropriate nor deserved. Because of that, I damaged something between us. I understand that you no longer feel comfortable under my command.”

“You are the best commander I’ve ever served under. I have no problem with you as my superior.”

“But no longer friends—not even remotely.” He nodded, accepting her silence. “However, because of my behavior during your investigation of a case that was very personal to me, you should be aware that I fully understand what you’re going through on this one. I know what it is to be torn between loyalties, Dallas. While you may be unable to discuss your feelings in this case with me, I strongly suggest that you do so with someone you can trust. My mistake in the other investigation was in not sharing the burden. Don’t make the same one with this.”

“Mavis didn’t kill anyone. No amount of evidence will convince me otherwise. I’ll do my job, Commander. And in doing it, I’ll find the real killer.”

“I have no doubt you’ll do your job, Lieutenant, or that you’ll suffer for it. You have my support, whether you choose to use it or not.”

“Thank you, sir. I have a request to make on another case.”

“Which is?”

“The Johannsen matter.”

This time he sighed, long and deep. “You’re like a damn terrier, Dallas. You never let go.”

She couldn’t argue the point. “You have my report on what was found at Boomer’s flop. The illegal substance has not been fully identified. I’ve done some research of my own on the formula we discovered.” She took a disc out of her bag. “It’s a new blend, highly potent, its effects would probably be fairly long term as compared to what’s found on the street. Four to six hours for an average dose. Too much more at one time would be, in eighty-eight percent, fatal.”

Lips pursed, Whitney turned the disc over in his hands. “Personal research, Dallas?”

“I had a connection, I used it. The lab is still working, but they have identified several of the ingredients, and their ratios. My point is, this substance would be enormously profitable, as it takes only a small amount to produce results. It’s highly addictive, and produces feelings of strength, delusions of power, and a kind of euphoria—not tranquillity, but a sense of control over self and others. It also contains some sort of cell regenerator. I’ve calculated the results of long-term addiction. Daily use for a period of five years will, in ninety-six point eight percent, result in a complete and sudden shutdown of the nervous system. And death.”

“Christ Jesus. It’s poison?”

“Ultimately, yes. The manufacturers certainly know this, which makes them guilty not only of distributing illegals, but of premeditated murder.”

She let him chew over that a moment, knew the headache it would cause if and when the media dug its claws into the data. “Boomer may or may not have known about this aspect, but he knew enough to be killed for it. I want to pursue the case and, as I’m aware, I’m distracted by other matters, so I request that Officer Peabody be assigned as my aide until the matter is resolved.”

“Peabody has little experience in illegals or homicide, Lieutenant.”

“She makes up for it with brains and sweat. I’d like her to assist in my coordinating with Lieutenant Casto of Illegals, who also used Boomer as a weasel.”

“I’ll see to it. As to the Pandora homicide, use Feeney.” He lifted a brow. “You already are, I see. Let’s pretend I’ve just ordered it, and make it official. You’ll have to deal with the media.”

“I’m getting used to it. Nadine Furst is back from leave. I’ll feed her what seems best. She and Channel 75 owe me a few.” She rose. “I have some people to talk to. I’ll contact Feeney and take him along.”

“Let’s see if we can get things cleared up before your honeymoon.” Her face was such a study of contradictions, embarrassment, pleasure, and fear, he roared out a laugh. “You’ll live through it, Dallas. I can guarantee it.”

“Sure, when the guy who’s designing my wedding dress is in holding,” she muttered. “Thank you, Commander.”

He watched her walk out. She might not have been aware that she’d dropped the barrier between them, but he was.

“The wife’s going to love this.” More than content to let Dallas handle the driving, Feeney leaned back in the passenger seat. Street traffic was light as they headed toward Park Avenue South. Feeney, a native New Yorker, had long since tuned out the bellows and echoes of the tourist blimps and sky buses that crowded overhead.

“They told me they were going to fix it. Those fuckers. Hear that, Feeney? Do you hear that goddamn buzzing?”

Obligingly, he focused on the sound coming from her control panel. “Sounds like a swarm of those killer bees.”

“Three days,” she fumed, “three days in repair, and listen to it. It’s worse than it was.”

“Dallas.” He laid a hand on her arm. “You may have to face it, finally, learn to deal with the simple fact that your vehicle is a piece of garbage. Requisition a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one.” Using the heel of her hand, she rapped the control panel. “I want this one, without the sound effects.” She got caught at a light, tapped her fingers on the wheel. The way the controls sounded, she wouldn’t be able to trust automatic. “Where the hell is 582 Central Park South?” Her controls continued to buzz, so she slapped them again. “I said, where the hell is 582 Central Park South?”

“Just ask nice,” Feeney suggested. “Computer, please display map and locate 582 Central Park South.”

When the display screen popped up, the holographic map highlighting the route, Eve only snarled.

“I don’t baby my tools.”

“Which may be why they’re always breaking down on you. As I was saying,” he continued before Eve could snap at him, “the wife’s going to love this. Justin Young. He used to play this stud on Night Falls.”

“Isn’t that a soap?” She shot him a glance. “What are you doing watching soaps?”

“Hey, I tune in the Soap Channel for a little relaxation like everybody. Anyway, the wife was nuts about him. He does the movie thing now. She hardly goes a week without programming one of his movies on screen. Guy’s good, too. Then there’s Jerry Fitzgerald.” Feeney smiled dreamily.

“Keep your little fantasies to yourself, pal.”

“I tell you that girl’s built. Not like some of the models who have their bodies honed down to bone.” He made a sound like a man anticipating a large bowl of ice cream. “You know one of the best things about working with you recently, Dallas?”

“My charming ways and rapier wit?”

“Oh sure.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s being able to go home and tell the wife who I interrogated today. A billionaire, a senator, Italian aristocrats, film stars. I tell you, it’s done wonders for my prestige.”

“Glad I could help.” She squeezed her battered police issue between a mini Rolls and a vintage Mercedes. “Just try to control your awe while we do the third degree on the actor.”

“I’m a professional.” But he was grinning as he climbed out. “Just look at this place. How’d you like to own a place in here?” Then he chuckled and shifted his eyes away from the glossy faux marble facade of the lofty building. “Oh, I was forgetting. This is slumming for you now.”

“Kiss ass, Feeney.”

“Come on, kid, loosen up.” He slung an arm around her shoulder as they headed toward the doors. “Falling for the richest man in the known world isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of it. I just don’t like to dwell on it.”

The building was choice enough to have a live doorman as well as electronic security. Both Eve and Feeney flashed their badges and were admitted into a marble and gilt lobby accented with leafy ferns and exotic flowers in huge china pots.

“Ostentatious,” Eve muttered.

“See how jaded you’re getting?” Feeney moved out of range and approached the inner security screen. “Lieutenant Dallas and Captain Feeney, for Justin Young.”

“One moment, please.” The creamy computer voice paused while their identification was verified. “Thank you for waiting. Mr. Young is expecting you. Please proceed to elevator three, request your party. Enjoy your day.”

chapter six

“So, how do you want to play it?” Feeney pursed his lips, studied the tiny camera in the corner of the elevator on the way up. “The standard good cop/bad cop?”

“Funny how it always works.”

“Civilians are easy marks.”

“Let’s start with the sorry to bother you, appreciate your cooperation sort of thing. If we get a sense he’s playing games, we can shift gears.”

“If we do, I want to be the bad cop.”

“You’re a lousy bad cop, Feeney. Face it.”

He gave her a mournful look. “I outrank you, Dallas.”

“I’m primary, and I’m better at bad cop. Live with it.”

“I always have to be the good cop,” he muttered as they stepped into a well-lighted hallway with more marble, more gilt.

Justin Young opened the opposing door with perfect timing. And, Eve thought, he’d dressed for the part of the well-to-do yet cooperative witness in casual, expensive, buff linen slacks and a drapey silk shirt of the same tone. On his feet were trendy sandals with thick soles and intricate beading over the instep.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Captain Feeney.” His beautifully sculpted face was in serious lines, the killer black eyes sober and a dramatic contrast to a wavy mane of hair the same color as the gilt in the hallway. He offered a hand adorned with a wide ring studded with onyx. “Please come in.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see us so quickly, Mr. Young.” Perhaps her eye had become jaded, but Eve’s initial scan of the room left her thinking, Overdone, overwrought, and overexpensive.

“It’s such a tragedy, such a horror.” He gestured them in toward a huge L-shaped sofa jammed with pillows in wild colors and slick fabrics. Across the room, a meditation screen was programmed to a tropical beach at sunset. “It’s almost impossible to believe she could be dead, much less that she died in such a sudden and violent way.”

“We’re sorry to intrude,” Feeney began, prepping for his good cop role while he struggled not to gape at all the tassels and stained glass. “This must be a difficult time for you.”

“It is. Pandora and I were friends. Can I offer you something?” He sat, elegant and slim, in a wing chair that could have swallowed a small child.

“No, thank you.” Eve tried to wiggle her way back among the mountain of cushions.

“I will, if you don’t mind. I’ve been living on little more than nerves since I heard the news.” Leaning forward, he pressed a small button on the table between them. “Coffee, please. One.” Settling back, he smiled a little. “You’ll want to know where I was when she died. I’ve done a number of police vehicles in my career. Played the cop, the suspect, even the victim in my early days. With my image, I’ve always been innocent.”

He flicked a glance up as a domestic droid, dressed, Eve noted with horrified amusement, in the classic French maid’s uniform, carried in a glass tray topped with a single cup and saucer. Justin took the cup from it, used both hands to bring it to his lips.

“The media hasn’t stated exactly when Pandora was killed, but I believe I can give you my movements for the entire evening. I was with her, at a small party at her home until about midnight. Jerry and I—Jerry Fitzgerald—left together, and went to have a drink at a nearby private club. Ennui. It’s very in right now, and it pays for both of us to be seen. I imagine it was one or so when we left. We considered doing a bit of club hopping, but I confess, we’d both had enough to drink, and enough socializing. We came here, stayed here together until about ten the next morning. Jerry had an assignment. It wasn’t until she’d left and I was having my first cup of coffee that I turned on the news and heard about Pandora.”

“That certainly covers the evening,” Eve said. He’d recited it all, she thought, as though it was a well-staged play. “We’ll need to speak to Ms. Fitzgerald to verify.”

“Certainly. Would you like to do so now? She’s in the relaxation room. Pandora’s death has left her a bit rattled.”

“Let’s let her relax a bit longer,” Eve suggested. “You said you and Pandora were friends. Were you lovers?”

“Now and again, nothing serious. It was more that we ran in the same circles. And to be brutally honest at such a time, Pandora preferred men who were easily dominated, intimidated.” He flashed a smile as if to show he was neither. “She preferred affairs with those who were striving rather than those who had attained success. She rarely enjoyed sharing the spotlight.”

Feeney picked up the rhythm. “Who was she involved with, romantically, at the time of her death?”

“There were a few, I believe. Someone I think she’d met on Starlight Station—an entrepreneur, she called him, but with a sarcastic tone. This up-and-coming designer Jerry tells me is brilliant. Michelangelo, Puccini, Leonardo. Something of the kind. Paul Redford, the video producer who joined us that night.”

He took a sip of his coffee, then blinked. “Leonardo. Yes, it was Leonardo. There was some sort of tiff there. A woman came by the house while we were there. They fought over him. An old-fashioned catfight. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so embarrassing for everyone involved.”

He spread his elegant fingers, looked mildly amused despite his statement. Well done, Eve thought. Well rehearsed, good timing, lines professionally punched.

“It took Paul and I both to separate them.”

“The woman came to Pandora’s home and attacked her, physically?” Eve asked in carefully neutral tones.

“Oh no, not at all. The poor thing was devastated, pleading. Pandora called her a few vile names and hit her.” Justin demonstrated by making a fist, jerking it. “Really socked her. The woman was small, but she was game. Scrambled right up and plowed in. After that it was wrestling and hair pulling, scratching. The woman was bleeding some when she left. Pandora had lethal nails.”

“Pandora scratched the woman’s face?”

“No. Though I’m sure she was going to have quite a bruise. It was her neck as I recall. Four long, nasty scratches on the side of the neck where Pandora raked her. The woman, I’m afraid I don’t know her name. Pandora just called her bitch, and varieties of the same. She was trying not to cry when she left, and told Pandora, quite dramatically, that Pandora would be sorry for what she’d done. Then I’m afraid she ruined her exit by sniffling and claiming that love conquers all.”

It sounded just like Mavis, Eve thought. “And after she left, how did Pandora behave?”

“She was furious, overexcitable. That’s why Jerry and I left early.”

“And Paul Redford?”

“He stayed; I can’t say how long.” With a sigh that signaled regret, Justin set his coffee aside. “It’s unfair to say anything negative about Pandora when she can’t defend herself, but she was hard, very often abrasive. Cross her, and you paid.”

“And did you ever cross her, Mr. Young?”

“I was careful not to.” He smiled charmingly. “I enjoy my career and my looks, Lieutenant. Pandora was no threat to the first, but I’d seen and heard of her doing some damage to faces when annoyed. Believe me, she didn’t wear her manicure like knives just for fashion.”

“She had enemies.”

“Plenty of them, most of whom were terrified of her. I can’t imagine who might have finally snapped and struck back at her. And from the news reports I’ve heard, I can’t believe even Pandora deserved to die so brutally.”

“We appreciate your candor, Mr. Young. If it’s convenient, we’d like to speak with Ms. Fitzgerald now. Alone.”

He lifted a slim, elegant brow. “Yes, of course. No coordinating stories.”

Eve only smiled. “You’ve had plenty of time to do that already. But we’d like to speak to her alone.”

She had the pleasure of seeing his smooth facade shaken a bit by her statement. Still, he rose and walked toward a connecting corridor.

“What do you think?” Feeney muttered.

“I think it was a hell of a performance.”

“We’re on wavelength there. Still, if he and Fitzgerald were ripping up the sheets all night, it keeps him in the clear.”

“They alibi each other, it keeps them both in the clear. We’ll get the security discs from building management, check what time they came in. See if they went out again.”

“I never trust those, not since the DeBlass case.”

“If they diddled with the discs, you’ll see it.” She glanced up at the sound of Feeney sucking in his breath. His hangdog face had gone terrier bright. His eyes were glazed. After a glimpse at Jerry Fitzgerald’s entrance, Eve wondered why Feeney’s tongue wasn’t hanging out.

She was built, all right, Eve mused. Her lush breasts were barely covered with ivory silk that dipped nipple low, clung, then halted briefly a few millimeters below crotch level. One long, shapely leg was decorated beside the knee with a red rose in full bloom.

Jerry Fitzgerald was definitely blooming.

Then there was the face, soft and slumberous as though she’d just climbed out of sex. Ebony hair was razor straight and curved to perfection, framing a round, feminine chin. Her mouth was full and wet and red, her eyes dazzling blue and edged with spiky, gold-tipped lashes.

As she glided to a chair like some sort of pagan sex goddess, Eve patted Feeney’s leg in support—and restraint.

“Ms. Fitzgerald,” Eve began.

“Yes,” she said in a voice like sacrificial smoke. Those killer eyes barely flickered on Eve before they latched like limpets on Feeney’s homely and dazed face. “Captain, it’s just so awful. I’ve tried the isolation tank, the mood elevator, even programmed the hologram for meadow walks, as that always relaxes me. But nothing I do gets all of this out of my mind.”

She fluttered, lifted both hands to her unbelievable face. “I must look like a hag.”

“You look beautiful,” Feeney babbled. “Stunning. You look—”

“Get a grip,” Eve muttered and jabbed him with an elbow. “We appreciate how upset you are, Ms. Fitzgerald. Pandora was a friend of yours.”

Jerry opened her mouth, closed it, smiled slyly. “I could tell you she was, but you’d find out quickly enough we weren’t friendly. We tolerated each other as we were in the same business, but frankly, we couldn’t stand one another.”

“She invited you into her home.”

“That’s because she wanted Justin to be there, and we’re very close right now. And Pandora and I did socialize, we even did a few projects together.”

She rose, either to show off the body or because she preferred to serve herself. From a cabinet in the corner she took out a decanter in the shape of a swan and poured its sapphire blue contents into a glass.

“Let me say first that I am sincerely upset about the way she died. It’s terrifying to think that anyone could hate so much. I am in the same profession, and as much in the public eye. A kind of image, as Pandora was. If it happened to her . . .” She broke off, drank deeply. “It could happen to me. One of the reasons I’m staying here with Justin until it’s all resolved.”

“Take me through your movements on the night she was killed.”

Jerry’s eyes widened. “Am I a suspect? That’s almost flattering.” She came back to the chair, drink in hand. After she sat, she folded up her exquisite legs in a way that made Feeney vibrate beside Eve. “I never had the guts to do more than give her a few verbal shots. Half the time she didn’t even know I was zinging her. Pandora wasn’t exactly a mental giant and never understood subtlety. All right then.”

She sat back, closed her eyes, and told basically the same story as Justin had, though she had, apparently, tuned in more closely on the altercation between Pandora and Mavis.

“I have to admit, I was cheering her on. The little one, not Pandora. She had a style to her,” Jerry mused. “Odd, memorable—somewhere between a waif and an Amazon. She was trying to hold her own, but Pandora would have mopped the floor with her if Justin and Paul hadn’t stopped it. Pandora was really strong. She was always in the health club working on muscle tone. I once saw her literally throw a fashion consultant across the room because the poor sap had mislabeled her accessories before a showing. Anyway . . .”

She waved that off, opened a drawer on the brass table beside her, and located an enameled box. She took out a glossy red cigarette, lighted it, blew out perfumed smoke. “Anyway, the woman started off trying to reason with Pandora, make some sort of a deal with her over Leonardo. He’s a designer. My take was Leonardo and the waif were an item and Pandora wasn’t ready to cut him loose. He’s got a show coming up.”

She smiled that cat’s smile again. “With Pandora gone, I’ll have to throw him my support.”

“You weren’t involved in the show before?”

“Pandora was headlining. I said Pandora and I had done a few projects together. A couple of videos. Her problem was, she had looks, even presence, but when she had to read someone else’s lines or try for charming on screen, she was an oak. Wooden. Just awful. But I’m good.” She paused to let more smoke stream through her lips. “Really good, and I’m concentrating on my acting work. But . . . stepping in on this show, with this designer, will be a nice boost for me media-wise. That sounds callous. Sorry.” She shrugged. “It’s life.”

“Her death comes at an opportune moment for you.”

“When I see an opportunity, I take it. I don’t kill for it.” She moved her shoulders again. “That was more Pandora’s style.”

Now she leaned forward, and her bodice gaped carelessly. “Look, let’s not play games. I’m clear. I was with Justin all night, didn’t see her after about midnight. I can be honest, tell you I couldn’t stand her, that she was certainly a professional rival, and that I knew that she’d have liked to lure Justin away from me just for spite. And maybe she could have done it. I don’t kill over men, either.” She warmed Feeney with a glance. “There are so many charming ones out there. And the simple fact is, you couldn’t fit all the people who detested her into this apartment. I’m just one of the crowd.”

“What was her mood on the night she died?”

“Razzed and jazzed.” In a quick change of mood, Jerry threw back her head and laughed lustily. “I don’t know what she’d been knocking back, but it sure as hell put a glint in her eye. She was on fast forward.”

“Ms. Fitzgerald,” Feeney began in slow, apologetic tones, “you believed Pandora had ingested an illegal?”

She hesitated a moment, then moved her alabaster shoulders. “Nothing legal makes you feel that good, honey. Or that mean. And she was feeling good and mean. Whatever it was, she was chasing it with champagne by the bucketload.”

“Were you and the other guests offered illegal substances while you were there?” Eve asked.

“She didn’t invite me to share. But then, she knew I didn’t use. My body’s a temple.” She smiled as Eve’s glance focused on her glass. “Protein drink, Lieutenant. Pure protein. And this?” She waved her slim cigarette. “Veggie, with a lace of perfectly legal calmer, for my nerves. I’ve watched a lot of the mighty fall, taking a short, fast trip. I’m in for the long haul. I allow myself three herbal smokes a day, an occasional glass of wine. No chemical stimulants, no happy pills. On the other hand . . .” She set her drink aside. “Pandora was a champion user. She’d gulp down anything.”

“Do you know the name of her supplier?”

“Never thought to ask her. Just wasn’t interested. But at a guess, I’d say this was something new. I’ve never seen her so powered up, and though it pains me to say it, she looked better, younger. Skin tone and texture. She had, well, a glow on. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d had a full treatment, but we both use Paradise. I know she wasn’t in the salon that day, because I was. Anyway, I asked her, and she just smiled and said she’d found a new beauty secret, and she was going to make a pile on it.”

“Interesting,” Feeney commented when he plopped back down in Eve’s car. “We talked to two of the three people who last socialized with the victim. Neither of them could stand her.”

“They could have done it together,” Eve mused. “Fitzgerald knew Leonardo, wanted to work with him. Simplest thing in the world to alibi each other.”

Feeney tapped his pocket where he’d slipped the security discs from the building. “We’ll run these, see what we find. Still seems to me we’re missing motive. Whoever took her out didn’t just want to kill her, they wanted to erase her. We’ve got a powerful kind of rage here. Didn’t seem to me either one of those two would work up a sweat.”

“Push the right buttons, everybody sweats. I want to swing by ZigZag, see if we can start pinning down Mavis’s moves. And we need to contact the producer, set up an interview. Can you put one of your drones on the car companies, Feeney? I can’t see our heroine taking the subway or a bus downtown to Leonardo’s.”

“Sure.” He took out his communicator. “If she took a cab or a private transpo service, we should be able to nail it down in a couple hours.”

“Good. And let’s see if she made the trip alone, or if she had company.”

ZigZag didn’t do much hopping in the middle of the day. It lived for night. The sunlight crowd were mostly tourists or the harried urban professionals who didn’t much care if the decor looked tawdry and the service was surly. The club was like a carnival that glittered at night, and showed its age and its flaws in the harsh light of day. Still, it maintained that underlying mystique that drew crowds of dreamers.

There was a steady drone of music, which would be cranked up to ear-splitting once the sun set. The open, two-level structure was dominated by five bars and twin revolving dance floors that would begin their circuit at nine P.M. Now they were still, stacked one over the other, the clear floors scarred from the beatings of nightly feet.

The lunch offerings ran to sandwiches and salads, all named after dead rockers. Today’s special was peanut butter and banana on white, with a side of vidalia onions and jalapeῆos. The Elvis and Joplin combo.

Eve settled with Feeney at the first bar, ordered black coffee, and sized up the bartender. She was human rather than the usual droid. In fact, Eve hadn’t noticed any droids employed in the club.

“You ever work the night shift?” Eve asked her.

“Nope. I’m a day worker.” The bartender set Eve’s coffee on the bar. She was the perky kind, one who looked more like the front woman for a health food chain than a drink swiller at a club.

“Who’s on the ten to three who notices people, remembers them?”

“Nobody around here notices people, if they can help it.”

Eve took out her badge, laid it on the bar. “Would this clear somebody’s memory?”

“Couldn’t say.” Unconcerned, she shrugged. “Look, this is a clean joint. I’ve got a kid at home, which is why I work days and why I was fussy about where I took a job. I checked this place out through and through before I hooked up. Dennis, he runs a friendly club, which is why you’ve got servers with pulses instead of chips. It might get a little wild, but he keeps the lid on.”

“Who is Dennis, and where do I find him?”

“His office is up the twisty stairs to your right, behind the first bar. He owns the place.”

“Hey, Dallas. We could take a minute for some eats,” Feeney complained as he walked behind her. “The Mick Jagger sounded worth a try.”

“Get him to go.”

The bar wasn’t open on this level, but obviously Dennis had been alerted. A mirrored panel slid aside, and he stood there, a slight, aesthetic-faced man with a pointed red beard and a monk’s circle of raven black hair.

“Officers, welcome to ZigZag.” His voice was whisper quiet. “Is there a problem?”

“We’d like your help and cooperation, Mr. . . . ?”

“Dennis, just Dennis. Too many names are unwieldy.” He ushered them inside. The carnival atmosphere ended at the threshold. The office was spartan, streamlined, and quiet as a church. “My sanctuary,” he said, well aware of the contrast. “One can’t enjoy nor can one appreciate the pleasures of noise and crowds and tangling humanity unless one experiences its opposite. Please sit.”

Eve took a chance on a stern-looking, straight-backed chair while Feeney eased himself into its mate. “We’re trying to verify the movements of one of your customers last night.”

“For?”

“Official reasons.”

“I see.” Dennis sat behind a slab of high-gloss plastic that served as his desk. “And the time?”

“After eleven, before one.”

“Open screen.” At his order, a section of the wall slid open to reveal a viewer. “Replay security scan five, begin eleven P.M.”

The screen, and the room, erupted with sound and color and movement. For an instant it dazzled the eye, then Eve focused. It was an overview of the club in full swing. A rather lordly view, she mused, as if the watcher soared quietly over the heads of the celebrants.

It suited Dennis down to the ground.

He smiled, judging her reaction. “Delete audio.” Abruptly, silence descended. Now the movement seemed unworldly. Dancers gyrated on the circling floors, lights flashed over their faces, catching expressions, intense, joyful, feral. A couple at a corner table snarled at each other, body action clearly demonstrating an argument in progress. At another, a mating ritual with soulful looks and intimate touches.

Then she spotted Mavis. Alone.

“Can you enhance?” Eve rose, jabbed a finger to the center left of the screen.

“Of course.”

Frowning, Eve watched Mavis brought closer, clearer. It was, according to the time display, twenty-three forty-five. There was a bruise already darkening under Mavis’s eye. And when she turned her head to brush off an advance, the signs of raw scratches on her neck. But not her face, Eve noted with a sinking heart. The bright blue drape she wore was torn a bit at the shoulder, but it was still attached.

She watched Mavis flick off a couple of other men, then a woman. She downed her drink, set the glass down beside a matching pair of empty ones on her table. She listed a bit as she rose, balanced herself, then with the exaggerated dignity of the greatly impaired, Mavis elbowed her way through the crowd.

The time was twenty-four eighteen.

“Is that what you were looking for?”

“More or less.”

“Disengage video.” Dennis smiled. “The woman in question comes in the club from time to time. She is usually more sociable, enjoys dancing. Occasionally she will sing. I find her a different sort of talent, and certainly a crowd pleaser. Do you need her name?”

“I know who she is.”

“Well then.” He rose. “I hope Miss Freestone isn’t in any trouble. She looked unhappy.”

“I can get a warrant for a copy of that disc, or you can give me one.”

Dennis lifted a bright red eyebrow. “I’ll be happy to give you one. Computer, copy disc and label. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, not at this time.” Eve accepted the disc and slipped it into her bag. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“Cooperation is the glue of life,” he said as the panel slid shut behind them.

“Weird-o,” Feeney decided.

“An efficient one. You know, Mavis could have gotten into a tussle while she was club hopping. She could have gotten her face scratched, her clothes torn.”

“Yeah.” Determined to eat, Feeney stopped at an order table and requested a Jagger to go. “You ought to put something in your system, Dallas, besides worry and work.”

“I’m fine. I’m not much on the club scene, but if she had it in the back of her mind to go see Leonardo, she’d have walked south and east from here. Let’s check out what her most likely stop would have been.”

“Fine. Just hold on.” He made her wait until his takeout slid through the serving slot. He had the clear wrap off and the first bite in by the time they got to the car. “Damn good stuff. Always did like Jagger.”

“Hell of a way to live forever.” She started to request a map when her car ’link beeped, signaling incoming transmission. “Lab report,” she murmured and focused on the screen. “Oh, goddamn it.”

“Hell, Dallas, this is a mess.” Appetite gone, Feeney stuffed the sandwich in his pocket. Both of them fell into silence.

The report was very clear. It was Mavis’s skin, and only Mavis’s, under the victim’s nails. Mavis’s prints, and only Mavis’s, on the murder weapon. And it was her blood, and only hers, mixed with the victim’s on scene.

The ’link beeped again, and this time a face appeared on screen. “Prosecuting Attorney Jonathan Heartly, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Acknowledged.”

“We’re issuing an arrest warrant for Freestone, Mavis, charge of murder, second degree. Please hold for transmission.”

“Didn’t waste any time,” Feeney grumbled.

chapter seven

She wanted to do it alone. Had to do it alone. She could count on Feeney to work on ferreting out any details that might weaken the case against Mavis. But the job had to be done, and she had to do it herself.

Still, she was glad when Roarke opened the door.

“I can see it in your face.” And he took her face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Eve.”

“I have a warrant. I have to take her in, book her. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“I know. Come here.” He gathered her close, held her as she burrowed her face in his shoulder. “We’ll find the piece of this that clears her, Eve.”

“Nothing I’ve found, nothing, Roarke, helps her. Everything makes it worse. The evidence, it’s all there. The motive’s there, the timing.” She drew back. “If I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t have a doubt.”

“But you do know her.”

“She’s going to be scared.” Frightened herself, Eve looked up the stairs, toward where Mavis would be waiting. “The PA’s office told me they wouldn’t block bail, but still, she’s going to need . . . Roarke, I hate to ask you—”

“You don’t have to. I’ve already contacted the best criminal defense team in the country.”

“I can’t pay you back for that.”

“Eve—”

“I don’t mean the money.” She took a shuddering breath and gripped both of his hands. “You don’t really know her, but you believe in her because I do. That’s what I can’t pay you back for. I have to go get her.”

“You want to do it alone.” He understood, and had already convinced himself not to argue the point. “I’ll alert her lawyers. What are the charges?”

“Murder two. I’ll have to deal with the media. It’s certainly going to leak that Mavis and I have history.” She pulled her hands through her disordered hair. “That may bleed over onto you.”

“Do you think that worries me?”

She nearly smiled. “No, I guess not. This may take awhile. I’ll bring her back as soon as I can.”

“Eve,” he murmured as she started up the stairs. “She believes in you, too. There’s good reason for it.”

“I hope you’re right.” Bracing herself, she continued up, walked slowly down the corridor to Mavis’s room, and knocked.

“Come on in, Summerset. I told you I’d come down for the cake. Oh.” Surprised, Mavis leaned back from the computer where she’d been struggling to write a new song. To cheer herself up, she’d worn a skin suit of bright sapphire and had dyed her hair to match. “I thought it was Summerset.”

“And cake.”

“Yeah, he buzzed in and told me the cook had baked a triple chocolate fudge cake. Summerset knows I’ve got this weakness. I know the two of you don’t get along, but he’s really sweet to me.”

“That’s because he keeps imagining you naked.”

“Whatever works.” She began to tap her tricolored nails on the console in a quick, nervous tattoo. “Anyway he’s been great. I guess if he thought I had my eye on Roarke, it’d be different. He’s like totally devoted. You’d think Roarke was his first and only born or something instead of his boss. That’s the only reason he gives you grief—Well, and you being a cop doesn’t help. I think Summerset has this block about cops.”

She broke off, trembled visibly. “I’m sorry, Dallas, I’m babbling. I’m so scared. You found Leonardo, didn’t you? Something’s really, really wrong. He’s hurt, isn’t he? He’s dead.”

“No, he’s not hurt.” Eve crossed the room and sat on the foot of the bed. “He came into the cop shop this morning. He had a cut on his arm, that’s all. The two of you had pretty much the same idea last night. He got tanked and headed for your place, ended up cutting his arm on an empty bottle he dropped before he keeled.”

“He was drunk?” Mavis sprang up at that. “He hardly ever drinks. He knows he can’t. He told me how he does things he can’t remember if he drinks too much. It scares him, and . . . To my place,” she said, eyes softening. “That’s so sweet. Then he came to see you because he couldn’t find me.”

“He came to see me to confess to the murder of Pandora.”

Mavis reared back as if Eve had struck her. “That’s impossible. Leonardo wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s just not capable of it. He was just trying to protect me.”

“He didn’t know anything about your involvement at that time. He believes he must have argued with Pandora, fought with her, then killed her.”

“Well, that’s absolutely wrong.”

“So the evidence indicates.” Eve rubbed her weary eyes, kept her fingers pressed there for a moment. “The cut on his arm came from a piece of the broken bottle. None of his blood was found at the scene, none of Pandora’s was on the clothes he’d been wearing. We haven’t pinned down his movements precisely as yet, but we don’t have anything on him.”

Mavis missed a beat, caught up. “Oh, then it’s all right. You didn’t believe him.”

“I haven’t decided that, but the evidence, at this point, keeps him clear.”

“Thank God.” Mavis slid down onto the bed beside Eve. “When can I see him, Dallas? Leonardo and I have to work things out between us.”

“That may take a little time.” Eve squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, made herself look at Mavis. “I have to ask you for a favor, the biggest anyone’s ever asked you.”

“Is it going to hurt?”

“Yeah.” Eve watched Mavis’s attempt at a smile fade away. “I have to ask you to trust me to take care of you. To believe that I’m so good at my job that nothing, however small, will get past me. I have to ask you to remember you’re my closest friend, and that I love you.”

Mavis’s breath started to jerk. Her eyes stayed dry, burning dry. The saliva evaporated from her mouth. “You’re going to arrest me.”

“The lab reports came in.” She caught Mavis’s hands, held them hard in hers. “They weren’t a surprise, because I knew someone had set things up. I was expecting this, Mavis. I hoped I could find something—anything—before it did, but I haven’t been able to. Feeney’s working on it, too. He’s the best, Mavis, trust me here. And Roarke’s already lined up the top defense lawyers known to man. It’s just procedure.”

“You have to arrest me for murder.”

“It’s murder two. That’s a small break. I know it doesn’t sound like one, but the PA’s office isn’t going to try to block bail. I’ll have you back here eating cake in a few hours.”

But her mind was replaying one segment, over and over. It’s murder two. It’s murder two. “You have to put me in a cage.”

Eve’s lungs were burning, and the sensation was rapidly moving toward her heart. “Not for long. I swear it. Feeney’s working right now to get the preliminary hearing up and running. He’s got plenty of markers he can pull in. By the time we’ve got you through booking, you’ll have the hearing, the judge will set bail, and you’ll be back here.”

Wearing an ident alarm to track her movements, Eve thought. Trapped in the house to avoid the stalking media. The cage would be plush and friendly, but it would still be a cage.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not going to be easy, but it’ll be easier if you remember you’ve got a couple of top cops on your side. Don’t waive any of your rights, okay? Any of them. And once we start this, you wait for your lawyers. Don’t say anything to me you don’t have to say. Don’t say anything to anyone. Understand me?”

“All right.” Mavis drew her hands away, rose. “Let’s get it over with.”

Hours later, when it was done, Eve stepped back into the house. The lights were low. She hoped Mavis had taken the tranq Eve had recommended and gone to sleep. Eve already knew she wouldn’t do the same.

She knew Feeney would have followed her request to pass Mavis personally over to Roarke. There had been other work to do. The press conference had been particularly hideous. As expected, questions about her friendship with Mavis had been brought up, conflict of interest hinted at. She owed the commander a great deal for the appearance he’d put in and his statement of absolute faith in his primary investigator.

The one on one with Nadine Furst had been a little easier. All you had to do, Eve thought glumly as she climbed the stairs, was save a person’s life, and they were happy to take your side. The blood lust for the story might have been in Nadine’s heart, but so was a sense of debt. Mavis would get fair treatment from Channel 75.

Then Eve had done something she had never believed she would do. She had voluntarily called the police psychiatrist and made an appointment to talk with Dr. Mira.

Could still cancel it, she reminded herself and rubbed her gritty eyes. Probably will cancel it.

“You’re quite late, Lieutenant, after an eventful day.”

She dropped her hands and saw Summerset step silently out of a room to her right. He was, as usual, dressed in his stiff black, his stern face set in disapproving lines. Hating her seemed to be something he did with almost as much seamless skill as he ran the household.

“Don’t hassle me, Summerset.”

He stepped directly into her path. “I had believed, though you have countless flaws, you were, at least, a competent investigator. I see now, you are not, any more than you are a competent friend to one who depended on you.”

“You really think after what I’ve been through tonight that you can say anything to touch me?”

“I don’t believe anything touches you, Lieutenant. You’re without loyalty and that makes you nothing. Less than nothing.”

“Maybe you’ve got a suggestion of how I could have handled it. Maybe I should have had Roarke fire up one of his JetStars and shoot Mavis off planet to some remote little hideaway. Then she could be on the run for the rest of her life.”

“At least then she might not have wept herself to sleep.”

The arrow pierced, directly under the heart where it had been aimed. Pain shimmered through fatigue. “Get out of my way, you bastard, and keep out of my way.” She shoved by him, but stopped herself from running. She walked into the master bedroom just as Roarke was replaying her press conference on screen.

“You did well here,” he said and rose. “Under tremendous pressure.”

“Yeah, I’m a real pro.” She walked into the bathroom, then stood staring at herself in the mirror. She saw a woman, pale face, dark, shadowed eyes, grim mouth. And she saw beyond it to helplessness.

“You’re doing everything you can,” Roarke said quietly from behind her.

“You got her good lawyers.” Ordering water cold, she leaned down, splashed it liberally over her face. “They juggled me through Interview. I was tough. Gotta be tough. But they’ve got some moves on them. Next time I’ve got to grill a friend, I’ll be sure to sign them up.”

He watched her bury her face in a towel. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

She merely shook her head. The question had no relevance. “The reporters were out for blood. Someone like me’s very juicy game. Couple of high-profile cases, I come out on top. Some of them would just love to see me take it between the eyes. Think of the ratings.”

“Mavis doesn’t blame you, Eve.”

“I blame me,” she exploded, heaving the towel aside. “I blame me, goddamn it. I told her to trust me, I told her I’d take care of things. How did I take care of it, Roarke? I arrested her, I booked her. Prints, mug shots, voice ident, all of it on file now. I put her through a horrible two-hour interview. I locked her in a cell until the lawyers you hired for her got her out on bail you posted. I hate myself.”

She broke, simply broke. Covering her face with her hands, she began to sob.

“It’s about time you let go.” Briskly, he scooped her into his arms and carried her up to the bed. “You’ll feel better for it.” He kept her cradled in his arms, stroked her hair. Whenever she cried, he thought, it was a storm, a passionate tumult. Rarely were there a few easy, quiet tears for Eve. Rarely was anything easy for Eve.

“This isn’t helping,” she managed.

“Yes, it is. You’ll purge some of that misplaced guilt and some of the grief you’re entitled to. You’ll think more clearly tomorrow.”

She was down to shuddering breaths and a raging headache. “I have to work tonight. I’m going to run some names and scenarios for probability.”

No, he thought quite calmly, she won’t. “Take a minute. Get something to eat.” Before she could protest, he was shifting her aside and moving to the AutoChef. “Even your admirable system needs fuel. And there’s a story I want to tell you.”

“I can’t waste time.”

“It won’t be wasted.”

Fifteen minutes, she thought, as the scent of something glorious wafted toward her. “Let’s make it a quick meal and a short story, okay?” She rubbed at her eyes, not sure if she was ashamed or relieved to have let the cork pop and spew out the tears. “Sorry I blubbered on you.”

“I’m always available for blubbering.” He came toward her with a steaming omelette and a cup. He sat down, stared into her swollen, exhausted eyes. “I adore you.”

She flushed. It seemed he was the only one who could bring embarrassed color to her cheeks. “You’re trying to distract me.” She took the plate and a fork. “That kind of stuff always does, and I can never get my tongue around what I should say back.” She sampled the eggs. “Maybe something like you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“That’ll do.”

She lifted the cup, started to sip, then scowled. “This isn’t coffee.”

“It’s tea, for a change. A soothing blend. I imagine you’re overloaded on caffeine.”

“Maybe.” Because the eggs were fabulous and she didn’t have the energy to argue, she took a sip. “It’s nice. Okay, what’s the story?”

“You’ve wondered why I keep Summerset, even when he’s . . . less than solicitous to you.”

She snorted. “You mean even though he hates my fucking guts. Your business.”

“Our business,” he corrected.

“Anyway, I don’t want to hear about him right now.”

“It’s actually more about me, and an incident that you might find correlates with what you’re feeling right now.” He watched her drink again, calculated he had just enough time to tell the tale. “When I was very young, and still in Dublin on the street, I hooked up with a man and his daughter. The little girl was, well, an angel, gold and rose with the sweetest smile on either side of heaven. They ran confidence games, superbly. Short cons for the most part, bilking foolish marks and making a reasonable living. At that time, I was doing somewhat the same myself, but I liked variety, and enjoyed picking pockets and organizing floating games. My father was still alive when I met Summerset—though he didn’t go by that name then—and his daughter, Marlena.”

“So, he was a con,” she said between bites. “I knew there was something shifty about him.”

“He was quite brilliant. I learned a lot from him, and I like to think he from me. In any case, after one particularly enthusiastic beating from my dear old da, he happened to find me unconscious in an alley. He took me in. He took care of me. There was no money for a doctor, and I didn’t have a medical card. What I did have was a few broken ribs, a concussion, and a fractured shoulder.”

“I’m sorry.” The image brought back others, ones that dried up the spit in her mouth. “Life sucks.”

“It did. Summerset was a man of many talents. He had some medical training. He often used an MT disguise in his work. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he saved my life. I was young and strong and used to it, but he certainly kept me from suffering needlessly.”

“You owe him.” Eve set the empty plate aside. “I understand. It’s all right.”

“No, that’s not it. I owed him. I paid him back. There were times he owed me. After my father met his unmourned end, we became partners. Again, I wouldn’t say he raised me, I took care of myself, but he gave me what might be considered a family. I loved Marlena.”

“The daughter.” She had to shake her head to clear it. “I’d forgotten. Hard to picture that dried up old fart as a father. Where is she?”

“She’s dead. She was fourteen. I was sixteen. We’d been together, more or less, for about six years. One of my gambling projects was turning a tidy profit, and it came to the attention and the disapproval of a small, particularly violent syndicate. They felt I was cutting into their territory. I felt I was carving out my own. They threatened. I was arrogant enough to ignore them. Once or twice they tried to get their hands on me, to teach me respect, I imagine. But I was difficult to catch. And I was gaining power, even prestige. I was certainly making money. Enough that between us we were able to buy a small, very decent flat. And somewhere along the way, Marlena fell in love with me.”

He paused, looking down at his own hands, remembering, regretting. “I cared for her a great deal, but not as a lover. She was beautiful, and unbelievably innocent, despite the life we led. I didn’t think of her romantically, but as a man—because I was a man already—might think of a perfect piece of art: romantically. Never sexually. She had different ideas, and one night she came into my room and rather sweetly, and terrifyingly, offered herself to me. I was appalled, furious, and scared to the bones. Because I was a man, and therefore, tempted.”

His lifted his gaze to Eve’s again, and there was storm in them. “I was cruel to her, Eve, and sent her away shattered. She was a child, and I devastated her. I’ve never forgotten the look on her face. She trusted me, believed in me, and I, by doing what was right, betrayed her.”

“The way I betrayed Mavis.”

“The way you’re thinking you did. But there’s more. She left the house that night. Summerset and I didn’t know she was gone until the next day, the next morning when the men who wanted me sent word that they had her. They sent back the clothes she’d been wearing, and there was blood on them. For the first time in my life, and the last, I saw Summerset unable to function. I would have given them anything they demanded, done anything. I would have traded myself for her without hesitation. Just as you, if you could, would trade places with Mavis now.”

“Yes.” Eve set the empty cup aside woozily. “I’d do anything.”

“Sometimes anything comes too late. I contacted them, told them we would negotiate, begged them not to hurt her. But they had already hurt her. They had raped her and tortured her, this delightful fourteen-year-old girl who had found so much joy in life, and who was just beginning to feel what women feel. Within hours of that first contact, her body was dumped on my doorstep. They had used her as no more than a means to an end, to make a point to a competitor, an upstart. She wasn’t even human to them, and there was nothing I could do to go back and change what had happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She reached out and took his hands. “I’m sorry. So sorry, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. It took me years to believe that, to understand and accept that. Summerset never blamed me, Eve. He could have. She was his life, and she had suffered and died because of me. But he never once blamed me.”

She sighed, closed her eyes. She knew what he was telling her, by repeating a tale that had to be a nightmare for him to relive. Neither was she to blame. “You couldn’t stop what happened. You could only control what happened after, the way I can only do everything I can to find the answers.” Wearily, she opened her eyes again. “What did happen after, Roarke?”

“I hunted down the men who had done it, and I killed them, in as slow and as painful a method as I could devise.” He smiled. “We each have our own way of finding solutions and justice, Eve.”

“Vigilantism isn’t justice.”

“Not for you. But you’ll find the solution and justice for Mavis. No one doubts it.”

“I can’t let her stand trial.” Her head lolled; she snapped it back. “I have to find . . . I need to go . . .” She couldn’t even lift her weighted arm to her head. “Damn it, Roarke, damn it, that was a tranq.”

“Go to sleep,” he murmured and gently unhooked her weapon harness and set it aside. “Lie back.”

“Inducing chemicals on unknowing people is a violation of . . .” She slipped deeper, barely felt him unbutton her shirt.

“Arrest me in the morning,” he suggested. He undressed her, then himself, before slipping into bed beside her. “Just sleep now.”

She slept, but even there, dreams chased her.

chapter eight

She did not wake up cheerful. She did wake alone, which was probably a wise move on Roarke’s part, but she didn’t surface with a smile. There were no aftereffects from the tranq, which made him a very lucky man. She woke alert, refreshed, and pissed.

The electronic memo beeping its red light on the nightstand didn’t improve the mood. Nor did Roarke’s smooth voice when she engaged it.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Hope you slept well. If you’re up before eight, you’ll find me in the breakfast nook. I didn’t want to disturb you by ordering up. You looked so peaceful.”

“Not for long,” she said between gritted teeth. She managed to shower, dress, and strap on her weapon in ten minutes flat.

The breakfast nook, as he charmingly called it, was a huge, sunny atrium off the kitchen. Not only was Roarke there, but so was Mavis. Both of them beamed blindingly as Eve strode in.

“We’re going to get a couple things straight here, Roarke.”

“Your color’s back.” Pleased with himself, he rose and nipped a kiss onto the tip of her nose. “That gray cast to your skin didn’t suit you.” Then he grunted as her fist jammed into his stomach. He cleared his throat manfully. “Your energy level’s obviously up, too. Want coffee?”

“I want you to know that if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll . . .” She trailed off, narrowed her eyes at Mavis. “What are you grinning at?”

“It’s fun to watch. You two are so tipped over each other.”

“So tipped he’s going to end up on his back checking out the ceiling if he doesn’t watch out.” But she continued to study Mavis, baffled. “You look . . . fine,” she decided.

“I am. I had a good cry, a big bag of Swiss chocolates, and then I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got the number-one cop in the city working on my side, the best team of lawyers a billionaire can buy, and a guy who loves me. See, I figured out that when this is all over, and it’s going to work out, I’ll be able to look back on it as kind of an adventure. And with all the media attention, my career’s going to soar.”

Reaching up, she took Eve’s hand and tugged her down on the padded bench. “I’m not scared anymore.”

Not willing to take the words to heart, Eve looked hard and long into Mavis’s eyes. “You’re really not. You’re really okay. I can see it.”

“I’m fine now. I thought about it, and thought about it. When it all shakes down, it’s pretty simple. I didn’t kill her. You’ll find out who did, and when you do, it’ll all be over. Until then, I get to live in this incredible house, eat incredible food.” She forked up a last bite of a paper-thin crepe. “And have my name and face splashed all over the media.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Uneasy, Eve rose to program coffee for herself. “Mavis, I don’t want you to worry or be upset, but this isn’t going to be a glide through the park.”

“I’m not stupid, Dallas.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re thinking I’m not aware of the worst that could happen. I am, but I just don’t believe the worst is going to happen. From now on, I’m thinking positive, and I’m giving you that favor you asked me to give you yesterday.”

“Okay. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I want you to concentrate, try to remember details. Any detail, no matter how small or insignificant—What’s this?” she demanded as Roarke set a bowl in front of her.

“Your breakfast.”

“It’s oatmeal.”

“Exactly.”

She frowned at it. “Why can’t I have one of those crepes?”

“You can, after you eat your oatmeal.”

Eyes hot, she shoveled in a mouthful. “We’re really going to talk.”

“You guys are great together. I’m really glad I’ve had this chance to see it up close and personal. Not that I didn’t think it was great all along, but mostly I was just jazzed that Dallas had landed a rich one.” Mavis beamed at Roarke.

“That’s what friends are for.”

“Yeah, but it’s so mag the way you keep her in line. Nobody ever could before.”

“Shut up, Mavis. You think, and think hard, but you don’t tell me anything until you’ve cleared it with your lawyers.”

“They already advised me of that. I figure it’s going to work just like it does when I’m trying to remember a name or where I put something. You stop thinking about it, start doing other stuff, then zip, it pops into your head. So, I’m doing other stuff, and the big one is the wedding. Leonardo said you need to do your first fitting very soon.”

“Leonardo?” Eve all but lunged out of the chair. “You’ve been talking to Leonardo?”

“The lawyers cleared it. They think it’s a good thing for us to resume our relationship. It adds a sympathy and romance factor in the public awareness.” Mavis leaned an elbow on the table and began to toy with the trio of earrings she’d hung in her left lobe. “You know, they only ditched the truth detection test and hypnosis because they can’t be sure what I’ll remember. They mostly believe me, but they can’t take chances. But they said seeing Leonardo is cool. So we need to set up that fitting.”

“I don’t have time to think about fittings. Christ, Jesus, Mavis, you think I’m going to fuss with designs and flowers now? I’m not getting married until this is cleared up. Roarke understands that.”

Roarke took out a cigarette, studied it. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Now, listen—”

“No, you listen.” Mavis stood up, her bright blue hair glinting in the sunlight. “I’m not letting this mess screw up something this important to me. Pandora did her best to fuck with my life and Leonardo’s. And she did worse by dying. She is not going to fuck with this. These plans are not on hold, Dallas, and you just better make time in your schedule for the fitting.”

She couldn’t argue, not with the sheen of tears in Mavis’s eyes. “Okay, fine. Great. I’ll deal with the stupid dress.”

“It’s not a stupid dress. It’s going to be a sensational dress.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Better.” She sniffed, sat. “When can I tell him we’ll get together for it?”

“Ah . . . listen. It’s better for your case, and your fancy lawyers would back me up, if you and I aren’t seen running around together. Primary investigator and defendant. It doesn’t look good.”

“You mean I can’t—” Mavis shut her mouth, regrouped. “All right then, we won’t go running around together. Leonardo can work here. Roarke won’t mind, will you?”

“On the contrary.” He took a satisfied drag on his cigarette. “I think it’s a perfect solution.”

“One big happy family,” Eve mumbled. “The primary, the defendant, and the tenant of the murder scene, who also happens to be the victim’s former lover and the defendant’s current. Are you all insane?”

“Who’s to know? Roarke has excellent security. And if there’s even the smallest chance that things could go wrong, I want to spend whatever time I can with Leonardo.” Mavis set her mouth in a stubborn pout. “So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I’ll have Summerset arrange for a work space.”

“Thanks. We appreciate it.”

“While you people orchestrate your mad tea party, I’ve got a murder to solve.”

Roarke winked at Mavis and called after Eve as she stormed away, “What about your crepe?”

“Stuff it.”

“She’s crazy about you,” Mavis commented.

“It’s almost embarrassing, the way she fawns. Want another crepe?”

Mavis patted her stomach. “Why the hell not?”

A downed circuit at Ninth and Fifty-sixth played hell with street traffic. Both pedestrians and drivers ignored the noise pollution laws and honked, shouted, and buzzed out their frustrations. Eve would have rolled up her windows to cut the din, but her temperature controls were on the fritz again.

To add to the fun, Mother Nature had decided to body slam New York with a humature of a hundred and ten. To pass the time, Eve watched the heat waves dance up from the concrete. At this rate, more than a few computer chips were going to fry by noon.

She considered taking to the air, though her control panel seemed to have developed a mind of its own. But several other harried drivers had already done so. The traffic overhead was in a nasty snarl. A couple of one-man traffic copters were trying to deal with it and instead added to the mess with the bee swarm buzz of their blades and the irritating drone of voices.

She caught herself snarling at the I LOVE NEW YORK hologram sticker on the bumper jammed in front of hers.

The sanest idea, she decided, was to get some work done in her car.

“Peabody,” she ordered the ’link, and after a few frustrating hisses of static, it engaged.

“Peabody. Homicide.”

“Dallas here. I’m going to pick you up in front of the Cop Shop, west side. ETA, fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring all files pertinent to the Johannsen case and the Pandora case, and be . . .” She trailed off and squinted at the screen. “Why is it so quiet in there, Peabody? Aren’t you in the bull pen?”

“Only a couple of us made it in this morning. There’s a bad traffic snag on Ninth.”

Eve scanned the sea of traffic. “Is that a fact?”

“It pays to listen to the traffic network in the morning,” she added. “I took an alternate route.”

“Shut up, Peabody,” Eve muttered and broke transmission. She spent the next couple of minutes retrieving messages from her desk ’link, then set up a morning appointment at Paul Redford’s office in midtown for an interview. She called the lab to harass them for the toxicology report on Pandora, got the runaround, and left them with a creative threat.

She was debating whether to call Feeney and nag him when she saw a narrow break in the wall of cars. She jogged forward, cut left, squeezed through, ignoring the rude blast of horns and spearing middle fingers. Praying her vehicle would cooperate, she punched vertical. Rather than spring up, she wavered, but she did rise the minimum ten feet.

She swerved right, nipped by a jammed people glide where she caught the blur of miserable, sweaty faces, and rattled over to Seventh while her control panel warned of overload. After five blocks, the car was wheezing, but she’d cleared the worst of the jam. She set down with a teeth-rattling thud and swung toward the west entrance of Cop Central.

The dependable Peabody was waiting. How the woman managed to look cool and unperturbed in her sweltering blues, Eve didn’t want to know.

“Your vehicle sounds a little rough, Lieutenant,” Peabody commented when she climbed in.

“Really? I didn’t notice.”

“You sound a little rough yourself. Sir.” When Eve merely bared her teeth and started to cut across town to Fifth, Peabody dug into her kit, took out a small porta-fan, and clipped it to the dash. The blast of cool air nearly made Eve whimper.

“Thanks.”

“The temperature control on this model isn’t dependable.” Peabody’s face remained smooth and bland. “But you probably haven’t noticed.”

“You’ve got a clever mouth, Peabody. I like that about you. Give me a rundown on Johannsen.”

“The lab’s still having trouble with all the elements in the powder we found. They’re stalling. If they’ve completely analyzed the formula, they’re not saying. The buzz I get from a contact I have is, Illegals is demanding priority, so there’s some politicking going on. Second search found no trace of chemicals, illegal or otherwise, in the victim’s body.”

“So he wasn’t using,” Eve mused. “Boomer tended to sample, but he had himself a big, fat bag of shit and didn’t take a taste. What does that tell you, Peabody?”

“From the state of his flop and the statement of the lobby droid, we know he had the time and opportunity to use it. He had a history of chronic if mild abuse. Therefore, my deduction would be he knew or suspected something about the substance that put him off.”

“That would be my guess. What do you get from Casto?”

“He claims to be in the dark on this one. He’s been cooperative, if not overly forthcoming, with information and theories.”

Something in the tone had Eve glancing over. “He coming on to you, Peabody?”

Peabody kept her eyes straight forward, narrowed slightly under the bowl-cut fringe of bangs. “He hasn’t exhibited any inappropriate behavior.”

“Cut the drill, pal, that’s not what I asked.”

Color snuck up under the collar of the standard-issue blues into her cheeks. “He’s indicated a certain personal interest.”

“Jesus, you sound like a cop. Is this certain personal interest reciprocated?”

“It might be considered, if I didn’t suspect the subject had a much more personal interest in my immediate superior.” Peabody slid her gaze to Eve’s. “He’s got a thing for you.”

“Well, he’ll have to keep his thing to himself.” But she couldn’t make herself completely displeased to hear it. “My certain personal interests lie elsewhere. He’s a powerful looking sonofabitch, isn’t he?”

“My tongue gets all swelled up in my mouth when he looks at me.”

“Hmm.” Eve ran her own around her teeth experimentally. “So go for it.”

“I’m not prepared to become involved in a romantic relationship at this point.”

“Hell, who said anything about relationship? Screw each other blind a couple times.”

“I prefer affection and companionship in sexual encounters,” Peabody said stiffly. “Sir.”

“Yeah. It does make a difference.” Eve sighed. It was almost a painful effort to keep her mind from leapfrogging back to Mavis, but she tried to focus. “I was just ragging on you, Peabody. I know what it’s like when you’re standing there, trying to do your job, and some guy hits you between the eyes. I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable working with him, but I need you.”

“It’s not a problem.” Loosening up, Peabody smiled. “And it’s not exactly a sacrifice to look at him.” She glanced up as Eve swung toward the underground parking beneath a spearing white tower on Fifth. “Isn’t this one of Roarke’s buildings?”

“Most of them are.” The electronic attendant scanned her vehicle and passed it through. “This is his main office. It’s also the New York base of Redford Productions. I’ve got an interview with him re the Pandora homicide.” Eve slipped into the VIP spot Roarke had arranged for her, shut down her car. “You’re not officially attached to this case, but you’re officially attached to me. Feeney’s up to his ass in data, and I want another set of eyes and ears. Objections?”

“None come to mind, Lieutenant.”

“Dallas,” Eve reminded her as they stepped from the car. The safety barrier blinked on, surrounding the car to protect it from dings, scratches, and theft. As if, Eve thought sourly, it didn’t already have so many dings and scratches a thief would insult himself by looking twice. She strode up to the private executive elevator, entered her code, and tried not to be embarrassed. “Saves time,” she muttered.

Peabody’s eyes widened as they stepped onto thick carpeting. The car was large enough for a party of six, and boasted a lush arrangement of fragrant hibiscus. “I’m all for saving time.”

“Thirty-fifth floor,” Eve requested. “Redford Productions, executive offices.”

“Floor three-five,” the computer acknowledged. “East quadrant, executive level.”

“Pandora had a small party on the night she died,” Eve began. “Redford might be the last person to have seen her alive. Jerry Fitzgerald and Justin Young also attended, but left early after Mavis Freestone and Pandora fought. They alibi each other for the rest of the night. Redford remained with Pandora for a time. If Fitzgerald and Young are telling the truth, they’re in the clear. I know Mavis is telling the truth.” She waited a beat, but Peabody made no comment. “So we see what we can shake out of the producer.”

The elevator smoothly shifted to horizontal, gliding east. The doors opened and noise poured in.

Obviously Redford’s employees liked music with their daily grind. It rocked out of recessed speakers, filled the air with energy. Two men and a woman worked at a wide circular console, chatting cheerfully into ’links, beaming at computer screens.

There appeared to be a small party in progress in the waiting area to the right. Several people milled around drinking from small cups or nibbling on tiny pastries. The sound of tinkling laughter and cocktail hour conversation underscored the lively music.

“It’s like a scene from one of his movies,” Peabody said.

“Hooray for Hollywood.” Eve approached the console and took out her badge. She chose the least obsessively pert of the three receptionists. “Lieutenant Dallas. I have an appointment with Mr. Redford.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” The man—or he might have been a god with his perfectly chiseled golden looks—smiled brilliantly. “I’ll tell him you’re here. Please help yourself to some refreshments.”

“Want to chow down, Peabody?”

“Those pastries look pretty good. We could cop some on the way out.”

“Our minds are in tune.”

“Mr. Redford would love to see you now, Lieutenant.” The modern-day Apollo lifted a section of the console, slipped through. “Just let me take you to him.”

He led them through smoked glass doors where the noise switched to clashing voices. On either side of the corridor, doors were open, and men and women sat at desks, paced, or reclined on sofas, wheeling and dealing.

“How many times have I heard that plot line, JT? It’s so first millennium.”

“We need a fresh face. Garboesque with Little Bo Peep innocence.”

“People don’t want depth, honeypot. Give ’em a choice between the ocean and a puddle, they’re going to splash in the puddle. We’re all children.”

They approached a pair of double doors in sparkling silver. The guide opened them both with a dramatic sweep. “Your guests, Mr. Redford.”

“Thank you, Caesar.”

“Caesar,” Eve muttered. “I was so close.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Paul Redford rose from behind a U-shaped workstation in the same glittery silver as his doors. The floor he crossed was smooth as glass and decorated with swirls of color. Behind him was the expected spectacular view of the city. His hand clasped Eve’s with easy, practiced warmth. “Thank you so much for agreeing to come here. I’m juggling meetings all day and it’s so much more convenient for me than coming to you.”

“It’s not a problem. My aide, Officer Peabody.”

The smile, as smooth and practiced as the handshake, encompassed them both. “Please sit down. What can I offer you?”

“Just information.” Eve glanced at the seating arrangement, blinked. They were all animals: chairs, stools, sofas, all fashioned to resemble tigers, hounds, or giraffes.

“My first wife was a decorator,” he explained. “After the divorce, I decided to keep them. They’re the best memory of that time in my life.” He chose a basset hound for himself propped his feet up on a cushion shaped like a curled cat. “You want to talk about Pandora.”

“Yes.” If they’d been lovers, as reported, Eve decided he’d gotten over his grief quickly. A police interview apparently didn’t affect him, either. He was composed, the genial host in a five-thousand-dollar linen suit and melted-butter Italian loafers.

He was, Eve mused, undoubtedly as screen friendly as any of the actors he worked with. A strong, bony face the color of fresh honey was accented with a well-trimmed, glossy moustache. His dark hair was slicked back and twisted into a complicated queue that dangled to his shoulder blades.

He looked, Eve decided, like what he was: a successful producer who enjoyed his power and wealth.

“I’d like to record this, Mr. Redford.”

“I’d prefer that, Lieutenant.” He leaned back into the embrace of the sad-eyed hound and folded his hands on his stomach. “I heard you’ve made an arrest in this matter.”

“We have. But the investigation is ongoing. You were acquainted with the deceased, known as Pandora.”

“Well acquainted. I was considering a project with her, certainly had socialized with her on a number of occasions over the years, and when it was convenient, had sex with her.”

“Were you and the victim lovers at the time of her death?”

“We were never lovers, Lieutenant. We had sex. We did not make love. In fact, I doubt there was a man alive who ever made love to her, or attempted to. If he did, he was a fool. I’m not a fool.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“Like her?” Redford laughed. “God, no. She was the singularly most dislikable human being I’ve ever known. But she did have talent. Not as much as she believed, and none at all in certain areas, and yet . . .”

He lifted his elegant hands; rings sparkled: dark stones in heavy gold. “Beauty is easy, Lieutenant. Some are born with it, others buy it. An attractive physical shell is moronically simple to come by today. It’s still desired. Pleasing looks never fade from fashion, but in order to make a living from those looks, a person has to have talent.”

“And Pandora’s was?”

“An aura, a power, an elemental, even animalistic ability to exude sex. Sex has always, will always sell.”

Eve inclined her head. “Only now we license it.”

Amused, Redford flashed her a smile. “The government needs its revenue. But I wasn’t referring to the selling of sex, but of using it to sell. And we do: everything from soft drinks to kitchen appliances. And fashion,” he added. “Always fashion.”

“And that was Pandora’s particular specialty.”

“You could drape her in kitchen curtains, point her toward a runway, and reasonably intelligent people would open their credit accounts wide to have that look. She was a sales-woman. There was nothing she couldn’t peddle. She wanted to act, which was unfortunate. She could never be anyone but herself, but Pandora.”

“But you were working on a project with her.”

“I was considering one where she would essentially play herself. Nothing more, nothing less. It may have worked. And the merchandizing from it . . . well, that’s where the profits would have poured in. It was still in the planning stages.”

“You were at her home the night she died.”

“Yes, she wanted company. And, I suspect, wanted to rub Jerry’s nose in the idea of starring in one of my films.”

“And how did Ms. Fitzgerald take it?”

“She was surprised, irritated, I imagine. I was irritated myself as we were far from ready to go public. We might have had an interesting scene over it, but we were interrupted. The young woman, the fascinating young woman who arrived on the doorstep. The one you’ve arrested,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “The media claim you’re very close friends.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened when Ms. Freestone arrived?”

“Melodrama, action, violence. Picture this,” he said and moved his hands to form the age-old sign for a screen. “The young, brave beauty comes to plead her case. She’s been weeping, her face is pale, her eyes desperate. She will step aside, give up the man both of them want, to protect him, to do what’s best for his career.

“Close up on Pandora. Her face is filled with rage, disdain, a manic energy. Christ, the beauty. It’s almost evil. She won’t be satisfied with sacrifice. She wants her opponent to feel pain. Emotional pain first, by the cruel names she hurls, then physical pain by striking the first blow. Now you have the classic struggle. Two women locked in combat over a man. The younger woman has love on her side, but even that isn’t a match for the strength of Pandora’s vengeance. Or her sharpened nails. Fur, shall we say, flies, until the two male members of our fascinated audience step in. One of them is bitten for his pains.”

Redford winced and rubbed his right shoulder. “Pandora sank her fangs into me as I was dragging her off. I have to say I was tempted to punch her myself. Your friend left. She tossed off some typical cliché about Pandora being sorry, but she looked more miserable than vindictive.”

“And Pandora?”

“Energized.” And so was he with the telling of the tale. “She’d been in a dangerous mood all evening, and it was only more treacherous after the bout. Jerry and Justin bowed out, with more dispatch than grace, and I stayed behind awhile to try to bring Pandora down.”

“Did you succeed?”

“I didn’t come close. She was wild then. She threatened all manner of absurdities. She was going to go after the little bitch and rip her face off. She was going to castrate Leonardo. By the time she was finished, he wouldn’t be able to peddle buttons on the street corner. Not even beggars were going to wear his rags, and so on. After about twenty minutes, I gave it up. She was furious with me then for cutting the evening short, and shouted a lot of abuse after me. She didn’t need me, she had bigger deals, better deals.”

“You claim to have left her at about twelve thirty?”

“That would be close.”

“And she was alone?”

“She only kept domestic droids. She didn’t like people around unless she summoned them. There was no one else in the house, to my knowledge.”

“Where did you go when you left?”

“I came here; tended to my shoulder. It was a nasty bite. I thought I’d do a little work, made some calls to the coast. Then I went to my club, used the after-hours entrance, and spent a couple of hours having a steam, a swim.”

“What time did you get to your club?”

“I’d say it was around two. I know it was well past four when I got home.”

“Did you see or speak to anyone during the hours of two and five A.M.?”

“No. One of the reasons I often use the club at those hours is for the privacy. I have my own facilities on the coast, but here, I have to make do with membership.”

“The name of your club?”

“The Olympus, on Madison.” He arched a brow. “I see my alibi isn’t without its problems. I did, however, code in and out. It’s required.”

“I’m sure it is.” And she would certainly see if he had. “Are you aware of anyone who would have wished Pandora harm?”

“Lieutenant, the list would be as long as life.” He smiled again, perfect teeth, eyes that were both amused and predatory. “I don’t happen to count myself among them, merely because she didn’t matter that much to me.”

“Did you share Pandora’s latest drug of choice?”

He stiffened, hesitated, then relaxed again. “That was an excellent ploy. Non sequiturs often catch the unwary off guard. I’ll state, for the record, that I never touch illegals of any kind.” But his smile was wide and easy, and told her quite plainly, he lied. “I was aware that Pandora dabbled now and again. I considered it her own business. I’d have to agree that she’d found something new, something she seemed to be overdoing. In fact, I’d come into her bedroom earlier that last evening.”

He paused a moment, as if thinking back, bringing a scene into focus. “She’d taken a pill of some kind out of a small, beautiful little wooden box. Chinese, I think. The box,” he added with a quick smile. “She was surprised because I was early, and shoved the box into a drawer on her vanity and locked it. I asked what she was protecting, and she said . . .” He paused again, eyes narrowed. “What did she say? Her treasure, her fortune. No, no, something like: Her reward. Yes, I’m sure that’s what she said. Then she popped the pill, chased it with champagne. Then we had sex. It seemed to me she was distracted at first, then suddenly she was wild, insatiable. I don’t believe it had ever been quite that potent between us. We dressed and went down. Jerry and Justin were just arriving. I never asked her any more about it. It just didn’t apply to me.”

“Impressions, Peabody?”

“He’s slick.”

“So’s slime.” Eve shoved her hands into her pockets as the elevator descended, toyed with loose credit tokens. “He despised her, but he slept with her, was willing to use her.”

“I think he found her pathetic, potentially dangerous, but marketable.”

“And, if that marketability had waned or the danger increased, could he have killed her?”

“In a heartbeat.” Peabody stepped into the garage first. “Conscience isn’t his priority. If this deal they had were tipping the wrong way, or if she had anything to pressure him with, he’d erase her. People that smug, that controlled, tend to have a lot of violence bubbling somewhere. And his alibi sucks.”

“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” The possibilities made Eve grin. “We’re going to check that out, right after we go by Pandora’s and find her cache. Inform Dispatch,” she ordered. “Make sure we’re clear to pop locks.”

“That wouldn’t stop you,” Peabody murmured, but engaged the ’link.

The box was gone. It was such a stunning letdown that Eve stood in Pandora’s lavishly ornate bedroom staring down at the drawer for a full ten seconds before it fully registered it was empty.

“This is a vanity, right?”

“That’s what they call it. Look at all the bottles and pots on it. Creams for this, creams for that. That’s why it’s called a vanity.” She couldn’t help herself. Peabody picked up a jar the size of the first joint of her thumb. “Ever Young cream. You know what this shit goes for, Dallas? Five hundred over the counter at Saks. Five hundred for a lousy half ounce. Talk about vanity.”

She set it down again, ashamed she’d been tempted, even for an instant, to stick it in her pocket. “You add all this stuff up, she’s got ten, maybe fifteen thousand worth of enhancements.”

“Get a grip, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“We’re looking for a box. The sweepers have already done the standard here, taken in the discs from her ’links. We know she didn’t get any calls that night, or make any. From here, anyway. She’s pissed. She’s revved. What does she do?”

Eve continued to open drawers, paw through them as she spoke. “She drinks more, maybe, rants around the house thinking of all the things she’d like to do to the people who’ve ticked her off. Bastards, bitches. Who the hell do they think they are? She can have anything and anyone she wants. Maybe she comes in here and pops another pill, just to keep the energy up.”

Hopeful, though it was a plain, enameled box rather than an ornate wooden one, Eve flipped a lid. Inside was an assortment of rings. Gold, silver, gleaming porcelain, carved ivory.

“Funny place to keep jewelry,” Peabody commented. “I mean she’s got this big glass chest here for her costume, and the safe for the real stuff.”

Eve glanced up, saw her aide was perfectly serious, and didn’t quite muffle the laugh. “They’re not exactly jewelry, Peabody. Cock rings. You know, you put them over it, then—”

“Sure.” Peabody shrugged, tried not to stare. “I knew that. Just—a funny place to keep them.”

“Yeah, sure is silly to keep sex toys in a box next to the bed. Anyway, where was I? She’s using, chasing the pills with champagne. Somebody’s going to pay for ruining her evening. That fucker Leonardo is going to crawl, he’s going to beg. She’ll make him pay for screwing some worthless slut behind her back, and for letting the little bitch come around to her house—her house, goddamn it—and fuck with her.”

Eve closed a drawer, opened another. “Her security tags her as leaving the place just after two. The door’s on automatic lock. She doesn’t call a car. It’s at least a sixty-block walk to Leonardo’s, she’s in ice-pick heels, but she doesn’t take a cab. There’s no record of any company picking her up or dropping her. She’s registered for a palm ’link, but we haven’t found it. If she had it with her and made a call, either she or someone else disposed of the unit.”

“If she called her killer, he or she should have been smart enough to ditch it.” Peabody began a search of the two-level closet and managed not to hyperventilate over the racks of clothes, many with price tags still attached. “She might have been wired on something, but no way would she walk downtown. Half the shoes in this closet aren’t even scraped on the soles. She wasn’t the walking kind.”

“She was wired, all right. Damned if she’s taking some stinking cab. All she has to do is snap her fingers and she can have half a dozen eager slaves slathering to take her anywhere she wants to go. So she snaps them. Somebody picks her up. They go to Leonardo’s. Why?”

Fascinated by the way Eve juggled Pandora’s point of view with her own, Peabody stopped the search and watched Eve. “She insists. She demands. She threatens.”

“Maybe it’s Leonardo she calls. Or maybe it’s somebody else. They get there, the security camera’s smashed. Or she smashes it.”

“Or the killer smashes it.” Peabody pushed her way through a sea of ivory silk. “Because he’s already planning to do her.”

“Why take her to Leonardo’s if he’s already planning it?” Eve demanded. “Or if it was Leonardo, why dirty your own nest? I’m not sure murder was the priority, not yet. They get there, and if Leonardo’s story holds, the place is empty. He’s off drinking himself into a stupor and looking for Mavis, who is drinking herself into a stupor. Pandora wants Leonardo there, she wants to punish him. She starts to wreck the place, maybe she takes out some of her rage on her companion. They fight. It escalates. He grabs the cane, maybe to defend himself, maybe to attack. She’s shocked, hurt, afraid. Nobody hurts her. What the hell is this? Then he can’t stop, or doesn’t want to stop. She’s lying there, and there’s blood everywhere.”

Peabody said nothing. She’d seen the pictures of the scene. Could imagine it all happening just as Eve related.

“He’s standing over her, breathing hard.” Eyes half closed, Eve tried to bring the shadowy figure into focus. “Her blood’s all over him. The smell of it’s everywhere. But he doesn’t panic, can’t afford to panic, doesn’t let himself panic. What ties her to him? The palm ’link. He takes that, pockets it. If he’s smart, and he has to be smart now, he goes through her things, makes sure there’s nothing that can lead to him. He wipes off the cane where he gripped it, anything else he thinks he might have touched.”

In Eve’s mind it played like an old video, cloudy and full of shadows. The figure—male, female—hurrying to cover tracks, moving around the body, stepping around the pools of blood. “Have to be quick. Someone might come back. But have to be thorough. Almost clean now. Then he hears someone coming in. Mavis. She calls out for Leonardo, rushes back, sees the body, kneels beside it. Now it’s even more perfect. He knocks her out, then he curls her fingers around the cane, maybe he even gives Pandora a few extra whacks. He takes that dead hand and rakes its nails over Mavis’s face, uses it to tear her clothes. He puts on something, one of Leonardo’s robes, to conceal his own clothes.”

She straightened from her search of a bottom drawer and found Peabody staring at her. “It’s like you were there,” Peabody murmured. “I want to be able to do that, to go in the way you do.”

“Walk in to a few more murder scenes, and you will. The hard part’s getting out again. Where the hell is the box?”

“She could have taken it with her.”

“I don’t buy that. Where’s the key, Peabody? She locked this drawer. Where’s the key?”

In silence, Peabody took out her field unit, requested the list of items found in the victim’s purse or on her person. “There was no key taken into evidence.”

“So he got the key, didn’t he? And he came back here and took the box and anything else he needed. Let’s check the security disc.”

“Wouldn’t the sweepers have done that?”

“Why? She wasn’t killed here. All they were required to do was verify her time of departure.” Eve walked over to the security monitor, ordered a replay for the date and time in question. She watched Pandora storm out of the house, stride quickly out of range. “Two oh eight. Okay, let’s see what shakes. Time of death was about three. Computer, advance to oh three hundred, proceed at triple real time.” She focused on the chronometer. “Freeze image. Sonofabitch. See that, Peabody.”

“I see it, time skipped from four oh three to four thirty-five. Someone disengaged the camera. Had to do it by remote. Had to know what they were doing.”

“Someone wanted to get in bad enough, get something out bad enough, to risk it. For a box of illegals.” Her smile was grim. “I’ve got a feeling dead in the gut, Peabody. Let’s go hassle the lab boys.”

chapter nine

“Why you wanna give me grief, Dallas?”

Huddled in his lab coat, Chief Tech Dickie Berenski—Dickhead to those who knew and loathed him—tested a strand of pubic hair. He was a meticulous man, as well as a monster pain in the ass. Though notoriously slow in testing, his batting average in court was high enough to make him the MVP of the police and security lab.

“Can’t you see I’m buried here? Jesus.” With his fussy spider fingers he adjusted the focus on his micro-goggles. “Got us ten homicides, six rapes, a load of suspicious and unattended deaths, and too many B and Es to think about. I’m not a fucking robot.”

“Closest thing to,” Eve muttered. She didn’t like coming to the lab with its antiseptic air and white walls. It was too much like a hospital, or worse, Testing. Any cop who used maximum force resulting in termination was required to undergo Testing. Her experiences with that particular intrusive routine hadn’t been pleasant. “Look, Dickie, you’ve had plenty of time to analyze the substance.”

“Plenty of time.” He pushed back from the counter, and his eyes behind the goggles were big and bold as an owl’s. “You and every other cop in the city figures your shit’s a priority. Like we should drop every other thing and devote every minute to you. You know what happens when the temperature rises, Dallas? People go bat shit, that’s what happens. All you gotta do is take them down, but me and my team, we gotta shift through every hair and fiber. It takes time.”

His voice shifted into whine and set Eve’s teeth on edge. “I’ve got Homicide breathing down my neck, and Illegals snapping at my heels over some goddamn bag of powder. You got the prelim.”

“I need the final.”

“Well, I haven’t got it.” His flappy lips pouted as he turned back and brought the enhanced view of the hair on screen. “I gotta finish DNA on this.”

Eve knew how to work him. She didn’t like it, but she knew. “I’ve got two box-seat tickets to the Yankee-Red Sox game tomorrow.”

His fingers moved slowly over the controls. “Box seats?”

“Third-base side.”

Dickie tipped down his goggles to scan the room. Other techs were busy at their stations. “Maybe I could get you a little more.” With one shove of his feet, he sent his chair sliding to the right until he faced another screen. Cautious, he engaged the keyboard and brought the file up manually. He tapped slowly, scanning the screen. “Here’s the problem, see? This element here.”

It was nothing but color and foreign symbols to Eve, but she grunted as the data scrolled. The unknown, she imagined, that even Roarke’s unit couldn’t identify. “That red thing?”

“No, no, no, that’s a standard amphetamine. You find it in Zeus, in Buzz, in Smiley. Hell, you can get a mild derivative of that in any over-the-counter pep-up. This one.” He tapped a finger against a green squiggle.

“Okay, what is it?”

“That’s the big question, Dallas. Never seen it before. The computer can’t identify. My best guess is it’s something from off planet.”

“That ups the stakes, doesn’t it? Bringing an unknown from off planet can get you twenty years in maximum lockup. Can you tell what it does?”

“I’m working on it. It appears to have some of the same properties as an antiaging drug, and with some of the same energizers. It beats hell out of free radicals. But there’s some nasty side effects when it’s mixed with the other chemicals found in the powder. You got most of it in the report. Enhanced sexual drive, which is not a bad thing, but that’s followed by violent mood swings. Increased physical strength hooked up to a lack of control. This shit really dances around in the old nervous system. You’re going to feel terrific for a while, practically invulnerable, you’ll want to fuck like a rabbit, but you won’t much care if your chosen mate is interested. When the crash comes, it’s going to be hard and fast and the only thing that’s going to level you out is another dose. Keep taking it, keep flying up and diving down, and the nervous system’s going to go nutso. Then you die.”

“That’s pretty much what you’ve given me already.”

“That’s because I’m stuck on Element X. It’s vegetation, I can tell you that. Similar to the sharpleaf valerian found in the Southwest. Indians used the leaves for healing. But valerian isn’t toxic, and this is.”

“It’s poison?”

“Taken alone and in sufficient dosage, it would be, yeah. So are a lot of herbs and plants used in medicine.”

“It’s a medicinal herb.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s not yet identified.” He puffed out his cheeks. “But it’s likely some off planet hybrid. That’s the best I’ve got right now. And you and Illegals hassling me isn’t going to make me find the answer quicker.”

“This isn’t an Illegals case, it’s mine.”

“Tell them that.”

“I will. Now, Dickie, I need the toxicology on the Pandora homicide.”

“That’s not my baby, Dallas. That was dumped on Suzie-Q, and it’s her twenty-four hours off.”

“You’re chief tech, Dickie, and I need the report.” She waited a beat. “There are two locker room passes that go along with those box seats.”

“Yeah. Well, it never hurts to spot-check your team.” He keyed in his code, then the file. “She secured it, good for her. Chief Tech Berenski, override security on File Pandora, ID 563922-H.”

VOICE PRINT VERIFIED.

“Display toxicology.”

TOXICOLOGY TESTS STILL IN PROGRESS. PRELIMINARY RESULTS ON SCREEN.

“She’d been drinking a lot,” Dickie murmured. “Top French bubbly. Probably died happy. Looks like Dom, ’55. That’s good work for Suzie-Q. Added a little happy powder to it. Our dead girl liked to party. Looks like Zeus . . . No.” His shoulders bowed in as they did when he was intrigued or irritated. “What the hell is this?”

When the computer started to detail elements, he cut it off with an annoyed flick of the finger and began to run the report manually. “Something mixed up here,” he muttered. “Something screwy.”

His fingers played over the controls like those of a well-trained pianist giving his first recital. Slow, cautious, and accurate. Dallas watched symbols and shapes form, disperse, realign. And she, too, saw the pattern.

“It’s the same.” Eyes steely, she looked over at the silent Peabody. “It’s the same stuff.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dickie interrupted. “Shut up and let me finish running this test.”

“It’s the same,” Eve repeated, “right down to that green squiggle of Element X. Question, Peabody, what do a high-powered model and a second-rate weasel have in common?”

“They’re both dead.”

“You’ve answered part one correctly. Care to try for part two and double your winnings? How did they both die?”

The faintest of smiles flitted around Peabody’s mouth. “Beaten to death.”

“Now for the grand prize and part three. What connects these two seemingly unrelated murders?”

Peabody looked down at the screen. “Element X.”

“We’re on a roll, Peabody. Transmit that report to my office, Dickie. Mine,” she repeated when he glanced up at her. “Illegals calls, you don’t know any more than you knew before.”

“Hey, I can’t bury data.”

“Right.” She turned on her heel. “I’ll have those tickets delivered by five.”

“You knew,” Peabody said as they took the skyglide to the Homicide sector. “Back at the victim’s apartment. You couldn’t find the box, but you knew what was in it.”

“Suspected,” Eve corrected. “A new blend, one she was proprietary about, increased sexual performance and strength.” She checked her watch. “I got lucky. Working on both cases at the same time, having them both on my mind. I worried I was just overlapping, but then I started to wonder. I saw both bodies, Peabody. There was the same overkill, the same viciousness.”

“I don’t think it was luck. I was in on both of them, too, and I was six steps behind the whole way.”

“You catch up fast.” Eve stepped off the glide to take the elevator to her level. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Peabody. I’ve got more than double your time on the job.”

Peabody stepped into the glass tube, gave a disinterested glance at the city below as they climbed. “Why did you bring me in on these?”

“You’ve got potential—brains and guts. That’s what Feeney told me when he brought me in under him. That was Homicide, too. Two teenagers hacked to death and strewed over the skyramp at Second and Twenty-fifth. I stumbled along about six paces behind him, too. But I found my rhythm.”

“How’d you know you wanted Homicide?”

Eve stepped out of the tube, turned down the corridor toward her office. “Because death’s an insult anytime. When somebody hurries it along, that’s the biggest insult of all. Let’s get a couple of coffees, Peabody. I want to put this all in black and white before I take it to the commander.”

“I don’t suppose we could actually eat something.”

Eve tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I don’t know what’s in my AutoChef, but . . .” She trailed off as she walked in and found Casto sitting at her desk, long, denim-clad legs propped up and crossed at the ankles. “Well, Casto, Jake T., you look right at home.”

“Been waiting for you, darlin’.” He winked at her, then flashed a killer smile at Peabody. “Hi, there, DeeDee.”

“DeeDee?” Eve murmured, then walked over to order coffee.

“Lieutenant.” Peabody’s voice was stiff as iron, but her cheeks were glowing pink.

“It’s a lucky man who gets to work with a couple of cops who are not only smart but a joy to look at. Could I get a cup of that, Eve? Strong and black and sweet.”

“You can have the coffee, but I haven’t got time for a consult. I have some paperwork to see to, and an appointment in a couple of hours.”

“I won’t keep you.” But he didn’t shift when she handed him the coffee. “I’ve been trying to light a fire under Dickhead. The man’s slower than a three-legged turtle. You being primary, I figured you could requisition me a sample. I’ve got a private lab we use now and then. They’re quick.”

“I don’t think we want to take this out of the department, Casto.”

“The lab’s approved by Illegals.”

“I meant Homicide. Let’s give Dickie a little more time. Boomer isn’t going anywhere.”

“Hey, you’re in charge. I’d just like to put this one behind me. Leaves a bad taste. Not like this coffee.” He closed his eyes, sighed. “My Jesus, woman, where’d you get this? It’s gold.”

“Connections.”

“Ah, that rich fiancé of yours, sure.” He savored another sip. “A man would be hard pressed to tempt you away with the offer of a cold beer and a taco.”

“Coffee’s my drink, Casto.”

“Can’t blame you.” He shifted his admiring gaze to Peabody. “How about you, DeeDee? Got a taste for a cold one?”

“Officer Peabody’s on duty,” Eve said when Peabody was reduced to stammers. “We’ve got work to do here, Casto.”

“I’ll let you get to it.” He unfolded his legs and stood. “Why don’t you give me a call when you go off duty, DeeDee? I know a place that has the best Mexican food this side of the Rio Grande. Eve, you change your mind on letting me rush that sample through, let me know.”

“Close the door, Peabody,” Eve ordered when Casto sauntered out. “And wipe that drool off your chin.”

Appalled, Peabody lifted a hand. Finding her chin dry didn’t improve her humor. “That’s not funny. Sir.”

“Cut out the ‘sir.’ Anybody who goes around answering to DeeDee loses five points on the dignity scale.” Eve dropped down in the seat recently warmed by Casto. “What the hell did he want?”

“I thought he told us clearly enough.”

“No, that wasn’t enough to bring him over here.” She leaned forward, engaged her machine. A quick test of security showed no breaches. “If he was in here, I can’t tell.”

“Why would he go into your files?”

“He’s ambitious. If he could close the case ahead of me, it would look damn good. And Illegals doesn’t like to share, anyway.”

“And Homicide does?” Peabody said dryly.

“Hell no.” She looked up, grinned. “Let’s get this report hammered out. We’re going to have to request an off world toxicology expert. We better be able to back up the hole we’re going to put in the budget.”

Thirty minutes later, they were summoned to the office of the chief of police and security.

Eve liked Chief Tibble. He was a big man with a bold mind and a heart that was still more cop than politician. After the stench the former chief had left behind, the city and the department had needed the kind of brisk, cold air Tibble brought with him.

But she didn’t know what the hell they’d been called in for. Not until she was ushered in and saw Casto and his captain.

“Lieutenant, Officer,” Tibble gestured to chairs. In a strategic move, Eve chose one beside Commander Whitney.

“We have a little squabble to settle,” Tibble began. “We’re going to settle it quickly and finally. Lieutenant Dallas, you are primary on the Johannsen and the Pandora homicides.”

“Yes, sir, I am. I was called in to confirm identification of Johannsen’s body, as he was one of my informants. In the Pandora case, I was called to the scene by Mavis Freestone, who has been charged in that case. Both files are still open and under investigation.”

“Officer Peabody is your aide.”

“I requested her as my aide and was authorized to attach her to my caseload by my commander.”

“Very well. Lieutenant Casto, Johannsen was also one of your informants.”

“He was. I was on another case when his body was taken in. I wasn’t notified until later.”

“And at that time, the Illegals and Homicide departments agreed to cooperate on the investigation.”

“We did. However, recent information has come to my attention that puts both of these cases under Illegals jurisdiction.”

“They’re homicides,” Eve interrupted.

“With the link of illegal substances connecting both.” Casto’s easy smile flashed. “The latest lab report shows that the substance discovered in Johannsen’s room was also found in Pandora’s system. This substance contains an unknown, and is not yet rated, which under Article Six, Section Nine, Code B, puts all related cases under the investigative head of Illegals.”

“Exception to which is granted with such cases that are already under investigation by another department.” Eve forced herself to take a deep breath. “My report on these matters will be complete within the hour.”

“Exceptions are not automatic, Lieutenant.” The Illegals captain tapped his fingertips together. “The simple fact is, Homicide doesn’t have the manpower, experience, or the facilities to investigate an unknown. Illegals does. And we don’t feel it was in the spirit of cooperation to hold data back from our department.”

“Your department and Lieutenant Casto will be copied when my report is complete. These are my cases—”

Whitney lifted a hand before she could spit. “Lieutenant Dallas is primary. If these cases are linked with illegals, they are still homicides, which she has been investigating.”

“With respect, Commander,” Casto dimmed his smile, “it’s well known at Cop Central that you favor the lieutenant, and rightfully so, given her record. We requested this meeting with Chief Tibble so as to insure a fair judgment on departmental priority. I have more street contacts, and a relationship with merchants and distributors of chemicals. While working undercover, I’ve gained access to mills, factories, and chemhouses which the lieutenant simply doesn’t have. Added to that is the fact that there is a suspect charged with the Pandora homicide.”

“A suspect who had absolutely no connection with Johannsen,” Eve broke in. “They were killed by the same person, Chief Tibble.”

His eyes remained cool. Any approval or lack thereof was carefully masked. “Is that your opinion, Lieutenant?”

“That’s my professional judgment, sir, which I will show cause for in my report.”

“Chief, it’s no secret that Lieutenant Dallas has a personal interest in the suspect charged.” The captain spoke tersely. “It would be natural for her to want to cast a cloud over the case. How can her professional judgment remain clear when the suspect is a close friend?”

Tibble held up a finger to halt Eve’s outburst. “Commander Whitney, your opinion?”

“I will and have relied without qualification on Lieutenant Dallas’s judgment. She’ll do her job.”

“I agree. Captain, I don’t much care for disloyalty in the ranks.” The reprimand was mild, but the aim deadly. “Now, both departments have a valid point here on priority. Exceptions are not automatic, and we are dealing with an unknown which appears to be involved in at least two deaths. Both Lieutenant Dallas and Lieutenant Casto have exemplary records, and each, I believe, are more than competent to investigate these matters. Do you agree, Commander?”

“Yes, sir, both are excellent cops.”

“Then, I suggest they cooperate with each other instead of playing games. Lieutenant Dallas will remain primary, and as such, will keep Lieutenant Casto and his department apprised of any and all progress. Now is that it, or do I have to threaten to cut a baby in two like Solomon?”

“Get that report finished, Dallas,” Whitney muttered as they filed out. “And next time you bribe Dickhead, do a better job of it.”

“Yes, sir.” Eve glanced down at the hand on her arm, looked up at Casto.

“Had to give it a shot. The captain, he likes those clutch RBIs.”

She didn’t miss his not-so-subtle reference to baseball. “No problem, since I’m still the one up at bat. You’ll get my report, Casto.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll do some more poking around on the streets. So far, nobody knows anything about a new blend. But this off planet angle might open something up. I know a couple drones in Customs who owe me.”

Eve hesitated, then decided it was time to take the term cooperation to heart. “Try Stellar Five for a start. Pandora came back from there a couple of days before she died. I still have to backtrack and see if she did any station hopping.”

“Good. You let me know.” He smiled and the hand that was still on her arm slid down to her wrist. “I got a feeling, now that we’ve aired this out, we’ll make a hell of a team. Closing this one up’s going to look good on both of our files.”

“I’m more interested in finding a murderer than I am in how it affects my promotion status.”

“Hey, I’m all for justice.” His dimple winked. “But I ain’t going to cry if making it pushes me closer to a captain’s salary. No hard feelings?”

“No. I’d have done the same.”

“That’s fine then. I might just drop around for some more of the coffee one day soon.” He gave her wrist a quick squeeze. “And, Eve, I hope you clear your friend. I mean that.”

“I will clear my friend.” He’d taken two strides away when she admitted she couldn’t resist. “Casto?”

“Yeah, darling?”

“What’d you offer him?”

“Dickhead?” The grin was as wide as Oklahoma. “A case of unblended scotch. He snatched at it the way a frog’s tongue snatches a fly.” Casto flicked his own tongue out, winked again. “Nobody bribes better than an Illegals cop, Eve.”

“I’ll remember that.” Eve stuck her hands in her pockets, but couldn’t help but grin. “He’s got style, I’ll give him that.”

“And a great butt,” Peabody said before she could stop herself. “Just an observation.”

“One I have to agree with. Well, Peabody, we won that battle. Let’s go try for the war.”

By the time the report was complete, Eve’s eyes were all but crossed. She sent Peabody off duty as soon as copies were transmitted to all necessary parties. She considered canceling her session with the shrink, thought of all the reasons why she could and should postpone it.

But she found herself in Dr. Mira’s office at the appointed time, taking in the familiar scents of herbal tea and subtle perfume.

“I’m glad you came to see me.” Mira crossed her silk-draped legs. She’d had her hair restyled, Eve noted. It was cut short and sleek rather than tucked up in a smooth roll. The eyes were the same, of course, quiet and blue and filled with ready understanding. “You look well.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can’t see how you would be, with so much going on in your life. Professionally and personally. It must be tremendously difficult for you to have such a close friend charged with a murder you’re investigating. How are you handling it?”

“I’m doing my job. By doing it, I’ll clear Mavis and find out who set her up.”

“Do you find your loyalties divided?”

“No, not after I thought about it.” Eve rubbed her hands on the knees of her trousers. Damp palms were a usual side effect of her meetings with Mira. “If I had any doubt, any doubt at all that Mavis was innocent, I’m not sure what I would do. But I don’t, so the answer’s clear.”

“That’s a comfort to you.”

“Yeah, you could say that. I’ll feel a hell of a lot more comfortable after I close the case and she’s out of it. I guess I was worried when I made the appointment to see you. But I feel more in control now.”

“That’s important to you. Feeling in control.”

“I can’t do my job unless I know I have the wheel.”

“And in your personal life?”

“Shit, nobody grabs the wheel from Roarke.”

“He’s running things then?”

“He would if you let him.” She gave a short laugh. “He’d probably say the same about me. I guess we do a lot of juggling for the controls, end up heading in the same direction anyway. He loves me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Nobody ever did. Not like this. It’s easy to say, for some people. The words. But it’s not just words with Roarke. He sees inside me, and it doesn’t matter.”

“Should it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t always like what I see there, but he does. Or at least he understands it.” And now Eve understood that this was what she’d needed to talk through. Those black, ragged edges inside her. “Maybe it’s because we both had lousy beginnings. We knew, when we should have been too young to know, how cruel people can be. How power doesn’t just corrupt in the wrong hands, it mutilates. He—I never made love before him. I had sex, but I never felt anything but basic release. But I could never be . . . intimate,” she decided. “Is that the word?”

“Yes, I think that’s exactly the word. Why do you think you achieved intimacy with him?”

“He wouldn’t have it any other way. Because he . . .” She felt her eyes begin to tear and blinked them dry. “Because he opened something inside me I’d closed off. No, that had been scarred shut. Somehow, he took control of that part of me, or I let him have control of that part of me that died. That was killed when I was a child when . . .”

“You’ll feel better if you say it, Eve.”

“When my father raped me.” She let out a shuddering breath and the tears didn’t matter any longer. “He raped me, and he violated me, and he hurt me. He used me like a whore when I was too small and too weak to stop him. He would hold me down, or tie me up. He would hit me until I could hardly see, or he would hold his hand over my mouth so that I couldn’t scream. And he would push himself into me, and ram himself into me until the pain was almost as obscene as the act. And there was no one to help me, and nothing to do but wait for the next time.”

“Do you understand that you weren’t to blame?” Mira asked gently. When an abscess was finally lanced, she thought, one had to carefully, thoroughly, slowly, squeeze out all the poison. “Not then, not now, not ever?”

Eve used the back of her hand to wipe her cheeks dry. “I wanted to be a cop. Because cops have control. They stop the bad guys. It seemed simple. After I was a cop for a while, I began to see that there are some who always prey on the weak and the innocent.” Her breath steadied. “No, it wasn’t my fault. It was his, and the fault of the people who pretended not to see or to hear. But I still have to live with it, and it was easier to live with it when I didn’t remember.”

“But you’ve been remembering for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Bits and pieces. Everything before I was found in the alley when I was eight was just bits and pieces.”

“And now?”

“More pieces, too many pieces. And it’s clearer, closer.” She rubbed a hand over her mouth, deliberately lowered it to her lap again. “I can see his face. I didn’t used to be able to see his face. During the DeBlass case last winter—I guess there were enough similarities there to click. Then there was Roarke, and it all started to come back clearer and faster. I can’t stop it.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I’d wipe those eight years out of my mind if I could.” She said it viciously, felt it viciously. “They have nothing to do with now. I don’t want them to have anything to do with now.”

“Eve, as horrible as those eight years were, and as obscene, they formed you. They helped build your strength, your compassion for the innocent, your complexity, your resilience. Remembering, and dealing with those memories, won’t change what you are. I’ve often recommended you agree to autohypnosis. I no longer do. I believe your subconscious is letting these memories surface at its own pace.”

If that were so, Eve wanted the pace to slow, to let her breathe. “Maybe there are some things I’m not ready to remember. Still, it doesn’t stop. There’s a dream that keeps coming back. Just lately and constantly. There’s a room, a filthy room with this dull red light blinking in the window. Off and on. There’s a bed. It’s empty, but it’s stained. I know it’s blood. A lot of blood. I see myself curled in the corner on the floor. There’s more blood. I’m covered with it. I can’t see my face, it’s toward the wall. I can’t see clearly at all, but it has to be me.”

“Are you alone?”

“I think so. I can’t tell. I only see the bed, the corner, and that light blinking off and on. There’s a knife on the floor beside me.”

“There weren’t any stab wounds on you when you were found.”

Eyes hollow and haunted lifted to Mira’s. “I know.”

chapter ten

Eve expected the cold blast of Summerset’s disapproval when she walked into the house. She was used to it. She couldn’t explain what perverse streak she’d developed when she found herself disappointed that he didn’t greet her at the door with some snide comment.

She stepped into the parlor off the foyer, engaged the wall sensor. “Where is Roarke?”

ROARKE IS IN THE GYMNASIUM, LIEUTENANT. DO YOU WISH TO CONTACT?”

“No. Disengage.” She’d go see him herself. A good sweaty workout might be just what she needed to clear her mind.

She took the stairs behind the faux panel in the hallway, descended a level, and cut through the pool area with its black-bottomed lagoon and tropical greenery.

There was a whole world down here, she thought. Another of Roarke’s worlds. The lush pool with an overhead that could simulate starlight, sunshine, or moonbeams at the flick of a control; the holoroom where hundreds of games could be accessed to while away a slow night; a Turkish bath; an isolation tank; the target range; a small theater; and a meditation lounge superior to any offered in the pricey health spas on or off planet.

Toys, she supposed, for the rich. Or Roarke might call them survival tools—a necessary means of relaxation in a world that moved faster every day. He balanced relaxation and work better than she—Eve could admit that. Somehow he had found the key to enjoying what he had while protecting it and gathering more.

She’d learned quite a bit from Roarke over the past few months. One of the most important lessons was that there were times she had to push aside all the worries, the responsibilities, even the thirst for answers, and just be Eve.

That was what she thought of now as she slipped into the gym and coded the door to lock behind her.

He wasn’t a man to stint on his equipment, nor was he one to take the easy way and pay to have his body sculpted, his muscles toned, his organs flushed. Sweat and effort were as important to him as the gravity bench, the aqua track, or the resistance center. Because he was a man who appreciated tradition, his personal gym was also stocked with old-fashioned free weights, incline benches, and a virtual reality system.

He was using the first of those now, doing long, slow curls as he watched a monitor flash with some sort of schematic and spoke to someone on a head ’link.

“Security’s a priority at the resort, Teasdale. If there’s a flaw, find it. And fix it.” He frowned at the screen, switched fluidly from curls to extensions. “You’ll simply have to do better. If you’re going to have cost overruns, you’ll have to justify them to me. No, I didn’t say excuse them to me, Teasdale. Justify them. Have a report transmitted to my office by oh nine hundred on-planet time. Disengage.”

“You’re tough, Roarke.”

He glanced around as the screen went dark, smiled at her. “Business is war, Lieutenant.”

“The way you play it, killer. If I were Teasdale, I’d be trembling in my gravity boots right now.”

“That’s the idea.” He set the weights down to take off the headset and put it aside. She watched him switch to the resistance center, set a program, and start on leg presses. Absently, she picked up a weight, worked on her triceps, and kept watching him.

The black sweatband gave him a warrior look, she thought. And the dark, sleeveless T-shirt and shorts showed off very attractive muscles and skin gleaming with honest sweat. She watched those muscles bunch, that sweat bead, and she wanted him.

“You’re looking pleased with yourself, Lieutenant.”

“Actually, I’m pleased with you.” She angled her head, let her gaze skim over him. “That’s quite a body you’ve got there, Roarke.”

His brow winged up as she strolled over, reached down to test his biceps. “Tough guy.”

He grinned up at her. She was in a mood, he could see. He just wasn’t sure what mood it was. “Want to see how tough?”

“Think I’m afraid of you?” With her eyes still on his, she stripped off her weapon harness, hung it over one of the bars. “Come on.” She walked over to a mat, curled her fingers in challenge. “See if you can take me down.”

Still prone, he studied her. There was something in her eyes other than challenge, he noted. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was lust. “Eve, I’m covered with sweat.”

She sneered. “Coward.”

He winced. “Let me grab a shower, then—”

“Chicken. You know, some men are still stuck in the mind-set that a woman can’t go toe to toe on a physical level. Since I know you’re above that, I can only assume you’re afraid I’ll whip your ass.”

That did it. “End program.” Slowly he sat up and reached toward a stack of towels. He mopped his face. “Wanna fight? I’ll give you time to warm up.”

Her blood was already pumping. “I’m warm enough. Standard hand to hand.”

“No punching,” he said as he stepped onto the mat. At her derisive snort, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m not hitting you.”

“Right. Like you could get past my—”

He came in fast, caught her off balance, and sent her skidding on her butt. “Foul,” she muttered and swung up to the balls of her feet.

“Oh, now there’re rules. Just like a cop.”

They crouched, circled each other. He feinted, she stepped in. For ten interesting seconds, they grappled, her hands sliding off his slick skin. His quick leg hook would have worked if she hadn’t anticipated and gone in low. Using leverage and a quick twist of her body, she flipped him over.

“Now we’re even.” She crouched again as he got to his feet, shook back his hair.

“Okay, Lieutenant, I’m going to stop holding back.”

“Holding back, my butt. You were—”

He almost caught her again, certainly would have taken her down if she hadn’t realized with seconds to spare that his strategy was to distract her with insults. She evaded and turned into his move. Then, when their faces were close, their bodies straining, she pulled out her best weapon.

She slid a hand between his legs, cupped gentle fingers over his balls. He blinked in surprise, in delight. “Well, then,” he murmured and lowered his lips to within an inch of hers before she switched her grip.

He didn’t even have time to curse as he went sailing. He landed with a thud, and she was on him, a knee pressed to his crotch, his shoulders pinned by her hands.

“You’re down, pal. And out.”

“Talk about fouls.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“It’s hard to argue with a woman when she’s got her knee on my ego.”

“Good. Now I’m going to have my way with you.”

“Are you?”

“Damn right. I won.” She cocked her head and reached down to strip off his shirt. “Cooperate and I won’t have to hurt you. Uh-uh.” When he reached for her, she gripped his hands and pushed them back to the mat. “I’m in charge here. Don’t make me get out the cuffs.”

“Hmm. An interesting threat. Why don’t you—” His words trailed off as her mouth came down on his, hard and hot. Instinctively, his hands flexed under hers, wanting to touch, to take. But he understood she wanted something else, something more. So he would let her find it.

“I’m going to take you.” She bit down on his lip, sending an edge of lust razoring through his gut. “Do whatever I want to you.”

His mind was already spinning, his breath clogging. “Be gentle with me,” he managed, and felt warmth twine with the heat when she laughed.

“Dream on.”

She was rough—quick, demanding hands, impatient, restless lips. He could all but feel the wildness of her need vibrate from her, shimmer into him with some reckless energy that seemed to feed on itself. If she wanted control, he would give it to her. Or so he thought. But somewhere during her onslaught of his system, he simply lost the choice.

She scraped her teeth over him, down him, until the muscles he had toned trembled helplessly. His vision wavered when she took him into her mouth, worked him hard, fast, so that he had to fight every instinct or explode.

“Don’t you hold back on me.” She nipped his thigh, slid her way back up his torso while her hand replaced her mouth. “I want to make you come.” She sucked his tongue into her mouth, bit, released. “Now.”

She watched his eyes go opaque seconds before she felt the orgasm rip through him. Her laugh was shaky with power as she assaulted his ear. “I won again.”

“Jesus. Christ Jesus.” He managed, barely, to wind his arms around her. He was weak as a baby, and tangled with embarrassment at his complete loss of control was a giddy delight. “I don’t know whether to apologize or thank you.”

“Save it. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

He nearly chuckled, but she was nibbling her way around his jaw and sending fresh signals to his battered system. “Darling, you’ll have to give me a minute.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” She was drunk on pleasure, energized by her own power. “You just have to take it.”

Straddling him, she pulled her shirt over her head. Watching him, she skimmed her hands up her own torso, over her breasts and down again. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Smiling, she took his hands and brought them to her. With a sigh, she let her eyes close.

His touch was familiar now, yet always fresh. Constantly arousing. His fingers played over her, teasing her nipples until they were hot and on the point of pain, then tugging until there was an answering clutch in her center.

Obliging them both, she arched back as he reared up to cover her with his mouth. She cupped his head, let herself become steeped in the sensations—the scrape of teeth on sensitized flesh that ran from tender to brutal, the flex and release of his fingers on her hips, the slick slide of flesh against flesh and the hot, ripe smell of sweat and sex. And when she urged his mouth back to hers, the explosive taste of reckless lust.

He made a sound caught between a groan and an oath when she pulled away. She rose quickly, delighted to find herself shaky on her feet, her body heavy with need. She didn’t have to tell him it had never been—she had never been like this with anyone but him. He knew it already. Just as she had come to know that he found more with her, somehow with her, than with anyone else.

She stood over him, no longer trying to level her breathing, no longer shocked by the shudders that coursed through her. She toed off her shoes, unhooked her trousers, let them fall away.

Heat swamped her as his eyes skimmed up, then down, then up again to her face. She’d never thought much about her body. It was a cop’s body, and had to be strong, resilient, flexible. With Roarke she’d discovered how wonderful those aspects could be for a woman. Trembling a little, she planted a knee on either side of him, then leaned forward to lose herself in the giddy pleasure of mouth on mouth.

“I’m still in charge,” she whispered as she rose up.

With his eyes burning into hers, he smiled. “Do your worst.”

She lowered herself to him, took him into her slowly, torturously. And when he was deep, when her body went rigid, bowed back, she let out a shuddering sob as the first glorious orgasm rippled through her. Greedy, she lunged forward again, gripped his hands with hers, and began to ride.

Explosions burst in her head, in her blood. Behind her closed eyes, riotous colors danced, and there was nothing inside her but Roarke and a desperate need for more of him—still more of him. Climax slammed into climax, slapping her up before she was able to float down again. The grinding ache in her was met, then built again until at last her body slid limply down to his. She buried her face against his throat and waited for sanity to return.

“Eve?”

“Huh?”

“My turn.”

She blinked groggily as he rolled her onto her back. It took her a second to realize he was still hard inside her. “I thought you’d—we’d—”

“You had,” he murmured. He watched fresh, stunning pleasure flicker over her face as he moved inside her. “Now you just have to take it.”

She started to laugh, but it ended on a moan. “We’ll kill each other if we keep this up.”

“I’ll risk it. No, don’t close your eyes. See me.” He watched those eyes glaze as he quickened the pace, heard her strangled cry as he drove himself deeper, deeper inside her.

Then they were both bucking, plunging, her hands grappling for purchase, his hips thrusting harder. Her eyes went blank and wild. He covered her mouth ruthlessly with his and swallowed her scream.

They were tangled together, like two boxers down for the count and gasping for air. He’d slid slightly down her body, and found that though her breast was handy to his lips, he didn’t have the energy to take advantage of it.

“I can’t feel my toes,” she realized. “Or my fingers. I think I broke something.”

It occurred to him that he was probably cutting off most of her air and her circulation. With an effort, he reversed their positions. “Better?”

She took a long, wheezing gulp of air. “I think.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Huh?”

He tipped her head up and studied her foolish, blank-eyed grin. “Never mind. You finished with me yet?”

“For the moment.”

“Thank God.” He dropped back down and concentrated on breathing.

“Jesus, we’re a mess.”

“Nothing like sticky, sweaty sex to remind you you’re human. Come on.”

“Come on where?”

“Darling.” He skimmed a kiss over her damp shoulder. “You need a shower.”

“I’m just going to sleep here for the next couple of days.” She curled up, yawned. “You go ahead.”

He shook his head. Gathering his strength, he shoved her aside, got to his feet. After a deep breath, he reached down and hauled her up over his shoulder. “Oh sure, take advantage of a dead woman.”

“Dead weight,” he muttered and crossed the gym to the changing area. He shifted her more securely, then stepped onto the tile. With a wicked grin, he turned around so that her face would encounter the full force of one of the crisscrossing sprays. “Sixty-three degrees, maximum spray.”

“Sixty—” It was all she had time for. The rest of her words were lost in screams and curses that echoed off the shining tiles.

She wasn’t dead weight now, but a wriggling, wet, desperate woman. He clamped down hard, roaring with laughter as she sputtered and swore at him.

“Ninety-two,” she shouted. “Ninety fucking two degrees. Now.”

When the spray pumped hot, she managed to catch her breath. “I’ll kill you, Roarke. The minute I thaw out.”

“It’s good for you.” He set her carefully on her feet and offered her the soap. “Clean up, Lieutenant. I’m starving.”

So was she. “I’ll kill you later,” she decided. “After I eat.”

Within the hour, she was showered, satisfied, dressed, and attacking a two-inch sirloin. “You know, I’m only marrying you for sex and food.”

He sipped a deep red wine and watched her plow through the meal. “Of course.”

She nipped into a shoestring fry. “And because you have a beautiful face.”

Unruffled, he only grinned. “That’s what they all say.”

Those weren’t the reasons, but good sex, good food, and a beautiful face could certainly mellow a mood. She smiled at him. “How’s Mavis?”

He’d been waiting for her to ask, but he had known she’d needed to get something out of her system first. “She’s fine. She and Leonardo are having a kind of reunion in her suite tonight. You can talk to them in the morning.”

Eve looked down at her plate as she cut into the steak again. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he’s desperately, almost pathetically in love with our Mavis. And since I have some experience with that emotion, I have sympathy for his situation.”

“We can’t verify his movements on the night of the murder.” She picked up her wine. “He had motive, he had means, and very likely opportunity. There’s no physical evidence linking him to the crime, but the crime took place in his apartment, and the weapon was his.”

“So you see him killing Pandora, then setting the scene so that Mavis takes the blame?”

“No.” She set her wine down again. “It would just be easier if I could.” Eve tapped her fingers on the table, then picked up her glass again. “Do you know Jerry Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. We’re acquainted.” He waited a beat. “No, I’ve never slept with her.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Just simplifying.”

She shrugged and took another sip. “My impressions are smart, ambitious, clever, and tough.”

“Your impressions are usually accurate. I wouldn’t argue with them.”

“I don’t know a lot about the modeling game, but I’ve been doing some research. At Fitzgerald’s level, it’s pretty high stakes. Money, prestige, media. Having top bill on a show that’s being anticipated as much as Leonardo’s is worth big credits, full-blown coverage. She’ll step right into Pandora’s shoes on it now.”

“If his designs click, it could be worth a considerable amount to be the top endorser,” Roarke agreed. “But it’s still speculative.”

“She’s involved with Justin Young, and she admitted that Pandora was trying to lure him back.”

Roarke considered. “Difficult for me to imagine Jerry Fitzgerald going into a murderous rage over a man.”

“She’d more likely have one over a stylist,” Eve admitted, “but there’s more.”

Briefly, she told him of the connection between Boomer’s data and death and the new blend found in Pandora’s system. “We can’t find her cache. Someone else went after it, and knew where to look.”

“Jerry’s come out publicly against illegals. Of course, that’s publicly,” Roarke added. “And you’re dealing with profit here, not partying.”

“That’s my theory. A new blend like this, quickly addictive, potent, has the potential for a great deal of profit. The fact that it’s eventually lethal won’t stop its distribution or its use.”

She pushed her half-eaten steak aside, a gesture that had Roarke frowning. When she didn’t eat, she was worried. “It seems to me like you have a lead you can get your teeth into, Eve. A lead that steers far wide of Mavis.”

“Yeah.” Restless, she rose. “A lead that doesn’t point to anyone else. Fitzgerald and Young alibi each other. The security discs confirm their whereabouts at the time of death. Unless, of course, one or both of them got around security. Redford doesn’t have an alibi, or doesn’t have one without big holes, but I can’t tie him. Yet.”

That she wanted to seemed very clear to Roarke. “What were your impressions?”

“Callous, ruthless, self-interested.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“No, I didn’t. He was slick, smug, confident he could handle some city cop without straining his brain cells. And he volunteered information, just like Young and Fitzgerald did. I don’t trust volunteers.”

The way the mind of a cop worked was a marvel, he mused. “You’d trust him more if you’d had to pry information out of him.”

“Sure.” It was one of the basic rules, for her. “He was anxious to feed me Pandora’s drug use. So was Fitzgerald. And all three of them were almost happy to tell me they didn’t like her.”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider they were simply being honest.”

“When people are that open, especially to a cop, there’s usually another layer underneath. I’m going to do some more digging on them.” She circled back, sat again. “Then there’s the Illegals cop I’m butting heads with.”

“Casto.”

“Yeah. He wants the cases, took it well enough when he lost the stab, but it’s not going to be share and share alike with him. He wants a captaincy.”

“And you don’t?”

Her gaze shifted coolly to his. “When I’ve earned it.”

“And, of course, you’ll be sharing and sharing alike cheerfully with Casto in the meantime.”

Her lips curved. “Shut up, Roarke. The point is, I have to link Boomer’s death with Pandora’s solidly. I have to find the person or persons who connect them, who knew them both. Until I do, Mavis is facing a murder trial.”

“As I see it, you have two avenues to explore.”

“Which are?”

“The glittery road to haute couture and the gritty road to the streets.” He took out a cigarette, lighted it. “Where did you say Pandora had been before she got back on planet?”

“Starlight Station.”

“I have some interests there.”

“What a surprise,” she said dryly.

“I’ll ask a few questions. The people in the circle Pandora exploited don’t respond terribly well to badges.”

“If I don’t get the right answers, I may have to go there myself.”

Something in her tone alerted him. “Problem?”

“No, no problem.”

“Eve.”

She pushed away from the table again. “I’ve never been off planet.”

Bemused, he stared. “Never? As in never?”

“Not everybody just goes popping off into orbit whenever they get an itch. There’s plenty to keep most of us busy right here.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, reading her perfectly. “Space travel is safer than driving in the city.”

“Bullshit,” she said under her breath. “I didn’t say I was afraid. If I have to do it, I’ll do it. I’d just rather not, that’s all. The closer I’m able to keep this to home, the faster I’ll have Mavis out of it.”

“Umm-hmm.” Interesting, he thought, to discover his stalwart lieutenant had a phobia. “Why don’t we see what I can find out for you?”

“You’re a civilian.”

“Unofficially, of course.”

She looked back at him, saw amused understanding, and sighed. “Fine. I don’t suppose you’ve got an off planet flora expert you can lend me while you’re at it.”

Roarke picked up his wine again, smiled. “As a matter of fact . . .”

chapter eleven

The case was going in too many directions at once, Eve decided. The best course was the most familiar. She took to the streets. And she took to them alone.

She’d left Peabody with a pile of data to check, buzzed Feeney for an update, but she headed out solo.

She didn’t want to make small talk, didn’t want anyone looking too closely. She’d had a bad night and was well aware it showed.

The nightmare had been one of the worst so far. It had squeezed her by the throat, battered her awake in a sweaty, whimpering mess. Her only relief had been that dawn had been breaking when it had reached its peak. And she’d been alone in bed with Roarke already up and in the shower.

If he’d heard her or seen her, she’d never have gotten past him. Perhaps it had been misplaced pride, but she’d used every tactic at her disposal to avoid him, then had left him a quick memo before slipping out of the house.

She’d avoided Mavis and Leonardo as well, and had only run into Summerset long enough to have been granted one of his freezing looks.

She’d turned away from that and had walked out. There was a sick knowledge inside her that she was turning away from a great deal more.

Work was the answer, or so she hoped. Work she understood. She pulled up in front of the Down and Dirty Club in the East End and got out of the car.

“Hey there, white girl.”

“How’s it passing, Crack?”

“Oh, without much hassle.” He grinned at her, a giant of a black man with a face seamed with tattoos. His rocket launcher chest was partially covered with a feathered vest that hung past his knees and added flair to the loincloth of neon pink he sported. “Gonna be another hot one this day.”

“Got time to go inside and cool me off with a drink?”

“Might be, for you, sweet butt. You taking Crack’s advice and turning in your badge to shake your talent in the Down and Dirty?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

He laughed, patting his gleaming belly. “Don’t know why it is I got a liking for you. You come on in, wet your whistle, and tell Crack what’s rocking down.”

She’d been in worse clubs, and would be eternally grateful she’d been in better. The stale smells from the night hung still: incense, bad perfumes, liquor, smoke from dubious leaves, unwashed bodies, and casual sex.

It was too early for even the most dedicated partier. Chairs were overturned onto tables, and she could see where someone had made a careless pass with a mop over the sticky floor. Substances she didn’t care to identify had been left behind.

Still, the bottles behind the main bar gleamed in the colored lights. On the stage to the right, a dancer draped in pink net practiced a routine to the blare of simulated brass.

A jerk of Crack’s huge head had the domestic droid and the dancer wandering off. “What’s your pleasure, white girl?”

“Coffee, black.”

Crack lumbered behind the bar, still grinning. “Gotcha. How ’bout a drop or two of my special reserve in that coffee?”

Eve lifted a shoulder. When in Rome. “Sure.”

She watched him program the coffee, then uncode a cabinet where he took out a bottle fit for a Genie. And, leaning on the cloudy bar, smelling the smells, she relaxed a little. She knew why she had a liking for Crack, a nighthawk she barely knew but understood. He was part of a world she’d wandered in most of her life.

“Now, whatcha doing in this nasty place, honey pot? Being a cop?”

“Afraid so.” She sampled the coffee, sucked in her breath. “Jesus, some reserve.”

“Only for my favorite people. It skims under the legal limit.” He winked. “Just. What you want Crack to do for you?”

“Did you know Boomer? Carter Johannsen. Small-time player. Data hound.”

“I know Boomer. He’s meat now.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Somebody slaughtered him. You ever do business with him, Crack?”

“He come in now and then.” Crack preferred his reserve straight up. He sipped, then smacked his tattooed lips in appreciation. “Sometimes he flush, sometimes not. He liked to watch the show and talk the shit. Not much harm in old Boomer. Heard he got his face erased.”

“That’s right. Who’d want to do that?”

“He pissed somebody off bad, I’d say. Boomer, he had big ears. If he popped a few, he had a big mouth, too.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Hell, now, hard to remember. Few weeks, anyway. Seems to me he came through one night with a pocket full of credits. Bought himself a bottle, a few tabs, and a privacy room. Lucille went with him. No, not Lucille, shit. Was Hetta. All you white girls look alike,” he said with a wink.

“Did he tell anyone how he came to have full pockets?”

“Mighta told Hetta, he was blissed out enough. Seems she picked up some more tabs for him. He wanted to stay happy. She said something about how old Boomer was going to be an entrepreneur or some horseshit like. We had ourselves a laugh over it, then he come out and got up onstage naked. We had a bigger laugh. Dude had the most pitiful cock you ever seen.”

“So he was celebrating a deal.”

“That’d be my take. We got busy. I had to crack a few heads, toss out some bodies. I remember how I was out on the street, and he come rushing out. I grabbed hold, just fooling. He didn’t look happy no more, he looked piss-your-pants scared.”

“He say anything?”

“Just shook himself loose and took off running. Last time I saw him, as I recollect.”

“Who spooked him? Who’d he talk to?”

“Can’t tell you that, sweet face.”

“Did you see any of these people here that night?” Eve took photos out of her bag, spread them out. Pandora, Jerry, Justin, Redford, and because it was necessary, Mavis and Leonardo.

“Hey, I know these two. Fancy-face models.” His wide fingers traced lovingly over Pandora and Jerry. “The redhead, she come in now and then, trolling for partners, looking to score. Could be she was here that night, but can’t say for certain sure. These others aren’t on our guest list, so to speak. Least I can’t make ’em.”

“Did you ever see the redhead with Boomer?”

“He wasn’t her pick. She liked them big, stupid, and young. Boomer was just stupid.”

“What do you hear about a new blend on the streets, Crack?”

His big face went blank, closed off. “Don’t hear nothing.”

Friendly only went so far, she knew. Silently, Eve took out credits, laid them on the bar. “Hearing improved?”

He studied the credits, then looked back at her face. Recognizing the tactic negotiations, she added to them. The credits slid across the bar and disappeared.

“Some rumblings recent, maybe, about some new shit. High powered, good long buzz, tough on the credit balance. Heard it called Immortality. None’s come passing this way, not yet. Most people ’round here can’t afford designer. They’ll have to wait for the knockoff, and that takes a few months more.”

“Did Boomer talk about it?”

“Is that what he was into?” Speculation shifted into Crack’s eyes. “He never flapped to me about it. Like I said, I heard some rumblings pass through. It’s getting good advance hype, chemi-heads are jazzed over it, but I ain’t heard anybody had a taste. It’s good business,” he said with a smile. “You got a product, a new one, you get the clientele wired up, hungry. Then when it hits, they’ll pay. They’ll pay big.”

“Yeah, good business.” She leaned forward. “Don’t try a sample, Crack. It’s fatal.” When he started to blow that off, she put a hand on his beefy arm. “I mean literally. It’s poison, slow-acting poison. If there’s anyone you care about who uses, you warn them off this shit, or you won’t have them very long.”

He studied her face. “No jive here, white girl? This ain’t cop talk?”

“No jive, no cop talk. A regular user’s got about five years before it overloads the nervous system and takes him out. That’s straight, Crack. And whoever’s manufacturing it knows it.”

“Hell of a way to make a profit.”

“Isn’t it just. Now, where can I find Hetta?”

Crack blew out a breath, shook his head. “Nobody gonna believe it if I tell ’em, anyhow. Not the ones already hungry.” He looked back at Eve, focused. “Hetta? Shit, I don’t know. Ain’t seen her in weeks. These girls come and go, work one joint, go on to the next.”

“Last name?”

“Moppett. Hetta Moppett, rented a room over on Ninth last I heard, around a hundred and twentieth. Anytime you want to take up where she left off, sugarpuss, just let me know.”

Hetta Moppett hadn’t paid her rent in three weeks, nor had she shown her skinny little ass. This, according to the building super, who also informed Eve that Ms. Moppett had forty-eight hours to come up with back rent or her property was forfeit.

Eve listened to his angry yammering as she hoofed it up the stairs in the miserable three-floor walk-up. She had his master code in hand, and was certain he’d already used it as she unlocked Hetta’s door.

It was a single room, narrow bed, dingy window, with a few attempts at homey with the frilly pink curtain and cheap shiny pink pillows. Eve did a quick toss, turned up an address log, a credit book with over three thousand in deposit, some framed photographs, and an expired driver’s license that listed Hetta’s last address in Jersey.

The closet was half full, and from the scarred suitcase on the top shelf, Eve judged it to be all Hetta had. She ran the ’link, made a dupe of all the calls on disc, then copied the license.

If Hetta had gone on a trip, she’d taken no more with her than walking-around credits, the clothes on her back, and her club companion’s license.

Eve wasn’t betting on it.

She called the morgue from her car ’link. “Run the Jane Does,” she ordered. “White, blond, twenty-eight, about a hundred and thirty pounds, five foot four. Transmitting copy of driver’s license holo.”

She was barely three blocks away, heading to Cop Central, when the answer came in.

“Lieutenant, we got a possible match. Need dental, DNA, or prints to verify. Our possible can’t be identified by hologram.”

“Because?” Eve asked, but she already knew.

“She doesn’t have enough face left.”

The prints matched. The primary assigned to the Jane Doe handed Hetta over to Eve without a backward glance. In her office, Eve stared down at the three files.

“Sloppy work,” she muttered. “Moppett’s prints were on file from her companion’s license. Carmichael could have ID’d her weeks ago.”

“I’d say Carmichael wasn’t much interested in a Jane Doe,” Peabody commented.

Eve reined in the anger, flicked a glance up at Peabody. “Then Carmichael’s in the wrong business, isn’t she? We’ve got links here, Peabody. From Hetta to Boomer, Boomer to Pandora. What probability did you get when you ran them, asked if they were killed by the same hand?”

“Ninety-six point one.”

“Okay.” Eve’s stomach jittered with relief. “I’m taking all of this to the PA, doing a tap dance. I may be able to talk them into dropping charges on Mavis. At least until we gather more evidence. If they don’t . . .” She looked Peabody dead in the eye. “I’m leaking it to Nadine Furst for broadcast. That’s a code violation, and I’m telling you because as long as you’re attached to me and this case, you can be held equally responsible. You’re risking a possible reprimand if you stay. I can have you reassigned before this goes down.”

“I would consider that action a reprimand, Lieutenant. An undeserved one.”

Eve said nothing for a moment. “Thanks. DeeDee.”

Peabody winced. “Don’t call me DeeDee.”

“Fine. Take everything we have over to EDD, hand deliver personally to Captain Feeney. I don’t want this data transmitted through channels, at least not until I talk to the PA, then try a little solo investigation.”

She saw the light go on in Peabody’s eyes and smiled. She could remember what it was like to be new and have your first shot. “Go over to the Down and Dirty Club where Hetta worked, tell Crack, he’s the big one. Believe me, you won’t miss him. Tell him you’re mine, tell him Hetta’s a corpse. See what you can get out of him, out of anybody. Who she hung with, what she might have said about Boomer that last night, who else she spent time with. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Peabody.” Eve slipped the files into her bag and rose. “Don’t go in uniform, you’ll scare the natives.”

The PA smashed Eve’s hopes in ten minutes flat. She continued to argue for another twenty, but it was all spinning wheels. Jonathan Heartly agreed that there was a likely connection in the three homicides. He was an agreeable man. He admired her investigative work, her deductive powers, and her organized presentation of same. He admired any cop who did the job in an exemplary fashion and kept his office’s conviction rate high.

But he, and the prosecutor’s office, were not prepared to drop the charges against Mavis Freestone. The physical evidence was too strong, and the case, at this point, too solid to warrant a backpeddle.

He would, however, keep his door open. When and if Eve had another suspect, he would be more than willing to listen to her case.

“Puss head,” Eve muttered as she slammed into the Blue Squirrel. She spotted Nadine immediately, already in a booth and grimacing over the menu.

“Why the hell does it always have to be here, Dallas?” Nadine demanded the minute Eve dropped down across from her.

“I’m a creature of habit.” But the club wasn’t the same, she noted, not without Mavis standing onstage screeching out her incomprehensible lyrics in her latest, eye-popping costume. “Coffee, black,” Eve ordered.

“I’ll have the same. How bad can it be?”

“Just wait for it. Are you still smoking?”

Nadine glanced around, uneasy. “This isn’t a smoking booth.”

“Like they’re going to say something in a joint like this. Give me one, will you?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I’m hoping to develop bad habits. You want the two bucks?”

“No.” Keeping an eye out, just in case anyone she knew was around, Nadine took out two cigarettes. “You look like you could use something a little stronger.”

“This’ll do.” She leaned over so that Nadine could light it, took one puff. Hacked. “Jesus. Let me try that again.” She drew in smoke, felt her head spin, her lungs revolt. Annoyed, she crushed it out. “That’s disgusting. Why do you do that?”

“It’s a developed taste.”

“So’s eating dog shit. And speaking of dog shit.” Eve slid her coffee from the serving slot and took one brave sip. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Good. Better. I’ve been doing things I didn’t used to think I had time for. It’s funny how a near death experience makes you realize not making time is wasting time. I heard Morse has been found competent to stand trial.”

“He’s not crazy. He’s just a killer.”

“Just a killer.” Nadine ran a finger along her throat where a knife had once drawn blood. “You don’t figure being the latter makes him the former.”

“No, some people just like killing. Don’t dwell on it, Nadine. It doesn’t help.”

“I’ve been trying not to. I took a few weeks, spent some time with my family. That helped. It also reminded me that I love my job. And I’m good at it, even though I folded—”

“You didn’t fold,” Eve interrupted impatiently, “you were drugged, you had a knife to your throat, and you were scared. Put it behind you.”

“Yeah. Right. Well.” She blew out smoke. “Anything new on your friend? I wasn’t really able to tell you how sorry I am that she’s in trouble.”

“She’s going to be all right.”

“I’d bank on you seeing to that.”

“That’s right, Nadine, and you’re going to help me. I’ve got some data for you from an unidentified police source. No, no recorders, write it down,” Eve ordered as Nadine reached in her bag.

“Whatever you say.” Nadine dug deeper, found a pad and a pen. “Shoot.”

“We have three separate homicides, and evidence points to one killer. The first, Hetta Moppett, part-time dancer and licensed club companion, was beaten to death on May 28, at approximately two A.M. The majority of blows were delivered to her face and head in such a manner as to obliterate her features.”

“Ah,” Nadine said and left it at that.

“Her body was discovered, without identification, at six the next morning and tagged as a Jane Doe. At the time of her murder, Mavis Freestone was standing on that stage behind you, belting her guts out in front of about a hundred and fifty witnesses.”

Nadine’s brow shot up, and she smiled. “Well, well. Keep going, Lieutenant.”

So she did.

It was the best she could do for the moment. When the broadcast hit, it was doubtful whether anyone in the department would have to guess who the unnamed source was. But they wouldn’t be able to prove it. And Eve would, for Mavis, if not for herself, lie without a qualm if and when she was questioned.

She put in a few more hours at Cop Central, had the miserable job of contacting Hetta’s brother, the only next of kin who could be tracked down, and informing him that his sister was dead.

After that cheerful interlude, she went back over every scrap of forensic evidence the sweepers had sucked up at the Moppett murder scene.

There was no doubt that she had been killed where she’d been found. The murder had been a clean, probably a quick hit. A shattered elbow had been the only defensive wound. No murder weapon had yet been found.

No murder weapon on Boomer either, she mused. A few broken fingers, the added finesse of the broken arm, the shattered kneecaps—all prior to death. That, she had to assume, was torture. Boomer had had more than information, he’d had a sample, and the formula, and the killer had wanted both.

But Boomer had hung tough there. The killer, for whatever reason, hadn’t had the time or wanted to take the risk to go to Boomer’s flop and toss it.

Why had Boomer been dumped in the river? To buy time, she speculated. But the ploy hadn’t worked, and the body had been found and ID’d quickly. She and Peabody had been at the flop within hours of the discovery and had bagged and tagged the evidence.

So, on to Pandora. She knew too much, wanted too much, proved an unstable business partner, threatened to talk to the wrong people. Any of the above, Eve mused and rubbed her hands over her face.

There’d been more rage in her death, more of a fight, more of a mess. Then again, she was hopped on Immortality. She wasn’t some foolish club dancer caught in an alley, or a pitiful weasel who knew more than he should. Pandora was a powerful woman, with a sharp mind and an ambitious bent. And, Eve remembered, well-developed biceps.

Three bodies, one killer, and one link between them. And the link was money.

She ran all suspects through her computer, checking normal credit transactions. The only one who was hurting was Leonardo. He was in debt up to his gold eyeballs, and then some.

Then again, greed had no credit balance. It was the property of the rich as well as the poor. She dug a little deeper, and found that Redford had been busy juggling funds. Withdrawals, deposits, more withdrawals. Electronic transfers had been bouncing from coast to coast and to neighboring satellites.

Interesting, she thought, and more interesting still when she hit on a transfer from his New York account direct into that of Jerry Fitzgerald in the amount of a hundred and twenty-five thousand.

“Three months ago,” Eve murmured, rechecking the date. “That’s a lot of money between friends. Computer scan for any and all transfers from this account to any and all accounts under the name of Jerry Fitzgerald or Justin Young in the past twelve months.”

SCANNING. NO TRANSFERS RECORDED.

“Scan for transfers from any and all accounts under the name of Redford to previously requested accounts.”

SCANNING. NO TRANSFERS RECORDED.

“Okay, okay, let’s try this. Scan for transfers from any and all accounts under the name of Redford to any and all accounts under the name Pandora.”

SCANNING. TRANSFERS AS FOLLOWS:

TEN THOUSAND FROM NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT TO NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT, PANDORA, 2/6/58. SIX THOUSAND FROM NEW LOS ANGELES ACCOUNT TO NEW LOS ANGELES SECURITY, PANDORA, 3/19/58. TEN THOUSAND FROM NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT TO NEW LOS ANGELES SECURITY, PANDORA, 5/4/58. TWELVE THOUSAND FROM STARLIGHT STATION BONDED TO STARLIGHT STATION BONDED, PANDORA, 6/12/58.

NO OTHER TRANSFERS RECORDED.

“Well, that oughta do it. Was she bleeding you, pal, or was she dealing for you?” Eve wished fleetingly for Feeney, then went after the next layer herself. “Computer, scan previous year, same data.”

While the computer worked, she programmed coffee and speculated on scenarios.

Two hours later, her eyes were sore, her neck screaming, but she had more than enough to warrant another interview with Redford. She had to settle for his E-service, but did have the pleasure of requesting his presence at Cop Central at ten the following morning.

After leaving memos for Peabody and Feeney, she decided to call it a day.

It didn’t do her mood much good to discover a memo from Roarke on her car ’link.

“You’ve been out of touch, Lieutenant. I had something come up that requires my presence. I’ll be in Chicago by the time you get this, I imagine. I may have to stay over tonight, unless I can clear this little mess up quickly. You can reach me at the River Palace if you need to, otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay up working half the night. I’ll know.”

With an annoyed flick, she switched off memo mode. “What the hell else am I supposed to do?” she demanded. “I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”

She swung through the gates, and saw with some hope that lights were blazing everywhere. He’d canceled the meeting, fixed the problem, missed his transportation. Whatever, she thought, he was home. She walked in the door with a welcoming smile on her face and followed the sound of Mavis’s laughter.

There were four people having drinks and canapés in the parlor, but none of them was Roarke. Quick observation powers, Lieutenant. Eve thought glumly, then took a moment to scan the room before she was noticed.

Mavis was still laughing, and dressed in what only she would consider at-home wear. Her red skin suit was studded with silver stars and covered with a sheer emerald sweep shirt left loose and open. She teetered on six-inch ice-pick heels as she cuddled Leonardo. He had one arm wrapped around her, and the other hand was fisted around a glass filled with something clear and fizzy.

A woman munched on canapés, eating them with a speed and precision to rival a factory droid stamping out computer chips. Her hair was in short corkscrew curls, with each twist a different jewel tone. Her left earlobe was encased in silver hoops that draped a twisted chain around and under her pointed chin to her other ear where it was affixed with a single thumb-size stud. There was a tattoo of a rosebud along the side of her thin, pointed nose. Over electric blue eyes, her brows were sharp Vs of royal purple.

Which matched, Eve saw in amazement, the micro-size suspendered playsuit that ended in cuffs just south of her crotch. The suspenders were strategically placed over bare breasts to cover the nipples. The breasts were the size of farm-grown cantaloupes.

Beside her, a man with what appeared to be a map tattooed on his bald pate watched the action through rose-tinted glasses and guzzled what Eve deduced to be some of Roarke’s vintage white. His party clothes consisted of baggy shorts that hung to bony knees and a chest plate of patriotic red, white, and blue.

She considered, seriously, sneaking upstairs unobserved and locking herself in her office.

“Your guests,” Summerset said in dismissive tones from behind her, “have been waiting for you.”

“Look, pal, they’re not my—”

“Dallas!” Mavis squealed it, and leaped dangerously across the room in her fashionable stilts. She caught Eve in a tipsy bear hug that nearly felled them both. “You’re so late. Roarke had to go somewhere, and he said it was all right if Biff and Trina came by. They’ve been dying to meet you. Leonardo will fix you a drink. Oh, Summerset, the goodies are just mag. You’re so sweet.”

“I’m delighted you’re enjoying them.” He beamed at her. There was no other description for the bright, moony look that shot out of his stony face before he faded back into the hall.

“Come on, Dallas, join the party.”

“Mavis, I’ve really got a lot of work—” But Eve was already being dragged into the parlor.

“Can I get you a drink, Dallas?” Leonardo offered her a sad, puppy dog smile. Eve crumbled.

“Sure. Fine. A glass of wine.”

“Absolutely extraordinary wine. I’m Biff.” The man with the map on his head offered a slim, delicate hand. “It’s an honor to meet Mavis’s champion, Lieutenant Dallas. You’re absolutely right, Leonardo,” he continued with his eyes intense behind the rosy lenses. “The bronze silk is perfect for her.”

“Biff is a fabric expert,” Mavis explained in a voice that continued to bubble and froth. “He’s worked with Leonardo for just ever. They’ve been plotting your trousseau.”

“My—”

“And this is Trina. She’s going to do your hair.”

“She is?” Eve felt the blood drain out of her head and into her feet. “Oh well, I don’t . . .” Even women with little vanity can panic when faced with a stylist boasting rainbow curls. “I don’t really think—”

“Gratis,” Trina announced in a tone that was the vocal equivalent of rusted iron. “When you clear Mavis, I’m giving you free hair consultations and styling for the rest of your life.” She grabbed a handful of Eve’s hair and squeezed. “Good texture. Good weight. Bad cut.”

“Here’s your wine, Dallas.”

“Thanks.” She needed it. “Listen, it’s nice to meet you, but I’ve got some work I have to get to.”

“Oh, but you can’t.” Mavis latched onto Eve’s arm like a leech. “Everyone’s here to start doing you.”

Now the blood flowed out of her toes. “Doing what to me?”

“We’re all set up upstairs, too. Leonardo’s work space, Trina’s, Biff’s. All the other worker bees will be buzzing around by tomorrow.”

“Bees?” Eve managed. “Buzzing.”

“For the show.” Cold sober, and less likely to assume welcome, Leonardo patted Mavis’s arm to try to restrain her enthusiasm. “Little dove, Dallas might not want the house full of people at this point. I mean . . .” He dodged around the investigation. “With the wedding so close.”

“But it’s the only way we can be together and finish the designs for the show.” The plea naked in her eyes, Mavis turned back to Eve. “You don’t mind, do you? We won’t be in the way. Leonardo just has so much to do. Some of the designs have to be altered now because . . . because Jerry Fitzgerald is going to be the headliner.”

“Different coloring,” Biff put in. “Different body type. From Pandora,” he finished, saying the name they had been avoiding.

“Yeah.” Mavis’s smile went bright and fixed. “So it’s a lot of extra work, and Roarke said it was all right. The house is so big and everything. You won’t even know they’re all here.”

People, Eve thought, scurrying in and out. Security nightmares. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. She would.

“I told you it would be all right,” Mavis said, planting a kiss on Leonardo’s chin. “And I promised Roarke I wouldn’t let you bury yourself tonight, Dallas. You’re going to sit back and be pampered. We’re getting pizza.”

“Oh goodie. Mavis—”

“Everything’s working out,” Mavis went on, almost desperately, her fingers tightening on Eve’s arm. “On Channel 75 they were talking about this new lead, and these other murders, a drug connection. I didn’t even know the other people who got whacked. I didn’t even know them, Dallas, so it’s going to come out that it was somebody else. And it’s all going to be over.”

“It’s going to take a little time yet, Mavis.” Eve stopped, felt her heart drop at the flickers of panic in Mavis’s eyes, worked up a smile. “Yeah, it’s all going to be over. Pizza, huh? I could use some.”

“Great. Mag. I’m going to find Summerset and tell him we’re ready for it. Take Dallas up and show her, okay?” She darted out.

“It really lifted her,” Leonardo said quietly. “That news report. She needed a lift. The Blue Squirrel let her go.”

“Let her go?”

“Bastards,” Trina muttered around a canapé.

“Management decided it wasn’t in their best interest to have an accused murderer headlining. It shook her bad. I had the idea to take her mind off it this way. I’m sorry, I should have cleared it with you first.”

“No, it’s fine.” Eve took another sip of wine and braced herself. “Let’s go do me then.”

chapter twelve

It wasn’t so bad, Eve decided. Not when compared to the riots of the Urban Wars, the torture chambers of the Spanish Inquisition, a test ride on the XR-85 moon jet. And she was a cop, a ten-year vet, used to facing danger.

She was certain her eyes wheeled like a panicked horse’s when Trina tested her cropping sheers.

“Hey, maybe we could just—”

“Leave it to the experts,” Trina said. Eve nearly whimpered with relief when she set the shears down again. “Let’s see about this.”

She approached, unarmed, but Eve watched warily.

“I’ve got a hair consult program.” Leonardo looked up from the long table, covered with fabrics where he and Biff muttered together. “Full morphing capabilities.”

“I don’t need a stinking program.” To prove it, Trina caught Eve’s face in her firm, wide hands. Eyes narrowed, she began to move up then around Eve’s head, over the jaw, up the cheekbones. “Decent bone structure,” she approved. “Who do you use?”

“For what?”

“Face sculpting.”

“God.”

Trina paused, snickered, then let out an ear-blasting laugh, the tone of a rusted tuba. “I like your cop, Mavis.”

“She’s the best,” Mavis said drunkenly. She perched on a nearby stool, studying herself in the triple mirrors. “Maybe you could do me, too, Trina. The lawyers suggested I go for a more sedate look. You know, brunette or something.”

“Fuck that.” Trina pressed her thumbs under Eve’s jaw to lift it. “I’ve got some new shit that’ll blast any judge out of his robe, cutie. Bordello pink with silver tipping. Just on the market.”

“Oh yeah.” Mavis flipped her sapphire locks back and considered.

“What I could do for you with a little highlighting.”

Eve’s blood ran cold. “Just the cut, right? We’re just snip-ping a little.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Trina pushed Eve’s head onto her chest. “This color a gift from God, too?” She chuckled to herself, yanked Eve’s head back, and dragged all the hair away from her face. “The eyes are good. The brows could use a little work, but we can fix that.”

“Give me some more wine, Mavis.” Eve shut the eyes that were good, and told herself whatever happened, it would grow back.

“Okay, wet down.” Trina whirled the chair and its reluctant occupant to a porta-sink, tipped it back until Eve’s neck was braced in the padded slot. “Close your eyes and enjoy, honey. I give the best shampoo and head massage in the business.”

There was something to be said for that. The wine or Trina’s clever fingers mellowed Eve’s mood toward some twilight world of relaxation. Dimly she heard Leonardo and Biff arguing over their preferences of crimson satin or scarlet silk for evening pajamas. The music Leonardo had programmed was something classical with sobbing piano arpeggios, and the scent of crushed flowers filled the air.

Why had Paul Redford told her about the Chinese box and the illegals? If he’d gone back for them himself, had them in his possession, why would he want their existence known?

Double bluff? A ploy? Maybe there had never been a box to begin with. Or he knew it was gone already so . . .

Eve didn’t stir until something cold and sticky was slapped on her face. Then she yelped.

“What the hell—”

“A Saturnia facial.” Trina glopped on more dun-colored goo. “Clear out your pores like a vacuum. It’s a crime to neglect your skin. Mavis, get out the Sheena, will you?”

“What’s the Sheena—never mind.” With one final shudder, Eve closed her eyes and surrendered. “I don’t want to know.”

“Might as well have the full treatment.” Trina slicked more mud under Eve’s jaw, quick fingers working up. “You’re tight, honey. Want me to plug in a nice VR program for you?”

“No, no. This is about as fanciful as I can handle, thanks.”

“Okay. Want to tell me about your man?” Briskly, Trina tugged open the robe Eve had been ordered to wear and clamped her mud coated hands on Eve’s breasts. When Eve’s eyes popped open, fired, she laughed. “Don’t you worry, I’m not into females. Your man’s going to love your tits when I’m done with them.”

“He likes them just fine now.”

“Yeah, but Saturnia’s breast smoother is top of the line. They’ll feel like rose petals. Take my word. Is he a nibbler or a sucker?”

Eve just closed her eyes again. “I’m not even here.”

“There you go.”

She heard water run, then Trina was back and rubbing something into her hair that smelled appealingly of vanilla.

People paid for this, Eve reminded herself. Huge amounts that put gaping holes in their credit accounts.

People were obviously insane. She kept her eyes stubbornly closed as something warm and wet was laid over her mud-covered breasts, her face. Conversations went on cheerfully around her. Mavis and Trina discussed various beauty aids, Leonardo and Biff consulted over line and color.

Very insane, Eve thought, then let out a groan as her feet were massaged. They were dipped in something hot and oddly pleasant. She heard the crackle of something, felt her feet being lifted, covered. Then her hands received the same treatment.

She tolerated it, tolerated even the quick buzz of something around her eyebrows. And felt heroic when she heard Mavis laugh easily and flirt with Leonardo.

She had to keep Mavis’s spirits up, she thought. It was as vital as every step in the investigation. It wasn’t enough to represent the dead.

She squeezed her eyes tighter when she heard the snip of Trina’s shears, felt the light tugs, the comb through. Hair was just hair, she told herself. Appearances didn’t matter.

Oh Jesus, don’t let her scalp me.

She forced her mind to focus on work, ran through questions she would ask Redford in the morning, considered his possible answers. It was likely she would be called to the commander’s office about the news leak. She would deal with that.

She needed a conference with both Feeney and Peabody. It was time to see if any of the data the three of them had dug up would dovetail. She’d go back to the club, have Crack turn her on to some of the regulars. Someone might have seen whoever had spooked Boomer that night. And if that same person had talked to Hetta—

She jerked when Trina adjusted the chair to recline and began to scrub off the mud. “She’ll be ready for you in five,” Trina told an impatient Leonardo. “I don’t rush my genius.” She grinned down at Eve. “You’ve got decent skin. I’m going to leave some samples with you. Use them, you’ll keep it decent.”

Mavis peered down and Eve began to feel like a patient on an operating table. “You did a wonderful job on the eyebrows, Trina. They look so natural. All she needs to do is dye her lashes. They don’t even need a lengthener. And don’t you think that dimple in her chin is mag?”

“Mavis,” Eve said wearily. “I don’t want to have to hit you.”

Mavis only grinned. “Pizza’s here. Have a bite.” She stuffed some in Eve’s mouth. “Wait till you see your skin, Dallas. It’s gorgeous.”

Eve only grunted. The hot cheese had seared the roof of her mouth, but it also stirred juices. She risked choking and took the rest of the slice while Trina bound up her hair in a silver turban.

“It’s thermal,” Trina told her as she shot the chair back up. “I’ve got a root and shaft penetrator on it.”

Eve eyed the reflection. Maybe her skin did look dewy, and at a wary stroke of her fingers, it certainly felt smooth. But she couldn’t see even a single strand of hair. “I’ve got hair under there, right? My hair?”

“Sure you do. Okay, Leonardo. She’s yours for twenty minutes.”

“At last.” He beamed. “Take off the robe.”

“Oh, look—”

“Dallas, we’re all professionals. You have to try on the foundation for the wedding dress. It will certainly need a few adjustments.”

She’d already been felt up by a stylist, Eve decided. Why not stand naked in a roomful of people? She shrugged out of the robe.

Leonardo came at her with something white and sleek. Before she could do much more than squeak, he had it around her torso and snugged at her back. His big hands reached under the material, fussily adjusted her breasts. Bending down, he drew a swatch of material between her legs, secured it, stepped back.

“Ah.”

“Holy hell, Dallas. Roarke’s tongue’s going to land on his feet when he gets you down to that.”

“What the hell is it?”

“A variation on the old Merry Widow.” With quick nips and tucks, Leonardo perfected the fit. “I call it a Curvaceous. Added a bit of lift under the breasts for you. Yours are quite nice, but this line adds more contour. Just a touch of lace, a few pearls. Nothing too ornate.” He turned her to face the mirror.

She looked sexy, curvy. Ripe, Eve realized with some amazement. The material had a faint gleam to it, as though it was damp. It nipped at her waist, molded her hips, and, she had to admit, lifted her bustline to new, fascinating heights.

“Well . . . I guess . . . for, you know, wedding nights.”

“For any nights,” Mavis said dreamily. “Oh, Leonardo. Are you going to make me one?”

“I already have, in Rascal Red satin. Now, Dallas, does it pinch anywhere? Rub?”

“No.” She couldn’t get over it. It should have been torturous, but it was as comfortable as a sprint suit. Experimentally she bent, twisted. “It’s just sort of there.”

“Excellent. Biff found the material at a little cottage shop on Richer Five. Now the dress. It’s only basted, so we take care. Lift your arms, please.”

He slipped it over her, let it float down. The material was stunning. Eve could see that, even when it was streaked with tailor’s marks. It seemed perfect to her, the sleek column, the snug sleeves, the simple line, but Leonardo creased his brow and tugged at the material, folded, bunched.

“The neckline works, yes. Where is the necklace?”

“Huh?”

“The copper and stone necklace. Didn’t I tell you to ask for it?”

“I can’t just tell Roarke I want a necklace.”

Leonardo sighed, turned Eve around, and exchanged a look with Mavis. He nodded, then tested the line at Eve’s hips.

“You’ve lost weight,” he accused.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, at least two pounds.” He clucked his tongue. “I won’t take it in yet. See that you put them back on.”

Biff marched over and held a bolt of material next to her face. With a nod, he marched away, muttering into his notebook.

“Biff, would you show her the other designs while I note the adjustments to the gown?”

With a flourish, Biff switched on a wall monitor. “As you can see, Leonardo has taken both your lifestyle and your body line into consideration with these designs. This simple day suit is perfect for a corporate lunch, a press conference, unrestricted, yet très, très chic. The material we’re using is a blended linen with just a whisper of silk. The color is citrine with trim of garnet.”

“Uh-huh.” It looked like a nice, simple suit to Eve, but it was a jolt to see the computer-generated image of herself modeling it. “Biff?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Why do you have a map tattooed on your head?”

He smiled. “I have a very poor sense of direction. Now this next design continues the theme.”

She viewed a dozen. They blurred together in her mind. Rayspan in citrus lemon, Breton lace with velvet, classic black silk. Every time Mavis oohed or aahed, Eve ordered recklessly. What was being in debt for the rest of her life compared to her closest friend’s peace of mind?

“That’ll keep you two busy awhile.” The minute Leonardo slipped the dress back off, Trina bundled Eve into the robe. “Let’s take a look at the crowning glory.” After unwinding the turban, she pulled a wide forked comb out of her twirling curls and began to pick, smooth, and fluff.

Eve’s initial relief that she had hair to be fussed with faded quickly as she stared directly at a snaking pink spring. “Who does your hair, Trina?”

“Nobody touches me but me.” She winked. “And God. Take a look.”

Braced for the worst, Eve turned. The woman in the mirror was definitely Eve Dallas. At first she thought it had all been some elaborate joke, and nothing had been done at all. Then she looked closer, stepped closer. Gone were the wild tufts and stray spikes. Her hair was still casually cropped, unstructured, but it seemed to have a shape after all. And certainly it hadn’t had that pretty shine before. It followed the lines of her face nicely, the fringe of bangs, the curve at the cheeks. And when she shook her head it fell back into place obediently.

Eyes narrowed, she raked fingers through it and watched it tumble back. “Did you put blond in it?”

“Nope. Natural highlights. Brought them out with Sheena, that’s all. You got deer hair.”

“What?”

“Ever seen a deer hide? It’s got all those colors from russet, brown, gold, even touches of black. That’s what you’ve got there. God’s been good to you. Trouble is, whoever’s been doing you must have been using hedge trimmers and no highlight puncher, either.”

“It looks good.”

“Damn right it does. I’m a genius.”

“You look beautiful.” Suddenly, Mavis put her face in her hands and wept. “You’re getting married.”

“Oh, Christ, don’t do that, Mavis. Come on.” Feeling helpless, Eve gave her encouraging pats on the back.

“I’m so drunk, and I’m so happy. And I’m so scared. Dallas, I lost my job.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. You’ll get another one. A better one.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I’m not going to care. We’re going to have the most mag wedding, aren’t we, Dallas?”

“You bet.”

“Leonardo’s making me the most rocking dress. Let’s show her, Leonardo.”

“Tomorrow.” He came over, scooped her into his arms. “Dallas is tired.”

“Oh, yeah. She needs to rest.” Mavis let her head loll on his shoulder. “She works too hard. She’s worried about me. I don’t want her to worry, Leonardo. Everything’s going to be fine, isn’t it? It’s going to be fine.”

“Just fine.” Leonardo sent Eve one last uneasy look before he carried Mavis off.

Eve watched them go, sighed. “Fuck.”

“Like that sweet little thing could bash anybody’s face in.” Trina scowled as she gathered up her tools. “I hope Pandora’s burning in hell.”

“You knew her?”

“Everybody in the business knew her. Loathed her ever fucking guts. Right, Biff?”

“She was born a bitch, died a bitch.”

“Did she just use, or did she deal?”

Biff slanted a look at Trina, then shrugged. “She never dealt in the open, but you’d hear talk now and again that she was always well supplied. The buzz was she was an Erotica junkie. She liked sex, and she might deal to her partner of choice.”

“Were you ever her partner of choice?”

He smiled. “Romantically, I prefer men. They’re less complicated.”

“How about you?”

“I prefer men, too—same reason. So did she.” Trina picked up her kit. “Last runway gig I had, the gossip was she was mixing business and pleasure. Had some guy she was bleeding. She was flashing a lot of new glitters. Pandora liked to decorate her body with real rock, but she didn’t like to pay for it. People figured she’d made some deal with a source.”

“Got a name on the source?”

“Nope, but she was on her palm ’link between changes all day. That was about three months ago. I don’t know who she was talking to, but at least one of the calls was intergalactic, because she got royally pissed at the delay.”

“Did she always carry a palm ’link?”

“Everybody in fashion and beauty does, honey. We’re just like doctors.”

It was close to midnight when Eve settled down at her desk. She couldn’t face the bedroom, preferred the suite she used for privacy and work. She programmed coffee, then forgot to drink it. Without Feeney, she had no choice but to go a roundabout route to try to trace a three-month-old intergalactic call from a palm ’link she didn’t have.

After an hour, she gave up and crawled onto the sleep chair. She’d take a nap, she told herself. Set her mental alarm for five A.M.

Illegals, murder, and money, she thought. They went together. Pin down the source, she thought groggily. Identify the unknown.

Who were you hiding from, Boomer? How did you get your hands on a sample and the formula? Who broke your bones to get them back?

The image of his battered body flashed into her mind and was ruthlessly shut off. She didn’t need to drift into sleep with that loop playing.

It might have been a better choice than the show she ended with.

The dirty red light was flashing. Over and over through the window. SEX! LIVE! SEX! LIVE!

She was only eight, but her mind was quick. She wondered if people would pay to see dead sex. Lying on her bed, she watched the light blink. She knew what sex was. It was ugly, it was painful, it was frightening. It was inescapable.

Maybe he wouldn’t come home tonight. She’d stopped praying that he would forget where he’d left her or fall down dead in some handy ditch. He always came back.

But sometimes, if she was very, very lucky, he would be too drunk, too buzzed to do more than stumble to the bed and snore. Those nights, she would shiver with relief and huddle in the corner to sleep.

She still thought about escape. Of finding a way out of the locked door, or down the five stories. If the night was very bad, she imagined just jumping from the window. The flight down would be quick, and then it would be over.

He wouldn’t be able to hurt her then. But she was too much a coward to jump.

She was only a child, after all, and tonight she was hungry. And she was cold because he had broken the temperature control in one of his rages and it was stuck on full air.

She padded toward the corner of the room, the excuse for a kitchenette. Experienced, she pounded the drawer first, to send any roaches scattering. She found a chocolate roll inside. The last one. He would probably beat her for eating the last one. Then again, he would beat her anyway, so she might as well enjoy it.

She bolted it like an animal, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Hunger churned still. A further search turned up a hunk of moldy cheese. She didn’t want to think what had been nibbling on it. Carefully, she took a knife, began to shear off the nasty edges.

Then she heard him at the door. In her panic, she dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor as he came in.

“What are you doing, little girl?”

“Nothing. I woke up. I was just going to get a drink of water.”

“Woke up.” His eyes were glazed, but not glazed enough, she saw without hope. “Missing your daddy. Come give your daddy a kiss.”

She couldn’t breathe. Already she couldn’t breathe and the place between her legs where he would hurt her began to throb in painful fear. “I have a stomachache.”

“Oh? I’ll kiss it better.” He was grinning as he crossed to her. Then the grin faded. “You’ve been eating without asking again, haven’t you? Haven’t you?”

“No, I—” But the lie, and the hope to evade both died as his hand swiped hard over her face. Her lip split, her eyes watered, but she barely winced. “I was going to fix some cheese. A snack for when you—”

He hit her again, hard enough to make stars explode inside her head. She went down this time, and before she could scramble up, he was on her.

Screams, her screams, because his fists were hard and merciless. Pain, blinding, numbing pain that was nothing beside the fear. The fear because however horrible, this would not be the worst he did to her.

“Daddy, please. Please, please.”

“Have to punish you. You never listen. Never fucking listen. Then I’ll give you a treat. A nice big treat, and you’ll be a good girl.”

His breath was hot on her face and somehow smelled like candy. His hands tore at her already tattered clothes, poking, squeezing, invading. His breathing changed, a change she knew and feared. It became shallow, greedy.

“No, no, it hurts, it hurts!”

Her poor young flesh resisted. She batted at him, screaming still, was driven beyond fear to claw. His cry of rage bellowed out. He twisted her arm back. She heard the dry, hideous sound of her own bone snapping.

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Dallas.”

The scream ripped from her throat and she came to, swinging blindly. In wild panic she scrambled up, her own legs tangling and taking her to the floor in a heap.

“Lieutenant.”

She reared away from the hand that touched her shoulder, huddled back as sobs and screams knotted in her throat.

“You were dreaming.” Summerset spoke carefully, his face impassive. She might have seen the realization in his eyes if her own hadn’t been clouded with memory. “You were dreaming,” he repeated, approaching her as he would a trapped wolf. “You had a nightmare.”

“Stay away from me. Go away. Stay away.”

“Lieutenant. Do you know where you are?”

“I know where I am.” She got the words out between quick gulps of air. She was freezing, boiling, and couldn’t stop the tremors. “Go away. Just go away.” She made it as far as her knees, then covered her mouth and rocked. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Let me help you to the chair.” His hands were gentle, but firm enough to keep hold when she tried to shove him away.

“I don’t need help.”

“I’m going to help you to your chair.” As far as he was concerned, she was a child now, a wounded one who needed care. As his Marlena had been. He tried not to think if his child had begged as Eve had begged. After he put her in the chair, he went to a chest, drew out a blanket. Her teeth were chattering and her eyes were wide with shock.

“Be still.” The order was brisk as she began to push up. “Stay where I’ve put you and be quiet.”

He turned on his heel, striding into the kitchen alcove and the AutoChef. There was sweat on his brow and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief as he ordered a soother. His hand was shaking. It didn’t surprise him. Her screams had chilled him to the bone and brought him to her suite at a dead run.

They’d been a child’s screams.

Steadying himself, he carried the glass to her. “Drink it.”

“I don’t want—”

“Drink it, or I’ll pour it down your throat, with pleasure.”

She considered knocking it out of his hand, then embarrassed them both by curling into a ball and whimpering. Giving up, Summerset set the drink aside, tucked the blanket more securely around her, and went out with the object of contacting Roarke’s personal physician.

But it was Roarke himself he met on the landing.

“Summerset, don’t you ever sleep?”

“It’s Lieutenant Dallas. She’s—”

Roarke dropped his briefcase, grabbed Summerset by the lapels. “Has she been hurt? Where is she?”

“A nightmare. She was screaming.” Summerset lost his usual composure and dragged a hand over his hair. “She won’t cooperate. I was about to call your doctor. I left her in her private suite.”

As Roarke pushed him aside, Summerset grabbed his arm. “Roarke, you should have told me what had been done to her.”

Roarke merely shook his head and kept going. “I’ll take care of her.”

He found her curled up tight, trembling. Emotions warred through him, anger, relief, sorrow, and guilt. He battled them back and lifted her gently. “It’s all right now, Eve.”

“Roarke.” She shuddered once convulsively, then curved into him as he settled back in the chair with her on his lap. “The dreams.”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to her damp temple. “I’m sorry.”

“They come all the time now, all the time. Nothing stops them.”

“Eve, why didn’t you tell me?” He tipped her head back to look at her face. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Nothing stops them,” she repeated. “I couldn’t not remember anymore. And now I remember all of it.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her face. “I killed him, Roarke. I killed my father.”

chapter thirteen

He looked into her eyes, felt the tremors that still shook her. “Darling, you had a nightmare.”

“I had a flashback.”

She had to be calm, had to be to get it all out. To be calm and rational, she had to think like a cop, not like a woman. Not like a terrorized child.

“It was so clear, Roarke, that I can still feel it on me. Still feel him on me. The room in Dallas where he’d lock me. He’d always lock me in wherever he took me. Once I tried to get away, to run away, and he caught me. After that, he always got rooms high up, and locked the door from the outside. I never got to go out. I don’t think anyone even knew I was there.” She tried to clear her raw throat. “I need some water.”

“Here. Drink this.” He picked up the glass Summerset had left beside the chair.

“No, it’s a tranq. I don’t want a tranq.” She let air in and out of her lungs. “I don’t need one.”

“All right. No, I’ll get it.” He shifted her, rose, caught the doubt in her eyes. “Just water, Eve. I promise.”

Accepting his word, she took the glass he brought back and drank gratefully. When he sat on the arm of the chair, she stared straight ahead and continued.

“I remember the room. I’ve been having part of this dream for the past couple of weeks. Details were beginning to stick. I even went to see Dr. Mira.” She glanced over. “No, I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t.”

“All right.” He tried to accept that. “But you’re going to tell me now.”

“I have to tell you now.” She took a breath, brought it all into her mind as she would any crime scene. “I was awake in that room, hoping he’d be too drunk to touch me when he came back. It was late.”

She didn’t have to close her eyes to see it: the filthy room, the blink of the red light through the dirty windows.

“Cold,” she murmured. “He’d broken the temperature control, and it was cold. I could see my breath.” She shivered in reaction. “But I was hungry, too. I got something to eat. He never kept much around. I was hungry all the time. I was cutting the mold off some cheese when he came in.”

The door opening, the fear, the clatter of the knife. She wanted to get up, pace off the nerves, but wasn’t sure her legs were ready to support her.

“I could see right away that he wasn’t drunk enough. I could see. I remember what he looked like now. He had dark brown hair and a face gone soft from drinking. He might have been handsome once, but that was gone. Broken capillaries in his face, in his eyes. He had big hands. Maybe it was just because I was small, but they seemed awfully big.”

Roarke lifted his hands to her shoulders, began to massage the tension. “They can’t hurt you now. Can’t touch you now.”

“No.” Except in the dreams, she thought. There was pain in dreams. “He got mad because I’d been eating. I wasn’t supposed to take anything without asking.”

“Christ.” He tucked the blanket more securely around her because she was still shivering. And found he wanted to feed her, anything, everything, so she would never think about hunger again.

“He started hitting me, and hitting me.” She heard her voice hitch, made the effort to level it. It’s just a report now, she told herself. Nothing more. “Knocked me down and hit me. My face, my body. I was crying and screaming, begging him to stop. He tore my clothes and rammed his fingers in me. It hurt, horribly, because he’d raped me the night before and I was still hurting from that. Then he was raping me again. Panting in my face, telling me to be a good girl and raping me. It felt like everything inside me was tearing. The pain was so bad I couldn’t take it anymore. I clawed at him. I must have drawn blood. That’s when he broke my arm.”

Roarke stood abruptly, paced away, jabbed the mechanism to open the windows. He needed air.

“I don’t know if I blacked out, maybe for a minute, I think. But I couldn’t get past the pain. Sometimes you can.”

“Yes,” he said dully. “I know.”

“But it was so enormous. Black, greasy waves of pain. And he wouldn’t stop. The knife was in my hand. It was just there, in my hand. I stabbed him with it.” She let out a shuddering breath as Roarke turned to her. “I stabbed him, and kept stabbing him. Blood was everywhere. The raw, sweet smell of it. I crawled out from under him. He might have been dead already, but I kept stabbing him. Roarke, I can see myself, kneeling, the hilt in my hand, blood past my wrists, splattered on my face. And the pain, the rage pounding at me. I just couldn’t stop.”

Who would have? he wondered. Who could have?

“Then I pulled myself into the corner to get away from him, because when he got up, he’d kill me. I passed out or just zoned, because I don’t remember anything else until it was daylight. And I hurt—I hurt so bad, everywhere. I got sick. Really sick, and when I was finished, I saw. I saw.”

He reached down for her hand, and it was like ice, thin, brittle ice. “That’s enough, Eve.”

“No, let me finish. I have to finish.” She pushed the words out as though she were shoving rocks off her heart. “I saw. I knew I’d killed him, and they’d come for me, put me in a cage. A dark cage. That’s what he’d always told me they did if you weren’t good. I went in the bathroom and washed off all the blood. My arm—my arm was screaming, but I didn’t want to go in a cage. I put on some clothes and I put everything else that was mine in a bag. I kept imagining he was going to get up and come for me, but he stayed dead. I left him there. I started walking. It was early, early in the morning. Hardly anyone was out. I threw away the bag, or I lost it. I can’t remember. I walked a long way, then I went into an alley and hid until night.”

She rubbed a hand over her mouth. She could remember that, too, the dark, the stench, the fear overriding even pain. “Then I walked more, and kept walking until I couldn’t walk anymore. I found another alley. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but that’s where they found me. By then, I didn’t remember anything—what had happened, where I was. Who I was. I still don’t remember my name. He never called me by my name.”

“Your name’s Eve Dallas.” He cupped her face in his hands. “And that part of your life is over. You survived it, you overcame it. Now you’ve remembered it, and it’s done.”

“Roarke.” Looking at him, she knew she had never loved anyone more. Never would. “It’s not. I have to face what I’ve done. The reality of it, and the consequences. I can’t marry you now. Tomorrow I have to turn in my badge.”

“What insanity is this?”

“I killed my father, do you understand? There has to be an investigation. Even if I’m cleared, it doesn’t negate the fact that my application for the academy, my records, are fraudulent. As long as the investigation is ongoing, I can’t be a cop, and I can’t marry you.” Steadier, she rose. “I have to pack.”

“Try it.”

His voice was low, dangerous, and it stopped her. “Roarke, I have to follow procedure.”

“No, you have to be human.” He strode to the door and slammed it shut. “Do you think you’re walking out on me, on your life, because you defended yourself against a monster?”

“I killed my father.”

“You killed a fucking monster. You were a child. Are you going to stand there, look me in the face, and tell me that child was to blame?”

She opened her mouth, closed it. “It’s not a matter of how I see it, Roarke. The law—”

“The law should have protected you!” With visions dancing evilly in his head, he snapped. He could all but hear the tight wire of control break. “Goddamn the law. What good did it do either one of us when we needed it most? You want to chuck your badge because the law’s too fucking weak to care for its innocents, for its children, be my guest. Throw your career away. But you’re not getting rid of me.”

He started to grab her by the shoulders, then dropped his hands. “I can’t touch you.” Shaken by the violence that spewed up in him, he stepped back. “I’m afraid to put my hands on you. I couldn’t stand it if being with me reminded you of what he did.”

“No.” Appalled, it was she who reached out. “No. It doesn’t. It couldn’t. There’s nothing but you and me when you touch me. It’s just that I have to handle this.”

“Alone?” It was, he realized, the most bitter of words. “The way you had to handle the nightmares alone? I can’t go back and kill him for you, Eve. I’d give everything I have and more if I could do that one thing. But I can’t. I won’t let you deal with this without me. That’s not an option for either of us. Sit down.”

“Roarke.”

“Please, sit down.” He took one cleansing breath. She wouldn’t listen to anger, he decided. Nor, from him, to reason. “Do you trust Dr. Mira?”

“Yes, I mean—”

“As far as you trust anyone,” he finished. “That’ll do.” He walked over to her desk.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to call her.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know what time it is.” He engaged the ’link. “I’m willing to abide by her advice on this. I’m asking you to do the same.”

She started to argue but found no solid ground. Weary, she dropped her head into her hands. “All right.”

She stayed there, barely listening to Roarke’s quiet voice, the murmured responses. When he came back to her, he reached out a hand. She stared at it.

“She’s on her way. Will you come downstairs?”

“I’m not doing this to hurt you or make you angry.”

“You’ve accomplished both, but that’s not the main issue here.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “I won’t let you go, Eve. If you didn’t love me or want me or need me, I would have to. But you do love me and want me. And though you still have difficulty with the concept, you need me.”

I won’t use you, she thought, but she said nothing as they went downstairs.

It didn’t take Mira long. In her usual manner, she arrived promptly and perfectly groomed. She greeted Roarke serenely, took one look at Eve, and sat.

“I’d love a brandy, if you wouldn’t mind. I believe the lieutenant should join me.” As Roarke saw to the drinks, she looked around the room. “What a perfectly lovely home. It feels happy.” She smiled, cocked her head. “Why, Eve, you’ve changed your hair. It’s very flattering.”

Baffled, Roarke stopped, stared. “What have you done to it?”

Eve lifted a shoulder. “Nothing, really, just . . .”

“Men.” Mira took her brandy, swirled. “Why do we bother? When my husband fails to notice a change, he always says it’s because he adores me for me, not for my hair. I usually let him get away with it. Now then.” She sat back. “Can you tell me?”

“Yes.” Eve repeated everything she’d told Roarke. But it was the cop’s voice now, cool, composed, detached.

“It’s been a difficult night for you.” Mira skimmed her gaze over Roarke. “For both of you. It might be hard to believe that it will begin to be better now. Can you accept that your mind was ready to deal with this?”

“I suppose. The memories started coming more clearly, more often after that—” She closed her eyes. “A few months ago I answered a domestic disturbance call. I was too late. The father was on Zeus. He’d hacked the little girl to death before I got in. I terminated him.”

“Yes, I remember. The child, she might have been you. Instead, you survived.”

“My father didn’t.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Glad. And uneasy, knowing I have that much hate in me.”

“He beat you. He raped you. He was your father and you should have been safe with him. You weren’t. How do you believe you should feel about that?”

“It was years ago.”

“It was yesterday,” Mira corrected. “It was an hour ago.”

“Yes.” Eve looked down at her brandy and squeezed the tears back.

“Was it wrong to defend yourself?”

“No. Not to defend. But I killed him. Even when he was dead, I kept killing him. This—blinding hate, uncontrollable rage. I was like an animal.”

“He had treated you like an animal. Made you an animal. Yes,” she said at Eve’s shudder. “More than stealing your childhood, your innocence, he stripped you of your humanity. There are technical terms for a personality capable of doing what he did to you, but in simple English,” she said in her cool tones, “he was a monster.”

Mira watched Eve’s eyes dart to Roarke, linger, drop away.

“He took your freedom,” she continued, “and your choices, marked you, branded you, defiled you. You weren’t human to him, and if the situation hadn’t changed, you might never have been more than an animal if you had survived at all. And yet, after you escaped, you made yourself. What are you now, Eve?”

“A cop.”

Mira smiled. She’d expected exactly that answer. “And then?”

“A person.”

“A responsible person?”

“Yeah.”

“Capable of friendship, loyalty, compassion, humor. Love?”

Eve looked at Roarke. “Yes, but—”

“Was the child capable?”

“No, she—I was too afraid to feel. All right, I’ve changed.” Eve pressed a hand to her temple, surprised and relieved to find the headache drumming there was easing. “I’ve made myself into something decent, but that doesn’t override the fact that I killed. There has to be an investigation.”

Mira arched a brow. “Naturally, you can instigate one if finding your father’s identity is important to you. Is it?”

“No, I don’t give a damn about that. It’s procedure—”

“Excuse me.” Mira held up a hand. “You want to instigate an investigation into the death of this man by your hand when you were eight years old?”

“It’s procedure,” Eve said stubbornly. “And requires my automatic suspension until the investigative team is satisfied. It’s also best if my personal plans are put on hold until the matter is resolved.”

Sensing Roarke’s fury, Mira flicked him a warning glance and watched him win the bitter battle for control. “Resolved in what manner?” she asked reasonably. “I don’t want to presume to tell you your job, Lieutenant, but we’re talking about a matter that took place some twenty-two years ago.”

“It was yesterday.” Eve found some hollow pleasure in tossing Mira’s words back at her. “It was an hour ago.”

“Emotionally, yes,” Mira agreed, unruffled. “But in practical terms, and legal ones, more than two decades. There will be no body or physical evidence to examine. There are, of course, the records of your condition when you were found, the abuse, the malnutrition and neglect, the trauma. Now, there is your memory. Do you feel your story will change during interview?”

“No, of course not, but . . . It’s procedure.”

“You’re a very good cop, Eve,” Mira said gently. “If this matter came across your desk, exactly as it is, what would be your professional and objective direction? Before you answer, be careful, and be honest. There’s no point in punishing yourself, or that innocent, misused child. What would you do?”

“I’d . . .” Beaten, she set down the snifter and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I’d close it.”

“Then close it.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“I’ll be happy to take this up with your commander, in private, give him the facts and my personal recommendation. I think you know what his decision would be. We need people like you to serve and protect, Eve. There’s a man here who needs you to trust him.”

“I do trust him.” She braced herself to look over at Roarke. “I’m afraid of using him. It doesn’t matter what other people think about the money, about the power. I don’t want to ever give him reason to think I ever could or ever would use him.”

“Does he think it?”

She closed a hand around the diamond hanging between her breasts. “He’s too much in love with me to think it now.”

“Well, I’d say that’s lovely. And before much longer, you might figure out the difference between depending on someone you love and trust and exploiting their strengths.” Mira rose. “I’d tell you to take a sedative and tomorrow off, but you’ll do neither.”

“No, I won’t. I’m sorry to have dragged you away from home in the middle of the night.”

“Cops and doctors, we’re used to it. You’ll talk with me again?”

She wanted to refuse, to deny—as she had spent years refusing and denying. But that time, Eve realized, was over. “Yes, all right.”

On impulse, Mira laid a hand on Eve’s cheek and kissed her. “You’ll do, Eve.” Then she turned to Roarke and extended her hand. “I’m glad you called me. I have a personal interest in the lieutenant.”

“So do I. Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding. I’ll see myself out.”

Roarke walked over, sat beside Eve. “Would it be better for you if I gave away my money, my properties, tossed aside my companies, and started from scratch?”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. She gaped at him. “Would you?”

He leaned forward, kissed her lightly. “No.”

The laugh that bubbled out surprised her. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You should.” He linked his fingers with hers. “Let me help take the pain away.”

“You’ve been doing that since you walked in the door.” With a sigh, she rested her brow on his. “Tolerate me, Roarke. I’m a good cop. I know what I’m doing when the badge is on. It’s when I take it off I’m not so sure of my moves.”

“I’m a tolerant man. I can accept your dark spaces, Eve, just as you accept mine. Come on, let’s go to bed. You’ll sleep.” He brought her to her feet again. “And if you have nightmares, you won’t hide them from me.”

“No, not anymore. What is it?”

Eyes narrowed, he combed his fingers through her hair. “You did change it. Subtly, but charmingly. And there’s something else . . .” He rubbed a thumb over her jawline.

Eve wiggled her eyebrows, hoping he’d noticed their new improved shape, but he only continued to stare at her. “What?”

“You’re beautiful. Really quite beautiful.”

“You’re tired.”

“No, I’m not.” He leaned in, closed his mouth over hers softly in a long, lingering kiss. “At all.”

Peabody was staring, and Eve decided not to notice. She had coffee, and anticipating Feeney’s arrival had even come up with a basket of muffins. The shades were open to her own spectacular view of New York with its spearing skyline behind the lush green of the park.

She supposed she couldn’t blame Peabody for gaping.

“I really appreciate you coming here instead of to Cop Central,” Eve began. She knew she wasn’t running at full capability yet, just as she knew Mavis couldn’t afford for her to take any down time. “I want to get some of this business squared away before I clock in. As soon as I do, I imagine Whitney will call me up. I need ammunition.”

“No problem.” Peabody knew there really were people who lived like this. She’d heard of it, read of it, seen it on screen. And there was nothing particularly fabulous about the lieutenant’s rooms. They were nice, certainly—plenty of space, good furnishings, excellent equipment.

But the house. Jesus, the house. It went beyond the category of mansion into that of fortress, or maybe even castle. The green lawns, flowering trees, and fountains. There were all the towers, the sparkle of stone. That was before you were brought inside by a butler and blown away by marble and crystal and wood. And space. So much space.

“Peabody?”

“What? Sorry.”

“It’s all right. The place is pretty intimidating.”

“It’s incredible.” She swung her gaze back to Eve. “You look different here,” she decided, then narrowed her eyes. “You do look different. Hey, you got your hair cut. And the eyebrows.” Intrigued, she leaned closer. “A skin job.”

“It was just a facial.” Eve caught herself just before she squirmed. “Can we get down to it now, or do you want the name of my consultant?”

“Couldn’t afford it,” Peabody said cheerfully. “But you look good. You want to start pumping up since you’re getting married in a couple weeks.”

“It’s not a couple weeks, it’s next month.”

“Guess you haven’t noticed that it’s next month now. You’re nervous.” Amusement flitted around Peabody’s mouth. “You never get nervous.”

“Shut up, Peabody. We’ve got homicide here.”

“Yes, sir.” Slightly ashamed, Peabody swallowed the smirk. “I thought we were killing time until Captain Feeney arrived.”

“I’ve got a ten o’clock interview with Redford. I don’t have time to kill. Give me the rundown of your progress at the club.”

“I have my report.” Back in the saddle, Peabody took a disc out of her bag. “I arrived at seventeen thirty-five, approached the subject known as Crack, and identified myself as your aide.”

“What did you think of him?”

“An individual,” Peabody said dryly. “He suggested I would make a good table dancer, as I appeared to have strong legs. I told him it wasn’t an option at this time.”

“Good one.”

“He was cooperative. In my judgment, he was angry when I informed him of Hetta’s death, and the means. She hadn’t worked there long, but he said she was good-natured, efficient, and successful.”

“In those words.”

“In the vernacular, Dallas. His vernacular, which is quoted in my report. He did not observe who she spoke with after the incident with Boomer as the club was crowded and he was busy.”

“Cracking heads.”

“Exactly. He did, however, point out several other employees and regulars who might have seen her with someone. I have their names and their statements. None noticed anything peculiar or out of the ordinary. One client believed he observed her going into one of the private booths with another man, but he didn’t recall the time, and his description is vague. ‘A tall dude.’ ”

“Terrific.”

“She clocked out at oh two fifteen, which was more than an hour earlier than her habit. She told one of the other companions that she’d made over her quota and was calling it a night. Flashed a fistful of credits and cash. Bragged about a new customer who believed in paying for quality. That was the last time she was seen at the club.”

“Her body was found three days later.” Frustrated, Eve pushed away from the table. “If I’d gotten the case sooner, or if Carmichael had bothered to dig . . . Well, that’s done.”

“She was well liked.”

“Did she have a partner?”

“No one serious or long term. Those kind of clubs discourage dating the customers on the outside, and apparently Hetta was a real pro. She did move around from club to club, but so far, I haven’t hit on anything. If she worked anywhere the night she died, there’s no record of it.”

“Did she use?”

“Socially, casually. Nothing heavy, according to the people I spoke with. I checked her sheet, and other than a couple of old possession charges, she was clean.”

“How old?”

“Five years.”

“Okay, keep on it. Hetta’s yours.” She glanced over as Feeney strolled in. “Glad you could join us.”

“Hey, traffic’s murder out there. Muffins!” He pounced. “How’s it going, Peabody?”

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Some digs, huh? New shirt, Dallas?”

“No.”

“Look different.” He poured coffee while she rolled her eyes. “Found our snake tattoo. Mavis hit Ground Zero at about two, bought herself a Screamer and a table dancer. Talked to the guy myself last night after I bounced to it. He remembers her. Said she was way out of orbit, and chugging them back. He offered her a list of accepted services, but she passed and staggered out.”

Feeney sighed, sat. “If she crawled into any other clubs, she didn’t use credit. I’ve got nothing after her totaling out from Ground Zero at two forty-five.”

“Where’s Ground Zero?”

“About six blocks from the murder scene. She’d been moving steadily down and across town from the time she left Pandora and walked into ZigZag. She went into five other clubs between, Screamers all the way, mostly triples. I don’t know how she stayed on her feet.”

“Six blocks,” Dallas murmured. “Thirty minutes before the murder.”

“I’m sorry, kid. It doesn’t make it look any better for her. Now, the security discs. Leonardo’s scanner was busted up at ten on the night in question. Lots of complaints about kids whacking outside cameras in that area, so it’s likely that’s how it went down. Pandora’s security was turned off using the code. No fiddling, no sabotage. Whoever went in knew how to get in.”

“Knew her, knew the setup.”

“Had to,” Feeney agreed. “I can’t find any blips on the discs from Justin Young’s building security. I’ve got them going in about one thirty, and her going out again at ten or twelve the next day. Nothing in between. But . . .” He paused for effect. “He’s got a back door.”

“What?”

“Domestic entrance, through the kitchen to a freight elevator. No security on the freight. It goes to six other floors and the garage. Now, the garage has security, and so do the other floors. But . . .” Another pause. “You can also take it to the rear utility, ground floor. The maintenance area, and security’s very spotty there.”

“Could they have gotten out unobserved?”

“Could have.” Feeney slurped coffee. “If they knew the building, the system, and if they were careful to time the exit to avoid the sweep in maintenance.”

“Could put a different light on their alibis. Bless you, Feeney.”

“Yeah, well. Send money. Or just give me these muffins.”

“They’re yours. I think we’ll have to talk to our young lovers again. We’ve got some interesting players here. Justin Young used to sleep with Pandora and is now intimately involved with Jerry Fitzgerald who is one of Pandora’s associates and her top rival for queen of the runway. Both Fitzgerald and Pandora are after a screen career. Enter Redford, producer. He’s interested in working with Fitzgerald, has worked with Young, and is sleeping with Pandora. All four of these people are partying at Pandora’s, at her invitation on the night she’s killed. Now, why would she want them there, her rival, her ex-lover, and the producer?”

“She liked drama,” Peabody put in. “She enjoyed friction.”

“Yeah, true. She also liked causing discomfort. I wonder if she had something she wanted to rub their faces in. They were all very calm in interview,” she recalled. “Very composed, very easy. Let’s see if we can shake them up.”

Eve glanced over as the panel between her offices and Roarke’s slid open.

“It wasn’t secured,” he said as he stopped on the threshold. “I’m interrupting.”

“It’s all right. We just need to finish up.”

“Hey, Roarke.” Feeney toasted him with a muffin. “Ready to strap on the old ball and chain? Just a joke,” he muttered when Eve scalded him with a look.

“I think I’ll continue to hobble along well enough.” He glanced at Peabody, lifted a brow.

“Sorry. Officer Peabody, Roarke.”

At Eve’s introduction, he smiled, crossed the room. “The efficient Officer Peabody. It’s a pleasure.”

Struggling not to goggle, she accepted the hand he offered. “Nice to meet you.”

“If I could steal the lieutenant for just a moment, I’ll get out of your way.” He laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder, squeezed. When she rose to go with him, Feeney snorted.

“You’re going to swallow your tongue, Peabody. Why is it just because a man’s got the face of a devil and the body of a god, women get all glassy-eyed?”

“It’s hormonal,” Peabody muttered, but she continued to watch Roarke and Eve. She’d developed an interest in relationship games recently.

“How are you?” Roarke asked.

“I’m fine.”

He cupped Eve’s chin, dipped his thumb lightly in its dent. “I believe you’re working at it. I have some meetings in midtown this morning, but I thought you’d want this.” He handed her a card, one of his own, with a name and address scrawled on the back. “It’s the off planet expert you asked about. She’ll make time for whatever you need. She already has the sample you gave to me, but would like another. Cross-testing, I believe she called it.”

“Thanks.” Eve slipped the card into her pocket. “Really.”

“The reports from Starlight Station—”

“Starlight Station?” It took her a moment. “Christ, I forgot I asked you. My mind’s not cued.”

“It has a great deal to do just now. In any case, my sources tell me Pandora did quite a bit of socializing this last trip—which is usual. There didn’t seem to be anyone in particular she was interested in. At least not for more than one night.”

“Shit, is it always sex?”

“With her it was a priority.” He smiled when Eve’s eyes narrowed and speculated. “And, as I said before, our short liaison was a long time ago. She did, however, make a number of calls, all on her pocket ’link. She never used the resort’s system.”

“No outside record,” Eve mused.

“That would be my take. She was on assignment, and did her job with her usual flair. There’s some talk about the way she bragged about a new product she was going to endorse, and a video.”

Eve grunted and filed the data away. “I appreciate the time.”

“Always happy to support our local police. We have an appointment with the florist at three. Can you make it?”

She shuffled obligations in her head. “If you can squeeze it in, so can I.”

Not willing to risk it, he took her logbook out of her pocket and programmed the appointment himself. “I’ll see you there.” He lowered his head, watched her eyes shift toward the table across the room. “I doubt this will diminish your authority,” he murmured, then pressed his lips softly to hers. “I love you.”

“Yeah, well.” She cleared her throat. “Okay.”

“Poetry.” Amused, he skimmed a hand through her hair, kissed her again to fluster her. “Officer Peabody, Feeney.” With a nod, he stepped back into his office. The panel slid shut behind him.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face, Feeney. I’ve got a drop-off for you.” She pulled the card back out of her pocket as she went back to the table. “I need you to take a sample of the powder we took from Boomer’s to this flora expert. Roarke’s cleared it. She’s not a police and security attaché, so keep it low profile.”

“Can do.”

“I’ll be checking in with her later today on her progress. Peabody, you’re with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Peabody waited until she was in Eve’s car before she spoke. “I guess it’s a lot of work for a cop to juggle personal relationships.”

“Tell me about it.” Grill suspect, lie to commanding officer, hassle lab tech. Order bridal bouquet. Jesus.

“But if you’re steady, you know, careful, it doesn’t have to bog down your career.”

“If you ask me, cops are a bad bet. But what do I know?” In a nervous rhythm, she tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Feeney’s been married since the dawn of time. The commander has a happy home. Others do it.” She blew out a breath. “I’m working on it.” It struck her as she drove through the gates. “You got a personal thing going, Peabody?”

“Maybe. I’m thinking about it.” She rubbed her hands on her pants, linked them, pulled them apart.

“Anybody I know?”

“Actually.” Peabody shifted her feet. “It’s Casto.”

“Casto?” Eve headed crosstown to Ninth, swung around a commuter tram. “No shit. When did this happen?”

“Well, I ran into him last night. That is, I caught him shadowing me, so—”

“Shadowing you?” Quickly, Eve rammed the car to auto. It shuddered, whined, then chugged. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s got a good nose. He sniffed out we were digging at a lead. I was pretty steamed when I tagged him, then I had to admit, I’d have done the same thing.”

Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel, thought about it. “Yeah, so would I. Did he try to pump you?”

Peabody flushed deep red, stuttered.

“Jesus, Peabody, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, I know. I’m not used to this, Dallas. I mean I like men, sure.” She brushed at her bangs, checked the collar of her stiff uniform shirt. “I’ve been around some, but men like Casto—you know, like Roarke.”

“They fry the circuits.”

“Yeah.” It was a relief to be able to lay it out to someone who would understand. “He did try to slide some data out of me, but he took it well enough when I wouldn’t give. He knows the route. The chief says interdepartmental cooperation, and we pretty much ignore it.”

“You think he’s got something of his own?”

“He might. He made the rounds at the club just like I did. That’s how I tagged him first. Then, when I left, he followed me. I led him around for awhile, just to see what he’d do.” Her smile spread. “And I backtracked him. You should have seen his face when I came up behind him and he knew he’d been nailed.”

“Good work.”

“We got into it a little. Territory, and all that. Then we, well, we had a drink, agreed to put the cop routine on hold. It was nice. We have a lot of common ground, outside the job. Music and films and stuff. Hell, oh Jesus, I slept with him.”

“Oh.”

“I know it was stupid. But, well, I did.”

Eve waited a moment. “So, how was it?”

“Wow.”

“That good, huh?”

“Then this morning, he said maybe we could have dinner or something.”

“So, it sounds pretty normal to me.”

Sober-eyed again, Peabody shook her head. “Guys like that aren’t attracted to me. I know he’s got a thing for you—”

Eve’s hand shot up. “Hold on, playback.”

“Come on, Dallas, you know he does. He’s attracted to you. He admires your skill, your mind. Your legs.”

“You’re not going to tell me you and Casto discussed my legs.”

“No, but your mind came up. Anyway, I don’t know if I should take this any farther. I’ve got to concentrate on my career, and he’s steeped in his. When this case is resolved, we’ll lose the connection.”

Hadn’t Eve thought the same when Roarke had hit her between the eyes? It should have been true. It usually was. “You’re attracted to him, you like him, you find him interesting to be around.”

“Sure.”

“And the sex was good.”

“The sex was incredible.”

“Then, as your superior, Peabody, my advice is, go for it.”

Peabody smiled a little, then looked out the window. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”

chapter fourteen

Eve was pleased with her timing. She clocked into Cop Central at 9:55, went directly to Interview. By avoiding her office, she avoided any messages from Commander Whitney demanding her presence. She hoped by the time she had to face him, she’d have the buffer of new information.

Redford was prompt, she had to give him that. And he was as sleek and unruffled as he’d been the first time she’d seen him.

“Lieutenant, I hope this won’t take long. It’s a very inconvenient time.”

“Then we’ll get started right away. Have a seat.” She closed and secured the door behind her.

Interview wasn’t the most pleasant of atmospheres. It wasn’t meant to be. The conference table was small, the chairs hard, the walls unadorned. The mirror was obviously two-way glass and meant to intimidate. She went directly to her recorder, engaged, and recited the necessary data.

“Mr. Redford, you are entitled to counsel or a representative at Interview.”

“Are you reading me my rights, Lieutenant?”

“If you request I do so, I’ll oblige. You are not charged, but you are entitled to counsel when being questioned in a formal interview. Do you wish counsel?”

“Not at this time.” He flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. Gold winked at his wrist in the form of a cuff bracelet. “I’m more than willing to cooperate with this investigation, as I’ve proven by coming here today.”

“I’d like to replay your previous statement so that you have the opportunity to add, delete, or change any portions thereof.” She slipped the labeled disc into the slot. With mild impatience in his eyes, Redford listened.

“Do you wish to stand by that statement, as given?”

“Yes, it’s as accurate as I can remember.”

“Very well.” Eve replaced the disc and folded her hands. “You and the victim were sexual partners.”

“That’s correct.”

“This was not an exclusive arrangement.”

“Not at all. Neither of us wished it to be.”

“Did you on the night of the murder engage with the victim in the use of illegals?”

“No.”

“Did you, at any other time, engage with the victim in the use of illegals?”

He smiled. When he angled his head, she caught more gold, threaded through the sleek queue twisting to his shoulder blades. “No. I didn’t share Pandora’s affection for substances.”

“Did you have the victim’s security code for her town house in New York?”

“Her security code.” His brow furrowed. “I might have it. Probably.” For the first time he appeared uneasy. Eve could all but see his mind weighing his answer and the consequences. “I imagine she gave it to me at one time or another to simplify matters when I visited her.” Composed again, he took out his notebook, keyed in data. “Yes, I have it here.”

“Did you use her code to gain access to her home on the night of her murder?”

“A domestic let me in. There wasn’t any need for it.”

“No, there wouldn’t have been. Before her murder. Are you aware that her security code also engages and disengages her video system?”

Caution flickered in his eyes again. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“With the code, which you state is in your possession, the outside security camera can be deactivated. That camera was deactivated for a period of approximately one hour after the murder. During that period, Mr. Redford, you state you were at your club. Alone. During that period, someone who knew the victim, who was in possession of her code, who was aware of the workings of her home and security, deactivated the system, entered the house, and it would seem, took something from the house.”

“I would have no reason to do any of those things. I was at my club, Lieutenant. I keyed in and out.”

“A member can key in and out without ever going in.” She watched his face harden. “You saw an ornate, possibly Chinese antique box, from which you state the victim took a substance and ingested it. You further state that she then locked the box away in the vanity of her bedroom. This box has not been found. Are you sure this box existed?”

There was ice now, but beneath it, just around the edges of it, she thought she caught something else. Not panic, not yet. But wariness, and worry.

“Are you certain the box you described existed, Mr. Redford?”

“I saw it.”

“And the key?”

“The key?” He reached for a pitcher of water. His hand was still steady, Eve noted, but that mind was working overtime. “She wore it on a chain, a gold chain, around her neck.”

“No chain or key was recovered on the body or at the scene.”

“Then it would follow that the murderer took it, wouldn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“Did she wear the key openly?”

“No, she—” He stopped, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “Very good, Lieutenant. As far as I am aware, she wore it under her clothes. But, as I have stated, I am not the only one who was invited to see Pandora without clothing.”

“Why were you paying her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Over the past eighteen months, you transferred over three hundred thousand dollars into the victim’s credit accounts. Why?”

His eyes went blank, but Eve saw, for the first time, fear behind them. “Certainly what I do with my money is my own business.”

“No, it’s not. Not when it’s murder. Was she blackmailing you?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Plays for me. She had something on you, something dangerous, embarrassing, something she enjoyed holding over you. She nibbled away, demanding little payments here and there, and some not so little. I imagine she was the type to flaunt that kind of power, to enjoy it. A man could get tired of that. A man could begin to realize there was only one way to end it. It wasn’t the money, really, was it, Mr. Redford? It was the power, the control, and that enjoyment she rubbed in your face.”

His breathing deepened raggedly, but his face remained still. “I would say that Pandora was not above blackmail, Lieutenant. But she had nothing on me, and I would not tolerate threats.”

“What would you do about them?”

“A man in my position can afford to ignore quite a bit. In my business, success is much more important than gossip.”

“Then why did you pay her? For sex?”

“That’s insulting.”

“No, I suppose a man in your position wouldn’t have to pay for sex. Still, it might add a certain twist to the excitement. Do you ever frequent the Down and Dirty Club on the East End?”

“I don’t frequent the East End, and I certainly don’t frequent a second-rate sex club.”

“But you know what it is. Were you ever there with Pandora?”

“No.”

“Alone?”

“I said I hadn’t been there.”

“Where were you on June tenth, at approximately two A.M.?”

“What is this?”

“Can you verify your whereabouts on that date and time?”

“I don’t know where I was. I don’t have to answer that.”

“Were your payments to Pandora business payments, gifts?”

“Yes, no.” He fisted his hands under the table. “I believe I’d like to consult with counsel now.”

“Sure. Your choice. We will break this interview to allow subject to exercise his right to consult counsel. Disengage.” She smiled. “You’d better tell them all you know. You’d better tell someone. And if you’re not in this alone, I’d advise you to start thinking seriously about rolling over.” She pushed back from the table. “There’s a public ’link outside.”

“I have my own,” he said stiffly. “If you could show me to a room where I can make my call privately.”

“No problem. Come with me.”

Eve managed to avoid Whitney by transmitting an update and steering clear of her desk. She snagged Peabody and headed out.

“You shook Redford. You really shook him.”

“That was the idea.”

“It was the way you kept coming at him from different angles. Everything straight down the line at first, then pow. You tripped him up with the club.”

“He’ll get his balance back. I still have the payment he made to Fitzgerald to pitch at him, but he’ll be more prepared. This reprieve with his lawyers.”

“Yeah, and he won’t underestimate you again. You think he did it?”

“I think he could have. He hated her. If we can link him to the drugs . . . we’ll see.” So many angles to explore, Eve thought, and time was racing—racing toward Mavis’s pretrial hearing. If she didn’t have something solid within the next couple of days . . . “I want that unknown ID’d. I want to know the source. We find the source, we follow it.”

“Is that when you’re going to bring Casto in? That’s a professional inquiry.”

“He’d have better contacts. I’ll share the wealth once we have the unknown nailed.” Her ’link beeped, and she winced. “Shit, shit, shit. I know that’s Whitney. I can feel it.” She blanked her face and answered. “Dallas.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sir, checking a lead. I’m en route to the lab.”

“I left orders for you to be in my office at oh nine hundred.”

“I’m sorry, Commander, I didn’t receive that transmission. I haven’t been to my desk. If you’ve received my report, you’ll see that I’ve been tied up in interview this morning. Subject is currently consulting counsel. I believe—”

“Cut the tap dance, Lieutenant. I spoke with Dr. Mira a few minutes ago.”

Her skin seemed to ice over, go stiff. “Sir.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Lieutenant.” He spoke slowly, his eyes hard on hers. “That you would consider wasting the department’s time and manpower on such a matter. We have no intention nor desire to investigate formally, or to launch any informal inquiries into the incident. This matter is closed, and will remain closed. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

Emotions swirled: relief, guilt, gratitude. “Sir, I—Yes. Understood.”

“Very well. The leak to Channel 75 has caused major problems here.”

“Yes, sir.” Snap back, she ordered herself. Think of Mavis. “I’m sure it has.”

“You are aware of departmental policy on unauthorized leaks to the media.”

“Well aware.”

“How is Ms. Furst?”

“I thought she looked quite well on screen, Commander.”

He scowled, but there was a glint in his eye. “You stay on the balls of your feet, Dallas. And you be here, my office, eighteen hundred. We have a fucking press conference.”

“Good dodge,” Peabody congratulated. “And all truth, except that you told him we were en route to the lab.”

“I didn’t say which lab.”

“What was that other business? He seemed pretty steamed over it. Have you got something else going on? Does it hook with this?”

“No, it’s old business. Dead business.” Grateful to have gotten through it, Eve glided toward the gate of Futures Laboratories and Research, a subsidiary of Roarke Industries. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD,” she announced into the scanner.

“You are expected, Lieutenant. Please proceed to Blue parking facility. Leave your vehicle and take transport C to the East complex, sector six, level one. You will be met.”

They were met by a lab droid, an attractive brunette with milk-white skin, clear blue eyes, and a security badge that identified her as Anna-6. Her voice was as melodious as church bells.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I hope you had no trouble finding us.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Very good. Dr. Engrave will see you in the solarium. It’s very pleasant there. If you’d follow me.”

“That’s a droid,” Peabody murmured to Eve, and Anna-6 turned, smiled beautifully.

“I’m a new, experimental model. There are only ten of us at this stage, all in use here, at this complex. We hope to be on the market within six months. The research behind us is very extensive, and unfortunately the cost is still prohibitive for most general markets. We hope that larger industries will find the expense worthwhile until we can be cost-effectively mass produced.”

Eve cocked a head. “Has Roarke seen you?”

“Of course. Roarke approves all new products. He was very involved in the design.”

“I bet he was.”

“Through here, please,” Anna-6 continued, turning into a long, arched corridor in hospital white. “Dr. Engrave has found your specimen highly interesting. I’m sure you will find her very helpful.” She stopped by a mini wall screen and coded in a sequence. “Anna-6,” she announced. “Accompanied by Lieutenant Dallas and aide.”

The tiles parted, opening up into a large room filled with flora and lovely artificial sunlight. There was the tinkle of running water and the lazy drone of contented bees.

“I will leave you here and return to lead you out. Please request any refreshment you might like. Dr. Engrave often forgets to offer.”

“Go smile someplace else, Anna.” The testy voice seemed to come from a clump of ferns. Anna-6 merely smiled, stepped back, and let the tiles click together. “I know droids have their place, but damned if they don’t make me itchy. Over here, in the spirea.”

Warily, Eve stepped to the ferns, and through. There, kneeling in rich black dirt, was a woman. Her graying hair was scooped up in a messy knot, her hands reddened and soiled. Coveralls that might have once been white were stained with too many streaks to identify. She looked up, and her plain, narrow face proved to be as filthy as her clothes.

“I’m checking my worms. Trying out a new breed.” She held up a clump of dirt that wiggled.

“Very nice,” Eve decided and was faintly relieved when Engrave buried the busy clump.

“So, you’re Roarke’s cop. Always figured he’d choose one of those fussy purebreds with the skinny necks and big boobs.” She pursed her lips as she looked Eve over. “Glad he didn’t. Trouble with purebreds is, they need constant pampering. Give me a good hybrid any day.”

Engrave wiped her dirty hands on her dirty clothes. When she rose, she proved to be about five feet tall. “Digging around with worms is good therapy. More people should try it, then they wouldn’t need drugs to get through the day.”

“Speaking of drugs . . .”

“Yes, yes, over here.” She started off at marching pace, then began to slow, to meander. “Need some pruning here. More nitrogen. Underwatered. Root bound.” She paused beside spearing green leaves, trailing vines, explosive blooms. “It’s gotten to the stage they pay me to garden. Nice work if you can get it. Know what this is?”

Eve looked at a purple trumpet-shaped bloom. She was pretty sure, but wary of a trap. “A flower.”

“Petunia. Hah. People have forgotten the charm of the traditional.” She stopped by a sink, washed some of the dirt off her hands, left more under her short ragged nails. “Everybody wants exotic nowadays. Bigger, better, different. A good bed of petunias will give a lot of pleasure for little care. You plant them, don’t expect them to be something they’re not, and enjoy. They’re simple, don’t wither up on you if you look cross-eyed. A good bed of petunias means something. Well then.”

She hoisted herself onto a stool in front of a workbench crowded with garden tools, pots, papers, an AutoChef that blinked on empty, and a top-of-the-line computer system.

“That was an interesting bag of tricks you sent over with that Irishman. Who knew his petunias, by the way.”

“Feeney’s a man of many talents.”

“Gave him a nice flat of pansies for his wife.” Engrave engaged the computer. “Already ran analysis on the sample Roarke brought by. Sweet-talked me into putting a rush on it. Another Irishman. God love ’em. Believe in crossing my t’s on something like this. The fresh sample gave me more to work with.”

“Then you have the results—”

“Don’t rush me, girl. It only works with good-looking Micks. And I don’t like working for cops.” Engrave smiled widely. “They don’t appreciate the art of science. Bet you don’t even know your periodic table, do you?”

“Listen, Doctor—” To Eve’s relief the formula flashed on screen. “Is this unit controlled?”

“It’s passkeyed, don’t you worry. Roarke said it was top security. I’ve been off the turnip truck longer than you’ve been alive.” She brushed Eve off with one grimy hand, gestured toward the screen with the other. “Now, I don’t have to go into the basic elements here. A child could make them, so I assume you’ve ID’d them.”

“It’s the single unknown—”

“I know the drill, Lieutenant. Here’s your little problem.” She highlighted a series of factors. “You haven’t tagged it from this formula, because they coded it. What you got here’s just a bunch of jibberish. It’s what you’ve got here.” Reaching over, she took a small slide dusted with powder. “Even your top labs would have a tough time fining this down. It looks like one thing, it smells like another. And when it’s all blended together as it is in this form, it’s the reaction that changes the mix. You know much about chemistry?”

“Do I have to?”

“If more people understood—”

“Dr. Engrave, I want to understand murder. You tell me what it is, and let me go from there.”

“Impatience is another problem with people today,” Engrave huffed, then took out a small covered dish. Inside were a few drops of milky liquid. “Since you don’t give a rat’s skinny ass, I won’t tell you what I did. We’ll leave it that I ran some tests, did some basic chemistry, and separated your unknown.”

“Is that it?”

“In its liquid form, yes. I bet your lab tech told you it was some form of a valarian—southwest U.S. native species.”

Eve looked over. “And?”

“He’d be close, but no cigar. It’s a plant, all right, and valarian was used in the grafting of the specimen. This is nectar, the substance that seduces the birds and bees and makes the world go round. This nectar is not from any native species.”

“Not native to the U.S.”

“Not native anywhere. Period.” She reached over, picked up a potted plant, and set it down with a thud. “This is your baby.”

“It’s pretty,” Peabody said, leaning closer to the lush frilled-edged blooms that varied from creamy white to royal purple. She sniffed, closed her eyes, and sniffed deeper. “God, it’s wonderful. It’s like . . .” Her head swam. “Strong.”

“You bet your ass it’s strong. That’s enough or you’ll be buzzed for an hour.” Engrave shoved the plant clear.

“Peabody?” Eve took her arm, shook. “Snap out of it.”

“It’s like taking a full glass of champagne in one gulp.” She pressed a hand to her temple. “It’s wonderful.”

“An experimental hybrid,” Engrave explained. “Code name Immortal Blossom. This one is fourteen months old, and it’s never stopped blooming. They were grafted in the Eden Colony.”

“Sit down, Peabody. The nectar from this is what we’re looking for?”

“By itself the nectar is potent and causes a reaction in bees not unlike drunkenness. They have the same sort of reaction to overripe fruit, windfall peaches for example, where the juice is highly concentrated. Unless the intake is controlled, it’s been found that the bees OD on the nectar. They just can’t get enough of it.”

“Addicted bees?”

“You could say that. Basically, they don’t want to go fucking the other flowers because they’re so seduced by this one. Your lab didn’t hook into it because the hybrid’s on the horticultural colonies’ restricted list, and puts it under Galactic Customs’ jurisdiction. The colony is working to alleviate this problem with the nectar, as it puts a world of hurt on the potential for export.”

“So the Immortal Blossom is a controlled specimen.”

“For the moment. There are some medicinal uses, and particularly cosmetic ones. Ingestion of the nectar can cause a luminescence to the skin, a rejuvenation of elasticity, and an appearance of youth.”

“But it’s poison. Long-term use undermines the nervous system. Our lab confirmed that.”

“So’s arsenic, but fine ladies once took it in small doses to make their skin whiter, clearer. Beauty and youth are desperate matters for some.” Engrave shrugged her bony shoulders in dismissal. “In combination with the other elements in this formula, this nectar is an activator. The result is a highly addictive chemical that causes increased energy and strength, sexual desire, and the feeling of renewed youth. And since uncontrolled, these hybrids will propagate like rabbits, it has the potential to be produced cheaply and in great bulk.”

“They’ll propagate in on planet conditions?”

“Absolutely. The Eden Colony produces vegetation, flora, and plant life for on planet conditions.”

“So you get a few plants,” Eve mused. “A lab, the other chemicals.”

“And you’ve got yourself an illegal with mass appeal. Pay up,” Engrave said with a sour smile, “be strong, be beautiful, be young and sexy. Whoever came up with this formula knew his chemistry and his human nature and understands the beauty of profit.”

“Fatal beauty.”

“Oh sure, four to six years of regular use will take you down. Your nervous system will just give out. But in four to six years, you’ll have a hell of a time, and somebody’s going to make big, fat credits.”

“How do you know so much about this—what, Immortal Blossom—if its cultivation is limited to the Eden Colony?”

“Because I’m the top in my field, I do my homework, and my daughter happens to be head beekeeper on Eden. A licensed lab, such as this, or a horticulture expert can, with limitations, import a specimen.”

“You mean we’ve already got some of these down here, on planet?”

“Mostly replicas, harmless simulations, but some of the genuine article. Regulated—for indoor, controlled use only. Now, I’ve got roses to graft. Take the report and the two samples to your bright boys at Cop Central. If they can put it all together from that, they ought to be hanged anyway.”

“You all right, Peabody?” Cautious, Eve kept a firm hand on Peabody’s arm as she opened the car door.

“Yeah, just really relaxed.”

“Too relaxed to drive,” Eve noted. “I was going to have you drop me off at the florist. Plan B, we swing by and get you something to eat to counteract your flower sniffing, then you take the samples and Engrave’s report by the lab.”

“Dallas.” Peabody let her head rest against the seat back. “I really feel wonderful.”

Cautious, Eve eyed her. “You’re not going to kiss me or anything?”

Peabody slanted her a look. “You’re not my type. Anyway, I don’t feel particularly sexy. Just good. If taking that stuff is anything like smelling that flower, people are going to go crazy for it.”

“Yeah. Someone’s already gone crazy enough to kill three people.”

Eve dashed into the florist shop. She had twenty minutes on the outside if she was going to track down her other suspects, badger them, get back to the station to file her report, and make the press conference.

She spotted Roarke loitering near a display of small, flowering trees.

“Our floral consultant is waiting for us.”

“Sorry.” She wondered why anyone would want trees that were less than a foot tall. They made her feel like a freak. “I’m backed up.”

“I just walked in myself. Was Dr. Engrave helpful?”

“And then some. She’s quite a character.” She followed him under a trellis of fragrant vines. “I got a load of Anna- 6.”

“Ah, the Anna line. I think it’s going to be a hit.”

“Especially with teenage boys.”

Roarke laughed and urged her through. “Mark, this is my fiancée, Eve Dallas.”

“Ah, yes.” He looked like everyone’s favorite uncle when he extended a hand, and his grip was like an arm wrestler’s on a dare. “Let’s see what we can do for you. Weddings are such a complicated business, and you haven’t left me much time.”

“He didn’t give me a hell of a lot, either.”

Mark laughed, patted his silvery hair. “Sit, relax, have a little tea. I have a great deal to show you.”

She didn’t mind really, Eve decided. She liked flowers. She just hadn’t known there were so damn many of them. And after five minutes, her head began to swim with orchids and lilies, roses and gardenias.

“Simple,” Roarke decided. “Traditional. No simulations.”

“Yes, of course. I have some holograms that may spark some ideas. You’re having it outdoors, so I might suggest arbors, wisteria. Very traditional, and with a lovely, old-fashioned fragrance.”

Eve studied the holograms, tried to envision herself standing under an arbor with Roarke, exchanging vows. Her stomach jittered. “What about petunias?”

Mark blinked. “Petunias?”

“I like petunias. They’re simple, and they don’t pretend to be what they’re not.”

“Yes, certainly. Quite charming. Perhaps backed with a bank of lilies. As to color . . . ”

“Do you carry Immortal Blossoms?” she asked on impulse.

“Immortals.” Mark’s eyes brightened. “They’re quite a specialty item. Difficult to import, of course, but very hardy and spectacular in baskets. I have several simulations.”

“We don’t want simulations,” Eve reminded him.

“I’m afraid they can only be exported in small amounts, and then only to licensed florists and horticulturists. And only for indoor use. As your ceremony is outdoors—”

“Do you sell many?”

“Very rarely, and only to other licensed horticulture experts. I do have something just as lovely—”

“You have records of those sales? Can you get me a list of names? You’re on the net for world delivery, aren’t you?”

“Naturally, but—”

“I need to know everyone who ordered Immortals during the past two years.”

When Mark sent him a baffled look, Roarke ran his tongue around his teeth. “My fiancée is an avid gardener.”

“Yes, I see. It may take a few moments to access. You want everyone.”

“Everyone who placed an order to the Eden Colony for Immortals during the last two years. You can start with the States.”

“If you’ll just wait then, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I like the arbor idea,” Eve announced, springing up when Mark left them. “Don’t you?”

Roarke rose, put his hands on her shoulders. “Why don’t you let me handle the floral arrangements? I’ll surprise you.”

“I’ll owe you one.”

“Indeed you will. You can start paying me back by remembering we’re attending Leonardo’s showing on Friday.”

“I knew that.”

“And by remembering to access your three weeks’ leave for our honeymoon.”

“I thought we said two.”

“We did. Now you owe me one. Would you like to tell me why you have this sudden fascination with a flower from the Eden Colony? Or do I just assume that you found your unknown.”

“It’s the nectar. It does a lot to tie the three homicides together. If I can just get a break.”

“I hope this is what you’re looking for.” Mark came back in with a sheet of paper. “It wasn’t as difficult as I’d feared. There haven’t been many orders for Immortals. Most importers are satisfied with simulations. There are a few problems with the actual specimen.”

“Thank you.” Eve took the page, skimmed down the list. “Gotcha,” she murmured then whirled to Roarke. “I have to go. Buy lots of flowers, boatloads of flowers. Don’t forget the petunias.” She charged out, pulling her communicator. “Peabody.”

“But—but the bouquet. The bridal bouquet.” Confused, Mark turned to Roarke. “She hasn’t chosen.”

Roarke watched her fly out. “I know what she likes,” he said. “Often better than she does.”

chapter fifteen

“Nice to have you back, Mr. Redford.”

“This is becoming an unfortunate habit, Lieutenant.” Redford took his seat at the interview table. “I’m expected in New Los Angeles in a few hours. I trust you won’t inconvenience me long.”

“I believe in backing up my data. Wouldn’t want anything or anyone to slip through the cracks.”

She glanced toward the corner where Peabody stood, looking her officious best in full uniform. On the other side of the glass, Eve knew, Whitney and the prosecutor watched every move. She nailed it down here, or very likely, she’d be nailed herself.

She took her seat, nodded to the hologram of Redford’s chosen counsel. Obviously, neither Redford nor his attorney believed the situation was serious enough to warrant an in-the-flesh representation. “Counselor, you have the transcript of your client’s statements?”

“I do.” The pinstriped, tough-eyed image folded his manicured hands. “My client has cooperated fully with you and your department, Lieutenant. We agree to this interview only to finalize the matter.”

You agreed to it because you don’t have a choice, she thought, but kept her face bland. “Your cooperation is noted, Mr. Redford. You have stated that you were acquainted with Pandora, that you had a casual and intimate relationship.”

“That’s correct.”

“Were you also involved in any business dealings with her?”

“I produced two direct-to-home screen videos in which Pandora played a part. Another was under consideration.”

“Were these projects successful?”

“Moderately.”

“And outside of these projects, did you have any other business dealings with the deceased?”

“None.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Other than a small speculative investment.”

“A small speculative investment?”

“She claimed to have been laying groundwork for her own fashion and beauty line. Of course, she needed backers and I was intrigued enough to invest.”

“You gave her money?”

“Yes, over the course of the last year and a half, I invested just over three hundred thousand.”

Found a way to cover your ass, Eve noted, and leaned back in her chair. “What’s the status of this fashion and beauty line you claim the deceased was implementing?”

“It has no status, Lieutenant.” He lifted his hands, let them fall. “I was duped. It wasn’t until after her death that I discovered there was no line, no other backers, no product.”

“I see. You’re a successful producer, a money man. You must have asked her for a prospectus, figures, expenses, projected earnings. Perhaps a sample of the products.”

“No.” His mouth tightened as he looked down at his hands. “I did not.”

“You expect me to believe that you just handed her money for a projected line you had no information on?”

“It’s embarrassing.” He lifted his eyes again. “I have a reputation in the business, and if this information gets out, that reputation would certainly suffer.”

“Lieutenant,” the counselor interrupted. “My client’s reputation is a valuable asset. This asset will be damaged if this data goes beyond the parameters of this investigation. I can and will secure a gag order on this portion of his statement to protect his interests.”

“Go right ahead. This is quite a story, Mr. Redford. Now, do you want to tell me why a man with your reputation, your assets, would commit three hundred thousand dollars to an investment that didn’t exist?”

“Pandora was a persuasive woman, a beautiful one. She was also clever. She skirted around my request for projections and figures. I justified the continued payments because I felt she was an expert in the field.”

“And you didn’t learn of her duplicity until after her death.”

“I made some inquiries—contacted her business agent, her representative.” He puffed out his cheeks and nearly succeeded in looking sheepish. “No one knew anything about the line.”

“When did you make these inquiries?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. “This afternoon.”

“After our interview? After I questioned you on the payments?”

“That’s correct. I wanted to insure there was no mix-up of any kind before I answered your questions. On advice of counsel, I contacted Pandora’s people and discovered I’d been conned.”

“Your timing is . . . very skillful. Do you have any hobbies, Mr. Redford?”

“Hobbies?”

“A man with your type of high-pressure job, your . . . assets, must need some sort of release. Stamp collecting, computer doodling, gardening.”

“Lieutenant,” the counselor said with weariness. “The relevance?”

“I’m interested in your client’s leisure time. We’ve established how he spends his business time. Perhaps you speculate on investments as a release valve.”

“No, Pandora was my first mistake and will be my last. I don’t have time for hobbies, or the inclination for them.”

“I know what you mean. I had someone tell me today that more people should plant petunias. I can’t imagine spending time digging in dirt and fussing with flowers. Not that I don’t like them. You like flowers?”

“They have their place. That’s why I have a staff to deal with them.”

“But you’re a licensed horticulturist.”

“I—”

“You applied for a license and were granted one three months ago. Just about the time you made a payment to Jerry Fitzgerald in the amount of a hundred and twenty-five thousand. And two days before, you placed an order for an Immortal Blossom from the Eden Colony.”

“My client’s interest in flora has no relevance in this matter.”

“It has plenty,” Eve shot back, “and this is an interview, not a trial. I don’t need relevance. Why did you want an Immortal?”

“I—it was a gift. For Pandora.”

“You went to the considerable time, trouble, and expense to secure a license, then purchased a controlled species at considerably more expense, as a gift for a woman you occasionally had sex with. A woman who over the last eighteen months bled you for over three hundred thousand dollars.”

“That was an investment. This was a gift.”

“This is bullshit. Save your objections, Counselor, they’re duly noted. Where’s the flower now?”

“In New L.A.”

“Officer Peabody, arrange to confiscate.”

“Now, just a damn minute.” Redford scraped back his chair. “That’s my property, paid for.”

“You falsified data on your license. You illegally purchased a controlled species. It will be confiscated, and you will be charged appropriately. Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.” Smothering a smirk, Peabody took out her communicator and made the contact.

“This is obvious harassment.” The counselor scowled. “And these petty charges are ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started. You knew about the Immortal Blossom, knew it was a necessary element to create the drug. Pandora was going to make big money on that drug. Was she trying to cut you out?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did she turn you on to it, give you enough tastes to addict? Maybe she held it back then, until you wanted to beg for it. Until you wanted to kill her.”

“I never touched it,” Redford exploded.

“But you knew about it. You knew she had it. And there were ways of getting more. Did you decide to cut her out instead? Bring Jerry in? You bought the plant. We’ll find out if you had the substance analyzed. With the plant, you could manufacture your own. You wouldn’t need her. You couldn’t control her, either, could you? She’d want more money, more of the drug. You found out it was fatal, but why wait five years? With her out of the way, you’d have a clear field.”

“I didn’t kill her. I was through with her, I had no reason to kill her.”

“You went to her house that night. You went to bed with her. She had the drug. Did she taunt you with it? You’d already killed twice to protect yourself and your investment, but she was still in the way.”

“I killed no one.”

She let him shout, let the counselor spout his objections and threats. “Did you follow her to Leonardo’s that night, or did you take her?”

“I was never there. I never touched her. If I was going to kill her, I’d have done it in her own house when she threatened me.”

“Paul—”

“Shut up, just shut up,” Redford spat at his counsel. “She’s trying to pin murder on me, for Christ’s sake. I argued with her. She wanted more money, a lot more money. She made sure I saw her supply of the drug, how much she had at her personal disposal. It was worth a fortune. But I’d already had it analyzed. I didn’t need her, and I told her so. I had Jerry to endorse the line when it was ready. She was furious, threatened to ruin me, to kill me. It gave me great pleasure to walk out on her.”

“You planned to manufacture and distribute the illegal yourself?”

“As a topical,” he said, dabbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “Once it was ready. It was irresistible. The money. Her threats meant nothing, do you understand? She couldn’t ruin me without ruining herself. And that, she would never do. I was finished with her. And when I heard she was dead, I opened a bottle of champagne and toasted her killer.”

“Very nice. Now let’s start again.”

After Eve turned Redford over to booking, she stepped into the commander’s office.

“Excellent work, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d rather be booking him for murder than drug charges.”

“That may come.”

“I’m counting on it. Prosecutor.”

“Lieutenant.” He’d risen when she’d come in, and continued to stand. His manners were well known in and out of the courtroom. Even when he went in for the kill, he did so with panache. “I admire your interview techniques. I’d love to have you on the witness stand in this matter, but I don’t believe it will come to trial. Mr. Redford’s attorney has already contacted my office. We’ll negotiate.”

“And on the murder?”

“We don’t have enough to tie him. No physical evidence,” he went on before she could protest. “And motive . . . you’ve proven he had the means to his end before her death. It’s still more than possible that he’s guilty, but we have quite a bit more work to do to justify charges.”

“You justified charging Mavis Freestone.”

“On overwhelming evidence,” he reminded her.

“You know she didn’t do it, Prosecutor. You know that the three victims in this matter are tied together.” She looked toward Casto who lounged in a chair. “Illegals knows it.”

“I have to go with the lieutenant on this,” Casto drawled. “We’ve investigated the aspect of Freestone being involved with the substance known as Immortality, found no connection between her and the drug or either of the other victims. She had some splotches on her record, but they’re old, and minor. You ask me, the lady was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He offered Eve a smile. “I have to throw my weight with Dallas and recommend the charges against Mavis Freestone be dropped pending further investigation.”

“Your recommendation is noted, Lieutenant,” the prosecutor said. “The prosecutor’s office will take it into consideration as we review all current data. At this point, our belief that these three homicides are linked still falls short of solid proof. Our office is, however, willing to agree to Ms. Freestone’s representative’s recent request for testing, re truth detection, auto hypnosis, and VR recreation. The results will weigh heavily in our decision.”

Eve let out a long, slow breath. It was a concession, and a big one. “Thank you.”

“We’re on the same team, Lieutenant. And now we’d all best keep that in mind and coordinate our stand before this press conference.”

As they prepped, Eve moved over to Casto. “I appreciate what you did.”

He shrugged it off. “It was my professional opinion. I hope it helps your friend. Ask me, Redford’s guilty as homemade sin. Either he whacked them himself or paid to have it done.”

She wanted to latch onto that, but shook her head slowly. “Professional hits. Seems sloppy for pros, too personal. Still, thanks for adding the weight.”

“You can consider it payback if you want for handing me one of the biggest illegals cases of the decade. Once we clean it up and go public with the Immortality drug and the busts, I’m going to get me a set of captain’s bars.”

“Then congratulations in advance.”

“I’d say that goes for both of us. You’re going to nail down these homicides, Eve, then we’ll both be sitting pretty.”

“I’ll nail them down all right.” She lifted a brow when he brushed a hand over her hair.

“I like it.” With a quick smile he tucked his hands in his pockets. “You damned sure you gotta get married?”

Angling her head, she smiled back. “I hear you’re having dinner with Peabody.”

“She’s a jewel, all right. I’ve got a weakness for strong women, Eve, and you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little disappointed in the timing here.”

“Why don’t I try to be flattered instead?” She caught Whitney’s signal and sighed. “Oh hell, here we go.”

“Makes you feel like a big meaty bone, don’t it?” Casto murmured as the doors opened to a horde of reporters.

They got through it, and Eve would have considered it a good day’s work if Nadine hadn’t ambushed her in the underground lot.

“This area’s off limits to unauthorized personnel.”

“Give me a break, Dallas.” Still lounging on the hood of Eve’s car, Nadine grinned. “How about a lift?”

“Channel 75’s out of my way.” When Nadine only continued to smile, Eve swore and uncoded the doors. “Get in.”

“You look good,” Nadine said casually. “Who’s the stylist?”

“Friend of a friend. I’m tired of talking about my hair, Nadine.”

“Okay, let’s talk about murder, drugs, and money.”

“I just spent forty-five minutes talking about that.” Eve flashed her badge at the security camera and bumped out to the street. “I believe you were there.”

“What I saw was a lot of dancing and dodging. What’s that squeaking noise?”

“My well-tuned vehicle.”

“Oh yeah, you got hit with budget cuts again, didn’t you? Damn shame. Anyway, what’s this business about a new line of inquiry?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that aspect of the ongoing investigation.”

“Uh-huh. What’s this buzz about Paul Redford?”

“Redford has, as stated in the press conference, been charged with fraud, possessing a controlled specimen, and intent to manufacture and distribute an illegal.”

“And where does that tie to Pandora’s murder?”

“I’m not at liberty to—”

“All right, shit.” Nadine flopped back in the seat, scowled at the traffic clogging the roadway. “How about a trade?”

“Maybe. You first.”

“I want an exclusive interview with Mavis Freestone.”

Eve didn’t bother to answer. She just snorted.

“Come on, Dallas, let her tell her side of it to the public.”

“Screw the public.”

“Can I quote you? You and Roarke have her surrounded. Nobody can get to her. You know I’ll be fair.”

“Yeah, we have her surrounded. No, no one can or will get to her. And you’d probably be fair, but she’s not talking to the media.”

“Is that her decision, or yours?”

“Back off, Nadine, unless you want to try public transportation from here.”

“Just relay my request. That’s all I’m asking, Dallas. Just let her know I’m interested in letting her tell her story on air.”

“Fine, now change the channel.”

“All right. I got an interesting little tidbit from the gossip station anchor this afternoon.”

“And you know how I live to hear the details of the lives of the rich and ridiculous.”

“Dallas, face it, you’re about to become one of them.” At Eve’s furious grimace, Nadine laughed. “Christ, I love needling you. It’s so easy. Anyway, word is that the hot couple of the last couple months is split city.”

“I’m agog.”

“You may be when I tell you that hot couple consists of Jerry Fitzgerald and Justin Young.”

Eve’s interest level rose enough to have her reconsidering swinging into a bus stop and ditching her passenger. “Do tell.”

“There was a very public scene today at the rehearsal for Leonardo’s showing. Apparently our lovebirds got physical. Blows were exchanged.”

“They hit each other?”

“More than love taps, according to my source. Jerry retired to her dressing room. She has the star’s dressing room now, by the way, and Justin left in a huff and with a puffy eye. A few hours later, he was in Maui, partying with another blonde. Also a model. A younger model.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“No one’s sure. Sex is thought to have reared its ugly head. She accused him of cheating on her, he did the same. She wasn’t going to stand for it. Neither was he. She didn’t need him anymore, he didn’t need her right back.”

“That’s interesting, Nadine, but it doesn’t mean anything.” But the timing, Eve thought. Oh, the timing.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. But it’s funny, people in the public eye like that, both of them media personalities losing it in front of an audience. I’d have to say they were pretty wired up or putting on a hell of a show.”

“Like I said, it’s interesting.” Eve pulled up at the security gates of Channel 75. “This is your stop.”

“You could take me to the door.”

“Take a tram, Nadine.”

“Listen, you know you’re going to look into what I just told you, so how about matching some data. Dallas, you and I have a history here.”

That was true enough. “Nadine, things are balanced on a very thin line right now. I can’t afford to tip it.”

“I won’t go on air with anything until you give me the go ahead.”

Eve hesitated, then shook her head. “I can’t. Mavis is too important to me. Until she’s in the clear, solid, I can’t risk it.”

“Is she heading toward the clear? Come on, Dallas.”

“Off the record, the prosecutor’s office is reconsidering the charges. But they’re not dropping them, not yet.”

“Have you got another suspect? Redford? Is he your new prime?”

“Don’t push me on this, Nadine. You’re almost a friend.”

“Hell. Let’s do this. If anything I’ve told you, or pass on later regarding this adds to your case, you pay back.”

“I’ll feed you, Nadine, as soon as it’s cleared.”

“I want a one-on-one with you, ten minutes before any info hits the media.”

Eve leaned over, opened Nadine’s door. “See you.”

“Five minutes. Goddamn it, Dallas. Five lousy minutes.”

Which meant, Eve knew, hundreds of ratings points and thousands of dollars. “I can do five—if and when. I can’t promise you more.”

“It’ll be when.” Satisfied, Nadine got out, then leaned on the door. “You know, Dallas, you just don’t miss. It’ll be when. You’ve got a knack for the dead and the innocent.”

The dead and the innocent, Eve thought with a shudder as she drove away. She knew that too many of the dead were the guilty.

There was moonlight drizzling through the sky window over the bed when Roarke shifted away from Eve. It was a new experience for him, the nerves before, during, after lovemaking. There were dozens of reasons, or so he told himself as she curled against him, as was her habit. The house was full of people. Leonardo’s motley team had taken over an entire wing with their mania. He had several projects and deals at varying stages of development, business he was determined to close before the wedding.

There was the wedding itself. Surely a man was entitled to be a bit distracted at such a time.

But he was, at least with himself, a brutally honest man. There was only one reason for the nerves. That was the image that continually leapt into his mind of Eve, battered and bloodied and broken.

And the terror that by touching her he might bring it all back, turn something beautiful into the beastly.

Beside him she stirred, then pushed herself up to look down at him. Her face was still flushed, her eyes dark. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to you.”

He trailed a finger along her jaw. “About?”

“I’m not fragile. There’s no reason for you to treat me as if I’m wounded.”

His brows drew together, the annoyance self-directed. He hadn’t realized he was that transparent, even with her. And the sensation didn’t sit well. “I don’t know what you mean.” He started to get up, with the idea of pouring a drink he didn’t want, but she took a firm grip on his arm.

“Avoidance isn’t your usual style, Roarke.” It worried her. “If your feelings have changed because of what I did, what I remembered—”

“Don’t be insulting.” He snapped it out, and the temper kindling in his eyes was a great relief to her.

“What am I supposed to think? This is the first time you’ve touched me since that night. It was more like nursing than—”

“You have a problem with tenderness?”

He was clever, she thought. Calm or aroused, he knew how to turn things to his own favor. She kept her hand on his arm, her eyes level with his. “Do you think I can’t tell you’re holding back? I don’t want you to hold back. I’m fine.”

“I’m not.” He jerked his arm free. “I’m not. Some of us are a little more human, need a little more time. Leave it alone.”

His words were a sharp slap on a naked cheek. She nodded once, slid down into bed, and turned away from him. “All right. But what happened to me when I was a child wasn’t sex. It was an obscenity.” She closed her eyes tight and willed herself to sleep.

chapter sixteen

When her ’link beeped, it was barely dawn. Eyes still closed, Eve reached out. “Block video. Dallas.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Dispatch. Probable homicide, male, rear of 19 One hundred eighth Street. Proceed immediately.”

Nerves churned in Eve’s stomach. She wasn’t on rotation, shouldn’t have been called. “Cause of death?”

“Apparent beating. Victim not yet identified due to facial injuries.”

“Acknowledged. Goddamn it.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and blinked when she saw Roarke was already up and getting dressed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to a murder scene.”

“You’re a civilian. You don’t have any business at a murder scene.”

He merely shot her a look as she tugged on jeans. “Your vehicle is in repair, Lieutenant.” He had some small satisfaction of hearing her mutter oaths as she remembered. “I’ll drive you. Drop you,” he qualified. “On my way to the office.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged on her weapon harness.

It was a miserable neighborhood. Several buildings were decorated with vicious graffiti, broken glass, and the tattered signs the city used to condemn them. Of course, people still lived in them, huddled in filthy rooms, avoiding the patrols, blissing out on whatever substance offered the most kick.

There were neighborhoods like it all over the world, Roarke thought as he stood in the thin sunlight behind the police barricade. He had grown up in one not so different, though it had been three thousand miles across the Atlantic.

He understood the life here, the despair, the deals, just as he understood the violence that had led to the result Eve was even now examining.

As he watched her, along with the derelicts, the sleepy street whores, the miserably curious, he realized he understood her as well.

Her movements were brisk, her face impassive. But there was pity in her eyes as they studied what had once been a man. She was, he thought, capable, strong, and resilient. Whatever wounds she had, she would live with. She didn’t need him to heal, but to accept.

“Not your usual milieu, Roarke.”

Roarke glanced down as Feeney stepped up beside him. “I’ve been to worse.”

“Haven’t we all.” Feeney sighed and took a wrapped Danish out of his pocket. “Breakfast?”

“I’ll pass. You go ahead.”

Feeney downed the pastry in three whopping bites. “Better go see what our girl’s up to.” He walked through the barricade, tapping his chest where his badge was fixed to settle the nervous uniforms guarding the scene.

“Lucky the media hasn’t come in yet,” he commented.

Eve flicked a glance up. “Not much interest in a murder in this neighborhood—at least not until the how leaks.” Her clear-coated hands were already smeared with blood as she knelt beside the body. “Got the pictures?” At the nod from the video tech, she slid her hands under the body. “Let’s turn him over, Feeney.”

He’d fallen, or had been left facedown, and had leaked a great deal of blood and brains from the fist-sized hole in the back of his head. The flip side wasn’t any prettier.

“No ID,” Eve reported. “Peabody’s inside the building doing door to door, see if we can come up with anyone who knows him or saw anything.”

Feeney shifted his gaze to the rear of the building. There were a couple of windows, filthy glass heavily grilled. He skimmed the concrete yard where they crouched. There was a recycler, broken, a grab bag of garbage, junk, rusted metal.

“Not much of a view,” he commented. “We tag him yet?”

“I took prints. One of the uniforms is running them now. Weapon’s already bagged. Iron pipe tossed under the recycler.” Eyes narrowed, she studied the body. “He didn’t leave a weapon with Boomer or Hetta Moppett. It’s obvious why he left one at Leonardo’s. Now he’s playing with us, Feeney, tossing it where a blind frog would hop to it. What do you make of this guy?” She snapped a finger under a wide, neon-pink suspender.

Feeney grunted. The corpse was decked out in full fashion. Pegged knee shorts in rainbow stripes, moon glow T-shirt, expensive beaded sandals.

“Had money to waste on bad clothes.” Feeney studied the building again. “If he lived here, he wasn’t putting it into real estate.”

“Dealer,” Eve decided. “Midlevel. You live here because your business is here.” She rose, smearing blood from her hands onto her jeans, as a uniform approached.

“Got a match, Lieutenant. Victim is ID’d as Lamont Ro, aka Cockroach. He’s got a long sheet. Mostly under Illegals. Possession, manufacturing with intent, a couple of assaults.”

“Anybody use him? He weasel for anyone?”

“That data didn’t come up.”

She glanced at Feeney who acknowledged the silent request with a grunt. He’d dig and find out. “Okay, let’s bag him and ship him. I want a tox report. Let the sweepers in here.”

Her gaze skimmed the scene again and landed on Roarke. “I need a ride, Feeney.”

“Can do.”

“I’ll just be a minute.” She headed to the barricade. “I thought you were going to the office.”

“I am. Are you done here?”

“A few more things. I can catch a ride with Feeney.”

“You’re looking for the same murderer here.”

She started to tell him that was police business, then shrugged. The media would have its greedy hands on it within the hour. “Seeing as his face has been turned into jelly, it’s a pretty good bet. I’ve got to—”

She whirled around at the screams. Long, screeching wails that could have drilled holes in steel. She saw the woman, big, naked but for a pair of red panties, burst out of the building. She mowed over two uniforms who’d been sipping coffee, bowled them down like duckpins and streaked toward what was left of Cockroach.

“Oh, fucking A,” Eve muttered and raced to intercept. Less than a yard from the body, she leaped and took the woman down in a flying tackle that had them both making painful acquaintance with the concrete.

“That’s my man.” The woman flopped like a two-hundred-pound fish, beat at Eve with meaty hands. “That’s my man, you cop bitch.”

In the interest of order, of preserving the scene, and of self-preservation, Eve brought her fist up hard under the woman’s pudgy jaw.

“Lieutenant. You all right, Lieutenant?” Both uniforms reached down to help Eve off the unconscious woman. “Jesus, she came out of nowhere. Sorry—”

“Sorry?” Jerking away, Eve scalded them both. “Sorry? You miserable brain-dead assholes. Another two seconds, and she’d have contaminated the scene. Next time you’re assigned to something bigger than traffic detail, you keep your stupid hands off your dicks. Now, see if you can manage to call the MTs and have them take a look at that idiot woman. Then you get her some clothes and take her into holding. Can you handle that?”

She didn’t bother to wait for an answer but started limping off. Her jeans were torn, her own blood mixing with the dead man’s, and her eyes were still flashing when they met Roarke’s. “What the hell are you grinning at?”

“It’s always a delight to watch you work, Lieutenant.” Abruptly, he caught her face in his hands and crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss potent enough to stagger her back on her heels. “No holding back,” he said as she blinked at him. “Have the MT’s take a look at you, too.”

It was several hours later when she received the summons to Whitney’s office. With Peabody beside her, Eve took the sky-walk.

“I’m sorry, Dallas. She shouldn’t have gotten past me.”

“Jesus, Peabody, let it go. You were in another part of the building when she made her run.”

“I should have realized one of the other tenants would inform her.”

“Yeah, we all need to keep our crystal ball polished. Look, the upshot is, she didn’t do any more than put another couple dents in me. Casto call in yet?”

“He’s still in the field.”

“Is he still in your fields?”

Peabody’s mouth twitched. “We were together last night. We were just going to have dinner, but one thing led to another. I swear, I haven’t slept like that since I was a kid. Who knew great sex was such a terrific soother.”

“I could have told you.”

“Anyway, he got a call just after mine came in. My take is, he’ll know who the victim is, maybe be able to help.”

Eve grunted. They weren’t kept waiting in Whitney’s outer office, but shown straight in. He pointed to chairs. “Lieutenant, I realize your written report is on the way, but I prefer a verbal rundown on this latest homicide.”

“Yes, sir.” She relayed the address and description of the murder scene, the name and description of the victim, along with details of the weapon found, the wounds, the ME’s determination of time of death. “Peabody’s initial door to door didn’t turn up anything useful, but we will follow that up with a second pass. The woman who was living with the victim was of some help.”

Whitney lifted his brows. Eve was still wearing her stained shirt and torn jeans. “I’m told you had a bit of trouble there.”

“Nothing to speak of.” Eve had already decided the tongue lashing she’d given would do. There was no need to layer on punishment with official reprimands. “She’s a former licensed street companion. Didn’t have the credits to renew. She’s also a user. By applying a little pressure in that area, we were able to get her to tell us something of the victim’s movements last night. According to her statement, they were together in the apartment until about oh one hundred. They’d had some wine and a little Exotica. He claimed he had to go, had a deal to close. She took some Download, passed out. As the ME puts the time of death at approximately oh two hundred in his prelim, it jibes.

“Evidence indicates the victim was killed where he was found early this morning. It also strongly indicates that the victim was taken out by the same person who killed Moppett, Boomer, and Pandora.”

She took time for a breath and continued to speak formally. “Mavis Freestone’s movements during the time of this murder can be accounted for by the primary and others.”

Whitney said nothing for a moment, but kept his eyes on Eve’s face. “This office does not believe that Mavis Freestone is in any way connected with this murder, nor does the office of the prosecuting attorney. I have Dr. Mira’s preliminary analysis of Ms. Freestone’s testing.”

“Testing?” Formality forgotten, Eve sprang up. “What do you mean her testing? That wasn’t scheduled until Monday.”

“It was rescheduled,” Whitney said calmly. “And has been completed as of thirteen hundred hours.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Uncomfortable memories of her own experiences with Testing roiled in her stomach. “I should have been there.”

“It was in the best interest of all parties involved that you were not.” He held up a hand. “Before you lose your temper and risk insubordination, let me tell you that Dr. Mira clearly states in her report that Ms. Freestone passed all testing. The truth detector indicates her veracity in her statements. As to the other elements, Dr. Mira feels that the subject is highly unlikely to have exhibited the extreme violence with which Pandora was killed. Leaving out the hundred-credit words, Dr. Mira recommends the charges against Ms. Freestone be dropped.”

“Dropped.” The backs of Eve’s eyes burned as she sat again. “When?”

“The prosecutor’s office is taking Dr. Mira’s report under advisement. Unofficially, I can tell you that unless other data come to light that disproves her analysis, the charges will be withdrawn on Monday.” He watched Eve block most of a shudder, approved her control. “The physical evidence is strong, but outweighed at this point by Mira’s report and the evidence gathered in the investigation of the allegedly connected deaths.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t clear her, Dallas, nor have you, but you’ve come damn close. Get the bastard, and soon.”

“I intend to.” Her communicator beeped. She waited for Whitney’s nod before she answered. “Dallas.”

“Got your damn rush order.” Dickie scowled at her. “Like I got nothing else to do.”

“Whine later. What have we got?”

“Your latest corpse had a nice ride on Immortality before he bought it. Just before, is my guess. Don’t think he had time to enjoy it.”

“Transmit the report to my office,” she said and cut him off before he could complain. She was smiling as she rose this time. “I have this thing I have to go to tonight, and I think I might be able to tie a few things up.”

Chaos, panic, and tattered nerves seemed to be as much a part of a high-fashion runway show as needle-thin models and glitzy fabrics. It was intriguing and amusing to watch the players assume their roles. The pouty-lipped mannequin who found fault with every accessory, the rabbit-paced dresser who wore glinting needles and pins in a tuft of her hair, the stylist who swept down on models like a soldier pumped for battle, and the hapless creator of all the glitz who stood by amid the swirl, wringing his huge hands.

“We’re running behind. We’re running behind. I need Lissa out in the cotton swirler in two minutes. The music’s on pace, but we’re running behind.”

“She’ll be there. Jesus, Leonardo, get a grip.”

It took Eve a moment to recognize the stylist. Trina’s hair was in sharp ebony spikes that could gouge an eye at three paces. But the voice gave her away, and Eve watched, letting herself be elbowed back by another frantic dresser as Trina glopped something that looked distressingly like come onto a streaked mane before squishing it into a smooth cone shape.

“What are you doing there?” A man with owl eyes and a knee-length cape bore down on Eve like a snapping terrier. “Get out of those clothes, for God’s sake. Don’t you know Hugo’s out front?”

“Who’s Hugo?”

The man made a sound like escaping gas and reached out to tug off Eve’s T-shirt.

“Hey, buddy, you want to keep those fingers?” She smacked them away and glowered at him.

“Get naked, get naked. We’re running out of time.”

Threats made no dent and he snatched at the snap of her jeans. She considered decking him, then pulled out her shield instead. “You can back off, or I can haul your ass in for assaulting an officer.”

“What are you doing here? We have our license. We paid our revenue. Leonardo, there’s a cop here. I simply can’t be expected to deal with police.”

“Dallas.” Mavis hurried over, varicolored fabric draped over her arm. “You’re really in the way here. Why aren’t you out front? Christ, why are you still dressed like that?”

“I didn’t have time to go back and change.” Absently Eve tugged at her stained shirt. “Are you all right? I didn’t know they’d rescheduled your tests, or I’d have been there.”

“I got through it. Dr. Mira was mag, but let’s just say I’m glad it’s over. I don’t want to talk about it,” she said quickly, and looked around the disordered and crowded space. “At least not now.”

“Okay. I want to see Jerry Fitzgerald.”

“Now? The show’s already started. It’s timed down to the last microsecond.” With the skill of a veteran, Mavis swayed out of the path of a pair of long-legged models. “She has to concentrate, Dallas. This pace is murder.” Cocking her head, she tuned into the music. “Her next cue is in less than four minutes.”

“Then I won’t keep her long. Where?”

“Dallas, Leonardo is—”

“Where, Mavis?”

“Back there.” Waving one frantic hand, she turned over one layer of fabric to a passing dresser. “In the star’s room.”

Eve managed to dodge, shift, and spin her way through the milling crowd to a door marked prominently with Jerry’s name. She didn’t bother to knock but pushed it open and saw the woman in question being squeezed into a gold lamé tube.

“I’m not going to be able to breathe in this. A skeleton couldn’t breathe in this.”

“You shouldn’t have eaten that pâté, dearie,” the dresser said implacably. “Just suck it in.”

“An interesting look,” Eve commented from the doorway. “Makes you look like a fairy wand.”

“It’s one of his retro shots. Early twentieth-century glamour. I can’t fucking move.”

Eve came closer, narrowed her eyes at Jerry’s face. “The cosmetician did a nice job. I can’t see any bruises.” And she would check with Trina to see if there’d been any bruises to cover. “I heard Justin Young gave you a couple of shots.”

“Bastard. Hitting me in the face before a big show.”

“I’d say he pulled his punch. What did you fight about, Jerry?”

“He thought he could diddle with some little chorus dancer. Not on my time.”

“Time’s the interesting factor, isn’t it? When did he start his diddling?”

“Listen, Lieutenant, I’m a little pressed here, and walking out on the runway with a scowl on my face is going to ruin the presentation. Let’s just say, Justin’s history.”

Despite her claims to the contrary, Jerry moved with quick agility through the door. Eve stayed where she was, listening to the burst of applause as Jerry made her entrance. In six minutes flat, she was back being peeled out of the gold lamé.

“How’d you find out about it?”

“Trina. Hair, for God’s sake! Christ, you’re persistent. I got wind of it, that’s all. And when I called him on it, he denied it. But I could tell he was lying.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve considered liars as Jerry stood, arms out. Trina transformed her ebony swing of hair into a complicated twist of curls with a hand-held heater. Sheer white silk with rainbow trimming was slipped over her arms. “He didn’t stay in Maui long.”

“I don’t give a shit where he is.”

“He flew back to New York last night. I checked the shuttles. You know, Jerry, it’s odd. That timing thing again. Last time I saw you two, you were all but joined at the hip. You went with him to Pandora’s, went home with him that night. You were still there in the morning. The word I get is he accompanied you to your fittings, rehearsals. Doesn’t seem like he’d have much time to boff a chorus dancer.”

“Some men work fast.” She offered a hand so the dresser could clasp on a half dozen jangling bracelets.

“A public fight, plenty of witnesses, even some handy media coverage. You know, on the face of things, it makes your dual alibis hold more water. If I was the kind of cop to believe in the face of things.”

Jerry turned to the mirror to check the line of her costume. “What do you want, Dallas? I’m working here.”

“Me, too. Let me tell you how I see it, Jerry. You and your pal had a little deal going with Pandora. But she’s greedy. It looks like she’s going to screw you and your partners. A handy thing happens. Mavis comes in, there’s a fight. For a sharp woman like you, that could spark an idea.”

Jerry picked up a glass, knocked back the sparkling sapphire contents. “You’ve already got two suspects, Dallas. Who’s being greedy now?”

“Did the three of you discuss it? You, Justin, and Redford? You and Justin go off and solidify an alibi. Redford doesn’t. Maybe he’s not as smart. Maybe you were supposed to back him up, too, but you didn’t. He takes her to Leonardo’s. You’re waiting. Did things get out of hand then? Which one of you picked up the cane?”

“This is ludicrous. Justin and I were at his place. Security verifies that. If you want to accuse me of something, bring a warrant. Until then, back off.”

“Were you and Justin smart enough not to contact each other since the fight? I don’t think he’s got your control, Jerry. In fact, I’m banking on it. We’ll have the transmission records by morning.”

“So what if he called me? So what?” Jerry raced to the doorway as Eve strolled away. “It doesn’t prove anything. You’ve got nothing.”

“I’ve got another dead body.” Eve paused, looked back. “I don’t suppose either one of you are going to alibi each other for last night, are you?”

“Bitch.” Incensed, Jerry heaved the glass, catching a hapless dresser in the shoulder. “You’re not hanging anything on me. You’ve got nothing.”

As the noise and confusion of backstage rose to a new level, Mavis shut her eyes. “Oh, Dallas. How could you? Leonardo needs her for ten more changes.”

“She’ll do her job. She wants the spotlight too much not to. I’m going to find Roarke.”

“He’s out front,” Mavis said wearily as Leonardo rushed over to soothe his star. “Don’t go out there looking like that. Put this on. It’s already been run. Without the overdress and the scarves, no one will recognize it.”

“I’m just going to—”

“Please. It would mean a lot if you were wearing one of his designs out front. It’s a simple line, Dallas. And I’ll find some shoes that fit you somewhere.”

Fifteen minutes later, with her torn clothes stuffed in her bag, Eve spotted Roarke in the front row. He was applauding politely as a trio of large-breasted models jiggled wildly in transparent rompers.

“Great. Just what we want to see women wearing when they walk down Fifth.”

Roarke lifted a shoulder. “Actually, a great many of his designs are very attractive. And I wouldn’t mind seeing you in that number on the right.”

“Keep dreaming.” She crossed her legs and the flow of black satin over them whispered in response. “How long do we have to stay?”

“Until the bitter end. When did you buy this?” He ran a fingertip over the narrow straps draped over her biceps.

“I didn’t. Mavis made me put it on. It’s one of his without the frills.”

“Keep it. It suits you.”

She only grunted. Her torn jeans suited her mood a great deal better. “Ah, here comes the diva.”

Jerry glided out, and at each step of her dainty glass shoes, the runway exploded into color. Eve paid little attention to the billowing balloon skirt and sheer bodice that caused such a furor of approval from the attendees. She watched Jerry’s face, and only her face as fashion critics murmured busily into their recorders and dozens of buyers ordered frantically from their porta-links.

Jerry’s face was serene as she waved aside dozens of muscular young men who prostrated themselves in front of her. She sold the outfit with graceful twists and turns and clever choreography that had her stepping nimbly onto a pyramid of hard male bodies.

The crowd applauded. Jerry posed, then aimed icy blue eyes at Eve.

“Ouch,” Roarke murmured. “I’d say that was a direct hit. Is there something I should know?”

“She’d like to rip my face off,” Eve said mildly. “My mission has been a success.” Satisfied, she sat back and prepared to enjoy the rest of the show.

“Did you see? Dallas, did you see?” After a quick pirouette, Mavis threw her arms around Eve. “At the finale they actually stood up for him. Even Hugo.”

“Who the hell is Hugo?”

“He’s only the biggest name in the business. He cosponsored the show, but that was with Pandora. If he’d pulled out—well, he didn’t, thanks to Jerry stepping in. Leonardo’s on his way. He can pay back his debts. The orders are already pouring in. He’ll have his own showroom now, and in a few months, they’ll be Leonardo’s everywhere.”

“That’s great then.”

“Everything’s working out.” Mavis fussed with her face in the mirror of the ladies’ lounge. “I have to find another gig, and I’ll wear his designs exclusively. Things are going to go back to the way they should be. They are, aren’t they, Dallas?”

“They’re heading that way. Mavis, did Leonardo go to Jerry Fitzgerald, or the other way around?”

“For the show? He went to her originally. Pandora suggested it.”

Wait, Eve thought, how did I miss this step? “Pandora wanted him to ask Jerry to model in his show?”

“It was just like her.” On impulse, Mavis took out a tube and removed her lip dye. She studied her naked mouth a moment, then chose a container of Berry Crush. “She knew Jerry wouldn’t play second lead, not to her, even though there was a lot of good buzz about the designs. So asking her was a kind of dig, you know. She could say yes, and take the backseat, or say no and miss being in one of the hottest shows of the season.”

“And she said no.”

“Made out like she had previous commitments. Saving face. But the minute Pandora was out of the picture, she called Leonardo and offered to fill in.”

“How much will she make?”

“For the show? She’ll get about a mil, but that’s nothing. The headliner gets to pick her fashions at a wholesaler’s discount, an endorsement fee for each wearing. Then there’s the media clause.”

“Which is?”

“Well, the big models get it to go on the fashion channels, the talk channels and all that. They get to pump up the designs and get paid for the appearances. Exposure and big bucks for the next six months, with an option to renew. She could rake in five, six mil plus bennies from this one appearance.”

“Nice work if you can get it. She profits in excess of six million from Pandora’s death.”

“You could look at it that way. It’s not as if she was hurting before, Dallas.”

“Maybe not. But she sure as hell isn’t hurting now. She’ll put in an appearance at this postshowing party?”

“Sure. She and Leonardo are the stars. We’d better get out there if we want any food. Those fashion critics are like hyenas. They don’t even leave bones.”

“You’ve been around Jerry and the others for a while now,” Eve began as they made their way back to the ballroom. “Anybody using?”

“Jesus, Dallas.” Uncomfortable, Mavis shrugged. “I’m not a weasel.”

“Mavis.” Eve tugged her into an alcove resplendent with potted ferns. “Don’t take that line with me. Is anyone using?”

“Hell, sure, there’s some shit around. Poppers mostly, and a lot of Zero Appetite. It’s a tough business, and not all the low-tier models can afford body sculpting. You’ve got a few illegals filtered through, but it’s mostly over the counter.”

“Jerry?”

“She’s into health shit. That drink she guzzles. She smokes a little, but it’s some special blend for soothing nerves. I’ve never seen her use anything dicey. But . . .”

“But?”

“Well, she’s real territorial about her stuff, you know? Couple of days ago one of the other girls wasn’t feeling well. Dragging from a late night. She started to cop a taste of Jerry’s blue juice, and Jerry went nuts. Wanted to have her fired.”

“Interesting. Wonder what’s in it.”

“Some vegetable extract. She claims it’s made up for her metabolism. She made some noise about going on the market with it, endorsing.”

“I need a sample. I haven’t got enough for a search or confiscation warrant.” She paused, considered, smiled. “But I think I know how to fix that. Let’s go party.”

“What are you going to do? Dallas.” Doubling her pace, Mavis caught up with Eve’s long strides. “I don’t like that look in your eye. Don’t cause any trouble. Please, come on. It’s Leonardo’s big night.”

“I bet a little more media coverage will increase his sales.”

She stepped into the ballroom where the crowd was gyrating on the dance floor or huddled around the tables of food. Spotting Jerry, Eve started over. Roarke caught her eye and crossed to her.

“Suddenly you look like a cop.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not sure it was a compliment. Are you about to cause a scene?”

“I’m going to do my best. Want to keep your distance?”

“Not on your life.” Intrigued, he took her hand and walked with her.

“Congratulations on a successful show,” Eve began, edging aside a fawning critic to stand face to face with Jerry.

“Thank you.” Jerry raised a glass of champagne. “But from what I’ve seen, you’re not exactly a fashion expert.” She sent Roarke a melting look. “Though you do appear to have excellent taste in men.”

“Better than yours. Did you hear Justin Young was spotted at the Privacy Club tonight with a redhead? A redhead who bore a remarkable resemblance to Pandora.”

“You lying bitch. He wouldn’t—” Jerry caught herself, hissed gently through her teeth. “I told you, I don’t care who he sees or what he does.”

“Why would you? It’s true though, isn’t it, that after a certain number of sessions, body sculpting and facial enhancements don’t completely fight reality. I suppose Justin wanted a taste of youth. Men are such pigs.” Eve accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter and took a sip. “Not that you don’t look wonderful. For your age. Those harsh stage lights just tend to make a woman look . . . mature.”

“Fuck you.” Jerry dashed the contents of her glass in Eve’s face.

“Thought that would do it,” Eve murmured as she blinked her stinging eyes. “That’s assaulting an officer. You’re under arrest.”

“Take your hands off me.” Incensed, Jerry shoved Eve back.

“Add resisting arrest. This must be my lucky night.” In two quick moves, Eve had Jerry’s arm twisted up and behind her back. “We’ll just call a uniform to take you in. It shouldn’t take you long to make bail. Now, behave so I can read you your rights on the way out.” She shot Roarke a sunny smile. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, Lieutenant.” He plucked up Eve’s champagne and drank it himself. He gave her ten minutes, then wandered out of the ballroom.

She was standing at the hotel entrance, watching Jerry being loaded into a cruiser.

“What was that for?”

“I needed to buy some time and some probable cause. The suspect showed violent tendencies and a nervous manner, indicative of drug use.”

Cops, Roarke thought. “You pissed her off, Eve.”

“That, too. She’ll be out almost before they get her in. I’ve got to move.”

“Where?” he demanded as they hurried around the ballroom to the backstage area.

“I need a sample of that stuff she likes to drink. The assault gives me clearance—if we bend things a little. I want it analyzed.”

“You honestly think she’s using illegals that blatantly?”

“I think people like her—like Pandora and Young and Redford—are incredibly arrogant. They’ve got money, looks, a certain amount of power and prestige. It makes them feel above the law.” She sent him a look as she slipped into Pandora’s dressing room. “You have the same tendencies.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Lucky for you, I came along to keep you on the straight and narrow. Watch the door, will you? If she’s got a quick lawyer, I’m not going to have time to finish this.”

“The straight and narrow, naturally,” Roarke commented and stationed himself at the door as she searched the room.

“Christ, there’s a fortune in cosmetic enhancements.”

“It is her business, Lieutenant.”

“Vanity’s costing her several hundred K a year, I’d say, just on the topicals. Christ knows what she spends in ingestives and sculpting. If I could just find a little of that nice powder.”

“You’re looking for Immortality?” He let out a laugh. “She may be arrogant, but she doesn’t look stupid.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She opened the door of a friggie and smiled. “But she’s got a container of that drink in here. A locked container.” Pursing her lips, Eve looked toward Roarke. “I don’t suppose you could . . .”

“Veer from the straight and narrow.” He sighed, walked over, and studied the lock on the clear bottle. “Sophisticated. She’s not taking any chances with it. The bottle’s unbreakable from the look of it.” His fingers played over the lock mechanism as he spoke. “Find me a nail file, a hair clip, something like that, will you?”

Eve pushed through the drawers. “Will this do?”

Roarke frowned at the tiny pair of manicure scissors. “Close enough.” He jiggled the lock with the points, finessed, and stepped back. “There you are.”

“You’re awfully good at that.”

“Just a small, insignificant talent, Lieutenant.”

“Right.” She dug in her bag, pulled out an evidence holder. She filled it with a couple of ounces. “That should be more than enough.”

“Would you like me to relock it? It would only take a moment.”

“Don’t bother. We can swing by the lab on the way.”

“On the way to?”

“To where I’ve got Peabody staked out. Justin Young’s back door.” She started out, flicking him a smile. “You know, Roarke, Jerry was right about one thing. I have pretty good taste in men.”

“Darling, your taste is impeccable.”

chapter seventeen

Being hooked up with a rich man had a number of disadvantages in Eve’s mind, but it had one overwhelming plus. That was food. On the way back across town she managed to stuff herself to bursting with chicken Kiev from the fully stocked AutoChef in his car.

“Nobody has chicken Kiev in their car unit,” she said with her mouth full.

“They do if they run around with you. Otherwise you’d live off soy burgers and irradiated powdered eggs.”

“I hate irradiated powdered eggs.”

“Exactly.” It pleased him to hear her chuckle. “You’re in a rare old mood, Lieutenant.”

“It’s coming together, Roarke. They’ll drop charges on Mavis by Monday morning, and by then I’ll have the bastards. It was all money,” she said and dabbed up grains of wild rice with her fingers. “Fucking money. Pandora was the connection to Immortality, and those three high flyers wanted their share.”

“So they lured her to Leonardo’s and killed her.”

“Leonardo’s was probably her idea. She wasn’t letting go there, and she was revved to fight. Gave them the perfect opportunity and setting. Mavis walking in was just icing. They’d have left Leonardo hanging by his balls, otherwise.”

“Not to question your quick, agile, and suspicious mind, by why not just whack her in an alley? If you’re right, they’d done it before.”

“So they wanted some staging this time.” She moved her shoulders. “Hetta Moppett was a potential loose end. One of them confronted her, likely questioned her, then got rid of her. Better not to chance whatever Boomer had let slip during sex.”

“Then Boomer came next.”

“He knew too much, had too much. It’s not likely he knew about all three of them. But he’d nailed at least one, and when he spotted that one in the club, he went underground. They managed to get him out, tortured him, killed him. But they didn’t have time to go back and get the stuff.”

“All for profit?”

“For profit, and if that analysis comes out the way I think it will, for Immortality. Pandora was on it, no question. My take is that whatever Pandora had or wanted, Jerry Fitzgerald wanted to have more. You’ve got a drug that makes you look good, younger, sexier. It could be worth a fortune to her professionally. Not to mention her ego.”

“But it’s lethal.”

“That’s what they say about smoking, but I’ve seen you light up some tobacco.” She arched a brow at him. “Unprotected sex was lethal during the latter half of the twentieth century. Didn’t stop people from fucking strangers. Guns are lethal, but we spent decades getting them off the street. Then—”

“Point taken. Most of us think we’re going to live forever. Did you do testing on Redford?”

“We did. He’s clean. Doesn’t mean his hands are any less bloody. I’m going to lock the three of them away for the next fifty years.”

Roarke eased the car to a stop at a light, turned to look at her. “Eve, are you after them for murder, or for messing with the life of your friend?”

“The results are the same.”

“Your feelings aren’t.”

“They hurt her,” she said tightly. “They put her through hell. Forced me to help them put her through it. She lost her job, and a lot of her confidence. They’re going to pay for that.”

“All right. I only have one thing to say.”

“I don’t need criticisms on procedure from a guy who pops locks like you, pal.”

He took out a handkerchief, dabbed at her chin. “The next time you start to say you have no family,” he began quietly, “think again. Mavis is yours.”

She started to speak, reevaluated. “I’m doing my job,” she decided. “If I get some personal pleasure out of it, what’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing.” He kissed her lightly, then turned left.

“I want to go around the back of the building. Take a right at the next corner, then—”

“I know how to get around the back of that building.”

“Don’t tell me you own that one, too.”

“All right, I won’t tell you. And by the way, if you had asked me about the security setup at Young’s place, I could have saved you—or I should say Feeney—a little time and trouble.” When she huffed, he smiled. “If I get some personal pleasure out of owning large chunks of Manhattan, what’s wrong with that?”

She turned to stare out of the window so he couldn’t see her smirk.

For Roarke, it seemed, there would always be a table at the most exclusive restaurant, front row seats at the current hit play, and a convenient parking place on the street. He glided in and killed the engine.

“You don’t, I trust, expect me to wait here.”

“What I expect doesn’t usually hold water with you. Come on, but try to remember you’re a civilian. I’m not.”

“That’s something I never forget.” He code locked the car. It was a good neighborhood, but the car was worth an easy six months’ rent in even the most exclusive of units in the building. “Darling, before we shift into the official mode, what do you have on under that dress?”

“A device designed to drive men wild.”

“It’s working. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your butt move quite that way.”

“It’s a cop’s butt now, ace, so watch it.”

“I am.” He smiled, gave it a nice solid smack. “Believe me. Good evening, Peabody.”

“Roarke.” Her face bland, as if she hadn’t heard a word, Peabody stepped out from the shrubbery. “Dallas.”

“Any sign of—” Eve went into a defensive crouch as the shrubbery rustled, then swore as Casto came out grinning. “Goddamn it, Peabody.”

“Now, don’t blame DeeDee. I was with her when your call came in. She wouldn’t have been able to shake me. Interdepartmental cooperation, Eve?” Still smiling, he extended a hand. “Roarke, a pleasure to meet you. Jake Casto, Illegals.”

“So I gathered.” Roarke’s brow cocked as he noted Casto take in the black satin that slithered over Eve’s body. In the manner of men or unfriendly male dogs, Roarke showed his teeth.

“Nice dress, Eve. You mentioned something about taking a sample to the lab.”

“Do you always listen in on another cop’s transmissions?”

“Well . . .” He stroked his chin. “The call came through at a particular moment, you see. I’d have had to be deaf not to catch it.” He sobered. “You figure you got Jerry Fitzgerald with a dose of Immortality?”

“We’ll have to wait for the analysis.” She shifted her attention to Peabody. “Is Young in there?”

“That’s confirmed. A check with security shows him coming in about nineteen hundred. He hasn’t been out since.”

“Unless he took the back way.”

“No, sir.” Peabody allowed herself a small smile. “I called his ’link when I arrived, and he answered. I apologized for the wrong contact.”

“He’s seen you.”

Peabody shook her head. “Men like that don’t remember underlings. He didn’t make me, and there’s been no movement in this area since my arrival at twenty-three thirty-eight.” She gestured over, up. “His lights are on.”

“So we wait. Casto, you could make yourself useful and stake out the front entrance.”

He flashed a grin. “Trying to get rid of me?”

Her eyes lit in response. “Yep. We could get technical. As primary on the Moppett, Johannsen, Pandora, and Ro homicides, I have full authority on coordinating investigations. Therefore—”

“You’re a tough woman, Eve.” He sighed, shrugged, sent Peabody a wink. “Keep a light burning for me, DeeDee.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Peabody began formally when Casto moved off. “He overheard the transmission. As there was no way to prevent him from coming to the scene on his own, it seemed more productive to enlist his aid.”

“It doesn’t seem to be a problem.” When her communicator beeped, she shifted aside. “Dallas.” She listened a moment, lips curving, then nodded. “Thanks.” She started to slip the unit into her pocket, then remembered she didn’t have a pocket, and dropped it into her bag. “Fitzgerald’s sprung, own recognizance. Not surprising she’d get OR over a little tussle at a fashion party.”

“If the lab results fall,” Peabody said.

“If. We wait on that.” She glanced at Roarke. “This could be a long night. You don’t have to hang. Peabody and Casto can drop me when we’re done.”

“I like long nights. A moment of your time, Lieutenant.” With a firm hand on her arm, Roarke led her a few paces away. “You didn’t mention you had an admirer in Illegals.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Didn’t I?”

“The kind of admirer who’d like to nibble his way up your extremities.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it. Look, he and Peabody are an item at the moment.”

“That doesn’t stop him from licking his chops over you.”

She gave a quick snorting laugh, then catching the look in Roarke’s eye, she sobered and cleared her throat. “He’s harmless.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Roarke, it’s just one of those little testosterone games you guys play.” His eyes were still gleaming and caused something to jitter, not unpleasantly, in her stomach. “You’re not, like, jealous?”

“Yes.” It was demeaning to admit it, but he was a man who did what had to be done.

“Really?” The jittery feeling turned into a nice warm spread of pleasure. “Well, thanks.”

There was no point in sighing. Certainly no point in giving her a quick shake. Instead, he dipped his hands in his pockets and inclined his head. “You’re welcome. Eve, we’re going to be married in a few days.”

The jittering started again, big time. “Yeah.”

“If he keeps looking at you like that, I’m going to have to hurt him.”

She smiled, patted his cheek. “Down, boy.”

Before she could do more than chuckle, he’d snagged her wrist, leaned in close. “You belong to me.” Her eyes fired, her teeth bared. The show of temper had him relaxing immediately. “It goes both ways, darling, but in case you haven’t noticed, it seems only fair to tell you, I’m very territorial over what’s mine.” He kissed her snarling mouth. “I do love you, Eve. Ridiculously.”

“It’s ridiculous all right.” To settle her temper, she tried a long, slow breath. “Look, not that I figure you deserve any explanation, but I’m not interested in Casto, or anybody else. And, as it happens, Peabody’s gone over him. So just shut down your thrusters.”

“Done. Now, would you like me to go back to the car and get some coffee?”

She angled her head. “Is that a cheap bribe to smooth this over?”

“I’ll remind you that my blend of coffee isn’t cheap.”

“Peabody takes hers light. Hold it.” She grabbed his arm, tugged him back toward the bushes. “Wait for it,” Eve murmured as a car shot down the street. It squealed to a halt, did a fast vertical to squeeze into a top-level parking spot. Impatient maneuvering knocked bumpers. A woman in shimmering silver strode down the ramp to the sidewalk.

“There’s our girl,” Eve said quietly. “She didn’t waste any time.”

“You called it, Lieutenant,” Peabody commented.

“Looks like. Now why would a woman who has recently gone through an uncomfortable, inconvenient, and potentially embarrassing situation, run straight to a man she’s just broken up with, accused of cheating, and who popped her in the face? All in public.”

“Sadomasochistic tendencies?” Roarke suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Eve said, appreciating him. “It’s S and M all right, but it stands for sex and money. And lookie here, Peabody, our heroine knows the back way in.”

With one careless glance over her shoulder, Jerry headed straight for the maintenance entrance, keyed in a code, and disappeared inside.

“I’d say she’s done that before.” Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Is that enough to break their alibi?”

“It’s a damn good start.” Reaching in her bag, she took out surveillance goggles. She strapped them on, adjusting the power as she focused on Justin Young’s windows. “Can’t see him,” she murmured. “No one’s in the living area.” She shifted her head. “Bedroom’s empty, but there’s a flight bag open on the bed. A lot of doors closed. No way to get a view of the kitchen and rear entrance from here, damn it.”

She put her hands on her hips and kept scanning. “There’s a glass of something on the table by the bed, and a light playing. I’d say his bedroom screen’s on. There she is now.”

Eve’s lips stayed curved as she watched Jerry storm into the bedroom. The goggles were powerful enough to give her a clear close-up of undiluted fury. Jerry’s mouth was moving. She reached down, plucked off her shoes, heaved them.

“Temper, temper,” Eve murmured. “She’s calling for him, throwing things. Enter the young hero, stage left. Well, I’ve got to say, he’s built.”

With her own goggles in place, Peabody let out a low hum of agreement.

Justin was buck naked, his skin beaded with water, his gilded hair sleeked with it. Apparently Jerry was unimpressed. She raged at him, shoved while he held up his hands, shook his head. The argument grew heated, dramatic, Eve mused, with lots of arm gestures, tossing heads. Then it changed tones abruptly. Justin was tearing off Jerry’s ten-thousand-dollar silver gown as they fell on the bed.

“Aw, isn’t that sweet, Peabody? They’re making up.”

Roarke tapped Eve’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have another pair of them.”

“Pervert.” But since it seemed only fair, she tugged the goggles off, handed them to him. “You may be called as a witness.”

“How? I’m not even here.” He slipped the goggles on, adjusted them. After a moment, he shook his head. “They’re not terribly imaginative, are they? Tell me, Lieutenant, do you spend much time watching fornication during surveillance?”

“There’s nothing much a human being can do to another I haven’t watched.”

Recognizing the tone, he slipped the goggles off, handed them back. “It’s a miserable job. I’d have to agree that murder suspects aren’t entitled to privacy.”

She jerked a shoulder and readjusted the goggles. It was imperative to find the humor again. She knew some cops got off peeking into bedroom windows, and misuse of the goggles was rampant on all levels. She considered them a tool, an important one, no matter how often their use was challenged in the courts.

“Looks like the finale,” she said blandly. “I have to appreciate their speed.”

Justin, levered on his elbows, plunged into her. With her feet planted firmly on the mattress, Jerry pumped her hips to meet him. Their faces shone with sweat, and tightly closed eyes added twin expressions of agony and delight. When he collapsed on her, Eve started to speak.

She held her tongue as Jerry’s arms came up, cuddled. Justin nuzzled Jerry’s neck. They held each other, stroking, cheek brushing cheek.

“I’ll be damned,” Eve muttered. “It’s not just sex. They care.”

More than the animal lust, the very human affection was difficult to watch. They separated briefly, sat up together with legs companionably tangled. He smoothed her tangled hair. She turned her face into the palm of his hand. They began to talk. From the expressions on their faces, the tone was serious, intense. At one point, Jerry lowered her head, weeping.

Justin kissed her hair, her brow, then got up and crossed the room. From a minifriggie, he took a slim glass bottle and poured a glass of dark blue liquid.

His face was grim as she snatched it from his hand, downed it in one quick gulp.

“Health drink, my ass. She’s using.”

“Just her,” Peabody put in. “He’s not having any.”

Justin drew Jerry from the bed and with an arm around her waist, led her out of the bedroom, out of vision.

“Keep scanning, Peabody,” Eve ordered. She tugged down the goggles so that they hung around her neck. “She’s on the edge about something. And I don’t think it’s over our little shoving match. The pressure’s gotten to her. Some people aren’t natural-born killers.”

“If they’re trying to distance themselves from each other, add more strength to their alibi, it was risky for her to come here tonight.”

Eve nodded as she looked at Roarke. “She needed him. Addictions come in all forms.” As her communicator signaled, Eve reached into her bag. “Dallas.”

“Rush, rush, rush.”

“Dickie, give me good news.”

“An interesting mix, Lieutenant. Other than a few additions to take it to liquid, add pretty color, and a mildly fruity taste, you’ve got yourself a match. All the elements from the powder previously analyzed are in there, including nectar from the Immortal Blossom. It is, however, a less potent mix, and when ingested by mouth—”

“That’s all I need. Transmit full report to my office unit, stat, copy Whitney, Casto, and the prosecutor.”

“Want me to tie a nice red bow around it, too?” he said sourly.

“Don’t be such a shit, Dickie. You’ll get your fifty-yard-line seats for arena ball.” She broke transmission, grinned. “Call for a search and confiscate warrant, Peabody. Let’s go take them down.”

“Yes, sir. Ah, Casto?”

“Tell him we’re coming around front. Illegals will get its share.”

It was five A.M. by the time they’d waded through the official paperwork and finished the first round of interviews. Fitzgerald’s lawyers had insisted on a six-hour break, minimum. With no choice but to comply, Eve ordered Peabody off duty until eight and swung by her own office.

“Didn’t I tell you to go get some sleep?” she asked when she saw Roarke kicked back at her desk.

“I had some work.”

Frowning, she glanced at the monitor on her desk unit. The intricate blueprints had her hissing. “This is police property. Tampering with police property can get you eighteen months under home security.”

“Would you hold off on the arrest? I’m nearly finished. East wing view, all levels.”

“I’m not kidding, Roarke. You can’t use my ’link for personal business.”

“Hmm. Note to adjust recreational center C. Square footage insufficient. Transmit all memos and amended dimensions, CFD Architectural and Design, FreeStar One office. Save to disc, and disengage.” He slipped the disc out, tucked it into his pocket. “You were saying?”

“This unit is programmed for my voice print. Just how did you get it operational?”

He only smiled. “Really, Eve!”

“All right, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, anyway. Couldn’t you have done this at home?”

“Certainly. But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of taking you home and making you get a few hours’ sleep.” He rose. “Which is what I’m about to do now.”

“I’m going to catch a nap in the lounge.”

“No, you were going to sit here combing through evidence and doing probability scans until your eyes fell out.”

She could have denied it. It wasn’t very hard to lie under most circumstances. “I just have a couple of things I want to put into order.”

He tilted his head. “Where’s Peabody?”

“I sent her home.”

“And the inestimable Casto?”

Recognizing the trap, but not the escape route, Eve shrugged. “I think he went with her.”

“Your suspects?”

“They’ve got a minimum break coming.”

“And so,” he said, taking her arm, “do you.” She started to tug away, but he continued to march her out into the hall. “I’m sure everyone appreciates your new interview look, but I imagine you’d do a better job of it after a nap, a shower, and a change of clothes.”

She looked down at the black satin gown. She’d completely forgotten she had it on. “I’ve probably got a pair of jeans in my locker.” When he was able to bundle her into the elevator with little effort, she realized she was flagging. “Okay, okay. I’ll go home and catch a shower, maybe some breakfast.”

And, Roarke thought, at least five hours’ sleep.

“How’d it go in there?”

“Hmm?” She blinked, shook herself alert. “Not too much progress. Didn’t expect it on the first round. They’re sticking tight to their original story and claiming the drug was planted. We’ve got enough for an enforced drug test on Fitzgerald. Her lawyers are making a lot of noise over it, but we’ll get it.”

She yawned hugely. “We’ll use that to finesse data out of her, if not an outright confession. We’ll triple team them on the next round.”

Roarke led her out the breezeway to the visitors’ lot where he’d parked. She was walking, he noted, with the intense care of a woman deeply drunk. “They won’t stand a chance,” he said as they approached his car. “Roarke, disengage locks.”

He opened the door, all but folded her into the passenger seat.

“We’ll shift off. Casto’s a good interviewer.” Her head lolled back on the seat. “Gotta give him that. Peabody’s got potential. She’s tenacious. We’ll keep the three of them in separate rooms, keep changing interviewers on them. I’m betting on Young to fall first.”

Roarke eased out of the lot, headed for home. “Why?”

“The bastard loves her. Love messes you up. You make mistakes ’cause you’re worried, protective. Stupid.”

He smiled a little, brushed her hair back from her face, and she dropped steeply into sleep. “Tell me about it.”

chapter eighteen

If recent behavior was any example of what it was like to have a husband, Eve told herself it couldn’t be half bad. She’d been coddled into bed, which she was forced to admit had been for the best, and had been awakened five unremembered hours later by the scent of hot coffee and fresh waffles.

Roarke had already been up, dressed, and poring over some vital business transmission.

It did irk her from time to time that he seemed to get by on less sleep than a normal human, but she didn’t mention it. That sort of comment would only gain her a smirk.

It was to his benefit that he didn’t point out that he was taking care of her. Knowing it was weird enough without having him crow over it.

So she headed toward Cop Central, rested, well fed, and in her newly repaired vehicle, which in under five blocks decided to surprise her with a new foible. Her speed indicator shot straight into red, though she was sitting dead still in a traffic snarl.

WARNING, she was told pleasantly. ENGINE OVERLOAD IN FIVE MINUTES AT CURRENT SPEED. PLEASE REDUCE VELOCITY OR SWITCH TO AUTO OVERDRIVE.

“Bite me,” she suggested, not so pleasantly, and drove the rest of the way with the constant cheerful advice to reduce velocity or blow up.

She wasn’t going to let it affect her mood. The nasty black-hearted thunderclouds rolling in and sending air traffic scrambling didn’t bother her. The fact that it was Saturday, a week before her wedding, and she was in for a long, hard, potentially brutal day at work didn’t diminish her pleasure.

She strode into Cop Central, her smile fixed and grim.

“You look ready to gnaw raw meat,” Feeney commented.

“The way I like it best. Any additional data?”

“Let’s take the long way. I’ll fill you in.”

He detoured to a sky glide, nearly empty at midday. The mechanism stuttered a bit, but carried them upward. Manhattan receded to a pretty toy town of crisscrossing avenues and brightly colored vehicles.

Lightning cracked the sky with an accompanying boom of thunder that shook the glass enclosure. Rain poured through the crack in gleeful buckets.

“Just made it.” Feeney peered down, watched pedestrians scramble like maddened ants. An airbus blatted its horn and skidded past the glass with inches to spare. “Jesus.” Feeney slapped a hand to his jumping heart. “Where do those fuckers get their license?”

“Anybody with a pulse can drive those sky cloggers. You couldn’t get me in one with a laser blast.”

“Public transportation in this city’s a disgrace.” He took out a bag of candied nuts to calm himself. “Anyway, your hunch on the calls from Maui panned out. Young called Fitzgerald’s place twice before he hopped a shuttle back. He ordered the showing on screen, too. Full two hours.”

“Got any security of his place on the night Cockroach bought it?”

“Young came in, with his flight bag, about six A.M. His shuttle got in at midnight. No data on how he spent the missing six hours.”

“No alibi. He had plenty of time to get from the terminal to the murder scene. Can we place Fitzgerald?”

“She was at the ballroom until a little past twenty-two thirty. Rehearsals for last night’s do. Didn’t show up at her place until oh eight. She made plenty of calls: her stylist, her masseuse, her body sculptor. Spent four hours yesterday at Paradise, getting herself buffed and polished. Young, he spent the day talking with his agent, his business manager, and . . .” Feeney smiled a little. “A travel consultant. Our boy was interested in a trip for two to the Eden Colony.”

“I love you, Feeney.”

“I’m a lovable kind of guy. Picked up the sweeper’s reports on my way in. Nothing we can use on Young’s place or Fitzgerald’s. The only trace of illegals was in the blue juice. If they’ve got more, they’re keeping it elsewhere. No logs or records of any transactions, no sign of formulas. I’ve still got the hard drives to diddle with, see if they hid anything in them. But if you ask me, those two aren’t high-tech geniuses.”

“No, Redford would probably know more about that. We’ve got more than murder and trafficking here, Feeney. If we can get the stuff classified as poison and pin them with prior knowledge of its lethal qualities, we’ll have full-scale racketeering and conspiracy to slaughter.”

“Nobody’s used conspiracy to slaughter since the Urban Wars, Dallas.”

The glide ground to a halt. “I think it has a nice ring.”

She found Peabody waiting outside the interview area. “Where’s the rest of our party?”

“Suspects are in conference with their attorneys. Casto’s getting coffee.”

“Okay, contact the conference rooms. Their time’s up. Any word from the commander?”

“He’s on his way in. He wants to observe. The PA’s office will participate via ’link.”

“Good. Feeney’s going to oversee the recordings on all three subjects. I don’t want any slipups when this business comes to trial. You take Fitzgerald for the first round, Casto’s on Redford. I want Young.”

She signaled when she spotted Casto coming toward them juggling a tray of coffee. “Feeney, fill them in on the additional data. Use it wisely,” she added and copped a cup of coffee. “We’ll switch teams in thirty minutes.”

She slipped into her interview area. The first sip of miserable eatery coffee made her smile. It was going to be a good day.

“You can do better than that, Justin.” Eve was revving up, had barely hit her stride. It was hour three of interview.

“You asked me what happened. The other cops asked me what happened.” He took a drink of water. He was well off his stride, and faltering. “I told you.”

“You’re an actor,” she pointed out, all friendly smiles. “A good one. All the reviews say so. I read one just the other day that said you can make a bad line sing. I don’t hear music here, Justin.”

“How many times do you want me to go over the same ground?” He looked toward his lawyer. “How long do I have to do this?”

“We can stop the interview process at any time,” his lawyer reminded him. She was a sharp-looking blonde with killer eyes. “You’re under no obligation to make any further statements.”

“That’s right,” Eve chimed in. “We can stop. You can go back to holding. You’re not going to make bail on the illegals charges, Justin.” She leaned forward, made sure his eyes focused on hers. “Not while there are four counts of murder hanging over you.”

“My client has not been charged with any crime other than suspicion of possession.” The lawyer peered down her needle-straight nose. “You don’t have a case here, Lieutenant. We all know it.”

“Your client’s dangling over the edge of a very steep cliff. We all know that. Want to take the fall alone, Justin? That doesn’t seem very fair to me. Your friends are answering questions right now.” She lifted her hands, spread her fingers. “What are you going to do if they roll over on you?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” He flicked his gaze toward the door, toward the mirror. He knew he had an audience, and for once he didn’t know how to play the crowd. “I never even heard of those other people.”

“But you knew Pandora.”

“Of course I knew Pandora. Obviously I knew her.”

“You were there, at her house on the night she died.”

“I’ve said so, haven’t I? Look, Jerry and I went to her house, at her invitation. We had a few drinks, that other woman came around. Pandora got obnoxious, and we left.”

“How often do you and Ms. Fitzgerald use the unsecured entrance at your building?”

“It’s just a matter of privacy,” he insisted. “If you had media hounding you every time you tried to take a piss, you’d understand.”

Eve knew exactly what that was like and smiled toothily. “Funny, neither of you seemed to be particularly shy of media exposure. In fact, if I were a cynic, I’d have to say the two of you exploited it. How long has Jerry been on Immortality?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes shifted to the mirror again, as if he was hoping a director would say “cut” and end the scene. “I told you I didn’t know what was in that drink.”

“You had a bottle in your bedroom, but you didn’t know the contents. Never took a taste of it?”

“I never touched it.”

“That’s funny, too, Justin. You know, it seems to me if something was in my friggie, I’d be tempted to sample it. Unless I knew it was poison, of course. You know Immortality’s a slow poison, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He stopped himself, breathed hard through his nose. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“An overload on the nervous system, slow acting, but lethal all the same. You poured Jerry a drink, handed it to her. That’s murder.”

“Lieutenant—”

“I’d never hurt Jerry,” he exploded. “I’m in love with her. I’d never hurt her.”

“Really? Several witnesses claim you did just that a few days ago. Did you or did you not strike Ms. Fitzgerald in the backstage area of the Waldorf’s Royal Ballroom on July second?”

“No, I—We lost our tempers.” The lines were tangling in his head. He couldn’t remember his cue. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“You hit her in the face.”

“Yes—no. Yes, we were arguing.”

“You were arguing, so you punched the woman you love, knocking her off her feet. Were you still violently angry with her when she came to your apartment last night? When you poured her a glass of slow-acting poison?”

“I tell you, it’s not poison, not like you mean. I wouldn’t hurt her. I was never angry with her. I couldn’t be.”

“You were never angry with her. You never hurt her. I believe you, Justin.” Eve soothed her voice, leaned forward again, laid a kind hand over his trembling one. “You never hit her, either. You staged it all, didn’t you? You’re not the kind of man who strikes the woman he loves. You staged it, just like one of your performances.”

“I didn’t—I—” He looked up helplessly into Eve’s eyes, and she knew she had him.

“You’ve done a lot of action videos. You know how to pull a punch, how to fake one. That’s what you did that day, isn’t it, Justin? You and Jerry pretended to fight. You never laid a hand on her.” Her voice was gentle, full of understanding. “You’re not a violent kind of guy, are you, Justin?”

Torn, he pressed his lips together, looked at his lawyer. She held up a hand to hold off more questions and leaned close to Justin’s ear.

Keeping her face bland, Eve waited. She knew the pickle they were in. Did he admit to the staging, making himself into a liar, or did he cop to punching his lover, showing his capabilities for violence? It wasn’t a steady wire to cross.

The lawyer shifted back and folded her hands. “My client and Ms. Fitzgerald were playing a harmless game. Foolish, admittedly, but it isn’t a crime to pretend to fight.”

“No, it isn’t a crime.” Eve felt the first crackle, weakening the back of their alibi. “Neither is going off to Maui and pretending to play house with another woman. It was all make believe, wasn’t it, Justin?”

“We just—I suppose we didn’t take time to think it all through. We were worried, that’s all. After you picked up Paul, we wondered if you’d shoot for us. We were all there that night, so it seemed logical.”

“You know, that’s just what I thought.” She beamed a friendly smile. “It’s a very logical step.”

“We both had important projects going. We couldn’t afford what’s happening right now. We thought if we pretended to split up, it would add weight to our alibi.”

“Because you knew the alibi was weak. You had to figure we’d fall to the fact that either of you, or both of you, could have left the apartment undetected on the night of Pandora’s murder. You could have gone to Leonardo’s, killed her, and slipped back home without any security breach.”

“We didn’t go anywhere. You can’t prove we did.” His shoulders straightened. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Don’t be too sure. Your lover’s an Immortality junkie. You had possession of the drug. How did you get it?”

“I—someone gave it to her. I don’t know.”

“Was it Redford? Did he hook her, Justin? You must hate him, if he did. The woman you love. She started dying, Justin, the first time she took a sip.”

“It’s not poison. It’s not. She told me that was just Pandora’s way of keeping it for herself. Pandora didn’t want Jerry to benefit from the drink. The bitch knew what it could do for Jerry, but she wanted—” He broke off, heeding his lawyer’s sharp warning a little too late.

“What did she want, Justin? Money? A lot of money? You? Did she taunt Jerry? Did she threaten you? Is that why you killed her?”

“No. I never touched her. I tell you I never touched her. We argued, all right? We had an ugly scene after Leonardo’s woman left that night. Jerry was upset. She had a right to be, after everything Pandora said. That’s why I took her out, had a few drinks, calmed her down. I told her not to worry, that there were other ways of getting a supply.”

“What other ways?”

His breath heaved in and out. Frantically, he shook off his lawyer’s restraining hand. “Shut up,” he snapped at her. “Just shut up. What the hell good are you doing me? She’ll have me in a cage for murder before she’s finished. I want to cut a deal. Why aren’t you cutting a deal here?” He scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “I want to deal.”

“We’ll have to talk about that,” Eve said calmly. “What have you got to offer me?”

“Paul,” he said and shuddered out a breath. “I’ll give you Paul Redford. He killed her. The bastard probably killed them all.”

Twenty minutes later, Eve paced the conference room. “I want Redford to stew for a while. Let him wonder how much they’ve told us.”

“Not getting much out of the lady.” Casually, Casto propped his feet on the table, crossed his ankles. “She’s tough. Showing signs of withdrawal—dry mouth, trembling, occasional lack of focus—but she’s sticking.”

“She hasn’t had a fix in what—over ten hours. How long do you figure she can last?”

“Don’t know enough.” Casto spread his hands. “She could ice it out, come out the other side, or she could be a sloppy puddle of tapioca in another ten minutes.”

“Okay, so we don’t count on her breaking.”

“Redford was showing a few cracks,” Peabody put in. “He’s scared boneless. His lawyer’s the hard-ass. If we had him alone for five minutes, he’d crack like a walnut.”

“That’s not an option.” Whitney studied the hard copy of the most recent interviews. “You’ll have Young’s statement to pressure him with.”

“It’s weak,” Eve muttered.

“You’ll have to make it look stronger. He claims Redford first introduced Fitzgerald to Immortality about three months ago, suggested a partnership.”

“And according to our fair-haired boy, it was all going to be legal and aboveboard.” Eve gave a derisive grunt. “Nobody’s that fucking naive.”

“I don’t know,” Peabody murmured. “He’s cross-eyed over Fitzgerald. I’d say she could have convinced him it was a straight deal. Research and development, a new line of beauty and youth aids carrying Fitzgerald’s name.”

“And all they had to do was edge out Pandora.” Casto smiled. “The money would roll in.”

“It still comes down to profit. Pandora was in the way.” Eve dropped into a seat. “The others were in the way. Maybe Young’s just an innocent schmuck, maybe not. He’s pointed at Redford, but what he hasn’t figured out yet is that he could be fingering Fitzgerald at the same time. She told him enough for him to plan a trip to the Eden Colony, hoping the two of them could finesse a specimen of their own.”

“You’ve got your illegals conspiracy,” Whitney pointed out. “If Young shakes off the rest, he’ll have his deal. You’ve still got a way to go for murder. At this point, his testimony isn’t going to hold much weight. He believes Redford did Pandora. He gives us motive. We can establish opportunity. But there’s no physical evidence, no witnesses.”

He rose. “Get me a confession, Dallas. The PA’s putting on the pressure. They’re dropping charges on Freestone Monday. If they don’t have something else to feed the media, we’re all going to look like assholes.”

Casto took out a penknife, began trimming his nails as Whitney left the room. “Christ knows we wouldn’t want the PA to look like an asshole. Shit, they want it all laid out on a platter, don’t they?” His eyes lifted to Eve’s. “Redford’s not going to cop to murder, Eve. He’ll go down for the drug. Hell, it’s almost fashionable, but he’s not going to swing to four homicides. We’ve only got one hope to pin on.”

“Which is?” Peabody wanted to know.

“That he didn’t do it alone. We crack one of the others, we crack him. My money’s on Fitzgerald.”

“Then you take her.” Eve blew out a breath. “I’ll work Redford. Peabody, take Redford’s picture. Go back to the club, go back to Boomer’s place, to Cockroach’s, to Moppett’s. Show the damn thing to everybody. I need one lousy make.”

She scowled as the ’link beeped, and she engaged it. “Dallas, don’t bother me.”

“It’s always lovely to hear your voice,” Roarke said implacably.

“I’m in conference.”

“So am I. I’m leaving for FreeStar in thirty minutes.”

“You’re going off planet? But . . . well, have a good trip.”

“It can’t be avoided. I should be back within three days. You know how to contact me.”

“Yeah, I know.” She wanted to say things, foolish things, private things. “I’m going to be pretty tied up myself for a while,” she said instead. “See you when you get back.”

“You might check your office, Lieutenant. Mavis has been trying to reach you most of the day. It appears you’ve missed your last fitting. Leonardo is . . . distraught.”

Eve did her best to ignore Casto’s quick chuckle. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

“Don’t we all? Find a minute to deal with him, darling. For my sake. Let’s get all those people out of our house.”

“I wanted to boot them out days ago. I thought you liked having all those people around.”

“And I thought he was your brother,” Roarke murmured.

“What?”

“Old joke. No, Eve, I don’t like having all those people around. They are, in a word, maniacs. I found Galahad cowering under the bed just now. Someone has covered him with beads and tiny red bows. It’s mortifying, for both of us.”

She bit down on her tongue to hold back the snort of laughter. Roarke wasn’t looking amused. “Now that I know they’re driving you crazy, I feel better. We’ll move them along.”

“Do that. Oh, and I’m afraid there might be a few details for next Saturday you’ll have to handle while I’m gone. Summerset has the memos. My transport’s waiting.” She watched him signal to someone off screen, then his eyes locked back on hers. “See you in a few days, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah.” The screen went blank as she muttered. “Bon fucking voyage.”

“Well, hell, Eve. If you need to run off to your dressmaker, or take your cat to therapy, Peabody and I can handle this minor matter of murder.”

Eve’s lips stretched in a vicious smile. “Bite me, Casto.”

Despite his many annoying qualities, Casto had solid instincts. Redford wasn’t going to break any time soon. Eve worked him hard and had the mild satisfaction of pinning him on the illegals charges, but a confession to multiple murder just wasn’t happening.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight.” She rose. She needed to stretch her legs. She poured coffee. “It was Pandora who told you about Immortality. And that was?”

“As I said, about a year and a half ago, perhaps a little more.” He was iced down now, totally in control. The illegals charges could be dealt with, particularly from the angle he’d chosen. “She came to me with a business proposition. Or so she termed it. She claimed to have access to a formula, something that would revolutionize the beauty and health industry.”

“A beauty aid. And she didn’t mention the illegal or the dangerous qualities.”

“Not at that time. She needed backing to start the line. One she intended to launch under her name.”

“Did she show you the formula?”

“She did not. As I told you before, she strung me along, made promises. Admittedly, it was poor judgment on my part. I was sexually addicted to her, a weakness she exploited. At the same time, the business aspect seemed to have merit. She was using the product in tablet form. And the results were impressive. I could see that it made her look younger, more fit. It increased her energy and her sexual drive. Marketed correctly, a product such as that would generate enormous profit. I wanted the money for some commercially risky projects.”

“You wanted the money, so you continued to pay her, little dribs and drabs, without being fully informed.”

“For a time. I did grow impatient and made demands. She made more promises. I began to suspect that she intended to go out on her own or that she was working with someone else. Using me. So I took a sample for myself.”

“Took a sample?”

He took his time answering, as if he was still crafting the words. “I took her key while she was sleeping and unlocked the box where she kept the tablets. I, in the interest of protecting my investment, took a few to have them analyzed.”

“And when did you steal the drug, in the interest of protecting your investment?”

“Theft is not established,” the lawyer interrupted. “My client had paid, in good faith, for the product.”

“Okay, we’ll rephrase. When did you decide to take a more active interest in your business investment?”

“About six months ago. I took the samples to a contact I have in chemical analysis and paid him for a private report.”

“And learned . . .”

Redford paused to study his fingers. “I learned that the product did indeed have the properties Pandora had promised. However, it was addictive, which pushed it automatically into the illegals category. It was also potentially lethal when taken regularly over a long period of time.”

“And being a righteous man, you counted your losses and pulled out of the deal.”

“Being righteous is not a legal requirement,” Redford said mildly. “And I had an investment to protect. I decided to do some research to see if the unacceptable side effects could be diminished or eradicated. I believe we accomplished that, or nearly.”

“So you used Jerry Fitzgerald as a guinea pig.”

“That was a miscalculation. Perhaps I was overeager as Pandora continued to push for more money and made statements that indicated she was about to go public with the product. I wanted to beat her to it, and knew that Jerry would be the perfect spokeswoman. She agreed, for a fee, to try the product my people had refined. In a liquid form. Science makes mistakes, Lieutenant. The drug was still, as we learned too late, highly addictive.”

“And fatal?”

“It seems. The process has been slowed, but yes, I’m afraid there is still the potential for physical harm in the long term. A possible side effect I warned Jerry of several weeks ago.”

“Before or after Pandora discovered you were trying to ace her out?”

“I believe it was after, just after. Unfortunately, Jerry and Pandora ran into each other at a function. Pandora made some comments about her former relationship with Justin. From what I gather, and this is secondhand, Jerry tossed the business deal we had made in Pandora’s face.”

“And Pandora didn’t take kindly to it.”

“She was, naturally, furious. Our relationship was rocky at best by that time. I had already procured a specimen of the Immortal Blossom, determined to delete all side effects from the formula. I had no intention, Lieutenant, of releasing a dangerous drug to the public. My records will substantiate that.”

“We’ll let Illegals handle that one. Did Pandora threaten you?”

“Pandora lived for threats. One became accustomed to them. I felt I was in a good position to ignore them, even to counter them.” He smiled now, more confident. “You see, if she had gone forward, knowing what properties were contained in the formula, I could have ruined her. I had no reason to harm her.”

“Your relationship was rocky, yet you went to her home that night.”

“In hopes that we could come to some compromise. That’s why I insisted that Justin and Jerry be present.”

“You had sex with her.”

“She was a beautiful, desirable woman. Yes, I had sex with her.”

“She had tablets of the drug in her possession.”

“She did. As I told you, she kept them in a box in her vanity.” His smile came back. “I told you about the box and the tablets because I assumed, correctly, that an autopsy would show traces of the drug. It seemed wise to be forthcoming. I did nothing but cooperate.”

“Easy to cooperate if you knew I wouldn’t find the tablets. After she was dead, you went back for the box. Protecting your investment. If there was no product but yours, no competitor, how much more profit there would be.”

“I did not go back to her home after I left. I had no reason to. My product was superior.”

“Neither of those products would have made the market, and you knew it. But on the street, hers would have hit big, bigger than your refined, watered down, and most likely more expensive version.”

“With more research, more testing—”

“More money? You’d already put over three hundred thousand in her hands. You’d gone to the considerable expense to procure a specimen, paid for the research and testing to date, paid Fitzgerald. I imagine you were becoming a little anxious to see some profit. How much did you charge Jerry for a fix?”

“Jerry and I had a business arrangement.”

“Ten thousand a delivery,” Eve interrupted, and watched the point strike home. “That’s the amount she transferred three times over a two-month period to your account on Starlight Station.”

“An investment,” he began.

“You addicted her, then you hosed her. That makes you a dealer, Mr. Redford.”

The lawyer went into his spin routine, turning a drug deal into a profit-and-loss arrangement between investment partners.

“You needed contacts. Street contacts. Boomer was always a sucker for a credit in the hand. But he got carried away, liked to test the product. How did he get the formula? That was sloppy of you.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“You saw him flapping his lips at the club. Making a big deal of himself. When he went into a privacy room with Hetta Moppett, you couldn’t be sure how much he’d told her. But when he saw you, and he ran, you had to act.”

“You’re on the wrong beam, Lieutenant. I don’t know these people.”

“Maybe you killed Hetta in panic. You didn’t really mean to, but when you saw she was dead, you had to cover it up. That’s where the overkill came in. Maybe she told you something before she died, maybe she didn’t, but you had to get to Boomer then. I’d say you were enjoying it now, the way you messed him up, tortured him before you finished him. But you got a little overconfident, and didn’t get to his flop to search it before I did.”

She pushed away from the table, took a turn around the room. “Now you’ve got big problems. The cops have a sample, they have the formula, and Pandora’s getting out of hand. What choice do you have?” She put her hands on the table, leaned in close. “What can a man do when he sees his investment and all those future profits going into the sewer?”

“My business with Pandora was finished.”

“Yeah, you finished it. Taking her to Leonardo’s was smart. You’re a smart man. She was already wired over Mavis. If you do her at his place, it’s going to look like he’d had enough. You’d have to do him, too, if he was there, but you had a taste for it now. He’s not there, so it’s easier. Easier still when Mavis walks in and you can set her up.”

Redford’s breathing was a bit forced, but he was holding. “The last time I saw Pandora, she was alive, vicious, and eager to punish someone. If Mavis Freestone didn’t kill her, my guess would be Jerry Fitzgerald.”

Intrigued, Eve angled back to her chair, leaned back. “Really? Why?”

“They despised each other, were in direct competition, now more than ever. On top of everything else, Pandora was angling to lure Justin back. That was something Jerry wouldn’t tolerate. And . . .” He smiled. “It was Jerry who put the idea of going to Leonardo’s for a showdown into Pandora’s head.”

This is a new one, Eve thought and cocked a brow. “Is that so?”

“After Ms. Freestone left, Pandora was edgy, angry. Jerry seemed to enjoy that, and the fact that the young woman had gotten a few shots in. She egged Pandora on. Said something to the effect that if she was Pandora, she wouldn’t tolerate being humiliated that way, and why didn’t she go straight over to Leonardo’s and show him who was in charge. There was another little dig about Pandora not being able to hold onto a man, then Justin hustled Jerry out.”

His smile widened. “They despised Pandora, you see. Jerry for obvious reasons, and Justin because I’d told him that the drug was Pandora’s doing. Justin would do anything to protect Jerry. Absolutely anything. I, on the other hand, had no emotional attachment to any of the players. It was just sex with Pandora. Just sex, Lieutenant, and business.”

Eve rapped on the door where Casto was interviewing Jerry. When he poked his head out, she shifted her gaze, studied the woman at the table. “I need to talk to her.”

“She’s running down, running out. Not going to get too much out of her today. Lawyer’s already making noises about a break.”

“I need to talk to her,” Eve repeated. “How have you been handling her this round?”

“Tough line, hard-ass.”

“Okay, I’ll downgrade.” Eve slipped into the room.

She could still feel pity, she realized. Jerry’s eyes were jittery and shadowed. Her face was drawn, and her hands shook as they ran over it. Her beauty was fragile now, and haunted.

“You want some food?” Eve asked in a quiet voice.

“No.” Jerry’s gaze bounced around the room. “I want to go home. I want Justin.”

“We’ll see if we can arrange a visit. It’ll have to be supervised.” She poured water. “Why don’t you drink a little of this, take a minute?” She covered Jerry’s hands with her own on the glass, lifted it to the trembling lips. “This is rough on you. I’m sorry. We can’t give you anything to counteract the crash. We don’t know enough yet, and whatever we gave you might be worse.”

“I’m all right. It’s nothing.”

“It sucks.” Eve slipped into a seat. “Redford got you into this. He verified that.”

“It’s nothing,” she said again. “I’m just tired. I need a little of my health drink.” She looked hopefully, pitifully at Eve. “Can’t I have a little, just to gear back up?”

“You know it’s dangerous, Jerry. You know what it’s doing to you. Counselor, Paul Redford has stated on record that he introduced Ms. Fitzgerald to the illegal, under the pretense of a business venture. It is our assumption that she was unaware of its addictive qualities. We have no intention, at this time, of charging her with use.”

As Eve had hoped, the lawyer relaxed visibly. “Well, then, Lieutenant, I’d like to arrange for my client’s release and her admission into rehab. Voluntary admission.”

“Voluntary admission can be arranged. If your client can cooperate for a few more minutes, it would help me in closing the charges on Redford.”

“If she cooperates, Lieutenant, all illegals charges will be dropped?”

“You know I can’t promise that, Counselor. I will, however, recommend leniency on the charges of possession and intent to distribute.”

“And Justin? You’ll let him go?”

Eve looked back at Jerry. Love, she thought, was an odd burden. “Was he involved in the business transaction?”

“No. He wanted me to pull out. When he found out that I was . . . dependent, he pushed me to go into rehab, to stop taking the drink. But I needed it. I was going to stop, but I needed it.”

“The night Pandora died, there was an argument.”

“There was always an argument with Pandora. She was hateful. She thought she could get Justin back. The bitch didn’t care about him. She just wanted to hurt me. To hurt him.”

“He wouldn’t have gone back to her, would he, Jerry?”

“He hated her as much as I did.” She lifted her beautifully manicured nails to her mouth, started to gnaw. “We’re glad she’s dead.”

“Jerry—”

“I don’t care,” she exploded with a wild look to her cautioning lawyer. “She deserved to die. She wanted everything, never cared how she got it. Justin was mine. I would have been headliner at Leonardo’s show if she hadn’t found out I was interested. She went out of her way to seduce him, to have me cut out so that she could take the job. It would have been my job, it should have been my job all along. Just like Justin was mine. Like the drug was mine. It makes you beautiful and strong and sexy. And every time anyone takes it, they’ll think of me. Not of her, of me.”

“Did Justin go with you to Leonardo’s that night?”

“Lieutenant, what is this?”

“It’s a question, Counselor. Did he, Jerry?”

“No, of course not. We—we didn’t go there. We went out for drinks. We went home.”

“You taunted her, didn’t you? You knew how to play her. You had to be sure she’d go hunt down Leonardo. Did Redford contact you, tell you when she’d left?”

“No, I don’t know. You’re confusing me. Can’t I have something? I need my drink.”

“You were using it that night. It made you strong. Strong enough to kill her. You wanted her dead. She was always in your way. And her tablets were stronger, more effective than your liquid. Did you want them, Jerry?”

“Yes, I wanted them. She was getting younger in front of my eyes. Thinner. I have to watch every fucking bite I take, but she . . . Paul said he might be able to get them from her. Justin told him to back off, to stay away from me. But Justin doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how it makes you feel. Immortal,” she said with a horrible smile. “It makes you feel immortal. For God’s sake, just one drink.”

“You slipped out of the back that night, went to Leonardo’s. What happened then?”

“I can’t. I’m confused. I need something.”

“Did you pick up the cane and hit her? Did you keep hitting her?”

“I wanted her dead.” On a sob, Jerry laid her head on the table. “I wanted her dead. For God’s sake help me. I’ll tell you anything you want to hear if you just help me.”

“Lieutenant, anything my client says under physical and mental duress is inadmissible.”

Eve studied the weeping woman and reached for the ’link. “Get the MT’s in here,” she ordered. “And arrange for hospital transport for Ms. Fitzgerald. Under guard.”

chapter nineteen

“What do you mean you’re not charging her?” His eyes went dark with shock and temper as Casto erupted, “You got a fucking confession.”

“It wasn’t a confession,” Eve corrected. She was tired, dead tired and sick of herself. “She’d have said anything.”

“Jesus Christ, Eve. Jesus Christ.” In an attempt to walk off fury, Casto paced up and down the antiseptic tiled corridor of the health center. “You aced her.”

“The hell I did.” Wearily, Eve rubbed at a headache in her left temple. “Listen to me, Casto, the shape she was in, she’d have told me she personally drove nails into the palms of Christ if I’d promised her a fix. I charge her on the basis of that, her lawyers will tear it apart in pretrial.”

“You’re not worried about pretrial.” He passed the tight-lipped Peabody on his stride back to Eve. “You went for the jugular, just like a cop’s supposed to in a murder case. Now you’ve gone soft. You’re fucking sorry for her.”

“Don’t tell me what I am,” Eve said evenly. “And don’t tell me how to run this investigation. I’m primary, Casto, so back the hell off.”

He measured her. “You don’t want me to go over your head with this decision.”

“Threats?” She angled her body up on the balls of her feet, like a boxer ready to dance. “You go ahead and do what you have to do. My recommendation stands. She gets treatment, though Christ knows how much good that’s going to do her in the short term, then we reinterview. Until I’m satisfied she’s coherent and capable of judgment, she won’t be charged.”

Eve could see he was making an effort to pull himself back. And she could see it was costing him. She didn’t give a damn.

“Eve, you’ve got motive, you’ve got opportunity, you’ve got the personality capacity tests. She’s capable of the crimes in question. She was, at her own admission, under the influence and predisposed to hate Pandora’s guts. What the fuck do you want?”

“I want her to look me in the eye, clear in the eye, and tell me she did them. I want her to tell me how she did them. Until then, we wait. Because I’ll tell you something, hotshot. No way she acted alone. No fucking way she did all of them with her own pretty hands.”

“Why? Because she’s a woman?”

“No, because money isn’t her big pull. Passion is, love is, envy is. So maybe she did Pandora in a fit of jealous rage, but I don’t buy her doing the others. Not without help. Not without a push. So we wait, we reinterview, and we get her to finger Young and/or Redford. Then, we have it all.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“So noted,” she said briskly. “Now, go file your interdepartmental complaint, take a walk, or blow it out your ass, but get out of my face.”

His eyes flickered, the temper in them ripe and ready. But he stepped back. “I’m going to go cool off.”

He stormed off, with barely a glance at the silent Peabody.

“Your pal’s running a little low on charm this evening,” Eve commented.

Peabody could have said the same went for her commanding officer, but she held her tongue. “We’re all under a lot of pressure, Dallas. This bust means a lot to him.”

“You know what, Peabody? Justice means a little more to me than a pretty gold star on my record or some fucking captain’s bars. And if you want to go run after lover boy and stroke his ego, no one’s stopping you.”

Peabody’s jaw twitched, but her voice was even. “I’m not going anywhere, Lieutenant.”

“Fine, just stand here and look martyred because I—” In midtirade, Eve stopped, sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry. You’re a goddamn handy target at the moment, Peabody.”

“Is that part of my job description? Sir.”

“You always have a fine comeback. I could learn to hate you for that.” Calmer, Eve laid a hand on her aide’s shoulder. “I am sorry, and I’m sorry to put you in a tight spot. Duty and personal emotions never mix well.”

“I can handle it. He was wrong to come at you that way, Dallas. I can understand how he feels, but it doesn’t make him right.”

“Maybe not.” Eve leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “But he was right about one thing, and it’s eating at me. I didn’t have the stomach for what I did to Fitzgerald in interview. I didn’t have the stomach while I was doing it, while I was hearing myself hammer at her, twist her up when she was suffering. But I did it, because that’s my job, and going for the jugular when the prey’s wounded is exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

Eve opened her eyes and stared hard at the door behind which Jerry Fitzgerald was mildly sedated. “And sometimes, Peabody, the job just fucking sucks.”

“Yes, sir.” For the first time, Peabody reached out and touched a hand to Eve’s arm. “That’s why you’re so good at it.”

Eve opened her mouth, surprised when a laugh popped out. “Goddamn, Peabody, I really like you.”

“I like you, too.” She waited a beat. “What’s wrong with us?”

Cheered a little, she slung an arm around Peabody’s sturdy shoulders. “Let’s go get something to eat. Fitzgerald’s not going anywhere tonight.”

On that, Eve’s instincts proved to be wrong.

The call woke her at a little before four A.M., out of a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. Her eyes were gritty, her tongue thick from the wine she’d indulged in to be marginally sociable with Mavis and Leonardo. She managed a croak as she answered the ’link.

“Dallas. Christ, doesn’t anyone ever sleep in this town?”

“I often ask myself the same question.” The face and voice on the ’link were vaguely familiar. Eve struggled to focus, to roll through her memory discs.

“Doctor . . . hell, Ambrose?” It slid back, layer by layer. Ambrose, spindly female, mixed race, head of chemical rehab at the Midtown Rehabilitation Center for Substance Addiction. “You still there? Is Fitzgerald coming around?”

“Not exactly. Lieutenant, we have a problem here. Patient Fitzgerald is dead.”

“Dead? What do you mean dead?”

“As in deceased,” Ambrose said with a bland smile. “As a homicide lieutenant, I imagine you’re familiar with the term.”

“How, damn it? Did her nervous system give out, did she jump out a fucking window?”

“As near as we can determine, she overdosed herself. She managed to get her hands on the sample of Immortality we were using to determine the proper treatment for her. She took all of it, in combination with a few of the other goodies we have stashed here. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, she’s gone. We can’t bring her back. I’ll fill you in on the details when you and your team arrive.”

“Damn right you will,” Eve snapped and broke transmission.

Eve viewed the body first, as if to ensure herself there hadn’t been a horrible mistake. Jerry had been laid on the bed, her color-coded hospital gown draped to midthigh. Sky blue for addict, first stage treatment.

She was never going to get to stage two.

Her beauty was back, oddly eerie, in the bone-white face. The shadows were gone from under her eyes, the strain from around the mouth. Death was the ultimate calmer, after all. There were faint burn marks on her chest where the resuscitating team had worked on her, a light bruising on the back of her hand where the IV had pinched. Under the doctor’s wary eye, Eve examined the body thoroughly, but found no signs of violence.

She’d died, Eve supposed, as happy as she would ever be.

“How?” Eve demanded shortly.

“The combination of Immortality and, as far as we can determine by what’s missing, doses of morphine and synthetic Zeus. Autopsy will confirm.”

“You keep Zeus here, in a rehab?” The idea had Eve scrubbing her hands over her face.“Jesus.”

“For research and rehabilitation,” Ambrose said tightly. “Subjects addicted need a slow, supervised withdrawal period.”

“So where the hell was the supervision, Doctor?”

“Ms. Fitzgerald was sedated. She was not expected to regain full consciousness until eight A.M. My hypothesis would be that, as we don’t fully understand the properties of Immortality as yet, what was left in her system counteracted the sedative.”

“So she got up, marched herself down to your drug hold, and helped herself.”

“Something of the kind.” Eve could all but hear Ambrose’s teeth grinding.

“What about security, the nursing staff? Did she turn herself invisible and walk right by them?”

“You can check with your own officer on duty about security, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Be sure I will, Dr. Ambrose.”

Ambrose gnashed her teeth again, then sighed. “Listen, I don’t want to hang the mess on your uniform, Lieutenant. We had a disruption here a few hours ago. One of our violent tendencies attacked his ward nurse, got out of his restraints. We had our hands full for a few minutes, and the uniform pitched in. If she hadn’t, the ward nurse would very likely be standing at the Pearly Gates with Ms. Fitzgerald right now instead of dealing with a broken tibia and some cracked ribs.”

“You’ve had a busy night, Doctor.”

“Not one I want to repeat any time soon.” She dragged her fingers through curly, rust-colored hair. “Listen, Lieutenant, this center has an excellent reputation. We help people. Losing one, this way, makes me feel every bit as shitty as you. She should have been asleep, damn it. And that uniform wasn’t away from her post for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Timing again.” Eve looked back at Jerry and tried to shrug off the weight of guilt. “What about your security cameras?”

“We don’t have any. Lieutenant, can you imagine how many media leaks we’d have if we had recordings of patients, some of whom are prominent citizens? We’re bound by privacy laws here.”

“Great, no security discs. Nobody sees her take her last walk. Where’s the drug hold where she OD’d?”

“This wing, one level down.”

“How the hell did she know that?”

“That, Lieutenant, I can’t tell you. Any more than I can explain how she unkeyed the lock, not only on the door, but on the holds themselves. But she did. The night watch found her on his sweep. The door was open.”

“Unlocked or open?”

“Open,” Ambrose confirmed. “As were two holds. She was on the floor, dead as Caesar. We tried the usual resuscitations, of course, but it was more for form than from hope.”

“I’ll need to talk to everyone in this wing—patients as well as staff.”

“Lieutenant—”

“Fuck privacy laws, Doctor. I’m overriding them. I want your night watch as well.” Pity jangled Eve’s nerves as she recovered the body. “Did anyone come in, try to see her? Did anyone call to check her condition?”

“Her ward nurse will have that information.”

“Then let’s start with her ward nurse. You round up the rest of them. Is there a room I can use for interview?”

“You can use my office, such as it is.” Ambrose looked back at the body, hissed between her teeth. “Beautiful woman. Young, with fame and fortune at her fingertips. Drugs heal, Lieutenant. They extend life and the quality of it. They eradicate pain, soothe a troubled mind. I work hard to remember that when I see what else they can do. If you ask me, and you’re not, she was headed here the first time she sipped that pretty blue juice.”

“Yeah, but she got here a lot faster than she was supposed to.”

Eve strode out of the room, spotted Peabody in the corridor. “Casto?”

“I contacted him. He’s on his way.”

“It’s a goddamn mess, Peabody. Let’s do what we can to mop it up. See that this room—Hey, you.” She saw the officer she’d left on guard at the end of the hallway. Her finger pointed like an arrow. She could see that it hit its mark by the way the uniform winced before she blanked her face and started toward her commanding officer.

Eve blew off some steam giving the uniform a dressing down. She didn’t have to know Eve would recommend no disciplinary action be taken. Let her sweat.

In the end, when she was sweating and pale, Eve studied the nasty bruising scrape on the officer’s collarbone. “The VT give you that?”

“Sir, before I restrained him.”

“Have it seen to, for Christ’s sake. You’re in a health center. And I want this door secured. You got that this time? Nobody in, nobody out.”

“Yes, sir.” She snapped to attention, looking, Eve thought, pathetically like a whipped puppy. Barely old enough to buy a beer at a street stall, Eve mused with a shake of her head.

“Stand your watch, Officer, until I order your relief.”

She spun away, gesturing for Peabody to follow.

“You ever get that pissed off at me,” Peabody said in her mild voice, “I’d prefer a bare-knuckled punch in the face to a tongue lashing.”

“So noted. Casto, glad you decided to join us.”

His shirt was rumpled, as if he’d tossed on the first thing that had come to hand. Eve knew the routine. Her own shirt looked as if it had been balled in someone’s pocket for a week. “What the hell happened here?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out. We’re setting up in Dr. Ambrose’s office. We’ll question the relevant staff one at a time. For the patients we’re likely going to be required to do a room to room. Everything on record, Peabody, starting now.”

In silence, Peabody took out her recorder, clipped it to her lapel. “On record, sir.”

Eve nodded to Ambrose, then followed her through reinforced glass doors, down a short hallway, and into a small, cluttered office.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Questioning of possible witnesses in the death of Fitzgerald, Jerry.” She checked her watch for time and date and recorded them. “Also present are Casto, Lieutenant Jake T., Illegals Division, and Peabody, Officer Delia, temporary attaché to Dallas. Questioning to take place in the office of Dr. Ambrose, Midtown Rehabilitation Center for Substance Addictions. Dr. Ambrose, please send in the ward nurse. And stand by, Doctor.”

“How the hell did she die?” Casto demanded. “Her system just give out? What?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’ll fill you in as we go.”

He started to speak, then controlled himself. “Can we get some coffee in here, Eve? I haven’t had my fix.”

“Try that.” She jerked her thumb at a battered AutoChef, then took her place behind the desk.

It didn’t get much better. By midday, Eve had personally questioned every staff member on duty in the wing, with nearly the same results each time. The VT in room 6027 had gotten out of his restraints, attacked his ward nurse, and all hell had broken loose. From what she could gather, people had poured down the hallway like a river, leaving Jerry’s room unattended for anywhere from twelve to eighteen minutes.

More than enough time, Eve supposed, for a desperate woman to flee. But how did she know where to find the drug she craved, and how did she gain access to it?

“Maybe some of the staff were talking about it in her room.” Casto shoveled in veggie pasta on their midday break in the center’s eatery. “A new blend always creates a big buzz. It’s not much of a stretch to figure that the ward nurse or a couple of orderlies were gossiping about it. Fitzgerald obviously wasn’t as sedated as anyone thought. She hears them, and when she sees her chance, goes for it.”

Eve chewed over the theory and a forkful of grilled chicken hash. “I can buy that. She had to hear it somewhere. And she was desperate, and smart. I can buy that she’d figure a way to get down to it undetected. But how the hell did she get past the locks? Where’d she get the code?”

He fumbled there and scowled down at his meal. A man wanted meat, damn it. Good red meat. And these pussy health centers treated it like poison.

“Could she have gotten a master code somewhere?” Peabody speculated. She was sticking to green leaf salad, undressed, with the idea of shaving off a couple of pounds. “Or a code breaker.”

“Then where is it?” Eve shot back. “She was stone dead when they found her. The sweepers didn’t find any master code in the room.”

“Maybe the frigging door was open when she got there.” Disgusted, Casto shoved his plate aside. “That’s the kind of luck we’ve been having.”

“That’s a little too serendipitous for me. Okay, she hears a discussion about Immortality, how it’s being kept in the drug hold for research. She’s in acute withdrawal, with whatever they’ve plugged into her smoothing out the worst of the raw edges. But she needs it. Then, like a gift from God, there’s a commotion outside. I don’t like gifts from God,” Eve muttered. “But we’ll run with it for now. She gets up, the guard’s gone, and she’s out of there. She gets down to the drug hold, though I can’t see a couple of orderlies discussing directions to it. Still, she got there, we’ve established that. But getting in . . .”

“What are you thinking, Eve?”

She lifted her gaze to Casto’s. “That she had help. That somebody wanted her to get to it.”

“You think one of the staff led her down there so she could help herself?”

“It’s a possibility.” Eve shrugged off the doubt in Casto’s voice. “A bribe, a promise, a fan. And when we go through everyone’s records, we might hit on something that indicates a weak link. In the meantime—” She broke off as her communicator sounded. “Dallas.”

“Lobar, sweeper. We found something interesting in the disposal hold down here, Lieutenant. It’s a master code, and its got Fitzgerald’s prints all over it.”

“Bag it, Lobar. I’ll be down shortly.”

“That explains a lot,” Casto began. The transmission perked up his appetite enough for him to dig into the pasta again. “Somebody helped her, like you said. Or she copped it from one of the nurses’ stations during the confusion.”

“Clever girl,” Eve murmured. “Very clever girl. Times it all like clockwork, goes down, unkeys what she wants, then takes the additional time to ditch the master. She sure was thinking clearly, wasn’t she?”

Peabody drummed her fingers on the table. “If she took a hit of the Immortality first—and it seems likely she would, it probably jolted her back on full. She probably realized she could be caught there, with the master. If she ditched it, she could claim she’d wandered off, that she was confused.”

“Yeah.” Casto flashed her a smile. “That works for me.”

“Then why stay?” Eve demanded. “She’d had her fix. Why didn’t she make a run for it?”

“Eve.” Casto’s voice was quiet, sober, as were his eyes. “There’s a possibility we haven’t touched on here. Maybe she wanted to die.”

“A deliberate OD?” She had thought of it, didn’t like what it did to her stomach muscles. Guilt descended like a clammy mist. “Why?”

Understanding her reaction, he laid a hand briefly over hers. “She was trapped. You had her. She had to know she was going to spend the rest of her life in a cage—in a cage,” he added, “with no access to the drug. She’d have gotten old, lost her looks, lost everything that mattered most to her. It was a way out, a way to die young and beautiful.”

“Suicide.” Peabody picked up the threads and wove them. “The combination she took was lethal. If she was clear-headed enough to get into the hold, she would have been clear-headed enough to know that. Why face the scandal, imprisonment, another withdrawal if you could go out quick and clean?”

“I’ve seen it happen,” Casto added. “In my line, it’s not unusual. People can’t live with the drug, can’t live without it. So they take themselves out with it.”

“No note,” Eve said stubbornly. “No message.”

“She was despondent, Eve. And like you said, desperate.” Casto toyed with his coffee. “If it was an impulse, something she felt she had to do and do quick, she might not have wanted to think long enough to leave a message. Eve, nobody forced her. There’s no sign of violence or struggle on the body. It was self-induced. It may have been an accident, it may have been deliberate. You’re not likely to fully determine which.”

“It doesn’t close the homicides. No way she acted alone.”

Casto exchanged a look with Peabody. “Maybe not. But the fact is that the influence of the drug may explain that she did just that. You can hammer away at Redford and Young for a while. Christ knows, neither one of them should get off clean in this. But you’re going to have to close this thing sooner or later. It’s done.” He set his cup down. “Give yourself a break.”

“Well, this is cozy.” Justin Young stepped up to the table. His eyes, hollow and red-rimmed, fastened on Eve. “Nothing spoils your appetite, does it, you bitch?”

As Casto started to rise, Eve lifted a finger, signaling him down. She shoved pity aside. “Your lawyers manage to spring you, Justin?”

“That’s right, all it took was Jerry dying to push them into granting bail. My lawyer tells me that with these latest developments—that’s just how the fucker phrased it—with these latest developments, the case is all but closed. Jerry’s a multiple murderer, a drug addict, a dead woman, and I’m all but in the clear. Handy, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Eve said evenly.

“You killed her.” He leaned forward on the table, the slap of his hands rattling cutlery. “You might as well have rammed a knife in her throat. She needed help, understanding, a little compassion. But you kept hacking away at her until she fell to pieces. Now she’s dead. Do you understand that?” Tears began to swim in his eyes. “She’s dead and you get a nice big star next to your name. Bagged yourself a mad killer. But I’ve got news for you, Lieutenant. Jerry never killed anyone. But you did. This isn’t over.” He swept an arm across the table, sending dishes to the floor in a mess of broken crockery and spilled food. “No way in hell is this over.”

She let out a long breath as he walked away. “No, I guess it’s not.”

chapter twenty

She’d never known a week to move so fast. And she felt brutally alone. Everyone considered the case closed, including the PA’s office and her own commander. Jerry Fitzgerald’s body was reduced to ashes, her final interview logged.

The media went into its usual frenzy. Top level model’s secret life. The killer beneath the perfect face. Quest for immortality leaves a trail of death.

She had other cases, certainly had other obligations, but she spent every free minute reviewing the case, picking through evidence, and trying out new theories until even Peabody told her to give it up.

She tried to juggle the few little details on the wedding Roarke had asked her to see to. But what the hell did she know about caterers, wine selections, and seating charts? In the end, she swallowed her pride and dumped the whole mess on a sneering Summerset.

And was told, in didactic tones, that a wife of a man in Roarke’s position would have to learn basic social skills.

She told him to shove it, and they both went off, well satisfied to do what they did best. Under it all, Eve was almost afraid they were beginning to like each other.

Roarke wandered from his office into Eve’s. And shook his head. They would be married the next day. In less than twenty hours. Was the bride-to-be fussing with her wedding gown, bathing herself in fragrant oils and perfumes, daydreaming about her life to come?

No, she was hunched over her computer, muttering at it, her hair tousled from constant raking with her fingers. There was a stain on her shirt where she’d spilled coffee. A plate holding what might have once been a sandwich had been set on the floor. Even the cat avoided it.

He walked up behind her, saw, as he had expected to see, the Fitzgerald file on screen.

Her tenacity fascinated him, and yes, allured him. He wondered if she had allowed anyone else to see that she suffered over Fitzgerald’s death. If she’d been able, she would have hidden it even from him.

He knew the guilt was there, and the pity. And the duty. All would push her, chain a part of her to the case. It was one of the reasons he loved her, that huge capacity for emotion strapped into a logical, restless mind.

He started to bend down to kiss the crown of her head just as she lifted it. They both swore when her head connected hard with his jaw.

“Christ Jesus.” Torn between amusement and pain, Roarke dabbed at the blood on his lip. “You make romance a dangerous business.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up behind me that way.” Frowning, she rubbed the top of her head. It was just one more spot to throb. “I thought you and Feeney and a few of your hedonistic friends were going out to rape and pillage.”

“A bachelor’s party is not a Viking invasion. I have some time yet before the barbarism begins.” He sat down on the corner of her desk and studied her. “Eve, you need a break from this.”

“I’m going to be taking a three-week one, aren’t I?” she hissed as he only lifted his brows patiently. “Sorry, I’m being bitchy. I can’t get past this, Roarke. I’ve put it aside a half dozen times this past week, but I keep coming back.”

“Say it aloud. Sometimes it’s helpful.”

“Okay.” She shoved back from the desk, narrowly missed stepping on the cat. “She could have gone to the club. Some of the fancy people slum at that kind of place.”

“Pandora did.”

“Exactly. And they did run with the same basic crowd. So yeah, she could have gone to the club, she could have seen Boomer there. She might even have had a contact tell her he was in. This is all supposing that she knew him, which is not firmly established. And was working with him, or through him. She sees him there, realizing he’s mouthing off. He’s a loose end, someone who’s outlived his usefulness and is now a liability.”

“So far that’s logical.”

She nodded, but didn’t stop pacing. “Okay, he spots her after he comes out of the privacy room with Hetta Moppett. Jerry has to worry now what he’s said. He could have bragged, even puffed up his own connection to impress the woman. Boomer’s smart enough to know he’s in trouble, takes off, goes underground. Hetta’s the first victim. She’s got to go because she might know something. She’s taken out quick, brutally, so it looks like a random rage hit. Her ID’s taken. That means it’ll take longer to trace her, connect her with the club and Boomer. If anyone cared to connect her, which was unlikely.”

“Except they didn’t count on you.”

“There’s that. Boomer’s got a sample, he’s got the formula. He had quick hands when he wanted them, and a skill for larceny. Judgment wasn’t his strong suit. Maybe he pressed for more money, a larger cut of the whole. But he was good at his job. Nobody knew he was a weasel but a handful of people connected to NYPSD.”

“And those who did wouldn’t have known how seriously and personally you take a partnership.” He cocked his head. “Under most circumstances, I’d say his death would have been chalked off to a soured drug deal, a revenge hit by one of his associates, and left at that.”

“True enough, but Jerry didn’t move quick enough. We found the stuff at Boomer’s, started to work on that angle. At the same time, I get a first-hand look at Pandora at work. You know the story there, and you’ve heard the rundown on the circumstances on the night of her death. Pinning Mavis with the crime was a stroke of luck, good and bad. It gave Jerry time, presented her with a convenient scapegoat.”

“A scapegoat who just happened to be near and dear to the primary’s heart.”

“That’s the bad luck. How many times am I going to walk into a case and know the most likely suspect is absolutely innocent? Despite all the evidence, despite everything? It’s just not going to happen.”

“I don’t know. It did with me a few months ago.”

“I didn’t know, I felt. After awhile, I knew.” She jammed her hands in her pockets, ripped them out again. “With Mavis I knew, from the get go, I knew. So I approached the entire case from a different angle. Now I see three potential suspects, all, as it turns out, with motive, with opportunity, and with means. One of those suspects, I begin to believe, is addicted to the very drug that started the ball rolling. Just when you think it’s safe to start assuming, a dealer on the East End is taken out. Same MO. Why? That’s a sticking point, Roarke, one I can’t clean up. They didn’t need Cockroach. The odds of Boomer trusting him with any data on this are so long they reach through the stratosphere. But he’s taken out, and there are traces of the drug in his system.”

“A ploy.” Roarke took out a cigarette and lighted it. “A distraction.”

For the first time in hours, she grinned. “That’s what I like about you. Your criminal mind. Toss in a red herring to confuse the issue. Leave the cops straining to find a logical connection with Cockroach. In the meantime, Redford’s manufacturing a variety of Immortality on his own, he’s given it to Jerry. Along with a hefty fee. But he got that back by bleeding her for every bottle of it from then on. A smart businessman, he’s gone to the trouble, taken the risk of procuring a specimen from the Eden Colony.”

“Two,” Roarke said and had the pleasure of seeing that intense face go blank.

“Two what?”

“He ordered two. I swung by Eden on my way back on planet, had a talk with Engrave’s daughter. I asked if she could find the time to do some cross-checking. Redford ordered his first specimen nine months ago, using another name and a forged license. But the ID numbers are the same. He had it shipped to a florist on Vegas II, one with a dubious reputation for dealing in contraband flora.” He paused to tap his ash into a marble bowl. “I’d say it was sent from there to a lab, where the nectar was distilled.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’m telling you now. It was just confirmed five minutes ago. You can probably contact security on Vegas II and have the florist questioned.”

She was swearing as she pounded to her ’link, gave orders for just that.

“Even if they crack him, it’ll take weeks to cut through the bureaucracy and have him transported on planet so I can have a go at him.” But she rubbed her hands together, anticipating it. “You might have mentioned you were doing this.”

“If it came to nothing, you wouldn’t be disappointed. Instead, you have to be grateful.” His eyes sobered. “Eve, this doesn’t change the situation overmuch.”

“It means Redford was working on his own longer than he wanted us to know about. It means—” She broke off and dropped into a chair. “I know she could have done it, Roarke. On her own. She could slip out of Young’s apartment without detection. She could have left him sleeping, come back, cleaned up. Every fucking time. Or he could have known. He’d go to the wall for her, and he’s an actor. He’d toss Redford to the wolves in a heartbeat, but not if it implicated Jerry.”

She lowered her head to her hands a moment, fingers rubbing hard over her brow. “I know she could have done it. I know she could have seen a window of opportunity and gotten into the drug hold. She might have decided to end it her way, it suits her personality. But it just doesn’t feel right.”

“You can’t blame yourself for her death,” Roarke said quietly. “For the obvious reason that you aren’t to blame, and also a reason you’ll accept, guilt clouds logic.”

“Yeah. I know.” She rose again, restless. “I’ve been off my stride with this one. Mavis, remembering about my father. I’ve missed details, overlapped where it wasn’t necessary. All these distractions.”

“Including the wedding?” he suggested.

She managed a weak smile. “I’ve tried not to think too much about that. Nothing personal.”

“Consider it a formality. A contract, if you like, with a few trimmings.”

“Have you considered that a year ago we didn’t even know each other? That we’re living in the same house, but for a good deal of the time we’re on two different steps? That all this . . . stuff we feel for each other might not really be the sort of thing that holds up in the long stretch?”

He looked at her steadily. “Are you going to piss me off the night before we’re married?”

“I’m not trying to piss you off, Roarke. You brought it up, and since it has been one of the distractions, I’d like to clear it up. These are reasonable questions and deserve reasonable answers.”

His eyes went dark. She recognized the warning and braced herself for the storm. Instead, he rose, spoke with such icy calm she nearly shuddered. “Are you backing out, Lieutenant?”

“No. I said I’d do it. I just think we should . . . think,” she said lamely, and hated herself.

“Well, you think then, find your reasonable answers. I have mine.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’m running late. Mavis is waiting downstairs for you.”

“For what?”

“Ask her,” he said with the slightest edge to his voice as he walked out.

“Damn it.” She kicked the desk with enough force to have Galahad eyeing her maliciously. She kicked it again because pain had some rewards, then limped out to go find Mavis.

An hour later, she found herself being dragged into the Down and Dirty Club. She’d suffered through Mavis’s orders to change her clothes, to do something about her hair, her face. Even her attitude. But when the music and noise hit her like a roundhouse punch, she balked.

“Jesus, Mavis. Why here?”

“Because it’s nasty, that’s why. Bachelor parties are supposed to be nasty. Christ, look at that guy onstage. His cock’s big enough to drill spikes. Good thing I asked Crack to save us an A table. The place is sardine city, and it’s barely midnight.”

“I have to get married tomorrow,” Eve began, finding it a handy excuse for the first time.

“That’s the point. Jesus, Dallas, loosen up. Hey, there’s our party.”

Eve was used to shocks. But this was a doozy. It was a bit more than credulity could bear to see a table directly under a cock swinger crowded by Nadine Furst, Peabody, a woman who she thought was probably Trina, and, dear God Almighty, Dr. Mira.

Before she could close her mouth, Crack swooped up behind her and hoisted her off her feet. “Hey there, skinny white girl. Gonna party tonight. Got you a bottle of champagne on the house.”

“You’ve got any champagne in this joint, pal, I’ll chew the cork.”

“Hell, it sparkles. What you want?” He gave her a quick spin, to the vocal appreciation of the crowd, caught her midair, and thumped her down in a seat at the table. “Ladies, y’all enjoy yourselves now, or I’m gonna hear about it.”

“You have such interesting friends, Dallas.” Nadine puffed on a cigarette. No one was going to worry about tobacco restrictions in there. “Have a drink.” She lifted a bottle of unknown substance, poured some into what looked like a fairly clean glass. “We’re way ahead of you.”

“I had to get her to change.” Mavis hipped her way into a seat. “She bitched all the way.” Then Mavis’s eyes filled. “She only did it for me.” She took Eve’s drink, swilled it down. “We wanted to surprise you.”

“You did. Dr. Mira. It is Dr. Mira, isn’t it?”

Mira smiled brilliantly. “It was when I walked in. I’m afraid I’m a little fuzzy on details at this point.”

“We gotta have a toast.” Rocky on her pins, Peabody used the table for balance. She managed to raise her glass without spilling more than half its contents on Eve’s head. “To the best fucking cop in the whole stinking city, who’s gonna marry the sexiest sumbitch I, personally, have ever laid eyes on, and who, because she’s so goddamn smart, has seen to it that I’m perman’ly attached to Homicide. Which is where any half-blind asshole could tell you I belong. So there.” She downed the rest of her drink, fell backward into her chair, and grinned foolishly.

“Peabody,” Eve said and flicked a finger under her eyes. “I’ve never been more touched.”

“I’m shit faced, Dallas.”

“The evidence points to it. Can we get any food in here that doesn’t promise ptomaine? I’m starved.”

“The bride to be wants to eat.” Still sober as a nun, Mavis bolted to her feet. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t get up.”

“Oh, and Mavis.” Eve jerked her down, murmured in her ear. “Get me something nonlethal to drink.”

“But, Dallas, it’s a party.”

“And I’m going to enjoy it. I really am, but I want to be clear-headed tomorrow. It’s important to me.”

“That’s so sweet.” Weeping again, Mavis lowered her face to Eve’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m a regular sugar substitute.” On impulse she jerked Mavis around and kissed her square on the mouth. “Thanks. Nobody else would have thought of this.”

“Roarke did.” Mavis mopped at her eyes with the glittering fringe swinging from her sleeve. “We worked it out together.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Smiling a little, Eve took another dubious look at the naked bodies gyrating on stage. “Hey, Nadine.” She topped off the reporter’s glass. “The guy up there with the red tail feathers has his eye on you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nadine looked blearily around.

“Dare you.”

“Dare me what? To get up there? Shit, that’s nothing.”

“Then do it.” Eve leaned over, grinned in her face. “Let’s see some action.”

“You think I won’t.” Rising, Nadine teetered, righted herself. “Hey, hot stuff,” she shouted to the closest dancer. “Give me a hand up.”

The crowd loved her, Eve decided. Especially when Nadine got into the spirit and stripped down to purple underwear. Eve sighed into her mineral water. She sure knew how to pick her friends. “How’s it going, Trina?”

“I’m having an out of body experience. I think I’m in Tibet.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve cast a look at Dr. Mira. The way the woman was cheering, Eve was afraid she’d leap up onstage herself. She didn’t think either one of them wanted that vision in their memory logs. “Peabody.” She had to jab her fingers into Peabody’s arm to get even a vague reaction. “Let’s get some more food here.”

Peabody grunted. “I could do that.”

Following her gaze, Eve watched Nadine in a crotch grind with a seven-foot black in body paint. “Sure you could, pal. You’d bring the house down.”

“It’s just that I’ve got this little pouch.” She staggered, and Eve caught her neatly by the arm. “Jake called it my jelly belly. I’m saving up to have it sucked.”

“Just do some more abs. Don’t go for the vacuum.”

“It’s heditary.”

“Hereditary.”

“Right.” She swayed and bobbled as Eve steered her through the crowd. “Everybody in my family’s got one. Jake likes ’em skinny. Like you.”

“Screw him, then.”

“Did.” Peabody giggled, then leaned heavily on a serving bar. “Screwed our brains out. That’s not what does it, though, you know that, Evie.”

Eve sighed. “Peabody, I don’t want to punch a fellow officer when she’s impaired. So don’t call me Evie.”

“Right. Know what does it?”

“Food,” she ordered from the server droid. “Any kind and lots of it. Table three. What does what, Peabody?”

“What does it. It. What you and Roarke got, that’s what does it. Connection. Inside connections. Sex is just the extra.”

“Sure. You and Casto having problems?”

“Nope. Just don’t have much connection now that the case is closed.” Peabody shook her head and lights exploded in front of her eyes. “Jesus, I’m plowed. Gotta use the john.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I can do it myself.” With some dignity, Peabody nudged Eve’s hand from her arm. “I don’t care to vomit in front of a superior officer, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself.”

But Eve watched her like a hawk as she toddled across the floor. They’d been at it nearly three hours, she judged. And though fun was fun, she was going to get some food into her little playmates and see that they all got transport home.

Smiling, she leaned on the bar herself, watching Nadine, still wearing purple briefs, sitting at the table having an earnest discussion with Dr. Mira. Trina had her head on the table now and was probably communing with the Dhali Lama.

Mavis, eyes shining, was onstage, screeching out an impromptu number that had the dance floor rocking.

Damn it, she thought as she felt her throat burn. She loved the whole snockered lot of them. Peabody included, she decided, and opted to take a short peek into the toilet to make sure her aide hadn’t passed out or drowned.

She made it nearly halfway across the club before she was grabbed. As it had been happening on and off all evening as hopeful clubgoers trolled for partners, she started to shake off good-naturedly.

“Try again, ace. Not interested. Hey!” The quick pinch on her arm annoyed more than hurt. But her vision was already wavering as she was muscled through the hooting crowd and shoved into a privacy room.

“Goddamn it, I said I wasn’t interested.” She started to reach for her badge, missed her pocket completely. At a gentle nudge, she spilled backward onto a narrow bed.

“Take a rest, Eve. We have to talk.” Casto dropped down next to her and crossed his feet at the ankles.

Roarke wasn’t in a partygoing mood, but as Feeney had gone to some trouble to create a monstrously hedonistic atmosphere, he played his part. It was a hall of sorts, crowded with men, many of whom were surprised to find themselves participating in such a pagan ritual. Still, Feeney, with his electronic expertise, had ferreted out some of Roarke’s closer business associates, and none had wanted to risk offending someone of Roarke’s stature with a refusal.

So there they were, the rich, the famous, and the scrambling, pressed into a badly lit room with life-size screens flickering with naked bodies in various, imaginative acts of sexual frenzy, a trio of live strippers already entertainingly naked, and enough beer and whiskey to sink the Seventh Fleet and all its crew.

Roarke had to admit it had been a nice gesture and was doing his best to live up to Feeney’s expectations as a man on his final night of freedom.

“There you are, boy-o, another whiskey for you.” After several of the Irish himself, Feeney had slipped comfortably into the brogue of the country he’d never seen—that indeed his great-great-grandparents had never set foot on. “Up the rebels, eh?”

Roarke cocked a brow. He himself had been born in Dublin and had spent most of his youth wandering its streets and alleys. Yet he couldn’t claim the sentimental attachment Feeney did for a land and its rebellions. “Slainte,” he said to please his friend, and sipped.

“There’s a lad. Now you see here, Roarke, the ladies among us are for looking purposes only. No touching for you now.”

“I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”

Feeney grinned and slapped Roarke on the back hard enough to stagger him. “She’s a prize, isn’t she? Our Dallas.”

“She’s . . .” Roarke scowled into his whiskey. “Something,” he decided.

“Keep you on your toes, she will. Keeps them all on their toes. Got a mind like a fucking shark. You know, focused on one thing till the thing’s done. Tell you straight, this last case had her bug-shit.”

“She hasn’t let it go,” Roarke murmured, and smiled coolly when a naked blonde sidled up to rub her hands up his chest. “You’ll have better luck with that one,” he told her, gesturing to a glaze-eyed man in charcoal gray pinstripes. “He owns Stoner Dynamics.”

When she looked blank, Roarke gently disengaged the hands that were gliding cheerfully toward his crotch. “He’s loaded.”

She shimmied off, leaving Feeney gazing wistfully after her. “I’m a happily married man, Roarke.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It’s lowering to admit I’m not but a little tempted to give a pretty young thing like that a quick ride in a dark room.”

“You’re a better man for it, Feeney.”

“That’s the truth.” He sighed, low and long, then veered back to the former topic. “Dallas goes off for a few weeks, she’ll put this aside, get on with the next.”

“She doesn’t like losing, and she thinks she has.” He tried to dismiss it. Damn if he wanted to spend the night before his wedding picking apart a homicide. With a muttered curse, he steered Feeney to a quiet corner. “What do you know about that dealer who got hit in the East End?”

“Cockroach. Not much to know. Dealer, fairly slick, fairly stupid. It’s amazing how many of them are both. Stuck to his own turf. Liked a quick, easy profit.”

“Was he a weasel, too? Like Boomer?”

“Usta weasel. His trainer retired last year.”

“What happens when a trainer retires?”

“Another one takes on the weasel, or he’s let go. Didn’t find any new trainer for Cockroach.”

Roarke started to shrug it off, but it kept niggling. “The cop who retired? Did he work with anybody?”

“What d’you think? I got memory chips in my head?”

“Yes.”

Flattered, Feeney preened. “Well, as a matter of fact, I recall he was partnered with an old pal of mine. Danny Riley. That was back in, oh, forty-one. Seems like he cruised with Mari Dirscolli for a few years to about forty-eight. Might be forty-nine.”

“Never mind,” Roarke muttered.

“Then he teamed with Casto a couple years.”

Roarke’s attention snapped back. “Casto? Was he partnered with Casto while he was Cockroach’s trainer?”

“Sure, but only one leg of a team works as trainer. ’Course,” Feeney murmured as his brow furrowed. “Usual procedure is to take over your partner’s contacts. No record Casto did. He had his own weasels.”

Roarke told himself it was his own prejudice, his own ridiculous knee-jerk jealousy. He didn’t give a damn. “Not everything’s locked into record. You don’t find it coincidental that two weasels who worked close to Casto got hit, both of them with connections to Immortality?”

“We aren’t saying Casto had Cockroach. And it’s not that coincidental. You’re dealing with illegals here, you got overlaps.”

“What other connection have you found that links Cockroach to the other murders, other than Casto?”

“Jesus, Roarke.” He ran a hand over his face. “You’re as bad as Dallas. Look, a lot of Illegals cops end up with abuse problems. Casto’s clean to the bone. Never had a trace in any of his testing. He’s got a good rep, he’s coming up for captaincy, and it’s no secret he wants it. He’s not going to go messing around with this kind of shit.”

“Sometimes a man is just a little bit tempted, Feeney, and sometimes he gives in. You want to tell me it would be the first time an Illegals cop made a few credits on the side?”

“No.” Feeney sighed again. He was sobering up with this kind of talk. And he didn’t like it. “There’s nothing to pin on him, Roarke. Dallas was working with him. If he was a wrong cop, she’d have smelled it. She’s like that.”

“She’s been distracted. Off stride,” Roarke murmured, remembering her own words. “Think it through, Feeney, no matter how fast she moved on this, she always seemed to be one step off. If someone had known her moves, they might have anticipated her. Especially someone who thinks like a cop.”

“You don’t like him because he’s almost as pretty as you,” Feeney said sourly.

Roarke let that pass. “How much can you dig up on him tonight?”

“Tonight? Jesus, you want me to dig shit up on another cop, go into personal records, because he had a couple of weasels knocked? And you want me to do it tonight?”

Roarke put a hand on Feeney’s shoulder. “We can use my unit.”

“You’ll make a good pair,” Feeney muttered as Roarke steered him through the crowd. “Both a couple of sharks.”

Eve’s vision wavered as if she’d suddenly stepped over her head into a tankful of water. Through the ripple, she saw Casto, could smell the faint scent of soap and sweat on his skin. But she couldn’t home in on what he was doing there.

“What’s going on, Casto? We get a call?” Blankly, she looked around for Peabody, saw the shimmering red drapes that were supposed to add sensuality to a room designed for quick, cheap sex. “Wait a minute.”

“Just relax.” He didn’t want to give her another dose, not in addition to what she’d been drinking at her hen party. “The door’s locked, Eve, so you can’t go anywhere. You’ve got a nice buzz on to make it easier all around.” He pushed a satin-edged pillow behind his back. “It would have been easier still if you’d just let go. But you didn’t. You won’t. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you put the hammer on Lilligas.”

“Who—what?”

“The florist on Vegas II. That’s cutting it too damn close. I’ve been using the bastard myself.”

Her stomach tilted nastily. When she tasted bile at the back of her throat, she leaned forward, stuck her head between her knees and concentrated on breathing in and out.

“Downloads make some people nauseous. We’ll go with something else next time.”

“I missed you.” She tried to focus on keeping the heavy, greasy food she’d celebrated with instead of liquor from spewing back up. “I fucking missed you.”

“Yeah.” He knew she wasn’t speaking out of sentiment.

“You weren’t looking for another cop. Hey, why should you? And you had your own worries. Broke the rules, Eve. You know the primary is never, ever supposed to get personally involved. You were too worried about your friend. I admire that, really, even if it is stupid.”

He took her by the hair, dragged her head back. After a quick check of her pupils, he decided the initial dose would hold her for a while. He didn’t want to risk overdosing her. Not until he’d finished.

“And I do admire you, Eve.”

“You sonofabitch.” Her voice slurred over her thickened tongue. “You killed them.”

“Each and every one.” Relaxed, he crossed his feet at the ankles. “It’s been hard to hold it all back, I’ve got to admit. Rough on the ego not to be able to show a woman like you what a smart man can accomplish. You know, Eve, I was a little worried when I learned you were in charge of Boomer.” He reached out, ran a fingertip from her chin down between her breasts. “I thought I could charm you. Gotta admit you were attracted.”

“Get your hand off me.” She slapped out at it, missed by several inches.

“Your depth perception’s off.” He chuckled. “Drugs mess you up, Eve. Take it from me. I see it every shitty day on the streets. Got sick of seeing it. That’s how it started. All those fancy dudes making their fancy profits and never getting their manicures sticky. Why not me?”

“For money.”

“What else is there? I fell into the Immortality connection a couple years back. It was like kismet. Early days then, took my time, did my homework, used a source on the Eden Colony to slip me a sample. Poor old Boomer ferreted it out—my connection from the Eden Colony.”

“Boomer told you.”

“Sure he did. He had something in the Illegals market, he came to me. Didn’t know I was already in on it, not then. I kept it under wraps. I didn’t know Boomer had a copy of the fucking formula. Didn’t know he was holding out, hoping for a nice big chunk.”

“You killed him. You broke him to pieces.”

“Not until it was necessary. I never do anything until it’s necessary. It was Pandora, you see, that beautiful bitch.”

Eve listened, fighting to bring her brain and motor skills back into mesh while Casto spun her a tale of sex, power, and profit.

Pandora had spotted him at the club. Or they’d spotted each other. She’d liked the idea that he was a cop, and the kind of cop he was. He’d be able to get his hands on lots of goodies, wouldn’t he? And for her, he’d been happy to do so. He’d been enchanted with her, obsessed, and yes, addicted. No harm in admitting that now. His mistake had been to share his information about Immortality with her, to listen to her ideas for cashing in. Huge profits, she’d predicted. More money than they could spend in three lifetimes. And youth, beauty, great sex. She’d become addicted to the drug quickly, always hungered for more, and she had used him to get it.

But she had been useful, too. Her career, her fame, had made it easy for her to travel, to carry more of what was then being manufactured exclusively on Starlight Station in a little private lab.

Then he’d discovered she’d brought Redford in on the deal. He’d been furious with her, but she’d been able to string him along with sex and promises. And the money, of course.

But things had started to go wrong. Boomer had pushed for money, had pocketed a bag of the drug in powder form.

“I should have been able to handle him. Little wart. Trailed him here. He was flying, running his mouth, tossing the credits I’d given him to keep him quiet around like candy. I couldn’t know what he’d said to that damn whore.” Casto shrugged. “You figured that out yourself. Right scenario, Eve, wrong person. I had to take her out. I was in too deep for mistakes by then. She was just a whore.”

Eve leaned her head back against the wall. Her head had nearly stopped spinning now. She thanked God the dose had been light. Casto was on a roll. She could keep him talking. If she couldn’t get the hell out on her own, someone was going to come looking for her soon.

“Then you went after Boomer.”

“I couldn’t go to his flop and drag him out. My face is too well known around there. I gave him a little time, then I contacted him. Told him we’d be able to deal. We needed him in on our side. He was stupid enough to buy it. Then I had him.”

“You messed him up first. You didn’t kill him quick.”

“I had to find out how much he’d let out, who he might have talked to. He didn’t deal well with pain, our Boomer. Spilled his guts. I found out about the formula. Really pissed me off. I wasn’t going to mess up his face like the hooker’s, but I lost it. Plain and simple. Got emotionally involved, you could say.”

“You’re a cold bastard,” Eve muttered, making her voice weak and blurry.

“Now that’s just not true, Eve. You ask Peabody.” He grinned, gave her breast a quick tweak that sent fury and rage cycling to her gut. “I went for DeeDee when I realized you weren’t going to take a nibble. Too wrapped up in that rich Irish bastard to take a look at a real man. And DeeDee, bless her, was ripe for plucking. Never could get much out of her on what you were up to, though. DeeDee’s got good cop all over her. Slip a little help into her wine, though, she gets more cooperative.”

“You drugged Peabody?”

“Now and then, just to pump her for any details you might have left out of your official report. And to keep her sleeping pretty when I had to go out at night. She was an airtight alibi. Anyway, you know about Pandora. That went pretty much as you had figured, too. Only I was staking out her place that night. Scooped her up the minute she came storming out. She wanted to go to that designer’s. We’d pretty much finished up our sexual relationship by then. Just business now. I figured why not take her? I knew she was working to cut me out of the whole deal. She wanted it all. She didn’t think she needed some street cop hanging on, even if he was the one to give her the damn stuff to begin with. She knew about Boomer, too. But that didn’t bother her. What did she care about some dirty alley croucher? And she never thought, never considered that I’d hurt her.”

“But you did.”

“I took her where she wanted to go. I’m not really sure if I was going to do it then, but when I saw the security camera smashed, it seemed like a sign. Then the place was empty. Just her and me. They’d hang it on the dressmaker, right? Or on the little lady she’d had a fight with. So I hit her. The first strike took her down, but she was up again. That shit made her strong and mean. I had to keep hitting her, and hitting her. Fucking blood flying. Then she was down for good. Your little friend came in, and you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I know the rest. You went back and took the box with the tabs. Why did you take her palm ’link?”

“She always used it to call me. She might’ve recorded the numbers.”

“Cockroach?”

“Just something extra in the mix. To confuse things. Cockroach was always willing to sample a new product. You were hammering away, and I wanted a hit where I was well alibied, just in case. So I had DeeDee.”

“You got to Jerry, too, didn’t you?”

“Easy as a walk on the beach. Get one of the VT’s stirred up with a quick buzz, wait for the chaos. I had a reviver for Jerry, brought her around and had her out of there before she knew what was happening. I promised her a fix, and she cried like a baby. Morphine first so she wouldn’t get any idea about not cooperating. Then Immortality, then a dash of Zeus. She died happy, Eve. Thanking me.”

“You’re a humanitarian, Casto.”

“No, Eve, I’m a selfish man looking out for number one. And I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve got twelve years on the streets, wading through blood, vomit, and come. I’ve paid my dues. This drug’s going to give me everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ll take my captaincy, and with that kind of connection, I’ll feed profits from the drug into a nice numbered account for four or five years, then I’ll retire to a tropical island and sip mai tais.”

He was winding down now, she could tell it from the tone of his voice. The excitement, the arrogance had cooled to practicality. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“I know that, Eve. It’s a damn shame. I all but handed you Fitzgerald, but you just wouldn’t let it be.” With what might have been affection, he brushed a hand over her hair. “I’m going to make it easy on you. I’ve got something here that’ll take you down gently. You won’t feel anything.”

“That’s damn considerate of you, Casto.”

“I owe you that much, honey. Cop to cop. If you’d let it lay, after your friend got off, but you wouldn’t. I wish things had been different, Eve. I had a real taste for you.” He leaned close, so close she felt his breath waft over her lips as though he were indeed about to taste her.

Slowly, she lifted her lashes, looking through them into his face. “Casto,” she said softly.

“Yeah. Just relax now. Won’t take long.” He reached for his pocket.

“Fuck you.” She brought her knee up hard. Her depth perception was still slightly skewed. Rather than connecting with his groin she knocked solidly into his chin. He went backward off the bed, and the pressure injector in his hand skittered over the floor.

They both dived for it.

“Where the hell is she? She wouldn’t have walked out on her own party.” Mavis tapped her spiked heels impatiently as she continued to scan the club. “And she’s the only one of us still sober.”

“Ladies’ room?” Nadine suggested, half-heartedly tugging her blouse over her lacy bra.

“Peabody’s checked twice. Dr. Mira, she wouldn’t have made a run for it, would she? I know she’s nervous, but—”

“She’s not the running kind.” Though her head was still revolving, Mira struggled to keep her speech coherent. “We’ll look around again. She’s here somewhere. It’s just so crowded.”

“Still looking for the bride?” Grinning widely, Crack lumbered up. “Looks like she just wanted a last ride. The dude over there saw her slip into one of the privacy rooms with a cowboy type.”

“Dallas?” Mavis snorted at the thought of it. “No way.”

“So, she’s celebrating.” Crack lifted his shoulders.

“Got plenty more rooms, ladies, if you got an itch.”

“Which room?” Peabody demanded, sober now that she’d thrown up everything in her stomach including, she was sure, a good portion of the lining.

“Number five. Hey, you want a gang bang, I can round up some nice young boys for you. All sizes, all shapes, all colors.” He shook his head as they marched off, and decided that he’d better go along to keep the peace.

Eve’s fingers slipped off the injector, and the elbow to her cheekbone sent pain grinding down her face and into her teeth. Still, she had first blood, and the shock of finding her ready to fight had shaken him.

“You should have given me a bigger dose.” She followed up the statement with a short-armed punch to his windpipe. “I wasn’t drinking tonight, asshole.” She managed to roll him over. “I’m getting married tomorrow.” She punctuated this by bloodying his nose. “That was for Peabody, you bastard.”

He caught her in the ribs and winded her. She felt the injector pass over her arm and heaved up by the hips to kick. She would never know if it was blind luck, her lack of depth perception, or his own miscalculation, but he dodged to avoid the gut thrust, and her feet, coming up like pistons, caught him square in the face.

His eyes rolled back in his head; his head hit the floor with an ominous and satisfying thud.

Still, he’d managed to get more of the drug into her. She crawled, drifting in the sensation of swimming through thick, golden syrup. She made it to the door, but the lock and its key code appeared to be twelve feet above her grasping hand.

Then the door burst open and all hell broke loose.

She felt herself lifted, patted down. Someone was ordering in no-nonsense tones that she be given air. Giggles bubbled up in her. She was flying now, was all she could think.

“Bastard killed them,” she kept saying. “Bastard killed them all. I missed it. Where’s Roarke?”

Her eyelids were pulled back and she would have sworn her eyeballs rolled like fiery little marbles. She heard the words “health center” and began to fight like a tiger.

Roarke descended the stairs, a grim set to his mouth. He knew Feeney was still upstairs, huffing and blowing, but he was convinced. A business deal of the size of Immortality’s potential required an expert and an inside connection. Casto filled both those bills.

Eve might not want to hear it, either, so he wouldn’t mention it. Yet. Feeney would have three weeks to poke around while they were on their honeymoon. If there was indeed going to be a honeymoon.

He heard the door open and angled his chin. They were going to have this out once and for all, he determined. Here and now. He took two more steps, then was down the rest of them in a dead run.

“What the hell happened to her? She’s bleeding.” There was blood in his own eye as he snatched a limp Eve from the arms of a seven-foot black in a silver loincloth.

As everybody began talking at once, Mira clapped her hands like a schoolteacher in a room of rowdy students. “She needs a quiet room. The MTs treated her for the drug, but she’ll have some residual effects. And she wouldn’t let them deal with the cuts and bruises.”

Roarke’s face went stony. “What drug?” His gaze latched on Mavis. “Where the hell did you take her?”

“Not her fault.” Still glassy-eyed, Eve wrapped her arms around Roarke’s neck. “Casto. It was Casto, Roarke. Know that?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“Stupid—stupid to miss it. Sloppy. Can I go to bed now?”

“Take her upstairs, Roarke,” Mira said calmly. “I can tend to her. Believe me, she’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Eve agreed as she floated up the stairs. “I’ll tell you everything. I can always tell you, can’t I? ’Cause you love me, you sap.”

There was only one piece of information Roarke wanted at the moment. He laid Eve on the bed, took a good look at her bruised cheek and swollen mouth. “Is he dead?”

“Nope. I just beat the hell out of him.” She smiled, caught the look in his eye, and shook her head slowly. “Nuh-uh, no way. Don’t even think about it. We’re getting married in a couple hours.”

He smoothed the hair back from her face. “Are we?”

“I figured it out.” It was hard to concentrate, but it was important. She lifted her hands, cupped his face to keep it in focus. “It’s not a formality. And it’s not a contract.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a promise. It’s not so hard to promise to do something you really want, anyway. And if I’m lousy at being a wife, you’ll just have to live with it. I don’t break my promises. And there’s this one other thing.”

He could see her slipping, and shifted slightly so that Mira could tend the cut on her cheek. “What other thing, Eve?”

“I love you. Sometimes it makes my stomach hurt, but I kind of like it. Tired now, come to bed. Love you.”

He eased back to let Mira get on with her tending. “It’s all right for her to sleep?”

“Best thing for her. She’ll be fine when she wakes up. Maybe a little hungover, which seems unfair since she didn’t drink anything. She said she wanted a clear head for tomorrow.”

“Did she?” She didn’t look calm when she slept, he noted. She never did. “Will she remember any of that? What she was telling me?”

“She may not,” Mira said cheerfully. “But you will, and that should do the job.”

He nodded and stepped back. She was safe again. One more time safe. He glanced over at Peabody. “Officer, can I count on you to fill me in on the details?”

Eve did have a hangover, and wasn’t pleased about it. Her stomach was tied in greasy knots, and her jaw was sore. Between Mira and Trina’s wizardry with cosmetics, the bruises didn’t show. As brides went, she supposed, studying herself, she was passable.

“You look mag, Dallas.” Mavis sighed and took a slow turn around Leonardo’s finest hour. The dress sleeked down, as it was meant to, the bronze tone adding warmth to Eve’s skin, the lines highlighting her long, lean form. Its very simplicity made the statement that it was the woman within who counted.

“The garden’s packed with people,” Mavis went on cheerily as Eve’s stomach roiled. “Did you look out the window?”

“I’ve seen people before.”

“There was media doing flybys earlier. I don’t know whose button Roarke pushed, but they’ve stopped.”

“Goodie.”

“You’re all right, aren’t you? Dr. Mira said you shouldn’t have any dangerous aftereffects, but—”

“I’m fine.” It was only partly a lie. “Having it closed, knowing all the facts, the truth makes it easier.” She thought of Jerry and suffered. She looked at Mavis, the glowing face, the silver-tipped hair, and smiled. “You and Leonardo still planning to cohabitate?”

“At my place, temporarily. We’re looking for bigger digs, one where he’ll have room to work. And I’m going to start making the club rounds again.” She took a box from the bureau, handed it over. “Roarke sent this up for you.”

“Yeah?” Opening it, Eve felt twin tugs of pleasure and alarm. The necklace was perfect, of course. Two drapes of twisted copper studded with colored stones.

“I happened to mention it.”

“I bet you did.” With a sigh, Eve draped it on, then fastened the long matching drops to her ears. And looked, she thought, like a stranger. A pagan warrior.

“There’s one more thing.”

“Oh, Mavis, I can’t stand one more thing. He’s got to understand that I—” She broke off as Mavis turned from the long white box on the table, took out a sweeping spray of white flowers—petunias. Simple, backyard-variety petunias.

“He always knows,” she murmured. All the muscles in her stomach loosened, all the nerves died away. “He just knows.”

“I guess when somebody understands you that way, that, you know, intimately, it makes you pretty lucky.”

“Yeah.” Eve took the flowers, cradled them. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like a stranger. It looked, she thought, like Eve Dallas on her wedding day. “Roarke’s going to swallow his tongue when he gets a load of me.”

She laughed, grabbed Mavis’s arm, and rushed out to make her promises.

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.

RAPTURE IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1996 by Nora Roberts

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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: 978-1-1012-0360-6

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

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

Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty

Mind games . . .

At the flick of a switch, Eve’s face flashed onto a monitor, all pertinent data split-screened beside her. A fascinating woman. Birthplace and parents unknown. The abused child discovered hiding in an alley in Dallas, Texas, body battered, mind blanked. A woman who couldn’t remember the early years of her own life. The years that formed the soul. Years when she had been beaten and raped and tormented.

What did that sort of life do to the mind? To the heart? To the person?

It had made the girl a social worker and had made Eve Dallas into a woman who had become a cop. The cop with the reputation for digging deep, and who had come into some notoriety the previous winter during the investigation of a sensitive and ugly case.

That was when she had met Roarke.

The computer hummed, sliced Roarke’s face onto the screen. Such an intriguing couple. His background was no prettier than the cop’s had been. But he’d chosen, at least initially, the other side of the law to make his mark. And his fortune.

Now they were a set. A set that could be destroyed on a whim.

But not yet. Not for some little time yet.

After all, the game had just begun.

Titles by Nora Roberts

HOT ICE
SACRED SINS
BRAZEN VIRTUE
SWEET REVENGE
PUBLIC SECRETS
GENUINE LIES
CARNAL INNOCENCE
DIVINE EVIL
HONEST ILLUSIONS
PRIVATE SCANDALS
BORN IN FIRE
BORN IN ICE
BORN IN SHAME
HIDDEN RICHES
TRUE BETRAYALS
DARING TO DREAM
HOLDING THE DREAM
FINDING THE DREAM
MONTANA SKY
SEA SWEPT
SANCTUARY

FROM THE HEART (anthology)
ONCE UPON A CASTLE
(anthology with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

HOMEPORT
in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Titles written as J. D. Robb
NAKED IN DEATH
GLORY IN DEATH
IMMORTAL IN DEATH
RAPTURE IN DEATH
CEREMONY IN DEATH
VENGENCE IN DEATH
HOLIDAY IN DEATH

But I do nothing upon myself,
and yet am mine own Executioner.

—John Donne

There is rapture on the lonely shore.

—Lord Byron

chapter one

The alley was dark and stank of piss and vomit. It was home for quick-footed rats and the bony, hungry-eyed felines who hunted them. Red eyes glinted in the dark, some of them human, all of them feral.

Eve’s heart tripped lightly as she slipped into the fetid, damp-edged shadows. He’d gone in, she was sure of it. It was her job to follow, to find him, to bring him in. Her weapon was in her hand, and her hand was steady.

“Hey, sweetcakes, wanna do it with me? Wanna do it?”

Voices out of the dark, harsh with chemicals or cheap brews. Moans of the damned, giggles of the mad. The rats and cats didn’t live here alone. The company of the human garbage that lined the sweating brick walls was no comfort.

She swung her weapon, crouched as she sidestepped a battered recycling unit that, from the smell of it, hadn’t worked in a decade. The stench of food gone over smeared the humid air and turned it into a greasy stew.

Someone whimpered. She saw a boy, about thirteen, all but naked. The sores on his face were festering; his eyes were slits of fear and hopelessness as he scrabbled like a crab back against the filthy wall.

Pity stirred in her heart. She had been a child once, hurt and terrified, hiding in an alley. “I won’t hurt you.” She kept her voice quiet, barely a murmur, kept her eyes on his, maintaining contact as she lowered her weapon.

And that’s when he struck.

He came from behind, a roar of motion and sound. Primed to kill, he swung the pipe. The whistle of it stung her ears as she whirled, dodged. There was barely time to curse herself for losing her concentration, forgetting her primary target as two hundred fifty pounds of muscle and mean sent her flying to the bricks.

Her weapon flew out of her hand and clattered into the dark.

She saw his eyes, the glint of mayhem heightened by the chemical, Zeus. She watched the pipe raised high, timed it, and rolled seconds before it cracked against brick. With a pump of her legs, she dived headfirst into his belly. He grunted, staggered, and as he reached for her throat, she brought her fist up hard, smashing it under his jaw. The force of the blow radiated pain and power up her arm.

People were screaming, scrambling for safety in a narrow world where nothing and no one was safe. She spun, used the impetus of the turn to deliver a roundhouse kick that shattered her adversary’s nose. Blood fountained, adding to the sick miasma of odors.

His eyes were wild, but he barely jerked at the blow. Pain was no match for the god of chemicals. Grinning as blood poured down his face, he smacked the thick pipe on his palm.

“Kill you. Kill you, cop bitch.” He circled her, swinging the pipe like a whistling whip. Grinning, grinning as he bled. “Break your head open and eat your brains.”

Knowing he meant it pumped her adrenaline to flash point. Live or die. Her breath came in pants, the sweat pouring like oil down her skin. She dodged the next blow, went down on her knees. Slapping a hand on her boot, she came up grinning.

“Eat this instead, you son of a bitch.” Her backup weapon was in her hand. She didn’t bother with stun. The stun setting would do little more than tickle a two hundred fifty pound man flying on Zeus. It was set to terminate.

As he lunged toward her, she hit him with full power. His eyes died first. She’d seen it happen before. Eyes that turned to glass like a doll’s, even as he charged her. She sidestepped, prepared to fire again, but the pipe slipped from his fingers. His body began that jerky dance as his nervous system overloaded.

He fell at her feet, a mass of ruined humanity who had played god.

“You won’t be sacrificing any more virgins, asshole,” she muttered, and as that wild energy drained, she rubbed a hand over her face. Her weapon arm dropped.

The faint scrape of leather on concrete alerted her. She started her spin, weapon rising, but arms clamped her, lifted her to her toes.

“Always watch your back, Lieutenant,” the voice whispered just before teeth nipped lightly at her earlobe.

“Roarke, goddamn it. I nearly zapped you.”

“You didn’t even come close.” With a laugh, he turned her in his arms, and his mouth was on hers, hot, hungry. “I love watching you work,” he murmured and his hand, clever hand, slid up her body to cup her breast. “It’s . . . stimulating.”

“Cut it out.” But her heart was thundering in reaction, and the order was halfhearted. “This is no place for a seduction.”

“On the contrary. A honeymoon is a traditional place for a seduction.” He drew her back, kept his hands on her shoulders. “I wondered where you’d gone off to. I should have known.” He glanced down at the body at their feet. “What did he do?”

“He had a predilection for beating the brains out of young women, then eating them.”

“Oh.” Roarke winced, shook his head. “Really, Eve, couldn’t you have come up with something a little less revolting?”

“There was a guy on the Terra Colony a couple of years back who fit the profile, and I wondered . . .” She trailed off, frowning. They were standing in a stinking alley, death at their feet. And Roarke, gorgeous, dark angel Roarke, was wearing a tuxedo and a diamond stud. “What are you all dressed up for?”

“We had plans,” he reminded her. “Dinner?”

“I forgot.” She tucked her weapon away. “I didn’t think this would take so long.” She blew out a breath. “I guess I should clean up.”

“I like you the way you are.” He moved into her again, took possession. “Forget dinner. . . for now.” His smile was slow and irresistible. “But I do insist on slightly more aesthetic surroundings. End program,” he ordered.

The alley, the smells, and the huddle of bodies winked away. They stood in a huge, empty room with equipment and blinking lights built into the walls. Both floor and ceiling were glass-mirrored black to better project the holographic scenes available on the program.

It was one of Roarke’s newest, most sophisticated toys.

“Begin Tropical Setting 4-B. Maintain dual control status.”

In response came the whoosh of waves, the sprinkle of starlight on water. Beneath her feet was white sugar sand, and palm trees waved like exotic dancers.

“That’s more like it,” Roarke decided, then began unbuttoning her shirt. “Or it will be when I get you naked.”

“You’ve been getting me naked every time I blink for nearly three weeks.”

He arched a brow. “Husband’s privilege. Complaints?”

Husband. It was still a jolt. This man with the warrior’s mane of black hair, the poet’s face, the wild Irish blue eyes was her husband. She’d never get used to it.

“No. Just an—” Her breath hitched as one of his long-fingered hands skimmed over her breasts. “An observation.”

“Cops.” He smiled, unfastened her jeans. “Always observing. You’re off duty, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I was just keeping my reflexes sharp. Three weeks away from the job, you get rusty.”

He slid a hand between her naked thighs, cupped her, watched her head fall back on a moan. “Your reflexes are just fine,” he murmured and pulled her down to the soft white sand.

His wife. Roarke liked to think about that as she rode him, as she moved under him, as she lay spent beside him. This fascinating woman, this dedicated cop, this troubled soul belonged to him.

He’d watched her work through the program, the alley, the chemical-mad killer. And he’d known she would face the reality of her work with the same tough, terrifyingly courageous determination that she’d possessed in the illusion.

He admired her for it, however many bad moments it gave him. In a few days, they would go back to New York and he would have to share her with her duties. For now, he wanted to share her with nothing. With no one.

He was no stranger to back alleys that reeked of garbage and hopeless humanity. He’d grown up in them, escaped into them, and eventually had escaped from them. He had made his life into what it was—and then she had come into it, sharp and lethal as an arrow from a bow, and had changed it again.

Cops had once been the enemy, then an amusement, and now he was bound to one.

Just over two weeks before, he had watched her walk toward him in a flowing gown of rich bronze, flowers in her hands. The bruises on her face a killer had put there only hours before had been softened under cosmetics. And in those eyes, those big brandy-colored eyes that showed so much, he’d seen nerves and amusement.

Here we go, Roarke. He’d nearly heard her say it as she put her hand in his. For better or worse I’ll take you on. God help us.

Now she wore his ring, and he hers. He’d insisted on that, though such traditions weren’t strictly fashionable in the middle of the twenty-first century. He’d wanted the tangible reminder of what they were to each other, the symbol of it.

Now he picked up her hand, kissed her finger above the ornately etched gold band he’d had made for her. Her eyes stayed closed. He studied the sharp angles of her face, the overwide mouth, the short cap of brown hair tousled into spikes.

“I love you, Eve.”

Faint color bloomed on her cheeks. She was so easily moved, he thought. He wondered if she had any idea how huge was her own heart.

“I know.” She opened her eyes. “I’m, ah, starting to get used to it.”

“Good.”

Listening to the song of water lapping on sand, of balmy breezes whispering through feathery palms, she lifted a hand, brushed the hair back from his face. A man like him, she thought, powerful, wealthy, impulsive, could call up such scenes at the snap of a finger. And he’d done it for her.

“You make me happy.”

His grin flashed, making her stomach muscles curl in delight. “I know.” With easy, effortless strength, he lifted her up and over until she straddled him. He skimmed his hands idly up her long, slim, muscled body. “Are you ready to admit you’re glad I shanghaied you off planet for the last part of our honeymoon?”

She grimaced, remembering her panic, her dug-in-at-the-heels refusal to board the transport he’d had waiting, and how he had roared with laughter and had tossed her over his shoulder, climbing on board with her cursing him.

“I liked Paris,” she said with a sniff. “And I loved the week we had on the island. I didn’t see any reason for us to come to some half-finished resort in space when we were going to spend most of our time in bed anyway.”

“You were scared.” It had delighted him that she’d been unnerved by the prospect of her first off planet voyage, and it had pleasured him to keep her occupied and distracted for the bulk of the trip.

“I was not.” Boneless, she thought. Scared boneless. “I was justifiably annoyed that you’d made the plans without discussing them with me.”

“I seem to recall someone being involved with a case and telling me to plan whatever suited me. You were a beautiful bride.”

It made her lips curve. “It was the dress.”

“No, it was you.” He lifted a hand to her face. “Eve Dallas. Mine.”

Love swamped her. It always seemed to come in huge, unexpected waves that left her flailing helplessly. “I love you.” She lowered herself to him, brought her mouth to his. “Looks like you’re mine.”

It was midnight before they had dinner. On the moon-washed terrace of the towering spear that was the nearly completed Olympus Grand Hotel, Eve dug into stuffed lobster and contemplated the view.

The Olympus Resort would be, with Roarke pulling the strings, completed and fully booked within a year. For now, they had it to themselves—if she ignored the construction crews, staff, architects, engineers, pilots, and other assorted inhabitants who shared the massive space station.

From the small glass table where they sat, she could see out over the hub of the resort. The lights brightly burned for the night crew, the quiet hum of machinery spoke of round-the-clock labor. The fountains, the lances of simulated torchlight and rainbows of color running fluidly through the spewing waters, were for her, she knew.

He’d wanted her to see what he was building and perhaps to begin to understand what she was a part of now. As his wife.

Wife. She blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs and sipped the icy champagne he’d poured. It was going to take some time to understand just how she’d gone from being Eve Dallas, homicide lieutenant, to become the wife of a man who some claimed had more money and power than God.

“Problem?”

She flicked her eyes over his face, smiled a little. “No.” With intense concentration, she dipped a bit of lobster in melted butter—real butter, no simulation for Roarke’s table—and sampled it. “How am I going to face the cardboard they pass off as food at the Eatery once I’m back on the job?”

“You eat candy bars on the job in any case.” He topped off her wine, lifted a brow when she narrowed her eyes.

“You trying to get me drunk, pal?”

“Absolutely.”

She laughed, something he noted she did more easily and more often these days, and with a shrug, picked up her glass. “What the hell, I’ll oblige you. And when I’m drunk”—she gulped down the priceless wine like water—“I’ll give you a ride you won’t soon forget.”

Lust he’d thought sated for the moment crawled edgily into his belly. “Well, in that case”—he poured wine into his own glass, teasing it to the rim—“let’s both get drunk.”

“I like it here,” she announced. Pushing back from the table, she carried her glass to the thick railing of carved stone. It must have cost a fortune to have it quarried, then shipped—but he was Roarke, after all.

Leaning over, she watched the light and water show, scanned the buildings, all domes and spears, all glossy and elegant to house the sumptuous people and the sumptuous games they would come to play.

The casino was completed and glowed like a golden ball in the dark. One of the dozen pools was lighted for the night and the water glimmered cobalt blue. Skywalks zigzagged between buildings and resembled silver threads. They were empty now, but she imagined what they would be like in six months, a year: crammed with people who shimmered in silks, glowed with jewels. They would come to be pampered within the marble walls of the spa with its mud baths and body enhancement facilities, its soft-spoken consultants and solicitous droids. They’d come to lose fortunes in the casino, to drink exclusive liquor in the clubs, to make love to the hard and soft bodies of licensed companions.

Roarke would offer them a world, and they could come. But it wouldn’t be her world when they filled it. She was more comfortable with the streets, the noisy half world of law and crime. Roarke understood that, she thought, as he’d come from the same place as she. So he had offered her this when it was only theirs.

“You’re going to make something here,” she said and turned to lean back against the rail.

“That’s the plan.”

“No.” She shook her head, pleased that it was already starting to swim from the wine. “You’ll make something that people will talk about for centuries, that they’ll dream of. You’ve come a long way from the young thief who ran the back alleys of Dublin, Roarke.”

His smile was slow and just a little sly. “Not so very far, Lieutenant. I’m still picking pockets—I just do it as legally as I can. Being married to a cop limits certain activities.”

She frowned at him now. “I don’t want to hear about them.”

“Darling Eve.” He rose, brought the bottle with him. “So by-the-book. Still so unsettled that she’s fallen madly in love with a shady character.” He filled her glass again, then set the bottle aside. “One that only months ago was on her short list of murder suspects.”

“You enjoy that? Being suspicious?”

“I do.” He skimmed a thumb over a cheekbone where a bruise had faded away—except in his mind. “And I worry about you a little.” A lot, he admitted to himself.

“I’m a good cop.”

“I know. The only one I’ve ever completely admired. What an odd twist of fate that I would have fallen for a woman so devoted to justice.”

“It seems odder to me that I’ve linked up with someone who can buy and sell planets at a whim.”

“Married.” He laughed. Turning her around, he nuzzled the back of her neck. “Go on, say it. We’re married. The word won’t choke you.”

“I know what we are.” Ordering herself to relax, she leaned back against him. “Let me live with it for a while. I like being here, away with you.”

“Then I take it you’re glad you let me pressure you into the three weeks.”

“You didn’t pressure me.”

“I had to nag.” He nipped her ear. “Browbeat.” His hands slid up to her breasts. “Beg.”

She snorted. “You’ve never begged for anything. But maybe you did nag. I haven’t had three weeks off the job in . . . never.”

He decided against reminding her she hadn’t had it now, precisely. She rarely went through a twenty-four-hour period without running some program that put her up against a crime. “Why don’t we make it four?”

“Roarke—”

He chuckled. “Just testing. Drink your champagne. You’re not nearly drunk enough for what I have in mind.”

“Oh?” Her pulse leaped, making her feel foolish. “And what’s that?”

“It’ll lose in the telling,” he decided. “Let’s just say I intend to keep you occupied for the last forty-eight hours we have here.”

“Forty-eight hours?” With a laugh, she drained her glass. “When do we get started?”

“There’s no time like—” He broke off, scowling when the doorbell sounded. “I told the staff to leave the clearing up. Stay here.” He snugged together her robe, which he’d just untied. “I’ll send them away. Far away.”

“Get another bottle while you’re at it,” she told him, grinning as she shook the last drops into her glass. “Someone drank all of this one.”

Amused, he slipped back inside, crossed the wide living space with its clear glass ceiling and feather-soft carpets. He wanted her there, to start, he decided, on that yielding floor with the ice-edged stars wheeling overhead. He plucked a long white lily out of a porcelain dish, imagining how he would show her just what a clever man could do to a woman with the petals of a flower.

He was smiling as he turned into the foyer with its gilded walls and sweeping marble staircase. Flipping on the view screen, he prepared to send the room service waiter to perdition for the interruption.

With some surprise he saw the face of one of his assistant engineers. “Carter? Trouble?”

Carter rubbed a hand over a face that was dead pale and damp with sweat. “Sir. I’m afraid there is. I need to speak with you. Please.”

“All right. Just a moment.” Roarke let out a sigh as he flicked off the screen, disengaged the locks. Carter was young for his position, in his middle twenties, but he was a genius at design and execution. If there was a problem with the construction, it was best to deal with it now.

“Is it the sky glide at the salon?” Roarke asked as he opened the door. “I thought you’d worked out the kinks there.”

“No—I mean, yes, sir, I have. It’s working perfectly now.”

The man was trembling, Roarke realized, and forgot his annoyance. “Has there been an accident?” He took Carter’s arm, steered him into the living area, nudged him into a chair. “Has someone been hurt?”

“I don’t know—I mean, an accident?” Carter blinked, stared glassily. “Miss. Ma’am. Lieutenant,” he said as Eve came in. He started to rise, then fell weakly down again when she gave him a quick push.

“He’s in shock,” she said to Roarke, her voice brisk. “Try some of that fancy brandy you’ve got around here.” She crouched down, kept her face level with his. His pupils were pinpricks. “Carter, isn’t it? Take it slow.”

“I . . .” His face went waxy now. “I think I’m going to be—”

Before he could finish, Eve whipped his head down between his knees. “Breathe. Just breathe. Let’s have that brandy, Roarke.” She held out a hand, and he was there with a snifter.

“Pull it together, Carter.” Roarke eased him back onto the cushions. “Take a swallow of this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For Christ’s sake, stop sirring me to death.”

Color came back into Carter’s cheeks, either from the brandy or from embarrassment. He nodded, swallowed, let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I thought I was okay. I came right up. I didn’t know if I should—I didn’t know what else to do.” He spread a hand over his face like a kid at a horror video. He hitched in a breath and said it quickly. “It’s Drew, Drew Mathias, my roomie. He’s dead.”

Air exploded out of his lungs, then shuddered back in. He took another deep gulp of brandy and choked on it.

Roarke’s eyes went flat. He pulled together a picture of Mathias: young, eager, red hair and freckles, an electronics expert with a specialty in autotronics. “Where, Carter? How did it happen?”

“I thought I should tell you right away.” Now there were two high bruising red flags riding on Carter’s pasty cheeks. “I came right up to tell you—and your wife. I thought since she’s—she’s the police, she could do something.”

“You need a cop, Carter?” Eve took the snifter out of his unsteady hand. “Why do you need a cop?”

“I think—he must have—he killed himself, Lieutenant. He was hanging there, just hanging there from the ceiling light in the living room. And his face . . . Oh God. Oh Jesus.”

Eve left Carter to bury his own face in his hands and turned to Roarke. “Who’s got authority on site for something like this?”

“We’ve got standard security, most of it automated.” Accepting, he inclined his head. “I’d say it’s you, Lieutenant.”

“Okay, see if you can put together a field kit for me. I need a recorder—audio and video—some Seal It, evidence bags, tweezers, a couple of small brushes.”

She hissed out a breath as she dragged a hand through her hair. He wasn’t going to have the equipment lying around that would pinpoint body temperature and time of death. There would be no scanner, no sweepers, none of the standard chemicals for forensics she carried habitually to crime scenes.

They’d have to wing it.

“There’s a doctor, right? Call him. He’ll have to stand in as the ME. I’ll get dressed.”

Most of the techs made use of the completed wings of the hotel for living quarters. Carter and Mathias had apparently hit it off well enough to share a spacious two-bedroom suite during their shift on the station. As they rode down to the tenth floor, Eve handed Roarke the palm recorder.

“You can run this, right?”

He lifted a brow. One of his companies had manufactured it. “I think I can manage.”

“Fine.” She offered a weak smile. “You’re deputized. You hanging in, Carter?”

“Yeah.” But he walked out of the elevator into the hallway on ten like a drunk trying to pass a competency test. He had to wipe his sweaty hand twice on his slacks to get a clear reading on the palm screen. When the door slid open, he stepped back. “I’d just as soon not go in again.”

“Stay here,” she told him. “I may need you.”

She stepped inside. The lights were blinding bright, up to full power. Music blared out of the wall unit: hard, clashing rock with a screeching vocalist that reminded Eve of her friend Mavis. The floor was tiled in a Caribbean blue and offered the illusion of walking on water.

Along the north and south walls, banks of computers were set up. Workstations, she assumed, cluttered with all manner of electronic boards, microchips, and tools.

She saw clothes heaped on the sofa, VR goggles lying on the coffee table with three tubes of Asian beer—two of them flattened and already rolled for the recycler—and a bowl of spiced pretzels.

And she saw Drew Mathias’s naked body swaying gently from a makeshift noose of sheets hitched to the glittering tier of a blue glass chandelier.

“Ah, hell.” She sighed it out. “What is he, Roarke, twenty?”

“Not much more than.” Roarke’s mouth thinned as he studied Mathias’s boyish face. It was purple now, the eyes bulging, the mouth frozen into a hideous, gaping grin. Some vicious whim of death had left him smiling.

“All right, let’s do what we can. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, NYPSD, standing in until proper interspace authorities can be contacted and transported. Suspicious, unattended death. Mathias, Drew, Olympus Grand Hotel, Room ten thirty-six, August 1, 2058, one hundred hours.”

“I want to take him down,” Roarke said. It shouldn’t have surprised him how quickly, how seamlessly she’d shifted from woman to cop.

“Not yet. It doesn’t make any difference to him now, and I need the scene recorded before anything’s moved.” She turned in the doorway. “Did you touch anything, Carter?”

“No.” He scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “I opened the door, just like now, and walked in. I saw him right away. You . . . you see him right away. I guess I stood there a minute. Just stood there. I knew he was dead. I saw his face.”

“Why don’t you go through the other door into the bedroom.” She gestured to the left. “You can lie down for a while. I’ll need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t call anyone,” she ordered.

“No. No, I won’t call anyone.”

She turned away again, secured the door. Her gaze shifted to Roarke’s, and their eyes held. She knew he was thinking, as she was, that there were some—like her—who had no escape from death.

“Let’s get started,” she told him.

chapter two

The doctor’s name was Wang, and he was old, as most medicals were on off planet projects. He could have retired at ninety, but like others of his ilk, he had chosen to bump from site to site, tending the scrapes and bruises, passing out drugs for space sickness and gravity balance, delivering the occasional baby, running required diagnostics.

But he knew a dead body when he saw one.

“Dead.” His voice was clipped, faintly exotic. His skin was parchment yellow and as wrinkled as an old map. His eyes were black, almond shaped. His head was glossy and slick, lending him the appearance of an ancient, somewhat battered billiard ball.

“Yeah, I got that much.” Eve rubbed her eyes. She’d never had to deal with a space med, but she’d heard about them. They didn’t care to have their cushy routine interrupted. “Give me the cause and the time.”

“Strangulation.” Wang tapped one long finger against the vicious marks on Mathias’s neck. “Self-induced. Time of death I would say between ten and eleven P.M. on this day, in this month, in this year.”

She offered a thin smile. “Thank you, Doctor. There aren’t any other signs of violence on the body, so I lean toward your diagnosis of self-termination. But I want the results of the drug run. Let’s see if it was chemically induced. Did you treat the deceased for anything?”

“I cannot say, but he looks unfamiliar. I would have his records, of course. He would have come to me for the standard diagnostic upon arrival.”

“I’ll want those as well.”

“I will do my best to accommodate you, Mrs. Roarke.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dallas, Lieutenant Dallas. Put a rush on it, Wang.” She looked down at the body again. Small man, she thought, thin, pale. Dead.

Pursing her lips, she studied the face. She’d seen what odd tricks death, particularly violent death, could play with expressions, but she’d never seen anything like that wide, goggle-eyed grin. It made her shudder.

The waste, the pathetic waste of such a young life made her unbearably sad.

“Take him with you, Wang. Get me the reports. You can shoot his basic paperwork to the tele-link in my suite. I need the next of kin.”

“Assuredly.” He smiled at her. “Lieutenant Roarke.”

She smiled back, showed her teeth, and decided she didn’t want to play the name game. Standing, she put her hands on her hips as Wang directed his two assistants to transport the body.

“You find that amusing,” she muttered to Roarke.

He blinked, all innocence. “What?”

“Lieutenant Roarke.”

Roarke touched her face because he needed to. “Why not? Both of us could use some comic relief.”

“Yeah, your Dr. Wang’s a chuckle a minute.” She watched the doctor sail out in front of the dead boy on a gurney. “It pisses me off. It fucking pisses me off.”

“It’s not such a bad name.”

“No.” She nearly did laugh as she rubbed her hands over her face. “Not that. The boy. A kid like that tossing out his next hundred years of life. That pisses me off.”

“I know.” He reached out to rub her shoulders. “You’re sure it was suicide?”

“No sign of struggle. No additional insults to the body.” She shrugged under his hands. “I’ll interview Carter and talk to some others, but the way I see it, Drew Mathias came home, turned on the lights, the music. He drank himself a couple beers, maybe took a VR trip, ate a few pretzels. Then he went in, stripped the sheets off his bed, made himself a rope, fashioned a very precise, professional noose.”

She turned away, scanning the room, letting the scene into her head. “He took off his clothes, tossed them aside. He climbed up on the table. You can see the smears from his feet. He tied the rope to the light, probably gave it a good tug or two to make sure it was secure. Then he slipped his head into the noose, used the remote to raise the light, and choked himself to death.”

She picked up the remote she’d already bagged for evidence. “It wouldn’t have been quick. It’s a slow ascent, not enough to give him a nice clean broken neck, but he didn’t struggle, didn’t change his mind. If he had, you’d see scrapes from his nails on his neck and throat from where he’d tried to claw free.”

Roarke’s brow knit. “But wouldn’t it be instinctive, involuntary to do just that?”

“I don’t know. I’d say it depended on how strong a will he had, how much he wanted to die. And why. Could have been cruising on drugs. We’ll know that soon enough. The right mix of chemicals, the mind doesn’t register pain. He might even have enjoyed it.”

“I won’t deny there’s some illegals floating around here. It’s impossible to regulate and supervise every staff member’s habits and personal choices.” Roarke shrugged, frowned up at the gorgeous blue chandelier. “Mathias doesn’t strike me as the type for a habitual, even an occasional user.”

“People are a constant surprise, and it’s an unending wonder what they’ll pump into their bloodstreams.” Eve jerked her own shoulders in turn. “I’ll give the place the standard toss for illegals, and I’ll see what I can find out from Carter.” She dragged her hair back with a hand. “Why don’t you go back up, get some sleep?”

“No, I’ll stay. Eve,” he said before she could argue, “you deputized me.”

It made her smile a little. “Any decent adjutant would know I need coffee to get through this.”

“Then I’ll see that you get some.” He framed her face in his hands. “I wanted you away from this for a while.” He let her go and walked into the adjoining kitchen to see about her coffee.

Eve stepped into the bedroom. The lights were low and Carter was sitting on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. He jerked straight when he heard her come in.

“Take it easy, Carter, you’re not under arrest yet.” When his cheeks paled, she sat beside him. “Sorry, bad cop humor. I’m recording this, okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, interview with Carter—what’s your full name, Carter?”

“Ah, Jack. Jack Carter.”

“Carter, Jack, regarding the unattended death of Mathias, Drew. Carter, you shared suite ten thirty-six with the deceased.”

“Yeah, for the past five months. We were friends.”

“Tell me about tonight. What time did you get home?”

“I don’t know. About twelve thirty, I guess. I had a date. I’ve been seeing someone—Lisa Cardeaux—she’s one of the landscape designers. We wanted to check out the entertainment complex. They were showing a new video. After that, we went to the Athena Club. It’s open to the complex employees. We had a couple of drinks, listened to some music. She’s got an early day tomorrow, so we didn’t stay late. I took her home.” He smiled weakly. “Tried to talk her into letting me come up, but she wasn’t having any.”

“Okay, so you struck out with Lisa. Did you come straight home?”

“Yeah. She’s just over at the staff bungalow. She likes it there. Doesn’t want to close herself up in a hotel room. That’s what she says. It only takes a couple minutes on the glide to get back here. I came up.” He drew a breath, rubbed a hand over his heart as if to calm it. “Drew had the door secured. He had a thing about that. Some of the crew leave the locks off, but Drew had all that equipment, and he was paranoid about anybody messing with it.”

“Is the palm plate coded for anyone but the two of you?”

“No.”

“Okay, then what?”

“I saw him. Right away. That’s when I went up to you.”

“All right. When’s the last time you saw him alive?”

“This morning.” Carter rubbed his eyes, trying to visualize the normality of it. Light, food, mumbling conversation. “We had some breakfast.”

“How was he? Upset, depressed?”

“No,” Carter’s eyes focused then, and were for the first time animated. “That’s what I can’t get through my head. He was fine. He was joking around, yanking my chain about Lisa because I haven’t—you know—scored. We were needling each other, just friendly shit. I said he hadn’t scored in so long he wouldn’t know it if he did. And why didn’t he get himself a woman and come along with us tonight to see how it was done.”

“Was he seeing anyone?”

“No. He always talked about this babe he was hung up on. She wasn’t on the station. The babe. That’s what he called her. He was going to use his next free cycle to pay her a visit. He said she had it all, brains, beauty, body, and a sex drive that wouldn’t quit. Why should he play with lesser models when he had state of the art?”

“You don’t know her name?”

“No. She was just The Babe. To be honest, I figure he made her up. Drew wasn’t what you’d call babe material, you know. And he was shy around women and really into fantasy games and his autotronics. He was always working on something.”

“What about other friends?”

“He didn’t have many. He was quiet around a lot of people, internal, you know?”

“He use chemicals, Carter?”

“Sure, your basic stimulant if he was pulling an all-nighter.”

“Illegals, Carter. Did he use?”

“Drew?” His tired eyes popped wide. “No way. Absolutely no way. He was a total arrow, straight as they come. He wouldn’t mess with illegals, Lieutenant. He had a good mind, and he wanted to keep it that way. And he wanted to keep his job, move up. You get tossed for that kind of shit. Only takes one time on a spot check.”

“Are you sure you’d have known if he decided to experiment?”

“You know someone you hang with for five months.” Carter’s eyes went sad again. “You get used to them—habits and everything. Like I said, he didn’t hang with other people much. He was happier alone, fiddling with his equipment, diving into his role-playing programs.”

“A loner then, internal.”

“Yeah, that was his way. But he wasn’t upset, he wasn’t depressed. He kept saying that he was onto something big, some new toy. He was always onto a new toy,” Carter murmured. “He said just last week that he was going to make a fortune this time, and give Roarke a run for his money.”

“Roarke?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Carter said quickly, defending the dead. “You’ve got to understand, Roarke—to a lot of us—well, he’s ice, you know? Solid ice. Rolling in credits, mag clothes, outstanding digs, power plus, sexy new wife—” He broke off, flushing. “Excuse me.”

“No problem.” She’d decide later if she was amused or flabbergasted that a boy barely twenty considered her sexy.

“It’s just that a lot of us techs—well, a lot of people altogether—sort of aspire. Roarke’s like the epitome. Drew totally admired him. He had ambitions, Mrs.—Lieutenant. He had goals and plans. Why would he do this?” Suddenly his eyes swam. “Why would he do this?”

“I don’t know, Carter. Sometimes you never know why.”

She led him back, guided him through, until she had a picture of Drew Mathias that gelled. An hour later, there was nothing left for her to do but put together a report for whoever would be transported in to close the case.

She leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator as she and Roarke rode back to the penthouse. “It was good thinking to put him in another room on another floor. He may sleep better tonight.”

“He’ll sleep better if he takes the tranqs. How about you? Will you sleep?”

“Yeah. I’d turn it over easier if I had a glimmer of what was troubling him, what pushed him to it.” She stepped out into the corridor, waited while Roarke disengaged security to their suite. “The picture I’ve got is of your average tech nerd with grand aspirations. Shy of women, into fantasy. Happy in his work.” She lifted her shoulders. “There weren’t any incoming or outgoing calls on his ’link, no E-mail sent or received, no messages recorded, and the security on the door was engaged at sixteen hundred hours by Mathias, disengaged at oh thirty-three by Carter. He didn’t have any visitors, didn’t go out. He just settled in for the evening, then hanged himself.”

“It’s not a homicide.”

“No, it’s not a homicide.” Did that make it better, she wondered, or worse? “Nobody to blame, nobody to punish. Just a dead kid. A life wasted.” She turned to him suddenly, wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Roarke, you changed my life.”

Surprised, he tipped up her face. Her eyes weren’t wet, but dry and fierce and angry. “What’s this?”

“You changed my life,” she said again. “At least part of it. I’m beginning to see it’s the best part of it. I want you to know that. I want you to remember that when we get back and things settle into routine, if I forget to let you know what I feel or what I think or how much you mean to me.”

Touched, he pressed his curved lips to her brow. “I won’t let you forget. Come to bed. You’re tired.”

“Yeah, I am.” She skimmed her hair back from her face as they started toward the bedroom. Less than forty-eight hours left, she remembered. She wouldn’t let useless death mar the last hours of their honeymoon.

She angled her head, fluttered her lashes. “You know, Carter thinks I’m sexy.”

Roarke stopped. He narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Oh, she loved it when that lilting Irish voice turned arrogant. “You’re ice,” she continued, circling her head on her tensed shoulders as she unbuttoned her shirt.

“Am I? Am I really?”

“Solid ice, which is, as Mavis would say, mag. And part of the reason you’re ice, in case you’re wondering, is because you have a sexy new wife.”

Naked to the waist, she sat on the bed and tugged off her shoes. She flicked a glance over at him and saw that he’d tucked his hands in his pockets and was grinning. Her lips curved as well. It felt very good to smile.

“So, ice man”—she cocked her head, lifted a brow—“what are you going to do about your sexy new wife?”

Roarke ran his tongue over his teeth, then stepped forward. “Why don’t I demonstrate?”

She thought it would be better, facing the trip back, being flung through space like a kid’s ray ball. She was wrong.

Eve argued, using what she considered very logical reasons why she shouldn’t get into Roarke’s private transport.

“I don’t want to die.”

He laughed at her, which had her eyes kindling, then he simply scooped her up and carried her on board. “I’m not staying.” Her heart jittered into her chest as he stepped into the plush cabin. “I mean it. You’ll have to knock me out to get me to stay on this flying death trap.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He chose a wide, scoop-shaped chair in buttery black leather, kept her in his lap and, moving quickly, strapped her in, trapping her arms to limit any possible reprisals.

“Hey. Stop it.” Panicked, she struggled, wiggled, swore. “Let me out. Let me off.”

Her snug butt jiggling on his lap gave him a solid clue as to how he intended to spend the initial hours of the trip. “Take off as soon as you have clearance,” Roarke ordered the pilot, then smiled at the flight attendant. “We won’t need you for a while,” he told her and engaged the locks on the cabin doors the moment she made a discreet exit.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Eve promised. When she heard the hum of engines gearing up, felt the faint vibration under her feet that signaled imminent takeoff, she seriously considered gnawing at the safety harness with her teeth. “I’m not doing this,” she said definitely. “I am not doing this. Tell him to abort.”

“Too late.” He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzled her neck. “Relax, Eve. Trust me. You’re safer here than you are driving through midtown.”

“Bullshit. Oh Christ.” She squeezed her eyes tight as the engine let out a powerful roar. The shuttle seemed to shoot straight up, leaving her stomach flopping on the ground below. The g’s slapped her back, plastering her against Roarke.

She was barely breathing by the time the ride smoothed out and she discovered that the pressure in her chest was caused by the fact that she was holding her breath. She let it out in a whoosh, then sucked in air like a diver surfacing from a great depth.

She was still alive, she told herself. And that was something. Now, she would have to kill him. It was then she realized that not only was she unstrapped, but her shirt was unbuttoned and his hands were on her breasts.

“If you think we’re going to have sex after you—”

He merely swiveled her to face him. She caught the glint of humor and lust in his eyes just before his mouth closed cagily over her breast.

“You bastard.” But she laughed as pleasure speared into her, and she cupped her hands behind his head to urge him on.

She’d never take for granted what he could do to her, do for her. Those wild floods of pleasure, the slow, thrilling glide of it. She rocked against him, let herself forget everything but the way his teeth nipped, his tongue licked.

So it was she who pulled him onto the thick, soft carpet, she who dragged his mouth to hers. “Inside me.” She tugged at his shirt, wanting that hard, muscled flesh under her hands. “I want you inside me.”

“We have hours yet.” He dipped to her breasts again, so small, so firm, already warm from his hands. “I need to taste you.”

He did, lavishly. The subtle variety of flavors, from mouth to throat, from throat to shoulder, shoulder to breast. He sampled with tenderness, with finesse, with a quiet concentration focused on mutual pleasure.

He felt her begin to tremble under his hands and mouth.

Her skin grew damp as he roamed to her belly, easing her slacks down, nibbling his way between her thighs. His tongue flicked there, making her moan. Her hips arched for him even as he cupped them, lifted them, opened her. When his tongue slid lazily into the heat, he felt the first orgasm rip through her.

“More.” Greedy now, he devoured. She would let go for him as she had for no one else, he knew. She would lose herself in what they made together.

When she was shuddering, when her hands lay limp on the carpet, he slid up her body, slipped into her. Mated.

Her eyes fluttered open, met his. Concentration was what she saw there. Absolute control. She wanted, needed to destroy it, to know she could, as he could destroy her.

“More,” she insisted, hooking her legs around his waist to take him deeper. She saw the flicker in his eyes, the deep, dark need that lived inside him and, pulling his mouth to hers, scraping her teeth over those beautifully formed lips, she moved under him.

He fisted his hands in her hair, his breath quickening as he rammed himself into her, harder, faster, until he thought his heart would burst from the ferocity of it. She matched him, beat for beat, thrust for thrust, those short, unpainted nails digging into his back, his shoulders, his hips. Delicious little bites of pain.

He felt her come again, the violent contraction of her muscles fisting over him like glory. Again, was all he could think. Again and again and again, as he hammered into her, swallowing her gasps and moans, shuddering from the thrilling sound of flesh slapping wetly against flesh.

He felt her body tense again, revving toward peak. As that long, low, throaty moan slipped through her lips, he pressed his face into her hair, and with one final thrust, he emptied himself.

He collapsed onto her, his mind fuzzed, his heart thundering. She was limp as water beneath him but for the rage of her heart against his.

“We can’t keep this up,” she managed after a moment. “We’ll kill each other.”

He managed a wheezing laugh. “We’ll die well, in any case. I had intended a bit more romance—some wine and music to cap off the honeymoon.” He lifted his head, smiled down at her. “But this worked, too.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed off at you.”

“Naturally. We’ve had some of our best sex when you’re pissed off at me.” He caught her chin between his teeth, flicked his tongue along the slight dent in the center. “I adore you, Eve.”

While she was adjusting to that, as she always did, he rolled off, got lightly to his feet, and walked naked to a mirrored console between two chairs. He laid his palm on it, and a door slid open. “I have something for you.”

She eyed the velvet box with suspicion. “You don’t have to get me presents. You know I don’t want you to.”

“Yes. It makes you uncomfortable and uneasy.” He grinned. “Perhaps that’s why I do it.” He sat beside her on the floor, handed her the box. “Open it.”

She imagined it would be jewelry. He seemed to thrive on giving her body decorations: diamonds, emeralds, ropes of gold that left her stunned and feeling awkward. But when she opened it, she saw only a simple white blossom.

“It’s a flower?”

“From your wedding bouquet. I had it treated.”

“A petunia.” She found herself sentimentally teary-eyed as she picked it out of the box. Simple, basic, ordinary, one that might grow in any garden. The petals felt soft, dewy, and fresh.

“It’s a new process one of my companies has been working on. It preserves without changing the basic texture. I wanted you to have it.” He closed a hand over hers. “I wanted both of us to have it, so we could be reminded that some things last.”

She raised her eyes to his. They had both come from misery, she thought, and survived it. They had been drawn together through violence and tragedy, and had overcome it. They walked different paths and had found a mutual route.

Some things last, she thought. Some ordinary things. Like love.

chapter three

Three weeks hadn’t changed Cop Central. The coffee was still poisonous, the noise abominable, and the view out of her stingy window was still miserable.

She was thrilled to be back.

The cops in her unit had arranged for a message to await her. Since it was blinking slyly on her monitor when she walked in, she figured she had her old pal Feeney, the electronics whiz, to thank for bypassing her code.

WELCOME BACK, LIEUTENANT LOVEJOY
Hubba-hubba

Hubba-hubba? She snorted out a laugh. Sophomoric humor, maybe, but it made her feel at home.

She glanced over the mess on her desk. She hadn’t had time to clear anything up between the unexpected closing of a case during her bachelor party and her wedding day. But she noted the neatly sealed disc, competently labeled, sitting atop her stack of old work.

That would be Peabody’s doing, Eve concluded. Sliding the disc into her desk unit, she cursed once and slapped the drive to cure the razzing hiccups it emitted, and saw that the ever-reliable Peabody had indeed written the arrest report, filed it, and logged it.

It couldn’t, Eve mused, have been easy on her. Not when she’d been sharing a bed with the accused.

Eve glanced at the old work again, grimaced. She could see she had court dates stuffed and layered together over the next few days. The schedule juggling she’d had to do to accommodate Roarke’s demand for three weeks away had had a price. It was time to pay up.

Well, he’d done plenty of juggling as well, she reminded herself. And now it was back to work and reality. Rather than review the cases she would soon give testimony for, she bumped up her ’link and put out a search for Officer Peabody.

The familiar, serious face with its dark helmet of hair fizzed onto her monitor. “Sir. Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Peabody. My office, please. ASAP.”

Without waiting for a reply, Eve switched off the unit and smiled to herself. She’d seen to it that Peabody had been transferred to the homicide division. Now she intended to take it a bit further. She engaged the ’link again.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Is the commander free?”

“Lieutenant.” The commander’s secretary beamed at her. “How was your honeymoon?”

“It was very nice.” She felt a quick flush of heat at the gleam in the woman’s eye. Hubba-hubba had amused her. This dreamy look made her want to squirm. “Thank you.”

“You were a lovely bride, Lieutenant. I saw the pictures and there were several news runs on the event and the gossip channels were full of it. We saw clips of you in Paris, too. It looked so romantic.”

“Yeah.” The price of fame, Eve thought. And Roarke. “It was . . . nice. Ah, the commander?”

“Oh, of course. One moment please.”

As the unit buzzed, Eve rolled her eyes. She could accept being in the spotlight, but she was never going to enjoy it.

“Dallas.” Commander Whitney’s grin was an acre wide, and he had an odd look on his hard, dark face. “You look . . . well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You enjoyed your honeymoon?”

Christ, she thought, when was someone going to ask if she’d enjoyed being fucked around the world and into outer space? “Yes, sir. Thank you. I assume you’ve already read Officer Peabody’s report on the closing of the Pandora case.”

“Yes, very complete. The PA is going for the maximum on Casto. You ran a close one there, Lieutenant.”

She was very well aware how close she’d come to not only missing her wedding day, but the rest of her life. “It stings when it’s another cop,” she said. “I was rushed, sir, and only had time to give you my recommendation for Peabody’s transferral, permanently, to my unit. Her assistance, in this matter and others, has been invaluable.”

“She’s a good cop,” Whitney agreed.

“I agree. I have a request, Commander.”

Five minutes later, when Peabody stepped into her crammed office, Eve was tipped back in her chair, scanning the data on her monitor. “I’ve got court in an hour,” Eve said without preliminary. “On the Salvatori case. What do you know about that, Peabody?”

“Vito Salvatori is being tried for multiple murder, with the added circumstance of torture. He is an alleged distributor of illegal substances and stands accused of the murder of three other known dealers of Zeus and TRL. The victims were burned alive in a small rooming house on the Lower East Side last winter—after their eyes and tongues were cut out. You were primary.”

Peabody recited the data matter-of-factly while she stood at attention in her shipshape uniform.

“Very good, Officer. Did you read my arrest report on the case?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I did.”

Eve nodded. An airbus boomed by the window, spewing noise and displacing air. “Then you know that before I restrained Salvatori, I broke his left arm at the elbow, his jaw, and relieved him of several teeth. His lawyers are going to try to fry me for excessive force.”

“They’ll have a rough time of that, sir, as he was trying to burn down the building around you when you cornered him. If you hadn’t restrained him in whatever manner was possible, he’d have been fried. So to speak.”

“Okay, Peabody. I’ve got this and several others to go over before the week’s up. I need all the cases on my court schedule downloaded and condensed. You can meet me with the requested data in thirty minutes, east exit.”

“Sir. I’m on assignment. Detective Crouch has me chasing down vehicle registrations.” Only the faintest sneer in her voice indicated Peabody’s feeling about Crouch and the garbage assignment.

“I’ll handle Crouch. The commander’s cleared my request. You’re assigned to me. So pass off whatever grunt work that’s been dumped on you and get your ass in gear.”

Peabody blinked. “Assigned to you, sir?”

“Your hearing go bad while I was away?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Have you got a thing for Crouch?” It delighted Eve to see Peabody’s serious mouth drop open.

“Are you kidding? He’s—” She caught herself, stiffened up. “He’s hardly my type, Lieutenant. I believe I’ve learned my lesson about romantic attachments on the job.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over that one, Peabody. I liked Casto, too. You did a hell of a job on that one.”

It helped to hear it, but the wound was still raw. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Which is why you are now assigned to me as my permanent aide. You want a detective shield, Officer?”

Peabody knew what she was being given: the opportunity, the gift out of nowhere. She closed her eyes a moment until she had her voice under control. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. You’ll work your ass off for it. Get the data I requested, and let’s move.”

“Right away.” At the door, Peabody paused, turned back. “I’m very grateful for the chance you’re giving me.”

“Don’t be. You earned it. And if you screw up, I’ll bust you down to traffic.” Eve smiled thinly. “Air traffic.”

Court testimony was part of the job, and so, Eve reminded herself, were high-class weasels like S. T. Fitzhugh, attorney for the defense. He was slick and he was savvy, a man who defended the lowest of lowlifes—as long as their credits held out. His success in assisting drug lords, murderers, and molesters into slithering out of the grip of the law was such that he could easily afford the cream-colored suits and hand-tooled shoes he affected.

He made a dashing figure in the courtroom, his melted-chocolate skin a fine contrast to the soft colors and fabrics he habitually wore. His long, aesthetic face was smooth as the silk of his jacket, thanks to the three-times-weekly treatments at Adonis, the city’s top enhancement salon for men. His figure was trim—narrow at the hips, broad at the shoulders—and his voice was the deep, rich baritone of an opera singer.

He courted the press, socialized with the criminal elite, owned his own Jet Star.

It was one of Eve’s small pleasures to despise him.

“Let me try to get a clear picture, Lieutenant.” Fitzhugh lifted his hands, bringing his thumbs together to form a bracket. “A clear picture of the circumstances that led to you attacking my client in his place of business.”

The prosecuting attorney objected. Fitzhugh graciously rephrased. “You did, Lieutenant Dallas, cause my client great bodily harm on the night in question.”

He glanced back at Salvatori, who had costumed himself for the occasion in a simple black suit. Following his attorney’s advice, he had skipped his last three months of cosmetic and youth restoration treatments. There was gray in his hair, a sag to his face and body. He looked old, defenseless.

The jury would make the comparison, Eve imagined, between the young, fit cop and the delicate old man.

“Mr. Salvatori resisted arrest and attempted to ignite an accelerant. It was necessary to restrain him.”

“To restrain him?” Slowly, Fitzhugh walked back, passing the recorder droid, moving down the jury box, drawing one of the six automated cameras with him as he laid a supporting hand on Salvatori’s thin shoulder. “You had to restrain him, and that restraint resulted in a fractured jaw and a shattered arm.”

Eve flicked a glance toward the jury. Several members of the panel were looking entirely too sympathetic. “That’s correct. Mr. Salvatori refused my request to exit the building—and to put down the cleaver and acetylene torch in his possession.”

“You were armed, Lieutenant?”

“I was.”

“And you carry the standard weapon issued to members of the NYPSD?”

“I do.”

“If, as you claim, Mr. Salvatori was armed and resisting, why did you fail to administer the accepted stun?”

“I missed. Mr. Salvatori was feeling pretty spry that night.”

“I see. In your ten years on the police force, Lieutenant, how many times have you found it necessary to employ maximum force? To terminate?”

Eve ignored the jitter in her stomach. “Three times.”

“Three?” Fitzhugh let the word hang, let the jury study the woman in the witness chair. A woman who had killed. “Isn’t that a rather high ratio? Wouldn’t you say that percentage indicates a predilection for violence?”

The PA surged to his feet, objecting bitterly, going into the standard line that the witness was not on trial. But of course she was, Eve thought. Cops were always on trial.

“Mr. Salvatori was armed,” Eve began coolly. “I had a warrant for his arrest in the torture murders of three people. The three people whose eyes and tongues were cut out before they were set on fire and for which crime Mr. Salvatori now stands accused in this courtroom. He refused to cooperate by flinging a cleaver at my head, which threw my aim off. He then charged, knocking me to the ground. I believe his words were, ‘I’m going to cut out your cop-bitch heart,’ at which time we engaged in hand to hand. At that time I broke his jaw, knocked out several of his teeth, and when he swung the torch in my direction, I broke his goddamn arm.”

“And you enjoyed that, Lieutenant?”

She met Fitzhugh’s eyes straight on. “No, sir, I didn’t. But I enjoyed staying alive.”

“Slime,” Eve muttered as she climbed into her vehicle.

“He won’t get Salvatori off.” Peabody settled in and, to take the edge off the furnace heat trapped inside, fiddled with the temperature control unit. “The evidence is too clear cut. And you didn’t let him shake you.”

“Yes, I did.” Eve scooped a hand through her hair, then headed into late-afternoon midtown traffic. The streets were choked enough to make her grit her teeth, but overhead, the sky was crisscrossed with airbuses, tourist vans, and midday commuters. “We limp along, getting pricks like Salvatori off the street, and men like Fitzhugh make fortunes slipping them back out.” She jerked a shoulder. “Sometimes it pisses me off.”

“Whoever slips them back out, we still limp along and slap them back in again.”

With a half laugh, Eve glanced at her companion. “You’re an optimist, Peabody. I wonder how long that’ll last. I’m going to make a detour before we log back on,” she said, changing direction on impulse. “I want to get the air of that courtroom out of my lungs.”

“Lieutenant? You didn’t need me in court today. Why was I there?”

“If you’re going after that detective shield, Peabody, you need to see what you’re up against. It’s not just killers and thieves and chemi-heads. It’s the lawyers.”

It didn’t surprise her to find the streets clogged and parking nonexistent. Philosophically, Eve nosed into an illegal zone, flipped the on-duty light on.

As she stepped out of the car, she gave a hustler on a glide-board a mild stare. He grinned, winked cheekily, then zoomed away toward more conducive surroundings.

“This area’s loaded with hustlers and dealers and off-license hookers,” Eve said conversationally. “That’s why I love it.” She opened the door to the Down and Dirty Club, stepped inside to air thick with the sour smells of cheap liquor and bad food.

Privacy rooms lining one wall were open, airing out the musky stink of stale sex.

It was a joint—one that enjoyed being seamy and just skirted the edge of health and decency laws. A holographic band had the stage and was playing listlessly for the smattering of disinterested customers.

Mavis Freestone was in an isolation booth in the back, her hair a purple fountain, two scraps of glowing silver cloth strategically draped over her small, sassy body. The way her mouth was moving, her hips swiveling, Eve was certain she was rehearsing one of her more interesting vocals.

Eve stepped up to the glass, waiting until Mavis’s rolling eyes circled around and landed on her. Mavis’s mouth, the same searing purple as her hair, rounded into a huge circle of delight. She did a fast boogie, then shoved the door open. An ear-shattering blast of screaming guitars burst out of the booth with her.

Mavis launched herself into Eve’s arms, and though she was shouting, Eve caught only every other word over the thundering music.

“What?” Laughing, Eve slammed the door shut, shook the echo out of her head. “Christ, Mavis, what was that?”

“My new number. It’s going to knock them unconscious.”

“I believe it.”

“You’re back.” Mavis gave Eve two smacking and unavoidable kisses. “Let’s sit down. Let’s have a drink. Tell me every detail. Leave nothing out. Hey, Peabody. Man, aren’t you steaming in that uniform?”

She dragged Eve to a sticky table, punched up the menu. “What do you want? It’s on me. Crack pays me pretty solid for the couple gigs a week I do here. He’s going to be dredged that he missed you. Oh, I’m so glad to see you. You look terrific. You look happy. Doesn’t she look terrific, Peabody? Sex is so, like, therapeutic, right?”

Eve laughed again, knowing she’d come just for this. Mindless entertainment. “Just a couple of fizz waters, Mavis. We’re on duty.”

“Oh, like somebody in here’s going to report you. Unbutton that uniform some, Peabody. I’m getting hot just looking at you. How was Paris? How was the island? How was the resort? Did he fuck your brains out everywhere?”

“Beautiful, wonderful, interesting, and yeah, he did. How’s Leonardo?”

Mavis’s eyes went dreamy. She smiled and poked a silver-tipped nail onto the menu board. “He’s terrific. Cohabitating’s better than I thought it would be. He designed this costume for me.”

Eve studied the thin silver straps that almost covered Mavis’s tidy apple breasts. “Is that what you call it?”

“I’ve got this new number, see. Oh, I’ve got so much to tell you.” She snagged the fizz water when it plopped through the slot. “I don’t know where to start. There’s this guy, this music engineer. I’m working with him. We’re doing a disc, Eve—full treatment. He’s sure he can peddle it. He’s great, Jess Barrow. He was blazing a couple years back with his own stuff. Maybe you heard of him.”

“No.” Eve knew that, for a woman who’d lived on the streets a large portion of her life, Mavis remained stunningly naive about certain matters. “How much are you paying him?”

“It’s not like that.” Mavis’s lips moved into a pout. “I’ve got to dish up the recording fee, sure. That’s the way it works; and if we hit, he takes sixty percent for the first three years. After that we renegotiate.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Peabody commented. She’d unfastened her collar button—a tribute to her fondness for Mavis. “He had a couple of major hits a couple years ago, and he was hooked up with Cassandra.” At Eve’s arched brow, she shrugged. “The singer, you know.”

“You a music lover, Peabody? You never fail to amaze me.”

“I like to listen to tunes,” Peabody muttered into her bubbly water. “Like anyone.”

“Well, the Cassandra connection’s dumped,” Mavis said cheerfully. “He’s been looking for a new vocalist. And that’s me.”

Eve wondered what else he might be looking for. “What does Leonardo think?”

“He thinks it’s mag. You’ve got to come to the studio, Eve, catch us in action. Jess is a certified genius.”

She intended to catch them in action. The list of people Eve loved was very short. And Mavis was on it.

She waited until she was back in the car with Peabody, heading to Cop Central. “Run a make on Jess Barrow, Peabody.”

Without surprise, Peabody took out her diary, plugged in the order. “Mavis isn’t going to like that.”

“She doesn’t have to know, does she.”

Eve veered around a glide-cart offering frozen fruit on a stick, then swung onto Tenth where automated jackhammers were tearing up the street again. Overhead, an ad blimp hawked a shoppers’ special at Bloomingdale’s. Preseason sale on winter coats in the men’s, women’s, and unisex department, twenty percent off. Such a deal.

She spotted the man in the trench coat shambling toward a trio of girls and sighed.

“Shit. There’s Clevis.”

“Clevis?”

“This is his turf,” Eve said simply as she pulled into a loading zone. “I used to do this drag when I was in uniform. He’s been around for years. Come on, Peabody, let’s spare the little children.”

She stepped onto the sidewalk, skirting a pair of men arguing over baseball. From the smell of them, she judged they’d been standing in the heat arguing for much too long. She shouted once, but the jackhammers swallowed her voice. Resigned, she picked up her pace and intercepted Clevis before he reached the unsuspecting, pink-cheeked girls.

“Hey, Clevis.”

He blinked at her through the pale lenses of sunscreens. His hair was sandy blond and curly around a face as innocent as a cherub’s. He was eighty, if he was a day. “Dallas. Hey, Dallas. I haven’t seen you in a big blue moon.” He flashed big white teeth as he sized up Peabody. “Who’s this?”

“Peabody, this is Clevis. Clevis, you aren’t going to bother those little girls, are you?”

“No, shit, uh-uh. I wasn’t going to bother them.” He wiggled his brows. “I was just going to show ’em, is all.”

“You don’t want to do that, Clevis. You ought to get inside, out of this heat.”

“I like it hot.” He wheezed out a chuckle. “There they go,” he said with a sigh, as the trio of girls ran laughing across the street. “Guess I won’t be able to show ’em today. I’ll show you.”

“Clevis, don’t—” Then Eve huffed out a breath. He’d already pulled his trench coat apart. Under it, he was naked but for a bright blue bow tied celebrationally around his withered cock. “Very nice, Clevis. That’s a good color for you. Matches your eyes.” She put a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Let’s take a ride, okay?”

“Okeedokee. Do you like blue, Peabody?”

Peabody nodded solemnly as she opened the back door of the unit, helped him inside. “Blue’s my favorite color.” She shut the door of the vehicle, met Eve’s laughing eyes. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

“It’s good to be back, Peabody. All in all, it’s good to be back.”

It was also good to be home. Eve drove through the high, iron gates that guarded the towering fortress. It was less of a shock now, to glide along the curving drive through those well-tended lawns and flowering trees toward the elegant stone and glass house where she now lived.

The contrast of where she worked and where she lived no longer seemed quite so jarring. It was quiet here—the kind of quiet in a massive city only the very rich could afford. She could hear birdsong, see the sky, smell the sweet aroma of freshly shorn grass. Minutes away, only minutes, was the teeming, noisy, sweating mass of New York.

Here, she supposed, was sanctuary. As much for Roarke as for herself.

Two lost souls. He’d once called them that. She wondered if they’d stopped being lost when they’d found each other.

She left her car at the front entrance, knowing its battered body and tasteless shape would offend Summerset, Roarke’s poker-backed butler. It was a simple matter to switch it to automatic, send it around the house and into the slot reserved for her unit in the garage, but she enjoyed her petty needling when it came to Summerset.

She opened the door and found him standing in the grand foyer with a sniff in his nose and a sneer on his lips.

“Lieutenant, your vehicle is unsightly.”

“Hey, it’s city property.” She reached down to pick up the fat, odd-eyed cat who’d come to greet her. “You don’t want it there, move it yourself.”

She heard a trill of laughter float down the hall, lifted a brow. “Company?”

“Indeed.” With his disapproving eye, Summerset scanned her wilted shirt and slacks, skimmed over the weapon harness still strapped to her side. “I suggest you bathe and change before meeting your guests.”

“I suggest you kiss my ass,” she said cheerfully and strolled by him.

In the main salon, filled with treasures Roarke had collected from around the known universe, an elegant, intimate party was happening. Glossy canapés sat elegantly on silver trays, pale gold wine filled sparkling crystal. Roarke was a dark angel in what he would have seen as casual attire. The black silk shirt open at the collar, the perfectly draped black trousers cinched with a belt gleaming silver at the buckle suited him perfectly, made him look exactly as he was: rich, gorgeous, dangerous.

Only one couple joined him in the spacious room. The man was as bright as Roarke was dark. Long golden hair flowed over the shoulders of a snug blue jacket. The face was square and handsome with lips just slightly too thin, but the contrast of his dark brown eyes kept the observer from noticing.

The woman was stunning. A sweep of deep red hair the color of rich wine was scooped up into curls that tumbled flirtatiously down the nape of her neck. Her eyes were green, sharp as a cat’s, and over them were shapely brows as black as ink. She had skin like alabaster creamed over high cheekbones and a sensually generous mouth.

Her body matched it and was currently poured into a clinging column of emerald that left strong shoulders bare and dipped between her staggering breasts to the waist.

“Roarke.” She let out that fluid laugh again, slid one slim white hand into Roarke’s mane of hair and kissed him silkily. “I have missed you dreadfully.”

Eve thought about the weapon strapped to her side and how, on even its lowest setting, it would send the bombshell redhead into a jittery dance. Just a passing thought, Eve assured herself, and set Galahad the cat down before she squeezed through the layers of fat and cracked one of his ribs.

“You didn’t miss him that time,” Eve said casually as she stepped inside. Roarke, damn him, glanced over and grinned at her.

We’ll just have to wipe that smug look off your face, pal, she thought. Real soon.

“Eve, we didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously.” She snagged an unidentifiable canapé from the tray and stuffed it into her mouth.

“I don’t believe you’ve met our guests. Reeanna Ott, William Shaffer, my wife, Eve Dallas.”

“Watch yourself, Ree, she’s armed.” With a chuckle, William crossed over to extend a hand. He moved in a lope, like a thin horse going out to pasture. “A pleasure to meet you, Eve. A genuine pleasure. Ree and I were so disappointed we were unable to attend your wedding.”

“Devastated.” Reeanna smiled at Eve, her green eyes sparkling. “William and I were desperate to meet, face to face, the woman who brought Roarke to his knees.”

“He’s still standing.” Eve flicked Roarke a glance as he handed her a glass of wine. “For now.”

“Ree and William were in the lab on Tarus Three, working on some projects for me. They’ve just gotten back on planet for some well deserved R and R.”

“Oh?” Like she gave a rat’s skinny ass.

“The on-the-board project’s been a particular pleasure,” William said. “Within a year, two at most, Roarke Industries will introduce new technology that will revolutionize the entertainment and amusement world.”

“Entertainment and amusement.” Eve smiled thinly. “Well, that’s earth shattering.”

“Actually, it has the potential to be just that.” Reeanna sipped her wine and sized Eve up: attractive, irritated, competent. Tough. “There are potential medical breakthroughs as well.”

“That’s Ree’s end.” William lifted his glass to her with easy, intimate affection in his eyes. “She’s the med expert. I’m just a fun guy.”

“I’m sure, after putting in a long day, Eve doesn’t want to hear us talk shop. Scientists,” Reeanna said with an apologetic smile. “We’re so tedious. You’re just back from Olympus.” Silk whispered as Reeanna shifted that staggering body. “William and I were part of the team that designed the amusement and medical centers there. Did you have time to tour them?”

“Briefly.” She was being rude, Eve reminded herself. She would have to become accustomed to coming home and finding elegant company, to seeing gorgeous women drool over her husband. “Very impressive, even at midconstruction stage. The medical facility will be more so when it’s staffed. Was the hologram room in the main hotel yours?” Eve asked William.

“Guilty,” he said with a sparkle. “I love to play. Do you?”

“Eve considers it work. As it happens, we had an incident while we were there,” Roarke put in. “A suicide. One of the autotronic techs. Mathias?”

William’s brow furrowed. “Mathias . . . young, red hair, freckles?”

“Yes.”

“Good God.” He shuddered, drank deeply. “Suicide? Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? My recollection is of an enthusiastic young man with big ideas. Not one who’d take his own life.”

“That’s what he did,” Eve said shortly. “He hanged himself.”

“How horrible.” Pale now, Reeanna sat on the arm of a couch. “Did I know him, William?”

“I don’t think so. You might have seen him at one of the clubs while we were there, but I don’t remember him as much of a socializer.”

“I’m terribly sorry, in any case,” Reeanna said. “And how awful for you to deal with such a tragedy on your honeymoon. Let’s not dwell on it.” Galahad leaped onto the couch, skimmed his head under Reeanna’s elegant hand. “I’d so much rather hear about the wedding we missed.”

“Stay for dinner.” Roarke gave Eve’s arm an apologetic squeeze. “We’ll bore you to tears with it.”

“I wish we could.” William offered Reeanna’s shoulder the same smooth stroke as she gave the cat’s head. “We’re due at the theater. We’re already late.”

“You’re right, as always.” With obvious regret, Reeanna rose. “I hope you’ll give us a rain check. We’ll be on planet for the next month or two, and I’d so love the opportunity to get to know you, Eve. Roarke and I go back . . . a long way.”

“You’re welcome any time. And I’ll see you both in the office tomorrow, for a full report.”

“Bright and early.” Reeanna set her glass aside. “Perhaps we can have lunch someday soon, Eve. Just females.” Her eyes twinkled with such easy humor that Eve felt foolish. “We can compare notes on Roarke.”

The invitation was too friendly to give offense. Eve found herself smiling. “That should be interesting.” She walked them to the door with Roarke, waved them off. “Just how many notes,” she said as she stepped back, “would there be to compare?”

“It was a long time ago.” He snagged her by the waist for a delayed welcome-home kiss. “Years. Eons.”

“She probably bought that body.”

“I’d have to term it an excellent investment.”

Eve lifted her chin to eye him sourly. “Is there any beautiful woman who hasn’t bounced on your bed?”

Roarke cocked his head, narrowed his eyes in consideration. “No.” He laughed when she took a swing at him. “You didn’t mean that, or you’d have hit me.” Then he grunted when her fist plowed into his gut. He rubbed it, grateful she’d pulled the punch. “I should have quit while I was ahead.”

“Let that be a lesson to you, lover boy.” But Eve let him sweep her off her feet and over his shoulder.

“Hungry?” he asked her.

“Starving.”

“Me, too.” He started up the stairs. “Let’s eat in bed.”

chapter four

Eve awoke with the cat stretched over her chest and the bedside ’link beeping. Dawn was just breaking. The light through the sky window was thin and gray from the storm rolling in with morning. With her eyes half closed, she reached out to answer.

“Block video,” she ordered, clearing sleep from her voice. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Suspicious death, Five oh oh two Madison Avenue, Unit Thirty-eight hundred. See resident Foxx, Arthur. Code four.”

“Dispatch, received. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia, to assist. My authorization.”

“Confirmed. Transmission terminated.”

“Code four?” Roarke had shifted the cat and was sitting up in bed, lazily stroking Galahad into feline ecstasy.

“It means I have time for a shower and coffee.” Eve didn’t spot a robe handy, so she walked toward the bathroom naked. “There’s a uniform on the scene,” she called out. She stepped into the shower unit, rubbing her gritty eyes. “Full power all jets, one hundred two degrees.”

“You’ll boil.”

“I like to boil.” She let out an enormous sigh of pleasure as pulsing jets of steamy water battered her from all sides. Tapping a glass block, she dispensed a palm full of dark green liquid soap. By the time she stepped out of the shower, she was awake.

Her brow lifted as she saw Roarke standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. “For me?”

“Part of the service.”

“Thanks.” She took the cup into the drying tube, sipping while warm air swirled around her. “What were you doing, watching me shower?”

“I like to watch you. Something about long, lean women when they’re wet and naked.” He stepped into the shower himself and called for sixty-eight degrees.

It made Eve shiver. She couldn’t understand why a man with all the luxuries in the world at his fingertips would actually choose cold showers. She opened the drying tube and combed her fingers through her unstyled cap of hair. She used some of the face glop that Mavis was always pushing at her, brushed her teeth.

“You don’t have to get up because I am.”

“I’m up,” Roarke said simply and chose a heated towel rather than the drying tube. “Do you have time for breakfast?”

Eve watched his reflection in the mirror: gleaming hair, gleaming skin. “I’ll catch something later.”

He hooked the towel around his waist, shook back his dripping mane of hair, cocked his head. “Yeah?”

“I guess I like looking at you, too,” she muttered and went into the bedroom to dress for death.

Street traffic was light. Airbuses rumbled overhead through the sizzling rain, carting night shift workers home, dragging day shifters to work. Billboards were quiet and the ubiquitous glida grills and carts with their offerings of food and drink were already setting up for the day. Smoke billowed through the vents in streets and sidewalks from the underground world of transportation and retail. The air steamed.

Eve headed across town, making good time.

The section of Madison where a body waited for her was pocked with exclusive boutiques and silvery spears of buildings fashioned to house those who could afford to shop there. The skywalks were glassed in to separate the clientele from the elements and from the noise that would begin to boom within an hour or two.

Eve passed a taxi with a lone passenger. The elegant blonde wore a glittery jacket, a sparkling rainbow of color in the dingy light. Licensed companion, Eve mused, heading home after an all-nighter. The wealthy could afford to buy fancy sex along with their fancy clothes.

Eve swung into an underground garage at the scene, flashed her badge for the security post. It scanned it, scanned her, then the light blinked from red to green and flashed the number of the empty space assigned to her.

It was, of course, at the far end of the facility from the elevator. Cops, she thought with resignation as she hoofed it, aren’t given optimum spaces.

Eve recited the number of the unit into the speaker box and was whisked up.

There had been a time, not so long before, when she would have been impressed with the sumptuous foyer on the thirty-eighth floor, with its pool of scarlet hibiscus and bronze statuary. That was before she’d entered Roarke’s world. She scanned the small, tinkling fountains flanking the entrance and realized that it was highly possible that her husband owned the building.

She spotted the uniform guarding the door of 3800, flipped up her badge.

“Lieutenant.” The cop shifted subtly to attention, sucking in her stomach. “My partner’s inside with the deceased’s housemate. Mr. Foxx, on discovering his companion’s body, called for an ambulance. We responded in addition, as per procedure. The ambulance is on hold, sir, until you clear the scene.”

“Is it secured?”

“It is now.” Her gaze flicked toward the door. “We weren’t able to get much out of Foxx, sir. He’s a bit hysterical. I can’t be sure what he might have disturbed—other than the body.”

“He moved the body?”

“No, sir. That is, it’s still in the tub, but he attempted to, ah, revive the deceased. Had to be in shock to attempt it. There’s enough blood in there to swim in. Slashed wrists,” she explained. “From a visual confirmation, he’d been dead at least an hour before his housemate discovered the body.”

Eve took a firmer grip on her field kit. “Has the ME been notified?”

“On the way, sir.”

“Fine. Clear Officer Peabody in when she arrives, and continue to stand. Open it,” she added and waited for the uniform to slide her master key in the slot. The door slid open into the wall. Eve immediately heard the hard, ragged sobs of terrible grief.

“He’s been like that since we arrived,” the uniform murmured. “Hope you can tranq him soon.”

Saying nothing, Eve walked in, letting the door slide shut and lock at her back. The entranceway was elaborate in black and white marble. Spiraling columns were draped in some sort of flowering vine, and overhead, a black glass chandelier dripped in five ornate tiers.

Through the portico was a living area that followed the theme. Black leather sofas, white floors, ebony wood tables, white lamps. Drapes striped in black and white were drawn shut, but lights showered from the ceiling, spotlighted up from the floor.

An amusement screen was switched off but hadn’t been slipped back into its recess. Glossy white stairs angled up to a second floor, which was ringed with white banisters, atrium style. Lush green ferns hung in enameled pots from the lofted ceiling.

Money might drip, she mused, but death had no respect for it. It was a club without a class system.

The sounds of grief echoed and drew her into a small den lined with antique books and cushy with deep chairs the color of good burgundy.

Sunk into one was a man. His handsome face was pale gold and ravaged from tears. His hair was gold as well, the glint of new coin, and was tufted in spikes from his hands. He wore a white silk robe that was spotted and smeared with drying blood. His feet were bare, and his hands were studded with rings that sparkled as his fingers trembled. There was a tattoo of a black swan on his left ankle.

The uniform who was sitting miserably beside the man glanced over at Eve, started to speak.

Eve shook her head quickly, keeping her badge in plain sight. She gestured toward the ceiling, cocking her head in question.

He nodded, jerked his thumb up, then shook his head.

Eve slipped back out. She wanted to see the body, view the scene before she dealt with the witness.

There were several rooms off the second floor. Still, it was simple enough to find her way. She simply followed the trail of blood. She stepped into a bedroom. Here the scheme was soft greens and blues, so that it felt like floating underwater. The bed was an oblong of blue satin sheets, mountained with pillows.

There was statuary here as well, of the classic nude variety. Drawers were built into the walls, giving it an uncluttered—and to Eve—an unlived-in appearance. The ocean blue carpet was soft as a cloud and spotted with blood.

She followed the trail into the master bath. Death didn’t shock her, but it appalled her, and she knew it always would: the waste of it, the violence and cruelty of it. But she lived with it too much to be shocked, even by this.

Blood had spurted, showered, streamed on gleaming tiles of ivory and seafoam green. It had fountained over glass, pooled over the mirrored floor from the gaping wound in the wrist of the hand that hung limply over the lip of a huge clear-sided tub.

The water inside was a dark, nasty pink, and the metallic smell of blood hung in the air. Music was playing, something with strings—perhaps a harp. Fat white candles had been lighted and still burned at both the foot and the head of the long oval tub.

The body that lay in that cloudy pink water had its head resting on a gilt-edged bath pillow, its gaze lifted and fixed on the feathery tails of a fern that hung from the mirrored ceiling. He was smiling, as if he’d been desperately amused to watch himself die.

It didn’t shock her, but she sighed as she coated her hands and feet with clear seal, engaged her recorder, and carried her kit inside to stand over the body.

Eve had recognized him. Naked, bled almost dry, and smiling up at his own reflection was the renowned defense attorney S. T. Fitzhugh.

“Salvatori’s going to be very disappointed in you, Counselor,” she murmured as she got to work.

Eve had taken a sample of the bloody bathwater, done her initial scan to estimate time of death, bagged the deceased’s hands, and recorded the scene when Peabody appeared, slightly out of breath at the doorway.

“I’m sorry, sir. I had some trouble getting uptown.

“It’s all right.” She passed Peabody the ivory-handled buck knife she’d secured in clear plastic. “Looks like he did it with this. It’s an antique, I’d guess. Collector’s item. We’ll run it for prints.”

Peabody tucked the knife in her evidence kit, then narrowed her eyes. “Lieutenant, isn’t that—”

“Yeah, it’s Fitzhugh.”

“Why would he kill himself?”

“We haven’t determined that he did. Never make assumptions, Officer,” she said mildly. “First rule. Call in the sweepers, Peabody, and let’s get the scene tagged. We can release the body to the ME. I’m done with it for now.” Eve stepped back with blood smearing her sealed hands. “I want you to take a prelim from the two uniforms who responded while I talk to Foxx.”

Eve glanced back at the body, shook her head. “That’s just the way he’d grin at you in court when he figured he’d tripped you up. The son of a bitch.” Still studying the body, she used the cleaner from her kit to remove the blood, tucked the soiled wipe into a bag as well. “Tell the ME I want toxicology ASAP.”

She left Peabody and followed the blood trail back downstairs.

Foxx was down to choking, whimpering sobs now. The uniform looked ridiculously relieved when Eve reappeared. “Wait for the ME and my adjutant outside, Officer. Give Officer Peabody your report. I’ll speak with Mr. Foxx now.”

“Yes, sir.” With almost unseemly delight, he fled the room.

“Mr. Foxx, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve located the button that released the drapes, pushed it to let watery light into the room. “You need to talk to me. You need to tell me what happened here.”

“He’s dead.” Foxx’s voice was faintly musical, accented. Lovely. “Fitz is dead. I don’t know how that can be. I don’t know how I can go on.”

Everyone goes on, Eve thought. There’s little choice. She sat and put her recorder on the table in plain sight. “Mr. Foxx, it would help us both if you talked to me now. I’m going to give you the standard caution. It’s just a matter of procedure.”

She recited the revised Miranda while his sobs trickled off, he lifted his head, and aimed swollen, red-rimmed golden eyes at her.

“Do you think I killed him? Do you think I could hurt him?”

“Mr. Foxx—”

“I loved him. We’ve been together for twelve years. He was my life.”

You still have your life, she thought. You just don’t know it yet. “Then you’ll want to help me do my job. Tell me what happened.”

“He—he’s been having trouble sleeping lately. Doesn’t like to take tranqs. He can usually read, listen to music, spend an hour with VR or one of his games, whatever, to relax. This case he’s working on worried him.”

“The Salvatori case.”

“Yes, I believe, yes.” Foxx wiped at his eyes with a damp and bloodied sleeve. “We didn’t discuss his cases in any depth. There was privilege, and I’m not a lawyer. I’m a nutritionist. That’s how we met. Fitz came to me twelve years ago for help with his diet. We became friends, we became lovers, then we simply became.”

She would need to know all of that, but for the moment, she wanted to see the events leading up to that last bath. “He’s been having trouble sleeping,” she prompted.

“Yes. He’s often plagued with insomnia. He gives so much to his clients. They prey on his mind. I’m accustomed to him getting up in the middle of the night and going into another room to program a game or doze in front of the view screen. Sometimes he’d take a warm bath.” Foxx’s already ravaged face blanched. “Oh God.”

The tears started again, flowing hotly down his cheeks. Eve took a quick look around and spotted a small serving droid in the corner of the room. “Bring Mr. Foxx some water,” she ordered, and the little droid scooted away to comply.

“Is that what happened?” she continued. “Did he get up in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t even remember.” Foxx lifted his hands, let them fall. “I sleep soundly, never have a bit of trouble. We’d gone to bed just before midnight, watched some of the late news, had a brandy. I woke early. I tend to.”

“What time was that?”

“Perhaps five, five fifteen. We both like early starts, and it’s my habit to program the morning meal personally. I saw that Fitz wasn’t in bed, assumed he’d had a bad night and that I’d find him downstairs or in one of the spare bedrooms. Then I went into the bath, and I saw him. Oh God. Oh God, Fitz. All the blood. It was like a nightmare.”

His hand pressed against his mouth, all glittering rings and trembles. “I ran over, I beat on his chest, tried to revive him. I suppose I went a little mad. He was dead. I could see he was dead; still, I tried to pull him out of the water, but he’s a very big man, and I was shaking. Sick.” He dropped his hand from mouth to stomach, pressed. “I called for an ambulance.”

She’d lose him if she couldn’t manage to rein him in. Tranquing him wasn’t an option until she had the facts. “I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Foxx. I’m sorry we have to do this now, but it’s easier, believe me, if we can.”

“I’m all right.” He reached for the glass of water atop the droid. “I want to get it over.”

“Can you tell me his frame of mind last night? You said he was worried about a case.”

“Worried, yes, but not depressed. There was a cop he couldn’t shake on the stand, and it irritated him.” He took a gulp of water, then another.

Eve decided it was best not to mention she was the cop who had irritated him.

“And there were a couple of other cases pending that he was plotting out the defense for. His mind was often too busy for sleep, you see.”

“Did he receive any calls, make any calls?”

“Certainly, both. He often brought work home with him. Last night he spent a couple of hours in his office upstairs. He arrived home about five thirty, worked until nearly eight. We had dinner.”

“Did he mention anything that was troubling him besides the Salvatori case?”

“His weight.” Foxx smiled a little. “Fitz hated to put on an extra pound. We discussed him increasing his exercise program, perhaps having some body adjustment work done when he had the time. We watched a comedy on screen in the living room, then went to bed, as I told you.”

“Did you argue?”

“Argue?”

“You have bruises on your arm, Mr. Foxx. Did you and Mr. Fitzhugh fight last night?”

“No.” He paled even more, and his eyes glittered with the threat of another bout of weeping. “We never fought physically. Certainly we argued from time to time. People do. I—I suppose I might have gotten the bruises on the tub when I was—when I tried to—”

“Did Mr. Fitzhugh have a relationship with anyone else other than yourself?”

Now those swollen eyes went cool. “If you mean did he have outside lovers, he did not. We were committed to each other.”

“Who owns this unit?”

Foxx’s face went rigid, and his voice was cold. “It was put in our joint names ten years ago. It belonged to Fitz.”

And now it belongs to you, Eve thought. “I would assume Mr. Fitzhugh was a wealthy man. Do you know who inherits?”

“Other than charitable bequests, I would inherit. Do you think I would kill him for money?” There was disgust in his tone now, rather than horror. “What right do you have to come into my home at such a time and ask me such horrible questions?”

“I need to know the answers, Mr. Foxx. If I don’t ask them here, I’ll have to ask them at the station house. I believe this is more comfortable for you. Did Mr. Fitzhugh collect knives?”

“No.” Foxx blinked, then went pasty. “I do. I have a large collection of antique blades. Registered,” he added quickly. “They’re duly registered.”

“Do you have an ivory-handled knife, straight blade, about six inches long in your collection?”

“Yes, it’s nineteenth century, from England.” His breath began to hitch. “Is that what he used? He used one of my knives to—? I didn’t see. I only saw him. Did he use one of my knives?”

“I’ve taken a knife into evidence, Mr. Foxx. We’ll run tests. I’ll give you a receipt for it.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want to see it.” He buried his face in his hands. “Fitz. How could he have used one of my knives?”

He fell to weeping again. Eve heard the voices and hums from the next room and knew the sweepers had arrived. “Mr. Foxx.” She rose. “I’m going to have one of the officers bring you some clothes. I’m going to ask that you stay here for a little while longer. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“No. No one. Nothing.”

“I don’t like it, Peabody,” Eve muttered as they rode down to her car. “Fitzhugh gets up in the middle of an ordinary night, gets an antique knife, runs himself a bath. He lights the candles, puts on the music, then carves up his wrists. For no particular reason. Here’s a man at the height of his career with a shit load of money, plush digs, clients beating down his door, and he just decides, ‘What the hell, I think I’ll die’?”

“I don’t understand suicide. I guess I don’t have the personality for big highs and lows.”

Eve understood it. She’d even considered it briefly during her stint in state-run homes—and before that, in the dark time before that, when death had seemed a release from hell.

That was why she couldn’t accept it for Fitzhugh. “There’s no motivation here, at least none that shows yet. But we have a lover who collected knives, who was covered with blood, and who will inherit a sizable fortune.”

“You’re thinking maybe Foxx killed him.” Peabody mulled it over when they reached garage level. “Fitzhugh’s nearly twice his size. He wouldn’t have gone without a fight, and there wasn’t any sign of struggle.”

“Signs can be erased,” Eve muttered. “He had bruises. And if Fitzhugh was drugged or chemically impaired, he wouldn’t have put up too much of a struggle. We’ll see the tox report.”

“Why do you want it to be a homicide?”

“I don’t. I just want it to make sense, and the self-termination doesn’t fit. Maybe Fitzhugh couldn’t sleep; maybe he got up. Someone was using the relaxation room. Or it was made to seem so.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Peabody mused, thinking back. “All those toys in one place. That big chair with all the controls, the wall screen, the autobar, the VR station, the mood tube. Ever use a mood tube, Lieutenant?”

“Roarke’s got one. I don’t like it. I’d rather have my moods come and go naturally than program them.” Eve spotted the figure sitting on the hood of her car and hissed, “Like now, for example. I can feel my mood shifting. I think I’m about to be pissed off.”

“Well, Dallas and Peabody, together again.” Nadine Furst, top on-air reporter for Channel 75, slid gracefully from the car. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Private,” Eve snapped.

“Hey, I thought we were pals.” Nadine winked at Peabody.

“You didn’t waste any time putting our little get-together on the air, pal.”

“Dallas.” Nadine spread her pretty hands. “You bag a killer and close a very public and intense case at your own bachelor party celebration, to which I was invited, it’s news. The public not only has the right to know, they eat it up with a spoon. Ratings rocketed. Now look at this, you’re barely back and right in the middle of something else big. What’s the deal with Fitzhugh?”

“He’s a dead man. I’ve got work to do, Nadine.”

“Come on, Eve.” Nadine plucked at Eve’s sleeve. “After all we’ve been through together? Give me a nibble.”

“Fitzhugh’s clients had better start looking for another lawyer. That’s all I’ve got to give you.”

“Come on. Accident, homicide, what?”

“We’re investigating,” Eve said shortly and coded open her locks.

“Peabody?” But Peabody just grinned and shrugged her shoulders. “You know, Dallas, it’s common knowledge that you and the dearly departed weren’t fans of each other. The top sound bite after court yesterday was him referring to you as a violent cop who used her badge as a blunt instrument.”

“It’s a shame he won’t be able to give you and your associates such catchy quotes anymore.”

As Eve slammed the car door, Nadine leaned doggedly in the window. “So you give me one.”

“S. T. Fitzhugh is dead. Police are investigating. Back off.” Eve started the engine, torpedoed out of the slot so that Nadine had to dance back to save her toes. At Peabody’s chuckle, Eve slid a stony glance in her direction. “Something funny?”

“I like her.” Peabody couldn’t resist looking back, and she noted that Nadine was grinning. “So do you.”

Eve smothered a chuckle. “There’s no accounting for taste,” she said and drove out into the rainy morning.

It had gone perfectly. Absolutely perfectly. It was an exciting, powerful feeling to know that you had the controls. The reports coming from various news agencies were all duly logged and recorded. Such matters required careful organization and were added to the small but satisfactorily growing pile of data discs.

It was such fun, and that was a surprise. Fun had certainly not been the prime motivator of the operation. But it was a delightful side effect.

Who would succumb next?

At the flick of a switch, Eve’s face flashed onto a monitor, all pertinent data split-screened beside her. A fascinating woman. Birthplace and parents unknown. The abused child discovered hiding in an alley in Dallas, Texas, body battered, mind blanked. A woman who couldn’t remember the early years of her own life. The years that formed the soul. Years when she had been beaten and raped and tormented.

What did that sort of life do to the mind? To the heart? To the person?

It had made the girl a social worker and had made Eve Dallas into a woman who had become a cop. The cop with the reputation for digging deep, and who had come into some notoriety the previous winter during the investigation of a sensitive and ugly case.

That was when she had met Roarke.

The computer hummed, sliced Roarke’s face onto the screen. Such an intriguing couple. His background was no prettier than the cop’s had been. But he’d chosen, at least initially, the other side of the law to make his mark. And his fortune.

Now they were a set. A set that could be destroyed on a whim.

But not yet. Not for some little time yet.

After all, the game had just begun.

chapter five

“I just don’t buy it,” Eve muttered as she called up data on Fitzhugh. She studied his bold, striking face as it flashed onto her monitor, shook her head. “I just don’t buy it,” she repeated.

She scanned his date and place of birth, saw that he’d been born in Philadelphia during the last decade of the previous century. He’d been married to a Milicent Barrows from 2033 to 2036. Divorced, no children.

He’d moved to New York the same year as his divorce, established his criminal law practice, and as far as she could see, had never looked back.

“Annual income,” she requested.

Subject Fitzhugh, annual income for last tax year. Two million, seven hundred USD.

“Bloodsucker,” she murmured. “Computer, list and detail any arrests.”

Searching. No police record on file.

“Okay, so he’s clean. How about this? List all civil suits filed against subject.”

She got a hit on that, a short list of names, and she ordered a hard copy. She requested a list of cases Fitzhugh had lost over the last ten years, noted the names that mirrored the suits filed against him. It made her sigh. It was typical litigation of the era. Your lawyer doesn’t get you off, you sue the lawyer. It gave another jab to her hopeful theory of blackmail.

“Okay, so maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. New subject, Foxx, Arthur, residence Five oh oh two Madison Avenue, New York.”

Searching.

The computer blipped and whined, causing Eve to slap the unit with the heel of her hand to jog it back. She didn’t bother to curse budget cuts.

Foxx appeared on screen, wavering a bit until Eve gave the computer another smack. More attractive, she noted, when he smiled. He was fifteen years younger than Fitzhugh, had been born in East Washington, the son of two career military personnel, had lived in various points of the globe until he had settled in New York in 2042 and joined the Nutrition for Life organization as a consultant.

His annual income just tipped into the six figures. The record showed no marriages but the same-sex license he shared with Fitzhugh.

“List and detail any arrests.”

The machine grumbled as if it were tired of answering questions, but the list popped. One disorderly conduct, two assaults, and one disturbing the peace.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Both subjects, list and detail any psychiatric consults.”

There was nothing on Fitzhugh, but she got another hit on Foxx. With a grunt, she ordered a hard copy, then glanced up as Peabody entered.

“Forensics? Toxicology?”

“Forensics isn’t in, but we’ve got tox.” Peabody handed Eve a disc. “Low level alcohol, identified as Parisian brandy, 2045. Not nearly enough to debilitate. No other drug traces.”

“Shit.” She’d been hopeful. “I might have something here. Our friend Foxx spent a lot of his childhood on the therapist’s couch. He checked himself into the Delroy Institute just two years ago for a month. And he’s done time. Piss away time, but time nonetheless. Ninety days lockup for assault. And he had to wear a probie bracelet for six months. Our boy has some violent tendencies.”

Peabody frowned at the data. “Military family. They tend to be resistant to homosexuality still. I bet they tried to head shrink him into hetero.”

“Maybe. But he’s got a history of mental heath problems and a criminal record. Let’s see what the uniforms turned up when they knocked on doors in Fitzhugh’s building. And we’ll talk to Fitzhugh’s associates in his firm.”

“You’re not buying suicide.”

“I knew him. He was arrogant, pompous, smug, vain.” Eve shook her head. “Vain, arrogant men don’t choose to be found naked in the bathtub, swimming in their own blood.”

“He was a brilliant man.” Leanore Bastwick sat in her custom-made leather chair in the glass-walled corner office of Fitzhugh, Bastwick, and Stern. Her desk was a glass pool, unsmudged and sparkling. It suited, Eve thought, her icy and stunning blond beauty. “He was a generous friend,” Leanore added and folded her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the desk. “We’re in shock here, Lieutenant.”

It was hard to see shock on the polished surface of it all. New York’s steel forest rose up glittering behind Leanore’s back, lending the lofty illusion that she was reigning over the city. Pale rose and soft gray added elegant muted color to an office that was as meticulously decorated as the woman herself.

“Do you know of any reason why Fitzhugh would have taken his own life?”

“Absolutely none.” Leanore kept her hands very still, her eyes level. “He loved life. His life, his work. He enjoyed every minute of every day as much as anyone I’ve ever met. I have no idea why he would choose to end it.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with him?”

She hesitated. Eve could almost see wheels working smoothly behind those heavily lashed eyes. “Actually, I saw him briefly last night. I dropped a file off for him, discussed a case. That discussion is, of course, privileged.” Her slicked lips curved. “But I will say he was his usual enthusiastic self, and he was very much looking forward to dueling with you in court.”

“Dueling?”

“That’s how Fitz referred to cross-examination of expert and police witnesses.” A smile flickered over her face. “It was a match, in his mind, of wits and nerve. A professional game for an innate game player. I don’t know of anything he enjoyed so much as being in court.”

“What time did you drop off the file last night?”

“I’d say about ten. Yes, I think it was around ten. I’d worked late here and slipped by on my way home.”

“Was that usual, Ms. Bastwick, you slipping by to see him on your way home?”

“Not unusual. We were, after all, professional associates, and our cases sometimes overlapped.”

“That’s all you were? Professional partners?”

“Do you assume, Lieutenant, that because a man and woman are physically attractive and on friendly terms that they can’t work together without sexual tension?”

“I don’t assume anything. How long did you stay—discussing your case?”

“Twenty minutes, a half hour. I didn’t time it. He was fine when I left, I’ll tell you that.”

“There was nothing he was particularly concerned about?”

“He had some concerns about the Salvatori matter—and others, as well. Nothing out of the ordinary. He was a confident man.”

“And outside of work. On a personal level?”

“A private man.”

“But you know Arthur Foxx.”

“Of course. In this firm we take care to know and socialize at least lightly with the spouses of partners and associates. Arthur and Fitz were devoted to each other.”

“No . . . spats?”

Leanore cocked a brow. “I wouldn’t know.”

Sure you would, Eve thought. “You and Mr. Fitzhugh were partners, you had a close professional and apparently a close personal relationship. He must have discussed his homelife with you from time to time.”

“He and Arthur were very happy.” Leanore’s first sign of irritation showed in the gentle tapping of a coral-toned nail against the edge of glass. “Happy couples occasionally have arguments. I imagine you argue with your husband from time to time.”

“My husband hasn’t recently found me dead in the bathtub,” Eve said evenly. “What did Foxx and Fitzhugh argue about?”

Leanore let out an annoyed huff of breath. She rose, punched in a code on her AutoChef, took out a steaming cup of coffee. None was offered to Eve. “Arthur had periodic bouts of depression. He is not the most self-confident of men. He tended to be jealous, which exasperated Fitz.” Her brows knit. “You’re probably aware that Fitz was married before. His bisexuality was somewhat of a problem for Arthur, and when he was depressed, he tended to worry about all the men and women Fitz came into contact with in the course of his work. They rarely argued, but when they did, it was generally about Arthur’s jealousy.”

“Did he have reason to be jealous?”

“As far as I know, Fitz was completely faithful. It’s not always an easy choice, Lieutenant, being in the spotlight as he was, and given his lifestyle. Even today, there are some who are—let’s say—uncomfortable with less-than-traditional sexual preferences. But Fitz gave Arthur no reason to be anything less than content.”

“Yet he was. Thank you,” Eve said as she rose. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Lieutenant,” Leanore began as Eve and the silent Peabody started for the door. “If I thought for one instant that Arthur Foxx had anything to do with—” She stopped, sucked in a breath. “No, it’s simply impossible to believe.”

“Less possible than believing Fitzhugh slashed his own wrists and let himself bleed to death?” Eve waited a beat, then left the office.

Peabody waited until they’d stepped out onto the skywalk that ribboned the building. “I don’t know whether you were planting seeds or digging for worms.”

“Both.” Eve looked through the glass of the tube. She could see Roarke’s office building, shooting tall and polished ebony among the other spears. At least he had no connection with this case. She didn’t have to worry about uncovering something he’d done or someone he’d known too well. “She knew both the victim and the suspect. And Foxx didn’t mention her slipping by to discuss work last night.”

“So you’ve bumped Foxx from witness to suspect?”

Eve watched a man in a tailored robe squawk bad temperedly into a palm ’link as he glided by. “Until we prove conclusively it was suicide, Foxx is the prime—hell, the only—suspect. He had the means. It was his knife. He had the opportunity. They were alone in the apartment. He had the motive. Money. Now we know he has a history of depression, a record of violence, and a jealous streak.”

“Can I ask you something?” Peabody waited for Eve’s nod. “You didn’t care for Fitzhugh on a professional or a personal level.”

“I hated his fucking guts. So what?” Eve stepped off the skywalk and onto the street level where she’d been lucky enough to find a parking spot. She spied a glida grill, smoking soy dogs and potato rings, and made a beeline through the heavy pedestrian traffic. “You think I’ve got to like the corpse? Give me a couple of dogs and a scoop of potatoes. Two tubes of Pepsi.”

“Diet for me,” Peabody interrupted and rolled her eyes over Eve’s long, lean form. “Some of us have to worry about weight.”

“Diet dog, Diet Pep.” The woman running the cart had a dingy CZ stud in the center of her top lip and a tattoo of the subway system on her chest. The A line veered off and disappeared under the loose gauze covering her breasts. “Reg Dog, Reg Pep, hot potatoes. Cash or credit?”

Eve shoved the limp cardboard holding the food at Peabody and dug for her tokens. “What’s the damage?”

The woman poked a grimy purple-tipped finger at her console, sent it beeping. “Twenty-five.”

“Shit. You blink and dogs go up.” Eve poured credits into the woman’s outstretched hand, grabbed a couple of wafer-thin napkins.

She worked her way back, plopped down on the bench circling the fountain in front of the law building. The panhandler beside her looked hopeful. Eve tapped her badge; he grinned, tapped the beggar’s license hung around his neck.

Resigned, she dug out a five credit chip, passed it over. “Find someplace else to hustle,” she ordered him, “or I’ll run that license and see if it’s up to date.”

He said something uncomplimentary about her line of work, but he pocketed the credit and moved on, giving room to Peabody.

“Leanore doesn’t like Arthur Foxx.”

Peabody swallowed gamely. Diet dogs were invariably grainy. “She doesn’t?”

“A high-class lawyer doesn’t give that many answers unless she wants to. She fed us that Foxx was jealous, that they argued.” Eve held out the scoop of greasy potatoes. After a brief internal struggle, Peabody dug in. “She wanted us to have that data.”

“Still isn’t much. There’s nothing in Fitzhugh’s records that implicates Foxx. His diary, his appointment book, his ’link logs. None of the data I scanned points the finger. Then again, none of it indicates a suicidal bent, either.”

Contemplatively, Eve sucked on her tube of Pepsi, watched New York lumber by with all its noise and sweat. “We’ll have to talk to Foxx again. I’ve got court again this afternoon. I want you to go back to Cop Central, get the door-to-door reports, nag the ME for the final autopsy. I don’t know what the hang-up is there, but I want the results by end of shift. I should be out of court by three. We’ll do another walk-through of Fitzhugh’s apartment and see why he omitted Bastwick’s little visit.”

Peabody juggled food and duly programmed the duties into her day log. “What I asked before—about you not liking Fitzhugh. I just wondered if it was harder to push all the buttons when you had bad feelings about the subject.”

“Cops don’t have personal feelings.” Then she sighed. “Bullshit. You put those feelings aside and push the buttons. That’s the job. And if I happen to think a man like Fitzhugh deserved to end up bathing in his own blood, it doesn’t mean I won’t do what’s necessary to find out how he got there.”

Peabody nodded. “A lot of other cops would just file it. Self-termination. End of transmission.”

“I’m not other cops, and neither are you, Peabody.” She glanced over, mildly interested at the explosive crash as two taxis collided. Pedestrian and street traffic barely hitched as smoke billowed, Duraglass pinged, and two furious drivers popped like corks out of their ruined vehicles.

Eve nibbled away at her lunch as the two men pushed, shoved, and shouted imaginative obscenities. She imagined they were obscenities, anyway, since no English was exchanged. She looked up but didn’t spot one of the hovering traffic copters. With a thin smile, she balled up the cardboard, rolled up the empty tube, passed them to Peabody.

“Dump these in the recycler, will you, then come back and give me a hand breaking up those two idiots.”

“Sir, one of them just pulled out a bat. Should I call for backup?”

“Nope.” Eve rubbed her hands together in anticipation as she rose. “I can handle it.”

Eve’s shoulder was still smarting when she walked out of court a couple of hours later. She imagined the cab drivers would have been released by now, which wasn’t going to happen to the child killer Eve had just testified against, she thought with satisfaction. She’d be in high security lockup for the next fifty years minimum. There was some satisfaction in that.

Eve rolled her bruised shoulder. The cabbie really hadn’t been swinging at her, she thought. He’d been trying to crack his opponent’s head open, and she’d just gotten in the way. Still, it wasn’t going to hurt her feelings that both of them would have their licenses suspended for three months.

She climbed into her car and, favoring her shoulder, put the vehicle on auto to Cop Central. Overhead, a tourist tram blatted out the standard spiel about the scales of justice.

Well, she mused, sometimes they balanced. If only for a short time. Her ’link beeped.

“Dallas.”

“Dr. Morris.” The medical examiner had heavy-lidded hawk eyes in a vivid shade of green, a squared-off chin that was generously stubbled, and a slicked-back mane of charcoal hair. Eve liked him. Though she was often frustrated by his lack of stellar speed, she appreciated his thoroughness.

“Have you finished the report on Fitzhugh?”

“I have a problem.”

“I don’t need a problem, I need the report. Can you transmit it to my office ’link? I’m on my way there.”

“No, Lieutenant, you’re on your way here. I have something I need to show you.”

“I don’t have time to come by the morgue.”

“Make time,” he suggested and ended the transmission.

Eve ground her teeth once. Scientists were so damned frustrating, she thought as she redirected her unit.

From the outside, the Lower Manhattan City Morgue resembled one of the beehive-structured office buildings that surrounded it. It blended, that had been the point of the redesign. Nobody liked to think of death, to have it spoil their appetite as they scooted out of work at lunchtime to grab a bite at a corner deli. Images of bodies tagged and bagged on refrigerated slabs tended to put you off your pasta salad.

Eve remembered the first time she’d stepped through the black steel doors in the rear of the building. She’d been a rookie in uniform shoulder to shoulder with two dozen other rookies in uniforms. Unlike several of her comrades, she’d seen death up close and personal before, but she’d never seen it displayed, dissected, analyzed.

There was a gallery above one of the autopsy labs and there students, rookies, and journalists or novelists with the proper credentials could witness firsthand the intricate workings of forensic pathology.

Individual monitors in each seat offered close-up views to those with the stomach for it.

Most of them didn’t come back for a return trip. Many who left were carried out.

Eve had walked out on her own steam, and she’d been back countless times since, but she never looked forward to the visits.

Her target this time wasn’t what was referred to as The Theater, but Lab C, where Morris conducted most of his work. Eve passed down the white tiled corridor with its pea green floors. She could smell death there. No matter what was used to eradicate it, the sulky stink of it slid through cracks, around doorways, and it tainted the air with the grinning reminder of mortality.

Medical science had eradicated plagues, a host of diseases and conditions, extending life expectancy to an average of one hundred fifty years. Cosmetic technology had insured that a human being could live attractively for his century and a half.

You could die without wrinkles, without age spots, without aches and pains and disintegrating bones. But you were still going to die sooner or later.

For many who came here, that day was sooner.

She stopped in front of the door at Lab C, held her badge up to the security camera, and gave her name and ID number to the speaker. Her palm print was analyzed and cleared. The door slid open.

It was a small room, windowless and depressing, lined with equipment, beeping with computers. Some of the tools ranged neat as a surgeon’s tray on the counters were barbaric enough to make the weak shudder. Saws, lasers, the glinting blades of scalpels, hoses.

In the center of the room was a table with gutters on the side to catch fluids and run them into sterilized, airtight containers for further analysis. On the table was Fitzhugh, his naked body bearing the scars of the recent insult of a standard Y cut.

Morris was sitting on a rolling stool in front of a monitor, face pushed close to the screen. He wore a white lab coat that fluttered to the floor. It was one of his few affectations, the coat that flapped and swirled like a highwayman’s cape whenever he walked down the corridors. His slicked-back hair was snugged into a long ponytail.

Eve knew, since he’d called her in directly rather than passing her off to one of his techs, that it was something unusual.

“Dr. Morris?”

“Hmm. Lieutenant,” he began without turning around. “Never seen anything like it. Not in thirty years of exploring the dead.” He swung around with a flutter of his lab coat. Beneath it he wore stovepipe pants and a T-shirt in loud, clashing colors. “You’re looking well, Lieutenant.”

He gave her one of his quick, charming smiles, and her lips curved up in response. “You’re looking pretty good, yourself. You lost the beard.”

He reached up, rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. He’d sported a precise goatee until recently. “Didn’t suit me. But Christ, I hate to shave. How was the honeymoon?”

Automatically, she tucked her hands in her pockets. “It was good. I’ve got a pretty full plate right now, Morris. What do you have to show me you couldn’t show me on screen?”

“Some things take personal attention.” He rode his stool over to the autopsy table until he pulled up with a slight squeal of wheels at Fitzhugh’s head. “What do you see?”

She glanced down. “A dead guy.”

Morris nodded, as if pleased. “What we would call a normal, everyday dead guy who expired due to excessive blood loss, possibly self-inflicted.”

“Possibly?” She leaped on the word.

“From the surface, suicide is the logical conclusion. There were no drugs in his system, very little alcohol, he shows no offensive nor defensive wounds or bruising, the blood settlement was consistent with his position in the tub, he did not drown, the angle of the wrist wounds . . .”

He bumped closer, picked up one of Fitzhugh’s limp, beautifully manicured hands where on the wrist the carved wounds resembled some intricate, ancient language. “They are also very consistent with self-infliction: a right-handed man, reclining slightly.” He demonstrated, holding an imaginary blade. “Very quick, very precise slashes to the wrist, severing the artery.”

Though she’d already studied the wounds herself, and photographs of them, she stepped closer, looked again. “Why couldn’t someone have come up from behind him, leaned over, slashed down at that same angle?”

“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see some defensive wounds. If someone snuck into your bath and sliced your wrist, you’d be inclined to become annoyed, quarrelsome.” He beamed a smile. “I don’t think you’d just settle back in the tub and bleed to death.”

“So you’re going with self-termination.”

“Not so fast. I was prepared to.” He tugged on his bottom lip, let it snap back into place. “I ran the standard brain analysis required with any self-termination or suspected self-termination. That’s the puzzle here. The real puzzle.”

He scooted his stool over to his workstation, gestured over his shoulder for her to follow. “This is his brain,” he said, tapping a finger on the organ floating in clear liquid and attached to wire thin cables that fed into the mainframe of his computer. “Abby Normal.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Morris chuckled, shook his head. “Obviously you don’t make time to watch enough classic videos. That’s from a takeoff on the Frankenstein myth. What I’m saying is, this brain is abnormal.”

“He had brain damage?”

“Damage—well, it seems an extreme word for what I’ve found. Here, on the screen.” He swiveled around, tapped some keys. A close-up view of Fitzhugh’s brain flashed on. “Again, on the surface, completely as expected. But we show the cross section.” He tapped again, and the brain was sliced neatly in half. “So much went on in this small mass,” Morris murmured. “Thoughts, ideas, music, desires, poetry, anger, hate. People speak of the heart, Lieutenant, but it’s the brain that holds all the magic and mystery of the human species. It elevates us, separates us, defines us as individuals. And the secrets of it—well, it’s doubtful we’ll ever know them all. See here.”

Eve leaned closer, trying to see what he indicated with the tap of a finger on the screen. “It looks like a brain to me. Unattractive but necessary.”

“Not to worry, I nearly missed it myself. For this imaging,” he went on while the monitor whirled with color and shapes, “the tissue appears in blues, pale to dark, the bone white. Blood vessels are red. As you can see, there are no clots or tumors that would indicate neurological disorders in the making. Enhance quadrant B, sections thirty-five to forty, thirty percent.”

The screen jumped and a section of the image enlarged. Losing patience, Eve started to shrug, then leaned in. “What is that? It looks like . . . What? A smudge?”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He beamed again, staring at the screen where a faint shadow no bigger than a flyspeck marred the brain. “Almost like a fingerprint, a child’s oily finger. But when you enhance again”—he did so with a few brief commands, popping the image closer—“it’s more of a tiny burn.”

“How would you get a burn inside your brain?”

“Exactly.” Obviously fascinated, Morris swiveled toward the brain in question. “I’ve never seen anything like that tiny pinprick mark. It wasn’t caused by a hemorrhage, a small stroke, or an aneurism. I’ve run all the standard brain imaging programs and can find no known neurological cause for it.”

“But it’s there.”

“Indeed, it is. It could be nothing, no more than a faint abnormality that caused the occasional vague headache or dizziness. It certainly wouldn’t be fatal. But it is curious. I’ve sent for all of Fitzhugh’s medical records to see if there were any tests run or any data on this burn.”

“Could it cause depression, anxiety?”

“I don’t know. It flaws the left frontal lobe of the right cerebral hemisphere. Current medical opinion is that certain aspects, such as personality, are localized in this specific cerebral area. So it does appear in the section of the brain that we now believe receives and deploys suggestions and ideas.”

He moved his shoulders. “However, I can’t document that this flaw contributed to death. The fact is, Dallas, at the moment, I’m baffled but fascinated. I won’t be releasing your case until I find some answers.”

A burn in the brain, Eve mused as she uncoded the locks on Fitzhugh’s condo. She’d come alone, wanting the emptiness, the silence, to give her own brain time to work. Until she had cleared the scene, Foxx would have other living quarters.

She retraced her steps upstairs, studied the grisly bath again.

A burn in the brain, she thought again. Drugs seemed the most logical answer. If they hadn’t showed on tox, it could be it was a new type of drug, one that had yet to be registered.

She walked into the relaxation room. There was nothing there but the expensive toys of a wealthy man who enjoyed his leisure time.

Couldn’t sleep, she mused. Came in to relax, had a brandy. Stretched out in the chair, watched some screen. Her lips pursed as she picked up the VR goggles beside the chair. Took a quick trip. Didn’t want to use the chamber for it, just kicked back.

Curious, she slipped on the goggles, ordered the last scene played. She was popped into a swaying white boat on a cool green river. Birds soared overhead, a fish bulleted up, flashed silver, and dove again. On the banks of the river were wildflowers and tall, shielding trees. She felt herself floating, let her hand dip into the water to trail a quiet wake. It was nearly sunset, and the sky was going pink and purple in the west. She could hear the low hum of bees, the cheerful chirp of crickets. The boat rocked like a cradle.

Stifling a yawn, she pulled the goggles off again. A harmless, sedative scene, she decided and set the goggles down. Nothing that would have induced a sudden urge to slash one’s wrists. But the water might have prompted the urge for a hot bath, so he’d taken one. And if Foxx had crept in, had been quiet enough, quick enough, he could have done it.

It was all she had, Eve decided, and took out her communicator to order a second interview with Arthur Foxx.

chapter six

Eve studied the reports on the knock-on-doors from uniforms. Most of them were what she’d expected. Fitzhugh and Foxx were quiet, kept to themselves, yet friendly with their neighbors in the building. But she latched on to the statement of the droid on doorman duty that placed Foxx at leaving the building at twenty-two thirty and returning at twenty-three hundred hours.

“He didn’t mention he went out, did he, Peabody? Not a word about a little jaunt in the evening on his own.”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Have we got the security discs logged yet from the lobby and elevator cameras?”

“I loaded them in. They’re under Fitzhugh ten-fifty-one on your unit.”

“Let’s take a look.” Eve booted her machine, leaned back in her chair.

Peabody scanned the monitor over her shoulder and resisted mentioning that both of them were now officially off duty. It was exciting, after all, working side by side with the top homicide detective at Cop Central. Dallas would sneer at that, Peabody thought, but it was true. She’d been following the career of Eve Dallas for years, and there was no one she admired or wished more to emulate.

The biggest shock of Peabody’s life was that somehow, over the course of a few short months, they had come to be friends as well.

“Stop.” Eve sat up straight as the transmission froze. She studied the classy blonde entering the building at twenty-two fifteen. “Well, well, there’s our Leanore, slipping by.”

“She had the time fairly close. Ten fifteen.”

“Yeah, she’s on the mark.” Eve ran her tongue around her teeth. “What do you think, Peabody? Business or pleasure?”

“Well, she’s dressed for business.” Peabody cocked her head and allowed a faint trail of envy to curl up her spine at Leanore’s spiffy three-piece suit. “She’s carrying a briefcase.”

“A briefcase—and a bottle of wine. Enhance quadrant D, thirty to thirty-five. An expensive bottle of wine,” Eve murmured when the screen popped and displayed the label clearly. “Roarke’s got some of that little number in the wine cellar. I think it goes for about two hundred.”

“A bottle? Wow.”

“A glass,” Eve corrected, amused when Peabody goggled. “Something doesn’t fit. Resume normal size and speed, shift to elevator camera. Hmm. Yeah, yeah, she’s primping,” Eve murmured, watching as Leanore took a gold compact out of her embossed briefcase, powdered her nose, freshened her lipstick as the elevator climbed. “And lookie there, just flipped open the top three buttons of her blouse.”

“Getting ready for a man,” Peabody said, and shrugged when Eve slanted a look at her. “I’d guess.”

“I’d guess, too.” Together, they watched Leanore stride down the foyer on the thirty-eighth floor and buzz herself into Fitzhugh’s apartment. Eve increased the time delay until Foxx strode out fifteen minutes later. “Doesn’t look happy, does he?”

“No.” Peabody narrowed her eyes. “I’d say he looks ticked off.” She lifted her brows when Foxx kicked bad temperedly at the elevator door. “Very ticked off.”

They waited for the drama to resume. Leanore left twenty-two minutes later, color high on her cheeks, eyes glittering. She jabbed a finger at the elevator, hitched her briefcase on her shoulder. A short time after, Foxx returned carrying a small parcel.

“She didn’t stay twenty or thirty minutes, but more than forty-five. What went on inside that apartment that night?” Eve wondered. “And just what did Foxx bring back with him? Contact the law offices. I want Leanore in here for questioning. I’ve got Foxx at nine-thirty. Get her in here at the same time. We’ll team play them.”

“You want me to interrogate?”

Eve disengaged her machine, rolled her shoulders. “It’s a good place to start. We’ll meet here at eight-thirty. No, come by my home office at eight. That’ll give us more time.” She glanced at her ’link as it beeped, considered ignoring it, then gave in.

“Dallas.”

“Hey!” Mavis’s bright face filled the screen. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you left. How’s it going?”

“Well enough. I’m just about to log out. What’s up?”

“Good timing. Great timing. Mag. Listen, I’m at Jess’s studio. We’re going to do a session. Leonardo’s here. We’re going to make it a party, so come on by.”

“Hey, listen, Mavis, I’ve put in a full day. I just want to—”

“Come on.” There were nerves as well as enthusiasm. “We’re going to get food in, and Jess’s got the most rocking brew here. It’ll debrain you in seconds. He thinks if we can lay something decent down tonight, we could run with it. I’d really like you around. You know, moral support shit. Can’t you just stop by for a while?”

“I guess I could.” Damn it. No backbone. “I’ll let Roarke know I’ll be late. But I can’t stay.”

“Hey, I gave Roarke a buzz already.”

“You—what?”

“I ’linked him just a bit ago. Hey, you know, Dallas, I’ve never been by that meg-cool office of his. He had like the UN or something in there, all these off country guys. Wild. Anyway, they put me through to the inner sanctum because I was a pal of yours, and I talked to him. So,” Mavis chirped on over Eve’s heaved sigh, “I told him what was up and coming, and he said he’d stop around after the meeting or summit or whatever he was into.”

“Looks like it’s all settled.” Eve watched her fantasy involving a whirlpool, a glass of wine, and a fat slab of steak go up in smoke.

“Too tops. Hey, is that Peabody? Hey, Peabody, you come, too. We’ll party. See you soon, right?”

“Mavis.” Eve caught her seconds before she disengaged. “Where the hell are you?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? The studio’s at Eight Avenue B, street level. Just beat on the door. Somebody’ll let you in. Gotta go,” she shouted as something that might have been music boomed. “They’re tuning up. Catch ya.”

Eve blew out a breath, scooped her hair out of her eyes, and glanced over her shoulder. “Well, Peabody, want to go to a recording session, get your ears fried, eat bad food, and get drunk on bad brew?”

Peabody didn’t have to think twice. “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, I’d love to.”

It took a lot of banging on a gray steel door that looked as though it had been on the wrong end of a battering ram somewhere along the line. The rain from that morning had turned into steam that smelled unpleasantly of street oil and the recycling units that never seemed to be in full repair in that part of town.

With more resignation than energy, Eve watched two chemi-heads make deals under the dirty light of a streetlamp. Neither of them so much as blinked at Peabody’s uniform. Eve turned when one of the powder junkies took a hit less than five feet away.

“Damn it, that’s just too arrogant. Bust him.”

Resigned, Peabody headed over. The chemi-head focused, swore and, swallowing the paper his powder had been cupped in, swung around to run. He skidded on the wet pavement and banged face first into the lamppost. By the time Peabody reached him, he was flat on his back and bleeding profusely from the nose.

“He’s out cold,” she called to Eve.

“Idiot. Call it in. Get a cruiser over here to haul him into the tank. You want the collar?”

Peabody considered, then shook her head. “Not worth it. The beat cop can take it.” She pulled out her communicator, gave the location as she walked back to Eve. “The dealer’s still across the street,” she commented. “He’s got air blades, but I could try to chase him down.”

“I sense a lack of enthusiasm.” Eve narrowed her eyes, scanned the dealer hulking across the street, air blades steaming. “Hey, asshole,” she called out. “You see this uniform here?” She jerked a thumb at Peabody. “Take your business someplace else, or I’ll tell her to bump her weapon up to level three and watch you piss your pants.”

“Cunt,” he shouted back and whizzed off on his blades.

“You’ve got a real way with community relations, Dallas.”

“Yeah, it’s a gift.” Eve turned back, prepared to beat on the door again, and found herself facing a female of massive proportions. She was easily six five, with shoulders wide as a highway. They rose out of a sleeveless leather vest and rippled with muscles and tattoos. Beneath, she wore a unisuit, snug as skin and the color of a healing bruise. She sported a copper nose ring and close-cropped hair fashioned into tight, glossy black curls.

“Fucking drug pushers,” she said in a voice like a cannon boom. “Stink up the neighborhood. You Mavis’s cop?”

“That’s right, and I brought my cop with me.”

The woman sized Peabody up out of milky blue eyes. “Solid. Mavis says you’re right. I’m Big Mary.”

Eve angled her head. “Yes, you are.”

It took about ten seconds, then Big Mary’s moon-sized face creased in a knife-edged grin. “Come on in. Jess is just heating up.” By way of welcome, she took Eve’s arm and lifted her up and into the short hallway. “Come on, Dallas’s cop.”

“Peabody.” With a cautious glance, Peabody kept warily out of Big Mary’s reach.

“Pea body. Yeah, you ain’t much bigger than a pea.” Roaring at her own joke, Big Mary carted Eve into a padded elevator, waited for the door to close. They were cocooned together, tight as fish in a pan as Mary directed the unit to take them up one level. “Jess, he says to take you up to control. You got money?”

It was hard to maintain dignity of any kind when Eve’s nose was pressed in Mary’s armpit. “What for?”

“We got food coming. You gotta plunk in your share for the eats.”

“All right. Is Roarke here yet?”

“Ain’t seen no Roarke. Mavis says you can’t miss him ’cause he is fine and prime.”

The padded door opened, and Eve let out the breath she’d been holding. Even as she sucked in air, her ears were assaulted. Mavis’s high, wild voice was screeching to the accompaniment of blistering noise.

“She’s got a groove going.”

Only deep affection for Mavis prevented Eve from leaping back into the soundproofing. “Apparently.”

“I’ll get your drinks. Jess, he brought the brew.”

Mary hulked off, leaving Eve and Peabody in a glass-walled control booth that curved in a semicircle a half level above a studio where Mavis was singing her heart and lungs out. With a grin, Eve moved closer to the glass, the better to see.

Mavis had scooped up her hair so that it spewed in a purple fountain out of a multicolored band. She was wearing modified overalls, the black leather straps running up the center of her bare breasts. The rest of the material was a shimmering kaleidoscope that started at the midriff and ended barely south of the crotch. She danced to the beat on a fashionable pair of slides that left the feet bare and propped them onto four-inch stilts.

Eve had no doubt that Mavis’s lover had designed the costume for her. She spotted Leonardo in a corner of the studio, glowing like a sunbeam at Mavis and wearing a body-skimming jumpsuit that made him look like an elegant grizzly.

“What a pair,” she murmured and hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her battered jeans. She turned her head to speak to Peabody, but noted her companion’s attention was riveted to the left, and the look on Peabody’s face, Eve noted with some curiosity, managed to combine shock, admiration, and lust.

Following Peabody’s distracted gaze, Eve had her first view of Jess Barrow. He was beautiful. A painting in motion with a long, shining mane of hair the color of polished oak. His eyes were nearly silver, thickly lashed, intensely focused, as he worked the controls of an elaborate console. His complexion was flawless, tanned to bronze, set off by rounded cheekbones and a strong chin. His mouth was full and firm, and his hands, as they flew over the controls, were as finely sculptured as marble.

“Roll up your tongue, Peabody,” Eve suggested, “before you step on it.”

“God. Holy God. He’s better in person. Don’t you just want to bite him?”

“Not particularly, but you go ahead.”

Catching herself, Peabody flushed to the roots of her hair. She shifted on her sturdy legs. This was, she reminded herself, her superior. “I admire his talent.”

“Peabody, you’re admiring his chest. It’s a pretty good one, so I can’t hold it against you.”

“I wish he would,” she murmured, then cleared her throat as Big Mary stomped back with two dark brown bottles. “Jess gets this brew from his family down South. It’s fine.”

Since it was also unmarked and unlabeled, Eve prepared to sacrifice a few layers of stomach lining. She was pleasantly surprised when the liquid slid mellowly down her throat. “It is fine. Thanks.”

“You add to the kitty, you can have more. I’m supposed to go down to wait for Roarke. I hear he’s got money to roll in. How come you’re not wearing some flash, you linked up with a rich man?”

Eve decided not to mention the baby-fist-sized diamond resting between her breasts under her shirt. “My underwear’s solid gold. It chafes some, but it makes me feel secure.”

After another brief processing delay, Mary hooted with laughter, slapped Eve on the back hard enough to bop her head into the glass, then headed off in her rock-breaking stride.

“We ought to sign her up,” Eve muttered. “She wouldn’t need a weapon or body armor.”

The music built to an ear-scorching crescendo, then cut off as if severed with a knife. Below, Mavis let out a squeal and launched herself into Leonardo’s open arms.

“That was a nice take, sugar.” Jess’s voice flowed out like top cream and drifted lazily with a Southern drawl. “You take ten and rest that golden throat for me.”

Mavis’s idea of resting her throat was to let out another scream, then wave desperately at Eve. “Dallas, you’re here. Wasn’t that mag? I’m coming up, don’t go anywhere.” She scrambled through a door on her trendy stilts.

“So this is Dallas.” Jess pushed away from his console. His body was trim and showed off to advantage in jeans as battered as Eve’s and a simple cotton shirt that would retail for a beat cop’s monthly paycheck. He wore a diamond stud in his ear that glinted as he crossed the booth and a braided gold chain around his wrist that slid fluidly as he held out one of those beautiful hands. “Mavis is brimming over with stories about her cop.”

“Mavis brims over habitually. It’s part of her charm.”

“That it is. I’m Jess, and I’m delighted to meet you at last.” With his hand still cupped over Eve’s, he turned that slow, heart-thudding smile onto Peabody. “And it seems we have two cops for the price of one.”

“I—I’m a huge fan,” Peabody managed and fought against the nervous stutter. “I have all of your discs, audio and video. I’ve seen you in concert.”

“Music buffs are always welcome.” He released Eve’s hand to take hers. “Why don’t I show you my favorite toy?” he suggested, leading her toward the console. Before Eve could follow, Mavis burst in.

“What did you think? Did you like it? I wrote it. Jess orchestrated it, but I wrote it. He thinks it could hit.”

“I’m really proud of you. You sounded great.” Eve returned Mavis’s enthusiastic embrace and grinned at Leonardo over her shoulder. “How does it feel to be hooked up with a rising music legend?”

“She’s wonderful.” He leaned in to give Eve a one-armed squeeze. “You look terrific. I noticed on some news clips that you wore a number of my designs. I’m grateful.”

“I’m grateful,” Eve said and meant it. Leonardo was a talented and emerging genius of clothing design. “I didn’t look like Roarke’s rag-picking cousin.”

“You always look like yourself,” Leonardo corrected, but he narrowed his eyes and flipped his fingers through her untidy hair. “You need some work here. If you don’t have it styled every few weeks, it loses shape.”

“I was going to trim it up some, I just—”

“No, no.” He shook his head solemnly, but his eyes twinkled at her. “The days of you hacking at it yourself are over. You call Trina, have her do you.”

“We’ll have to drag her again.” Mavis grinned at everything. “She’ll keep making excuses and start clipping at it with kitchen shears when it gets in her eyes.” She giggled when Leonardo shuddered. “We’ll get Roarke to hound her.”

“I’d be delighted to.” He stepped out of the elevator, walked straight to Eve and, framing her face in his hands, kissed her. “What am I hounding you about?”

“Nothing. Have a drink.” She passed him her bottle.

Instead of drinking, he kissed Mavis in greeting. “I appreciate the invitation. This is quite a setup.”

“Isn’t it mag? The sound system’s ace of the line, and Jess works all kinds of magic with the console. He’s got like six million instruments programmed in. He can play them all, too. He can do anything. The night he came into the D and D changed my life. It was like a miracle.”

“Mavis, you’re the miracle.” Smoothly, Jess led Peabody back toward the group. She was flushed and glassy-eyed. Eve could see the pulse in her throat pounding to its own rhythm.

“Down, girl,” she muttered, but Peabody only rolled her eyes.

“You met Dallas and Peabody, right? And this is Roarke.” Mavis bounced on her stilts. “My closest friends.”

“It’s a genuine pleasure.” Jess offered one of his finely boned hands to Roarke. “I admire your success in the business world and your taste in women.”

“Thank you. I tend to be careful with both.” Roarke scanned the area, inclined his head. “Your studio’s impressive.”

“I love showing it off. It’s been in the planning stages for some time. Mavis is actually the first artist to use it, other than myself. Mary’s going to order food. Why don’t I show you my prize creation before I put Mavis back to work?”

He led the way back to the console, sat at it like a captain at the helm. “The instruments are programmed in, of course. I can call up any number of combinations and vary pitch and speed. It’s accessed for voice command, but I rarely use that. Distracts me from the music.”

He slid controls and had a simple backbeat playing. “Recorded vocals.” He tapped his fingers over buttons and Mavis’s voice punched out, surprisingly gritty and rich. A monitor displayed the sounds with washing of colors and shapes. “I use that for computer analysis. Musicologists”—he flashed a charming, self-deprecating smile—“we can’t help ourselves. But that’s another story.”

“She sounds good,” Eve commented, pleased.

“And she’ll sound better. Overdubbing.” Mavis’s voice split, layered over itself in close harmony. “Layers and fill.” Jess’s hands danced over the controls, drawing out guitars, brass, the jingle of a tambourine, the searing wail of a sax. “Cool it down.” Everything slowed, mellowed. “Heat it up.” Went into double time, blasted.

“That’s all very basic, as is having her duet with recording artists of the past. You’ll have to hear her version of ‘Hard Day’s Night’ with the Beatles. I can also code in any sound.” With a smile flirting around his mouth, he spun a dial, and skimmed his fingers over the keys. Eve’s voice whispered out.

“Down, girl.” The words melded into Mavis’s vocal, repeating, echoing, drifting.

“How did you do that?” Eve demanded.

“I’m miked,” he explained, “and hooked into the console. Now that I have your voice on program, I can have your voice replace Mavis’s.” He skimmed the controls again, and Eve winced when she heard herself singing.

“Don’t do that,” she ordered, and laughing, Jess switched it back.

“Sorry, I can’t resist playing. Want to hear yourself croon, Peabody?”

“No.” Then she gnawed her lip. “Well, maybe.”

“Let’s see, something smoky, understated, and classic.” He worked for a moment, then sat back. Peabody’s eyes rounded when she heard herself quietly torching through “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

“Is that one of your songs?” she asked. “I don’t recognize it.”

Jess chuckled. “No, it’s before my time. You’ve got a strong voice, Officer Peabody. Good breath control. Want to quit your day job and join the party?”

She flushed and shook her head. Jess cut out the vocals, tuned the console to a bluesy instrumental. “I worked with an engineer who designed some autotronics for Disney-Universe. It took nearly three years to complete this.” He patted the console like a well-loved child. “Now that I have the prototype and a working unit, I’m hoping to manufacture more. She works on remote, too. I can be anywhere and link up, run the board. I got specs on a smaller, portable unit, and I’ve been working on a mood enhancer.”

He seemed to catch himself, shook his head. “I get carried away. My agent’s starting to complain that I’m spending more time working on electronics than recording.”

“Food’s here!” Big Mary bellowed.

“Well, then.” Jess smiled, scanned his audience. “Let’s dig in. You’ve got to keep your energy level up, Mavis.”

“I’m starving.” She grabbed Leonardo’s hand and headed for the door. Below, Mary was carting bags and boxes into the studio.

“Go help yourselves,” Jess told them. “I’ve got a little fiddling to do. I’ll be right along.”

“What do you think?” Eve murmured to Roarke as they headed down, trailed by Peabody.

“I think he’s looking for an investor.”

Eve sighed, nodded. “Yeah, that was my take. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a problem. He’s got an interesting product.”

“I had Peabody run a make on him. Nothing’s come up. But I don’t like to think of him using you—or Mavis.”

“That’s yet to be seen.” He turned her into his arms as they stepped into the studio, ran his hands over her hips. “I missed you. I miss spending large quantities of time with you.”

She felt the heat kindle between her thighs, hotter, lustier than the moment called for. Her breasts tingled with it. “I missed you, too. Why don’t we figure out how to cut the evening short, go home, and fuck like rabbits?”

He was hard as iron. As he leaned down to nip at her ear, he found himself struggling not to tug at her clothes. “Good thought. Christ, I want you.”

The hell with where they were, Roarke thought and dragged her head back by the hair to plunder her mouth.

At the console, at the controls, Jess watched them and smiled. Another few minutes, he mused, and they could very well be on the floor, mindlessly mating. Better not. With deft fingers, he skimmed buttons, changed the program. More than satisfied, he rose and started downstairs.

Two hours later, driving home through the dark streets that ran with colors from flashing billboards, Eve pushed her cruiser past the limits of the law. Need was a low, throbbing beat between her thighs, an itch desperate to be scratched.

“You’re breaking the law, Lieutenant,” Roarke said mildly. He was rock hard again, like a teenager cruising on hormones.

The woman who prided herself on never abusing her badge muttered, “Bending it.”

Roarke reached over, cupped her breast. “Bend it more.”

“Oh Jesus.” She could already imagine what he’d feel like inside her, so she punched the accelerator and shot like a bullet down Park.

A glide-cart operator flipped up her middle finger as Eve screamed around a curb and headed east. Cursing lightly, Eve switched on her duty light, popped up the red and blue globe, and had it flashing.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. I never do this.”

Roarke slid his hand down to her thigh. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

She gave a hoarse laugh, swallowed hard. “Don’t tell me, for God’s sake. I’ll kill us.”

Her hands were glued to the wheel and trembling, her body vibrating like a string already plucked. Her breath was already hitching. Clouds slipped past the moon and freed its light.

“Hit the remote for the gate,” she panted. “Hit the remote. I’m not slowing down.”

He coded it quickly. The iron gate eased majestically open, and she burst through with inches to spare. “Excellent job. Stop the car.”

“Just a minute, just a minute.” She rocketed up the drive, flying past the gorgeous trees and musical fountains.

“Stop the car,” he demanded again and pressed his hand to her crotch.

She came instantly, violently, barely managing to keep from steering into an oak. Gasping for air, she pulled the vehicle to a stop, fishtailing and ending in a drunken diagonal across the drive.

She flew at him.

They tore at clothes, fighting to find each other in the narrow confines of the car. She bit his shoulder, yanked his trousers open. He was cursing, she was laughing, when he dragged her out of the car. They fell on the grass in a tangle of limbs and twisted clothing.

“Hurry up, hurry up.” It was all she could manage through the unbearable pressure. His mouth was on her breast through her torn shirt, teeth scraping. She pulled at his trousers, dug her fingers into his hips.

His breathing was fast, rough, the raw need clawing through him as urgently as her nails clawed at his back. He could feel his blood roaring, a tidal wave through his veins. His hands bruised her as he rocked her legs back, drove deep inside her.

She screamed, a wild, savage sound of pleasure, her nails raking his back, her teeth fixing on his shoulder. She could feel him pulsing inside her, filling her with each desperate thrust. The punch of the orgasm was painful and did nothing to lessen the monstrous need.

She was wet, hot, her muscles vising over him like teeth with each pump of hips. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, and plunged again and again like a stud covering a mare in heat. He couldn’t see her through the red haze that clouded his vision, he could only feel her, racing with him, pistoning her hips. Her voice buzzed in his ears, all whimpers and moans and gasps.

Each sound beat in his blood like a primal chant.

It shattered without warning, beyond his control. His body simply peaked like an engine on maximum power, battered into hers, then erupted. The hot wave of release swamped him, swallowed him, drowned him. It was the only time since he’d first touched her that he didn’t know if she had followed him over the edge.

He collapsed, rolled weakly away to try to find air for his overtaxed lungs. In the glowing moonlight, they sprawled on the grass, sweaty, half-dressed, shuddering, like the lone survivors of a particularly vicious war.

With a groan, she rolled over on her stomach, let the grass cool her burning cheeks. “Christ, what was that?”

“Under other circumstances, I’d call it sex. But . . .” He managed to open his eyes. “I don’t have a word for it.”

“Did I bite you?”

A few aches were making themselves known as his body recovered. He twisted his head, glanced at his shoulder, and saw the imprint of her teeth. “Someone did. I think it was probably you.”

He watched a star fall, shooting silver from sky to earth. It had been much like that, he thought, like plunging helplessly to oblivion. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.” Her head was still spinning. “We’re on the lawn,” she said slowly. “Our clothes are torn. I’m pretty sure I have the imprint of your fingers dented into my butt.”

“I did my best,” he murmured.

She snickered first, then chuckled, then broke into fits of giddy, hiccupping laughter. “Jesus, Roarke, Jesus Christ, look at us.”

“In a minute. I think I’m still partially blind.” But he was grinning as he shifted. She was still shaking with laughter. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, her eyes were glassy, and there were grass stains as well as bruises on her pretty ass. “You don’t look much like a cop, Lieutenant.”

She rolled to sit up as he had, angled her head. “You don’t look much like a rich guy, Roarke.” She tugged on his sleeve—it was all that was left of his shirt. “But it’s an interesting look. How are you going to explain that to Summerset?”

“I’ll simply tell him my wife is an animal.”

She snorted. “He’s already decided that for himself.” Blowing out a breath, she looked toward the house. Lights glimmered on the lower level to welcome them home. “How are we going to get into the house?”

“Well . . .” He found what was left of her shirt, tied it around her breasts, and made her giggle helplessly. They managed to tug on ruined slacks, then sat looking at each other. “I can’t carry you to the car,” he told her. “I was hoping you’d carry me.”

“We have to get up first.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them moved. The laughter started again, continued as they grabbed onto each other like drunks and staggered to their feet. “Leave the car,” he decided.

“Uh-huh.” They limped off, weaving. “Clothes? Shoes?”

“Leave them, too.”

“Good plan.”

Snickering like children breaking curfew, they stumbled up the steps, shushing each other as they fell through the door.

“Roarke!” Shocked tones, rushing feet.

“I knew it,” Eve muttered dourly. “I just knew it.”

Summerset rushed out of the shadows, his normally set face alive with shock and worry. He saw tattered clothes, bruised skin, wild eyes. “Was there an accident?”

Roarke straightened up, kept his arm around Eve’s shoulders as much for balance as support. “No. It was on purpose. Go to bed, Summerset.”

Eve glanced over her shoulder as she and Roarke helped each other up the stairs. Summerset stood at the base, gaping. The picture pleased her so much, she snickered all the way to the bedroom.

They fell into bed, exactly as they were, and slept like babies.

chapter seven

At shortly before eight the next morning, a bit sore and fuzzy-brained, Eve sat at her desk in her home office. She considered it more of a sanctuary than an office, really, the apartment Roarke had built for her in his home. Its design was similar to the apartment where she had lived when she’d met him, which she’d been reluctant to give up.

He’d provided it so that she could have her own space, her own things. Even after all the time she’d lived there, she rarely slept in their bed when he was away. Instead, she curled into the relaxation chair and dozed.

The nightmares came less often now, but crept back at odd moments.

She could work here when it was convenient, lock the doors if she wanted privacy. And as it had a fully operational kitchen, she often chose her AutoChef over Summerset when she was alone in the house.

With the sun streaming through the view wall at her back, she reviewed her caseload, juggled legwork. She knew she didn’t have the luxury of focusing exclusively on the Fitzhugh case, particularly since it was earmarked a probable suicide. If she didn’t turn up hard evidence in the next day or two, she’d have no choice but to lower its priority.

At eight sharp there was a brisk knock on the door.

“Come on in, Peabody.”

“I’ll never get used to this place,” Peabody said as she walked inside. “It’s like something out of an old video.”

“You should get Summerset to take you on a tour,” Eve said absently. “I’m pretty sure there are rooms I’ve never seen. There’s coffee.” Eve gestured toward the kitchen alcove and continued to frown at her logbook.

Peabody wandered off, scanning the entertainment units lining the wall, wondering what it would be like to be able to afford any amusement available: music, art, video, holograms, VR, meditation chambers, games. Play a set of tennis with the latest Wimbeldon champ, dance with a hologram of Fred Astaire, or take a virtual trip to the pleasure palaces on Regis III.

Daydreaming a bit, she turned into the kitchen. The AutoChef was already programmed for coffee, so she ordered two, carried the steaming mugs back into the office. She waited patiently while Eve continued to mutter.

Peabody sipped her coffee. “God. Oh God. It’s real.” Blinking in shock, she cupped both hands reverently around the mug. “This coffee is real.”

“Yeah, you get spoiled. I can hardly stomach the slop down at Cop Central anymore.” Eve glanced up, caught Peabody’s dazed expression, and grinned. It hadn’t been so long before that she’d had a similar reaction to Roarke’s coffee. And to Roarke. “Pretty great, huh?”

“I’ve never had real coffee before.” As if sipping liquid gold—and with the depletion of the rain forests and plantations it was equally dear—Peabody drank slowly. “It’s amazing.”

“You’ve got a half hour to OD on it while we work out the day’s strategy.”

“I can have more?” Peabody closed her eyes and just inhaled the scent. “You’re a god, Dallas.”

With a snort, Eve reached for her beeping ’link. “Dallas,” she began, then her face lit with a grin. “Feeney.”

“How’s married life, kid?”

“It’s tolerable. Pretty early in the day for you electronic detectives, isn’t it?”

“Got a hot one working. A scramble at the chief’s office. Some joker hacked into his mainframe and nearly fried the whole system.”

“They got in?” Her eyes widened in surprise. She wasn’t sure even Feeney, with his magic touch, could break the security on the Chief of Police and Security’s system.

“Looks that way. Tangled shit all to hell and back. I’m unknotting it,” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d check in, see what’s what since I haven’t heard from you.”

“I hit the ground running.”

“You don’t know any other speed. You primary on Fitzhugh?”

“That’s right. Something I should know?”

“No. Smart money’s that he iced himself, and nobody around here’s too sorry. That oil slick loved squeezing cops on the stand. Funny though, second big suicide in a month.”

Eve’s interest spiked. “Second?”

“Yeah. Oh, that’s right, you were off honeymooning and making cow’s eyes.” He wiggled his bushy red eyebrows. “Senator in East Washington a couple weeks ago. Jumped out the window of the Capitol Building. Politicians and lawyers. They’re crazy anyway.”

“Yeah. Could you get me the data on it when you have the chance? Transfer it to my office unit.”

“What, you going to keep a scrapbook?”

“Just interested.” The feeling was back in her gut. “I’ll pick up the tab next time we’re in the Eatery.”

“No problem. As soon as I get this system unknotted, I’ll feed it to you. Don’t be a stranger,” he told her and signed off.

Peabody continued to take miserly sips of coffee. “You think there’s a connection between Fitzhugh and the senator who took the dive?”

“Lawyers and politicians,” Eve murmured. “And autotronic engineers.”

“What?”

Eve shook her head. “I don’t know. Disengage,” she ordered her unit, then swung her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Peabody struggled not to pout about the lack of another cup of coffee. “Two suicides in two different cities in a month isn’t such a weird thing,” she began, lengthening her stride to catch up with Eve.

“Three. There was a kid on Olympus who hanged himself while we were there. Mathias, Drew. I want to see if you can find a connection, anything that ties them together. People, places, habits, education, hobbies.” She rushed down the stairs, gearing up.

“I don’t know the politician’s name. I didn’t pay attention to the reports on the East Washington suicide.” Busily, Peabody tugged out her personal palm computer and began searching for data.

“Mathias was in his early twenties, autotronics engineer. He worked for Roarke. Shit.” She had a bad feeling she was going to be forced to drag Roarke into her work once again. “If you run into a snag, ask Feeney. He can pop the data handcuffed and drunk, faster than either of us.”

Eve wrenched open the door, scowled when she didn’t see her car at the top of the drive. “Goddamn Summerset. I’ve told him to leave my car when I park it.”

“I think he did.” Peabody flipped on her sunshades, pointed. “It’s blocking the drive, see?”

“Oh, yeah.” Eve cleared her throat. The car was just as she’d left it, and fluttering in the mild breeze were a few torn articles of clothing. “Don’t ask,” she muttered and started to hoof it down the drive.

“I wasn’t going to.” Peabody’s voice was smooth as silk. “Speculation’s more interesting.”

“Shut up, Peabody.”

“Shutting up, Lieutenant.” With a smirk, Peabody climbed in the car and swallowed a laugh when Eve swung the vehicle around and cruised down the drive.

Arthur Foxx was sweating. It was subtle, just a faint sheen over his top lip, but Eve found it satisfying. She hadn’t been surprised to discovered his chosen representative was an associate of Fitzhugh’s, a young eager beaver in a pricey suit with trendy medallions decorating the slim lapels.

“My client is understandably upset.” The lawyer folded his youthful face into somber lines. “The memorial service for Mr. Fitzhugh is scheduled for one P.M. this afternoon. You’ve chosen an inappropriate time for this interview.”

“Death chooses the time, Mr. Ridgeway, and it’s usually inappropriate. Interview with Authur Foxx, re Fitzhugh, case number three oh oh nine one-ASD, conducted by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Date August 24, 2058, time oh nine thirty-six. Will you state your name for the record?”

“Arthur Foxx.”

“Mr. Foxx, you are aware that this interview is being recorded.”

“I am.”

“You have exercised your right to counsel and understand your additional rights and responsibilities?”

“That’s correct.”

“Mr. Foxx, you gave an earlier statement regarding your activities on the night of Mr. Fitzhugh’s death. Do you wish to view a replay of that statement?”

“It’s not necessary. I told you what happened. I don’t know what else you expect me to tell you.”

“To begin, tell me where you were between twenty-two thirty and twenty-three hundred on the night of the incident.”

“I’ve already told you. We had dinner. We watched a comedy, we went to bed and caught a bit of the late news.”

“You remained at home all evening?”

“That’s what I’ve said.”

“Yes, Mr. Foxx, that’s what you’ve said, on record. But that’s not what you did.”

“Lieutenant, my client is here voluntarily. I see no—”

“Save it,” she suggested. “You left the building at approximately ten thirty P.M. and returned some thirty minutes later. Where did you go?”

“I—” Foxx tugged at the silver string of his tie. “I stepped out for a few minutes. I’d forgotten.”

“You’d forgotten.”

“My mind was confused. I was in shock.” His tie made wispy sounds as his fingers worked over it. “I didn’t remember something as unimportant as taking a quick walk.”

“But you remember now? Where did you go?”

“Just for a walk. Around the block a few times.”

“You returned with a parcel. What was in it?”

She saw the moment he realized the security cameras had nailed him. His gaze shifted past her and the fingers on his tie became busier. “I stopped into a 24/7, picked up a few things. Veggie-Smokes. I have the urge for one occasionally.”

“It’s a simple matter to check with the 24/7 and determine exactly what you purchased.”

“Some tranqs,” he spit out. “I wanted to tranq out for the night. I wanted a smoke. There’s no law against it.”

“No, but there is a law against giving false statements in a police investigation.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” The lawyer’s voice was still smooth but a bit frayed around the edges with annoyance. It gave Eve the clue that Foxx had been no more forthcoming with his representative than he had with the police. “The fact that Mr. Foxx left the premises for a short time is hardly germane to your investigation. And discovering a loved one’s body is a more than reasonable excuse for neglecting to remember a minor detail.”

“One minor detail, maybe. You didn’t mention, Mr. Foxx, that you and Mr. Fitzhugh had a visitor on the evening of his death.”

“Leanore is hardly a visitor,” Foxx said stiffly. “She is—was Fitz’s partner. I believe they had some business to discuss, which is another reason I went for a walk. I wanted to give them a few moments of privacy to discuss the case.” He took a shallow breath. “I generally found that more convenient for everyone.”

“I see. So now your statement is that you left the apartment in order to provide your spouse and his partner with privacy. Why didn’t you mention Ms. Bastwick’s visit in your earlier statement?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“You didn’t think of it. You stated that you ate dinner, watched a comedy, and went to bed, but you neglected to add in these other events. What other events have you neglected to tell me, Mr. Foxx?”

“I have nothing more to say.”

“Why were you angry when you left the building, Mr. Foxx? Did it annoy you to have a beautiful woman, a woman with whom Mr. Fitzhugh works closely, drop by your home so late in the evening?”

“Lieutenant, you have no right to imply—”

She barely spared the lawyer a glance. “I’m not implying, Counselor, I’m asking, in a very straightforward manner, if Mr. Foxx was angry and jealous when he stormed out of his building.”

“I did not storm, I walked.” Foxx fisted a hand on the table. “And I had absolutely no reason to be angry or jealous of Leanore. However often she chose to throw herself at Fitz, he was completely disinterested in her on that level.”

“Ms. Bastwick threw herself at Mr. Fitzhugh?” Eve lifted her brows. “That must have ticked you off, Arthur. Knowing that your spouse had no sexual preference between women or men, knowing they were together hours every day during the work week, having her come by, flaunt herself in front of him in your own home. No wonder you were angry. I’d have wanted to deck her.”

“He thought it was amusing,” Foxx blurted out. “He was actually flattered to have someone so much younger and so attractive playing for him. He laughed when I complained about her.”

“He laughed at you?” Eve knew how to play the game. Sympathy dripped in her voice. “That must have infuriated you. It did, didn’t it? It ate at you, didn’t it, Arthur, imagining them together, him touching her, and laughing at you.”

“I could have murdered her.” Foxx exploded with it, batting away his lawyer’s restraining hands as fury spurted color into his face. “She thought she could lure him away from me, make him want her. She didn’t give a damn that we were married, that we were committed to each other. All she wanted to do was win. Fucking lawyer.”

“You don’t care much for lawyers, do you?”

His breath was shuddering. He caught it, let it shudder out until it was even again. “No, as a rule, I don’t. I didn’t think of Fitz as a lawyer. I thought of him as my spouse. And if I’d been disposed to committing murder that night or any other, Lieutenant, I would have murdered Leanore.”

He unfisted his hands, folded them together. “Now, I have nothing more to say.”

Gauging it to be enough for the time being, Eve terminated the interview, rose. “We’ll be talking again, Mr. Foxx.”

“I’d like to know when you’re going to release Fitz’s body,” he said, getting stiffly to his feet. “I’ve decided not to postpone the service today, though it feels unseemly to go on with it with his body still being held.”

“That’s the decision of the medical examiner. His tests are still incomplete.”

“Isn’t it enough that he’s dead?” Foxx’s voice trembled. “Isn’t it enough that he killed himself without you dragging it out, pulling out the small and sordid personal details of our lives?”

“No.” She walked to the door, released the code. “No, it’s not.” She hesitated, decided to take a stab in the dark. “I imagine Mr. Fitzhugh was very shocked and very upset by the recent suicide of Senator Pearly.”

Foxx only jerked his head in a formal nod. “He was shocked, certainly, though they barely knew each other.” Then a muscle jerked in his cheek. “If you’re implying that Fitz took his own life because he was influenced by Pearly, it’s ridiculous. They had no more than a slight acquaintance. They rarely communicated.”

“I see. Thank you for your time.” She ushered them out, glanced down the corridor to the adjoining interview room. Leanore should certainly be inside by now, waiting.

Taking her time, Eve strolled down the corridor to a vending unit, contemplated her choices, jingled loose credits in her pocket. She settled on a Chewy Bar and a half tube of Pepsi. The unit delivered the goods, droned out the standard request to recycle, and offered the consumer a mild warning on sugar intake.

“Mind your own business,” Eve suggested. Leaning back against the wall, she lingered over her snack, dumped the trash into the recycle chute, then walked leisurely down the hall.

She’d estimated the twenty-minute wait would steam Leanore. She was right on target.

The woman was pacing like a cat, elegant legs eating up the worn flooring with quick steps. The minute Eve opened the door, she whirled.

“Lieutenant Dallas, my time is extremely valuable, even if yours is not.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Eve said easily. “I don’t get to log in billable hours at two K a pop.”

Peabody cleared her throat. “For the record, Lieutenant Eve Dallas has entered Interview Room C to conduct the remainder of the proceedings. The subject has been informed of all rights and has chosen self-representation during this interview. All data has been logged in record.”

“Fine.” Eve sat, indicated the chair across from her. “Whenever you’ve finished prowling, Ms. Bastwick, we can get started.”

“I was ready to begin this procedure at the appropriate time.” Leanore sat, crossed her satiny legs. “With you, Lieutenant, not your subordinate.”

“Hear that, Peabody, you’re my subordinate.”

“Duly recorded, sir,” Peabody said dryly.

“Though I consider it insulting and unnecessary.” Leanore brushed at the cuffs of her trim black suit. “I’m attending Fitz’s memorial in a few hours.”

“You wouldn’t be here, being unnecessarily insulted, if you hadn’t lied in your previous statement.”

Leanore’s eyes went glacial. “I assume you can substantiate that accusation, Lieutenant.”

“You stated for the record that you had gone to the deceased’s residence last evening on a professional matter. That you remained, discussing a case, for twenty to thirty minutes.”

“More or less,” Leanore said, her voice frosty around the edges.

“Tell me, Ms. Bastwick, do you always take a bottle of vintage wine to a business meeting and groom yourself for said meeting in the elevator like a prom queen?”

“There’s no law against good grooming, Lieutenant Dallas.” Her gaze flicked dismissively over Eve’s untidy hair down to her battered boots. “You might try it yourself.”

“Aw, now you’ve hurt my feelings. You polished yourself up, flicked open the top three buttons of your blouse, and brought along a bottle of wine. Sounds like seduction time to me, Leanore.” Eve shifted closer, nearly winked. “Come on, we’re all girls. We know the drill.”

Leanore took her time, studied a minute chip in her manicure. She remained icy. Unlike Foxx, the woman didn’t break a sweat. “I dropped by that evening to consult with Fitz on a professional matter. We had a brief meeting, and I left.”

“You were alone with him during that time.”

“That’s right. Arthur got into one of his snits and went out.”

“One of his snits?”

“It was typical of him.” There was a sneer in her voice now, light and disdainful. “He was outrageously jealous of me, certain I was trying to lure Fitz away from him.”

“And were you?”

A slow, feline smile curved Leanore’s lips. “Really, Lieutenant, if I’d put any effort into it, don’t you think I would have succeeded?”

“I’d say you put effort into it. And not succeeding would have really burned you.”

Leanore lifted a shoulder. “I’ll admit I was giving it some consideration. Fitz was wasting himself on Arthur. Fitz and I had a great deal in common, and I found him very attractive. I was very fond of him.”

“Did you act on your attraction and your fondness that evening?”

“You could say I made it clear that I was open to a more intimate relationship with him. He wasn’t immediately receptive, but it was only a matter of time.” She moved her shoulders, a quick, confident movement. “Arthur would have known that.” Her eyes went cold again. “And that’s why I believe he killed Fitz.”

“Quite a piece of work, isn’t she?” Eve muttered when the interview was completed. “Doesn’t see anything wrong with trying to lure a man into adultery, break apart a long-standing relationship. More, she’s convinced there isn’t a man in the world who could resist her.” She sighed heavily. “Bitch.”

“Are you going to charge her?” Peabody wondered.

“For being a bitch?” With a small smile, Eve shook her head. “I could try to nail her on the false statement, and she and her legal pals would brush it off like lint. Not worth the time. We can’t place her at the scene at time of death or hang any kind of motive on her. And I can’t see that self-absorbed bimbo sneaking up on a two hundred fifty pound man and slashing his wrists. She wouldn’t have wanted to get all that blood on her nifty suit.”

“So you’re back to Foxx?”

“He was jealous, he was pissed, he inherits all the toys.” Eve rose, paced to the door and back. “And we’ve got nothing.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I’ve got to go with what he said when he lost it during interview. He’d have killed Leanore, not Fitzhugh. I’m going to review the data on the two previous suicides.”

“I haven’t got much yet,” Peabody began as she followed Eve out of the interview room. “There wasn’t time.”

“There’s time now. And Feeney’s probably come through. Get me what you’ve got, then get me more,” Eve demanded and swung into her office. “Engage,” she ordered the computer as she plopped down in front of it. “Play new communications.”

Roarke’s face swam onto the screen. “I assume you’re out fighting crime. I’m on my way to London, a little glitch that requires personal attention. I don’t imagine it will take long. I should be back by eight, which will give us plenty of time to fly out to New Los Angeles for the premiere.”

“Shit, I forgot.”

On screen, his image smiled. “I’m sure you’ve conveniently forgotten the engagement, so consider this a gentle reminder. Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”

Flying to California to spend the evening rubbing elbows with puffed-up video types, eating the glossy little vegetables people out there considered food, tolerating reporters sticking recorders in her face and asking lame questions was not her idea of an entertaining evening.

The second communication was from Commander Whitney, ordering her to prepare a statement for the media on several ongoing cases. Hot damn, she thought sourly. More headlines.

Then the data from Feeney flashed on screen. Eve rolled her shoulders, hunkered down, and got to work.

At two, she walked into the Village Bistro. Her shirt was sticking to her back as the temperature control on her unit had once again died an unnatural death. The air inside the tony restaurant was ocean breeze cool. Soft, loving zephyrs flitted through, teasing the feathery palms, which grew in huge, white china pots. Glass tables were arranged on two levels, cleverly situated near a small, black water lagoon or in front of a wide-view screen of a white sand beach. Servers wore short uniforms in tropical hues and threaded their way through the tables with offerings of colorful drinks and artistically arranged dishes.

The maître d’ was a droid dressed in a flowing white jumpsuit and programmed with a snooty French accent. He took one look at Eve’s worn jeans and limp shirt and wrinkled his prominent nose.

“Madam, I am afraid we have no tables available. You would perhaps prefer the delicatessen on the next block north.”

“Yeah, I would.” Because his attitude annoyed her, she stuck her badge in his face. “But I’m eating here. I don’t give a shit if that puts your chips in a twist, pal. Where’s Dr. Mira’s table?”

“Put that away,” he hissed, looking everywhere at once and fluttering his hands. “Do you wish my customers to lose their appetites?”

“They’ll really lose them if I take my weapon out, which is what I’ll do if you don’t show me Dr. Mira’s table and see that I’ve got a glass of iced fizzy water in the next twenty seconds. Got that program?”

His lips clamped together and he nodded. Stiff-backed, he led the way up a swing of faux stone steps to the second level, and then onto an alcove fashioned to resemble an ocean terrace.

“Eve.” Mira rose immediately from her pretty table and took both of Eve’s hands. “You look wonderful.” To Eve’s faint surprise, Mira kissed her cheek. “Rested. Happy.”

“I guess I am.” After a brief hesitation, Eve leaned forward and touched her lips to Mira’s cheek in turn.

The droid had already snapped to a server. “Dr. Mira’s companion wishes a fizzy water.”

“Iced,” Eve added, curling her lip at the maître d’.

“Thank you, Armand.” Mira’s soft blue eyes twinkled. “We’ll order shortly.”

Eve took another quick scan of the restaurant, the diners in their summer pastels and pricey cottons. She shifted on her padded chair. “We could have met in your office.”

“I wanted to take you to lunch. This is one of my favorite spots.”

“The droid’s an asshole.”

“Well, perhaps Armand is a bit overprogrammed, but the food is wonderful. You should try the Clams Maurice. You won’t regret it.” She settled back when Eve’s water was served. “Tell me, how was your honeymoon?”

Eve gulped down half the water and felt human again. “Tell me how long I can expect people to ask me that question?”

Mira laughed. She was a pretty woman with soft sable hair swept back from a quietly attractive face. She wore one of her habitually elegant suits, this one in pale yellow. She appeared polished and tidy. She was one of the leading behavioral psychiatrists in the country, and was often consulted by the police about the most vicious crimes.

Though Eve was unaware of it, Mira’s feelings toward her were strong and deeply maternal.

“It embarrasses you.”

“Well, you know. Honeymoon. Sex. Personal.” Eve rolled her eyes. “Stupid. I guess I’m just not used it. To being married. To Roarke. To the whole business.”

“You love each other and make each other happy. There’s no need to get used to it, only to enjoy it. You’re sleeping well?”

“Mostly.” And because Mira knew her deepest and darkest secrets, Eve dropped her guard. “I still have nightmares, but not as often. The memories come and go. None of it’s as bad now that I’ve dealt with it.”

“Have you dealt with it?”

“My father raped me, abused me, beat me,” Eve said flatly. “I killed him. I was eight years old. I survived. Whoever I was before I was found in that alley doesn’t matter now. I’m Eve Dallas. I’m a good cop. I’ve made myself.”

“Good.” There would be more, Mira thought. Traumas such as the one Eve had lived through cast echoes that never completely faded. “You still put the cop first.”

“I am a cop first.”

“Yes.” Mira smiled a little. “I suppose you always will be. Why don’t we order, then you can tell me why you called.”

chapter eight

Eve chose Mira’s recommendation of clams, then treated herself to some of the real yeast bread set in a silver basket on the table. As she ate, she gave Mira a profile of Fitzhugh and the details of his death.

“You’d like me to tell you if he was capable of taking his own life. Disposed to it, emotionally, psychologically.”

Eve cocked a brow. “That’s the plan.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I can tell you that everyone is capable of it, given the right circumstances and emotional state.”

“I don’t believe that,” Eve said so firmly, so decisively, that Mira smiled.

“You’re a strong woman, Eve. Now. You’ve made yourself strong, rational, tough-minded. You’re a survivor. But you remember despair. Helplessness. Hopelessness.”

Eve did; too well, too clearly. She shifted in her chair. “Fitzhugh wasn’t a helpless man.”

“The surface can hide a great deal of turmoil.” Dr. Mira held up a hand before Eve could interrupt again. “But I agree with you. Given your profile of him, his background, his lifestyle, I wouldn’t tag him as a likely candidate for suicide—certainly not one of such an abrupt and impulsive nature.”

“It was abrupt,” Eve agreed. “I dealt with him in court right before this happened. He was as smug and arrogant and full of his own sense of importance as ever.”

“I’m sure that’s true. I can only say that some of us—many of us—confronted with some crisis, some personal upheaval of the heart or mind, choose to end it rather than live through it or change it. You and I can’t know what Fitzhugh might have found himself confronted with on the night of his death.”

“That isn’t a hell of a lot of help,” Eve muttered. “Okay, let me give you two more.” Briskly, with a cop’s dispassion, she related the other suicides. “Pattern?”

“What did they have in common?” Mira tossed back. “The lawyer, the politician, and the tech.”

“A blip in the brain. Maybe.” Tapping her fingers on the cloth, Eve frowned. “I’ve got some chains to pull to get all the data, but it could be the motive. The reason behind it all might be physiological rather than psychological. If there’s a connection, I’ve got to find it.”

“You’re veering out of my field, but if you find data linking the three cases, I’d be happy to do a workup.”

Eve smiled. “I was counting on it. I don’t have a lot of time. The Fitzhugh case can’t stay a priority for much longer. If I can’t nail something down soon and use it to convince the commander to keep the file open, I’ll have to move on. But for now—”

“Eve?” Reeanna slipped up to the table, looking stunning in an ankle-skimming robe of bleeding rainbow colors. “Well, how nice. I was lunching with an associate and thought I recognized you.”

“Reeanna.” Eve worked up a smile. She didn’t mind looking like a street hawker next to the glamorous redhead, but she did mind having her consult lunch interrupted. “Dr. Mira, Reeanna Ott.”

“Dr. Ott.” Gracious, Mira offered a hand. “I’ve heard of your work and admired it.”

“Thank you, and I’ll say the same. It’s an honor to meet one of the top psychiatrists in the country. I’ve scanned a number of your papers and found them fascinating.”

“You flatter me. Won’t you sit down, join us for some dessert?”

“I’d love to.” Reeanna flicked a questioning glance at Eve. “If I’m not interrupting official business.”

“We seem to be finished with that part of the program.” Eve looked up at the waiter summoned by a discreet flick of Mira’s finger. “Just coffee. House brand. Black.”

“I’ll have the same,” Mira said. “And a dish of the Blueberry Trifle. I’m weak.”

“So am I.” Reeanna beamed at the waiter as though he would personally prepare her selection. “A double latte, and a slice of Chocolate Sin. I’m so tired of processed food,” she confided to Mira. “I intend to gorge myself while I’m in New York.”

“And how long will you be in town?”

“It depends a great deal on Roarke”—she smiled at Eve—“and how long he finds it useful to have me here. I have a feeling he’ll be shipping both William and me off to Olympus within a few weeks.”

“The Olympus Resort’s quite an undertaking,” Mira commented. “All the blips I’ve seen on the news and entertainment channels have been fascinating.”

“He’d like to have it up and fully operational by next spring.” Reeanna ran her hand up and down the trio of gold links she wore around her neck. “We’ll see. Roarke usually gets what he wants. Wouldn’t you agree, Eve?”

“He didn’t get where he is by taking no for an answer.”

“No, indeed. You were just on the resort. Did he give you a tour of the Autotronics Arcade?”

“Briefly.” Eve’s lips quirked a little. “We had . . . a lot of ground to cover in a short time.”

Reeanna’s smile was slow and sly. “I imagine you did. But I hope you tried a few of the programs that are in place. William’s so proud of those games. And you did mention you’d seen the hologram room in the Presidential Suite of the hotel.”

“I did. Made use of it several times. Very impressive.”

“Most of that’s William’s doing—the design—but I will take partial credit. We plan to utilize that new system to enhance the treatment of addicts and certain psychoses.” She shifted as their coffee and dessert was served. “That might be of interest to you, Dr. Mira.”

“It certainly would. It sounds fascinating.”

“It is. Wickedly expensive right now, but we hope to refine and bring the cost down. But for Olympus, Roarke wanted the best—and he’s getting it. Such as the Lisa droid.”

“Yeah.” Eve remembered the stunning female droid with the sultry voice. “I’ve seen her.”

“She’ll be in PR and customer service. A very superior model that took months to perfect. Her intelligence chips are unmatched by anything on the market. She’ll have decision making and personality capabilities well beyond the current available units. William and I—” She broke off, chuckled at herself. “Listen to me. I just can’t get away from work.”

“It’s fascinating.” Mira dipped delicately into her trifle. “Your study of brain patterns and their genetic thrust on personality, and their application to electronics is compelling, even to a dug-in-at-the-roots psychiatrist such as myself.” She hesitated, glanced at Eve. “As a matter of fact, your expertise might lend a new angle on a particular case Eve and I were discussing.”

“Oh?” Reeanna forked up some chocolate and all but hummed over it.

“Hypothetical.” Mira spread her hands, well aware of the official ban of layman consults.

“Naturally.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the table again. She preferred Mira’s take, but weighing the options, decided to expand.

“Apparent self-termination. No known motive, no known predisposition, no chemical inducement, no family history. Behavioral patterns up to point of termination normal. No substantiated signs of depression or personality fluctuations. Subject is a sixty-two-year-old male, professional, high-end education, successful, financially solvent, bisexual, with long-term same-sex marriage.”

“Physical disabilities?”

“None. Clean health card.”

Reeanna’s eyes narrowed in concentration, either over the profile or the dessert she was slowly spooning into her mouth. “Any psychological defects, treatment?”

“No.”

“Interesting. I’d love to see the brain wave pattern. Available?”

“Currently classified.”

“Hmm.” Reeanna sipped her latte contemplatively. “Without any known physical or psychiatric abnormalities, no chemical addictions or usage, I’d lean toward a brain blip. Possible tumor. Yet I assume none showed up in autopsy?”

Eve thought of the pinprick, but shook her head. “Not a tumor, no.”

“There are cases of predisposition that slide through genetic scanning and evaluation. The brain is a complicated organ and still baffles even the most elaborate technology. If I could see his family history . . . Well, to take a wild guess, I’d say your man had a genetic time bomb that went undetected through normal analysis. He’d reached the point in his life where the fuse ran short.”

Eve cocked a brow. “So he just blew?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Reeanna leaned forward. “We’re all coded in, Eve, in the womb. What we are, who we are. Not just the color of our eyes, our build, our skin tones, but our personalities, our tastes, our intellect, and our emotional scale. The genetic code is stamped on us at the moment of conception. It can be altered to a certain extent, but the basis of what we are remains. Nothing can change it.”

“We are what we’re born?” Eve thought of a filthy room, a blinking red light, and a young girl curled into a corner with a bloody knife.

“Precisely.” Reeanna’s smile beamed out.

“You don’t take into account environment, free will, the basic human drive to better oneself?” Mira objected. “To consider us merely physical creatures without heart, soul, and a range of choices to be made over a lifetime lowers us to the level of animals.”

“And so we are,” Reeanna said with a sweep of her fork. “I understand your viewpoint as a therapist, Dr. Mira, but mine, as a physiologist, runs down a different lane, so to speak. The decisions we make throughout our life, what we do, how we live, and what we become were printed on our brains while we swam in the womb. Your subject, Eve, was fated to take his life at that time, in that place, and in the manner he chose. Circumstances might have altered it, but the results would have been the same, eventually. It was, in essence, his destiny.”

Destiny? Eve thought. Had it been hers to be raped and abused by her own father? To become less than human, to fight her way through that abyss?

Mira shook her head slowly. “I can’t agree. A child born in poverty on the edge of Budapest, taken from the mother at birth and raised in privilege, with love and care in Paris, would reflect that upbringing, that education. The emotional nest,” she insisted, “and the basic human drive to better oneself can’t be discounted.”

“I agree, to a point,” Reeanna qualified. “But the stamp of the genetic code—that which predisposes us to achievement, failure, good or evil, if you will—overrides all else. Even with the most loving and nurturing of backgrounds, monsters breed; and in the toilets of the universe, goodness, even greatness survives. We are what we are—the rest is window dressing.”

“If I subscribe to your theory,” Eve said slowly, “the subject in question was fated to take his life. No circumstances, no twists or turns of environment would have prevented it.”

“Precisely. The predisposition was there, lurking. Likely an event set it off, but it may have been a minor thing, something easily passed off in another brain pattern. Research still under way at the Bowers Institute has complied strong evidence of genetic brain patterns and their unassailable influence on behavior. I can get you discs on the subject, if you like.”

“I’ll leave the head studies to you and Dr. Mira.” Eve shoved her coffee aside. “I’ve got to get back to Cop Central. I appreciate the time, Dr. Mira,” she said as she rose. “And the theories, Reeanna.”

“I’d love to discuss them further. Any time.” Reeanna lifted a hand and shook Eve’s warmly. “Do give my best to Roarke.”

“I will.” Eve shifted slightly on her feet when Mira rose to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope you will, and not just when you’ve a case to discuss. Tell Mavis hello for me when you see her.”

“Sure.” Hitching her bag on her shoulder, Eve swung her way out, pausing briefly to sneer at the maître d’.

“A fascinating woman.” Reeanna slid her tongue in one long, slow lick over the back of her spoon. “Controlled, a little angry underneath, straight focused, and unused and vaguely uncomfortable with casual displays of affection.” She laughed lightly at Mira’s lifted brow. “Sorry, professional pitfall. It drives William mad. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Mira’s lips curved, and her eyes warmed with understanding. “I often find myself doing the same. And you’re right, Eve is a very fascinating woman. Quite self-made, which, I’m afraid, might unbalance your genetic printing theory.”

“Really?” Obviously intrigued, Reeanna leaned forward. “You know her well?”

“As well as possible. Eve is a . . . contained individual.”

“You’re very fond of her,” Reeanna commented with a nod. “I hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I say she wasn’t at all what I expected when I learned Roarke was to marry. That he was to marry at all was a surprise, but I imagined his spouse as a woman of polish and sophistication. A homicide detective who wears her shoulder harness as another woman might an heirloom necklace wasn’t my conception of Roarke’s choice. Yet they look right together, suited. One might even say,” she added with a smile, “destined.”

“That I can agree with.”

“Now, tell me, Dr. Mira, what is your opinion of DNA harvesting?”

“Oh, well now . . .” Happily, Mira settled down for a lively busman’s holiday.

At her desk unit, Eve juggled the data she’d compiled on Fitzhugh, Mathias, and Pearly. She could find no link, no common ground. The only real correlation between the three was the fact that none of them had exhibited any suicidal tendencies before the fact.

“Probability the subject cases are related?” Eve demanded.

Working. Probability five point two percent.

“In other words, zip.” Eve blew out a breath, scowling automatically when an airbus rumbled by, rattling her stingy window. “Probability of homicide in the matter of Fitzhugh using currently known data.”

With currently known data, probability of homicide is eight point three percent.

“Give it up, Dallas,” she told herself in a mutter. “Let it go.”

Deliberately, she swiveled in her chair, watching the air traffic clog the sky outside her window. Predestination. Fate. Genetic imprint. If she were to believe in any of that, what was the point of her job—or her life, for that matter? If there was no choice, no changing, why struggle to save lives or stand for the dead when the struggle failed?

If it was all physiologically coded, had she simply followed the pattern by coming to New York, fighting her way out of the dark to make something decent out of herself? And had it been a smear on that code that had blocked out those early years of her life, that continued to shadow bits and pieces of it even now?

And could that code kick in, at any given moment, and make her a reflection of the monster who had been her father?

She knew nothing of her other blood kin. Her mother was a blank. If she had siblings, aunts, uncles, or grandparents, they were all lost in that dark void in her memory. She had no one to base her genetic code on but the man who had beaten and raped her throughout childhood until in terror and pain she had struck back.

And killed.

Blood on her hands at eight years of age. Is that why she’d become a cop? Was she constantly trying to wash away that blood with rules and law and what some still called justice?

“Sir? Dallas?” Peabody laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder and jumped when Eve jolted. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

“No.” Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes. The discussion over dessert had troubled her more than she’d realized. “Just a headache.”

“I’ve got some departmental-issue painkillers.”

“No.” Eve was afraid of drugs, even officially sanctioned doses. “It’ll back off. I’m running out of ideas on the Fitzhugh case. Feeney fed me all known data on the kid on Olympus. I can’t find any correlation between him and Fitzhugh or the senator. I’ve got nothing but piddly shit to hang on Leanore and Arthur. I can request truth detection, but I won’t get it. I’m not going to be able to keep it open more than another twenty-four hours.”

“You still think they’re connected?”

“I want them to be connected, and that’s a different thing. I haven’t exactly given you an impressive lift on with your first assignment as my permanent aide.”

“Being your permanent aide is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Peabody flushed a little. “I’d be grateful if we got stuck shoveling through inactives for the next six months. You’d still be training me.”

Eve leaned back in her chair. “You’re easily satisfied, Peabody.”

Peabody shifted her gaze until her eyes met Eve’s. “No, sir, I’m not. When I don’t get the best, I get real cranky.”

Eve laughed, dragged a hand through her hair. “You sucking up, Officer?”

“No, sir. If I was sucking up, I’d make some personal observation, such as marriage obviously agrees with you, Lieutenant. You’ve never looked lovelier.” Peabody smiled a little when Eve snorted. “That’s how you’d know I was sucking up.”

“So noted.” Eve considered a moment, then cocked her head. “Didn’t you tell me your family are Free-Agers?”

Peabody didn’t roll her eyes, but she wanted to. “Yes, sir.”

“Cops don’t usually spring from Free-Agers. Artists, farmers, the occasional scientist, lots of craft workers.”

“I didn’t like weaving mats.”

“Can you?”

“If held at laser point.”

“So, what? Your family pissed you off and you decided to break the mold, go into a field dramatically removed from pacifism?”

“No, sir.” Puzzled at the line of questioning, Peabody shrugged. “My family’s great. We’re still pretty tight. They’re not going to understand what I do or want to do, but they never tried to block me. I just wanted to be a cop, the same way my brother wanted to be a carpenter and my sister a farmer. One of the strongest tenets of Free-Ageism is self-expression.”

“But you don’t fit the genetic code,” Eve muttered and drummed her fingers on her desk. “You don’t fit. Heredity and environment, gene patterns—they all should have influenced you differently.”

“The bad guys wished I had been,” Peabody said soberly. “But I’m here, keeping our city safe.”

“If you get an urge to weave a mat—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Eve’s unit beeped twice, signaling incoming data. “Additional autopsy report on the kid.” Eve gestured for Peabody to come closer. “List any abnormal brain pattern,” she ordered.

Microscopic abnormality, right cerebral hemisphere, frontal lobe, left quadrant. Unexplained. Further research and testing under way.

“Well, well, I think we just caught a break. Display visual of frontal lobe and abnormality.” The cross section of the brain popped on screen. “There.” A quick surge of excitement churned in her belly as Eve tapped the screen. “That shadow—pinprick. See it?”

“Barely.” Peabody leaned closer until she was all but cheek to cheek with Eve. “Looks like a flaw on the display.”

“No, a flaw in the brain. Increase quadrant six, twenty percent.”

The picture shifted, and the section with the shadow filled the screen. “More of a burn than a hole, isn’t it?” Eve said half to herself. “Hardly there, but what kind of damage, what kind of influence would it have on behavior, personality, decision making?”

“I pretty well dumped my required Abnormal Physiology at the Academy.” Peabody moved her sturdy shoulders. “I did better in Psych, better yet in Tactics. This is over my head.”

“Mine, too,” Eve admitted. “But it’s a link, our first one. Computer, cross section of brain abnormality, Fitzhugh, file one two eight seven one. Split screen with current display.”

The screen jittered, went to fuzzy gray. Eve swore, smacked it with the heel of her hand, and bumped out a shaky image blurred across the center.

“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. This cheap shit we have to use around here. It’s a wonder we can close a case on jaywalking. Download all data, you bastard, on disc.”

“Maybe if you sent this unit into Maintenance,” Peabody suggested and received a snarl.

“It was supposed to be overhauled while I was away. The fuckers in Maintenance have their fingers up their butts. I’m going to run this through one of Roarke’s units.” She caught Peabody’s lifted brow and tapped her foot as she waited for the wheezy machine to download. “You got a problem with that, Officer?”

“No, sir.” Peabody tucked her tongue in her cheek and decided against mentioning the series of codes Eve was about to break. “No problem here.”

“Fine. Get to work on the red tape and get me the brain scan of the senator for comparison.”

Peabody’s smug little smile fell away. “You want me to bump heads with East Washington?”

“Your head’s hard enough to handle it.” Eve ejected the disc and pocketed it. “Call me when you get it. The minute you get it.”

“Yes, sir. If we get a link there, we’re going to need an expert analyst.”

“Yeah.” Eve thought of Reeanna. “I might just have one. Get moving, Peabody.”

“Moving, Lieutenant.”

chapter nine

Eve wasn’t one for breaking rules, yet she found herself standing outside the locked door of Roarke’s private room. It was disconcerting to realize that after a decade of going by the book, she could find it so easy to circumvent procedure.

Do the ends justify the means? she wondered. And are the means really so out of line? Maybe the equipment in the room beyond was unregistered and undetectable to Compuguard and therefore illegal, but it was also top of the line. The pathetic electronics budgeted to the Police and Security Department had been antiquated nearly before it was installed, and Homicide’s slice of the budget pie was stingy and stale.

She tapped her fingers on her pocket where the disc rested and shifted her feet. The hell with it, she decided. She could be a law-abiding cop and walk away or she could be a smart one.

She placed her hand on the security screen. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

The locks disengaged with a quiet snick and opened into Roarke’s huge data center. The long curve of windows, which were shielded against sun and flybys, kept the room in shadows. She ordered lights, secured the door, and walked over to face the wide, U-shaped console.

Roarke had programmed her palm and voice print into the system months before, but she’d never used the equipment alone. Even now that they were married, she felt like an intruder.

She made herself sit, snugged the chair into the console. “Unit one, engage.” She heard the silky hum of high-level equipment responding and nearly sighed. Her disc slid in smoothly, and within seconds had been decoded and read by the civilian unit. “And so much for our elaborate security at NYPSD,” she muttered. “Wall screen on full. Display data, Fitzhugh File H-one two eight seven one. Split screen with Mathias File S-three oh nine one two.”

Data flowed like water onto the huge wall screen facing the console. In her admiration, Eve forgot to feel guilty. She leaned forward, scanning birth dates, credit ratings, purchasing habits, political affiliations.

“Strangers,” she said to herself. “You couldn’t have had less in common.” Then her lips pursed as she noted correlations on a section of purchasing habits. “Well, you both liked games. Lots of on-line time, lots of entertainment and interactive programs.” Then she sighed. “Along with about seventy percent of the population. Computer, split screen display, brain scan both loaded files.”

With an almost seamless segue, Eve was studying the images. “Increase and highlight unexplained abnormalities.”

The same, she mused, eyes narrowed. Here the two men were the same, like brothers, twins in the womb. The burn shadow was precisely the same size and shape, in precisely the same location.

“Computer, analyze abnormality and identify.”

Working . . . Incomplete data . . . Searching medical files. Please wait for analysis.

“That’s what they all say.” She pushed away from the console to pace while the computer juggled its brain. When the door opened, she spun around on her heel and very nearly flushed when Roarke walked in.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Hi.” She dipped her hands in her pockets. “I—ah—had some trouble with my unit at Cop Central. I needed this analysis, so I . . . I can put a hold on it if you need the room.”

“No need for that.” Her obvious discomfort amused him. He strolled to her, leaned down, and kissed her lightly. “And no need for you to fumble through an explanation as to why you’re using the equipment. Digging for secrets?”

“No. Not the way you mean.” The fact that he was grinning at her increased the embarrassment level. “I needed something a little more competent than the tin cans we have at Cop Central, and I figured you’d be gone for a couple more hours.”

“I got an early transport back. Need some help with this?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Stop grinning at me.”

“Was I?” His grin only widened as he slid his arms around her and tucked his hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “How was your lunch with Dr. Mira?”

She scowled. “Do you know everything?”

“I try. Actually, I had a quick meeting with William, and he mentioned that Reeanna had run into you and the doctor. Business or pleasure?”

“Both, I guess.” Her brows lifted as his hands got busy on her butt. “I’m on duty, Roarke. Your hands are currently rubbing the ass of a working cop.”

“That only makes it more exciting.” He shifted to nibble her neck. “Want to break a few laws?”

“I already am.” But she turned her head instinctively to give him better access.

“Then what are a few more?” he murmured and slid his hand out of her pocket and around her body to cup her breast. “I love the feel of you.” His mouth was trailing along her jawline toward her mouth when the computer beeped.

Analysis complete. Display or audio?

“Display,” Eve ordered and wiggled free.

“Damn,” Roarke sighed. “I was so close.”

“What the hell is this?” Hands fisted on her hips, Eve scanned the display on the view screen. “It’s gibberish. Fucking gibberish.”

Resigned, Roarke sat on the edge of the console and studied the display himself. “It’s technical; medical terms, primarily. A bit out of my realm. A burn, electronic in origin. Does that make sense?”

“I don’t know.” Thoughtfully, she tugged on her ear. “Does it make sense for a couple of dead guys to have an electric burn hole in the frontal lobe of their brains?”

“Some fumbling with the equipment during autopsy?” Roarke suggested.

“No.” Slowly, she shook her head. “Not on two of them, examined by different MEs in different morgues. And they’re not surface flaws. They’re inside the brain. Microscopic pinpricks.”

“What’s the relationship between the two men?”

“None. Absolutely none.” She hesitated, then shrugged. He was already involved in a peripheral manner; why not drag him into the center? “One of the men is yours,” she told him. “The autotronics engineer from the Olympus Resort.”

“Mathias?” Roarke pushed off the console, his half-amused, half-intrigued expression going dark. “Why are you investigating a suicide on Olympus?”

“I’m not, officially. It’s a hunch, that’s all. The other brain your fancy equipment’s analyzing is Fitzhugh’s. And if Peabody can untangle the red tape, I’ll plug in Senator Pearly’s.”

“And you expect to find this microscopic burn in the senator’s brain?”

“You’re a quick study, Roarke. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s annoying to have to explain everything step by step.”

His eyes narrowed. “Eve.”

“All right.” She held up her hands, let them fall. “Fitzhugh just didn’t strike me as the type to do himself. I couldn’t close the case until I’d explored all the options. I’ve been running out of options. I might have put it to bed anyway, but I kept thinking about that kid hanging himself.”

She began to pace restlessly. “No predisposition there, either. No obvious motive, no known enemies. He just has himself a snack and makes a noose. Then I heard about the senator. That makes three suicides without logical explanations. Now, for people like Fitzhugh and the senator, with their kind of financial base, there’s counseling at the snap of a finger. Or in cases of terminal illness—physical or emotional—voluntary self-termination facilities. But they took themselves out in bloody and painful ways. Doesn’t fit.”

Roarke nodded. “Go on.”

“And the ME on Fitzhugh came up with this unexplained abnormality. I wanted to see if, on the off chance, the kid had anything like it.” She gestured to the screen. “He does. Now I need to know what put it there.”

Roarke shifted his eyes back to the screen. “Genetic flaw?”

“Possibly, but the computer says unlikely. At least it’s never come across anything like it before—through heredity, mutation, or outside causes.” She moved behind the console, scrolled the screen. “See there, in the projection of possible mental affects? Behavioral alterations. Pattern unknown. A lot of help that is.”

She rubbed her eyes, thought it through. “But that says to me that the subject could, and likely would, behave out of pattern. Suicide would be out of pattern for these two men.”

“True enough,” Roarke agreed. Leaning back against the console, he crossed his legs at the ankles. “But so would dancing naked in church or kicking elderly matrons off a skywalk. Why did they both choose self-termination?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? But this gives me enough, once I figure out how to spin it to Whitney, to keep both cases open. Download data to disc, print hard copy,” she ordered, then turned to Roarke. “I’ve got a few minutes now.”

His brow quirked, a habitual gesture she secretly adored. “Do you?”

“Which laws did you have in mind to break?”

“Several, actually.” He glanced at his watch as she stepped forward to unbutton his elegant linen shirt. “We have a premiere in California tonight.”

Her fingers stopped, her face fell. “Tonight.”

“But I think we have time for a few misdemeanors first.” With a laugh, he scooped her off her feet and laid her back on the console.

Eve was tugging on a floor-length, siren-red sheath and complaining bitterly about the impossibility of wearing so much as a scrap of underwear under the clinging material when her communicator beeped. Naked to the waist, with the flimsy bodice hanging to her knees, she pounced.

“Peabody?”

“Sir.” Several expressions passed over Peabody’s face before it went carefully blank. “That’s a lovely dress, Lieutenant. Are you premiering a new style?”

Baffled, Eve looked down, then rolled her eyes. “Shit. You’ve seen my tits before.” But she set the communicator down and struggled the bodice into place.

“And may I say, sir, they’re quite lovely.”

“Sucking up, Peabody?”

“You bet.”

Eve stifled a chuckle and sat on the edge of the sofa in the dressing room. “Report?”

“Yes, sir. I . . . ah . . .”

Noting that Peabody’s eyes had shifted and glazed over, Eve glanced over her shoulder. Roarke had just walked into the room, damp from his shower, tiny beads of water glistening on his bare chest, a white towel barely hitched at his hips.

“Stay out of view, will you, Roarke, before my aide goes brain dead.”

He looked toward the communicator screen, grinned. “Peabody, hello.”

“Hi.” Even over the unit, her swallow was audible. “Nice to see you—I mean, how are you?”

“Very well, and you?”

“What?”

“Roarke.” Eve heaved a sigh. “Give Peabody a break, will you, or I’ll have to block video.”

“You don’t have to do that, Lieutenant.” Voice rusty, Peabody deflated as Roarke slipped out of view. “Jesus,” she said under her breath and grinned foolishly at Eve.

“Settle your hormones, Peabody, and report.”

“Settling, sir.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve untangled most of the bureaucratic tape, Lieutenant. Just a couple more snags. At this juncture, we should have the requested data by oh nine hundred. But we have to go to East Washington to view it.”

“I was afraid of that. All right, Peabody. We’ll catch the shuttle at oh eight hundred.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Roarke said from behind her while he critically studied the lines of the dinner jacket he held. “Take my transport.”

“It’s police business.”

“No reason to squeeze yourselves into a tuna can. Traveling in comfort doesn’t make it less official. In any case, I’ve some business I can see to in East Washington myself. I’ll take you.” He leaned over Eve’s shoulder, smiled at Peabody. “I’ll have a car sent for you. Seventy forty-five? Is that convenient?”

“Sure.” She wasn’t even disappointed that he was now wearing a shirt. “Great.”

“Listen, Roarke—”

“Sorry, Peabody.” He cut Eve off smoothly. “We’re running a bit late here. See you in the morning.” Reaching over, he manually disengaged the communicator.

“You know, it really pisses me off when you do that kind of thing.”

“I know,” Roarke said equably. “That’s why it’s irresistible.”

“I’ve spent half my life on one sort of transport or another since I met you,” Eve grumbled as she settled into her seat in Roarke’s private Jet Star.

“Still cranky,” he observed, and signaled the flight attendant. “My wife needs another dose of coffee, and I’ll join her.”

“Right away, sir.” She slipped into the galley with silent efficiency.

“You really get a bang out of saying that, don’t you? My wife.”

“I do, yes.” Roarke tipped her face up with a fingertip and kissed the shallow dent in her chin. “You didn’t sleep enough,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb under her eye. “You so rarely turn off that busy brain of yours.” He flicked a glance up at the flight attendant as she set steaming coffee on the table in front of them. “Thank you, Karen. We’ll take off as soon as Officer Peabody arrives.”

“I’ll inform the pilot, sir. Enjoy your flight.”

“You don’t really have to go to East Washington, do you?”

“I could have handled it from New York.” He shrugged, lifted his coffee. “Personal attention always has more impact. And I have the added benefit of watching you work.”

“I don’t want you involved in this.”

“You never do.” He lifted her cup, handed it to her with an easy smile. “However, Lieutenant, I’m involved with you, and therefore you can’t shut me out.”

“You mean you won’t be shut out.”

“Precisely. Ah, here’s the redoubtable Peabody now.”

She came aboard pressed and polished, but spoiling the effect with her jaw hanging open as she swiveled her head right and left in an attempt to see everything at once.

The cabin was as plush and sumptuous as a five-star hotel, with deep, cushy seats and gleaming tables, the glint of crystal holding flowers so fresh they gleamed with dew.

“Stop gaping, Peabody, you look like a trout.”

“Nearly finished, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t mind her, Peabody, she woke up surly.” Roarke rose, disconcerting Peabody until she realized he was offering her a seat. “Would you care for coffee?”

“Well, ah, sure. Thanks.”

“I’ll fetch it and leave you two to discuss your work.”

“Dallas, this is . . . ultra.”

“It’s just Roarke,” Eve muttered into her coffee.

“Yeah, like I said. Ultra.”

Eve glanced up as he came in with more coffee. Dark and gorgeous and just a bit wicked, she thought. Yeah, she supposed, ultra was the word all right. “Well, strap in, Peabody, and enjoy the ride.”

The takeoff was smooth, and the trip was short, providing Peabody with just enough time to fill Eve in on the details. They were to report to the office of the Chief of Security for Government Employees. All data would be viewed in house, and nothing could be transferred or transported.

“Fucking politics,” Eve complained as they jumped into a cab. “Who are they protecting, for Christ’s sake? The man’s dead.”

“Standard CYA procedure. And there are always plenty of asses to cover in East Washington.”

“Fat asses.” Eve eyed Peabody consideringly. “Been to East Washington before?”

“Once, when I was a kid.” Peabody moved her shoulders. “With my family. The Free-Agers staged a silent protest against artificial insemination of cattle.”

Eve didn’t bother to muffle a snort. “You’re full of surprises, Peabody. Since you haven’t been here in a while, you may want to take in the scenery. Check out the memorials.” She gestured as they whizzed by the Lincoln Memorial and its throng of tourists and street hawkers.

“I’ve seen plenty of videos,” Peabody began, but Eve lifted her brows.

“Check out the scenery, Peabody. Consider it an order.”

“Sir.” With what on another face might have been considered a pout, Peabody turned her head.

Eve nipped a card recorder out of her bag and tucked it under her shirt. She doubted security was so tight it would involve X rays or a strip search. And if it did, she’d simply claim she always carried her spare on her person. Eve flipped a glance at the driver, but the droid had her eyes bland and on the road.

“Not a bad town for sightseeing,” Eve commented as they veered onto the vehicle bypass of the White House where the old mansion could just be seen through reinforced gates and steel bunkers.

Peabody swiveled her head, looked dead into Eve’s eyes. “You can trust me, Lieutenant. I thought you knew that.”

“It’s not a matter of trust.” Because she heard the hurt in Peabody’s voice, Eve spoke gently. “It’s a matter of not being willing to put anyone’s ass but my own in a sling.”

“If we’re partners—”

“We’re not partners.” Eve inclined her head, and there was authority in her tone now. “Yet. You’re my aide, and you’re in training. As your superior, I decide how far your butt sticks out in the wind.”

“Yes, sir,” Peabody said stiffly and made Eve sigh.

“Don’t get your briefs in a twist, Peabody. There’ll come a time when I’ll let you take your lumps with the commander. And believe me, he’s got a hell of a punch.”

The cab pulled over to the curb outside the gates of the Security Building. Eve shoved credits through the safety slot, climbed out, and approached the view screen. She placed her palm on the plate, slipped her badge into the identification slot, and waited for Peabody to mirror the procedure.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and aide, appointment with Chief Dudley.”

“One moment for verification. Authorization confirmed. Please place all weapons in holding bin. Warning. It is a federal offense to bring any weapons into the facility. Any individual entering with a weapon in his or her possession will be detained.”

Eve slipped her police issue out of her holster, then, with some regret, bent down to take her clinch piece out of her boot. At Peabody’s bland look, she shrugged. “I started carrying a spare after my experience with Casto. A clinch piece might have saved me some grief.”

“Yeah.” Peabody dumped her standard-issue stunner in the bin. “I wish you’d blasted the son of a bitch.”

Eve opened her mouth, closed it again. Peabody had been careful not to mention the Illegals detective who’d charmed her, bedded her, and used her while he’d killed for profit.

“Look,” Eve said after a moment. “I’m sorry about the way things went down there. If you want to vent about it sometime—”

“I’m not much of a venter.” Peabody cleared her throat. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Well, he’ll be stretching those long legs of his in lockup into the next century.”

Peabody’s mouth curved grimly. “There is that.”

“You are cleared to enter. Please step through the gate, proceed to the autotram on the green line for transport to second level clearing.”

“Jesus, you’d think we were going to see the president instead of some suit-and-tie cop.” Eve walked through the gate that efficiently shut and bolted behind them. She and Peabody settled down on the stiff plastic seats of the tram. With a mechanical hum, it sped them through bunkers and into a steel-walled passageway that angled down until they were ordered to step out into an anteroom filled with harsh, artificial light and walls of view screens.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Officer.” The man who approached wore the smoke gray uniform of Government Security with the rank of corporal. His blond hair was buzz cut so close his pale white scalp peeked through. His thin face was equally pale, the skin tone of a man who spent his time indoors and underground.

His uniform shirt bulged under hefty mountains of biceps.

“Leave your bags with me, please. No electronic or recording devices are permitted beyond this point. You are under surveillance and will remain so until you leave the facility. Understood?”

“Understood, Corporal.” Eve handed him her bag, then Peabody’s, and pocketed the receipts he gave her. “Some place you’ve got here.”

“We’re proud of it. This way, Lieutenant.”

After depositing the bags in a bomb-safe lockup, he led them to an elevator, programmed it for Section Three, Level A. The doors closed without a sound; the car ran with barely a trace of movement. Eve wanted to ask how much the taxpayers had paid for the luxury, but decided the corporal wouldn’t appreciate the irony.

She was certain of it when they were deposited in a wide lobby decorated with foam scoop chairs and potted trees. The carpet was thick and undoubtedly wired for motion detection. The console at which three clerks busily worked was equipped with a full range of computers, monitors, and communications systems. The piped-in music was beyond soothing and edging toward mind dulling.

The clerks weren’t droids, but they were so stiff and polished, so radically conservative in dress, that she thought they’d have been better off as automatons. Mavis, she thought with deep affection, would have been appalled at the lack of style.

“Reconfirmation of palm prints, please,” the corporal requested, and obediently, Eve and Peabody laid their right hands flat on the plate. “Sergeant Hobbs will escort you from here.”

The sergeant, tucked neatly into her uniform, stepped from behind the console. She opened another reinforced door and led the way down a silent corridor.

At the last checkpoint, there was a final screen for weapons, then they were key-coded into the chief’s office.

Here was a sweeping view of the city. Eve supposed, after one glance at Dudley, that he considered it his city. His desk was as wide as a lake, and one wall flashed with screens spot-checking various areas of the building and grounds. On another were photos and holograms of Dudley with heads of state, royalty, ambassadors. His communications center rivaled the control room at NASA Two.

But the man himself cast the rest in shadow.

He was enormous, easily six seven and a beefy two seventy. His wide, rawboned face was weathered and tanned, with his brilliantly white hair cropped short. On hands as big as Virginia hams, he wore two rings. One was the symbol of military rank; the other was a thick gold wedding band.

He stood poker straight and studied Eve out of eyes the color and texture of onyx. For Peabody, he never spared a glance.

“Lieutenant, you’re inquiring into the death of Senator Pearly.”

So much for amenities, Eve thought and answered in kind. “That’s affirmative, Chief Dudley. I’m investigating the possibility that the senator’s death is connected to another case on which I am primary. Your cooperation in this matter is duly noted and appreciated.”

“I find the possibility of a connection slim to none. However, after reviewing your record with NYPSD, I found no objection to allowing you to view the senator’s file.”

“Even a slim possibility bears investigating, Chief Dudley.”

“I agree, and I admire thoroughness.”

“Then, might I ask if you knew the senator personally?”

“I did, and though I did not agree with his politics, I considered him a dedicated public servant and a man with a strong moral base.”

“One who would take his own life?”

Dudley’s eyes flickered for a moment. “No, Lieutenant, I would say not. Which is why you’re here. The senator has left behind a family. In the area of family, the senator and I were in harmony. Therefore, his apparent suicide does not fit the man.”

Dudley touched a control on his desk, inclined his head to the view wall. “On screen one, his personal file. On screen two, his financial records. Screen three, his political file. You’ll have one hour to review data. This office will be under electronic surveillance. Simply request Sergeant Hobbs when you’ve completed your hour.”

Eve’s opinion of Dudley was a little hum in her throat as he left the office. “He’s making it easy for us. If he didn’t particularly like Pearly, I’d say he respected him. Okay, Peabody, let’s get to work.”

She scanned the screens as her cop’s eyes had already scanned the room. She was nearly certain she’d spotted all the security cameras and recorders, and taking a chance on a very uncomfortable detention, shifted so that her body was partially blocked by Peabody’s.

She pulled the diamond Roarke had given her from under her shirt, ran it idly along its chain, and with her free hand slid the small recorder out, kept it pressed just at her throat as she aimed it at the screens.

“A clean life,” she said aloud. “No criminal record whatsoever. Parents married, still living, still based in Carmel. His father did military time, ranked colonel, served during the Urban Wars. Mother an MT with time off as professional parent. That’s a pretty solid upbringing.”

Peabody kept her eyes on the screen and off the recorder. “Solid education, too. Graduate of Princeton, with postgrad work at the World Learning Center on Space Station Freedom. That was right at its conception, and only the top students could get in. Married at thirty, just before his first run for office. Adjusted Population advocate. Requisite one child, male.”

She shifted her gaze to another screen. “His politics are dead center Liberal Party. Butted heads with your old friend DeBlass over the appeal of the Gun Ban and the Morality Bill DeBlass was pushing.”

“I have a feeling I would have liked the senator.” Eve turned slightly. “Scroll personal data to medical history.”

The screen flipped, and the technical terms made her eyes want to cross. She’d have them translated later, she thought, if she managed to get out of the facility with the recorder.

“Looked like a healthy specimen. Physical and mental records show no abnormality. Tonsils treated in childhood, a broken tibia in his twenties as a result of a sport injury. Sight correction, standard, in middle forties. A permanent sterilization procedure during the same period.”

“This is interesting.” Peabody continued to scan the political screen. “He was endorsing a bill that would require all legal representatives and technicians to be rescreened every five years, at their own expense. That wouldn’t sit too well with the legal community.”

“Or with Fitzhugh,” Eve murmured. “Looks like he was after the electronic empire, too. Tougher testing requirements for new devices, new licensing laws. That wouldn’t have made him Mister Popularity, either. Autopsy report,” she demanded, then narrowed her eyes when it flashed on screen.

She skimmed through the jargon, shook her head. “Boy, was he a mess when they scraped him up. Didn’t leave them a hell of a lot to work with. Brain scan and dissection. Nothing,” she said after a moment. No report here of an abnormality or flaw.”

“Display,” she demanded, and stepped closer to the screen to study the visual herself. “Cross section. Side view, enhance. What do you see, Peabody?”

“Unattractive gray matter, too damaged for transplant.”

“Enhance right hemisphere, frontal lobe. Jesus, what a fucking mess he made out of himself. You just can’t see. Can’t be sure.” She stared until her eyes burned. Was that a shadow, or was it simply part of the trauma caused when a human skull smashed brutally into concrete?

“I don’t know, Peabody.” She had all she needed, and she slid the recorder under her shirt again. “But I do know that there’s no motive or predisposition for self-destruct in this data. And that makes three. Let’s get the hell out of this place,” she decided. “It gives me the creeps.”

“I’m with you all the way on that one.”

They got tubes of Pepsi and what passed for a hash sandwich at a glide-cart on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Security Row. Eve was just about to hail a transport back to the airport when a sleek black limo glided to the curb. The rear window slid down, and Roarke smiled out at them.

“Would you ladies like a lift?”

“Wow,” was all Peabody could manage as she scanned the car from bumper to bumper. It was a gleaming antique, a luxury from another era, and as romantic and tempting as sin.

“Don’t encourage him, Peabody.” When Eve started to climb in, Roarke took her hand and tumbled her into his lap. “Hey.” Mortified, she jabbed with her elbow.

“I love to fluster her when she’s on duty,” Roarke said, wrestling Eve back onto his lap. “And how was your day, Peabody?”

Peabody grinned, delighted to see her lieutenant flushed and cursing. “It just got better. If this thing has a privacy screen, I can leave you two alone.”

“I said not to encourage him, didn’t I?” This time her elbow had better aim, and Eve managed to slide off onto the seat. “Idiot,” she muttered at Roarke.

“She dotes on me so.” He sighed, settled back. “It’s almost smothering. If you’ve finished your police business, can I offer you a tour of the city?”

“No,” Eve said before Peabody could open her mouth. “Straight back to New York. No detours.”

“She’s a real party animal, too,” Peabody said soberly, then neatly folded her hands and watched the city stream by.

chapter ten

Before Eve left for home, she perfected a detailed report on the similarities in the alleged suicides and why her suspicions that the senator’s death was due to the same as yet unknown causes. She transferred her findings to the commander’s unit, with a flag to his home ’link.

Unless his wife was hosting one of her ubiquitous dinner parties, she knew Whitney would review the report before morning. With that hope, she took the sky glide from homicide to the Electronic Detective Division.

She found Feeney at his desk, his stubby fingers holding delicate tools, microglasses turning his eyes to saucers as he stripped down a miniboard.

“You doing repair and maintenance these days?” She eased a hip on the edge of his desk, careful not to jar his rhythm. She’d expected no more than the grunt she received in response and waited while he transferred a sliver of something onto a clear dish.

“Somebody’s having fun and games,” he muttered. “Managed to get a virus of some kind right into the chief’s unit. Memory’s been boosted, the GCC compromised.”

She glanced at the silver sliver and imagined that was the GCC. Computers weren’t her forte. “Got a line on it?”

“Not yet.” With tiny tweezers, he lifted the sliver, studied it through his glasses. “But I will. I found the virus, dosed it, that’s first priority. This poor little bastard’s dead, though. When I autopsy it, we’ll see.”

She had to smile. It was so like Feeney to think of his components and chips in human terms. He replaced the sliver, sealed the dish, then tugged off his glasses.

His eyes shrank, blinked, refocused. And there he was, Dallas thought, rumpled, wrinkled, and baggy, just as she liked him best. He’d made her a cop, giving her the kind of in-the-field training she could never have learned through discs or VR. And though he’d transferred from Homicide to captain in EDD, she continued to depend on him.

“So,” she began. “Did you miss me?”

“Were you gone?” He grinned at her, reached a hand into a bowl for some candied almonds. “Did you like your fancy honeymoon?”

“Yeah, I did.” She took a nut herself. It had been a long time since lunch. “Even with a body at the end of it. I appreciate the data you dug up for me.”

“No problem. A lot of fuss for self-terminations.”

“Maybe.” His office was larger than hers, due to his rank and his love of space. His boasted a view screen which, as usual, was tuned to a classic film channel. Just now Indiana Jones was being lowered into a pit of asps. “It’s got a few interesting aspects, though.”

“Want to share?”

“That’s why I’m here.” She’d copied the data she’d taken from the senator’s file and took the disc from her pocket. “I’ve got a brain dissection on here, but the picture’s a little rough. Can you clean it up, boost it some?”

“Can bears shit in the reforested park?” He took the disc, swiveled to his unit, and loaded it. Moments later, he was scowling over the image. “Pitiful imaging. What did you do, use a portable to record off screen?”

“It would be better if we didn’t get into that.”

He turned his head, studied her with that same scowl. “You teetering on a line, Dallas?”

“My balance is good.”

“Let’s hope so.” Preferring to work manually, he slid out a keyboard. His workingman’s fingers danced over keys and controls like a master harpist’s over strings. He jerked a shoulder when she leaned close. “Don’t crowd me, kid.”

“I need to see.”

Under his expertise the picture was clearing, contrasts sharpening. She struggled for patience as he fine tuned, diddled, humming to himself as he worked. Behind her all hell was breaking loose between Harrison Ford and the snakes.

“That’s about the best we can do on this unit. You want more, I have to take it into master.” He flicked a glance up at her. “You gotta log on for master. Technically.”

She knew he’d bypass regulations for her and risk an interview with IAD. “Let’s go with this for now. You see that, Feeney?” She tapped a finger against the screen just under the tiny shadow.

“I see a hell of a lot of trauma. This brain must have been bashed good and proper.”

“But this.” She could just make it out. “I’ve seen this before. On two other scans.”

“I’m no neurologist, but I’d guess it’s not supposed to be there.”

“No.” She straightened. “It’s not supposed to be there.”

She got home late and was met by Summerset at the door. “There are two . . . gentlemen to see you, Lieutenant.”

With a quick jolt, she thought of the data she’d commandeered. “Are they wearing uniforms?”

Summerset’s pursed mouth pruned further. “Hardly. I’ve put them in the front parlor. They insisted on waiting, though you had not indicated when you would arrive, and Roarke is detained at the office.”

“Okay, I’ll handle it.” She wanted a huge plate of anything edible, a hot bath, and some thinking time. Instead, she wound her way down to the parlor and found Leonardo and Jess Barrow. Relief came first, then annoyance. Summerset, the creep, knew Leonardo and could have told her who was waiting to see her.

“Dallas.” Leonardo’s moon-sized face creased into a grin when he spotted her. He swept across the room, a giant in a magenta skin suit overbloused with emerald gauze. No wonder Mavis adored him. He caught Eve up in a bone crushing hug, then narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t dealt with your hair yet. I’ll call Trina myself.”

“Oh. Well.” Intimidated, Eve raked her fingers through her short, messy cap of hair. “I don’t really have time right now to—”

“You have to make time for personal appearance. Not only are you an important public figure in your own right, but you’re Roarke’s wife.”

She was a cop, damn it. Suspects and victims didn’t give a rat’s ass about her hairdo. “Right. As soon as—”

“You’re neglecting your treatments,” he accused her, simply rolling over her excuses like a big smooth boulder down a bumpy slope. “Your eyes are strained and your brows need shaping.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Trina will be in touch to set up a session. Now then.” He propelled her across the room, all but dumped her into a chair. “Relax,” he ordered. “Put your feet up. You’ve had a long day. Can I get you anything?”

“No, really. I’m—”

“Some wine.” Inspired, he beamed, gave her shoulder a quick rub. “I’ll see to it. And don’t worry. Jess and I won’t keep you long.”

“No use arguing with a born nurturer,” Jess commented as Leonardo moved off to order the wine for Eve. “Nice to see you, Lieutenant.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me I’ve lost weight, or gained it, or need a facial?” But she blew out a breath and leaned back. It did feel incredibly good to sit in a chair that wasn’t designed to torture the ass. “Okay, let’s have it. Something must be up for you to tolerate Summerset insulting you until I got home.”

“Actually, he just looked appalled and closed us in here. I do think he’s going to run a room scan after we’re gone to be sure we didn’t lift any of the knickknacks.” Jess sat down, cross-legged, on the cushion at her feet. His silver eyes were smiling, his voice smooth as Bavarian cream. “Great knickknacks, by the way.”

“We like them. If you’d wanted the tour, you should have said so before Leonardo set me down. I’m going to stay here awhile.”

“Looking at you will do just fine. I hope you don’t mind me saying you’re the most attractive cop I’ve ever. . . rubbed shoulders with.”

“Have we rubbed shoulders, Jess?” Her brows lifted, disappearing under her bangs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He chuckled, patted her knee with one of his beautiful hands. “I would love that tour, sometime or other. But right now we have a favor to ask.”

“Got a traffic blot you need fixing?”

His lovely face beamed. “Well, now that you mention it—”

Leonardo carried the crystal glass filled with pale gold wine across the room himself. “Don’t tease her, Jess.”

Eve accepted the glass, glanced up at Leonardo. “He’s not teasing me, he’s flirting with me. He likes to live dangerously.”

Jess let out an appealingly musical laugh. “Caught. Happily married women are the safest to flirt with.” He spread his hands as she sipped, considered him. “No harm, no foul.” He picked up her hand, ran a fingertip along the intricate carving on her wedding ring.

“The last man who messed with me is doing life in lockup,” Eve said casually. “That’s after I beat the crap out of him.”

“Oops.” Chuckling, Jess released her hand. “Maybe I’d better let Leonardo ask for the favor.”

“It’s for Mavis,” Leonardo said, and his eyes became warm and liquid as he spoke her name. “Jess thinks the demo disc is ready. Music and entertainment is a tough field, you know. Crowded, competitive, and Mavis has her heart set on making it. After what happened with Pandora—” He shuddered delicately. “Well, after what happened before, and Mavis being arrested, fired from the Blue Squirrel, going through all of that . . . It’s been rough on her.”

“I know.” The guilt set in again, for her part in it. “It’s behind her now.”

“Thanks to you.” Though Eve shook her head, Leonardo insisted. “You believed her, you worked for her, you saved her. Now I’m going to ask you for something else because I know you love her as much as I do.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re boxing me in very neatly, aren’t you?”

He didn’t bother to suppress the smile. “I hope so.”

“It’s my idea,” Jess interrupted. “Leonardo had to be nudged some to approach you with it. He didn’t want to take advantage of your friendship or your position.”

“My position as a cop?”

“No.” Jess smiled, reading her reaction perfectly. “As Roarke’s wife.” Oh, she didn’t care for that, he thought, amused. This was a woman who wanted to stand firm, on her own. “Your husband has a great deal of influence, Dallas.”

“I know what Roarke has.” It wasn’t precisely true. She didn’t have a clue as to the full extent of his holdings and operations. She didn’t want to. “What do you want from him?”

“Just a party,” Leonardo said quickly.

“A what?”

“A party for Mavis.”

“A splashy one,” Jess put in, grinning. “A busting one.”

“An event.” Leonardo shot Jess a warning look. “A stage, so to speak, where Mavis can mingle with people, perform. I haven’t mentioned the idea to her in case you objected. But we thought if Roarke could invite . . .” There was obvious embarrassment now as she only stared at him. “Well, he knows so many people.”

“People who buy performance discs, go to clubs, look for entertainment.” Not embarrassed in the least, Jess smiled winningly. “Maybe we should get you some more wine.”

Instead, she set the barely touched glass aside. “You want him to give a party.” Wary of a trap, she scanned both faces. “That’s it?”

“More or less.” Hope sprang in Leonardo’s chest. “We’d like to run the demo during it, have Mavis give a live performance as well. I know it’s an expense. I’m more than willing to pay—”

“It won’t be the money that concerns him.” Eve considered, tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I’ll talk to him about it and get back to you. I guess you want it soon.”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll get back to you,” she repeated, then rose.

“Thank you, Dallas.” Leonardo bent in several places to kiss her cheek. “We’ll get out of your way.”

“She’s going to be a huge hit,” Jess predicted. “She just needs a liftoff.” He took a disc out of his pocket. “This is a copy of the demo,” he told her. A specially doctored copy, he thought, just for the lieutenant. “Give it a try. See what we’ve come up with.”

She smiled at it, thinking of Mavis. “I will.”

Upstairs, alone, Eve programmed the AutoChef and came up with a steaming plate of pasta and what was certainly fresh sauce from garden-grown tomatoes and herbs. It never ceased to amaze her what Roarke had access to. She wolfed it down while she ran a bath. As an afterthought, she tossed in some of the foaming salts he’d bought her in Paris.

She thought they smelled like her honeymoon: rich and romantic. She sank into a tub the size of a small lake and sighed greedily. Blank the mind before thinking, she decided and popped open the control panel in the wall. She’d already loaded the demo in the bedroom unit and switched it to play on the recessed screen in the bathroom.

She settled back into hot, frothy water, a second glass of vintage wine in her hand, and shook her head. What the hell was she doing here? Eve Dallas, a cop who’d come up the hard way; a nameless kid found in an alley, abandoned and abused, with a murder on her hands blocked from her memory.

Even a year before, that memory had been patchy and her life had been one of work, survival, and more work. Standing for the dead was her business, and she was good at her job. That had been enough. She’d made it enough.

Until Roarke. The glitter of the ring on her finger continued to puzzle her.

He loved her. He wanted her. He, the competent, successful, and enigmatic Roarke, even needed her. That was the biggest puzzle of all. And maybe, since she couldn’t seem to solve it, she would eventually learn to simply accept it.

She brought the wine to her lips, sank a little lower into the water, and hit the remote.

Instantly, color and sound exploded into the room. In defense, she lowered the volume before her eardrums burst. Then Mavis swirled across the screen, as exotic as a sprite, potent as straight whiskey. Her voice was a screech, but it was appealing, nonetheless, and it suited her as well as the music Jess had designed to showcase the vocals.

It was hot, ruthless, and raw. Very much Mavis. But as Eve soaked it in, she realized that the sound and the show had more polish. Oh, there had always been flash and sparkle when it came to Mavis’s work, but now there was a thin sheen of gloss she had lacked before.

Production values, she supposed. Orchestration. Andsomeone who has the eye to recognize a rough diamond and the talent and willingness to help buff it up.

Eve’s opinion of Jess took a step up. Maybe he’d looked like a cocky boy showing off on his complicated console, but he obviously knew how to make it work. More, he understood Mavis, Eve realized. He appreciated her for what she was and what she wanted to do, and he’d found a way for her to do it well.

Eve chuckled to herself and lifted her glass in toast to her friend. It looked like they were going to have a party at that.

In his studio downtown, Jess reviewed the demo. He sincerely hoped that Eve was watching the disc. If she did, her mind would be open. Wide open to dreams. He wished he knew what they would be, where they would take her. Then he could see what she would see. He could document. Relive. But his research hadn’t yet allowed him to find the path into the dreams. One day, he thought, one day.

Eve’s dreams took her back into the dark, into the dread. They were jumbled, then shockingly clear, then scattered again like leaves in the wind. It was terrifying. She dreamed of Roarke, and that was soothing. Watching an explosive sunset with him in Mexico, making reckless love in the dark, bubbling water of a lagoon. Hearing his voice in her ear when he was inside her, urging her to let go. Just let go.

Then it was her father, holding her down, and she was a child, helpless, hurting, frightened.

Please don’t.

The smell of him was there, candy over liquor. Too sweet, too strong. She was gagging on it and weeping, and his hand was over her mouth to stifle her screams when he raped her.

Our personalities are programmed at conception. Reeanna’s voice floated in, cool and sure. We are what we are made. Our choices are already set at birth.

And she was a child, in a terrible room, a cold room that smelled of garbage and urine and death. And there was blood on her hands.

Someone was holding her, pinning her arms, and she fought like a wild thing, like a terrified, desperate child would fight.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”

“Ssh, Eve, it’s a dream.” Roarke gathered her closer, rocked, while the clammy sweat on her skin soaked into his shirt and broke his heart. “You’re safe.”

“I killed you. You’re dead. Stay dead.”

“Wake up now.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, struggling to find the right way to soothe her. If he’d had the power, he would have gone back in time and cheerfully murdered what haunted her.

“Wake up, darling. It’s Roarke. No one’s going to hurt you. He’s gone,” he murmured when she stopped fighting him and began to shudder. “He’s never coming back.”

“I’m all right.” It humiliated her, always, to be caught in the grip of a nightmare. “I’m okay now.”

“I’m not.” He continued to hold her, stroking until her tremors eased. “It was a bad one.”

She kept her eyes shut, tried to concentrate on the scent of him: clean and male. “Remind me not to go to bed after gorging on spiced spaghetti.” She realized he was fully dressed and the bedroom lights were on low. “You haven’t been to bed.”

“I just got in.” He eased her back to study her face and brushed a drying tear from her cheek. “You’re still pale.” It tore at him, and his voice was edgy. “Why the hell won’t you take a soother at least?”

“I don’t like them.” As usual, the nightmare had left her with the dull throb of a headache. Knowing he would see it if he looked too closely, she shifted away. “I haven’t had one in a while. Weeks really.” Calmer now, she rubbed her tired eyes. “That one was all jumbled up. Strange. Maybe it was the wine.”

“And maybe it’s stress. You will work until you collapse.”

She angled her head, glanced at the watch on his wrist. “And who’s just coming in from the office at two A.M.?” She smiled, wanting to erase the worry from his eyes. “Buy any small planets lately?”

“No, just a few minor satellites.” He rose, stripped off his shirt, then lifted a brow when he caught the considering look she gave his bare chest. “You’re too tired.”

“I don’t have to be. You could do all the work.”

Laughing, he sat to take off his shoes. “Thank you very much, but why don’t we wait until you have the energy to participate?”

“Christ, that’s so married.” But she slid down in the bed, exhausted. The headache was just on the edge of her brain, cannily waiting to strike. When he slipped into bed beside her, she rested her tender head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“So am I.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “You’ll sleep now.”

“Yeah.” It soothed her to feel the rhythm of his heart under the palm of her hand. She only felt slightly ashamed of needing it there, needing him there. “Do you think we’re programmed at conception?”

“What?”

“I wonder.” She was drifting into that twilight sleep already, and her voice was thick and slow. “Is it just the luck of the draw, the gene pool, what slips in with egg and sperm? Is that it? What does that make us, Roarke, you and me?”

“Survivors,” he said, but he knew she was asleep. “We survived.”

He lay awake a long time, listening to her breathe, watching the stars. When he was certain she slept without scars, he let himself follow.

* * *

She was awakened at seven by a communiqué from Commander Whitney’s office. She’d been expecting the summons. She had two hours to prep for the face-to-face report.

It didn’t surprise her that Roarke was already up, dressed, and sipping coffee while he scanned the stock reports on his monitor. She grunted at him, her usual morning greeting, and took coffee into the shower with her.

He was on the ’link when she came back. His broker, she imagined from the bits and pieces of conversation she caught. She snagged a muffin, intending to stuff it into her mouth as she dressed, but Roarke grabbed her hand, pulled her down on the sofa.

“I’ll get back to you by noon,” he told his broker, then ended transmission. “What’s your hurry?” he asked Eve.

“I’ve got to meet Whitney in an hour and a half and convince him there’s a link between three unrelated victims, talk him into letting me pursue the matter, and to accept data I accessed illegally. Then I’m due in court, again, to testify so that a lowlife pimp, who ran an unlicensed stable of minors and beat one of them to death with his hands, goes into a cage and stays there.”

He kissed her lightly. “Just another day at the office. Have some strawberries.”

She had a weakness for them and plucked one out of the bowl. “We don’t have any—you know—thing scheduled for tonight, do we?”

“No. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could just hang.” She moved her shoulders. “Unless I’m in Interview being kicked because of breaching government security.”

“You should have let me do it for you.” He grinned at her. “A little time, and I could have accessed the data from here.”

She closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me that. I really don’t want to know that.”

“What do you say to watching some old videos, eating popcorn, and necking on the sofa?”

“I say, thank you, God.”

“It’s a date then.” He topped off their coffee. “Maybe we’ll even manage to have dinner together. This case—or these cases—are troubling you.”

“I can’t get a hook, a focal point. There’s no why, there’s no how. Other than Fitzhugh’s spouse and his associate, no one’s been even one step out of line. And they’re both just idiots.” She moved her shoulders. “It’s not homicide when it’s self-termination, but it feels like homicide.” She huffed out a disgusted breath. “And if that’s all I’ve got to convince Whitney, I’m going to be dragging my ass out of his office after he stomps it.”

“You trust your instincts. He strikes me as a man who’s smart enough to trust them as well.”

“We’ll soon see.”

“If they arrest you, darling, I’ll wait for you.”

“Ha ha.”

“Summerset said you had visitors last night,” Roarke added as she rose to go to the closet.

“Oh, shit, I forgot.” Dumping the robe on the floor, she pawed naked through her clothes. It was a process Roarke never failed to enjoy. She found a shirt of plain blue cotton, shrugged it on. “I had a couple of guys over for a quick orgy after work.”

“Did you take pictures?”

She chuckled and found some jeans, remembered court, and switched to tailored slacks. “It was Leonardo and Jess. They’re looking for a favor. From you.”

Roarke watched as Eve started to pull on the slacks, remembered underwear, and yanked open a drawer. “Oh-oh. Will it hurt?”

“I don’t think so. And actually, I’m kind of for it. They were thinking you could throw a party for Mavis here. Let her perform. The demo disc is done. I watched it myself last night and it’s really good. It would give her a chance to, like, premiere it before they start hawking it.”

“All right. We could probably do it in a week or two. I’ll check my schedule.”

Half dressed, she turned to him. “Just like that?”

“Why not? It’s not a problem.”

She pouted a little. “I figured I’d have to persuade you.”

Anticipation lit wickedly in his eyes. “Would you like to?”

She fastened her slacks, kept her face bland. “Well, I really appreciate it. And since you’re being so accommodating, I guess this is a good time to hit you with part two.”

Idly, he poured more coffee, flicked a glance at the monitor as the off planet agriculture reports began to scroll. He’d recently bought a minifarm on Space Station Delta.

“What’s part two?”

“Well, Jess has worked out this one number. He ran it by me last night.” She looked at Roarke, making it up as she went along. “It’s a duet, really impressive. And we thought, if for the party—the live portion of the performance—you could do it with Mavis.”

He blinked, lost all interest in crops. “Do what with Mavis?”

“Perform it. Actually it was my idea,” she continued, nearly losing it when he paled. “You’ve got a nice voice. In the shower, anyway. The Irish comes out. I mentioned it, and Jess thought it was fabulous.”

He managed to shut his mouth, but it wasn’t easy. Slowly he reached over to disengage the monitor. “Eve—”

“Really, it would be great. Leonardo has a terrific design for your costume.”

“For my—” Thoroughly shaken, Roarke got to his feet. “You want me to wear a costume and sing a duet with Mavis? In public?”

“It would mean so much to her. Just think of the press we could get.”

“Press.” Now he blanched. “Christ Jesus, Eve.”

“It’s really a sexy number.” Testing them both, she walked over, began to toy with the buttons of his shirt as she looked hopefully up into his eyes. “It could put her right over the top.”

“Eve, I’m fond of her, really I am. I just don’t think—”

“You’re so important.” She trailed her finger down the center of his chest. “So influential. And so . . . gorgeous.”

It was just a little too thick. He narrowed his eyes, caught the laughter in hers. “You’re putting me on.”

Her laughter burst out. “You bought it. Oh, you should have seen your face.” She pressed a hand to her belly, yelping when he yanked her ear. “I would have talked you into it.”

“I don’t think so.” Not at all sure of himself, he turned away, started to reach for his coffee again.

“I could have. You’d have done it if I’d played it right.” All but doubled over with laughter, she threw her arms around him, hugged herself to his back. “Oh, I love you.”

He went very still as emotion delivered a hard, bruising punch to his heart. Shaken, he turned, gripped her arms.

“What?” The laughter died out of her face. He looked stunned, and his eyes were dark and fierce. “What is it?”

“You never say it.” Swamped, he dragged her close and buried his face in her hair. “You never say it,” he repeated.

She could do nothing but hold on, rocked by the emotions pulsing from him. Where had this come from? she wondered. Where had he hidden it? “Yes, I do. Sure I do.”

“Not like that.” He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear her say it, just like that. “Not without prompting. Without thinking about it first.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. It was true, and it was foolish, cowardly. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me. I do love you,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it scares me because you’re the first. And the only.”

He held her there until he was sure he could speak, then eased her back, looked into her eyes. “You’ve changed my life. Become my life.” He touched his lips to hers, let the kiss deepen slowly, silkily. “I need you.”

She linked her arms around his neck, pressed close. “Show me. Now.”

chapter eleven

Eve started off to work humming. Her body felt soft and strong, her mind rested. She took it as an omen when her vehicle purred to life on the first attempt, and the temperature control hung at a pleasant seventy-two degrees.

She felt ready to face her commander and convince him she had a case to pursue.

Then she got to Fifth and Forty-seventh and hit the jam. Street traffic was stopped, air traffic was circling like vultures, and no one was paying any heed to the noise pollution laws. The horns, shouts, curses, catcalls screamed out and echoed. The minute she stopped, her temperature control gleefully pumped up to ninety-five.

Eve slammed out of her car and joined the melee.

The glide-cart hawkers were taking advantage of the moment, slipping and sliding through the pack and doing a monster business on frozen fruit sticks and coffee. She didn’t bother to flash her badge and remind any of them they weren’t allowed the vend off the curbs. Instead, she snagged a vendor, bought a tube of Pepsi, and asked what the hell was going on.

“Free-Agers.” Eyes shifting for more customers, he slid her credits into his safe slot. “Protest on conspicuous consumption. Hundreds of ’em, stretched across Fifth like a pretty ribbon. Singing. Want a wheat muffin to go with that? Fresh.”

“No.”

“Gonna be here awhile,” he warned and stepped onto his cart to glide through standing traffic.

“Son of a bitch.” Eve scanned the scene. She was blocked in on all sides by furious commuters. Her ears were ringing and heat was pumping out of her car like a furnace.

She slammed back in, beat on the control panel with her fist, and managed to knock the temperature down to a brisk sixty. Overhead, a tourist blimp trundled by, full of gawkers.

With no faith whatsoever in her vehicle, Eve rammed it into vertical lift and hit her official warning siren. The siren wheezed on, no match for the cacophony of noise, but she managed a shaky lift. Her wheels missed the roof of the car in front of her by at least an inch as her vehicle coughed and choked its way into the air.

“Next stop, recycling heap. I swear it,” she muttered and she punched at her communicator. “Peabody, what the fuck is going on here?”

“Sir.” Peabody popped on screen, eyes bland, mouth sober. “I believe you’ve encountered the jam incited by the protest on Fifth.”

“That wasn’t scheduled. I know damn well it wasn’t on the boards for this morning. They can’t have a permit.”

“Free-Agers don’t believe in permits, sir.” She cleared her throat when Eve snarled. “I believe if you head west, you’ll have better luck on Seventh. Traffic is heavy there, but it’s moving. If you check your dash monitor—”

“Yeah, like that’s going to work in this piece of shit. Call Maintenance and tell them they’re meat. Then contact the commander, explain that I may be a few minutes late for the meeting.” As she spoke, she wrestled with the car, which tended to dip and cause both pedestrians and other drivers to stare up in terror. “If I don’t fall on someone, I should be there in twenty minutes.”

She avoided, barely, the edge of a billboard hologram touting the delights of private air travel. She and the Jet Star headed in opposite directions with varying degrees of success. She nicked the curb as she set down on Seventh and couldn’t blame the suit and tie pumping up his air skates for flipping her the bird.

But she’d missed him, hadn’t she?

She was just indulging in a sigh of relief when her communicator shrilled.

“Any unit, any unit. Twelve seventeen, roof of Tattler Building, Seventh and Forty-second. Respond immediately. Unidentified female, considered armed.”

Twelve seventeen, Eve thought. Self-termination threat. What the hell was this? “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, responding. ETA five minutes.”

She beat her siren into life and hit vertical again.

The Tattler Building, home of the nation’s most popular tabloid, was shiny and new. The buildings on its former site had been razed in the thirties for the urban beautification program, which was a euphemism for the decay of infrastructure and construction that had plagued New York during the period.

It speared up in silvery steel, bullet-shaped, and was ringed by circling skywalks and glides with a fresh-air restaurant spilling out from its base.

Eve double parked, grabbed her field kit, and pushed her way through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. She flipped her badge at the security guard and watched relief drown his face.

“Thank Christ. She’s up there, holding everybody off with antimugging spray. Got Bill dead in the eyes when he tried to grab her.”

“Who is she?” Eve demanded as he hustled his way toward the interior elevator banks.

“Cerise Devane. She owns the fucking place.”

“Devane?” Eve knew her vaguely. Cerise Devane, CEO of Tattler Enterprises, was one of the privileged and influential people who sauntered in Roarke’s circles. “Cerise Devane is on the roof threatening to jump? What is this, some sort of insane publicity stunt to bump up their circulation?”

“Looks real to me.” He puffed out his cheeks. “She’s buck ass naked, too. That’s all I know,” the guard claimed as the elevator shot upward. “Her assistant made the call. Frank Rabbit. You can get more out of him—if he’s conscious by now. Guy keeled right over when she went out on the ledge. That’s what I heard.”

“You call for psych?”

“Somebody did. We got the company shrink up there now, and a specialist in self-termination is on the way. Fire department, too, and air rescue. Everything’s backed up. Bad traffic jam on Fifth.”

“Tell me about it.”

The doors opened onto the roof, and Eve stepped out into a brisk, cooling wind that hadn’t been able to find its way through the towering walls of buildings to the valley of the streets. She took a quick scan.

Cerise’s office was built onto the roof, or more accurately, into it. Slanted walls of treated glass formed a peak and would afford the CEO a three hundred sixty degree view of the city and people she loved to dish up in her paper.

Through the glass, Eve could see the artwork, decor, and equipment designed for a top-flight office. And on the U-shaped lounging sofa, a man was stretched out with a compress on his forehead.

“If that’s Rabbit, tell him to pull himself together and get out here to fill me in. And get anyone who isn’t essential off this roof. Clear that crowd off the streets. If she goes off, we don’t need her squashing bystanders.”

“I just don’t have the man power,” the guard began.

“Get Rabbit out here,” she repeated and called Cop Central. “Peabody, I’ve got a situation.”

“I heard. What do you need?”

“Get down here, send a crowd dispersal unit to move those people off the street. Bring me all available data on Cerise Devane. See if Feeney can put a freeze on her ’links—home, personal, and portable—for the last twenty-four hours. Make it snappy.”

“Done,” Peabody responded and broke transmission.

She turned as the guard all but carried a young man across to her. Rabbit’s company tie was loose, his stylishly shaped hair was mussed and matted. His hands, neatly manicured, shook.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” she snapped. “Make it fast, and make it clear. You can fall apart when I’m finished with you.”

“She just—just walked out of the office.” His voice hitched and dipped and he sagged weakly against the supporting arm of the guard. “She looked so happy. She was almost dancing. She—she’d taken off her clothes. She’d taken them off.”

Eve cocked a brow. At the moment, Rabbit seemed more shocked by his boss’s sudden whim for exhibitionism than the possibility of her death. “What led up to it?”

“I don’t know. I swear, I have no idea. She’d wanted me to come in early, about eight. She was upset over one of the lawsuits. We’re always getting sued. She was smoking and gulping coffee and pacing. Then she sent me out to light a fire under Legal and said she was going to take a few minutes to relax and level out.”

He stopped, covered his face with his hands. “Fifteen minutes later she walked out, smiling and—and nude. I was so stunned, I just sat there. Just sat there.” His teeth began to chatter. “I’ve never even seen her without her shoes.”

“Being naked’s not her big problem now,” Eve pointed out. “Did she speak to you, say anything?”

“I, well, I was so stunned, you see. I said something, something like, ‘Ms. Devane, what are you doing? Is something wrong?’ And she just laughed. She said it was perfect. She had it all figured out now, and everything was wonderful. She was going to sit out on the ledge awhile before she jumped. I thought she was joking, and I was nervous so I laughed a little.”

His eyes were stricken. “I laughed, and then I saw her go to the edge of the roof. Jesus. She just popped over the side. I thought she’d jumped, and I ran out and over. There she was, sitting on the ledge, swinging her legs and humming. I asked her please to come back up before she lost her balance. She just laughed, spritzed a little of the spray at me, and told me she’d just found her balance and to go away like a good boy.”

“She get any calls, make any?”

“No.” He wiped his mouth. “Any transmissions would have gone through my unit. She’s going to jump, I tell you. She leaned over while I was watching, nearly went over then. And she said what a nice trip it was going to be. She’s going to jump.”

“We’ll see about that. Stay available.” Eve turned away. The company shrink was easy enough to spot. He was dressed in a knee-length white smock and black pipestem pants. His comforting gray hair was twisted into a neat queue, and he was leaning over the edge of the roof, his posture transmitting anxiety.

Even as Eve started toward him, she swore. She heard the whirl of flybys, then cursed the media again as she spotted the first air van. Channel 75, naturally, she mused. Nadine Furst was always first out of the gate.

The shrink straightened, smoothed down his smock for the cameras. Eve decided she was going to detest him. “Doctor?” She held up her badge and noticed the undisguised excitement in his eyes. All Eve could think was, a company the size and strength of Tattler could afford better.

“Lieutenant, I believe I’m making some progress with the subject.”

“She’s still on the ledge, isn’t she?” Eve pointed out and brushed past him to lean over. “Cerise?”

“More company?”

Sleek and pretty, skin the color of blushing rose petals, her well-toned legs swinging merrily, Cerise looked up. Her hair was jet black, its carefully groomed waves blowing in the breeze. She had a foxy, intelligent face and sharp green eyes. Just now, those eyes were soft and dreamy.

“Why, it’s Eve, isn’t it? Eve Dallas, the new bride. Lovely wedding, by the way. Really the social event of the year. We moved thousands of units with our coverage.”

“Good for you.”

“You know, I had research and data search busting butt to try to get the honeymoon itinerary. I don’t think anybody but Roarke could have managed a full media blackout.” She wagged her finger playfully, and her perky breasts swayed. “You could have shared, just a little. The public’s dying to know.”

She giggled at that, shifted, and nearly overbalanced. “We’re all dying to know. Whoops. Not yet. Too much fun, don’t want to rush it.” Straightening, she waved at the air vans. “Usually I hate the damn visual media. Can’t think why, just now. I love everybody!” She shouted the last, tossing her arms wide.

“That’s nice, Cerise. Why don’t you come back up for a minute. I’ll give you some data on the honeymoon. Exclusive.”

Cerise smiled slyly. “Uh-uh-uh.” The refusal was playful again, almost a giggle. “Why don’t you come down and join me? You can go with me. I’m telling you, it’s the ultimate.”

“Now, Ms. Devane,” the shrink began, “all of us have moments of despair. I understand. I’m with you. I hear your sorrow.”

“Oh stuff it.” Cerise brushed him back with a gesture. “I’m talking to Eve. Come on down, sweetie. But not too close.” She shook the spray and giggled. “Come on and join the party.”

“Lieutenant, I don’t recommend that you—”

“Shut up and go wait for my aide,” Eve told him as she swung a leg over the steel safety wall, lowered herself over the edge.

The wind didn’t seem quite so pleasant when she was dangling seventy stories over the street, nudged on a steel ledge barely two feet wide. Here it buffeted and swirled, aided by the backwash from the air vans. It plucked at the clothes and slapped the skin. She ordered her heart to stop jumping and pressed her back to the building.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” Cerise sighed. “I’d love to have some wine now, wouldn’t you? No, a big flute of champagne. Roarke’s Reserve forty-seven would go down smooth right now.”

“I think we’ve got a case at home. Let’s go open one.”

Cerise laughed, turned her head, and smiled hugely. And it was the smile, Eve realized as her heart lurched again, she’d seen on the face of a young man hanging from a homemade noose. “I’m already drunk on happiness.”

“If you’re happy, why are you sitting naked on a ledge considering taking the last leap?”

“That’s what makes me happy. I don’t know why you don’t understand.” Cerise lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes. Eve risked shifting a few inches closer. “I don’t know why everyone doesn’t understand. It’s so beautiful. It’s so thrilling. It’s everything.”

“Cerise, you go off this ledge, it’s nothing. It’s over.”

“No, no, no.” She opened her eyes again, and they were glazed. “It’s just the beginning, don’t you see? Oh, we’re all so blind.”

“Whatever’s wrong can be fixed. I know.” Carefully, Eve laid a hand on Cerise’s. She didn’t grip, didn’t want to risk it. “Surviving’s what counts. You can change things, make things better, but you have to survive to do it.”

“Do you know how much work that is? And what’s the point when there’s so much pleasure just waiting. I feel so good. Don’t.” Chuckling, Cerise aimed the spray at Eve’s face. “Don’t spoil it now. I’m having such a nice time.”

“You have people who are worried about you. You have family, Cerise, who love you.” Eve strained to remember. Was there a child, a spouse, parents? “If you do this, you’ll hurt them.”

“Only until they understand. The time’s coming when everyone will understand. It’s going to be better then. Beautiful then.” She looked dreamily into Eve’s eyes, that beaming and terrifying smile on her lips. “Come with me.” She grabbed Eve’s hand, clutched. “It’s going to be wonderful. You only have to let go.”

Sweat snaked a line down Eve’s back. The woman’s grip was like a vise, and a struggle for freedom could doom them both. She forced herself not to resist, to ignore the twisting wind and the hum of the air vans documenting every movement. “I don’t want to die, Cerise,” she said calmly. “And neither do you. Self-termination is for cowards.”

“No, it’s for explorers. But suit yourself.” Cerise patted Eve’s hand, released it, and gave a long, trilling laugh to the wind. “Oh God, I’m so happy,” she said and, throwing her arms wide, leaned forward into space.

Instinctively, Eve grabbed. She nearly lost her perch as her fingertips brushed the trim line of Cerise’s hip. She banged onto her side, fought the roll forward as wind and space pulled at her. Gravity worked fast, mercilessly. Eve stared down into that wildly smiling face until it was only a blur.

“Jesus God. Oh, Jesus God.” Dizzy with reaction, she pushed herself up, leaned her head back, shut her eyes. Screams and shouts rained on her, and the air displaced by the media van coming in for a close-up struck her cheeks.

“Lieutenant. Dallas.”

The voice was like a bee buzzing in her ears, and Eve simply shook her head.

On the roof, Peabody stared down and fought against the nausea rising into her throat. All she could see now was that Eve was pressed on the ledge, white as a sheet, and one careful move would send her after the woman she’d tried to save. Taking a deep breath, Peabody trained her voice to sharp, professional tones.

“Lieutenant Dallas, you’re needed here. I require your recorder for a full report.”

“I hear you,” Eve said wearily. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she reached behind to grip the edge of the roof. As a hand locked over hers, she got to her feet. Turning her back to the fall, she looked dead into Peabody’s eyes, read the fear. “The last time I thought about jumping, I was eight.” Though her legs shook a bit, she swung back onto the roof. “I won’t go that way.”

“Jesus, Dallas.” Forgetting herself for a moment, Peabody gave Eve a hard hug. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought she was going to pull you off.”

“So did I. She didn’t. Get a grip here, Peabody. The press is having a field day.”

“Sorry.” Peabody pulled back, coloring a bit. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Eve looked over to where the shrink was standing at the edge, one hand to his heart in a pose for the busy cameras. “Asshole,” she muttered. She dug her hands into her pockets. She needed a minute, just another minute, to settle. “I couldn’t stop her, Peabody. I couldn’t find the right button to push.”

“Sometimes there isn’t one.”

“There was one that switched her onto this,” Eve said quietly. “There had to be one to switch her off.”

“I’m sorry, Dallas. You knew her.”

“Not really. Just one of the people who walk past a corner of your life.” She pushed it away, had to push it away. Death, however it came, always left responsibilities. “Let’s see what we can do here. Did you tag Feeney?”

“Affirmative. He locked on her ’links from EDD and said he would head over personally. I downloaded data on the subject, didn’t take time to scan it.”

They walked toward the office. Through the glass, Rabbit could be seen sitting with his head between his knees. “Do me a favor, Peabody. Pass that limp rag off to a uniform for a formal statement. I don’t want to deal with him right now. I want her office secured. Let’s see if we can figure out what the hell she was doing that set her off.”

Peabody marched in, had Rabbit up and out with a uniform in seconds. With wicked efficiency, she cleared the room, sealed the outer doors. “It’s all ours, sir.”

“Haven’t I told you not to call me sir?”

“Yes, sir,” Peabody said with a smile she hoped would lift the heavy mood.

“There’s a smart-ass lurking under that uniform.” Eve blew out a breath. “Recorder on, Peabody.”

“Already on.”

“Okay, here she is. She’s in early, pissed off. Rabbit says she was hyped about some litigation. Get data on that.” As she spoke, Eve wandered the room, absorbing details. Sculptures, mostly mythological figures in bronze. Very stylized. Deep blue carpet to match the sky, the desk in rose tones with a mirror gloss. Office equipment sleek and modern and tinted that same flowery shade. A huge copper urn exploded with exotic blooms, and Eve noticed a pair of potted trees.

She crossed to the computer, took her master pass out of her field kit, and called for the last use report.

Last use, 8:10 A.M., call for file number 3732-L Legal, Custler v Tattler Enterprises.

“That’d be the lawsuit she was pissed about,” Eve concluded. “Jibes with Rabbit’s earlier statement.” She glanced down at a marble ashtray loaded with a half dozen cigarette butts. Using tweezers, she picked one up, examined it. “Caribbean tobacco. Web filter. Pricey. Bag these.”

“You think they might be laced with something?”

“She was laced with something. Her eyes were wrong.” She wouldn’t forget them, Eve knew, for a long, long time. “We can hope there’s enough left of her for a tox report. Take a sample of those coffee dregs, too.”

But Eve didn’t think they would find what she was looking for in the tobacco or the coffee. There had been no chemical trace in any of the other suicides.

“Her eyes were wrong,” Eve repeated. “And her smile. I’ve seen that smile before, Peabody. A couple of times now.”

As she tucked the evidence bags away, Peabody glanced up. “You think this is connected with the others?”

“I think Cerise Devane was a successful, ambitious woman. And we’ll go through procedure, but I’m willing to lay odds we won’t find a motive for self-termination. She sends Rabbit out,” Eve continued, pacing the office. Annoyed by the constant hum, she glanced up, scowled at the air van still hovering. “See if you can find the privacy shields. I’m tired of those jerks.”

“A pleasure.” Peabody hunted up the control panel. “I thought I saw Nadine Furst in one of them. The way she was leaning out, it was a good thing she was wearing a harness. She might have ended up as the lead on her own newscast.”

“At least she’ll get it right,” Eve said half to herself and nodded when the privacy shields slid into place and closed off the glass. “Good. Lights,” she ordered, and brought the brightness back up. “She wanted to relax, level herself off for the rest of the day.”

Eve poked into a cold box, found soft drinks, fruit, wine. One of the wine bottles had been opened and air sealed, but there was no glass to indicate Cerise had started drinking early. And it wasn’t a couple of belts that had put that look in her eyes, Eve mused.

In the adjoining bath, complete with whirlpool, personal sauna, and mood enhancer tube, she found a cupboard filled with soothers and tranqs and legalized lifters. “A big believer in chemical assistance, our Cerise,” she commented. “Take them in for testing.”

“Jesus, she’s got her own pharmacy. The mood tube’s set on concentration mode, and the last use was yesterday morning. She didn’t take a spin this morning.”

“So what does she do to relax?” Eve stepped into an adjoining room, which was a small sitting room, she noted, complete with full entertainment unit, sleep chair, serving droid.

A lovely, sage-green suit was neatly folded on a small table. Matching shoes stood on the floor under it. Jewelry—a heavy linked gold chain, complicated twists of earrings, a slim bracelet watch-recorder—had been slipped tidily in a glass bowl.

“She undressed in here. Why? What was the point?”

“Some people relax better without the confines of clothes,” Peabody said, then flushed when Eve cast a considering glance over her shoulder. “I’ve heard.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But it doesn’t suit her. She was a real put-together woman. Her assistant told me he’d never even seen her without shoes, and suddenly she’s a closet nudist. I don’t think so.”

Her gaze landed on the VR goggles on the arm of the sleep chair. “Maybe she took a trip after all,” Eve murmured. “She’s frazzled, wants to smooth the edges. So she comes in here, stretches out, programs something, and takes a little ride.”

Eve sat, picked up the goggles. VR goggles, she mused. Fitzhugh and Mathias had taken trips before death as well. “I’m going to see where she went and when. Ah, if I appear to have any suicidal urges after I’m done—or decide I can relax better without the confines of my clothes—you’re ordered to knock me cold.”

“Without hesitation, sir.”

Eve cocked a brow. “But you’re not expected to enjoy it.”

“I’ll hate every minute of it,” Peabody promised, and folded her hands.

With a weak laugh, Eve slipped the goggles on. “Display log,” she ordered. “Bull’s-eye. She went VR at 8:17 this morning.”

“Dallas, if that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t do this. We can take it in and test it under controlled conditions.”

“You’re my control, Peabody. If I look too happy to live shortly, zap me. Replay last run program,” Eve ordered and settled back. “Jesus.” She hissed it out as two young studs walked toward her. Dressed only in strips of glossy black leather studded with silver, they were oiled, muscled, and fully aroused.

Her environment was now a white room, mostly bed, and there was satin under her naked body, gauze draped overhead to filter the candlelight from a soaring chandelier of glittery crystal.

Music, something low and pagan, throbbed on the air. She was draped over a mountain of feather pillows, and as she started to shift, the first young god straddled her.

“Hey, listen, pal—”

“For your pleasure only, mistress,” he crooned and rubbed her breasts with scented oil.

This is a bad idea, she thought as little involuntary shivers of pleasure centered in her gut. Oil was slicked over her stomach, her thighs, down her legs to her toes.

She could understand how the current situation could make a woman strip and smile, but not how it could drive her to suicide.

Stick it out, she ordered herself and turned her mind to something else. She thought of the report she needed to give her commander. Of unexplained shadows on the brain.

Teeth closed delicately over her nipple, a tongue slid wetly over the captured point. She arched in reaction, but the hand she shot out in protest slipped off a taut, oil-slicked shoulder.

Then the second stud knelt between her legs and went to work on her with his mouth.

She came before she could stop herself, a small pop of release. Panting, she ripped the goggles off and found Peabody gaping at her.

“It wasn’t a walk on a quiet beach,” Eve managed.

“I could see that. What was it, exactly?”

“A couple of mostly naked guys and a big satin bed.” Eve blew out a breath, set the goggles down. “Who’d have thought she relaxed with sex fantasies?”

“Ah, Lieutenant. Sir. As your aide, I believe it’s my responsibility to test that unit. For evidence control.”

Eve tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Peabody, I couldn’t let you take that kind of risk.”

“I’m a cop, sir. Risk is my life.”

Eve rose, held out the goggles as Peabody’s eyes lit. “Bag it, Officer.”

Deflated, Peabody dumped the goggles into a seal. “Hell. Were they good looking?”

“Peabody, they were gods.” She stepped back into the office proper, gave it one more scan. “I’m going to order in sweepers, but I don’t think they’ll find anything. I’ll take the disc you downloaded into Central, contact next of kin—though the media will already have this all over the fucking airwaves.”

She hitched up her field kit. “I don’t feel at all suicidal.”

“I’m relieved to hear it, Lieutenant.”

Still, Eve frowned at the goggles. “How long was I riding that, five minutes?”

“Nearly twenty.” Peabody gave a sour smile. “Time flies when you’re having sex.”

“I wasn’t having sex.” Guilt had her worrying her wedding ring. “Exactly. If there’d been something in that program, I should have felt it, so that looks like a dead end. Have it analyzed anyway.”

“Will do.”

“You wait for Feeney. Maybe he’ll find something interesting on her ’link logs. I’m going to go grovel to the commander. When you finish here, deliver the bags to the lab, then report to my office.” Eve started for the door, tossed a look over her shoulder. “And Peabody, no playing with the evidence.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered when Eve was out of earshot.

chapter twelve

Commander Whitney sat behind his massive, well-organized desk and listened. He appreciated the fact that his lieutenant delivered a clean and concise report, and he admired that she could omit certain details without a flicker.

A good cop had to stand cool under fire. Eve Dallas, he was pleased to know, was ice.

“You had the autopsy data on Fitzhugh analyzed outside the department.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t blink. “The analysis required more sophisticated equipment than NYPSD currently has access to.”

“And you had access to this more sophisticated equipment.”

“I was able to gain access.”

“And run the analysis?” he asked, quirking a brow. “Computer science is not your strong suit, Dallas.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “I’ve been working on improving my skills in that area, Commander.”

He doubted that, sincerely. “Subsequently, you gained entry to the files at the Government Security Center, and there, confidential reports fell into your hands.”

“That’s correct. I don’t wish to reveal my source.”

“Your source?” he repeated. “Are you telling me you have a weasel at GSC?”

“There are weasels everywhere,” Eve said coolly.

“That might fly,” he murmured. “Or you might find yourself facing a subcommittee back in East Washington.”

Eve’s stomach shimmied, but her voice stayed steady. “I’m prepared for that.”

“You’d better be.” Whitney sat back, steepled his hands, tapped his fingertips against his chin. “The case on the Olympus Resort. You also accessed data there. That’s quite a bit out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant.”

“I was on scene during that incident, and I reported my findings to interspace authorities.”

“Who then took over the disposition of the matter,” Whitney added.

“I’m authorized to request data when an outside case relates to one of mine, Commander.”

“That’s yet to be substantiated.”

“The data’s necessary for me to substantiate the connection.”

“That would hold, Dallas, if there was a homicide.”

“I believe there are four of them, including Cerise Devane.”

“Dallas, I’ve just viewed the recording of that incident. I saw a cop and a jumper on a ledge, the cop attempting to talk the subject in, and the subject choosing the leap. She was not pushed, she was not coerced, she was not threatened in any way.”

“It’s my professional opinion that she was coerced.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” And for the first time, frustration leaked through. “But I’m sure, dead sure, that if they had enough of her brain to scrape up off the street for analysis, they’d find that same burn on the frontal lobe. I know it, Commander. I just don’t know how it’s getting there.” She waited a beat. “Or being put there.”

His eyes flickered. “Are you theorizing that someone is influencing certain individuals to self-termination through some sort of brain implant?”

“I can’t find any genetic link among the subjects. No social group, education sphere, or religious affiliation. They didn’t grow up in the same town, they didn’t drink the same water, attend the same health clubs or centers. But they all had the same flaw in the brain. That’s beyond coincidence, Commander. It was caused, and if by being caused it coerced those people to end their lives, then it’s murder. And it’s mine.”

“You’re walking a thin wire, Dallas,” Whitney said after a moment. “The dead have families, and the families want this put away. Your continued investigation extends the grieving process.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s also raising questions from The Tower,” he added, referring to the Chief of Police and Security.

“I’m willing to present my report to Chief Tibble, if directed.” But she hoped she wouldn’t be. “I’ll stand on my record, Commander. I’m not a rookie playing terrier with a dead case.”

“Even experienced cops overfocus, make mistakes.”

“Then let me make them.” She shook her head before he could speak. “I was on that ledge today, Commander. I looked at her face, into her eyes when she went off. And I know.”

He folded his hands on the edge of the desk. Administration was always a struggle in compromise. He had other cases, and he needed her on them. The budget was thin, and there was never enough time or man power. “I can give you a week, no more. If you don’t have the right answers by then, you close the files.”

She drew a breath. “And the chief?”

“I’ll speak with him personally. Get me something, Dallas, or be prepared to move on.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” he said, then added when she reached the door. “Oh, and Dallas, if you’re going to go outside the official sphere for . . . research, watch your step. And give my best to your husband.”

She colored slightly. He’d pinned her source, and they both knew it. She mumbled something and escaped. Dodged that stun stream, she thought and dragged a hand through her hair. Then, with an oath, she dashed toward the nearest down glide. She was going to be late for court.

She was approaching the end of her shift when she made it back to her office and found Peabody settled at the desk, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Eve leaned against the doorjamb. “Comfortable, Officer?”

Peabody jerked, sloshed a little coffee, cleared her throat. “I didn’t know your ETA.”

“Apparently. Something wrong with your unit?”

“Ah, no. No, sir. I thought it more efficient to enter the new data directly into yours.”

“That’s a good story, Peabody, you stick with it.” Eve walked to her AutoChef and programmed coffee for herself. It was Roarke’s blend rather than the poison served in the bull pen area, which explained Peabody cozying up at her superior’s desk.

“What new data?”

“Captain Feeney pulled all communications on Devane’s ’links. Doesn’t appear to be anything that relates, but it’s all here. We have her personal datebook with all appointments and the most current data from her last health exam.”

“She have any problems there?”

“Not a one. She was a tobacco addict, registered, and took regular anticancer injections. She had no sign of disease: physical, emotional, or mental. Tended toward stress and overwork, which was counteracted with soothers and tranqs. She was cohabitating, happily, by all reports. Her partner is currently off planet. You have the name of next of kin, her son from a previous partnership.”

“Yeah, I contacted him. He’s based at the Tattler offices in New L.A. He’s coming in.” Eve angled her head. “Comfortable, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, sorry.” She got up quickly from behind the desk and resettled in the ratty chair beside it. “Your meeting with the commander?”

“We’ve got a week,” Eve said briskly as she sat. “Let’s make the most of it. ME’s report on Devane?”

“Not yet available.”

Eve turned to her ’link. “Let’s see if we can give him a little shove.”

By the time she got home, she was staggering. She’d missed dinner, which she thought was just as well since she’d ended the day at the morgue viewing what was left of Cerise Devane.

Even the stomach of a veteran cop could turn.

And she would get nothing there, nothing at all. She doubted even Roarke’s equipment could reconstruct enough of Devane to be of any help.

She walked in, nearly tripped over the cat who was stretched at the threshold, and drummed up the energy to bend down and lift him. He studied her, annoyance gleaming in his bicolored eyes.

“You wouldn’t get kicked, pal, if you draped your fat ass somewhere else.”

“Lieutenant.”

She shifted the cat, looked over at Summerset who, as usual, had appeared out of nowhere. “Yeah, I’m late,” she snapped. “Give me a demerit.”

He didn’t add his normal withering remark. He had seen the clips on the news channel, and he had watched her on the ledge. He had seen her face. “You’ll want dinner.”

“No, I don’t.” She wanted bed and headed for the stairs.

“Lieutenant.” He waited for her bad-tempered oath, waited until she’d turned her head to scowl at him. “A woman who steps out on a ledge is either very brave or very stupid.”

The scowl turned into a sneer. “I don’t have to ask what category you put me in.”

“No, you don’t.” He watched her climb up and thought her courage was terrifying.

The bedroom was empty. She told herself she’d run a house scan for Roarke’s location in just a minute, then fell facedown on the bed. Galahad wiggled out of the crook of her arm and climbed onto her butt to circle and knead his way to comfort.

Roarke found her there minutes later, sprawled out in exhaustion, a sausage-shaped cat guarding her flank.

He simply studied her for a while. He, too, had seen the news clips. They had paralyzed him, dried the saliva in his mouth, and turned his bowels to water. He knew how often she faced death—others’ and her own—and told himself he accepted it.

But that morning he had watched, helpless, while she’d teetered on the brink. He’d looked into her eyes, seen the grit and the fear. And he had suffered.

Now she was here, home, a woman with more bone and muscle than curves, with hair that badly needed tending and boots worn out at the heels.

He walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, and laid a hand over the one curled loosely on the spread.

“I’m just getting my second wind,” she murmured.

“I can see that. We’ll go dancing in a minute.”

She managed a chuckle. “Can you move that boulder off my butt?”

Obligingly, Roarke picked up Galahad, smoothed the ruffled fur. “You’ve had quite a day, Lieutenant. The media’s been full of you.”

She rolled over but kept her eyes shut a minute longer. “I’m glad I missed it. You know about Cerise then.”

“Yes, I had Channel 75 on while I was preparing for my first meeting this morning. I caught it all live.”

She heard the strain in his voice and opened her eyes. “Sorry.”

“You’ll say you were doing your job.” He set the cat aside and brushed the hair back from Eve’s cheek. “But it was above and beyond, Eve. She could have taken you with her.”

“I wasn’t ready to go.” She cupped a hand over the one he held to her cheek. “I had a flash when I was up there. Memory flash of when I was a kid, standing at the window of some filthy flop he’d booked us into. I thought about jumping then, just getting it the hell over with. I wasn’t ready to go. I’m still not.”

Galahad climbed out of Roarke’s lap and stretched his bulk over Eve’s belly. It made Roarke smile. “Looks like we both intend to keep you here for a while. What have you eaten today?”

She pursed her lips. “Is this a quiz?”

“Nothing to speak of,” he decided.

“Food’s not high on my list right now. I’ve just come from the morgue. Contact with concrete after seventy-story flights does unattractive things to flesh and bone.”

“I don’t imagine there was enough to scan for comparison with the others.”

Despite the grisly image, she grinned, sat up, and gave him a quick, loud kiss. “You’re cued up, Roarke. That’s one of the things I like best about you.”

“I thought it was my body.”

“That’s right up on the list,” she told him as he rose and went over to the recessed AutoChef. “No, there isn’t going to be enough, but there has to be a connection. You see it, don’t you?”

He waited until the protein drink he’d ordered came through. “Cerise was an intelligent, sensible, and driven woman. She was often selfish, continually vain, and could be an enormous pain in the ass.” He came back to the bed, held out the glass. “She wasn’t the type to jump off the roof of her own building—and let the visual media scoop her own organization.”

“I’ll add that to my data.” She frowned at the creamy, mint-colored drink in her hand. “What is this?”

“Nutrition. Drink it.” He tipped it up to her lips. “All.”

She took the first sip out of self-defense, decided it wasn’t altogether hideous, and gulped it down. “There. Feel better now?”

“Yes. Did Whitney give you room to pursue?”

“I’ve got a week. And he knows I’ve been using your . . . facilities. He’s pretending he doesn’t.” She set the glass aside, started to stretch back out, then remembered. “We were supposed to watch videos, eat popcorn, and neck.”

“You stood me up.” He tugged on her hair. “I’ll have to divorce you.”

“God, you’re strict.” Suddenly nervous, she rubbed her hands together. “While you’re in that mode, I guess I’d better come clean.”

“Oh, were you out necking with someone else?”

“Not exactly.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want a drink? We’ve got some wine up here, don’t we?” She started to get off the bed, but she wasn’t at all surprised to have his hand snake out and grip her arm.

“Clarify.”

“I’m going to. I just think it might go down better with some wine. Okay?” She tried a smile but knew it fell far short of charming when he met it with a long, steely stare. His grip loosened enough for her to scoot up and hurry over to the bedroom cold box. She took her time pouring it, and kept her distance as she began.

“Peabody and I were doing the first sweep of Devane’s office and quarters. She has a relaxation room.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Sure you are.” She took a sip first to fortify her for confession before she crossed back. “Anyway, I noticed she had VR goggles on the arm of her sleep chair. Mathias had been on VR before he hanged himself. Fitzhugh liked to use VR. It’s a slim link, but I figured it was better than no link.”

“Over ninety percent of the population of this country has at least one VR per household,” Roarke pointed out, eyes still narrowed on her face.

“Yeah, but you have to start somewhere. This is a brain flaw, VR links to the brain as well as the senses. It occurred to me that if there was a defect, intentional or accidental, in the goggles, it might have caused the suicidal urge.”

He nodded slowly. “All right. I follow that.”

“So I tried her set.”

“Wait.” He held up a hand. “You suspected the goggles were a contributor to her death, so you merrily put them on yourself. Are you out of your mind?”

“Peabody was there as control, with orders to stun me if necessary.”

“Well then.” Disgusted, he flung up a hand. “That’s just fine. That’s perfectly reasonable then. She’d knock you unconscious before you jumped off the roof.”

“There you are.” She sat down beside him, handed him his glass. “I checked the last use log. She’d gone VR minutes before she walked out and onto that ledge. I was sure I was going to find something in whatever program she’d been on.” She paused to scratch the back of her neck. “You know, I figured it would be some relaxation program. Maybe a meditation run, your standard sea cruise, or a country meadow.”

“I take it it wasn’t.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was, ah, a fantasy run. You know, a sexual fantasy.”

Intrigued now, he folded his legs under him, cocked his head. His mouth remained sober, his Irish blue eyes bland. “Was it really?” He took a casual sip of wine before setting the glass aside. “And consisted of?”

“Well, there were these guys.”

“Plural?”

“Just two.” She could feel the heat rising up to her throat and detested it. “It was an official investigation.”

“Were you naked?”

“Jesus, Roarke.”

“I believe it’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

“Maybe for a minute, okay? It was the program, and I had to test the program, and it wasn’t my fault these guys were all over me—and I aborted it before, well almost before . . .”

She stumbled to a guilty halt and saw with shock that he was grinning at her. “You think it’s funny?” Bunching her fist, she punched him in the shoulder. “I’ve been feeling like slime all day, and you think it’s funny.”

“Before what?” he asked, nipping the glass out of her hand before she could upend it over his head. He set it down beside his own. “You aborted the program almost before what, precisely?”

Her eyes went to slits. “They were great. I’m getting a copy of the program for my personal use. I won’t need you anymore, because I’ve got a couple of love slaves.”

“Wanna bet?” He pushed her back on the bed, wrestled with her, and managed to get her shirt over her head.

“Cut it out. I don’t want you. My love slaves keep me satisfied.” She flipped him, nearly had him pinned when his mouth closed over her breast, and his hand slid neatly down to cup her over the thin wool snug at her crotch.

Heat speared through her like lightning.

“Damn it.” She gasped out a breath. “I’m just pretending to enjoy this.”

“Okay.”

He tugged the slacks over her hips, then skimmed his fingertips over her. She was already wet, luring him in. His teeth closed over her nipple, tugged, just as he nudged her to peak.

It wasn’t a gentle pop this time. The orgasm came in one hard, fast wave that swamped her, drowned her, then tossed her helplessly over the next crest.

She moaned out his name. It was always his name. But when she reached for him, he cuffed her wrists, drew her arms over her head. “No.” His own breathing was uneven and thick as he stared down at her. “Just take it. Take me.”

He slipped inside her slowly, inch by inch, watching her eyes go blind and dark as he moved. Clamping down on the urge to ravish, to answer the sudden wild pistoning of her hips, he let her drive herself over the next edge.

And when she was limp and her breathing in tatters, he shifted to long, steady strokes. “Take more,” he murmured, swallowing her groans, holding her captive, hands, mouth, loins. “And more.”

Her system was overloaded, scrambled like her pulse. Her body was under siege, her sex so sensitized the wild pleasure was akin to pain. And still he moved slowly, lazily. “I can’t,” she managed, and her head whipsawed even as her hips arched for more. “It’s too much.”

“Let go, Eve.” He was holding onto control by his fingernails. “Once more.”

He didn’t let himself fall until she did.

Her head was still spinning when she managed to push herself up on her elbows. Amazingly, they were both still half dressed and on top of the spread. From the corner of the bed, Galahad sat watching her with feline disgust. Or maybe it was envy.

Roarke had rolled over on his back and had what could only be interpreted as a smug smile on his lips.

“I guess that flexed your testosterone.”

His smile spread wider. She jabbed a finger into his ribs.

“If that was to punish me, you missed the target.”

Now he opened his eyes and they were filled with warm amusement. “Darling Eve, did you really think I’d consider your little adventure some sort of virtual adultery?”

She pouted a little. However ridiculous it was, she was miffed that he wasn’t at all jealous. “Maybe.”

With a long sigh, he sat up, set his hands on her shoulders. “You can indulge in fantasy professionally or personally. I’m not your keeper.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the least.” He gave her a friendly kiss, then caught her chin firmly in his hand. “Try it in the flesh, even once, and I’ll have to kill you.”

Her pupils widened, and foolishly her heart gave a pleased little leap. “Oh, well, that’s fair.”

“That’s fact,” he said simply. “Now that we have that straightened out, you should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired anymore.” She tugged her slacks back over her hips and made him sigh again.

“I suppose that means you want to work.”

“If I could use your system, just for a couple of hours, I could get a jump on my legwork tomorrow.”

Resigned, he pulled on his own slacks. “Let’s go then.”

“Thanks.” She tucked her hand in his companionably as they walked toward the private elevator. “Roarke, you wouldn’t really kill me, would you?”

“Oh yes, I would.” Smiling easily, he nudged her into the car. “But, given our relationship, I would trouble to do so quickly, and with as little pain as possible.”

She shot him a glance. “Then I’ll have to say same goes.”

“Naturally. East wing, third level,” he ordered, and gave her hand a companionable squeeze. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

chapter thirteen

For the next few days, Eve beat her head against the wall of every dead end. When she needed a change of pace to clear her mind, she beat Peabody’s head against the wall. She hounded Feeney to eke out whatever free time he could to find her something. Anything.

She gritted her teeth when other cases landed on her desk, and she worked overtime.

When the lab boys dragged their feet, she hopped on their backs and rode them mercilessly. It got to the point that the lab began to dodge her communications. To combat that, she hauled Peabody down to the lab for a little face-to-face persuasion.

“Don’t try to sell me that SOS about backup, Dickie.”

Dickie Berenski, privately known as Dickhead, looked pained. As chief lab tech, he should have been able to delegate a half dozen drones to ward off a personal confrontation with an irate detective, but every one of them had deserted him.

Heads would roll, he thought, and sighed. “What do you mean SOS?”

“Same old shit, Dickie. It’s always SOS with you.”

He scowled but decided to make the acronym his own. “Listen, Dallas, I got you the breakdown on all the over the counters, didn’t I? Flagged them personally as a favor.”

“Favor, my ass, I bribed you with box seats for the Arena Ball play-offs.”

His face went prim. “I assumed that was a gift.”

“And I’m not bribing you again.” She jabbed a finger into his puny chest. “What’s the deal with the VR goggles? Why haven’t I got your report?”

“Because I haven’t found anything to report. It’s a hot program, Dallas—” His eyebrows did a little suggestive dance. “But it was clean. No defects. So are all the other options on that unit—clean and up to code. Better than,” he added, his voice whining faintly. “We should have so good. I had Sheila take the whole unit apart and put it back together. Damn fine equipment, top of the line—higher than top. The technology’s off the scale. But that’s to be expected. It’s a Roarke product.”

“It’s a—” She broke off, struggling not to show her surprise or distress at this new tidbit of information. “Which plant manufactures it?”

“Hell, Sheila’s got that data. Off planet, I’m pretty sure. Cheaper labor. And that baby was right off the ship. Hasn’t been on the open market more than a month.”

Her stomach had clutched and tightened further. “But it’s not defective?”

“Nope. It’s a real honey. I’ve already put in for one of my own.” He wiggled his brows hopefully. “Of course, you could probably get me a unit at cost.”

“You get me the report, now, every single detail, and release the unit to me, and I’ll think about it.”

“It’s Sheila’s flex day,” he whined, his mouth stretching down in a search for pity. “She’ll have the report finished up and on your desk by noon tomorrow.”

“Now, Dickie.” A good cop knew her quarry’s weaknesses. “And I’ll see about making you a gift of your own unit.”

“Well, in that case . . . hang for ten.” Cheery now, he hurried over to a computer bank tucked in one of the cubbyholes in the lab’s beehive.

“Dallas, one of those units probably goes for two thousand, base.” Peabody stared after Dickie in disgust. “You overbribed him.”

“I want that report.” Eve imagined that Roarke had a case of the units somewhere for promotional giveaways. Giveaways, she thought with a sick roll in her stomach, to politicians, employees, prominent citizens. “I’m down to three days. And nothing. I won’t be able to waltz Whitney toward an extension.” She looked back over as Dickie pushed out of the cubicle.

“Sheila had it almost nailed down.” He offered a sealed disc and a hard copy. “Look at this. This is a compu-graft of the VR pattern for the last program. Sheila’s highlighted a couple of blips.”

“What do you mean, blips?” Eve snatched the page and studied what appeared to be a series of lightning bolts and swirls.

“Can’t say for certain. Probably the subliminal relaxation, or in this case, substimulation option. Some of the newer units are offering several extended subliminal packages. You can see these shadow the program, slide in every few seconds.”

“Suggestions?” She felt her energy surge. “You mean the program was fitted with subliminal suggestions to the user?”

“Common enough practice. It’s been used for habit breaking, sexual enhancement, mind expanding, and so on for decades. My old man quit tobacco on subliminals fifty years ago.”

“What about planting urges. . .such as self-termination?”

“Look, subs give you little nudges toward hunger, consumer goods, or aid in habit breaking. That kind of direct suggestion?” He tugged at his lip, shook his head. “You’d have to go deeper, and I’d say it would take a long series of sessions to make the suggestion stick on a normal brain. Survival instinct’s too strong.”

He shook his head again, convinced. “We played those programs over and over.”

Particularly the sexual fantasy sequences, Eve thought.

“Ran them on test subjects, into the droid for analysis. We got nobody jumping off the roof. In fact, we got no unusual reaction from anyone or out of the droid. It’s just a top flight, that’s it.”

“I want a full analysis on the subliminal shadows.”

He’d already anticipated that. “I need to keep the unit then. Sheila’s started on it, as you can see, but it takes time. You’ve got to run the program, back out the overt VR, expunge the subliminals. Then it takes compu time to test, analyze, and report. A good subliminal, and I guarantee this one’s an ace, is subtle. Chasing down its pattern isn’t like reading a truth analysis.”

“How much time?”

“Two days, a day and a half if we get lucky.”

“Get lucky,” she suggested and passed the hard copy to Peabody.

Eve tried not to worry about the fact that the VR was one of Roarke’s toys, or what the consequences could be if it was indeed found to be part of the coercion. Subliminal shadows. That could be the connection she’d been searching for. The next step was to tag the VR units that had been in Fitzhugh’s, Mathias’s, and Pearly’s possession at time of death.

With Peabody keeping pace, she hustled down the sidewalk. Her vehicle was—still—in Maintenance. Eve didn’t think it worth the incredible headache of requisitioning a sub for a three-block hike.

“Autumn’s coming.”

“Huh?”

Curious that Eve seemed oblivious to the freshening in the air, the balmy scent on the eastward breeze, Peabody paused to take a deep breath. “You can smell it.”

“What are you doing?” Eve demanded. “Are you crazy? Suck in enough of New York and you’ll have to spend a day in detox.”

“You get past the transport fumes and the body odor and it’s wonderful. They might just pass that new fresh air bill this election.”

Eve spared her aide a glance. “Your Free-Ager’s showing, Peabody.”

“Nothing wrong with environmental concerns. If it wasn’t for the tree huggers, we’d all be wearing filter masks and sunshades year round.” Peabody looked longingly at a people glide but matched her pace to Eve’s long-legged stride. “Not to put a damper on things, Lieutenant, but you’re going to have to do a major tap dance to access those VR units. SOP would be for them to have been returned to the deceaseds’ estates by this time.”

“I’ll get them—and I want this kept quiet, on a need-to-know basis only—until I sort it out.”

“Understood.” She waited a moment. “I’d imagine Roarke has so many tentacles out there it would be impossible to know who’s doing exactly what at any given time.”

“It’s a conflict of interest and we both know it. I’m putting your ass on the line with this.”

“Sorry to disagree, sir, but I’m in charge of my own ass. It’s only on the line if I put it there.”

“So noted and appreciated.”

“Then you can also note that I’m a big fan of Arena Ball as well, sir.”

Eve stopped, took a long look, then laughed. “One ticket or two?”

“Two. I could get lucky.”

They exchanged grins just as a shrill siren split the air. “Oh hell, oh shit, five minutes either way and we’d have slipped by this.”

Eve drew her weapon and spun on her heel. The alarm pealed from the credit exchange center directly in front of her. “What fool hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central? Clear the street, Peabody,” she ordered, “then cover the back exit.”

The first order was almost unnecessary as pedestrians were already scattering, trampling each other over glides and skywalks in a rush for cover. Eve whipped out her communicator, gave the standard order for backup before she dived through the automatic doors.

The lobby was a mass of confusion. Her only advantage was that the wave of people were rushing out as she rushed in, and they offered some cover. Like most CECs, the lobby area was small, windowless, banked with high counters for personal privacy. Only one of the personal service counters was manned by a human, the other three by droids who had gone into automatic shutdown once the panic button had been pushed.

The lone human was a female, probably midtwenties, with closely cropped black hair, a tidy, conservative white jumpsuit, and an expression of utter terror on her face as she was held through the security port by the throat.

The man who gripped her was busy squeezing off her air and waving what was certainly a homemade explosive with his free hand.

“I’ll kill her. I’ll fucking stuff it down her throat.”

The threat didn’t worry Eve nearly as much as the calm, deliberate manner in which it was delivered. She discounted chemicals and a professional status. From the appearance of his threadbare jeans and shirt, the tired, unshaven face, she concluded she had one of the city’s desperately poor on her hands.

“She hasn’t done anything to you.” With the first mad rush already out the door, Eve approached slowly. “She’s not responsible. Why don’t you let her go?”

“Everyone’s done something to me. Everyone’s part of the system.” He yanked, pulling the hapless clerk a little farther through the security port. She was wedged now to the shoulders and turning faintly blue. “Keep back,” he said quietly. “I’ve got nothing to lose and nowhere to go.”

“You’re choking her. Snuff her and you’ve got no shield. Ease up a little. What’s your name?”

“Names don’t count for shit.” But he did loosen his grip enough to have the young clerk wheeze in a desperate breath. “Money’s what matters. I walk out with a bag of credits, nobody gets hurt. Hell, they’ll just make more.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Cautious, Eve took another three steps, keeping her eyes on his. “You know you’re not going to get out of here. By now the street’s blocked, the security units are deployed. Jesus, pal, the area’s lousy with cops any time of the day or night. You could’ve picked better than this.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peabody slide through the rear access and take up her position. Neither of them could risk firing while he had the clerk and the explosive in his hands.

“If you drop that thing, even sweat too much, it could blow. Then everybody dies here.”

“Then we’ll all die here. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Let the clerk go. She’s a civilian. She’s just trying to make a living.”

“So was I.”

She saw it in his eyes just an instant too late. The utter despair. In a blink he tossed the hand-held boomer high and right. Eve’s life flashed obscenely before her eyes as she sprinted forward and made the dive. She missed by a fingertip.

Even as she braced for the insult of the blast, the crudely made ball rolled into a corner, bobbled, then settled quietly.

“Dud.” The would-be thief let out a weak laugh. “Doesn’t it just figure?” Then, as Eve popped to her feet, he charged.

She didn’t have time to aim, much less fire her weapon. He hit her like a battering ram, driving her back hard into one of the self-service counters. The explosion came now, inside her head as her hip slammed painfully into the edge. Sheer luck had her holding onto her weapon as stars burst in her head. She hoped the crack she heard was the cheap laminate giving and not bone.

He had her gripped in a pathetically loverlike embrace that was surprisingly effective. It blocked her weapon and pinned against the counter, so she was forced to shift her body weight rather than pivot.

They hit the floor, and this time she was unlucky enough to land first so that his thin, panic-fueled body dropped heavily on hers. Her elbow cracked on the tile, her knee jarred and twisted viciously. With more enthusiasm than finesse, she rammed the side of her weapon against his temple.

The move proved to be as effective as a stun. His eyes rolled up white before she shoved him aside and got to her knees.

Panting, fighting back the nausea that was a result of taking some bony part of his body in the stomach, she blew the hair out of her eyes. Peabody was also on her knees, the boomer in one hand, her weapon in the other.

“I couldn’t get a clear shot. I went for the boomer first, thought you could take him.”

“Fine, that’s just dandy.” She hurt everywhere, and now her pulse began to hammer at the sight of her aide clutching a bomb. “Don’t move.”

“Not moving. Barely breathing.”

“I’ll call the goddamn bomb disposal unit. Get a safe box in here now.”

“I was just about—” Peabody broke off, went pale as death. “Oh hell, Dallas. It’s heating up.”

“Dump it. Dump it now! Take cover.” Swiping out one handed, Eve dragged the unconscious man with her behind the counter, draped herself over him, then locked her arms over the back of her head.

The explosion blasted the air, fumed out a fist of heat and had God knew what raining down on her. The auto fire control system whirled into action, spewing sprays of icy water, shrilling out a new alarm, warning employees and customers to vacate the building in a calm and orderly manner.

She sent up a quick thanks to whoever was listening that she felt no bright pain, and that all her body parts appeared to be attached.

Coughing against the thick wash of smoke, she crawled out from behind what was left of the counter. “Peabody. Christ.” She hacked, wiped her stinging eyes, and kept crawling over the wet, now filthy floor. Something hot burned the heel of her hand, made her swear again. “Come on, Peabody. Where the hell are you?”

“Here.” The answer was weak, followed by a fit of throaty coughing. “I’m okay. I think.”

They met on hands and knees through the curtain of smoke and water and eyed each other’s blackened faces. Casually, Eve reached out and rapped Peabody several times on the side of the head. “Your hair was on fire,” she said mildly.

“Oh. Thanks. How’s the asshole?”

“Still unconscious.” Eve sat back on her heels and took a quick self-inventory. She didn’t see any blood, which was no small relief. Most of her clothes were still there, which hardly mattered since they were ruined. “You know, Peabody, I think Roarke owns this building.”

“Then he’s probably going to be pissed. Smoke and water damage is a bitch.”

“You’re telling me. Let’s call it a goddamn day. The credit cops can handle this. I’m giving a party tonight.”

“Yeah.” Mouth twisted, Peabody tugged on the torn sleeve of her uniform. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she swayed, squinted. “Dallas, how many pairs of eyes did you have when we came in here?”

“One. Just one.”

“Shit. Now you’ve got two. I think one of us has a problem.” With this, Peabody pitched forward into Eve’s arms.

There wasn’t time to clean up. After she’d hauled Peabody out of the wreckage and dumped her on the medical technicians, she had a report to relay to the officer in charge of the security team, then she fed the same data to the bomb disposal unit. Between reports she harassed the MTs about Peabody’s condition and blocked their attempts to treat her to an injury scan.

Roarke was already dressed for the evening when she rushed in the door. He cut off his conversation with Tokyo on his palm link, shifted away from the team of florists currently arranging pink and white hibiscus in the foyer.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Don’t ask.” She raced past him and hit the stairs at a dead run.

She was out of what was left of her shirt by the time he came into the bedroom, closed the door. “I will ask.”

“The bomb wasn’t a dud after all.” Unwilling to sit down and smear whatever was on her slacks onto the furniture, she balanced on one foot and fought off a boot.

Roarke took a deep breath. “The bomb?”

“Well, a homemade boomer. Very unreliable.” She pried off the second boot, then began to peel off her torn and blackened slacks. “Guy hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central. Idiot.” She dumped the tatters on the floor, swung around to head to the bath, only to come up short when Roarke took her arm.

“Name of God.” He turned her to get a closer look at the purpling bruise that spread over her hip. It was bigger than his spread hand. Her right knee was raw and there were more bruises blooming on her arms and shoulders. “You’re a mess, Eve.”

“You should see the other guy. Well, at least he’ll get three square and a roof for a few years, courtesy of the state. I’ve got to get cleaned up.”

He didn’t release her, only shifted his gaze to hers. “I don’t suppose you bothered to let the MTs work on you.”

“Those butchers?” She smiled. “I’m fine, just sore. I can get a quick treatment tomorrow.”

“You’ll be lucky if you can walk by tomorrow. Come on.”

“Roarke—” But she winced and hobbled, and he pulled her into the bath.

“Sit. Be quiet.”

“We don’t have time for this.” She sat, rolled her eyes. “It’s going to take me a couple hours to get the stink and soot off. Christ, those boomers smell.” She turned her head to sniff at her shoulder and grimaced. “Sulfur.” Then she eyed him warily. “What’s that?”

He approached with a thick pad soaked in something pink. “The best we can do at the moment. Stop wiggling.” He laid the pad over her injured knee, holding it in place and ignoring her curses.

“That stings. Christ, are you crazy?”

“I’m beginning to think so.” With his free hand, he caught her chin, carefully examined her blackened face. “At the risk of repeating myself, you’re a mess. Hold that pad in place.” He squeezed lightly on her chin. “I mean it.”

“Okay, okay.” She huffed out a breath and kept the pad over her knee as he walked back to a wall cabinet. The sting was easing. She didn’t want to admit that the ripe ache in her knee was backing off. “What’s in this stuff?”

“This and that. It’ll ease the swelling and numb the injury for a few hours.” He came back with a small tube of liquid. “Drink it.”

“Uh-uh, no drugs.”

Very calmly, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Eve, if you’re not in pain at the moment, it’s due to adrenaline. You’re going to hurt, and hurt big time, very shortly. I know what it feels like to be bruised and battered all over. Now drink it.”

“I’ll be fine. I don’t want—” She gasped when he pinched her nose, drew her head back, and poured the liquid down her throat. “Bastard,” she managed, choking and batting at him.

“That’s a good girl. Now, into the shower.” He walked to the glass-enclosed tube and ordered the spray at half force and a soothing eighty-six degrees.

“I’ll get you for that. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I’ll do it.” She limped into the shower, still muttering. “Son of a bitch pours drugs down my throat. Treats me like a goddamn imbecile.” The moan of relief came involuntarily as the soft water slid over her abused body.

He watched her, smiling as she braced both hands against the wall and ducked her head under the spray. “You’ll want to wear something loose and floor length. Try the blue ankle sweep Leonardo designed for you.”

“Oh, go to hell. I can dress myself. Why don’t you stop staring at me and go order some of your minions around?”

“Darling, they’re our minions now.”

She bit off a chuckle and rapped her hand against the shower panel to access the ’link recessed there. “Brightmore Health Center,” she ordered. “Fifth floor admissions.” She waited for the connection and managed to soap up her hair one-handed. “This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas. You have my aide, Officer Delia Peabody. I want status.” She listened to the standard line for approximately five seconds before she cut off the charge nurse. “Then find out, and find out now. I want her full status, and believe me, you don’t want me coming down there to get it.”

It took her an hour, a relatively painless hour, she was forced to admit. Whatever Roarke had made her drink didn’t leave her with that helpless, floaty feeling she detested. Instead, she felt alert and only slightly giddy.

It might have been the drug that made her admit, at least to herself, that he’d been right about the dress. It slid weightlessly over her skin, concealing the bruises stylishly with its high neck, long, tapering sleeves, and draping skirt. She added the diamond he’d given her as a symbolic apology for swearing at him—even though he’d deserved it.

With less resentment than usual, she fussed with her face, struggled with her hair. The result, she decided as she gave herself a study in the triple mirrors in the closet, wasn’t half bad. She supposed she looked as close to elegant as she was ever going to get.

When she walked onto the roof terrace where the performance session of the party was to take place, Roarke’s quick smile agreed with her. “There she is,” he murmured and walked over to take both of her hands, bringing them to his lips.

“I don’t think I’m talking to you.”

“All right.” He lowered his head and, mindful of bruises, kissed her lightly. “Feel better?”

“Maybe.” She sighed and didn’t bother to tug her hands away. “I guess I’ll have to tolerate you, since you’re doing all this for Mavis.”

“We’re doing it for Mavis.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You married me,” he pointed out. “How’s Peabody? I heard you calling the health center from the shower.”

“Mild concussion, bumps, and bruises. She was a little shocky, but she’s stabilized. She went after the boomer.” Remembering that moment, Eve blew out a slow breath. “It started to heat up right in her hand. No way I could get to her.” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Scared the hell out of me. I thought I’d find pieces of her everywhere.”

“She’s tough and smart, and she’s learning from the best.”

Eve opened her eyes, narrowed them. “Flattery isn’t going to make me forgive you for drugging me.”

“I’ll find something else that will.”

She surprised him by reaching up, framing his face with her hands. “We’re going to talk about that, ace.”

“Anytime. Lieutenant.”

But she didn’t smile. Her eyes only went more intense. “There’s another thing we have to talk about. It’s serious.”

“I can see that.” Concerned, he glanced around at the bustling caterers, the wait staff already lined up for their final briefing. “Summerset can handle the last of this. We can use the library.”

“It’s bad timing, I know, but it can’t be helped.” She took his hand, an instinctive gesture of support, as they headed out of the room and down the wide corridor toward the library.

Inside, he closed the door, ordered lights, then poured drinks. Mineral water for Eve. “You’ll have to forgo alcohol for a few hours,” he told her. “The painkiller doesn’t mix well with it.”

“I think I can restrain myself.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay.” She set the glass aside without drinking, pushed both hands through her hair. “You’ve got a new VR unit on the market.”

“I do.” He sat on the arm of a leather sofa, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. “It hit a month, six weeks ago, depending on region. We’ve improved a number of the options and programs.”

“With subliminals.”

He blew out smoke thoughtfully. It wasn’t difficult to read her, he thought, when you understood her. She was worried, stressed, and the soothing power of the drug couldn’t overtake her in that area. “Naturally. Several of the option packages include a variety of subliminals. They’re very popular.” Still watching her, he nodded. “I take it Cerise had one of the new units and was using it before she jumped.”

“Yeah. The lab hasn’t yet been able to identify the subliminal. May turn out to be nothing, but—”

“You don’t think so,” he finished.

“Something triggered her. Something triggered all of them. I’m working on confiscating the VR units owned by the other subjects. If it turns out they all owned that new model . . . the investigation’s going to circle around your company. On you.”

“I had a sudden urge to encourage self-termination?”

“I know you had nothing to do with it,” she said quickly and fiercely. “I’m going to do everything I can to keep you out of it. I want—”

“Eve,” he interrupted quietly, shifted to crush out his cigarette, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He reached in his pocket, took out his memo card, and tapped in a code. “The R and D on that model was done in two locations. In Chicago and on Travis II. Manufacturing was handled by one of my subsidiaries, again on Travis II. The distribution and shipping, on and off planet, by Fleet. The packaging through Trillium, marketing by Top Drawer here in New York. I can have all the data sent to your office unit, if that’s most convenient.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop.” He tucked the card away and rose. “There are literally hundreds, perhaps thousands of employees in these companies. I can certainly get you a list, for whatever good that would do.” Then he paused, reached down, and rubbed a thumb over the diamond she wore. “You should know I personally worked on and approved the design, initialed the schematics. The unit’s been in development for more than a year, and I spot-checked every stage at one time or another through that period. My hands are all over it.”

She’d been sure of that, afraid of that. “It could come to nothing. Dickhead claims my theory of subliminal coercion to self-termination is over the edge of unlikely into the impossible.”

Roarke smiled a little. “How can one trust a man called Dickhead? Eve, you used the unit yourself.”

“Yeah, which also put a big wrench in my pet theory. All I got out of it was an orgasm.” She couldn’t quite bring off a smile herself. “I want to be wrong, Roarke. I want to be wrong and close these cases as voluntary self-terminations. But if I’m not—”

“We’ll deal with it. First thing tomorrow, I’ll look into it myself.” She started to shake her head, but he took her hand. “Eve, I know the drill; you don’t. I know my people, at least the department heads in each stage. You and I have worked together before.”

“I don’t like it.”

“That’s a pity.” He toyed with the diamond between her breasts again. “I believe I do.”

chapter fourteen

“Roarke sure knows how to dish a party.” Mavis stuffed a deviled quail egg in her mouth and chattered over it. “Everybody, and I mean everybody’s here. Did you see Roger Keene? He’s like top hound at Be There Records. And Lilah Monroe? She’s tearing them up with her new audience participation show on Broadway. Maybe Leonardo can charm her into using him for new costume design. And there’s—”

“Take a breath, Mavis,” Eve advised as her friend babbled and continually pushed canapés into her mouth. “Adjust the speed.”

“I’m so nervous.” With her hands momentarily free, Mavis pressed them to her stomach—bare but for an artistic rendering of a ripe, red orchid. “I can’t level, you know? When I’m this hyped I’ve just gotta eat and talk. And eat and talk.”

“And throw up if you don’t slow down,” Eve warned. She scanned the room and had to admit that Mavis was right. Roarke knew how to dish up a party.

The room glittered, and so did the people. Even the food seemed to be glossy and polished, almost too ornamental to eat, though you couldn’t prove that by Mavis. Since the weather had cooperated, the roof was open, inviting in the fresh breeze and showers of starlight. One wall was filled with a view screen, and Mavis whirled and pranced over it, her music sizzling out into the room.

Roarke had been canny enough to keep the volume muted.

“I’m never going to be able to pay you back for this.”

“Come on, Mavis.”

“No, I mean it.” After sending Leonardo a beaming smile and an exaggerated air kiss, she turned back to Eve. “You and me, Dallas, we go back awhile. Hell, if you hadn’t busted me, I’d probably still be picking pockets and running the grift.”

Eve chose an interesting-looking blot on a cracker for herself. “That’s digging deep, Mavis.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t change the facts. I did a lot to straighten myself out and change direction. I’m kind of proud of it.”

Remaking ourselves, Eve thought. It could happen. It did happen. She glanced over to where Reeanna and William were chatting with Mira and her spouse. “You should be. I’m proud of you.”

“But what I’m talking about is this. I want to get it out—okay?—before I get up there and try to blow the diamonds off the ears of this group.” Mavis cleared her throat and promptly forgot the little speech she’d prepared. “Hell with it. I know you, and I really love you. Like really love you, Dallas.”

“Christ, Mavis, don’t start getting me all weepy. Roarke’s already drugged me.”

Unashamed, Mavis swiped her hand under her nose. “You’d have done this for me—if you knew how.” When Eve blinked and frowned, Mavis found her sentiment turning to amusement. “Shit, Dallas, you wouldn’t have the first clue how to order up anything more complicated than soy dogs and veggie hash. Roarke’s hands are all over this bash.”

“My hands are all over it.” Roarke’s words echoed in Eve’s mind and made her shudder. “Yeah, they are.”

“You asked him to do it, and he did it for you.”

Determined to let nothing shadow the evening, Eve shook off the dread. She shook her head. “He did it for you, Mavis.”

Slowly, Mavis’s lips curved and her eyes got misty again. “Yeah, I guess he did. You’ve got a fucking prince, Dallas. A fucking prince. I’ve got to go throw up now. Be right back.”

“Sure.” With a half laugh, Eve grabbed some fizzy water from a passing tray and headed for Roarke. “Excuse me, one minute,” she said and tugged him away from a group of people. “You’re a fucking prince,” she told him.

“Why thank you. I think.” He slid an arm around her waist, gently, put his other hand over hers that held the stem of her glass. He surprised her by moving her into a very smooth dance. “You have to use your imagination with Mavis’s . . . style,” he decided. “But this one could almost be considered romantic.”

Eve lifted a brow and tuned in to Mavis’s voice rising over clashing brass. “Yeah, it’s a real old-fashioned, sentimental tune. I’m a lousy dancer.”

“You wouldn’t be if you didn’t try to lead. I decided since you weren’t going to sit down and rest that battered body of yours, you could lean on me awhile.” He smiled down at her. “You’re starting to limp again, just a bit. But you do look almost relaxed.”

“The knee’s a little stiff,” Eve admitted. “But I am pretty relaxed. I guess it was listening to Mavis babble. She’s throwing up now.”

“Lovely.”

“It’s just nerves. Thanks.” She went with impulse and gave him one of her rare public kisses.

“You’re welcome. For?”

“For making sure we’re not eating soy dogs and veggie hash.”

“My pleasure.” He drew her closer, keeping his arms easy. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure. Well, Peabody wears basic black and a mild concussion well,” he noted.

“What?” Jerking back, Eve followed his gaze and spotted her aide just coming through the wide double doors and snagging a flute off a tray. “She should be flat on her back,” Eve muttered and pulled away from Roarke. “Excuse me while I go put her there.”

She stalked across the room, eyes narrowing as Peabody tried out a toothy smile. “Some party, Lieutenant. Thanks for the invite.”

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“It’s just a bump on the head, and all they were doing was poking at me. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like an explosion keep me from doing a party at Roarke’s.”

“Are you on meds?”

“Just a couple of regulation pain blockers, and—” Her face fell when Eve snatched the champagne out of her hand. “I was just going to hold it. Really.”

“Hold this,” Eve suggested and shoved her water into Peabody’s hand. “I ought to cart your butt right back to the health center.”

“You didn’t go,” Peabody muttered, then lifted her chin. “And I’m off duty. On personal time. You can’t order me back.”

However much she sympathized and admired determination, Eve held firm. “No liquor,” she snapped out. “No dancing.”

“But—”

“I hauled you out of that building today, and I can haul you out of here. By the way, Peabody,” Eve added. “You could lose a few pounds.”

“So my mother’s always telling me.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “No liquor, no dancing. Now, if you’ve finished with the restrictions, I’m going to go talk to somebody who doesn’t know me.”

“Fine. Oh, Peabody?”

Peabody turned, scowling. “Yes, sir?”

“You did good today. I won’t have to think twice about going through the door with you.”

As Eve walked away, Peabody gaped after her. It had been simply, even casually said, but it was the finest professional compliment she’d ever been given.

Socializing wasn’t Eve’s favorite pastime, but she did her best. She even resigned herself to dancing when she couldn’t slide her way out of it. So she found herself being steered—it was the way she thought about dancing—around the floor by Jess.

“Your pal William?” Jess began.

“More Roarke’s pal. I don’t know him well.”

“Anyhow, he had some interesting input on designing an interactive to go with this disc. Bring the audience into the music—into Mavis.”

Brow lifted, Eve glanced back to the screen. Mavis was swiveling her barely covered hips and shrieking about burning up in the fire of love while red and gold flames spurted around her.

“You actually think people would want to go in there?”

He chuckled, let his voice cruise deeper south. “Sugar, they’ll trample each other to get in. And pay big for the chance.”

“And if they do,” she said, turning back to him, “you get a nice fat percentage.”

“That’s standard on development deals like this. Check with your man. He’ll tell you.”

“Mavis made her choice.” She softened, noting that several guests were absorbed in the screen show. “I’d say she made a good one.”

“We both did. I think we’ve got a hit,” he told her. “And when we give them a taste of the show live and in the flesh—well, if the roof wasn’t already off, we’d blow it off.”

“You’re not nervous?” She looked at him: confident eyes, cocky mouth. “No, you’re not nervous.”

“I’ve been playing for my supper for too many years. It’s a job.” He smiled at her, walked his fingers casually up her back. “You don’t get nervous tracking killers. Revved, right? Psyched, but not nervous.”

“Depends.” She thought of what she was tracking now, and her stomach fluttered.

“No, you’re steel. I could see that the first time I looked at you. You don’t give, you don’t back off. You don’t flinch. It makes your brain, well your makeup, so to speak, a fascination. What drives Eve Dallas? Justice, revenge, duty, morality? I’d say it’s a very unique combination of all of those, fueled by a conflict of confidence and self-doubt. You’ve got a strong sense of what’s right, and you’re constantly questioning who you are.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the turn of the conversation. “What are you, a musician or a shrink?”

“Creative people study other people; and music is a science as much as an art, an emotion as much as a science.” His silvery eyes stayed on hers as he guided her smoothly around other couples. “When I design a series of notes, I want it to affect people. I have to understand, even study human nature if I’m to get the right reaction. How will this make them behave, make them think, make them feel?”

Eve spared an absent smile as William and Reeanna danced by, absorbed in each other. “I thought it was for entertainment.”

“That’s the surface. Just the surface.” His eyes were excited, gleaming with it as he spoke. “Any music hack can run a theme through a computer and come out with a competent tune. The music business has gotten more and more ordinary and predictable because of technology.”

Brows lifted, Eve glanced toward the screen, and Mavis. “I’d have to say I don’t hear anything ordinary or predictable here.”

“Exactly. I’ve put in time studying how tones, notes, and rhythms affect people, and I know what buttons to push. Mavis is a treasure. She’s so open, so malleable.” He smiled when Eve’s eyes hardened. “I meant that as a compliment, not that she’s weak. But she’s a risk taker, a woman who’s willing to strip herself down and become a vessel for the message.”

“The message is?”

“Depends on the mind of the audience. The hopes and dreams. I wonder about your dreams, Dallas.”

So do I, she thought, but she met his gaze blandly. “I’d rather stick with reality. Dreams are deceptive.”

“No, no, they’re revealing. The mind, and the unconscious mind in particular, is a canvas. We paint on it constantly. Art and music can add such colors, such style. Medical science has understood that for decades and uses it to treat and study certain conditions, both psychological and physiological.”

She angled her head. Was there another message here? “You sound more like a scientist than a musician now.”

“I’ve blended. One day, you’ll be able to pick a song personally designed for your own brain waves. The mood enhancement capabilities will be endless and intimate. That’s the key. Intimacy.”

She sensed he was making a pitch and stopped dancing. “I wouldn’t think it would be cost effective. And research into technology designed to analyze and coordinate with individual brain waves is illegal. For good reason. It’s dangerous.”

“Not at all,” he disagreed. “It’s liberating. New processes, any sort of real progress usually starts out as illegal. As for the cost, it would be high initially, then come down as the design was adjusted for mass production. What’s a brain but a computer, after all? You have a computer analyze a computer. What could be simpler?”

He glanced over at the screen. “That’s the intro for the last number. I’ve got to check my equipment before my cue.” He leaned in, kissed her cheek lightly. “Wish us luck.”

“Yeah, luck,” she murmured, but her stomach was knotted.

What was a brain but a computer? Computers analyzing computers. Individualized programs designed for personal brain wave patterns. If it was possible, would it be possible to add suggestive programs linked directly with the user’s brain? She shook her head. Roarke would never have approved it. He wouldn’t have taken such a foolish risk. But she made her way through the crowd to him, laid a hand on his arm.

“I need to ask you a question,” she said quietly. “Have any of your companies been doing under-the-table research on designing VR for personal brain wave patterns?”

“That’s illegal, Lieutenant.”

“Roarke.”

“No. There was a time when I would have ventured into any number of not essentially legal areas in business. That wouldn’t have been one of them. And no,” he added, anticipating her. “That VR model is universally, not individually designed. Only the programs can be personalized by the user. What you’re talking about is cost prohibitive, logistically tangled, and simply too damn much trouble.”

“Okay, that’s what I figured.” Her muscles relaxed. “But can it be done?”

He paused a moment, then lifted his shoulder. “I have no idea. You’d have to have the individual’s cooperation or access to a brain scan. That also involves personal approval and consent. And then . . . I have no idea,” he repeated.

“If I can get Feeney alone—” She swiveled her head, trying to find the electronics detective in the whirling crowd.

“Take the evening off, Lieutenant.” Roarke slipped an arm around her. “Mavis is about to get her spotlight.”

“Okay.” She forced herself to push the worry to the back of her mind as Jess settled at his console and gave an introductory riff. Tomorrow, she promised herself and led the applause as Mavis spun onto the floor.

Then the worry was gone, melted away by the blast of Mavis’s energy and her own wild pleasure as lights, music, and showmanship combined in a dizzy kaleidoscope.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” She was unaware she’d gripped Roarke’s arm like a mother with a child in the school play. “Different, weird, but good.”

“She’s all of that.” The clashing edge of notes, sound effects, and vocals would never be his music of choice, but he found himself grinning. “She’s caught the crowd. You can relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

He laughed and hugged her closer. “If you were wearing buttons, you’d pop them.” He didn’t mind the fact that he had to put his mouth on her ear for her to hear him. And since he was there, anyway, he added an inventive suggestion for after the party.

“What?” She went hot all over. “I believe that particular act is illegal in this state. I’ll check my code book and get back to you. Cut it out.” She hunched up her shoulder in reaction as his teeth and tongue got busy on her earlobe.

“I want you.” Lust prickled over his skin like a rash, instant, itchy, immediate. “Right now.”

“You can’t be serious,” she began, but she found he was, fiercely, when his mouth closed over hers in a wild and urgent kiss. Blood thudded her pulse to vibrant life and the muscles in her thighs went limp. “Get ahold of yourself.” She managed to ease back a half inch and was breathless, shocked, and very near blushing. Not everyone’s attention was focused on Mavis. “We’re in the middle of an event here. A public one.”

“Then let’s leave.” He was hard as rock, painfully ready. There was a wolf inside him, poised to lunge. “There are a lot of private rooms in this house.”

She would have laughed if she hadn’t felt the need vibrating from him. “Get a grip, Roarke. This is Mavis’s big moment. We’re not running off into a closet like a couple of randy teenagers.”

“Yes, we are.” Half blind, he pulled her through the crowd and out of it while she babbled in stunned protest.

“This is nuts. What are you, a pleasure droid? You can damn well hold yourself in check for a couple of hours.”

“The hell with it.” He yanked open the closest door and shoved her inside what was indeed a closet. “Now, goddamn it.” Her back rapped up against the wall, and before she could so much as gasp, he pulled up her skirts and drove himself into her.

She was dry, unprepared, shocked. Ravaged, was all she could think as she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. He was rough, careless, and sent the bruises singing as he rammed her, over and over, into the wall. Even as she shoved at him, he pounded into her, his hands hiking up her hips, digging in and ripping a startled cry of pain from her throat.

She could have stopped him, her training was thorough. But training had dissolved into sheer feminine distress. She couldn’t see his face, wasn’t sure she’d recognize it if she could.

“Roarke.” It was shock, bone deep, that quavered in her voice. “You’re hurting me.”

He muttered something, a language she didn’t understand and had never heard, so she stopped struggling, gripped his shoulders, and shut her eyes to what was happening to both of them.

Still he plowed into her, hands digging into her hips to keep her open for him, his breath whistling in her ear. He took her brutally, and with none of the finesse or control that was such an innate part of him.

He couldn’t stop. Even as part of his brain stepped back, appalled at what he was doing, he simply couldn’t stop. The need was like a cancer eating at him and he had to sate it to survive. There was a voice somewhere in his head, greedy and gasping. Harder. Faster. More. It drove him, pushed him, until with one final vicious thrust, he emptied.

She held on. It was that or slide to the floor. He was shuddering like a man with a fever and she didn’t know whether to soothe him or belt him.

“Goddamn it, Roarke.” But when he pressed a hand to the wall to keep balance as he swayed, she lost any sense of insult in worry.

“Hey, what is it? How much have you had to drink, anyway? Come on, lean on me.”

“No.” With the violent need met, his mind cleared. And remorse was a hot weight in his belly. He shook off the dizziness and eased himself back. “Good God, Eve. Good God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He was sheet white. She’d never seen him look even remotely ill and was terrified. “I should get Summerset, somebody. You’ve got to lie down.”

“Stop it.” He very carefully nudged away her stroking hands and stepped back until they were no longer touching. How could she bear to have him touch her? “For Christ’s sake. I raped you. I just raped you.”

“No.” She said it firmly, hoping the tone of her voice would be as effective as a slap. “You did not. I know what rape is. What you did wasn’t rape, even if it was a little overenthusiastic.”

“I hurt you.” When she reached out, he held up his hands to stop her. “Goddamn it, Eve, you’re bruised from head to foot, and I shoved you against the wall in some fucking closet and used you. Used you like a—”

“Okay.” She stepped forward, but he shook his head. “Don’t back away from me, Roarke. That’s what will hurt. Don’t do that.”

“I need a minute.” He rubbed his hands over his face. He still felt light-headed and queasy, and worse, slightly out of himself. “Christ, I need a drink.”

“Which brings me back to my question. How much have you had?”

“Not enough. I’m not drunk, Eve.” He dropped his hands and looked around. A closet, was all he could think. For God’s pity, a closet. “I don’t know what happened, what came over me. I’m sorry.”

“I can see that.” But she still couldn’t see the whole picture. “You kept saying something. Weird. Like liomsa.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s Gaelic. Mine it means. I haven’t used Gaelic in . . . not since I was a boy. My father used it often when he was . . . on a drunk.”

He hesitated, then he reached out to graze his fingertips over her cheek. “I was so rough with you. So careless.”

“I’m not one of your crystal vases, Roarke. I can take it.”

“Not like that.” He thought of the whimpers and protests of the alley whores that had come through the thin walls and haunted him when his father had bedded them. “Never like that. I never thought of you. I didn’t care, and there’s no excuse.”

She didn’t want him humble. It unnerved her. “Well, you’re too busy beating yourself up for me to bother, so let’s go back.”

He touched her arm before she could open the door. “Eve, I don’t know what happened. Literally. One minute we were standing there, listening to Mavis, and the next . . . it was overpowering, vicious. Like my life depended on having you. Not just sex, but survival. I couldn’t control it. That’s not excusing what—”

“Wait.” She leaned back against the door a moment, struggled to separate woman from cop, wife from detective. “You’re not exaggerating?”

“No. It was like a fist around my throat.” He managed a very weak smile. “Well, perhaps that’s the wrong portion of the anatomy. There’s nothing I can say or do to—”

“Eject the guilt a minute, will you, and think.” Her eyes were cold now, hard as agate. “A sudden and irresistible urge—more a compulsion. One you, a very controlled man, couldn’t control? You just pounded yourself into me with all the finesse of a sweaty celibate breaking fast with a rented sex droid.”

He winced at that, felt the tear of guilt. “I’m all too aware of that.”

“And it’s not your style, Roarke. You’ve got moves, I can’t keep up with all of them, but they’re all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who’s made love with you in about every way that’s anatomically possible, I can certify that you’re never selfish.”

“Well.” He wasn’t quite certain how to react. “You humble me.”

“It wasn’t you,” she murmured.

“I beg to differ.”

“It wasn’t what you’ve made yourself into,” she corrected. “And that’s what counts. You snapped off. Something inside you snapped off. Or on. That son of a bitch.” Her breath shuddered out as she met Roarke’s eyes, and in them she saw the dawning of understanding. “That son of a bitch has something. He was telling me while we were dancing. He was fucking bragging, and I didn’t get it. But he just had to give a little demonstration. And that’s what’s going to hang him.”

This time Roarke’s grip on her arm was firm. “You’re talking about Jess Barrow. About brain scans and suggestions. Mind control.”

“Music should affect how people behave, how they think. How they feel. He said that to me minutes before the performance began. Cocky bastard.”

Roarke remembered the shock in her eyes when he’d thrown her against the wall and driven himself into her like a battering ram. “If you’re right,” his voice was cool now, too cool, “I want a moment alone with him.”

“It’s police business,” she began, but he stepped slightly closer, and his eyes were cold and determined.

“You’ll give me a moment alone with him, or I’ll find a way to take it. Either way, I’ll have it.”

“All right.” She laid a hand over his, not to ease his grip but in solidarity. “All right, but you’ll wait your turn. I have to be sure.”

“I’ll wait,” he agreed. But the man would pay, Roarke promised himself, for wedging even one instant of fear and distrust into their relationship.

“I’ll let the performance wind up first,” she decided. “I’ll interview him, unofficially, in my office downstairs, with Peabody as control. Don’t make a move on him, Roarke. I mean that.”

He opened the door, let her slip out. “I said I’d wait.”

The music was still going strong, and it hit them with a high, gritty pitch yards before they reached the doorway. But she had only to step in and through the crowd before Jess’s eyes shifted from his controls and met hers.

His smile was quick, cocky, amused.

And she was sure.

“Find Peabody and ask her to go down to my office and set up for a prelim interview.” She stepped in front of Roarke, willed his gaze to move to hers. “Please. We’re not talking about just a personal insult here. We’re talking about murder. Let me do my job.”

Roarke turned without a word. The moment she lost him in the crowd, she worked her way through to Summerset. “I want you to watch Roarke.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Listen to me.” Her fingers dug through his neat jacket and into bone. “It’s important. He could be in trouble. I don’t want you to let him out of your sight until at least an hour after the performance. If anything happens to him, I’ll fry your ass. Understood?”

Not in the least, but he did understand her urgency. “Very well.” He spoke with dignity, crossed the room with grace, but his nerves were shattered.

Confident that Summerset would watch Roarke like a mother hawk, she wound her way through the audience again until she stood on the front edge of the group. She applauded with the rest, schooled herself to flash a supportive smile as Mavis wound up for the encore. And when the next round of applause rang out, she slipped toward Jess and skirted the controls.

“Quite a triumph,” she murmured.

“I told you, she’s a treasure.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he smiled up at her. “You and Roarke missed a couple of numbers.”

“Some personal business,” she said levelly. “I really need to talk to you, Jess. About your music.”

“Glad to. Nothing I like better.”

“Now, if you don’t mind. Let’s go someplace a little more private.”

“Sure.” He shut down his console, locked on the code. “It’s your party.”

“Damn right it is,” she murmured, and led the way.

chapter fifteen

She chose the elevator, wanting to move quickly and privately. She programmed it for the short vertical glide, then the horizontal shift from wing to wing.

“I’ve got to tell you, you and Roarke have a fantastic place here. Just ultra mag.”

“Oh, it’ll do until we find something bigger.” She said it dryly and refused to let his laughter grate on her nerves. “Tell me, Jess, did you decide to work with Mavis, seriously, before or after you knew the connection with Roarke?”

“I told you, Mavis is one in a million. Only had to see her a couple of times, doing a short gig down at the Down and Dirty to know we’d meld well.” The grin flashed. Charming. A choirboy holding a frog under his robe. “It sure didn’t hurt a thing that she had a contact like Roarke on her side. But she had to have the goods.”

“But you knew about the connection before.”

He moved a shoulder. “I’d heard about it. That’s why I went down to see her. That kind of club isn’t my usual venue. But she flashed for me. If I can move her into some hot gigs, then if Roarke, or someone of his ilk, let’s say, is interested in investing in a coming act, it smooths everybody.”

“You’re smooth, Jess.” She stepped out of the car when the doors slid open. “Real smooth.”

“Like I said, I’ve been shaking gigs since I was a kid. I think I got it down.” He looked around the corridor as she led the way. Old art, the real thing, he noted, pricey wood, carpet some craftsman had worn his fingers weaving a century before.

This was money, he thought. The kind that built empires.

At the doorway of her office, she turned. “I don’t know how much he’s got,” she said, reading him perfectly. “And I don’t really care.”

The smile still in place, he lifted a brow, lowered his gaze to the fat tear-shaped diamond lying against the bodice of soft midnight silk. “But you ain’t wearing paste and rags, sugar.”

“I have, and I might again. And Jess?” She flicked off the coded lock. “Don’t call me sugar.”

Eve glided in, nodded to a puzzled but attentive Peabody. “Have a seat,” she told Jess and moved directly to her desk.

“Nice milieu. Well, hi, sweetie.” He couldn’t for the life of him remember her name, but he beamed at Peabody as if they were old, dear friends. “Did you catch the act?”

“Most of it.”

He dropped into a chair. “So, what do you think?”

“I thought it was great. You and Mavis really put on a show.” She risked a smile, not at all sure what Eve wanted from her. “I’m ready to buy the first disc.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Can a guy get a drink in here?” he asked Eve. “I like to stay dry before a performance, and I’m more than ready to get wet.”

“No problem. What would you like?”

“That champagne looked good.”

“Peabody, there should be a bottle in the kitchen. Pour our guest here a glass of wine, will you? And why don’t you get us some coffee?”

She leaned back and considered. Technically, she should record from this point, but she wanted a lead-in before she went on log. “Someone like you, who designs music and the atmosphere surrounding it, has to be as much technician as artist, right? That’s what you were explaining to me before the performance.”

“That’s the way the business shakes down now, has for a lot of years.” He flicked one of his beautiful hands, braceleted with gold. “I’m lucky I’ve got an aptitude for both and an interest. The days of plucking out a tune on the piano or playing a riff on a guitar have gone the way of fossil fuel. Almost extinct.”

“Where’d you get your tech training? I’d have to say it’s way above run of the mill.”

He shot a fresh smile as Peabody came back with the drinks. He was comfortable, relaxed, and assumed he was in the middle of a kind of job interview. “On the job, mostly, a lot of late-night hacking. But I did a stretch of home ed with MIT.”

She already knew some of the data from Peabody’s make, but she wanted to lull him. “Impressive. You’ve made a name for yourself both in performance and design. Isn’t that right, Peabody?”

“Yeah. I’ve got all your discs, and I’m looking forward to something new. It’s been a while.”

“I heard that somewhere.” Eve picked up the ball Peabody was unaware she’d tossed. “Have a dry spell, Jess?”

“Not at all. I wanted to take my time perfecting the new equipment, putting together just the right elements. When I hit with the new stuff, it’s going to be something no one’s ever seen or heard before.”

“And Mavis is like a springboard.”

“In a manner of speaking. She was a lucky break. She’ll showcase some of the material that wasn’t right for me, and I’ve individualized some pieces to match her. I figure on doing some of my own sessions in a few months.”

“After everything’s in place.”

He toasted her, sipped. “Exactly.”

“You ever design soundtracks for VR?”

“Now and again. It’s not a bad gig, if the program’s interesting.”

“And I bet you know how to lay down subliminals.”

He paused, then sipped again. “Subliminals? That’s straight tech.”

“But you’re a damn good tech, aren’t you, Jess? Good enough to know computers in and out. And brains. A brain’s just a computer, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Sure.” His focus was all for Eve so that he didn’t notice that Peabody had come to attention.

“And you’re into mood enhancements, which lead to mood shifts. Behavioral and emotional patterns. Brain wave patterns.” She took a recorder out of her desk, placed it in plain sight. “Let’s talk about that.”

“What the hell is this?” He set down his glass, scooted to the edge of his seat. “What’s the deal?”

“The deal is, I’m going to advise you of your rights, then we’re going to have a chat. Officer Peabody, engage backup recording and log on, please.”

“I didn’t agree to a fucking interview.” He got to his feet. Eve got to hers.

“That’s all right. We can make it obligatory, and take you to Cop Central. There might be a wait. I haven’t booked an interview room. But you won’t mind spending a few hours in lockup.”

Slowly, he sat again. “You turn cop fast, Dallas.”

“No, I don’t. I stay cop. Always. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,” she began for the recorder, and fed in time and place before reciting the revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and options, Jess?”

“Yeah, I get it. But I don’t know what the hell this is about.”

“I’m going to make that very clear for you. You are being questioned in the matters of the unresolved deaths of Drew Mathias, S. T. Fitzhugh, Senator George Pearly, and Cerise Devane.”

“Who?” He looked convincingly baffled. “Devane? Isn’t that the woman who jumped off the Tattler Building? What am I supposed to have to do with suicide? I didn’t even know her.”

“You were unaware that Cerise Devane was CEO and majority stockholder of Tattler Enterprises?”

“No, I guess I knew who she was, but—”

“I imagine you found yourself in The Tattler from time to time during your career.”

“Sure, they’re always digging for dirt. They’ve tossed some my way. It’s just part of the business.” Fear had backed off and left him mildly irritated. “Look, the lady jumped. I was downtown, in session, when she took the leap. I’ve got witnesses. Mavis for one.”

“I know you weren’t there, Jess. I was. At least I know you weren’t there in the flesh.”

His sculpted mouth curled into a sneer. “What am I, a goddamn ghost?”

“Do you know or have you ever had contact with an autotronics tech by the name of Drew Mathias?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Mathias also did a pass through MIT.”

“So have thousands. I opted for in-home. I never even set foot on campus.”

“And never had any contact with other students?”

“Sure I did. Over the ’link, E-mail, laser fax, whatever.” He shrugged his shoulders, drummed his fingers over the top of the hand-tooled boot he’d cocked on his knee. “I don’t remember any autotronics tech by that name.”

She decided to change tacks. “How much work have you done on individualized subliminals?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t understand the term?”

“I know what it means.” This time his shrug was jerky. “And as far as I know, it’s never been done, so I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

Eve took a chance. She looked over at her aide. “Do you know what I’m asking him, Peabody?”

“I think it’s clear enough, Lieutenant.” She was struggling through the mud of confusion. “You’d like to know how much work the interview subject has done on individualized subliminals. Perhaps the interview subject should be reminded that it is not currently illegal to research or have an interest in this area. Only development and implementation are against current state, federal, and international laws.”

“Very good, Peabody. Does that help clear things up for you, Jess?”

The byplay had given him enough time to settle. “Sure, I’m interested in the area. Lots of people are.”

“It’s a little out of your field, isn’t it? You’re just a musician, not a licensed scientist.”

It was exactly the right button. His sat up in his chair, his eyes flashing once. “I’m fully certified in Musicology. Music isn’t just a bunch of notes strung together, sweetheart. It’s life. It’s memory. Songs trigger specific and often predictable emotional reactions. Music’s an expression of emotion, desires.”

“And here I thought it was just a nice way to pass the time.”

“Entertainment is only a slice of the pie. The Celts went to war with bagpipes. They were as much a weapon to them as a broadax. Warring natives in Africa psyched themselves up with drums. Slaves survived on their spirituals, and men have been seducing women to music for centuries. Music plays the mind.”

“Which brings us back to the question. When did you decide to take it a step further and tie in to individual brain patterns? Did you just stumble across it, sort of blind luck, while you were noodling out a tune?”

He gave a short laugh. “You really think what I do is just a slide, don’t you? Just sit down, punch in some notes, and go. It’s work. It’s hard, demanding work.”

“And you’re damned proud of your work, aren’t you? Come on, Jess, you wanted to tell me earlier.” Eve rose, came around the desk to sit on the front edge. “You’ve been dying to tell me. To tell someone. What good is it, what satisfaction is there in creating something so amazing, then having to keep it to yourself?”

He picked up his glass again, ran his fingers down the long, slim stem. “This isn’t exactly the way I’d pictured this.” He took a sip, considered the consequences—and the rewards. “Mavis says you can be flexible. It’s not just code books and procedure with you.”

“Oh, I can be flexible, Jess.” When it’s warranted. “Talk to me.”

“Well, let’s just say that if—hypothetically—I had worked out a technique for individualized subs, mood enhancements on a personal brain pattern, it could be big. People like Roarke and you, with your contacts and financial base, your influence, let’s say, could work around a few antiquated laws and make a big pile. Revolutionize the personal entertainment and enhancement industry while you were at it.”

“Is this a business offer?”

“Hypothetically,” he said and gestured with his glass. “Roarke industries has the R and D, the facilities, the man power, and the credits to take something like this and run with it. And a smart cop, seems to me, could find a way to bend the law, just enough, to make it go down smooth.”

“Gosh, Lieutenant,” Peabody said with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Sounds like you and Roarke are the perfect couple. Hypothetically.”

“And Mavis as the conduit,” Eve murmured.

“Hey, Mavis is chilled. She got what she wanted. After tonight, she’s going to cruise.”

“And you figure that evens out using her to get to Roarke.”

He moved a shoulder again. “Backs gotta be scratched, honey. I gave hers a real full treatment.” The wicked amusement flashed into his eyes again. “Did you enjoy the informal demonstration of my hypothetical system?”

Not certain even her training could keep the fury off her face, she turned, slipped back behind the desk. “Demonstration?”

“The night you and Roarke came by the studio to watch the session. Seemed to me you two were pretty eager to leave, to be alone.” His smile sharpened at the corners. “A little honeymoon revisited?”

She kept her hands behind the desk a moment until she could unclutch her fists. She glanced over toward the door of Roarke’s connecting office, and saw with a jolt that the monitoring light blinked green over it.

He was watching, she realized. That was not only illegal, but dangerous under the circumstances. She flicked her eyes back to Jess. She couldn’t afford to break rhythm. “It seems you’re unusually interested in my sex life.”

“I told you, you fascinate me, Dallas. You’ve got a mind. It’s fucking steel, with all these dark spaces burned into it. I wonder what would happen if you opened those spaces. And sex is a master key.” He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. “What do you dream, Dallas?”

She remembered the dreams, the sick horror of them, the night she’d watched the disc of Mavis. The disc he’d given her. Her hands trembled once before she could control them. “You son of a bitch.” She rose slowly, planted her hands on the desk. “You like giving demonstrations, asshole? Is that what Mathias was to you? A demonstration?”

“I told you, I don’t know who that is.”

“Maybe you needed an autotron tech to perfect your system. Then you tried it out on him. You had his brain waves, so you programmed them in. Did you program in him tying his own noose and slipping it around his neck, or did you leave the method up to him?”

“You just veered way out of orbit.”

“And Pearly? What’s the connection there? Political statement? Were you looking ahead? You’re a real visionary. He’d have tossed his weight against legalizing your new toy. Why not use it on him?”

“Hold it. Hold it.” He got to his feet. “You’re talking about murder. Christ, you’re trying to wrap me up with murder.”

“Then Fitzhugh. Did you need a couple more demonstrations, Jess? Or did you just get a taste for it? Powerful, isn’t it, being able to kill without getting your hands bloody?”

“I never killed anyone. You can’t wrap this on me.”

“Devane was a bonus, with the media right there. You got to watch. I bet you really love to watch, don’t you, Jess? I bet you got hot watching. Like you got hot thinking about where you’d push Roarke tonight with your goddamn toy.”

“That’s what’s rocking you, isn’t it?” Furious, he leaned on the desk. His smile wasn’t charming now, but feral. “You want to sting me because I wired into your man. You should be thanking me. I bet the two of you fucked like wild minks.”

Her hand was in a fist, her fist slamming into his jaw before her brain registered the act. He went down like a stone, face first, arms splayed, and sent her ’link flying.

“Goddamn it.” Breath hitching, she uncurled her fist, clutched it again. “Goddamn it.”

Peabody’s voice came cool and calm through the buzzing in her ears. “Let the backup record show that subject physically threatened the lieutenant during questioning. As a result, subject lost his balance and struck his head on the desk. He appears to be momentarily stunned.”

While Eve could do no more than stare at her, Peabody rose, stepped over, and dragged Jess up by the collar of his shirt. She held him there a moment, as if considering his condition. His knees sagged, his eyes rolled back white.

“That’s affirmative,” she stated, then dumped him into a chair. “Lieutenant Dallas, I believe your recorder has been damaged.” With a brush of her hand, Peabody tipped Eve’s coffee onto the unit, effectively frying its chips. “Mine is in working order and will be sufficient for reporting this interview. Are you injured?”

“No.” Eve shut her eyes, snapped her control back into place. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. The interview breaks at oh one thirty-three. Subject Jess Barrow will be transported to the Brightmore Health Center for examination and treatment, and there be detained until nine hundred hours, when this interview will continue at Cop Central. Officer Peabody, please arrange for transport. Subject is to be held for questioning, charges pending.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody glanced over as the door to Roarke’s office slid open. It only took one look at his face to realize that there might be trouble. “Lieutenant,” she began, careful to keep the recorder turned away. “I’m getting interference on my communicator, and your ’link may have been damaged when the subject knocked it to the floor. Permission to use another room to send for the MTs.”

“Go ahead,” Eve said and sighed as she watched Roarke come in and Peabody stride out. “You had no business monitoring this interview,” she began.

“I beg to differ. I had every business.” He glanced down at the chair as Jess moaned and shifted. “He’s coming around. I’d like my moment with him now.”

“Listen, Roarke—”

He cut her off with one swift, ice-edged stare. “Now, Eve. Leave us alone.”

That was the trouble between them, she decided. Both of them were so used to giving orders that neither of them took orders well. But she remembered the stricken look in his eyes when he’d backed away from her. They had both been used, she thought, but Roarke had been victimized.

“You’ve got five minutes. That’s it. And I’m going to warn you right now. The record shows he’s relatively undamaged. If there are marks on him, it’s going to swing back on me and compromise my case against him.”

His lips twitched in a bare flicker of a smile as he took her arm and led her to the door. “Lieutenant, give me some credit. I’m a civilized man.” He shut the door in her face, locked it.

And, he thought, he knew how to cause great discomfort to the human body without leaving so much as a dent.

He walked over, hauled Jess out of the chair, and shook him until his eyes blinked into focus. “Awake now, are you?” Roarke said softly. “And aware?”

Sweat pooled cold at the base of Jess’s spine. He was looking into the face of murder, and he knew it. “I want a lawyer.”

“You’re not dealing with the cops now. You’re dealing with me. At least for the next five minutes. And you have no rights or privileges here.”

Jess swallowed, struggled for a show of cool. “You can’t lay a hand on me. If you do, it’ll slap right back on your wife.”

Roarke’s lips curved and struck a fresh fist of terror in Jess’s gut. “I’m going to show you just how mistaken you are in that.”

His eyes never left Jess’s face as he reached down, grabbed onto his penis, and twisted. It was some satisfaction to see every drop of blood drain out of the man’s face and watch his mouth work like a guppy’s as it gasped for air. With his thumb, he pressed gently on Jess’s windpipe and cut off even that thin passage of air until the silver eyes bulged.

“Hell, isn’t it, to be led around by the cock?” He gave one last jerk of the wrist before letting Jess collapse into the chair and curl up like a shrimp.

“Now, let’s talk,” he said pleasantly enough. “About private matters.”

Out in the corridor, Eve paced up and down, glancing every few seconds at the thick door. She knew very well if Roarke had implemented the soundproofing, Jess could be shrieking his lungs out and she wouldn’t hear.

If he killed him . . . Good God if he killed him, how was she going to handle it? She stopped, appalled, and pressed a hand to her stomach. How could she even consider it? She was duty bound to protect the bastard. There were rules. Whatever her personal feelings, there were rules.

She marched to the door, coded in, and hissed out a breath as her code was denied. “Son of a bitch. Goddamn it, Roarke.” He knew her too well. With little hope, she raced down the corridor, into his office, and tried the connecting door.

Entrance denied.

She streaked to the monitor, cued up the security camera for her office, and found he’d locked her out of that as well.

“God almighty, he is killing him.” She rushed the door again, beat on it uselessly with her fist. Moments later, like magic, the locks slicked back, and the door slid quietly open. She went through at a dead run and saw Roarke calmly sitting at her desk, smoking.

Her heart pounded as she looked down at Jess. He was pale as death, his pupils the size of pinpricks, but he was breathing. In fact, he was wheezing out air like a faulty temperature control.

“He’s unmarked.” Roarke picked up the brandy he’d poured himself. “And I believe he’s begun to see the error of his ways.”

Eve leaned down, peered closely into Jess’s eyes, and watched him cringe back into the chair like a kicked dog. The sound he made was barely human. “What the hell did you do to him?”

He doubted Eve or the NYPSD would approve of the tricks he’d picked up in his more shadowy travels. “Much less than he deserved.”

She straightened and now took a long, hard look at Roarke. He looked like a man about to entertain late night guests or chair an important business meeting. His suit was unwrinkled, his hair unmussed, his hands perfectly steady. But his eyes, she noted, were just on the down side of wild.

“Christ, you’re scary.”

Carefully, he set his brandy down. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

“Roarke.” She pushed back the urge to go to him, close her arms around him. It wasn’t what the moment called for, she decided. Or what he wanted. “This can’t be personal.”

“Yes.” He drew in smoke, blew it out slowly. “It can. And is.”

“Lieutenant.” Peabody stepped in, her face bland. “The MTs are here. With your permission, I’ll accompany the suspect to the health center.”

“I’ll go.”

“Sir.” Peabody slid a glance toward Roarke. He’d yet to take his eyes off Eve, she noted. And those eyes looked more than a little dangerous. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe you have more pressing matters here. I can handle this. You still have a number of guests in the house, including the press. I’m sure you’d prefer this matter remain quiet until its disposition.”

“All right. I’ll contact Central from here, make the necessary arrangements. Prepare for second phase interview tomorrow, nine hundred hours.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Peabody glanced over at Jess, lifted a brow. “He must have hit his head pretty hard. Still looks dazed, skin’s clammy.” She offered Roarke a wide smile. “I know just how that feels.”

Roarke laughed, feeling more of the tension drain away. “No, Peabody. In this case, I don’t believe you do.”

He got up, walked to her and, framing her square face with his elegant hands, kissed her. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured before turning to Eve. “I’ll see to the rest of our guests. Take your time.”

As he walked out, Peabody touched her fingertips to her lips. Pleasure had radiated down to her toes and out through the reinforced tips of her boots. “Oh wow. I’m beautiful, Dallas.”

“I owe you, Peabody.”

“I think I just got paid.” She stepped back to the door. “Here come the MTs. We’ll get our boy out of here. Tell Mavis she was absolutely ultra.”

“Mavis.” Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes. How was she going to tell Mavis?

“If I were you, Dallas, I’d give her tonight to glow. You can tell her about this later. She’ll be fine. In here,” she called, gesturing. “We got us what looks like a mild concussion.”

chapter sixteen

Getting a warrant for search and seizure at two in the morning was a tricky business. She lacked the straightforward data to cop an automatic clearance and needed a judge. Judges tended to be cranky about calls in the middle of the night. And trying to explain why she needed clearance for a sweep and scan of a music console currently on her own premises was a dicey job.

This being the case, Eve tolerated the clipped, angry lecture from her judge of choice.

“I understand that, Your Honor. But this can’t wait until a decent hour in the morning. I have a strong suspicion that the console in question is linked to the deaths of four people. Its designer and operator is currently being detained, and I cannot expect his immediate cooperation.”

“You’re telling me music kills, Lieutenant?” The judge snorted. “I could have told you that. The crap they’re pumping out these days could murder an elephant. In my day, we had music. Springsteen, Live, Cult Killers. That was music.”

“Yes, sir.” She rolled her eyes. She’d had to pick a classic music buff. “I really need that warrant, Your Honor. Captain Feeney is available to begin the initial scan. The operator had admitted to using the console illegally, on the record. I need more to tie it to the cases in question.”

“You ask me, those music consoles should be banned and burned. This is piddly shit here, Lieutenant.”

“Not if the evidence bears out my belief that this console and its operator are linked to the death of Senator Pearly and others.”

There was a pause, a wheeze. “That’s a big leap. No pun intended.”

“Yes, sir. I need the warrant to bridge the gap.”

“I’ll send it through, but you better have something, Lieutenant. And it better be solid.”

“Thank you. Sorry to have disturbed—” The ’link clicked in her ear, forcefully. “Your sleep,” she finished, then picked up her communicator and tagged Feeney.

“Hey, Dallas.” His face was flushed with fun, wide with a grin. “Where ya been, kid? Party’s just breaking up. You missed Mavis doing a set with a hologram of the Rolling Stones. You know how I feel about Jagger.”

“Yeah, he’s like a father to you. Don’t take off, Feeney. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Job? It’s two A.M., and my wife’s feeling, you know—” He winked sloppily. “Interested.”

“Sorry, put the glands on hold. Roarke will arrange to have your wife taken home. I’ll be up in ten. Take a dose of Sober-Up if you need it. It could be a long night.”

“Sober-Up?” His face fell into its usual morose lines. “I’ve been working all night to get drunk. What’s this about?”

“Ten minutes,” she repeated and cut him off.

She took the time to change out of the party dress, and discovered bruises she hadn’t been aware of throbbing fresh. She took a quick moment to slap a coat of numbing cream where she could reach and winced her way into a shirt and trousers.

Still, she was true to her word and walked onto the roof terrace ten minutes later.

Roarke had been at work here, she noted, and had cleared out lingering guests. If there were any stragglers, he was dealing with them elsewhere, giving her a clear stage.

Feeney sat alone on a chair beside a decimated buffet spread, glumly eating pâté. “You sure know how to put me out of a party mood, Dallas. The wife was so dazzled to get a limo ride home, she forgot she was going to jump me. And Mavis was looking all over for you. I think she was a little hurt you didn’t hang around to congratulate her.”

“I’ll make it up to her.” Her porta-link hummed, signaling an incoming transmission. She read the display, hit print out. “Here’s our warrant.”

“Warrant?” He reached for a truffle and popped it in his mouth. “For what?”

Eve shifted, gestured toward the console. “For that. Ready to work your magic?”

Feeney swallowed the truffle, looked toward the console. The light some would have called love gleamed in his eyes. “You want me to play with that? Hot damn.”

He was up, almost bounding toward the equipment and running reverent hands over it. She heard him mumbling something about TX-42, high velocity sound trips, and mirror merging capabilities. “The warrant clears me to override his lock off code?”

“It does. Feeney, it’s serious.”

“You’re telling me.” He lifted his hands, rubbing fingertips together like an old-world safe cracker about to hit the big time. “This baby is one serious mother. The design’s inspired, the payload’s off the scale. It’s—”

“Very likely responsible for four deaths,” Eve interrupted. She walked over to join him. “Let me bring you up to date.”

Within twenty minutes, using the portable kit out of his car, Feeney was at work. Eve couldn’t understand what he was muttering about, and he didn’t take it kindly when she leaned over his shoulder.

That gave her time to pace, then to call in for a report on Jess’s status. She had just finished ordering Peabody to turn duty over to a uniform guard and go home to get some sleep when Roarke came in.

“I gave your regrets to our guests,” he told her and helped himself to another brandy. “I explained that you’d been called to duty suddenly. I had much sympathy on living with a cop.”

“I tried to tell you it was a bad deal.”

He only smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It placated Mavis. She’s hoping you’ll get in touch tomorrow.”

“I will. I’ll need to explain things. Did she ask about Barrow?”

“I told her he was . . . indisposed. Rather abruptly.” He didn’t touch her. He wanted to, but he wasn’t quite ready. “You’re hurting, Eve. I can see it.”

“You pinch my nose again, and I’ll flatten you. Feeney and I have a lot of work here, and I have to be sharp. I’m not fragile, Roarke.” The message was in her eyes, asking him to put it aside. “Get used to it.”

“Not yet.” He put down his brandy, slipped his hands into his pockets. “I could help there,” he said, inclining his head toward Feeney.

“It’s police business. You’re not authorized to touch that unit.”

When he only shifted his eyes back to hers with some of the old humor in them, she let out a huge sigh. “It’s up to Feeney,” she snapped. “He outranks me, and if he wants your fingers in his pie, it’s his deal. I don’t want to know about it. I’ve got reports to put together.”

She started out, irritation in every body line. “Eve.” When she stopped and scowled over her shoulder at him, he shook his head. “Nothing.” He lifted his shoulders, feeling helpless. “Nothing,” he said again.

“Put it to bed, goddamn it. You’re pissing me off.” She stalked out, nearly making him smile.

“I love you, too,” he murmured, then wandered toward Feeney. “What have we here?”

“Brings tears to my eyes, I swear it. It’s beautiful, brilliant. I tell you the guy’s a genius. Certified. Come here and take a look at this image board. Just look at it.”

Roarke slipped off his jacket, hunkered down, and went to work.

She never went to bed. For once, Eve buried her prejudice and took her sanctioned dose of uppers. The Alert All cleared the drag of fatigue and most of the cobwebs from her brain. She used the shower off her office, broke down and wrapped an ice bandage over her sore knee, and told herself she’d deal with the bruises later.

It was six A.M. when she went back to the roof terrace. The console had been methodically taken apart. Wires, boards, chips, discs, drives, panels were arranged over the gleaming floor in what she could only assume were organized piles.

In his elegant silk shirt and tailored slacks, Roarke sat cross-legged among them, diligently entering data in a logbook. He’d tied his hair back, she noted, to keep it from falling over his face. And that face was intense, focused, the dark blue eyes ridiculously alert for the hour.

“I’ve got that,” he muttered to Feeney. “Running the components now. I’ve seen something like this before. Something close. It’s calibrating.” He held the logbook out and under the kick panel of the console. “Have a look.”

A hand shot out, grabbed the logbook. “Yeah, this could do it. It could fucking do it. Suck my dick.”

“Irishmen have such a way with words.”

At Eve’s dry tone, Feeney’s head popped up. His hair stuck straight up, as if he’d shocked himself while fiddling with the electronics. His eyes were bright and wild. “Hey, Dallas. I think we just nailed it.”

“What took you so long?”

“What a kidder.” Feeney’s head disappeared again.

Eve exchanged a long, sober study with Roarke. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“You’re not here,” she said as she walked past him. “I don’t see you here. What have you got, Feeney?”

“Got a lot of options on this baby,” he began, and popped up again to settle in the molded chair of the console. “Lotsa doodads, and they are impressive. But the one we had to dig deep to find, under layers of some pretty hunky security, is the honey.”

He ran his hands over the console again, stroking fingers over the smooth surface that now topped empty guts. “The designer would have made a hell of an E-detective. Most of the guys under me can’t do what he can. Creativity, see.” He wagged a finger at her. “It’s not just formulas and boards. Creativity turns the corner into an open field. This guy’s walked that field. He fucking owns it. And this is what he’d call his crowning glory.”

He offered the logbook, knowing she’d scowl over the codes and components. “So?”

“It took some art to get down to that. He had it locked under his private pass, his voice pattern, his palm print. Some layers of fail safe, too. Nearly blew ourselves up about an hour ago, right, Roarke?”

Roarke rose and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I never doubted you for an instant, Captain.”

“Like hell.” In tune with his man, Feeney grinned. “If you weren’t saying your prayers, boyo, I was saying mine. Still, I can’t think of many others I’d be pleased to be blown to hell with.”

“The feeling’s nearly mutual.”

“If you two have finished your little male bonding dance, would you care to explain what the hell I’m supposed to be looking at here?”

“It’s a scanner. The most intricate I’ve seen outside of Testing.”

“Testing?”

It was a procedure every cop dreaded, and one every cop faced whenever they were forced to set their weapon on maximum for termination.

“Even though every member of NYPSD’s brain pattern is on record, a scan’s taken during Testing. Search for damage, flaws, any abnormalities that might have contributed to the use of maximum force. That scan’s compared with the last taken, then the subject is taken on a couple of VR rides that use the data downloaded from the scan. Nasty business.”

Feeney had only faced it once and hoped never to go through the process again.

“And he’s managed to duplicate or simulate that process?” Eve asked.

“I’d say he’s improved on it on a couple of levels.” Feeney gestured toward the stack of discs. “That’s a lot of brain wave patterns. Shouldn’t be too difficult to compare them with the victims’ and identify.”

Her pattern would be on one, she thought. Her mind, on disc. “Tidy,” she said half to herself.

“Brilliant, really. And potentially deadly. Our boy’s got some spiffy twists on mood sets. They’re all tied into musical patterns, you know, notes and chords. He picks the tune, see, then enhances what you’d call the tone of it, to pump along the target’s reaction, their state of mind say, their unconscious impulses.”

“So he uses it to get into their head, deep. The subconscious.”

“Got a lot of medical technology I’m not real familiar with, but I’d say that’s about it. Heavy into sexual urges,” Feeney added. “That’s our boy’s specialty. I’ve got a little more breakdown to do, but I’d say he could program the brain pattern, set the mood enhance, and give the target mind a nice hefty push.”

“Off a ledge?” she demanded.

“That’s tricky, Dallas. Where I’m at here is enhancement, suggestive shit. Sure, if somebody was leaning toward the ledge, thinking about going over, this might give them that last nudge. But to coerce a mind to act in a manner completely adverse, completely out of character, I’d have to back off on that for now.”

“They jumped, choked, and bled to death,” she reminded him impatiently. “Maybe we’ve all got suicidal urges buried in the subconscious. And this just brings them to the surface.”

“You need Mira for that, not me. I’ll keep digging.” He smiled hopefully. “After breakfast?”

She forced down impatience. “After breakfast. I appreciate the long night, Feeney, and the quick work. But I needed the best.”

“And you got it. The guy you decided to link yourself up with isn’t half bad, either, as a tech. I’d make a decent E-man out of him if he’d give up the drudgery of his lifestyle.”

“My first offer of the day.” Roarke smiled. “You know where the kitchen is, Feeney. You’re welcome to the AutoChef, or you can ask Summerset to arrange for the meal of your choice.”

“Around here, that means real eggs.” He stretched kinks out, popped joints. “You want me to tell him breakfast for three?”

“You get started,” Roarke suggested. “We’ll be down shortly.” He waited until Feeney had sauntered out, whistling at the thought of eggs Benedict and blueberry pancakes. “You haven’t much time, I know.”

“I have enough, if you have something to say.”

“I do.” It was rare for him to feel awkward. He’d almost forgotten the sensation until it swamped him. “What Feeney just pointed out to you, about his opinion on the capabilities here. The fact that it’s unlikely for the subject to be influenced to act out of character, to do something abhorrent.”

She saw immediately where he was going and wanted to curse. “Roarke—”

“I’ll finish this. I’ve been the man who took you last night. I’ve lived in that skin, and it hasn’t been so long ago that I’ve forgotten him. I turned him into something else because I wanted to. And I could. Money helped, and a certain need for . . . polish. But he’s still there. He’s still part of me. I was reminded of that rather violently last night.”

“Do you want me to hate you for it, to blame you for it?”

“No, I want you to understand it, and me. I came from the kind of man who hurt you last night.”

“So did I.”

That stopped him, had emotion swimming back into his eyes. “Christ, Eve.”

“And it scares me. It wakes me up in the middle of the night, the wondering just what’s inside me. I live with it every single day. I knew where you came from when I took you on, and I don’t care. I know you’ve done things, broken laws, lived outside them. But I’m here.”

She huffed out a breath, shifted her feet. “I love you, okay? That’s it. Now, I’m hungry, and I’ve got a full day ahead of me, so I’m going down before Feeney cleans us out of eggs.”

He stepped in front of her before she could storm out. “One more minute.” He framed her face with his hands, lowered his mouth to hers, and turned her scowl into a sigh with a kiss so tender it made her throat ache and her toes curl.

“Well,” she managed when he eased back. “That’s better, I guess.”

“Much better.” He linked his fingers with hers. And because he had used it when he’d hurt her, he balanced that out by using it now. “A ghra.”

“Huh?” A line appeared between her brows. “Is that Gaelic again?”

“Yes.” He brought their joined fingers to his lips. “Love. My love.”

“It’s got a nice ring.”

“It does, yes.” He sighed a little. It had been a long time since he’d let himself hear the music of it.

“It shouldn’t make you sad,” she murmured.

“It doesn’t. Just thoughtful.” He gave her hand a friendly squeeze. “I’d love to buy you breakfast, Lieutenant.”

“Talked me into it.” Comfortable, she tightened her grip. “We got any crepes?”

The trouble with chemicals, Eve thought as she set up for the next interview with Jess Barrow, was that no matter how safe, mild, and helpful they claimed to be, they always made her feel false. She knew she wasn’t naturally alert, that underneath that surging, induced energy, her body was a mass of desperate fatigue.

She kept imagining her system wearing a huge clown’s mask of enthusiasm over a gray, exhausted face.

“Back in the saddle, Peabody?” Eve asked as her aide walked into the white-walled, uncluttered room.

“Yes, sir. I briefed myself via your reports, dropped by your office on the way here. You have a message from the commander on hold, and two from Nadine Furst. I think she smells a story.”

“She’ll have to wait. I’ll relay to the commander during our first break here. Know anything about baseball, Peabody?”

“I played short for two years at the Academy. Golden Glove.”

“Well, warm up. When I toss you a ball, you field it, zing it back. We’re going Tinker to Evers to Chance here, with Feeney coming in before the end of the inning.”

Peabody’s eyes lit. “Hey, didn’t know you were a historian.”

“I have many hidden facets. Just field the ball, Peabody. I want to dust this son of a bitch at the plate. You’ve read the report, you know the drill.” She signaled for the suspect to be brought in. “Let’s cook him. If he lawyers up, we’ll have to juggle. But I’m banking on him being too arrogant to go that route initially.”

“Mostly, I like cocky men. I guess I’ll have to make an exception here.”

“And he’s got such a pretty face,” Eve added, then moved aside as a uniform delivered her man. “How’s it going, Jess? Feeling better today?”

He’d had time to regroup and time to stew. “I could hang you on undue force. But I’m going to let it pass because before this is done, you’ll be the top joke of your idiot department.”

“Yep, he’s feeling better. Have a seat.” She stepped to the small table, engaged the recording unit. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, with Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide. The time is oh nine hundred, September 8, 2058. Interview subject Barrow, Jess, file number S-one nine three oh five. Would you please state your name for the record?”

“Jess Barrow. You got that much right.”

“I have, during our previous interview, given you your rights and options under the law, is that correct?”

“You gave me the drill, sure.” For all the good it had done him, he thought, and shifted carefully in his seat. His cock ached like a rotted tooth.

“And you understand those rights and options as stated?”

“I got them then; I get them now.”

“Do you wish, at this time, to make use of your right to an attorney or representative?”

“I don’t need anybody but myself.”

“All right then.” Eve sat, linked her fingers, smiled. “Let’s get started. In your previous statement, you admitted to the design and use of equipment built for tampering with personal brain patterns and behavior.”

“I didn’t admit to shit.”

She kept smiling. “That’s a matter of interpretation. Do you now deny that during a social gathering at my home last evening, you utilized a program you have designed to make certain suggestions, subliminally, to the subject Roarke?”

“Hey, if your husband took you off and tossed your skirts over your head, it’s your business.”

Her smile never faltered. “It certainly is.” She needed to hang him here, on this one point, to hang him on the rest. “Peabody, perhaps Jess is unaware of the penalty for giving false statement to a police official during Interview.”

“That penalty,” Peabody said smoothly, “carries a maximum term of five years in full lockup. Shall I replay the pertinent data from the initial interview, Lieutenant? The subject’s memory might be faulty due to the injury received while assaulting an officer.”

“Assault, my ass.” He snarled at Peabody. “You think you can double-team me this way? She struck me without provocation, then let that bastard she married come in and . . .”

He trailed off, remembering the warning Roarke had issued in a soft, silky voice directly in his ear. While the pain, almost sweet in its intensity, had radiated through his system.

“You wish to make an official complaint?” Eve asked.

“No.” Even now, a light line of sweat beaded on his upper lip and made Eve wonder just what Roarke had done to him. “I was upset last night. Things got out of hand.” He took a steadying breath. “Listen, I’m a musician. I take a lot of pride in my work, in the art of it. I like to think what I do influences people, touches them. My pride in that might have given you the wrong impression as to the scope of my work. Basically, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

He smiled again, with a good deal of his usual charm, and spread his handsome hands. “Those people you talked about last night. I don’t know them. I’ve heard of some of them, sure, but I didn’t know them personally or have anything to do with their decision to self-terminate. I’m against it, myself. In my opinion, life’s too short as it is. This is all a misunderstanding, and I’m willing to forget it.”

Eve leaned back in her chair, sent a look toward her aide. “Peabody, he’s willing to forget it.”

“That’s generous of him, Lieutenant, and not surprising, under the circumstances. A stretch for breaking the statute on personal privacy through electronics is stringent. And, of course, there’s the added charge of designing and implementing equipment designed for individual subliminals. Right there, with the multiple counts, you’re looking at a ten-year minimum in the cages.”

“You can’t begin to prove any of it. Any of it. You’ve got no case here.”

“I’m giving you a chance to roll over here, Jess. They go easier on you when you roll. And as to the civil case that my husband and I are entitled to bring against you, I will state here, for the record, that I will waive that right, contingent on your admission of guilt on the criminal charges—if that admission comes in the next thirty seconds. Think about it.”

“I don’t have to think about anything, because you’ve got nothing.” He leaned forward. “You’re not the only one with people behind you. What do you think will happen to your big, bad career if I go to the press with this?”

She said nothing, just watched him, then glanced at the time count on the recorder. “Offer is rescinded.” Eve nodded at the monitoring camera. “Peabody, please uncode the door for Captain Feeney.”

When Feeney walked in, he was beaming. He set a disc and file on the table and stuck out his hand to Jess. “I’ve got to tell you, your work’s the best I’ve ever seen. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks.” Jess shifted to audience mode, shook hands warmly. “I love my work.”

“Oh, it shows.” Feeney sat down, made himself comfortable. “I haven’t enjoyed anything for years as much as I did taking that console apart.”

Another time, another place, it might have been comic, the way Jess’s face underwent the transformation from obliging star to blank shock to ripe fury. “You fucked with my equipment? Took it apart? You had no right laying a hand on it! You’re meat! You’re dead! You’re destroyed!”

“Let the record show the subject is overwrought,” Peabody recited blandly. “His threats against the person of Captain Feeney are accepted as emotional rather than literal.”

“Well, the first time, anyway,” Feeney said cheerfully. “You want to watch your step there, friend. Put too much of that on record, and we tend to get pissy. Now.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Let’s talk shop. You had some great security, admirable. Took me a while to bypass. But then, I’ve been in the game as long as you’ve been breathing. Designing that personal brain scanner was some accomplishment. So compact, so delicate to the touch. I gauged its range at two yards. Now, that’s damn good for that small and portable a unit.”

“You didn’t get into my equipment.” Jess’s voice wavered. “You’re bluffing. You couldn’t get down to the core.”

“Well, the three fail safes were tricky,” Feeney admitted. “I spent nearly an hour on the second one, but the last was really just padding. I guess you never figured you’d need anything at that level.”

“Did you run the discs, Feeney?” Eve asked him.

“Started on them. You’re on there, Dallas. We don’t have Roarke’s on file. Civilian, you know. But I found yours and Peabody’s.”

Peabody blinked. “Mine?”

“I’m running comparison checks on the names you requested, Dallas.” He smiled broadly at Jess again. “You’ve been busy, collecting specimens. That’s a fine storage option you designed, terrific data compression capabilities. It’s going to break my heart to destroy that equipment.”

“You can’t!” It was sincere pain and distress now. His eyes swam with it. “I’ve put everything I’ve got into that. Not just money, but time and thought and energy. Three years of my life, almost straight through without a break. I stepped back from my career to design it. Do you have any idea what I can accomplish with it?”

Eve picked up the ball. “Why don’t you tell us, Jess? In your own words. We’d love to hear it.”

chapter seventeen

Jess Barrow started slowly, in fits and starts, speaking of his experiments and research, his fascination with the influence of outside stimuli on the human brain; the senses, and the enhancement of the senses through technology.

“What we can do for pleasure, for punishment—we haven’t even tapped the surface. That’s what I wanted to do,” he explained. “Tap the surface and go under it. Dreams, Dallas. Needs, fears, fantasies. All my life, music’s been what’s moved me to . . . everything: hunger, passion, misery, joy. How much more intense would all that be if you could just get inside, really use the mind to exploit and explore?”

“So you worked on it,” she prompted. “Devoted yourself to it.”

“Three years. More really, but three solid on the design, experimentation, perfecting. Every penny I had went into it. I’ve got next to nothing left now. That’s why I needed backing. Why I needed you.”

“And Mavis was your link to me, and from me to Roarke.”

“Look.” He lifted his hands, rubbed them over his face, dropped them onto the table. “I like Mavis, and she’s got a real spark. Yeah, I’d have used her if she was bland as a droid, but she’s not. I didn’t do her any harm. If anything, I gave her a boost up. Her ego level was ditch low when we hooked up. Oh, she was masking it pretty good, but she’d lost confidence in herself from what happened before. I gave her confidence a jolt.”

“How?”

He hesitated, decided he’d take a bigger fall by evading. “Okay, I gave her some subliminal nudges in the right direction. She should be grateful,” he insisted. “And I worked with her, straight stuff, getting her shined up without taking away her natural edge. You heard her yourself. She’s better than she ever was.”

“You experimented on her,” Eve said, and wanted to hang him for that alone, “without her knowledge or consent.”

“It wasn’t like she was some droid rat. Christ, I’d perfected the system.” He jabbed a finger at Feeney. “You know it’s prime.”

“It’s beautiful,” Feeney agreed. “Doesn’t make it legal.”

“Shit, genetic engineering was illegal, in vitro work, prostitution. What did that get us? We’ve come a long way, but we’re still in the dark ages, man. This is a benefit, this is a way to push the mind forward into dreams and make what we dream real.”

“Not all of us want our dreams to be reality. What gives you the right to make that choice for someone else?”

“Okay.” He held up a hand. “Maybe I got overenthusiastic a few times. You get caught up. But all I did with you was expand on what was there. So I enhanced the lust bars that night in the studio. What did it hurt? Another time I gave your memory a little push, jiggled a few locks. I wanted to be able to prove what could be done, so when the time was right, I could approach you and Roarke with a business proposition. And last night . . .”

He trailed off, knowing he’d miscalculated badly there. “Okay, last night I went too far, the tone was too dark. I got carried away with it. Performing before a real audience again, it’s like a drug. It hypes you. Maybe I punched the power a little hard on him. An honest mistake.” He tried that smile again. “Look, I’ve used it on myself, dozens of times. There’s no harm, nothing permanent. Just temporary mood enhancement.”

“And you pick the mood?”

“That’s part of it. With standard equipment, you don’t have as much control, not nearly the depth of field. With what I’ve developed, you can turn it on and off like a light. Sexual need or satisfaction, euphoria, melancholy, energy, relaxation. Name it, you got it.”

“A death wish?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t play those games.”

“But it’s all a game to you, isn’t it? You push the buttons, and the people dance. You’re the electronic god.”

“You’re missing the big picture,” he insisted. “Do you know what people would pay for this kind of capability? You can feel anything you want.”

Eve opened the file Feeney had brought in. She tossed photos out, faceup. “What did they feel, Jess?” She pushed the morgue shots of four deaths at him. “What was the last thing you made them feel so that they killed themselves with smiles on their faces?”

He went white as death itself, eyes glazing before he managed to shut them. “No. No way. No.” Doubling over, he retched out his health center breakfast.

“Let the record show the suspect is momentarily indisposed,” Peabody said dryly. “Should I call for maintenance and a health aide, Lieutenant?”

“Christ, yes,” Eve muttered as Jess continued to heave. “We’ll break this interview at oh ten fifteen. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, record off.”

“Great brain, weak stomach.” Feeney went to the dispenser in the corner and poured a cup of water. “Here, boy, see if you can choke some of this down.”

Jess’s eyes watered. His stomach muscles were raw. Water sloshed in the cup so that Feeney had to guide it to his mouth. “You can’t hang that on me,” he managed. “You can’t.”

“We’ll see about that.” Eve stepped aside so that the incoming aide could cart him off to the infirmary. “I need some air,” she muttered and walked out.

“Hold on, Dallas.” Feeney hurried after her, leaving Peabody to direct maintenance and gather up the file. “We need to talk.”

“My office is closer.” She swore lightly as her knee throbbed. The ice bandage was wearing off and needed to be replaced. Her hip was murderous.

“Took a beating with that CEC hit yesterday, didn’t you?” Feeney clucked sympathetically as she hobbled. “Been looked over yet?”

“Later. I’ve been pressed for time. Let’s give the creep an hour to get his stomach back in place, then hit him again. He hasn’t cried lawyer yet, but it’s coming. Won’t matter a damn once we match those brain patterns to the victims.”

“That’s the problem. Sit down,” he advised when they stepped into her office. “Take a load off that leg.”

“It’s the knee, and sitting’s making it stiffen up. What’s the problem?” she asked and headed for the coffee.

“Nothing matches.” He studied her mournfully when she turned. “Not one match in the whole lot. Plenty as yet unidentified, but I’ve got the prints on all victims, no autopsy scan on Devane, but I got the one from her last physical. There’s no match, Dallas.”

So she did sit, heavily. There was no need to ask if he was sure. Feeney was as thorough as a domestic droid searching for dust in corners. “Okay, he’s got them someplace else. Did we get the warrant for his studio and quarters?”

“A team’s going through it right now. I haven’t gotten a report.”

“He could have a lock box, some safe hole.” She shut her eyes. “Shit, Feeney, why would he keep them when he was done with them? He’s probably destroyed them. He’s arrogant, but he’s not stupid. They’d hang him and he’d know it.”

“The possibility’s high there. Then again, he could have kept them as souvenirs. It never fails to surprise me what people keep. That guy last year that cut up his wife? Kept her eyes, remember. In a damn music box.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Where had this headache come from? she wondered and rubbed uselessly at her temples to erase it. “So, maybe we’ll get lucky. If we don’t, we’ve got plenty now. And a good shot of breaking him.”

“Here’s the thing, Dallas.” He sat on the edge of her desk, reached into his pocket for his bag of candied almonds. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right? We’ve got him cold.”

“We’ve got him cold, all right. But not on murder.” Thoughtfully, Feeney chewed a coated nut. “I can’t resolve myself to it. The guy who designed that equipment is brilliant, twisted some sure, self-absorbed. The guy we just shook down is all of those things, and you can add childish. It is a game to him, one he wants to make a big profit on. But murder . . .”

“You’re just in love with his console.”

“That I am,” he admitted without shame. “He’s weak, Dallas, and not just his stomach. How’s he going to make himself rich by killing people off?”

She arched a brow. “I guess you’ve never heard of murder for hire.”

“That boy doesn’t have the guts for it, or the steel.” He ate another nut. “And where’s the motive? Did he pick those people out of a hat? And there’s this. What he’s got requires proximity to tap the subconscious. You can’t place him at any of the scenes.”

“He said something about remote capabilities.”

“Yeah, it had a fine one, but it wouldn’t command this option. Not that I can figure.”

She sat back, deflated. “You’re not making my day here, Feeney.”

“Just food for thought. If he’s got a hand in it, he’s got help. Or a more personal, portable unit.”

“Could it be adjusted into VR goggles?”

The idea intrigued him, made his hangdog eyes gleam. “Can’t say for sure. It’ll take some time to work that out.”

“I hope you’ve got the time. He’s all I’ve got, Feeney. If I can’t crack him, he’s going to walk on the murders. Tucking him away for ten to twenty on what we’ve got doesn’t do it for me.” She huffed out a breath. “He’ll go for a psych evaluation. He’ll go for anything he thinks will buy him a shot. Maybe Mira can pin him.”

“Send him over after the break,” Feeney suggested. “Let her take him for a few hours, and do yourself a favor. Go home and get some sleep. You run on empty long enough, you drop.”

“Maybe I will. I’ll set it up, deal with Whitney. A couple hours off might clear my head. I must be missing something.”

For once, Summerset wasn’t hovering. Eve snuck in the house like a thief, limped her way upstairs. She left a trail of clothes on her way to the bed, and she sighed greedily when she fell on it.

Ten minutes later, she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. The aches were bad enough, she thought grumpily. But the stimulator she’d taken hours before hadn’t worn off. It was passing, leaving her light-headed with fatigue, while her system still bubbled like a brew.

Sleep was not going to happen.

She found herself picking apart the pieces of the case, putting them back together. Each time the puzzle formed differently until it was a blurred jumble of facts and theories.

At this rate, she wouldn’t be close to coherent when she met with Mira.

She considered indulging in a long, hot bath in lieu of sleep. Then, inspired, she popped up and grabbed a robe. She took the elevator, with the purpose of avoiding Summerset, and stepped up on the lower level into the garden path of the solarium. A session in the lagoon pool, she decided, was just the ticket.

She dumped the robe, padded naked to the dark water walled in genuine stone and framed with fragrant blooms. When she dipped a toe, she found it blissfully warm. She sat on the first step and set the control panel for jets and bubbles. As the water began to churn, she started to program music. With a quick grimace, she decided she wasn’t in the mood for tunes.

She simply floated at first, grateful there was no one around to hear her whimpering as the pulsing water worked on her aches. She let herself breathe. Floral perfume. She let herself drift. Simple pleasures.

The conflict of fatigue and stimulation balanced out into relaxation. Drugs, she decided, were highly overrated. Water worked wonders. Turning over lazily, she began to swim, slowly at first while her muscles warmed and limbered. Then she put some kick into it, hoping to work off the excess of the stimulant and revive herself with natural exercise.

When the timer clicked and the water calmed, she continued with long, steady strokes, skimmed down to the glossy black bottom until she felt like an embryo in the womb, then broke the surface with a loud, satisfied groan.

“You swim like a fish.”

Instinct had Eve reaching for her side arm only to encounter her own naked ribs. Quickly, she blinked the water out of her eyes and focused on Reeanna.

“It’s a cliché.” She walked to the edge of the pool. “But accurate.” She set her shoes aside, sat, and slid her legs into the water. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself.” Eve didn’t consider herself fanatically modest, but she dipped a little lower. She hated being caught naked. “Were you looking for Roarke?”

“No, actually, I’ve just left him. He and William are still at it upstairs in his office. I was just leaving for a salon appointment.” She tugged at her gorgeous, glossy red curls. “I’ve got to do something about this mop. Summerset mentioned you were down here, so I thought I’d just drop in on you.”

Summerset. Eve smiled grimly. He’d spotted her after all. “I had a couple of hours personal time. Thought I’d take advantage of it.”

“And what a lovely spot to take it. Roarke’s got such amazing class, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, you could say so.”

“I really just wanted to stop for a moment to tell you how much I enjoyed last evening. I barely got to speak to you—such a crowd. And then you were called away.”

“Cops are lousy socializers,” Eve commented and wondered how to get out and to her robe without feeling like an idiot.

Reeanna reached down, cupped water, and let it pour out of her hand. “I hope it wasn’t anything . . . dreadful.”

“Nobody died, if that’s what you mean.” Then Eve made herself smile. She was lousy at socializing, and she told herself to make a better effort. “Actually, I got a break in the case I’ve been working on. We took a suspect into custody.”

“That’s good.” Reeanna tilted her head, her eyes intrigued. “Would that be the suicide matter we discussed before?”

“I’m not really free to say one way or the other at this time.”

Reeanna smiled. “Cop talk. Well, one way or the other, I’ve been giving it quite a bit of thought. Your case, or whatever you’d call it, would make a fascinating paper. I’ve been so busy with tech, I haven’t done any writing in some time. I hope, when you resolve the matter and it’s public record, I can discuss it with you in some detail.”

“I can probably do that. If and when.” She bent a little. The woman was an expert, after all, and could be of some help. “As it happens, the suspect is being evaluated by Dr. Mira right about now. Do you ever do behavioral and personality evaluations?”

“I have, certainly. From a different angle than Mira. You’d have to say we’re two sides of one coin. Our final diagnosis would often be the same, but we’d use a different process and a different viewpoint.”

“I might need two viewpoints before this one’s over,” Eve mused, measuring Reeanna. “You don’t happen to have security clearance, do you?”

“As it happens, I do.” She continued to swing her legs lazily, but her eyes were alert, interested. “Level Four, Class B.”

“That just skims by. If it comes up, how would you feel about working for the city as a temporary consultant? I can guarantee long hours, lousy conditions, and low pay.”

“Who could resist that kind of offer?” Reeanna laughed, tossed back her hair. “Actually, I’d love the opportunity for some hands on again. Too long in labs, working with machines. William adores that, you know, but I need people.”

“I might just give you a call.” Deciding it was more foolish to huddle in the water than to climb casually out, Eve stood.

“You know where to reach me—Dear God, Eve, what happened to you?” Instantly, Reeanna was swinging her legs back, rising. “You’re black and blue.”

“Hazards of the job.” She managed to snag one of the body towels stacked near the edge and started to wind it around her when Reeanna tugged it away.

“Let me have a look at you. You haven’t been treated.” Her fingers probed at Eve’s hip.

“Hey, do you mind?”

“I certainly do.” Impatient, Reeanna lifted her eyes. “Oh, be still. Not only am I female and have personal knowledge of the female body, but I’ve got a medical degree. What have you done for that knee? It’s looks nasty.”

“Ice bandage. It’s better.”

“Then I’d hate to have seen it when it wasn’t. Why haven’t you been to a health center, or at least an MT stop?”

“Because I hate them. And I haven’t had time.”

“Well, you’ve got time now. I want you to lie down on that massage table. I’ll get my emergency kit out of the car and deal with this.”

“Look, I appreciate it.” She had to raise her voice as Reeanna was already striding away. “But they’re just bruises.”

“You’ll be lucky if you didn’t chip a bone in that hip.” With this dark promise, Reeanna stepped into the elevator, and the doors snapped shut.

“Oh, thanks, I feel heaps better now.” Resigned, Eve toweled off, put on her robe, then reluctantly went to the padded table beneath an arbor of wildly blooming wisteria. She’d no more than settled when Reeanna was back, stalking over the tiles with a neat leather case in her hand.

The woman could move, Eve mused. “I thought you had a salon date.”

“I called, switched times. Lie back, we’ll deal with that knee first.”

“You charge extra for house calls?”

Reeanna smiled a little as she opened her case. Eve took one glance inside, turned her head away. Christ but she hated medicine.

“This one’s free. We can consider it practice. I haven’t worked on a human in nearly two years.”

“That inspires confidence.” Eve closed her eyes as Reeanna took out a miniscanner and examined her knee. “Why haven’t you?”

“Hmm. Well, it’s not broken, so that’s something. Badly wrenched and inflamed. Why?” She dug into her case again. “Roarke’s part of the reason. He made William and me an offer impossible to refuse. The money was seductive, and Roarke knows which buttons to push.”

Eve hissed as something stingingly cold was pressed to her knee. “You’re telling me.”

“He was aware I had a long, personal interest in behavioral patterns and effects of stimulation. The opportunity to create new technology, working with virtually unlimited funds, was too tempting to miss. Vanity couldn’t resist the chance to be a part of something new, and with Roarke behind it, undoubtedly successful.”

Closing her eyes had been a mistake, Eve realized. She was starting to float. The throbbing in her hip slowed. She felt Reeanna’s gentle fingers smoothing something cool and slick over it. Her shoulder received the same treatment. The absence of pain was like a tranq and tugged her deeper.

“He never seems to miss.”

“No. Not since I’ve known him.”

“I’ve got a meeting in a couple hours,” Eve said thickly.

“Rest first.” Reeanna removed the poultice from Eve’s knee and was pleased to see the swelling had already gone down. “I’m going to put another deep healing poultice on this, then an ice bandage to finish it off. It’s still likely to be a bit stiff after prolonged use. I’d advise you to baby it for the next couple of days.”

“Sure. Baby it.”

“Did you get all this last night, rounding up your suspect?”

“No, before. He didn’t give me any trouble. Little bastard.” Her brows knit, digging a line between them. “Can’t nail him though. Just can’t nail it down.”

“I’m sure you will.” Reeanna’s voice was soothing as she continued the treatment. “You’re thorough and involved. I saw you on one of the news channels. Going out on the ledge with Cerise Devane. Risking your life.”

“Lost her.”

“Yes, I know.” Efficiently, Reeanna coated the treated bruises with numbing cream. “It was horrible. Visually shocking. More so for you, I’d imagine. You’d have seen her face, her eyes, up close, as she went off.”

“She was smiling.”

“Yes, I could see that.”

“She wanted to die.”

“Did she?”

“She said it was beautiful. The ultimate experience.”

Satisfied she’d done all she could, Reeanna picked up another towel, spread it over Eve. “There are some who believe that. Death as the ultimate human experience. No matter how advanced medicine and technology, none of us escape it. Since we’re destined for it in any case, why not see it as a goal rather than an obstacle?”

“It’s meant to be fought. Every bloody inch of the way.”

“Not everyone has the energy or the need to fight. Some go gently.” She picked up Eve’s limp hand, automatically checking the pulse. “Some go resistantly. But all go.”

“Somebody sent her. That makes it murder. That makes it mine.”

Reeanna tucked Eve’s arm under the towel. “Yes, I suppose it does. Get some sleep. I’ll tell Summerset to wake you in time to make your meeting.”

“Thanks. Really.”

“It’s nothing.” She touched Eve’s shoulder. “Between friends.”

She studied Eve a moment longer, then glanced at her diamond-studded watch. She was going to have to push to make her rescheduled salon date, but there was just one minor detail to see to yet.

She repacked her kit, left a tube of numbing cream on the table for Eve, and hurried out.

chapter eighteen

Eve paced the soft, pretty carpet in Dr. Mira’s office, hands jammed in her pockets, head lowered like a bull preparing for the charge.

“I don’t get it. How can his profile not fit? I’ve got him cold on the lesser charges. The little prick’s been playing with people’s brains, reveling in it.”

“It isn’t a matter of fitting, Eve. It’s a matter of probabilities.”

Patient, calm, Mira sat in her comfy, body-molding chair and sipped jasmine tea. She needed it, she mused. The air was foaming with Eve’s frustration and energy.

“You have his confession and the evidence that he has been experimenting with individualized brain pattern influence. And I quite agree he has a lot to answer for. But as to coercion to self-termination, I can’t, in any decisive manner, corroborate your suspicions through my evaluation.”

“Well, that’s just great.” She spun on her heel. Reeanna’s treatment and the hour’s nap had restored her. If anything, her color was high, her eyes overbright. “Without your corroboration, Whitney’s not going to buy the package, which means the PA won’t buy it.”

“I can’t adjust my report to suit you, Eve.”

“Who’s asking you to?” Eve threw up her hands, then dug them into her pockets. “What doesn’t fit, for Christ’s sake? The man’s got a God complex any idiot before vision reconstruction surgery could spot.”

“I agree that his personality pattern leans toward an excess of ego and his temperament has a high caliber of the artiste under siege.” Mira sighed. “I wish you’d sit down. You’re making me tired.”

Eve dropped into a chair, scowled. “There, I’m sitting. Explain.”

Mira had to smile. The sheer drive and unrelenting focus was admirable. “Do you know, Eve, I can never understand why impatience is so attractive on you. And how, with such a high volume of it, you still manage to be thorough in your work.”

“I’m not here for analysis, Doctor.”

“I know. I only wish I could convince you to agree to regular sessions. But that’s another subject, for another time. You have my report, but to summarize my findings, the subject is egocentric, self-congratulatory, and one who habitually rationalizes his antisocial behavior as art. He’s also brilliant.”

Dr. Mira signed a little, shook her head. “A truly fine mind. He was nearly off the scale in the standard Trislow and Secour tests.”

“Good for him,” Eve muttered. “Let’s put his brain on disc and give him a few suggestions.”

“Your reaction is understandable,” Mira said mildly. “Human nature is resistant to any sort of mind control. Addicts rationalize by deluding themselves that they’re in control.” She rolled her shoulders. “In any case, the subject has an admirable, even astonishing skill for visualization and logic. He’s also fully aware, and smug if you will, about those skills. Under the surface charm, he is—to use your unscientific term—a prick. But I cannot, in good conscience, label him a murderer.”

“I’m not worried about your conscience.” Eve set her teeth. “He’s able to design and operate equipment that is capable of influencing behavior in targeted individuals. I have four dead bodies whose minds I believe—no, I know—were influenced to self-termination.”

“And logically, there should be a connection.” Mira sat back, reached over, and programmed tea for Eve. “But you don’t have a sociopath in holding, Eve.” She passed Eve a fragrant, steaming cup they both knew she didn’t want. “As there is, of yet, no clear motive for these deaths, and if they were indeed coerced, it’s my considered opinion that it’s a sociopath who is responsible.”

“So what separates him?”

“He likes people,” Mira said simply, “and wants, quite desperately, to be liked and admired by them. Manipulative, yes, but he believes he’s created a great boon to humankind. One he’ll make a profit on, certainly.”

“So, maybe he just got carried away.” Isn’t that what he called his use of Roarke the night before? Eve thought. He’d just gotten carried away. “And maybe he isn’t as much in control of his equipment as he thinks.”

“That’s possible. From another angle, Jess enjoys his work; he needs to be a party to the results of it. His ego requires that he see, experience at least a part of what he’s caused.”

He wasn’t in the damn closet with us, Eve thought, but was afraid she understood Mira’s meaning: the way Jess had looked for her, at her when they’d come back to the party, the way he’d smiled. “This isn’t what I want to hear.”

“I know that. Listen to me.” Mira set her cup aside. “This man is a child, an emotionally stunted savant. His vision and his music are more real to him, certainly more important than people, but he doesn’t discount people. Overall, I simply find no evidence that he would risk his freedom and his freedom of expression to kill.”

Eve sipped tea out of reflex rather than desire. “If he had a partner?” she speculated, thinking of Feeney’s theory.

“It’s possible. He wouldn’t be a man who would happily share his accomplishments. Still, he has a great need for both adulation and financial success. It might be possible, if he found himself in need of assistance on some level of his design, he entered into a partnership.”

“Then why didn’t he roll over?” Eve shook her head. “He’s a coward; he’d have rolled. No way he’d take the heat for this alone.” She sipped again, letting her thoughts play out. “What if he were genetically imprinted toward sociopathic behavior? He’s intelligent, canny enough to mask it, but it’s simply part of his makeup.”

“Branded at conception?” Mira nearly sniffed. “I don’t subscribe to that school. Upbringing, environment, education, choices both moral and immoral form us into what we are. We are not born monsters or saints.”

“But there are experts in the field who believe we are.” And she had one, Eve mused, at her disposal.

Mira read her easily enough and couldn’t prevent the prick to her pride. “If you wish to consult with Dr. Ott on this matter, it’s your privilege. I’m sure she’d be thrilled.”

Eve wasn’t sure whether to wince or smile. Mira very rarely sounded testy. “That wasn’t meant as an insult to your skills, Doctor. I need a hammer here; you can’t provide it.”

“Let me tell you what I think about the branding at birth issue, Lieutenant. It’s a cop-out, plain and simple. It’s a crutch. I couldn’t help setting fire to that building and burning hundreds of people alive. I was born an arsonist. I couldn’t stop myself from battering that old woman to death for her handful of credits. My mother was a thief.”

It quite simply infuriated her to think of that ploy being used to blot out responsibility—and on the other side to scar those who were defenseless against the monsters who bore them.

“It excuses us from humanity,” she continued, “from morality, from right and wrong. We can say we were marked in the womb and never had a chance.” She angled her head. “You of all people should know better.”

“This isn’t about me.” Eve set her cup down with a snap. “It isn’t about where I came from or what I made myself. It’s about four people, that I’m aware of, who weren’t given a choice. And someone has to answer for that.”

“One thing,” Mira added as Eve rose. “Are you focused on this man because of personal insults to you and those you love, or because of the dead you represent?”

“Maybe it’s both,” Eve admitted after a moment.

She didn’t contact Reeanna, not yet. She wanted a little time to let it stew in her mind. And she was delayed by finding Nadine Furst in her office.

“How’d you get past desk security?” Eve demanded.

“Oh, I have my ways.” Nadine swung her leg, beamed a friendly smile. “And most of the cops around here know you and I have a history.”

“What do you want?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

Grudgingly, Eve turned to the AutoChef, pumped up two cups. “Make it fast, Nadine. Crime is rampant in our city.”

“And that keeps us both in business. What did you get called out on last night, Dallas?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on. I was at the party. Mavis was terrific, by the way. First you and Roarke take off.” She sipped delicately. “It didn’t take a sharp reporter like me to get an inkling of what that was about.” She wiggled her brows, chuckling when Eve simply stared. “But your sex life isn’t news—at least on my beat.”

“We were running out of shrimp patties. We ran down to the kitchen and made some up. It would have been so embarrassing.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nadine waved that away and concentrated on her coffee. Even in the upper echelons of Channel 75 they rarely had access to such potent brew. “Then I notice, being the keen observer that I am, that you sweep Jess Barrow off and out at the end of the set. Never came back. Either of you.”

“We’re having a mad, illicit affair,” Eve said dryly. “You may want to turn that over to the gossip desk.”

“And I’m boinking a one-armed sex droid.”

“You always were an explorer.”

“Actually, there was this unit once . . . but I digress. Roarke, in his usual charming fashion, manages to move the lingering guests along, herds the hangers-on into the recreation center—great hologram deck, by the way—and gives your regrets. Duty calls?” Nadine angled her head. “Funny. Nothing shows on my cop scanner that would have pulled our ace homicide detective out at that time of night.”

“Not everything goes out on the scanner, Nadine. And I’m just a soldier. I go when and where I’m told.”

“Sell it to someone else. I know how tight you are with Mavis. Nothing but top level would have pulled you away at her big moment.” She leaned forward. “Where’s Jess Barrow, Dallas? And what the hell has he done?”

“I don’t have anything to give you, Nadine.”

“Come on, Dallas, you know me. I’ll hold it down until I get the go-ahead. Who’d he kill?”

“Switch the channel,” Eve advised, then pulled out her communicator when it beeped. “Display only, no audio.”

Quickly, she scanned the transmission from Peabody, manually requested a meeting, including Feeney, in twenty minutes. She set the communicator on the desk, turned back to the AutoChef to see if there were any soy chips available. She needed something to sop up the caffeine.

“I’ve got work, Nadine,” Eve continued, when she discovered she had nothing but an irradiated egg sandwich in stock. “And nothing to bump up your ratings.”

“You’re holding out on me. I know you’ve got Jess in custody. I’ve got sources in Holding.”

Annoyed, Eve turned back. Holding was innately ripe with leaks. “I can’t help you.”

“Are you charging him?”

“The charges are not for broadcast at this time.”

“Damn it, Dallas.”

“I’m on the edge here,” Eve snapped. “And it could go either way. Don’t push me. If and when I’m free to speak to the media on the matter, you’ll be the first. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

“You mean I have to be satisfied with nothing.” Nadine rose. “You’re got something big, or you wouldn’t be so snotty about it. I’m only asking for a—”

She broke off as Mavis burst in. “Jesus, Dallas, Jesus. How could you arrest Jess? What are you doing?”

“Mavis, damn it.” She could visualize Nadine’s reporter’s ears growing longer and sharper. “Sit,” she demanded, stabbing a finger at a chair, then at Nadine. “You, out.”

“Have a heart, Dallas.” Nadine attached herself to Mavis. “Can’t you see how upset she is? Let me get you some coffee, Mavis.”

“I said out, and I mean it.” At her wit’s end, Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “Take off, Nadine, or I’ll put you on the blackout list.”

As a threat, it had punch. The blackout list meant there wouldn’t be a cop in the homicide division who’d give Nadine the right time, much less a story lead. “Okay, fine. But I’m not dropping this.” There were other ways to dig, she thought, and other tools to dig with. She snatched up her bag, gave Eve one last bitter look, then flounced out.

“How could you?” Mavis demanded. “Dallas, how could you do this?”

To insure some level of privacy, Eve shut the door. Her headache had come full circle and was now gleefully throbbing behind her eyes. “Mavis, this is my job here.”

“Your job?” Her eyes were laser blue today, and red-rimmed from weeping. It was touching the way they matched the cobalt streaks in her scarlet hair. “What about my career? I finally get the break I’ve been waiting for, working for, and you toss my partner into a cage. And for what?” Her voice hitched. “Because he came on to you and pissed Roarke off.”

“What?” Her mouth fell open, worked silently before she could get her tongue around words. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I just got off the ’link with Jess. He’s devastated. I can’t believe you’d play this way, Dallas.” Her eyes began to leak again. “I know Roarke’s premiere with you, but we’ve got history.”

At that moment, with Mavis noisily weeping into her hands, Eve could have cheerfully strangled Jess Barrow. “Yeah, we’ve got history, and you should know I don’t play that way. I don’t toss someone in a cage because I find them a personal annoyance. Would you sit down?”

“I don’t need to sit.” She wailed it, made Eve wince as the sound acted as the dull point of an edgy knife on her brain.

“Well, I do.” She dropped into a chair. How much could she safely tell a civilian without crossing the line? And how far over the line was she willing to go? She looked at Mavis again, sighed. As far as it took. “Jess is the prime suspect in four deaths.”

“What? What bend did you go around since last night? Jess wouldn’t—”

“Be quiet,” Eve snapped. “I haven’t got him solid on that yet, but I’m working on it. I do, however, have him on other charges. Serious charges. Now, if you’d stop blubbering and sit the hell down, I’ll tell you what I can.”

“You didn’t even stay and watch my whole act.” Mavis managed to fall into a chair, but she didn’t manage to stop blubbering.

“Oh, Mavis, I’m, sorry.” Eve dragged a hand through her hair. She was lousy with weepers. “I couldn’t—there was nothing I could do. Mavis, Jess is into mind control.”

“Huh?” It was such a wild statement coming from the most grounded person she knew that Mavis stopped crying long enough to sniffle and gape. “Huh?”

“He’s developed a program that accesses brain wave patterns and influences behavior. And he’s used it on me, on Roarke, and on you.”

“On me? No, he didn’t. Get genuine here, Dallas, this is too Frankenstein. Jess isn’t a mad scientist. He’s a musician.”

“He’s an engineer, a musicologist, and a prick.” Eve took a deep breath, then related as much as she felt was necessary. As she spoke, Mavis’s tears dried up, hardening her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered once, then thinned.

“He used me to get to you, to get to Roarke. I was just a spring. Then once I’d bounced him to you, he fucked with your mind.”

“This is not your fault. Stop it,” Eve ordered when Mavis’s eyes started to shimmer again. “I mean it. I’m tired, I’m pressed, and my head is about to explode. I don’t need this soggy routine from you right now. It’s not your fault. You were used, and so was I. He was hoping for Roarke’s backing on his project. It doesn’t make me less of a cop or you less of a performer. You’re good, and you got better. He knew you could, and that’s why he used you. He’s too damn arrogant about his talent to have linked himself up with a dud. He wanted somebody who could shine. And you did.”

Mavis swiped a hand under her nose. “Really?”

It was that one word delivered with such shaky hope that made Eve realize how far Mavis’s ego had sunk. “Yeah, really. You were great, Mavis. That’s solid.”

“Okay.” She wiped at her eyes. “I guess my feelings got hurt when you didn’t hang for the act. Leonardo said I was being silly. You wouldn’t have split if you hadn’t had to split.” She took a long breath that lifted her thin shoulders, then dropped them again. “Then Jess, when he called, he laid all this stuff on me. I shouldn’t have bought into it.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll smooth out the rest later. I’m pressed here, Mavis. I don’t have much time to wrap this up.”

“You think he killed people?”

“I have to find out.” She looked over at the knock on her door. Peabody stepped in, hesitated.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Should I wait outside?”

“No, I’m going.” Mavis sniffled, rose, sent Eve a watery smile. “Sorry about the flood and everything.”

“We’ll mop it up. I’ll talk to you when I can. Don’t worry about this.”

Mavis nodded, and her lowered lashes concealed the quick flare in her eyes. She intended to do more than worry.

“Everything all right here, Lieutenant?” Peabody asked when Mavis left them alone.

“Actually, Peabody, everything’s fucked.” Eve sat, tried to drill holes in her temples with her fingers to release the pressure. “Mira doesn’t think our boy has the personality profile for murder. I’ve insulted her because I’m going for another consultant. Nadine Furst is sniffing too close to the center, and I’ve just broken Mavis’s heart and shattered her ego.

Peabody waited a beat. “Well, other than that, how are things?”

“Cute.” But it did prod a reluctant smile. “Damn, give me a nice clear murder any day over this physiological crap.”

“Those were the good old days, all right.” Peabody shifted to make room as Feeney stepped in. “Well, the gang’s all here.”

“Let’s get to work. Status?” Eve asked Feeney.

“Sweepers found more discs at the suspect’s studio. So far, no matches on victims. He kept a log of his work.” Uncomfortable, Feeney shifted. Jess had been very explicit in his speculations on results, including the sexual nudge he’d given Eve and Roarke. “He names names, times, ah, suggestions. There’s no mention of any of the four dead. I’ve been through his communications system. No transmissions to or from any of the victims.”

“Well, that’s dandy.”

Feeney shifted his feet again, and his color fluctuated into a blush. “I’ve sealed the work log for your eyes only.”

Her brows knit. “Why?”

“He, ah, talks about you a lot. On a personal level.” He focused his eyes an inch over Eve’s head. “Again, he’s very explicit in his speculations.”

“Yeah, he made it clear he was overly interested in my head.”

“He isn’t just interested in that part of your anatomy.” Feeney puffed out his cheeks, blew the air out. “He considered it would be an entertaining experiment to attempt to ah. . .”

“What?”

“Influence your behavior toward him . . . in a sexual manner.”

Eve let out a snort. It wasn’t just the words, but Feeney’s stiffly formal delivery. “He figured he could use his toy to get me into the sack? Great. We can lay another charge on him. Intent to sexually molest.”

“Did he say anything about me?” Peabody wanted to know and received a glare from Eve.

“That’s sick, Officer.”

“Just wondering.”

“We’re adding to his cage time,” Eve continued, “but we’re not pinning him on the big one. And Mira’s profile is going to work against us.”

“Lieutenant.” Peabody sucked in her breath and took the chance. “Have you considered that she’s right? That’s he’s not responsible?”

“Yeah, I have. And that scares the hell out of me. If she’s right, there’s someone else out there with a brain toy, and we’re not even close. So we all better hope we’ve got our man safely locked away.”

“Speaking of our man,” Feeney broke in. “You better know he’s lawyered himself.”

“I figured he would. Anybody we know?”

“Leanore Bastwick.”

“Well, hell. Small world.”

“She wants to make points off of you, Dallas.” Feeney took out his bag of nuts, offered them to Peabody. “She’s raring to go. Wants to set up a media conference. Word is she took him on pro bono, just for the shot at you, and the media coverage this will get once it hits.”

“She can take her shot. We can block the press conference for twenty-four hours. We’d better solidify before then.”

“I pulled a thread loose,” Peabody told her. “It might unravel more with some tugging. Mathias did indeed attend MIT for two semesters. Unfortunately, his term there was three years after Jess did his at-home degree, but Jess used his alumni status to access data from their files. He also taught an E-class elective on musicology, which the university uploaded into their library curriculum. Mathias took the course during his last semester.”

Eve felt a quick power surge. “That’s something to tug on. Good work. It connects, finally. And maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place. Pearly was the first known victim. What if he’s the one who was connected with the others? It could be as simple as their common interest in electronic games.”

“We looked there already.”

“So look again,” she told Peabody. “And look deeper. Not all the clubs and loops are above ground. If Mathias was used to help develop the system, he might have bragged about it. Those hobby hackers use all kinds of compu-names. Can you find his?”

“Eventually,” Feeney agreed.

“You can contact Jack Carter. He was his roommate on Olympus. Maybe he can give you a boost on them. Peabody, contact Devane’s son, see what you can shake out of him on this angle. I’ll work on the Fitzhugh angle.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll make a stop first. Maybe I can cut through some of the layers.”

* * *

She felt she was back to square one, looking for the connection. There had to be one, and she was going to have to involve Roarke to find it. She called him from her car ’link.

“Well, hello, Lieutenant. How was your nap?”

“Too short and too long ago. How long are you going to be in midtown?”

“Another few hours at any rate. Why?”

“I’m coming by. Now. Can you squeeze me in?”

He smiled. “Always.”

“It’s business,” she said, and cut him off before she could smile back. Daring her auto-drive, she programmed destination, then used her ’link again. “Nadine.”

Nadine angled her head, shot Eve a cold look. “Lieutenant.”

“Nine A.M., my office.”

“Should I bring a lawyer?”

“Bring your recorder. I’ll give you a jump on tomorrow’s press conference re Jess Barrow.”

“What press conference?” The image and voice quality sharpened as Nadine went immediately to private, dragging headphones over her hair. “There’s nothing on schedule.”

“There will be. You want that jump, and you want the official report from the primary, be there at nine.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Senator Pearly. Get me everything. Not the official data, the quiet stuff. His hobbies, playgrounds. His underground connections.”

“Pearly was clean as a church choir.”

“You don’t have to be dirty to play underground, you just have to be curious.”

“And what makes you think I can get private data on a government official?”

“Because you’re you, Nadine. Feed the data to my home unit, and I’ll see you at nine hundred hours. You’ll beat the pack by two hours easy. Think of those ratings.”

“I’m thinking. Deal,” she snapped and signed off.

When Eve was able to glide smoothly into the parking facility at Roarke’s midtown office, she began to think more kindly toward vehicle maintenance. Her VIP space was waiting, locking its security shield the moment she shut down.

The elevator accepted her palm print and zoomed her up to the top floor in a quiet, dignified ride.

She’d never get used to it.

Roarke’s personal assistant beamed at her, welcomed her home, welcomed her in, and escorted her through the plush outer offices, down the streamlined corridor, and into the elegant efficiency of Roarke’s private office.

But he wasn’t alone.

“Sorry.” She struggled not to frown at Reeanna and William. “I’m interrupting.”

“Not at all.” Roarke walked over, kissed her lightly. “We’re just finishing up.”

“Your husband’s quite the slave driver.” William held out a hand to shake Eve’s warmly. “If you hadn’t come along, Reeanna and I would have to do without our dinner.”

“That’s William.” Reeanna laughed. “He’s either thinking of electronics or his stomach.”

“Or you. Can you join us?” he asked Eve. “I thought we’d try the French place on the skyline level.”

“Cops never eat.” Eve tried to adjust herself to the easy social tone. “But thanks.”

“You need regular fuel to help the healing process.” Reeanna narrowed her eyes for a quick, professional survey. “Any pain?”

“Not much. I appreciate the personal service. And I wonder if I could speak to you for a few minutes on an official matter—if you have time after your meal.”

“Of course.” Curiosity flitted over her face. “Could I ask what it’s about?”

“The possibility of doing a consult on a case I’m working on. If you’re agreeable, I’d need to do it tomorrow, early.”

“A consult on an actual human being? I’m there.”

“Reeanna’s weary of machines,” William put in. “She’s been making noises for weeks about going back into private practice.”

“VR, holograms, autotronics.” She rolled her beautiful eyes. “I long for flesh and blood. Roarke has us set up on the thirty-second level, west wing. I should be able to nudge William through a meal in an hour. Just meet me there.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and Roarke,” Reeanna continued as she and William started toward the door. “We’d love to have that personal take on the new unit as soon as you can manage it.”

“And she calls me a slave driver. Tonight, before I leave.”

“Wonderful. Later, Eve.”

“Food, Reeanna. I’m dreaming of coquille St. Jacques.” William was laughing as he pulled her out of the door.

“I didn’t mean to break up your meeting,” Eve began.

“You didn’t. And you’ve given me a breather before I have to dig into a mountain of status reports. I’ve had all the data on that VR unit you’re concerned about transmitted. I’ve skimmed the surface, but I’ve found nothing out of line so far.”

“That’s something.” She’d rest easier once she could eliminate that angle.

“William would be able to spot any problem quicker,” he added. “But as he and Ree were in on the development, I didn’t think you’d care to pass it by him.”

“No. Let’s keep it close.”

“Reeanna was concerned about you. So am I.”

“She gave me a going-over. She’s good.”

“Yes, she is.” Still, he tipped Eve’s face back with a fingertip. “You’ve got a headache.”

“What’s the point of illegal brain scans when you can already see into my head?” She closed her hand over his wrist before he could drop his arm. “I can’t see into yours. It’s annoying.”

“I know.” His lips curved as he pressed them to her brow. “I love you. Ridiculously.”

“I didn’t come here for this,” she murmured when his arms wound around her.

“Take a minute anyway. I need it.” He could feel the outline of the diamond around her neck, one she had worn first reluctantly, and now habitually. “That’ll do it.” He eased her back, pleased that she’d held on another moment. She so rarely held on. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“Peabody dug up a thin connection between Barrow and Mathias. I want to see if I can tighten it. How much trouble would it be to access underground transmissions, using MIT’s on-line services as a starting point?”

His eyes lighted. “I love a challenge.” He moved around the desk, engaged his unit, then slid open a hidden panel under it, flicked a switch manually.

“What’s that?” Her teeth went on edge. “Is that a block system? Did you just tune out Compuguard?”

“That would be illegal, wouldn’t it?” he said cheerfully. He reached over his shoulder to pat her hand. “Don’t ask the question, Lieutenant, if you don’t want to hear the answer. Now, what time period are you interested in, particularly?”

Scowling, she dug out her log, read off the dates of Mathias’s attendance at MIT. “I’m looking for Mathias specifically. I don’t know what line names he used yet. Feeney’s getting them.”

“Oh, I think I can find them for you. Why don’t you see about ordering us a meal? No reason to go hungry.”

“Coquille St. Jacques?” she said dryly.

“Steak. Rare.” He slid out a keyboard and began to work manually.

chapter nineteen

Eve ate standing up, breathing down Roarke’s neck. When he’d had enough of that, he simply reached around and pinched her.

“Back off.”

“I’m just trying to see.” But she backed off. “You’ve been at it a half hour.”

He imagined, with the equipment available at Cop Central, even Feeney would have taken twice as long to get to that same point. “Darling Eve,” he said, then sighed when she only frowned at him. “There are layers here, Lieutenant. Layers over layers. That’s why they call it underground. I’ve located two of the coded names our young, doomed autotronics ace used. There’ll be more. Still, it takes some doing to unscramble transmissions.”

He turned the machine on auto so he could enjoy his own dinner.

“It’s all just games, isn’t it?” Eve shifted so she could see the screen run with figures and odd symbols as it worked. “Just grown-up kids playing games. Secret societies. Hell, they’re just high-tech clubhouses.”

“More or less. Most of us enjoy diversions, Eve. Games, fantasies, the anonymity of a computer mask so we can pretend we’re someone else for a time.”

Games, she thought again. Maybe it all boiled down to games, and she just hadn’t looked closely enough at the rules and players. “What’s wrong with being who you are?”

“It’s not enough for everyone. And this sort of thing attracts the lonely and the egocentric.”

“And fanatics.”

“Certainly. E-services, particularly underground ones, provide the fanatic with an open forum.” He cocked a brow, cut neatly into his steak. “They also provide a service—educational for that matter—informative, intellectual. And can be perfectly harmless entertainment. They’re legal,” he reminded her. “Even the underground ones aren’t closely regulated. And that stems mainly from the fact that it’s nearly impossible to do so. And cost prohibitive.”

“EDD keeps a line on them.”

“To some extent. Look here.” He swung back, tapped out a few keys, and had a display sliding onto one of the wall screens. “See that? It’s nothing more than a somewhat amusing diatribe about a new version of Camelot. A multiuser role playing program, hologram optional,” he explained. “Everyone wants to be king. And there.” He gestured to another screen. “A very straightforward advertisement for a partner in Erotica, a sexual fantasy VR program, dual remote controls mandatory.” He grinned at her knitted brow. “One of my companies manufactures it. It’s quite popular.”

“I bet.” She didn’t ask if he’d tried it out himself. Some data she didn’t need. “I don’t get it. You can rent a licensed companion, probably cheaper than the cost of that program. You get sex in the flesh. Why do you need this?”

“Fantasy, darling. Having control or abdicating it. And you can run the program over and over, with nearly unlimited variations. It’s mood again, and mind. All fantasies are mood and mind.”

“Even the fatal ones,” she said slowly. “Isn’t that what this is all about? Having control. Ultimate control over someone else’s mood and mind. They don’t even know they’re playing the game. That’s the big kick. You’d need a huge ego and no conscience. Mira says Jess doesn’t fit.”

“Ah. That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

She flicked a look down at him. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“He’s what, in my alley days in Dublin, we would have called a fug—cross between a fuck and a pug. Lots of mouth and no balls. I never met a fug who could draw blood without whining.”

She cleaned the steak off her plate and set it aside. “It seems to me that killing in this manner is bloodless. Cowardly. Fuglike.”

He grinned at that. “Well put, but fugs don’t kill, they just talk.”

She hated that she was beginning to agree and had muscled her way down what looked like a dead end with Jess Barrow. “I’ve got to have more. How much longer do you figure?”

“Until I’m through. You can keep yourself occupied with the data on the VR unit.”

“I’ll come back to it. I’m going to go down to Reeanna’s office. I can just leave her a memo about Jess if she’s not back from dinner.”

“Fine.” He didn’t try to dissuade her. She had to move, he knew. To take some action. “Will you come back up when you’re done, or will I meet you at home?”

“I don’t know.” He looked perfect there, she thought, sitting in his snazzy office, manipulating controls. Maybe everyone wanted to be king, she mused, but Roarke was content being Roarke.

His gaze shifted to hers, held. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“You’re exactly what you want to be. That’s a pretty good deal.”

“Most of the time. And so are you what you want to be.”

“Most of the time,” she murmured. “I’ll check in with Feeney and Peabody after I meet with Reeanna. See if anything’s come loose. Thanks for dinner—and the compu-time.”

“You can pay me back.” He took her hand, rose. “I want, very much, to make love with you tonight.”

“You don’t have to ask.” Flustered, she moved her shoulders. “We got married and everything.”

“Let’s say asking is part of the fantasy.” He moved in, just a little; touched his lips to hers, just a whisper. “Let me woo you tonight, darling Eve. Let me surprise you. Let me . . . seduce you.” He laid a hand on her heart, felt the hard, thick beat of it. “There,” he murmured. “I’ve already started.”

Her knees were quivering. “Thanks. That’s just what I need to keep my mind focused on my work.”

“Two hours.” This time he lingered over the kiss. “Then let’s take something for ourselves.”

“I’ll try.” She stepped back while she was sure she still could, walked quickly toward the door. Then she turned back, just looked at him. “Two hours,” she told him. “Then you can finish what you started.”

She heard him laugh as she closed the door and hurried toward the elevator. “Thirty-nine, west,” she ordered, then found herself smiling.

Yes, they’d take something for themselves, she decided. Something Jess and his nasty little toy had tried to steal from them.

Then she stopped, and her smile faded. Was that the problem here? she wondered. Was she so focused on that—on a kind of personal retribution—that she was missing something bigger? Or smaller?

If Mira was right, and Roarke with his fug theory was on the mark, then she was off. It was time, she admitted, to pull back a bit. Refocus.

It was a tech crime, she mused. But tech crimes still require the human element: motive, emotion, greed, hate, jealousy, and power. Which of those—or which combination of those—was at the core of this? She could see both greed and a hunger for power in Jess. But would he kill for them?

Steely minded, she replayed his reaction to the morgue shots in her mind. Would a man who had caused that to happen, had directed it to happen, react with such violent distress when faced with the results?

Not impossible, she decided. But it didn’t fit her image of the hand on the button.

He enjoyed seeing the results of his work, she remembered. He liked to snicker over them and note them down in his log. Did he have another log, one the sweepers missed? She’d have to take a trip through his studio herself.

Deep in thought, she stepped out on thirty-nine, scanned the shielded glass walls of a lab. It was quiet here, security in full swing as indicated by the cameras in full view, the warning red beep of motion detectors. If there were any drones still at work, they were behind closed doors.

She placed her palm on a plate, received verification, answered the request for voice print by giving her name, then requested the location of Reeanna’s office.

You are cleared for top level, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Proceed left through breezeway, then right at termination. Dr. Ott’s office is five meters beyond this point. It will not be necessary to repeat this procedure to gain entry. You are cleared.

She wondered if Roarke or Reeanna had cleared her through and followed the directions. The breezeway impressed her, offering a full view of the city on all sides. She could look between her own feet and see the life bustling on the street below. The music piped in was energetic, and made her think sourly of some musicologist’s idea of fueling drones with enthusiasm for their work. Wasn’t that just one more kind of mind control?

She passed a door bearing an imprint that identified it as William’s. A game master, she thought. It might be helpful to get his input, pick his brain, jiggle a few hypotheses out of him. She knocked, watched his recorder light beep red for locked.

I’m sorry, William Shaffer is not currently in his office. Please leave your name and any message. He will respond as soon as possible.

“It’s Dallas. Look, William, if you’ve got a couple minutes when you finish dinner, I’ve got something I’d like to run by you. I’m going to drop by Reeanna’s office now. I’ll leave a memo if she’s not there. I’ll be in the building or at home later if you’ve got time to talk to me.”

As she turned away, she glanced at her watch. How long did it take to eat, for God’s sake? You picked up food, put it in your mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

She found Reeanna’s office, knocked. She hesitated for less than five seconds when the recorder light beeped green, then slid the door open. If Reeanna didn’t want her inside, she’d have kept it locked, Eve decided, and indulged herself in a thorough study.

It looked like Reeanna, she decided. Polished to a bright sheen, underlying sexual tones in the slashes of fiery red in the laser art against cool white walls.

The desk faced the window to provide Reeanna with a constant view of the busy sky traffic.

The sitting area was plush with a deeply cushioned body-form lounger that still held the imprint of its last occupant. Reeanna’s curves were impressive, even in silhouette. The clear Plasticide table was hard as stone and was intricately carved with diamond patterns that caught and refracted the light from an arched-neck lamp with a rose-toned shade.

Eve picked up the VR goggles laid on it, saw they were indeed Roarke’s latest model, and set them down again. They still made her uncomfortable.

Turning away, she studied the workstation across the room. Nothing soft or feminine about that area, she noted. It was all business. Slick white counter, muscle flexing equipment even now hard at work. She heard the low hum of a computer on auto, frowned at the symbols flickering on the monitor. They looked similar to what she’d tried to decipher from Roarke’s screen.

But then, computer codes all looked the same to her.

Curious, she walked over to the desk, but nothing interesting had been left out to examine. A silver pen, a pair of pretty gold earrings, a hologram of William wearing a flight suit and grinning youthfully. A short printout, again in that baffling computer code.

Eve sat on the edge of the desk. She didn’t want to fit her wiry build into the imprint left by Reeanna’s. Pulling out her communicator, she tagged Peabody.

“Anything?”

“Devane’s son is willing to cooperate. He’s aware of the interest she had in games, particularly role playing. It wasn’t an interest he shared, but he claims he knows one of her usual partners. He dated her for a short time. I’ve got her name. She lives right here in New York. I have the data. Should I transmit?”

“I think you can handle an interview solo. Arrange a meet, bring her in only if she refuses to cooperate. Report back.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody’s voice remained sober, but her eyes lighted with the assignment. “I’m on my way.”

Satisfied, Eve tried for Feeney, hit his frequency occupied recording. She had to settle for leaving a request for contact.

The door opened. Reeanna stopped her rush inside when she spotted Eve at her desk. “Oh, Eve. I didn’t expect you quite yet.”

“Time’s part of my problem.”

“I see.” She smiled, let the door shut. “I suppose Roarke cleared you in.”

“I guess he did. Problem?”

“No, no.” Reeanna waved her hand. “I’m distracted, I suppose. William went on endlessly about some glitches he’s concerned about. I left him brooding over his cre`me brûlée.” She flicked a glance toward her humming computer. “The work never stops around here. R and D’s a twenty-four/seven proposition.” She smiled. “Like police work, I imagine. Well, I didn’t take time for brandy. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. On duty.”

“Coffee then.” Reeanna moved over to a counter, requested a snifter of brandy, a cup of black coffee. “You’ll have to excuse my lack of focus. We’re a little behind schedule today. Roarke needed data on the new VR model, and he wanted it from conception to implementation.”

“That was yours. I didn’t realize that until he mentioned it just now.”

“Oh, William’s mostly. Though I had a small part. Now.” She handed Eve the coffee, then took her brandy around the desk to sit. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping you’ll agree to that consult. The subject is currently in custody, now lawyered, but I don’t think we’ll be blocked there. I need a profile, angling from your particular area of expertise.”

“Genetic branding.” Reeanna tapped her fingers. “Interesting. What are the charges?”

“I’m not free to discuss that until I have your agreement and clear the session with my commander. Once that’s done, I’d like the testing scheduled for seven hundred.”

“Seven A.M.?” Reeanna winced. “Ouch. And here I’m a night owl rather than a lark. You want me up and running at that hour, give me some incentive.” She smiled a little. “I can assume you’ve already had Mira test your subject—and the results weren’t to your liking.”

“Second opinions aren’t unusual.” It was a defensive answer. She felt defensive. And, Eve realized, she felt guilty.

“No, but Dr. Mira’s reports are sterling, and they’re very rarely questioned. You want him badly.”

“I want the truth badly. To find it, I have to separate theory and lies and deceptions.” She pushed off the desk. “Look, I thought you were interested in doing this sort of thing.”

“I am, very. But I like to know what I’m dealing with. I’d need the subject’s brain scan.”

“I’ve got it. In evidence.”

“Really?” Her eyes gleamed, catlike. “It’s also important to have all available data on his biological parents. Are they known?”

“We accessed that data for Dr. Mira’s test. It’ll be available to you.”

Reeanna leaned back, swirling her brandy. “It must be murder.” Her lips twitched at Eve’s expression. “After all, that’s your field. The study of the taking of lives.”

“You could put it that way.”

“How do you put it?”

“The investigation of the takers.”

“Yes, yes, but in order to do so, you study the dead—and death itself. How it happened, what caused it, what transpired in those last moments between the taker and the victim. Fascinating. What kind of personality is required to study death routinely, day after day, year after year, as a vocation? Does it scar you, Eve, or harden you?”

“It pisses you off,” she said shortly. “And I don’t have time to philosophize.”

“Sorry, bad habit.” Reeanna let out a sigh. “William tells me I analyze everything to death.” She smiled. “Not that it’s a crime—that sort of murder. And I am interested in assisting you. Call your commander,” she invited. “I’ll wait and see if clearance is forthcoming. Then we can go over details.”

“I appreciate it.” Eve removed her communicator, turned away, and requested display only. It took longer and was, she felt, less effective. The coding through of information and request. How could you add your instincts, your determination to a display?

But she did her best and waited.

What the hell are you trying to do, Dallas, override Mira?

I want another opinion, Commander. It’s well within procedure. I’m pursuing all angles. If I’m unable to convince the PA to charge Jess with coercion to self-terminate, I don’t want the lesser charges to slide. I need verification of intent to harm.

It was pushing it, and she knew it. Eve waited with a knotted stomach while Whitney mulled over his decision.

Just give me the opening, she thought. He needs his ears pinned back. He needs to pay.

You’re cleared to proceed on my authorization, Lieutenant. This better not be a waste of budget. We both know Mira’s report will weigh heavily.

Understood and appreciated. Dr. Ott’s report will give Barrow’s lawyer a headache, if nothing else. I’m currently working on detailing connection between suspect and victims. Results will be available by nine hundred hours.

Be damn sure of it. My butt is now swinging with yours. Whitney out.

Eve let out a long, quiet breath. She’d bought a little more time, and that was all, she admitted to herself, she was after. With time, she could dig deeper. If Roarke and Feeney couldn’t pull out data, there was no one, off or on planet, who could.

Jess would pay, but murder would go unavenged. She closed her eyes a moment. And that was where she stood. Avenging the dead.

She opened her eyes again, wanting to align herself before she relayed the details to Reeanna.

That’s when she saw it, in black and white there on the computer monitor.

Mathias, Drew logged as AutoPhile. Mathias, Drew logged as Banger. Mathias, Drew logged as HoloDick.

Her heartbeat jerked, but her hand was steady as a rock as she switched her communicator from off to open, signaling to Peabody and Feeney on code one. Backup required. Respond immediately to transmission source.

She pocketed the card, turned. “The commander okayed the consult. Reluctantly. I’m going to need results, Reeanna.”

“You’ll get them.” Reeanna sipped her brandy, then shifted her gaze to the sleek little unit on her desk. “Your heart rate just spiked, Eve, and your adrenaline level rose dramatically.” She angled her head. “Oh dear,” she murmured, and lifted her sparkling hand. It held an official NYPSD stunner. “That’s a problem.”

Several floors above, Roarke scanned the new data on Mathias, hummed over it. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. He switched back to auto and tuned in to the data on the new VR unit. Wasn’t it odd, he thought, and interesting, that some of the components on Jess Barrow’s magic console so closely mirrored the components of his new unit?

Then he swore softly when his interoffice ’link buzzed.

“I don’t want interruptions.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s a Mavis Freestone here. She claims you’ll see her.”

He switched the second computer to auto, blocked both audio and video. “Let her in, Caro. And you can log out for the day. I won’t need you anymore.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring her back directly.”

Roarke frowned to himself, idly picked up the VR unit Reeanna had left him to try out. A few adjustments, he mused. Improved for the next release. It was loaded with subliminal options, and could explain the coincidence of similarity. Still, he didn’t care for it. He began to consider a possible leak in his R and D division.

He wondered just what William had come up with as alterations for the second manufacturing run and tucked a disc into his alternate unit. It wouldn’t hurt to run the data while he saw just what Mavis had on her mind.

His machine beeped acceptance, began to upload as his door opened. Mavis whirled in like a freak storm.

“It’s my fault, all my fault, and I don’t know what to do.”

Roarke came around the desk, took Mavis’s hands, and sent an understanding look at his baffled assistant. “Go on home. I’ll deal with this. Oh, and leave the security open for my wife, please. Sit down, Mavis.” He steered her to a chair. “Take a breath.” Reading her accurately, he patted her head. “And don’t cry. What’s all your fault?”

“Jess. He used me to get to you. Dallas said it wasn’t my fault, but I’ve thought about it, and it is.” She gave one long, heroic sniffle. “I’ve got this.” She held up a disc.

“And this is?”

“I don’t know. Maybe evidence. You take it.”

“Okay.” He nipped the disc out of her hand as she waved wildly. “Why haven’t you given it to Eve?”

“I would—I was going to. I thought she was here. I don’t think I’m supposed to have it. I didn’t even tell Leonardo about it. I’m a terrible person,” she finished.

Hysterical women had come his way before. Roarke slipped the disc into his pocket, walked over, and ordered a tall soother of the milder variety. “Here, drink this. What sort of evidence do you think this is, Mavis?”

“I dunno. You don’t hate me, do you?”

“Darling, I adore you. Drink it down.”

“Really?” She gulped obediently. “I really like you, Roarke, and not just because you’re rolling in credits or anything. It’s good that you are, ’cause poor sucks, right?”

“It does indeed.”

“But either way, you make her so happy. She doesn’t even know how happy because she’s never been. You know?”

“Yes. Three slow quiet breaths now. Ready? One.”

“Okay.” She took them, very seriously, her eyes on his. “You’re good at this. Calming people down. I bet she doesn’t let you do it for her much.”

“No, she doesn’t. Or she doesn’t know it when I do.” He smiled. “We know her, don’t we, Mavis?”

“We love her. I’m so sorry.” Tears came, but they were soothing and soft. “I figured it out after I ran the disc I gave you. At least I figured out some of it. It’s a copy of the lay down from my video. I ran it off on the sly. I wanted it for posterity, you know? But there’s a memo after it.”

She looked down at her hands. “This is the first time I played it, the first time I heard it all. He gave a copy to Dallas, but he made notes after this version, about . . .” She broke off, lifted suddenly dry eyes. “I want you to hurt him for this. I want you to hurt him really bad. Play it, from where I’ve cued it.”

Roarke said nothing, but he rose and slid the disc into his entertainment unit. The screen filled with light, with music, then the volume and intensity lowered as a background for Jess’s voice.

“I’m not sure what the results will be. One day I’ll find the key to tapping in at the source. For now, I can only speculate. The suggestion is to the memory. The reenactment of trauma. Something’s at the core of those shadows on Dallas’s mind. Something fascinating. What will she dream tonight after playing the disc? How long will it be before I can seduce her to share it all with me? What secrets does she hide? It’s such fun to wonder. I’m just waiting for the chance to tap into Roarke’s darker side. Oh, he has one, so close to the surface you can almost see it. Thinking of them together, with just the animal in control, gives me such a rush. I can’t think of two more fascinating subjects for this project. God bless Mavis for opening the door. Within six months I’ll know these two so well, anticipate their reactions so clearly, I’ll be able to lead them right where I want them. Then there’s no limit. Fame, fortune, adulation. I’ll be the goddamn father of virtual pleasure.”

Roarke remained silent as the disc ran out. He didn’t remove it, certain his fingers would crush it like powder.

“I’ve already hurt him,” he said at length. “But not enough. Not nearly enough.” He turned to Mavis. She’d risen and stood, small as a fairy, her slip-shouldered dress of pink gauze somehow valiant. “You aren’t responsible for this,” Roarke told her.

“Maybe that’s true. I have to work that out. But I know he wouldn’t have gotten that close to her, or you, without me. Will that help keep him in a cage?”

“I think he’ll hear the lock turn and wait a long time before he hears it open again. You’ll leave it with me?”

“Yeah. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“You’re always welcome here.”

Her mouth quirked. “If it wasn’t for Dallas, you’d have run like hell in the opposite direction the first time you saw me.”

He came to her, kissed her firmly on that crooked mouth. “That would have been my mistake—and my loss. I’ll call a car for you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“A car will be waiting for you at the front entrance.”

She rubbed a hand under her nose. “One of those mag limos?”

“Absolutely.”

He walked her to the door, closed it thoughtfully behind her. The disc would be enough, he hoped, to drive another nail in Jess. But it still didn’t point to murder. He went back, ordered both of his machines to display on screen.

Sitting behind his desk, he picked up the VR goggles and studied the data.

Eve lowered her gaze to the stunner. From her angle, she couldn’t be sure which setting was clicked. A sudden move, she knew, could result in anything from mild discomfort and partial paralysis to death.

“It’s illegal for a civilian to own or operate that weapon,” she said coolly.

“I don’t believe that’s particularly relevant, under the circumstances. Take yours out, Eve, slowly, and by the fingertips. Then set it on the desk. I don’t want to hurt you,” Reeanna added when Eve made no move to obey. “I never have. Not really. But I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

Keeping her eyes on Reeanna’s, Eve reached slowly for her side arm.

“And don’t think about trying to use it. I don’t have this on max, but it is on a very high setting. You won’t have use of your extremities for days, and though the possible brain damage isn’t necessarily permanent, it is very inconvenient.”

Eve knew very well what the stunner could do, and she took out her weapon carefully, laid it on the corner of the desk. “You’ll have to kill me, Reeanna. But you’ll have to do it face to face, in person. It won’t be like the others.”

“I’m going to try to avoid that. A short, painless, even enjoyable session on VR, and we can adjust your memory and direct your target. You’re well aimed at Jess, Eve. Why don’t we just keep it that way?”

“Why did you kill those four people, Reeanna?”

“They killed themselves, Eve. You were right there when Cerise Devane jumped off that building. One has to believe what one sees with one’s own eyes.” She sighed. “Or most do. You’re not most, are you?”

“Why did you kill them?”

“I merely encouraged them to end their lives in a certain manner at a certain time. And why?” Reeanna shrugged her lovely shoulders. “Why, because I could.”

She smiled beautifully and gave her bell tinkle of a laugh.

chapter twenty

It wouldn’t take long, Eve calculated, for Peabody or Feeney to home in on her signal. She just needed time. And she had a feeling Reeanna would provide it. Some egos, like some people, fed on regular admiration. Reeanna fit on both levels.

“Did you work with Jess?”

“That amateur.” Reeanna tossed her hair at the idea. “He’s a piano player. Not that he doesn’t have a certain talent for basic engineering, but he lacks vision—and guts,” she added with a slow, feline smile. “Women are so much more courageous and more vicious than men, all in all. Don’t you agree?”

“No. I think courage and viciousness have no gender.”

“Well.” Disappointed, Reeanna pursed her lips briefly. “In any case, I corresponded with him briefly a couple of years ago. We exchanged ideas, theories. The anonymity of underground E-services are handy. I enjoyed his pontificating and was able to flatter him into sharing some of his technical progress. But I was well ahead of him. Frankly, I never thought he’d get as far as he apparently has. Simple mood expanding, I imagine, with some direct suggestion.” She cocked her head. “Close enough?”

“You went farther.”

“Oh, leagues. Why don’t you sit down, Eve? We’d both be more comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable on my feet.”

“As you like. But a few steps back, if you don’t mind.” She gestured with the stunner. “I wouldn’t want you to try for your weapon. I’d have to use this, and I’d hate to lose such a good audience.”

Eve took a step back. She thought of Roarke, several floors above. He wouldn’t come down to seek her out. At least she didn’t have that concern. If anything, he’d call down if he locked onto something. So he was safe, and she could stall.

“You’re a medical doctor,” Eve pointed out. “A psychiatrist. You’ve spent years studying to help the human condition. Why take lives, Reeanna, when you’re trained to save them?”

“Branded at conception perhaps.” She smiled. “Oh, you don’t like that theory. You’d have used it to push your case, but you don’t like it. You don’t know where you came from, or from what.” She saw Eve’s eyes flicker and nodded, pleased. “I’ve studied all available data on Eve Dallas as soon as I learned Roarke was involved with you. I’m very attached to Roarke, once toyed with the idea of making our all-too-brief liaison into something more permanent.”

“He dumped you?”

The smile froze as the insult hit target. “That’s beneath you, such a petty female hit. No, he didn’t. We simply drifted in opposite directions. I had intended to drift back, let’s say, eventually. So I was intrigued when he took such an avid interest in a cop, of all things. Not his usual taste, certainly not his usual style. But you are. . . interesting. More so after I accessed data on you.”

She made herself comfortable on the arm of the relaxation chair. The weapon stayed aimed and steady. “The young, abused child found in a Dallas alley. Broken, battered, confused. No memory of how she’d gotten there, who’d beat her, raped her, abandoned her. A blank. I found that fascinating. No past, no parents, no hint of what made her. I’m going to enjoy studying you.”

“You won’t get your hands in my head.”

“Oh, but I will. You’ll even suggest it yourself, once you take a trip or two on the unit I’ve made just for you. I really hate that I’m going to have to see to it that you forget everything we discuss here. You have such a keen mind, such a strong energy. But it will give us a chance to work together. As fond as I am of William, he’s so . . . short-sighted.”

“How involved is he?”

“He has no idea. The first test I ran on the doctored unit was on William. Quite a success, and it made things so much easier. I could direct him to adjust each unit I wanted. He’s quicker, more adept electronically than I. He actually helped me refine the design and personalize the one I sent to Senator Pearly.”

“Why?”

“Another test. He was very vocal about the misuse of subliminals. He enjoyed games, as I’m sure you’ve discovered, but he continually pushed for regulations. Censorship, if you ask me. He stuck his nose into pornography, consenting adult dual controls, commercial advertising and its use of suggestion, all manner of things. I thought of him as my sacrificial lamb.”

“How did you gain access to his brain pattern?”

“William. He’s very clever. It took him several weeks of intense work, but he managed to hack through security.” She angled her head, enjoying the moment. “At the top level of NYPSD as well. He injected a virus there. Just to keep your EDD men occupied.”

“And that’s where you accessed my pattern.”

“Indeed it is. He has a soft heart, my William, it would pain him horribly to know he had a vital part in coercion.”

“But you used him, you made him part of it. And it doesn’t pain you at all.”

“No, it doesn’t. William made it all possible. And if not him, there would have been another.”

“He loves you. You can see it.”

“Oh please.” It made her laugh. “He’s a puppy. All men are when it comes to an attractive female form. They simply sit up and beg. That’s amusing, occasionally irritating, and always useful.” Intrigued, she touched her tongue to her top lip. “Don’t tell me you haven’t used your basic female advantage on Roarke.”

“We don’t use each other.”

“You’re missing a simple advantage.” But Reeanna flicked it away. “The esteemed Dr. Mira would label me a sociopath with violent tendencies and a driving need for control. A pathological liar with an unhealthy, even dangerous fascination with death.”

Eve waited a beat. “And would you agree with that analysis, Dr. Ott?”

“Yes, indeed. My mother self-terminated when I was six. My father never got over it. He turned me over to my grandparents and wandered off to heal. I don’t believe he ever did. But I saw my mother’s face after she’d taken the lethal handful of pills. She looked quite beautiful and very happy. So why shouldn’t death, taken, be an enjoyable experience.”

“Try it,” Eve suggested, “and see.” Then she smiled. “I’ll help you.”

“One day, perhaps. After I’ve completed my study.”

“We’re laboratory rats then; not toys, not games, but experiments. Droids for dissecting.”

“Yes. Young Drew. I regretted that because he was young and had potential. I’d consulted with him, rashly I see now, when William and I were working on the Olympus Resort. He fell in love with me. So young. I was flattered, and William’s very tolerant of outside distractions.”

“He just knew too much, so you sent him a modified unit and told him to hang himself.”

“Basically. It wouldn’t have been necessary, but he didn’t want to let the relationship die. It meant he had to, before he lost that glaze infatuation puts over a man’s eyes, and looked too closely.”

“You stripped your victims,” Eve added. “The final humiliation?”

“No.” Reeanna appeared shocked and insulted by the idea. “Not at all. Basic symbolism. We’re born naked, and naked we die. We complete the circle. Drew died happy. They all did. No suffering, no pain at all. Joy, in fact. I’m not a monster, Eve. I’m a scientist.”

“No, you’re a monster, Reeanna. And these days, society puts their monsters in a cage and keeps them there. You won’t be happy in a cage.”

“It won’t happen. Jess will pay. You’ll fight to put him there after my report tomorrow. And if you can’t make the coercion charges stick, you’ll always believe he was responsible. And when there are others, I’ll be very select, very careful, and I’ll see to it that each subject self-terminates well out of your range. You won’t be bothered by it again.”

“You arranged for two in my range.” A sickness churned in her stomach. “To get my attention.”

“In part. I did want to watch you at work. Watch you closely, step by step. Just to see if you were as good as reported. You detested Fitzhugh, and I thought why not do my new friend Eve a little favor? He was a pompous ass, an irritant to society, and a very poor game player. I wanted his death to be bloody. He preferred blood games, you know. I never met him in person, but matched with him in cyberspace now and again. A poor loser.”

“He had family,” Eve managed. “Like Pearly, Mathias, and Cerise Devane.”

“Oh, life goes on.” She waved a dismissing hand. “All will adjust. That’s human nature. And as for Cerise, she was no more maternal than an alley cat. It was all ambition with her. She bored me senseless. The most entertainment she ever provided was dying on camera. What a smile. They all smiled. That was my little joke—and my gift to them. The final suggestion. Die, it’s so beautiful, it’s amusing, and so joyful. Die and experience the pleasure. They died experiencing the pleasure.”

“They died with a frozen smile and a burn on the brain.”

Reeanna’s brows drew together. “What do you mean, a burn?”

Where the hell was her backup? How much longer could she stall? “You didn’t know about that? Your little experiment has a slight defect, Reeanna. It burns a hole in the frontal lobe, leaves what we could call a shadow. Or a fingerprint. Your fingerprint.”

“That’s nothing.” But she worried her lip as she considered it. “The intensity of the subliminal could cause that, I suppose. It has to get in, firmly, to bypass the instinctive resistance, the knee-jerk survival instinct. We’ll have to work on that, see what can be adjusted.” Annoyance shadowed her eyes. “William will have to do better. I don’t like flaws.”

“Your experiment’s full of them. You have to control William to continue. How many times have you used the system on him, Reeanna? Would continued use expand that burn? I wonder what kind of damage it could cause.”

“It can be fixed.” She tapped the fingers of her free hand on her thigh, distracted. “He’ll fix it. I’ll do a new scan on him, study the flaw—if he has one. Repair it.”

“Oh, he’ll have one.” Eve stepped closer, judging the distance, the risk. “They all had one. And if you can’t repair William’s, you’ll probably have to terminate him. You couldn’t risk that flaw becoming larger, causing uncontrolled behavior. Could you?”

“No. No. I’ll look into this immediately. Tonight.”

“It may already be too late.”

Reeanna’s eyes snapped back. “Adjustments can be made. Will be made. I haven’t come this far, accomplished this much, to accept any sort of failure.”

“And yet to succeed fully, you’ll have to control me, and I won’t make it easy.”

“I already have your brain pattern,” Reeanna reminded her. “I’ve already implemented your program. It’s going to be very easy.”

“I’ll surprise you,” Eve promised. “And Roarke. You can’t manufacture without him, and he’ll find out. Do you expect to control him as well?”

“That will be a particular pleasure. I did have to adjust the time schedule. I’d hoped to enjoy him first. A little trip, you might say, down memory lane. Roarke’s so creative in bed. We haven’t taken time to compare those notes, but I’m sure you’ll agree.”

It put Eve’s teeth on edge, but she spoke coolly. “Using your toy for sexual gratification, Dr. Ott? How unscientific.”

“And what fun. I’m not the master William is, but I do enjoy a good, creative game.”

“And that’s how you met all your victims.”

“So far. Through the loops and the underground. Games can be relaxing and entertaining. And both William and I agreed that processing input from players would help us develop more creative options for the new VR.” She fluffed at her hair. “Not that anyone had in mind what I was creating.”

Her gaze shifted to the monitor, frowned over the data being transmitted from Roarke’s office. He was processing the VR specs now, she noted. “But you’ve already got Roarke digging. Not just on young Drew, but on the unit itself. I wasn’t happy about that, but there are always ways around inconveniences.” Her smile tilted up at the corners. “Roarke isn’t as necessary as you believe. Who do you suppose will own all of this if something happened to him?”

She laughed again, pure delight, as Eve stared blankly.

“Why, you will, darling. It will all be yours, in your control, and therefore mine. Don’t worry, I won’t let you stay a widow long. We’ll find someone for you. I’ll choose him personally.”

Terror froze her blood, iced her muscles, closed frigidly around her heart. “You made a unit for him.”

“Just completed this afternoon. I wonder if he’s tested it yet? Roarke is so efficient, and so personally interested in all of his holdings.”

She shot a stream at Eve’s feet, anticipating her. “Don’t. I’ll just stun you, and this will take longer.”

“I’ll kill you with my own hands.” Eve forced air in and out of her lungs, ordered herself to think. “I swear it.”

In his office, Roarke frowned over the data he’d converted. Missing something, he thought. What am I missing?

He rubbed the strain out of his eyes, sat back. He needed a break, he decided. Clear the mind, rest the eyes. Picking up the VR unit on his desk, he turned it over in his hands.

“You won’t chance it. If you do, and I stun you, you’ll never get to him in time. There’s always the hope you can stop it, save him.” Her smile spread again, derisively. “You see, I understand you, Eve, perfectly.”

“Do you?” Eve asked, and instead of lunging forward, leaped back. “Lights out,” she shouted, snatching for her weapon as the room pitched into darkness. She felt the slight sting as Reeanna’s aim wavered, skimmed her shoulder.

Then she was down, blocked by the desk, and gritting her teeth against the pain. She’d rolled fast, but not well, and had come down hard on her bad knee.

“I’m better at this than you,” Eve said calmly. But the fingers in her right hand tingled and shook, forcing her to switch the weapon to her left. “You’re the amateur here. Ditch the weapon, and I might not kill you.”

“Kill me?” Reeanna’s voice was a hiss. “You’ve got too much cop programmed into you. Maximum force only when all other methods fail.”

Near the door, Eve told herself, holding her breath, training her ears. To the right of it. “There’s no one here but you and me. Who’s to know?”

“Too much conscience. Don’t forget, I know you. I’ve been in your head. You wouldn’t be able to live with it.”

Moving closer to the door. That’s it, keep going. Just a little more. Try to get out, you bitch, and I’ll drop you like a piece of spoiled meat.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll just cripple you.” Weapon gripped, Eve bellied around the desk.

The door opened, but instead of Reeanna rushing out, William started in. “Reeanna, what are you doing in the dark?”

Even as Eve leaped to her feet, Reeanna’s finger twitched on the weapon, sending William’s nervous system jittering.

“Oh, William, for God’s sake.” It was disgust rather than distress. As he started to topple, Reeanna ducked under him and threw herself at Eve. Her nails scraped viciously across Eve’s breasts as both women crashed to the floor.

She knew where to aim. She’d tended every bump and bruise on Eve’s body and now battered at them, twisted, jabbed. A knee rammed against that tender hip, a balled fist slammed into the wrenched knee.

Blind with pain, Eve shot out an elbow, heard the satisfactory crunch of cartilage as it connected with Reeanna’s nose. Reeanna screamed, a high, female sound, and dug in with her teeth.

“Bitch.” Sinking to the same level, Eve grabbed a handful of hair and yanked. Then, slightly ashamed of the lapse, she jammed her weapon under Reeanna’s chin. “Breathe too hard, and I’ll put you out. Lights on.”

She was panting, bloody, her body singing with pain. She hoped there would be satisfaction later at seeing her opponent’s beautiful face bruised, smeared with blood that continued to stream out of her broken nose. But for now there was too much fear.

“I’m putting you out anyway.”

“No, you won’t.” Reeanna’s voice was steely calm, and her lips curved into a wide, brilliant smile. “I will,” she said, and twisted the wrist of the weapon hand Eve pinned until the point rested against the side of her neck. “I hate cages.” And smiling, she fired.

“Jesus, Jesus Christ.” She scrambled up while Reeanna’s body still shuddered, shoved William over, snatched out his pocket ’link. He was breathing, but she didn’t much give a damn.

She started to run.

“Answer me, you answer me!” she shouted at the ’link as she fumbled it on. “Roarke,” she ordered, “main office. Answer me, goddamn it.” Then she bit back a scream as the transmission refused to go through.

Line currently in use. Please wait or retry momentarily.

“Bypass, you son of a bitch. How do you bypass with this thing?” She increased her pace to a limping gallop, not even aware she was weeping.

Footsteps pounded toward her in the breezeway, but she didn’t even pause.

“Dallas, holy God.”

“Back there.” She raced past Feeney, barely heard his frantic questions through the roaring sea of terror in her head. “Back there. Peabody, with me. Hurry.”

She hit the elevator, pounded on the call control. “Hurry, hurry.”

“Dallas, what’s happened?” Peabody touched her shoulder, was jerked off. “You’re bleeding. Lieutenant, what’s the status?”

“Roarke, oh God, oh God, please.” Tears were streaming, scalding her, blinding her. Panic sweat flooded out of her pores, soaking her skin. “She’s killing him. She’s going to kill him.”

In reaction, Peabody pulled her weapon as they rushed through the opening doors of the elevator. “Top floor, east wing,” Eve shouted. “Now, now, now!” She all but threw the ’link at Peabody. “Get this fucker to bypass.”

“It’s damaged. It’s been dropped or something. Who’s got Roarke?”

“Reeanna. She’s dead. Dead as Moses, but she’s killing him.” She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t. Her lungs wouldn’t hold air. “We’ll stop him. Whatever she told him to do to himself, we’ll stop him.” She turned wild eyes on Peabody. “She’s not taking him.”

“We’ll stop him.” Peabody was through the doors with her before they fully opened.

Eve was still faster, even injured, she gained speed through terror. She wrenched at the door, cursed security, and slammed her hand down on the palm plate.

She all but ran over him as he stepped to the threshold.

“Roarke.” She burrowed into him, would have climbed inside him if she could. “Oh God. You’re all right. You’re alive.”

“What’s happened to you?” He tightened his grip on her as she shuddered.

But she was jerking back, grabbing his face in her hands, staring into his eyes. “Look at me. Did you use it? Did you test the VR unit?”

“No. Eve—”

“Peabody, drop if he moves wrong. Call the MTs. We’re taking him in for a brain scan.”

“The hell you are, but go ahead and call them, Peabody. She’s going to the health center this time, if I have to knock her unconscious.”

Eve stepped back, fighting for breath as she carefully measured him. She couldn’t feel her legs, wondered why she could still stand upright. “You didn’t use it.”

“I said I didn’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “It’s aimed at me this time, is it? I should have seen it.” He turned away, glanced over his shoulder as Eve lifted her weapon. “Oh, put that damn thing down. I’m not suicidal. I’m pissed. She slipped it right by me. It just started to click five minutes ago. Mindoc. Mind doctor,” he elaborated. “That’s the name she used in her game playing. She’s still using it, still playing. Mathias had dozens of transmissions to her in the year before he died. And I took a close look at the data report on the unit. The one they just gave me, and the stats from the files. They hadn’t buried those deeply enough.”

“She knew you’d find it. That’s why she—” Eve broke off, sucked in air that she could hear whistle eerily in her swimming head. “That’s why she personalized a unit for you.”

“I might have gotten around to testing it if I hadn’t been interrupted.” He thought of Mavis, nearly smiled. “I doubt Ree put much effort into altering data. She knew I trusted her and William.”

“It wasn’t William—not voluntarily.”

He only nodded, looked at her ruined shirt, the bright red splashes. “Did she bloody you?”

“It’s mostly hers.” She hoped. “She didn’t want to be taken in.” Eve blew out a breath. “She’s dead, Roarke. Self-terminated. I couldn’t stop her. Maybe I didn’t want to. She told me—the unit, your unit.” Her breath was wheezing again, hitching, skipping. “I thought—I didn’t think I’d be in time. I couldn’t make the ’link work, and I couldn’t get here.”

She didn’t hear Peabody close the door to give her privacy. She didn’t care about privacy. She only continued to stare, blind now, and shudder. “I couldn’t,” she said again. “I stalled her, all that time I was stalling her, building my case, and you could have been—”

“Eve.” He came to her, gathered her close. “I’m not. And you did get here. I won’t leave you.” He pressed his lips to her hair when she buried her face against his shoulder. “It’s over now.”

She knew she’d replay that endless run, the panic and the helpless grief, a thousand times in her dreams. “It’s not. There’ll be a full investigation, not just of Reeanna, but of your company, the people who worked with her on the project.”

“I can stand it.” He tipped her head back. “The company’s clean. I promise. I won’t cause you any official embarrassment, Lieutenant, by being arrested.”

She took the handkerchief he pressed into her hand, blew her nose. “Be hell for my career, being married to a con.”

“Be easy on that account. Why did she do it?”

“Because she could. That’s what she said. She enjoyed the power, the control.” Briskly, she rubbed her cheeks dry with the heels of her hands, hands that were nearly steady now. “She had big plans for me.” The shudder was hard but brief. “Kind of a pet, I imagine. Like William. Her little trained dog. And with you dead, she figured I’d inherit all your goodies. You’re not going to do that to me, are you?”

“What, die?”

“Leave me all this stuff.”

He laughed, kissed her. “Only you would be annoyed by that.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “She had a unit for you.”

“Yeah, we didn’t get around to testing it out. Feeney’s down there now. I’d better let him know what happened.”

“We’ll have to go down. She disengaged the ’link, which is why I was on my way to you when you jumped me. I was worried when I couldn’t get through.”

“It’s tough.” She touched his face. “Caring.”

“I can live with it. You’ll want to go into the station, I imagine, to clean this up tonight.”

“It’s procedure. I’ve got a corpse—and four deaths to close.”

“I’ll take you, after you’ve been to the health center.”

“I’m not going to the health center.”

“Yes, you are.”

Peabody rapped on the door, opened it. “Excuse me, the MTs are here. They need to be cleared through security.”

“I’ll take care of it. Have them meet us in Dr. Ott’s office, would you, Peabody? They can examine Eve there before I take her in for full treatment.”

“I said I’m not going in for a treatment.”

“I heard you.” He pressed a control on his desk. “Clear the medics through, please. Peabody, are you carrying restraints?”

“They’re standard issue.”

“I wonder if you might loan them to me so I can restrain your lieutenant until I deliver her to the nearest medical facility.”

“Just try it, pal, and see who needs a doctor.”

Peabody gnawed manfully on the inside of her cheek. A smirk at the moment wouldn’t please her lieutenant. “I sympathize with your problem, Roarke, but am unable to comply. I need the job.”

“Never mind, Peabody.” He scooped an arm around Eve’s waist, taking her weight as she limped toward the door. “I’m sure I can find a substitute.”

“I’ve got a report to file, work to finish. I’ve got a dead body to transport.” Eve scowled at him as he called for the elevator. “I don’t have time for an exam.”

“I heard you,” he repeated and simply picked her up bodily and carried her into the elevator. “Peabody, tell those MTs to come armed. She’s liable to make a run for it.”

“Put me down, you idiot. I’m not going.” She was laughing as the doors closed on them.

Contents

A tradition of murder…

Praise for Naked in Death:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

A tradition of murder…

On the north side of the house was an arbor of thin, somehow fluid iron. The vines twisting and tumbling over it were smothered with flowers wildly red. She had married him there, in an old traditional ceremony where vows were exchanged and promises made. A ceremony, she thought now. A rite that included music, flowers, witnesses, words that were repeated time after time, place after place, century through century…

So it continued. Science and logic disproved, but the rites continued, incense and chanting, offerings and the drinking of wine that symbolized blood.

And the sacrifice of the innocent.

Annoyed with herself, she rubbed her hands over her face. Philosophizing was foolish and useless. Murder had been done by human force. And it was human force that would dispense justice. That was, after all, the ultimate balance of good and evil.

Praise for Naked in Death:

“Danger, romance…a masterpiece of fine writing.”

—Rendezvous

“Superbly suspenseful and strikingly original.”

—Romantic Times

This book contains a preview of J. D. Robb’s next romantic suspense novel

Vengeance in Death

Nora Roberts

Hot Ice

Sacred Sins

Brazen Virtue

Sweet Revenge

Public Secrets

Genuine Lies

Carnal Innocence

Divine Evil

Honest Illusions

Private Scandals

Hidden Riches

True Betrayals

Montana Sky

Sanctuary

Homeport

The Reef

River’s End

Carolina Moon

The Villa

Midnight Bayou

Three Fates

Birthright

Northern Lights

Blue Smoke

Angels Fall

High Noon

Tribute

Black Hills

The Search

Chasing Fire

Series

IRISH BORN TRILOGY

Born in Fire

Born in Ice

Born in Shame

DREAM TRILOGY

Daring to Dream

Holding the Dream

Finding the Dream

CHESAPEAKE BAY SAGA

Sea Swept

Rising Tides

Inner Harbor

Chesapeake Blue

GALLAGHERS OF ARDMORE TRILOGY

Jewels of the Sun

Tears of the Moon

Heart of the Sea

THREE SISTERS ISLAND TRILOGY

Dance Upon the Air

Heaven and Earth

Face the Fire

KEY TRILOGY

Key of Light

Key of Knowledge

Key of Valor

IN THE GARDEN TRILOGY

Blue Dahlia

Black Rose

Red Lily

CIRCLE TRILOGY

Morrigan’s Cross

Dance of the Gods

Valley of Silence

SIGN OF SEVEN TRILOGY

Blood Brothers

The Hollow

The Pagan Stone

BRIDE QUARTET

Vision in White

Bed of Roses

Savor the Moment

Happy Ever After

Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

Remember When

J. D. Robb

Naked in Death

Glory in Death

Immortal in Death

Rapture in Death

Ceremony in Death

Vengeance in Death

Holiday in Death

Conspiracy in Death

Loyalty in Death

Witness in Death

Judgment in Death

Betrayal in Death

Seduction in Death

Reunion in Death

Purity in Death

Portrait in Death

Imitation in Death

Divided in Death

Visions in Death

Survivor in Death

Origin in Death

Memory in Death

Born in Death

Innocent in Death

Creation in Death

Strangers in Death

Salvation in Death

Promises in Death

Kindred in Death

Fantasy in Death

Indulgence in Death

Treachery in Death

Anthologies

From the Heart

A Little Magic

A Little Fate

Moon Shadows

(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

THE ONCE UPON SERIES

(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

Once Upon a Castle

Once Upon a Rose

Once Upon a Star

Once Upon a Kiss

Once Upon a Dream

Once Upon a Midnight

Silent Night

(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

Out of This World

(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

Bump in the Night

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Dead of Night

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Three in Death

Suite 606

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

In Death

The Lost

(with Patricia Gaffney, Mary Blayney, and Ruth Ryan Langan)

The Other Side

(with Mary Blaney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Also available…

The Official Nora Roberts Companion
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

CEREMONY IN DEATH

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1997 by Nora Roberts.

Excerpt from Vengeance in Death by J. D. Robb copyright © 1997 by Nora Roberts.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

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:978-1-1012-0363-7

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

15 14 13 12 11 10 9

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

—Shakespeare

We may not pay Satan reverence, for that would be indiscreet, but we can at least respect his talents.

—Mark Twain

chapter one

Death surrounded her. She faced it daily, dreamed of it nightly. Lived with it always. She knew its sounds, its scents, even its texture. She could look it in its dark and clever eye without a flinch. Death was a tricky foe, she knew. One flinch, one blink, and it could shift, it could change. It could win.

Ten years as a cop hadn’t hardened her toward it. A decade on the force hadn’t made her accept it. When she looked death in the eye, it was with the cold steel of the warrior.

Eve Dallas looked at death now. And she looked at one of her own.

Frank Wojinski had been a good cop, solid. Some would have said plodding. He’d been affable, she remembered. A man who hadn’t complained about the bilge disguised as food at the NYPSD Eatery, or the eye-searing paperwork the job generated. Or, Eve thought, about the fact that he’d been sixty-two and had never made it past the rank of detective sergeant.

He’d been on the pudgy side and had let his hair gray and thin naturally. It was a rare thing in 2058 for a man to bypass body sculpting and enhancements. Now, in his clear-sided view casket with its single spray of mournful lilies, he resembled a peacefully sleeping monk from an earlier time.

He’d been born in an earlier time, Eve mused, coming into the world at the end of one millennium and living his life in the next. He’d been through the Urban Wars, but hadn’t talked of them as so many of the older cops did. Frank hadn’t been one for war stories, she recalled. He was more likely to pass around the latest snapshot or hologram of his children and grandchildren.

He liked to tell bad jokes, talk sports, and had a weakness for soydogs with spiced pickle relish.

A family man, she thought, one who left behind great grief. Indeed, she could think of no one who had known Frank Wojinski who hadn’t loved him.

He had died with half his life still ahead of him, died alone, when the heart everyone had thought so huge and so strong had just stopped.

“Goddamn it.”

Eve turned, laid a hand on the arm of the man who stepped up beside her. “I’m sorry, Feeney.”

He shook his head, his droopy camel’s eyes filled with misery. With one hand he raked through his wiry red hair. “On the job would have been easier. I could handle line of duty. But to just stop. To just check out in his easy chair watching arena ball on the screen. It’s not right, Dallas. A man’s not supposed to stop living at his age.”

“I know.” Not knowing what else to do, Eve draped an arm over his shoulder and steered him away.

“He trained me. Looked after me when I was a rookie. Never let me down.” Pain radiated through him and glinted dully in his eyes, wavered in his voice. “Frank never let anyone down in his life.”

“I know,” she said again, because there was nothing else that could be said. She was accustomed to Feeney being tough and strong. The delicacy of his grief worried her.

She led him through the mourners. The viewing room was packed with cops as well as family. And where there were cops and death, there was coffee. Or what passed for it at such places. She poured a cup, handed it to him.

“I can’t get around it. I can’t get a hold of it.” He let out a long, uneven breath. He was a sturdy, compact man who wore his grief as openly as he wore his rumpled coat. “I haven’t talked to Sally yet. My wife’s with her. I just can’t do it.”

“It’s all right. I haven’t talked to her, either.” Since she had nothing to do with her hands, Eve poured a cup for herself that she didn’t intend to drink. “Everybody’s shook up by this. I didn’t know he had a heart problem.”

“Nobody did,” Feeney said quietly. “Nobody knew.”

She kept a hand on his shoulder as she scanned the overcrowded, overwarm room. When a fellow officer went down in the line of duty, cops could be angry, they could be focused, fix their target. But when death snuck in and crooked a capricious finger, there was no one to blame. And no one to punish.

It was helplessness she felt in the room and that she felt in herself. You couldn’t raise your weapon to fate, or your fist.

The funeral director, spiffy in his traditional black suit and as waxy-faced as one of his own clients, worked the room with patting hands and sober eyes. Eve thought she’d rather have a corpse sit up and grin at her than listen to his platitudes.

“Why don’t we go talk to the family together?”

It was hard for him, but Feeney nodded, set the untouched coffee aside. “He liked you, Dallas. ‘That kid’s got balls of steel and a mind to match,’ he used to tell me. He always said if he was ever jammed, you’d be the one he’d want guarding his back.”

It surprised and pleased her, and it simultaneously added to her sorrow. “I didn’t realize he thought of me that way.”

Feeney looked at her. She had an interesting face, not one he’d have called a heart-stopper, but it usually made a man look twice with its angles and sharp bones, the shallow dent in the chin. She had cop’s eyes, intense and measuring, and he often forgot they were a dark golden brown. Her hair was the same shade, cut short and badly in need of some shaping. She was tall and lean and tough-bodied.

He remembered it had been less than a month since he had come across her, battered and bloodied. But her weapon had been firm in her hand.

“He thought of you that way. So do I.” While she blinked at him, Feeney squared his hunched shoulders. “Let’s talk to Sally and the kids.”

They slipped through the crowd jammed together in a room oppressed with dark simulated wood, heavy red draperies, and the funereal smell of too many flowers crammed into too small a space.

Eve wondered why viewings of the dead were always accompanied by flowers and draping sheets of red. What ancient ceremony did it spring from, and why did the human race continue to cling to it?

She was certain that when her time came, she wouldn’t chose to be laid out for study by her loved ones and associates in an overheated room where the pervasive scent of flowers was reminiscent of rot.

Then she saw Sally, supported by her children and her children’s children, and realized such rites were for the living. The dead were beyond caring.

“Ryan.” Sally held out her hands—small, almost fairylike hands—and lifted her cheek to Feeney’s. She held there a moment, her eyes closed, her face pale and quiet.

She was a slim, soft-spoken woman who Eve had always thought of as delicate. Yet a cop’s spouse who had survived the stress of the job for more than forty years had to have steel. Against her plain black dress she wore her husband’s twenty-five-year NYPSD ring on a chain.

Another rite, Eve thought. Another symbol.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Sally murmured.

“I’ll miss him. We’ll all miss him.” Feeney patted her back awkwardly before drawing away. Grief was in his throat, choking him. Swallowing it only lodged it cold and heavy in his gut. “You know if there’s anything…”

“I know.” Her lips curved slightly, and she gave his hand a quick and comforting squeeze before turning to Eve. “I appreciate you coming, Dallas.”

“He was a good man. A solid cop.”

“Yes, he was.” Recognizing it as high tribute, Sally managed a smile. “He was proud to serve and protect. Commander Whitney and his wife are here, and Chief Tibble. And so many others.” Her gaze drifted blindly around the room. “So many. He mattered, Frank mattered.”

“Of course he did, Sally.” Feeney shifted from foot to foot. “You, ah, know about the Survivor’s Fund.”

She smiled again, patted his hand. “We’re fine there. Don’t worry. Dallas, I don’t think you really know my family. Lieutenant Dallas, my daughter Brenda.”

Short, with rounded curves, Eve noted as they clasped hands. Dark hair and eyes, a bit heavy in the chin. Took after her father.

“My son Curtis.”

Slim, small boned, soft hands, eyes that were dry but dazed with grief.

“My grandchildren.”

There were five of them, the youngest a boy of about eight with a pug nose dashed with freckles. He eyed Eve consideringly. “How come you’ve got your zapper on?”

Flustered, Eve tugged her jacket over her side arm. “I came straight from Cop Central. I didn’t have time to go home and change.”

“Pete.” Curtis shot Eve an apologetic wince. “Don’t bother the lieutenant.”

“If people concentrated more on their personal and spiritual powers, weapons would be unnecessary. I’m Alice.”

A slim blonde in black stepped forward. She’d have been a stunner in any case, Eve mused, but having sprung from such basic stock, she was dazzling. Her eyes were a soft, dreamy blue, her mouth full and lush and unpainted. She wore her hair loose so that it rained straight and glossy over the shoulders of her flowing black dress. A thin silver chain fell to her waist. At the end of it was a black stone ringed in silver.

“Alice, you’re such a zip head.”

She flicked a cool glance over her shoulder toward a boy of about sixteen. But her hands kept fluttering back to the black stone, like elegant birds guarding a nest.

“My brother Jamie,” she said in a silky voice. “He still thinks name-calling deserves a reaction. My grandfather spoke of you, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Your husband isn’t with you tonight?”

Eve arched a brow. Not just grief, she deduced, but nerves. It was easy enough to recognize. Signals as well, but they weren’t clear. The girl was after something, she mused. But what?

“No, he’s not.” She shifted her gaze back to Sally. “He sends his sympathies, Mrs. Wojinski. He’s off planet.”

“It must take a great deal of concentration and energy,” Alice interrupted, “to maintain a relationship with a man like Roarke while pursuing a demanding, difficult, even dangerous career. My grandfather used to say that once you had a grip on an investigation, you never let go. Would you say that’s accurate, Lieutenant?”

“If you let go, you lose. I don’t like to lose.” She held Alice’s odd gaze for a moment, then on impulse crouched down and whispered to Pete. “When I was a rookie, I saw your grandfather zap a guy at ten yards. He was the best.” She was rewarded with a quick grin before she straightened. “He won’t be forgotten, Mrs. Wojinski,” she said, offering her hand. “And he mattered very much to all of us.”

She started to step back, but Alice laid a hand on her arm, leaned close. The hand, Eve noted, trembled slightly. “It was interesting meeting you, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming.”

Eve inclined her head and slipped back into the crowd. Casually, she reached a hand into the pocket of her jacket and fingered the thin slip of paper Alice had pushed inside.

It took her another thirty minutes to get away. She waited until she was outside and in her vehicle before she took the note out and read it.

Meet me tomorrow, midnight. Aquarian Club.

TELL NO ONE. Your life is now at risk.

In lieu of a signature, there was a symbol, a dark line running in an expanding circle to form a sort of maze. Nearly as intrigued as she was annoyed, Eve stuffed the note back in her pocket and started home.

Because she was a cop, she saw the figure draped in black, hardly more than a shadow in the shadows. And because she was a cop, she knew he was watching her.

Whenever Roarke was away, Eve preferred to pretend the house was empty. Both she and Summerset, who served as Roarke’s chief of staff, did their best to ignore the other’s presence. The house was huge, a labyrinth of rooms, which made it a simple matter to avoid one another.

She stepped into the wide foyer, tossed her scarred leather jacket over the carved newel post because she knew it would make Summerset grind his teeth. He detested having anything mar the elegance of the house. Particularly her.

She took the stairs, but rather than go to the master bedroom, she veered off to her office suite.

If Roarke had to spend another night off planet as expected, she preferred to spend hers in her relaxation chair rather than their bed.

She often dreamed badly when she dreamed alone.

Between the late paperwork and the viewing, she hadn’t had time for a meal. Eve ordered up a sandwich—real Virginia ham on rye—and coffee that jumped with genuine caffeine. When the AutoChef delivered, she inhaled the scents slowly, greedily. She took the first bite with her eyes closed to better enjoy the miracle.

There were definite advantages to being married to a man who could afford real meat instead of its by-products and simulations.

To satisfy her curiosity, she went to her desk and engaged her computer. She swallowed ham, chased it with coffee. “All available data on subject Alice, surname unknown. Mother Brenda, née Wojinski, maternal grandparents Frank and Sally Wojinski.”

Working…

Eve drummed her fingers, took out the note and reread it while she polished off the quick meal.

Subject Alice Lingstrom. DOB June 10, 2040. First child and only daughter of Jan Lingstrom and Brenda Wojinski, divorced. Residence, 486 West Eighth Street, Apartment 4B, New York City. Sibling, James Lingstrom, DOB March 22, 2042. Education, high school graduate, valedictorian. Two semesters of college: Harvard. Major, anthropology. Minor, mythology. Third semester deferred. Currently employed as clerk, Spirit Quest, 228 West Tenth Street, New York City. Marital status, single.

Eve ran her tongue around her teeth. “Criminal record?”

No criminal record.

“Sounds fairly normal,” Eve murmured. “Data on Spirit Quest.”

Spirit Quest. Wiccan shop and consultation center, owned by Isis Paige and Charles Forte. Three years in Tenth Street location. Annual gross income one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. Licensed priestess, herbalist, and registered hypnotherapist on site.

“Wicca?” Eve leaned back with a snort. “Witch stuff? Jesus. What kind of scam is this?”

Wicca, recognized as both a religion and a craft, is an ancient, nature-based faith which—

“Stop.” Eve blew out a breath. She wasn’t looking for a definition of witchcraft, but an explanation as to why a steady-as-a-rock cop ended up with a granddaughter who believed in casting spells and magic crystals.

And why that granddaughter wanted a secret meeting.

The best way to find out, she decided, was to show up at the Aquarian Club in a bit over twenty-four hours. She left the note on the desk. It would be easy to dismiss it, she thought, if it hadn’t been written by a relative of a man she’d respected.

And if she hadn’t seen that figure in the shadows. A figure she was sure hadn’t wanted to be seen.

She walked to the adjoining bath and began to strip. It was too bad she couldn’t take Mavis with her for the meet. Eve had a feeling the Aquarian Club would be right up her friend’s alley. Eve kicked her jeans aside, leaned over to stretch out the kinks of a long day. And wondered what she would do with the long night ahead.

She had nothing hot to work on. Her last homicide had been so open and shut that she and her aide had put it to bed in under eight hours. Maybe she’d spend a couple hours glazing out watching some screen. Or she could pick a weapon out of Roarke’s gun room and go down and run a hologram program to burn off excess energy until she could sleep.

She’d never tried one of his auto-assault rifles. It might be interesting to experience how a cop took out an enemy during the early days of the Urban Wars.

She stepped into the shower. “Full jets, on pulse,” she ordered. “Ninety-eight degrees.”

She wished she had a murder to sink her teeth into. Something that would focus her mind and drain her system. And damn it, that was pathetic. She was lonely, she realized. Desperate for a distraction, and he’d only been gone three days.

They both had their own lives, didn’t they? They’d lived them before they met and continued to live them after. The demands of both their businesses absorbed much time and attention. Their relationship worked—and that continued to surprise her—because they were both independent people.

Christ, she missed him outrageously. Disgusted with herself, she ducked her head under the spray and let it pound on her brain.

When hands slipped around her waist, then slid up to cup her breasts, she barely jolted. But her heart leaped. She knew his touch, the feel of those long, slim fingers, the texture of those wide palms. She tipped her head back, inviting a mouth to the curve of her shoulder.

“Mmm. Summerset. You wild man.”

Teeth nipped into flesh and made her chuckle. Thumbs brushed over her soapy nipples and made her moan.

“I’m not going to fire him.” Roarke trailed a hand down the center of her body.

“It was worth a shot. You’re back…” His fingers dipped expertly inside her, slick and slippery, so that she arched, moaned, and came simultaneously. “Early,” she finished on an explosive breath. “God.”

“I’d say I was just on time.” He spun her around, and while she was shuddering and blinking water out of her eyes, he covered her mouth in a long, ravenous kiss.

He’d thought about her on the interminable flight home. Thought about this, just this: touching and tasting and hearing that quick catch in her breath as he did. And here she was, naked and wet and already quivering for him.

He braced her in the corner, gripped her hips, and slowly lifted her off her feet. “Miss me?”

Her heart was thundering. He was inches away from driving into her, filling her, destroying her. “Not really.”

“Well, in that case…” He kissed her lightly on the chin. “I’ll just let you finish your shower in peace.”

In a flash, she wrapped her legs around his waist, took a firm hold of his wet mane of hair. “Try it, pal, and you’re a dead man.”

“In the interest of self-preservation then.” To torture them both, he slipped into her slowly, watched her eyes go opaque. He closed his mouth over hers again so that her shallow breaths shuddered through him.

The ride was slow and slippery, and more tender than either had expected. Climax came on a long, quiet sigh. Her lips curved against his. “Welcome home.”

She could see him now, those stunning blue eyes, the face that was both saint and sinner, the mouth of a doomed poet. His hair was streaming with water, black and sleek, just touching broad shoulders roped with subtle and surprisingly tough muscle.

Looking at him after these brief, periodic absences always made something unexpected lurch through her. She doubted she would ever get used to the fact that he not only wanted her but loved her.

She was smiling still as she combed her fingers through his thick, black hair. “Everything okay with the Olympus Resort?”

“Adjustments, some delays. Nothing that can’t be dealt with.” The elaborate space station resort and pleasure center would open on schedule, because he wouldn’t accept any less.

He ordered the jets off, then took a towel to wrap around her when she would have used the drying tube. “I began to understand why you stay in here while I’m away. I couldn’t sleep in the Presidential Suite.” He took another towel, rubbed it over her hair. “It was too lonely without you.”

She leaned against him a moment, just to feel the familiar lines of his body against hers. “We’re getting so damn sappy.”

“I don’t mind. We Irish are very sentimental.”

It made her smirk as he turned to get robes. He might have had the music of Ireland in his voice, but she seriously doubted if any of his business friends or foes would consider Roarke a sentimental man.

“No fresh bruises,” he observed, helping her into her robe before she could do it for herself. “I take that to mean you’ve had a quiet few days.”

“Mostly. We had a john get a bit overenthusiastic with a licensed companion. Choked her to death during sex.” She belted the robe, scratched fingers through her hair to scatter more water. “He got spooked and ran.” She moved her shoulders as she stepped into the office. “But he lawyered up and turned himself in a few hours later. PA took it down to manslaughter. I let Peabody handle the interview and booking.”

“Hmm.” Roarke went to a recessed cabinet for wine, poured them both a glass. “It’s been quiet then.”

“Yeah. I had that viewing tonight.”

His brow furrowed, then cleared. “Ah, yes, you told me. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it home in time to go with you.”

“Feeney’s taking it really hard. It would be easier if Frank had gone down in the line of duty.”

This time Roarke’s brow quirked. “You’d prefer that your associate had been killed rather than, say, go gently into that good night?”

“I’d just understand it better, that’s all.” She frowned into her wine. She didn’t think it wise to tell Roarke she’d prefer a fast and violent death herself. “There is something odd, though. I met Frank’s family. The oldest granddaughter’s on the weird side.”

“How?”

“The way she talked, and the data I accessed on her after I got home.”

Intrigued, he lifted his wine to sip. “You ran a make on her?”

“Just a quick check. Because she passed me this.” Eve walked to the desk, picked up the note.

Roarke scanned it, considered. “Earth labyrinth.”

“What?”

“The symbol here. It’s Celtic.”

Shaking her head, Eve eased closer to look again. “You know the strangest things.”

“Not so strange. I spring from the Celts, after all. The ancient labyrinth symbol is magical and sacred.”

“Well, it fits. She’s into witchcraft or something. Got herself the start of a top-flight education. Harvard. But she drops out to work in some West Village shop that sells crystals and magic herbs.”

Roarke traced the symbol with a fingertip. He’d seen it before, and others like it. During his childhood, the cults in Dublin had run the range between vicious gangs and pious pacifists. All, of course, had used religion as the excuse to kill. Or be killed.

“You have no idea why she wants to meet you?”

“None. I’d say she figures she read my aura or something. Mavis ran a mystic grift before I busted her for pinching wallets. She told me people will pay most anything if you tell them what they want to hear. More, if you tell them what they don’t want to hear.”

“Which is why cons and legitimate businesses are very much the same.” He smiled at her. “I take it you’re going, anyway.”

“Sure, I’ll follow through.”

Naturally she would. Roarke glanced at the note again, then set it aside. “I’m going with you.”

“She wants—”

“It’s a pity what she wants.” He sipped his wine, a man accustomed to getting precisely what he wanted. One way or another. “I’ll stay out of your way, but I’m going. The Aquarian Club is basically harmless, but there are always unsavory elements that leak through.”

“Unsavory elements are my life,” she said soberly, then cocked her head. “You don’t, like, own the Aquarian, do you?”

“No.” He smiled. “Would you like to?”

She laughed and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s drink this in bed.”

Relaxed by sex and wine, she fell peacefully asleep, draped around Roarke. That’s why she was baffled to find herself suddenly and fully awake only two hours later. It hadn’t been one of her nightmares. There was no terror, no pain, no cold, clammy sweat.

Yet she had snapped awake, and her heart wasn’t quite steady. She lay still, staring up through the wide sky window over the bed, listening to Roarke’s quiet, steady breathing beside her.

She shifted, glanced down at the foot of the bed, and nearly yelped when eyes glowed out of the dark. Then she registered the weight over her ankles. Galahad, she thought and rolled her eyes. The cat had come in and jumped onto the bed. That’s what had awakened her, she told herself. That’s all it was.

She settled again, turned onto her side, and felt Roarke’s arm slide around her in sleep. On a sigh, she closed her eyes, snuggled companionably against him.

Just the cat, she thought sleepily.

But she would have sworn she’d heard chanting.

chapter two

By the time Eve was elbow deep in paperwork the next morning, the odd wakefulness in the night was forgotten. New York seemed to be content to bask in the balmy days of early autumn and behave itself. It seemed like a good time to take a few hours and organize her office.

Or rather to delegate Peabody to organize it.

“How can your files be this skewed?” Peabody demanded. Her earnest, square face expressed deep remorse and disappointment.

“I know where everything is,” Eve told her. “I want you to put everything where I’ll still know where it is, but where it also makes sense for it to be. Too tough an assignment, Officer?”

“I can handle it.” Peabody rolled her eyes behind Eve’s back. “Sir.”

“Fine. And don’t roll your eyes at me. If things are a bit skewed, as you put it, it’s because I’ve had a busy year. As we’re in the last quarter of this one and I’m training you, it falls to me to dump this on you.” Eve turned and smiled thinly. “With the hope, Peabody, that you will one day have an underling to dump shit assignments on.”

“Your faith in me is touching, Dallas. Chokes me up.” She hissed at the computer. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve got yellow sheets in here from five years ago that’s choking me. These should have been downloaded to the main and cleared out of your unit after twenty-four months.”

“So download and clear now.” Eve’s smile widened as the machine hacked, then droned out a warning of system failure. “And good luck.”

“Technology can be our friend. And like any friendship, it requires regular maintenance and understanding.”

“I understand it fine.” Eve stepped over, pounded her fist twice on the drive. The unit hiccupped back into running mode. “See?”

“You have a real smooth touch, Lieutenant. That’s why the guys in Maintenance shoot air darts at your picture.”

“Still? Christ, they hold a grudge.” With a shrug, Eve sat on the corner of the desk. “What do you know about witchcraft?”

“If you want to cast a spell on your machine here, Dallas, it’s a little out of my field.” Teeth clenched, she juggled and compressed files.

“You’re a Free-Ager.”

“Lapsed. Come on, come on, you can do it,” she muttered at the computer. “Besides,” she added. “Free-Agers aren’t Wiccans. They’re both earth religions, and both are based on natural orders, but…son of a bitch, where’d it go?”

“What? Where did what go?”

“Nothing.” Shoulders hunched, Peabody guarded the monitor. “Nothing. Don’t worry, I’m on it. You probably didn’t need those files, anyway.”

“Is that a joke, Peabody?”

“You bet. Ha ha.” A line of sweat dribbled down her back as she attacked the keys. “There. There it is. No problem, no problem at all. And off it goes into the main. Neat and tidy.” She let out an enormous sigh. “Could I maybe have some coffee? Just to keep alert.”

Eve shifted her gaze to the screen, saw nothing that looked ominous. Saying nothing, she rose and ordered coffee from the AutoChef.

“Why do you want to know about Wicca? You thinking of converting?” At Eve’s bland look, Peabody tried a smile. “Another joke.”

“You’re full of them today. Just curious.”

“Well, there’s some overlap on basic tenets between Wiccans and Free-Agers. A search for balance and harmony, the celebration of the seasons that goes back to ancient times, the strict code of nonviolence.”

“Nonviolence?” Eve narrowed her eyes. “What about curses, casting spells, and sacrifices? Naked virgins on the altar and black roosters getting their heads chopped off?”

“Fiction depicts witches that way. You know, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ Shakespeare. Macbeth.”

Eve snorted. “‘I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.’” The Wicked Witch of the West. Classic vid channel.

“Good one,” Peabody admitted. “But both examples feed into the most basic of misconceptions. Witches aren’t ugly, evil crones mixing up cauldrons of goop or hunting down young girls and their friendly, talking scarecrows. Wiccans like to be naked, but they don’t hurt anything or anyone. Strictly white magic.”

“As opposed to?”

“Black magic.”

Eve studied her aide. “You don’t believe in that stuff? Magic and spells?”

“Nope.” Revived with coffee, Peabody turned back to the computer. “I know some of the basics because I have a cousin who shifted to Wicca. He’s into it big time. Joined a coven in Cincinnati.”

“You’ve got a cousin in a coven in Cincinnati.” Laughing, Eve set her own coffee aside. “Peabody, you never cease to amaze me.”

“One day I’ll tell you about my granny and her five lovers.”

“Five lovers isn’t abnormal for a woman’s lifetime.”

“Not in her lifetime; last month. All at the same time.” Peabody glanced up, deadpan. “She’s ninety-eight. I hope to take after her.”

Eve swallowed her next chuckle as her tele-link beeped. “Dallas.” She watched Commander Whitney’s face swim on-screen. “Yes, Commander.”

“I’d like to speak with you, Lieutenant, in my office. As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir. Five minutes.” Eve disengaged, shot a hopeful glance at Peabody. “Maybe we’ve got something going. Keep working on those files. I’ll contact you if we’re heading out.”

She started out, stuck her head back in. “Don’t eat my candy bar.”

“Damn,” Peabody said under her breath. “She never misses.”

Whitney had spent most of his life behind a badge and a large part of his professional life in command. He made it his business to know his cops, to judge their strengths and weaknesses. And he knew how to utilize both.

He was a big man with workingman hands and dark, keen eyes that some considered cold. His temperament, on the surface, was almost terrifyingly even. And like most smooth surfaces, it coated something dangerous brewing beneath.

Eve respected him, occasionally liked him, and always admired him.

He was at his desk when she stepped into his office, lines of concentration puckering his brow as he read over some hard copy. He didn’t glance up, merely gestured toward a chair. She sat, watched an air tram rumble by his window, baffled as always by the number of passengers with binoks and spy glasses.

What did they expect to see behind the windows where cops worked? she wondered. Suspects being tortured, weapons discharged, victims bleeding and weeping? And why would the fantasy of such misery entertain them?

“I saw you at the viewing last night.”

Eve shifted her thoughts and attention to her commander. “I imagine most every cop in Central made an appearance.”

“Frank was well-liked.”

“Yes, he was.”

“You never worked with him?”

“He gave me some pointers when I was a rookie, helped out on legwork a couple of times, but no, I never worked with him directly.”

Whitney nodded, kept his eyes on hers. “He was partnered with Feeney, before your time. You were partnered with Feeney after Frank shifted from the streets to a desk.”

She began to get an uncomfortable feeling in the gut. Something here, she thought. Something’s off. “Yes, sir. This has hit Feeney pretty hard.”

“I’m aware of that, Dallas. Which is why Captain Feeney isn’t here this morning.” Whitney propped his elbows on his desk, linked his fingers, folded his fingers over. “We have a possible situation, Lieutenant. A delicate situation.”

“Regarding DS Wojinski?”

“The information I’m going to relay to you is confidential. Your aide can be apprised per your discretion, but no one else on the force. No one in the media. I am asking you, ordering you,” he corrected, “to essentially work alone on this matter.”

The discomfort in her stomach spread into little licks of fear as she thought of Feeney. “Understood.”

“There is some question regarding the circumstances of DS Wojinski’s death.”

“Question, Commander?”

“You’ll require some background data.” He laid his folded hands on the edge of the desk. “It has come to my attention that DS Wojinski was either pursuing an investigation of his own off the clock or involved with illegals.”

“Drugs? Frank? Nobody was cleaner than Frank.”

Whitney didn’t so much as blink. “On September twenty-second of this year, DS Wojinski was spotted by an undercover illegals detective allegedly conducting business in a suspected chemical distribution center. The Athame is a private club, religious in theme, which offers its members group and individual ritual services and is licensed for private sexual functions. The Illegals Division has had it under investigation for nearly two years. Frank was seen making a buy.”

When Eve said nothing, Whitney drew a long breath. “This situation was subsequently reported to me. I questioned Frank, and he was not forthcoming.” Whitney hesitated, then followed through. “Frankly, Dallas, the fact that he would neither confirm nor deny, refused to explain or discuss, seemed very out of character. And it worried me. I ordered him to submit to a physical, including a drug scan, advised him to take a week’s leave. He agreed to both. The scan was, at that point, clear. Due to his record and my personal knowledge and opinion of him, I did not mark the incident in his file, but sealed it.”

He rose then, turned to his window. “Perhaps that was a mistake. It’s possible if I had pursued the matter at that point, he would still be alive, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“You trusted your judgment and your man.”

Whitney turned back. His eyes were dark; they were intense but not cold, Eve thought. They felt. “Yes, I did. And now I have more data. The standard autopsy on DS Wojinski detected traces of digitalis and Zeus.”

“Zeus.” Now Eve rose. “Frank was not a user, Commander. Putting aside who and what he was, a chemical as powerful as Zeus shows. You see it in the eyes, in the personality shift. If he’d been using Zeus, every cop in his division would have known it. The drug scan would have picked it up. There has to be a mistake.”

She dug her hands into her pockets, willed herself not to pace. “Yeah, there are cops who use, and there are cops who figure their badges shield them from the law. But not Frank. No way was he dirty.”

“But the traces were there, Lieutenant. As well as traces of other chemicals, identified as designer clones. The combination of those chemicals resulted in cardiac arrest and death.”

“You suspect he OD’d, or self-terminated?” She shook her head. “That’s wrong.”

“I repeat, the traces were there.”

“Then there had to be a reason. Digitalis?” She frowned. “That’s heart medicine, isn’t it? You said he’d had a physical a couple of weeks ago. Why didn’t it show he had heart trouble?”

Whitney’s gaze remained level. “Frank’s closest friend on the force is the top E-detective in the city.”

“Feeney?” Eve took two strides forward before she could stop herself. “You think Feeney covered for him, doctored his records? Damn it, Commander.”

“It’s a possibility I can’t ignore,” Whitney said evenly. “Nor can you. Friendship can and does shadow judgment. I am trusting that your friendship with Feeney will not, in this case, shadow yours.”

He walked to the desk again, his position of authority. “These allegations and suspicions must be investigated and resolved.”

The hot licks in her stomach had grown and were burning like acid. “You want me to investigate fellow officers. One of which is dead, leaving a grieving family behind. The other of which was my trainer and is my friend.” She put her hands on the desk. “Is your friend.”

He’d expected the anger, accepted it. Just as he expected she would do the job. He wouldn’t accept less. “Would you prefer I gave this to someone who didn’t care?” His brow lifted on the question. “I want this done quietly, with each piece of evidence and all investigative records sealed for my eyes only. It may be necessary for you to speak with DS Wojinski’s family at some point. I trust you will do so discreetly and tactfully. There is no need to add to their grief.”

“And if I turn something up that smears a lifetime of public service?”

“That will be for me to deal with.”

She straightened. “It’s a hell of a thing you’re asking me to do.”

“Ordering you to do,” Whitney corrected. “That should make it easier, Lieutenant. On you.” He handed her two sealed discs. “View these on your home unit. Any and all transmissions on this matter are to be sent from your home unit to my home unit. Nothing is to go through Cop Central until I tell you differently. Dismissed.”

She turned on her heel, walked to the door. There she paused but didn’t look back. “I won’t roll over on Feeney. Damned if I will.”

Whitney watched her stride out, then closed his eyes. She would do what needed to be done, he knew. He only hoped it wasn’t more than she could live with.

Her temper was bubbling by the time she got back to her own office. Peabody sat in front of the monitor, smirking.

“Just about got it knocked. Your unit’s a real whiner, Dallas, but I’ve been slapping it into shape.”

“Disengage,” Eve snapped and grabbed up her jacket and bag. “Get your gear, Peabody.”

“We’ve got a case?” Revving up, Peabody jumped out of the chair and hustled after Eve. “What kind of case? Where are we going?” She broke into a trot to keep up. “Dallas? Lieutenant?”

Eve slapped the control on the elevator, and the single furious look she shot at Peabody was enough to stifle any further questions. Eve stepped into the elevator, shuffled into position with several noisy cops, and stood in stony silence.

“Hey, Dallas, how’s the newlywed? Why don’t you get your rich husband to buy the Eatery and stock some real food.”

She flicked a steely glare over her shoulder, stared into a face of a grinning cop. “Bite me, Carter.”

“Hey, I gave that a shot three years ago, and you nearly broke all my teeth. Holding out for a civilian,” he said when laughter erupted.

“Holding out for somebody who isn’t the major asshole of Robbery,” someone else put in.

“Better than being the minor one, Forenski. Hey, Peabody,” Carter continued. “Want me to bite you?”

“Is your dental plan up to date?”

“I’ll check on that and get back to you.” With a wink, Carter and several others piled out.

“Carter puts the moves on anything female,” Peabody said conversationally, worried that Eve continued to stare straight ahead. “Too bad he’s an asshole.” No response. “Ah, Forenski’s kind of cute,” Peabody continued. “He doesn’t have a steady personal partner, does he?”

“I don’t poke into the private lives of fellow officers,” Eve snapped back, and strode out onto the garage level.

“You don’t mind poking into mine,” Peabody said under her breath. She waited while Eve uncoded her car locks, then climbed into the passenger seat. “Am I to log in destination, sir, or is it a surprise?” Then she blinked when Eve simply laid her head against the wheel. “Hey, are you all right? What’s going on, Dallas?”

“Log in home office.” Eve drew a breath, straightened. “I’ll fill you in on the way. All information you’re given and all records on the ensuing investigation are to be coded and sealed.” Eve maneuvered out of the garage and onto the street. “All said information and records are confidential. You are to report only to me or the commander.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody swallowed the obstruction that had lodged in her throat. “It’s internal, isn’t it? It’s one of us.”

“Yeah. Goddamn it. It’s one of us.”

Her home unit didn’t have the eccentricities of her official computer. Roarke had seen to that. The data scrolled smoothly on-screen.

“Detective Marion Burns. She’s been undercover at The Athame for eight months, working as a bartender.” Eve pursed her lips. “Burns. I don’t know her.”

“I do, slightly.” Peabody scooted her chair a bit closer to Eve’s. “I met her when I was…you know, during the Casto thing. She struck me as a solid, eyes-on-the-job sort. If memory serves, she’s third generation cop. Her mother’s still on the job. Captain, I think, in Bunko. Her grandfather went out line of duty during the Urban Wars. I don’t know why she’d have fingered DS Wojinski.”

“Maybe she reported what she saw, or maybe it’s something else. We’ll have to find out. Her report to Whitney’s pretty cut and dried. At one hundred thirty hours, September 22, 2058, she observed DS Wojinski seated at a private booth with known chemical dealer Selina Cross. Wojinski exchanged credits for a small package, which appeared to contain an illegal substance. The conversation and exchange lasted fifteen minutes, at which time Cross moved to another booth. Wojinski remained in the club another ten minutes, then left. Detective Burns tailed the subject for two blocks at which time he engaged a public transport.”

“So she never saw him use.”

“No. And she never saw him return to the club that night or on any subsequent night during her watch. Burns goes top of our list for questioning.”

“Yes, sir. Dallas, since Wojinski and Feeney were tight, wouldn’t it follow that Wojinski would have confided in him? Or failing that, that Feeney would have noticed…something.”

“I don’t know.” Eve rubbed her eyes. “The Athame. What the hell’s an athame?”

“I don’t know.” Peabody pulled out her palm PC and requested the data. “Athame, ceremonial knife, a ritual tool normally fashioned of steel. Traditionally the athame is not used for cutting, but for casting or banishing circles in earth religions.”

Peabody glanced up at Eve. “Witchcraft,” she continued. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

“I don’t think so.” She took the note from Alice out of her desk drawer, passed it to Peabody. “Frank’s granddaughter slipped this to me at the viewing. Turns out she works at some shop called Spirit Quest. Do you know it?”

“I know what it is.” Troubled now, Peabody set the note down. “Wiccans are peaceful, Dallas. And they use herbs, not chemicals. No true Wiccan’s going to buy, sell, or use Zeus.”

“How about digitalis?” Eve cocked her head. “That’s kind of an herb, isn’t it?”

“It’s distilled from foxglove. It’s been used medicinally for centuries.”

“It’s what, like a stimulant?”

“I don’t know that much about healing, but yeah, I’d think.”

“So’s Zeus. I wonder what kind of effect you’d get combining the two. Bad mix, wrong dosage, whatever, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d get heart failure.”

“You think Wojinski self-terminated?”

“The commander suspects it, and I’ve got questions,” Eve said impatiently. “I don’t have answers. But I’m going to get them.” She picked up the note. “We’ll start tonight, with Alice. I want you there at eleven, in civilian clothes. Try to look like a Free-Ager, Peabody, not a cop.”

Peabody winced. “I’ve got this dress my mother made for my last birthday. But I’ll get really pissed off if you laugh.”

“I’ll try to control myself. For now, let’s see what we can dig up on this Selina Cross and The Athame Club.”

Five minutes later, Eve was smiling grimly at her machine. “Interesting. Our Selina’s been around. Spent some time in a cage. Just look at this yellow sheet, Peabody. Soliciting sex without a license, ’43, ’44. Assault charge also in ’44, subsequently dropped. Ran into Bunko in ’47, running a medium scam. What the hell do people want to talk to the dead for, anyway? Suspected of animal mutilations, ’49. Not enough evidence for arrest. Manufacturing and distribution of illegals. That’s what tagged her and put her away from ’50 to ’51. All small-time shit, though. But here in ’55, she was brought in and questioned in connection with the ritual slaying of a minor. Her alibi held.”

“Illegals has had her under observation since she was sprung in ’51,” Peabody added.

“But they haven’t brought her in.”

“Like you said, she’s small-time. They must be looking for a bigger fish.”

“That would be my take. We’ll see what Marion has to say. Look here, it says Selina Cross owns The Athame Club, free and clear.” Eve pursed her lips. “Now, where would a small-time dealer get the credit power to buy and run a club? She’s a front. I wonder if Illegals knows for who. Let’s take a look at her. Computer, display image of subject, Cross, Selina.”

“Whew.” Peabody gave a little shudder as the image floated on-screen. “Spooky.”

“Not a face you’d forget,” Eve murmured.

It was sharp and narrow, the lips full and vibrant red, the eyes black as onyx. There was beauty there, in the balance of features, the white, smooth skin, but it was cold. And as Peabody had observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.

“What’s that symbol?” Eve wondered. “Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent.”

“A pentagram.” Peabody’s voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. “Inverted. She’s not Wiccan, Dallas.” Peabody cleared her throat. “She’s a Satanist.”

Eve didn’t believe in such things—the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.

“Be careful what you discount, Eve.”

Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn’t complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there’s a reason for it.”

“Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I’m going to find out if someone exploited Frank’s.”

She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn’t tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.

“You’re a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you’re too good a cop and too sensible a woman.” He stopped for traffic, turned to her. “I’m asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this.”

His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. “You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we’re into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ’s sake!” She pushed her hair back from her face. “What the hell do they think they’d do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.

“Devils exist.” Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. “And they’re flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them.”

She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.

Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soydogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.

Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.

The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.

She would have hated to live there.

“We’re early,” she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. “Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They’re open.” On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. “You game?”

“You want your palm read?”

“What the hell.” She grabbed his hand. “It’ll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they’ll cut us a deal and do yours for half price.”

“No.”

“You never know unless you ask.”

“I’m not having mine read.”

“Coward,” she muttered and tugged him through the door.

“I prefer the word careful.”

She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was a light fragrance of spice and flowers that meshed perfectly with the airy music.

Small white tables and chairs were arranged at a nice distance from the display counter where bowls and plates of colorful food were presented behind sparkling glass. Two customers sat together over bowls of clear soup. Both of them sported flowing white robes, jeweled sandals, and shaved heads.

Behind the counter was a man with silver rings on every finger. He wore a wide-sleeved shirt in quiet blue. His blonde hair was neatly braided and twined with silver cord. He smiled in welcome.

“Blessed be. Do you wish food for the body or for the soul?”

“I thought you were supposed to know.” Eve grinned at him. “How about a reading?”

“Palm, Tarot, runes, or aura?”

“Palm.” Enjoying herself, Eve stuck her hand out.

“Cassandra is our palmist. If you’d take a comfortable seat, she’ll be happy to help you. Sister,” he added as she started to turn, “your auras are very strong, vibrant. You are well-matched.” With this, he picked up a wooden stick with a rounded edge and ran it gently over the rim of a white frosted bowl.

Even as the vibration sang, a woman stepped through the beaded curtain separating a back room. She wore a silver tunic with a silver bracelet coiled above her elbow. Eve noted that she was very young, barely twenty, and like the man, her hair was blonde and coiled into a braid.

“Welcome.” Her voice held a hint of Ireland. “Please be comfortable. Would you both like a reading?”

“No, just me.” Eve took a seat at a far table. “What’s it run?”

“The reading is free. We request a donation, only.” She sat gracefully, smiled at Roarke. “Your generosity will be appreciated. Madam, the hand you were born with.”

“I came with both of them.”

“The left, please.” She cupped her fingers under Eve’s offered hand, barely touching at first. “Strength and courage. Your fate was not set. A trauma, a break in the lifeline. Very young. You were only a child. Such pain, such sadness.” She lifted her gaze, clear gray. “You were, and are, without blame.”

She tightened her grip when Eve instinctively drew back. “It’s not necessary to remember all, until you’re ready. Sorrow and self-doubt, passions blocked. A solitary woman who chose to focus on one goal. A great need for justice. Disciplined, self-motivated…troubled. Your heart was broken, more than broken. Mauled. So you guarded what was left. It’s a capable hand. One to trust.”

She took Eve’s right hand firmly, but barely looked at it. Those clear gray eyes stayed on Eve’s face. “You carry much of what was inside you. It will not be quiet, it will not rest. But you’ve found your place. Authority suits you, as does the responsibility that marches with it. You’re stubborn, often single-focused, but your heart is greatly healed. You love.”

She flicked a glance at Roarke again, and her mouth softened when she looked back at Eve. “It surprises you, the depth of this. It unnerves you, and you are not easily unnerved.” Her thumb skimmed over the top of Eve’s palm. “Your heart runs deep. It is…choosy. It is careful, but when it’s given, it’s complete. You carry identification. A badge.” She smiled slowly. “Yes, you made the right choice. Perhaps the only one you could have made. You’ve killed. More than once. There was no alternative for you, yet this weighs heavy on your mind and heart. In this, you find it difficult to separate the intellect from the emotion. You’ll kill again.”

The gray eyes went glassy, and the light grip tightened. “It’s dark. The forces are dark here. Evil. Lives already lost, and others yet to lose. Pain and fear. Body and soul. You must protect yourself and those you love.”

She turned to Roarke, snagging his hand and speaking rapidly in Gaelic. Her face had gone very white, and her breath hitched.

“That’s enough.” Shaken, Eve snatched her hand back. “Hell of a show.” Irritated that her palm tingled, she rubbed it hard against the knee of her slacks. “You’ve got a good eye, Cassandra, is it? And an impressive spiel.” She dug into her pocket, took out fifty in credits and laid them on the table.

“Wait.” Cassandra opened a small, embroidered pouch at her waist, plucked out a smooth stone in pale green. “A gift. A token.” She pushed it into Eve’s hand. “Carry it with you.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Please come again. Blessed be.”

Eve caught one last glance at her pale face before Cassandra hurried into the back room with a musical jingle of beads.

“Well, so much for ‘You’re taking a long ocean voyage,’” Eve muttered as she headed for the door. “What did she say to you?”

“Her dialect was a bit thick. I’d say she’s from the west counties.” He stepped outside, oddly relieved to draw in the night air. “The gist was that if I loved you as much as she believed, I would stay close. That you’re in danger of losing your life, perhaps your soul, and you need me to survive it.”

“What a crock.” She glanced down at the stone in her hand.

“Keep it.” Roarke closed her fingers over it. “Couldn’t hurt.”

With a shrug, Eve pushed it into her pocket. “I think I’m going to steer clear of psychics.”

“An excellent idea,” Roarke said with feeling as he walked with her across the street and into the Aquarian Club.

chapter three

It was quite a place, Eve mused, and certainly quieter than any club she’d been in before. Both conversation and music were muted, and both had an elegant little lilt. Tables were packed together as was the norm, but they were arranged to provide circular traffic patterns that reminded Eve of the symbol at the base of Alice’s note.

Ringing the walls were mirrors fashioned into the shapes of stars and moons. Each held a burning candle, a white pillar, that reflected light and flame. Between each mirror were plaques of symbols and figures she didn’t recognize. The small dance floor was circular as well, as was the bar where patrons sat on stools that depicted signs of the zodiac. It took her a moment to place the woman seated on the twin-faced of Gemini.

“Jesus, that’s Peabody.”

Roarke shifted his gaze, focused on the woman in a long, sweeping dress in swirling hues of blue and green. Three long strands of beads sparkled to her waist, and earrings of varicolored metals jingled beneath the fringes of her straight, cropped hair.

“Well, well,” he said and smiled slowly, “our sturdy Peabody makes quite a picture.”

“She sure…blends,” Eve decided. “I have to meet with Alice alone. Why don’t you go over and talk to Peabody?”

“A pleasure. Lieutenant…” He took a long look at her worn jeans, battered leather jacket, and unadorned ears. “You don’t blend.”

“Is that a dig?”

“No.” He flicked a finger over the dent in her chin. “An observation.” He strolled over, slid onto the stool beside Peabody. “Now, let’s see, what would be the standard line? What’s a nice witch like you doing in a place like this?”

Peabody slid him a sidelong look, grimaced. “I feel like an idiot in this getup.”

“You look lovely.”

She snorted. “Not exactly my style.”

“You know the fascinating thing about women, Peabody?” He reached out, tapped a finger against her dangling earrings to send them dancing. “You have so many styles. What are you drinking?”

Ridiculously flattered, she struggled not to flush. “A Saggitarius. That’s my sign. The drink’s supposed to be metabolically and spiritually designed for my personality.” She sipped from the clear chalice. “Actually, it’s not bad. What’s your, you know, birth sign?”

“I have no idea. I believe I was born the first week of October.”

Believe, Peabody mused. How odd not to know. “Well, that would make you Libran.”

“Well then, let’s be metabolically and spiritually correct.” He turned to order drinks, watched Eve sitting at a table. “What sign would you attribute to your lieutenant?”

“She’s a tough one to pin down.”

“Indeed she is,” Roarke murmured.

From her table on the outer circle, Eve watched everything. There was no band or holographic image of one. Instead, the music seem to come from nowhere and everywhere. Windy flutes and plucked strings, a soothing female voice that sang with impossible sweetness in a language Eve didn’t recognize.

She saw couples in earnest conversations, others laughing quietly. No one flicked an eyelash when a woman in a sheer white sheath rose to dance alone. Eve ordered water and was amused when it was served in a goblet of simulated silver.

She tuned in to the conversation at the table behind her and was further amused to hear the group’s sober discussion on their experiences with astral projection.

At a table in the next ring, two women talked about their former lives as temple dancers in Atlantis. She wondered why former lives were always more exotic than the one being lived. The only shot a person had, in her opinion.

Harmless weirdos, Eve thought, but caught herself rubbing her still tingling palm on her jeans.

She saw Alice the minute the girl walked in. Agitated, Eve thought. Nervous hands, tensed shoulders, jittery eyes. She waited until Alice scanned the room, spotted her, then she inclined her head in acknowledgment. With a last backward glance at the door, Alice hurried over.

“You came. I was afraid you wouldn’t.” Quickly, she dipped into her pocket and drew out a smooth black stone on a silver chain. “Put this on. Please,” she insisted when Eve only studied it. “It’s obsidian. It’s been consecrated. It’ll block evil.”

“I’m all for that.” Eve slipped the chain around her neck. “Better?”

“This is the safest place I know. The cleanest.” Still darting glances around the room, Alice sat. “I used to come here all the time.” She gripped the amulet she wore in both hands as a server glided to the table. “A Golden Sun, please.” She took a deep breath as she looked back at Eve. “I need courage. I’ve tried to meditate all day, but I’m blocked. I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of, Alice?”

“That those who killed my grandfather will kill me next.”

“Who killed your grandfather?”

“Evil killed him. Killing is what evil does best. You won’t believe what I tell you. You’re too grounded in what can be seen only with the eyes.” She accepted the drink from the server, closed her eyes a moment as if in prayer, then slowly lifted the cup to her lips. “But you won’t ignore it, either. You’re too much a cop. I don’t want to die,” Alice said and set her cup down.

That, Eve thought, was the first sensible statement she’d heard. The fear was genuine enough, she decided, and unmasked tonight. At the viewing, Alice had been careful to slick on a layer of composure and calm.

For her family, Eve realized.

“Who are you afraid of, and why?”

“I have to explain. All of it. I have to purge before I can atone. My grandfather respected you, so I come to you in his memory. I wasn’t born a witch.”

“Weren’t you?” Eve said dryly.

“Some are, and some, like me, are simply drawn to the craft. I became interested in Wicca through my studies, and the more I learned, the more I felt a need to belong. I was drawn to the rituals, the search for balance, the joy, and the positive ethics. I didn’t share my interest with my family. They wouldn’t have understood.”

She dipped her head and her hair flowed down like a curtain. “I enjoyed the secrecy of that and was still young enough to find the experience of going skyclad at an outdoor celebration slightly wicked. My family…” She lifted her head again. “They’re conservative, and a part of me simply wanted to do something daring.”

“A small rebellion?”

“Yes, that’s true. If I had left it at that,” Alice murmured, “if I had truly accepted my initiation into the craft, and what it meant, everything would be different now. I was weak, and my intellect too ambitious.” She picked up her drink again, wet her dry throat. “I wanted to know. To compare and analyze, rather like a thesis, the contrasts of white and black magic. How could I fully appreciate the one without fully understanding its antithesis? That was my rationale.”

“Sounds logical.”

“False logic,” Alice insisted. “I was deluding myself. The ego and the intellect were so arrogant. I would study the black arts on a purely scholarly level. I’d talk to those who had chosen the other path and discover what had turned them away from the light. It would be exciting.” She smiled tremulously. “I thought it would be exciting, and for a short time, it was.”

A child, Eve thought, in the body of a stunning woman. Bright and curious, but a child, nonetheless. It was pitifully easy to tug information from the young. “Is that how you met Selina Cross?”

Paling, Alice made a quick forking gesture with her forefinger and pinky. “How do you know of her?”

“I did some research. I didn’t walk in here blind, Alice. As a cop’s granddaughter, you shouldn’t have expected me to.”

“Be afraid of her.” Alice compressed her lips. “Be afraid of her.”

“She’s a second-rate grifter and chemi-dealer.”

“No, she’s much more.” Alice gripped her amulet again. “Believe that, Lieutenant. I’ve seen. I know. She’ll want you. You’ll challenge her.”

“Do you believe she had something to do with Frank’s death?”

“I know she did.” Tears swam into her eyes, deepening the soft blue. One huge and lovely drop spilled over and slid down her white cheek. “Because of me.”

Eve leaned closer to comfort, and to block the tearful face from any onlookers. “Tell me about it, about her.”

“I met her nearly a year ago. On the sabbat of Samhain. All Hallow’s Eve. More research, I told myself. I didn’t realize how deeply I’d already been drawn in, how utterly seduced I was by the power, the pure selfish greed of the other side. I hadn’t performed any of the rituals, not then. I was still observing. Then I met her, and the one they call Alban.”

“Alban?”

“He serves her.” Alice lifted a hand, laid her fingers against her mouth. “That night still isn’t clear in my mind. I realize now they cast a spell over me. I let them lead me into the circle, strip off my robes. I heard the bells ring, and the chant to the dark prince. I watched the sacrifice of the goat. And I shared in the blood.”

Her head drooped again as shame whirled inside her. “I shared in it, drank of it, and enjoyed. I was the altar that night. I was tied to the stone. I don’t know how or by whom, but I wasn’t afraid. I was aroused.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. The music changed, slid from strings to drums and bells, cheerfully sexual. Alice never lifted her gaze.

“Each member of the coven touched me, rubbed oils and blood over me. The chanting was inside me, and the fire was so hot. Then Selina laid over me. She…did things. I’d never had any sexual experience. Then while she slid up my body, Alban straddled me. She watched me. His hands were on her breasts and he was inside me. And she watched my face. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop looking into her eyes. It was like she was the one—the one inside me.”

Her tears plopped on the table now. Even though Eve had shifted to sheild her from most of the room, and Alice’s voice was barely more than a whisper, several heads were turning curiously.

“You were drugged, Alice. And exploited. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her eyes lifted briefly and threatened to break Eve’s heart. “Then why am I so ashamed? I was a virgin, and there was pain, but even that was arousing. Unbearably. And the pleasure that came with it was huge, monstrous. They used me, and I begged to be used again. And was, by the entire coven. By sunrise I was lost, enslaved. I woke in bed, between them. Alban and Selina. I’d already become their apprentice. And their toy.”

Tears were running down her cheeks as she drank again. “Sexually, there was nothing I would not allow them, or one of their choosing, to do to me. I embraced the dark. And I became careless in my arrogance. Someone told my grandfather. He would never give me a name, but I know it was a Wiccan. He confronted me, and I laughed at him. I warned him to stay out of my affairs. I thought he had.”

Saying nothing, Eve slid her water across the table. Gratefully, Alice picked it up, drained it. “A few months ago, I discovered Selina and Alban were performing private rituals. I’d come down from college a day early. I went to their house, and I heard the ceremonial chant. I opened the door of the ritual room. They were there, together, performing a sacrifice.” Her hands shook. “Not a goat this time, but a child. A young boy.”

Eve’s hand closed tight over Alice’s wrist. “You saw them murder a child?”

“Murder is too tame a word for what they did.” The tears dried up in horror. “Don’t ask me to tell you. Don’t ask me that.”

She would have to, Eve knew, but it could wait. “Tell me what you can.”

“I saw…Selina, the ritual knife. The blood, the screams. I swear you could see the screams like black smears on the air. It was too late to stop it.”

She looked at Eve again, those swimming eyes begging to be believed in this one thing. “I was too late to do anything for the boy, even if I’d had the power or the courage to try.”

“You were alone, shocked,” Eve said carefully. “The woman was armed, the boy was dead. You couldn’t have helped him.”

For one long moment, Alice stared at her, then covered her face with her hands. “I try to believe that. Try so hard. Living with it is destroying me. I ran away. I just ran.”

“You can’t change it.” Eve kept her hand on Alice’s wrist, but her grip gentled. She had once seen a child mutilated, had been too late. Seconds too late. She hadn’t run, she had killed. But the child was just as dead, either way. “You can’t go back and change it. You have to live with what is.”

“I know. Isis tells me that.” Alice took a shuddering breath, lowered her hands. “They were engrossed in their work and never saw me. Or I pray they never saw me. I didn’t go to my grandfather or the police. I was terrified, sick. I don’t know how much time went by, but I went to Isis, the high priestess who had initiated me into Wicca. She took me in; even after all I’d done, she took me in.”

“You didn’t tell Frank what you’d seen?”

Alice winced at the bite in Eve’s voice. “Not then. I spent time in reflection and purification. Isis performed several cleansing rites and auric healings. Isis and I felt it best that I stay in seclusion for a while, concentrate on finding the light, and atonement.”

Eve’s eyes were hot and hard as she leaned closer. “Alice, you saw a child murdered and told no one but your neighborhood witch?”

“I know how it sounds.” Her lip quivered before she caught it between her teeth and steadied it. “The child’s physical being was beyond help. I could do nothing for him but pray for the safe passage of his soul to the next plane. I was afraid to tell Grandpa. Afraid of what he might do and what Selina would do to him. When I did go to him last month, I told him everything. Now he’s dead, and I know she’s responsible.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw her.”

“Wait.” Eyes narrowed, Eve held up a hand. “You saw her kill him?”

“No, I saw her outside my window. I looked out the night he died, and she was standing below, looking up. Looking up at me. The call came from my mother to tell me Grandpa was dead. And Selina smiled. She smiled and she beckoned to me.” Alice buried her face in her hands again. “She sent her forces against him. Used her power to stop his heart. Because of me. Now the raven comes every night to my window and watches me with her eyes.”

Christ, Eve thought, where were they going with this? “A bird?”

Alice laid her trembling hands on the table. “She’s a shape-shifter. She takes what form she wills. I’ve protected myself as best I can, but my faith may not be strong enough. They’re pulling at me, calling to me.”

“Alice.” While sympathy remained, Eve found her patience waning. “Selina Cross might have had a part in your grandfather’s death. If we find that he didn’t die of natural causes, it wasn’t some spell; it was calculated, simple murder. If so, there’ll be evidence, and a trial, and she’ll be dealt with.”

“You can’t find smoke.” Alice shook her head. “You won’t find evidence in a curse.”

Enough was enough. “At this point, you’re a witness to a crime. Potentially the only witness, and if you’re afraid, I can arrange a safe house for you.” Her voice was flat and brisk, all cop. “I need you to give me a description of the child so that I can check missing persons. With your formal statement, I can get a warrant to search the room where you allegedly witnessed the murder. I need you to give me details, straight details. Times, places, names. I can help you.”

“You don’t understand,” Alice said, shaking her head slowly. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you’re an intelligent and curious woman who got in over her head with some very nasty people. And I believe you’re confused and upset. I have someone you can talk to who can help you sort things out.”

“Someone?” Alice’s eyes went cold and her voice hard. “A psychiatrist? You think I’m imagining things, making them up.” Her body trembled as she surged to her feet. “It’s not my mind that’s in danger, it’s my life. My life, Lieutenant Dallas, and my soul. If you find yourself in battle with Selina, you’ll believe. And may the goddess help you.”

She whirled and ran out, leaving Eve cursing.

“That seemed remarkably unsuccessful,” Roarke commented as he came up behind her.

“The girl’s whacked out, but she’s terrified.” Eve heaved a long breath and rose. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She signaled Peabody, then headed for the door.

Outside, a thin fog crept along the ground, stealthily, like twining gray snakes. Rain, thin and chilly, was just beginning to slick the street.

“There she is,” Eve murmured when she caught sight of Alice rushing around the corner. “Headed south. Peabody, tail her, make sure she gets home safe.”

“Got her.” Peabody headed off at a half trot.

“That kid’s a mess, Roarke. They’ve fucked with her in every way possible.” Disgusted, she dug her hands into her pockets. “I probably could’ve handled it better, but I don’t see how it would help to encourage her delusions. Spells and curses and shape shifters. Jesus.”

“Darling Eve.” He kissed her brow. “My own practical cop.”

“The way she tells it, she was practically the bride of Satan.” Grumbling, Eve started for the car, turned on her heel, and paced back. “I’ll tell you how it went, Roarke. She wanted to play, wanted to dabble in the occult, and she ran into real bad news. She’s a naive, pretty girl, and it doesn’t take a crystal ball to see it. So she went to one of their meetings, or whatever the hell you call them, and they drugged her. Then they gang-raped her. Bastards. She’s drugged and in shock and vulnerable to suggestions, and it’s easy for a couple of professional cons to convince her she’s part of their cult. Pull a couple of magic tricks out of their hat and fascinate her. Use sex to keep her in line.”

“She got to you,” Roarke murmured and touched her hair, brushing away the wet.

“Maybe she did. Damn it, did you look at her? She’s well-named. Looks like that kid in the fairy story. Probably believes in talking rabbits, too.” Then she sighed, struggled to put her emotions back into place. “But we’re not in a fairy story here. She claims she walked in on a ritual murder. A little boy, she said. I’ve got to get her in to Mira. A shrink will be able to sort out the fact from fiction. But I believe that murder was fact, and if they killed one child, they’ve killed more. People like them prey on the helpless.”

“I know.” He reached out to rub the tension in her shoulders. “Close to home?”

“No. It’s not like what happened to me. Or you.” But there were enough echoes to unnerve her. “We’re still here, aren’t we?” She laid a hand on his but frowned into the shadows. “Why didn’t Frank make a log of what she’d told him? Why the hell did he go solo on this?”

“Maybe he did make a log. A private one.”

She blinked, stared at him. “God, how could I be so slow!” She clapped her hands on either side of his face and kissed him hard. “You’re brilliant.”

“Yes, I know.” He jerked her back as a figure darted out of the shadows and over the ramp. “Black cat,” he said, simultaneously uneasy and amused at himself. “Bad luck.”

“Yeah, right.” She started up the ramp, cocked her head as the cat sat at the side of Roarke’s car, watching her out of bright and glittering green eyes. “You don’t look hungry, ace. Too sleek and glossy for an alley cat. Too perfect,” she realized. “Must be a droid.” Still, she crouched, reached out to stroke. The cat hissed, arched, and swiped. Eve would have found her palm laid open if she hadn’t been quick enough to dodge. “Well, that’s friendly.”

“You should know better than to offer your hand to strange animals—or droids.” But he stepped in front of Eve to uncode the car and kept his eyes on the gleaming green of the cat’s. When Eve was in the car, he spoke softly. The cat’s fur bristled, its tail switched, then it leaped nimbly from the ramp to the street, and it was swallowed by the fog.

Roarke couldn’t have said why he’d given the order to go in Gaelic. It had simply come out that way. He was still pondering it when he slid in beside Eve.

“Listen, Roarke, I can’t tap Feeney for any E-work on this. At least not until the commander loosens up. I may have to go to the family for access to Frank’s personal records, but if I do that, I’ll have to tell them something.”

“And you’d rather not.”

“Not yet, in any case. So how do you feel about using your…skills to access Frank’s personal unit and logs?”

His mood lifted as he started the car, guiding it down to street level. “That depends, Lieutenant. Do I get a badge?”

Her lips twitched into a smirk. “No. But you get to have sex with a cop.”

“Do I get to pick the cop?” He only smiled when she punched his arm. “I’d pick you. Probably. And I suppose you want me to begin my unofficial consultation tonight.”

“That’s the idea.”

“All right, but I want sex first.” He tucked his tongue in his cheek as she chuckled. “How long do you think Peabody’s going to be busy? Just joking,” he said quickly, but shifted into autodrive just in case Eve got violent. “She did look quite appealing tonight though.”

Laughing, he caught her fist in his hand, then snuck the other one up to her breast. “Listen, pal, you’re in deep enough without trying that. Engaging in any sexual act in a moving vehicle is in violation of inner city codes.”

“Arrest me,” he suggested and nipped her bottom lip.

“I might. When I’m done with you.” She wiggled free and shoved him back. “And just for that smart-ass remark about my aide, no sex until after the consult.”

He disengaged auto, then slid her a slow, smiling glance. “Wanna bet?”

She met that arrogant glance narrow-eyed. “Fifty credits, even odds.”

“Done.” And he whistled his way through the iron gates that led home.

chapter four

“Pay up.”

Eve rolled over, rubbed her bare butt, and wondered if she’d have rug burns. Still vibrating from the last orgasm, she closed her eyes again. “Huh?”

“Fifty credits.” He leaned over, gently kissed the tip of her breast. “You lost, Lieutenant.”

Her eyes blinked open and stared into his gorgeous and very satisfied face. They were sprawled on the rug of his private room, and their clothes, as best she could recall, were scattered everywhere. Starting at the stairway where he’d trapped her against the wall and had started to…win the bet.

“I’m naked,” she pointed out. “I don’t generally keep credits up my—”

“I’m happy to take your IOU.” He rose, all graceful, gleaming muscles, and took a memo card from his console. “Here you are.” Handed it to her.

She stared down at it, knowing dignity was as lost as the fifty credits. “You’re really enjoying this.”

“Oh, more than you can possibly imagine.”

Scowling at him, she engaged the memo. “I owe you, Roarke, fifty credits, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She shoved the memo at him. “Satisfied.”

“In every possible way.” He thought, sentimentally, that he would tuck the memo away with the little gray suit button he’d kept from their very first meeting. “I love you, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in every possible way.”

She couldn’t help it. She went soft all over. It was the way he said it, the way he looked at her that had rapid pulses beating under melting skin. “Oh, no, you don’t. That kind of thing’s how you took me for fifty.” She scrambled up before he could distract her again. “Where the hell are my pants?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He walked to a section of the wall, touched a mechanism. When the panel slid open, he drew out a robe. It was silk and thin and made her eyes narrow again.

He was always buying her things like that, and they always seemed to find their way to various parts of the house. Conveniently.

“That’s not working attire.”

“We can do this naked, but you’d certainly lose another fifty.” When she snatched the robe out of his hand, he turned and took out another for himself. “This could take some time. We’ll want coffee.”

As she went to the AutoChef to get coffee, Roarke moved behind the console. The equipment here was first flight, and unregistered. CompuGuard couldn’t track it nor block him from hacking into any system. Still, even with those advantages, finding a personal log that may or may not have existed was like separating individual grains of sand from a bucketful.

“Engage,” he ordered. “More likely his home unit, wouldn’t you think?”

“Anything on his unit at Cop Central would have been transferred, and official units record all logging. If he wanted to keep something to himself, he’d have used a private system.”

“Do you have his home address? Never mind,” he said before Eve could speak. “I’ll get it. Data, Wojinski, Frank…what was his rank?”

“Detective Sergeant, attached to Records.”

“Data on screen one, please.”

As it began to scroll, Roarke reached for the coffee Eve held out to him, then waved his fingers when his ’link beeped. “Get that, would you?”

It was the careless order of a man used to giving them. Automatically, she bristled, then just as quickly bumped aside the annoyance. She supposed the situation called for her to act as assistant.

“Roarke’s residence. Peabody?”

“You didn’t answer your communicator.”

“No, I…” God knew where it was, she thought. “What’s up?”

“It’s bad. Dallas, it’s bad.” Though her voice was steady, her face was dead white, and her eyes too dark. “Alice is dead. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t get to her. She just—”

“Where are you?”

“On Tenth Street, between Broad and Seventh. I called the MTS, but there was nothing—”

“Are you in jeopardy?”

“No, no. I just couldn’t stop her. I just watched while—”

“Secure the scene, Officer. Relay to Dispatch. I’m on my way. Call backup as required, and stand. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Yes.”

“Dallas out. Oh, Christ,” she murmured when she disengaged.

“I’ll take you.” He was already up, his hand on her shoulder.

“No, this is my job.” And she prayed it wasn’t her doing. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay here and get whatever data you can.”

“All right. Eve.” He took both of her shoulders now, firmly, before she could turn away. “Look at me. This was not your fault.”

She did look at him, and there was grief in her eyes. “I hope to God it wasn’t.”

There wasn’t a crowd. Eve could be grateful for that. It was after two in the morning, and only a few gawkers huddled together behind the barricade. She saw a Rapid Cab tipped drunkenly on the curb and a man sitting beside it, his head in his hands, as an MT spoke with him.

On the rain-slicked street, lit dimly by the glow of a security light with fog billowing like clouds, was Alice. Her body sprawled there, faceup, her arms and legs flung out as if in wild welcome. Blood, her own, had soaked through the filmy material of her dress and turned it to dark, doomed red.

Peabody stood by her, assisting a uniform in the erecting of a privacy screen.

“Officer Peabody.” Eve said it softly, waited for Peabody to turn, straighten her shoulders, and cross to her. “Your report?”

“I followed the subject to her residence, as per your orders, Lieutenant. I watched her enter the building, and subsequently observed the light go on in the second window from the east, third floor. On my own initiative, I decided to keep watch for a period of fifteen minutes, to insure the subject remained inside. She did not.”

Peabody trailed off, and her gaze shifted to the body. Eve sidestepped, blocked the view. “Look at me when you report, Officer.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody snapped back. “Subject exited building approximately ten minutes later. She appeared agitated, continually looked over her shoulder as she walked west at a rapid pace. She appeared to be crying. I maintained the standard distance. That’s why I couldn’t stop her.” Peabody had to suck in air. “I maintained the standard distance.”

“Stop it.” Eve snapped it out, gave Peabody a quick shake. “Complete your report.”

Peabody’s eyes went flat and cold as they met Eve’s. “Yes, sir. The subject stopped suddenly, took several steps in retreat. She spoke. I was too far away to discern what she said, but it was my impression that she was speaking to someone.”

She played it back through her mind, every step, leaning on her training like a crutch. “I closed the distance somewhat, in the event the subject was in jeopardy. I observed no one on the street other than the subject herself. The fog may have been a factor, but there was no one on the sidewalk or the street that I could see.”

“She stood there, talking to no one?” Eve asked.

“That’s how it appeared, Lieutenant. She became increasingly agitated. She begged to be left alone. Her words were, ‘Haven’t you done enough, haven’t you taken enough? Why won’t you leave me in peace.’”

Peabody stared back at the sidewalk, saw it all again. Heard it as well. That hitch of desperation and despair in Alice’s voice. “I thought I heard a response, but can’t be definite. The subject was speaking too loudly and too rapidly for me to make a clear statement on that. I decided to move closer, to make myself known.”

A muscle in her jaw jumped as she continued to stare over Eve’s shoulder. “At this time, a Rapid Cab, traveling east, approached. The subject turned and ran into the street, directly into the path of the oncoming vehicle. The driver attempted to stop and evade, but was unable to do so and struck the subject head-on.”

She paused just long enough to take another breath. “Road conditions were fair to poor, and played a minor factor. Even with optimum conditions, it would be my opinion the driver would have been unable to avoid the collision.”

“Understood. Continue.”

“I reached the body within seconds, and though I observed that she was already dead, I called for the medical technicians, then attempted to contact you via your communicator. When this was unsuccessful, I utilized the porta-link in my bag and reached you at home to report the situation. Following your orders, I relayed to Dispatch and requested a uniform, then secured the scene.”

It was hell to be too late, Eve knew, and no amount of sympathy could ease that bitter guilt. So she offered none. “Very well, Officer. That’s the driver?”

Peabody continued to stare straight ahead, and her voice was hollow. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Arrange for his vehicle to be taken in for analysis, then consult with the MTS and find out if he’s in shape to give a statement.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody clutched her hand into a fist at her side. She kept her voice low, but it vibrated with emotion. “You had a drink with her barely an hour ago. And it doesn’t mean a damn to you.”

Eve took the hit and waited until Peabody turned away before she walked back to Alice. “Yes, it does,” she murmured. “And that’s the problem.”

Opening her field kit, she crouched down to do her job.

It wasn’t homicide. Technically, Eve should have turned the matter over to Traffic after Peabody’s report and the ensuing statement from the weeping cabbie. But she watched Alice’s body being loaded into the morgue wagon and knew she had no intention of doing so.

She took a last look at the scene. The rain had nearly stopped and wouldn’t wash away the blood. The few gawkers who had gathered were already breaking up and moving along, tearing the last thin curtains of fog as they shuffled home.

Across at the curb, a city tow unit was already hitching up the damaged cab for transferral to the police compound.

Accidents, some would say, happened all too often. And so, Eve thought, did murder. All too often.

“You’ve had a long night, Peabody. You’re off duty.”

“I would prefer to stay on, Lieutenant, and see this through.”

“You won’t help her or me unless you can see it through objectively.”

“I can do my job, sir. My feelings are my own business.”

Eve hitched up her field kit, took a long look at her aide. “Yes, they are. Just don’t let them get in my way.” She took her recorder out of her kit, held it out to Peabody. “On record, Officer. We’ll examine the subject’s residence.”

“Do you intend to notify the next of kin? Sir?”

“When we’re done here.”

They headed east, back to Alice’s building. She hadn’t gotten far, Eve thought, barely a block. What had driven her back out? And what had driven her into the path of the cab?

The building was a pretty, restored brownstone of three stories. The entrance doors sported beveled glass with an etched design of peacocks. The security camera was in full repair, and the locks coded for palm prints. Eve disarmed them with a master code and entered a small, well-scrubbed foyer with faux marble floors. The elevator had a mirrored bronze sheen and ran with silent efficiency.

Alice, she thought, had had taste and the financial resources to indulge it. There were three apartments on the third floor, and again Eve used her master to gain entrance.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and aide, Peabody, Officer D., entering residence of deceased for standard examination. Lights,” she ordered, then frowned when the room remained dark.

Peabody reached around the door, flicked a switch. “She must have preferred manual to voice-activated.”

The room was cluttered and colorful. Pretty scarves and throws were draped over chairs, tables. Tapestries depicting attractive naked people and mythological animals romped over the walls. Candles were everywhere, on tables, on shelves, on the floor, as were bowls of colored stones, of herbs, of dried flower petals. Chunks and wands of crystal, sparkling clean, crowded every flat surface.

A mood screen was engaged and showed a wide field of meadow grass and wildflowers blowing gently in the breeze. Its audio played the song of birds and zephyrs.

“She liked pretty things,” Eve observed. “And lots of them.” Moving over, she glanced at the controls of the mood screen and nodded as they corroborated her thought. “She flipped this on as soon as she walked in. Wanted to mellow out, I’d say.”

Leaving Peabody to follow, she walked into the adjoining room. The bedroom was small, cozy, and again cluttered. The spread on the narrow bed was embroidered with stars and moons. A glass mobile, dancing with fairies, hung above it and even now clinked musically in the breeze through the open window.

“This would have been the window, the light you saw come on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So she flipped on the screen, then came straight into the bedroom. Probably wanted to change, get out of the damp dress. But she didn’t.” Eve stepped on to a small area rug with the face of a smiling sun. “It’s cluttered, but tidy in its way. No sign of disturbance or struggle.”

“Struggle?”

“You said she was agitated, crying when she came back out. The country meadow program didn’t mellow her, or didn’t have enough time to.”

“She didn’t bother to shut it down again.”

“No,” Eve agreed. “She didn’t. There’s the possibility someone was here when she got home. Someone who upset or frightened her. We’ll check the security logs.” She opened what she assumed was a closet, and let out a hum. “Well, look at this. She’d turned it into a room of some kind. Not a lot of clutter here. Get this on record.”

Peabody stepped up, scanned the recorder over a small, white-walled room. The floor was wood with a white pentagram painted on it. A ring of white candles were arranged in careful symmetry around the edge. A small table held a clear crystal ball, a bowl, a mirror, and a dark-handled knife with a short, blunted blade.

Eve sniffed the air, but caught no hint of smoke or candle wax. “What do you figure she did in here?”

“I’d say it was kind of ritual room, for meditation, or casting spells.”

“Jesus.” With a shake of her head, Eve stepped back. “We’ll leave that for now and check out her ’link. If no one was here to scare her back out, maybe she got a call that did. She came into the bedroom first,” Eve murmured, wandering back to the small bedside ’link. “Maybe she intended to go in there and play witch after she’d changed and calmed down. She wasn’t carrying anything when she went back out. She didn’t come in here to get something and go out again. She was upset, she came home.”

Eve engaged the ’link, requested a replay of the last call transmitted or received. And the room filled with low, rhythmic chanting.

“What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know.” Uneasy, Peabody stepped closer.

“Replay,” Eve demanded.

“Hear the names. Hear the names and fear them. Loki, Beelzebub, Baphomet. I am annihilation. I am revenge. In nomine Dei nostri Santanas Luciferi excelsi. Vengeance for you who strayed from the law. Hear the names and fear.”

“Stop.” Eve gave a quick, involuntary shudder. “Beelzebub, that’s devil shit, isn’t it? The bastards were playing with her, tormenting her. And she was already on the edge. No wonder she ran out of here. Where were you, you son of a bitch, where were you? Location of last transmission. Display.” Her mouth thinned as she read the data. “Tenth and Seventh, right down the goddamn street. Probably a public ’link. Fuckers. She was heading right for them.”

“There wasn’t anyone there.” But Peabody was watching Eve’s face now, and the fury that fired in her eyes. “Even with the fog, the rain, I would have seen someone if they’d been laying for her. There wasn’t anything there but a cat.”

Eve’s heart took a bad jump. “A what?”

“Just a cat. I caught a glimpse of a cat, but there was no one on the street.”

“A cat.” Eve walked to the window. Suddenly, she felt the need for a good gulp of air. There, on the sill, she saw the long, black feather. “And a bird,” she murmured. She took out tweezers, held the feather up to the light. “We’ve still got the occasional crow in New York. A crow’s the same thing as a raven, isn’t it?”

“More or less. I think.”

“Bag it,” Eve ordered. “I want it analyzed.” She rubbed her fingers over her eyes as if to push away fatigue. “Next of kin would be Brenda Wojinski, mother. Run that for an address.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody took out her PPC, then simply held it while shame washed over her. “Lieutenant, I’d like to apologize for my earlier comment and my behavior.”

Eve took the disc from the ’link, sealed it herself. “I don’t recall any comment, Peabody, or any unsatisfactory behavior.” She gave Peabody a level look. “While the recorder is still engaged, do another scan of the apartment.”

Understanding, Peabody inclined her head. “I’m aware the recorder is still engaged, Lieutenant. I want this on the record. I was insubordinate and out of line both professionally and personally.”

Damn stiff-necked idiot, Eve thought and bit back an oath. “There was no insubordination in my opinion or in my recollection, Officer.”

“Dallas.” Peabody loosed a sigh. “I damn well was. I was shaky and having a hard time dealing with the situation. It’s one thing to see a body after it’s done, and another to see a woman get tossed ten feet in the air and land on the pavement. She was under my watch.”

“I was rough on you.”

“Yes, sir, you were. And you needed to be. I thought that because you were able to maintain, you were able to do your job, it meant you didn’t care. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“Acknowledged. Now, put this on record, Peabody. You followed orders, you followed procedure. You were not at fault for what happened tonight. You could not have prevented it. Now, put it aside so we can find out why she’s dead.”

Eve thought that a cop’s daughter knew when another cop knocked on the door at five in the morning, it was with news of the worst kind. She saw, the minute Brenda recognized her, that she was right.

“Oh God. Oh God. Mama?”

“No, it’s not your mother, Ms. Wojinski.” There was only one way, Eve knew, and that was fast. “It’s Alice. May we come in?”

“Alice?” She blinked glazed eyes, propped a hand on the door for balance. “Alice?”

“I think we should go inside.” As gently as possible, Eve took her arm, stepped through the door. “Let’s go in and sit down.”

“Alice?” she said again. Grief cracked the glaze over her eyes. Tears poured through. “Oh no, not my Alice. Not my baby.”

Brenda swayed, would have slid to the floor, but Eve tightened her grip and headed quickly for the nearest seat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Wojinski. There was an accident early this morning, and Alice was killed.”

“An accident? No, you’ve made a mistake. It was someone else. It wasn’t Alice.” She clutched at Eve, flooded eyes pleading. “You can’t be sure it was my Alice.”

“It was. I’m sorry.”

She collapsed then, burying her face in her hands, pressing her hands to her knees so her body was balled in a defensive shield.

“I could make her some tea,” Peabody murmured.

“Yeah, go.” It was the part of the job that made Eve feel the most helpless, the most inadequate. There was no solution for fresh grief. “Is there someone I can call for you? Do you want me to contact your mother? Your brother?”

“Mama. Oh God, Alice. How will we bear it?”

There was no answer for that, Eve thought. Yet they would. Life demanded it. “I can give you a soother, or contact your doctor, if you’d prefer.”

“Mom?”

As Brenda continued to rock, Eve looked over. The boy stood in the doorway, blinking sleepy, confused eyes. His hair was tousled from sleep and he wore grubby sweatpants with holes at the knees.

Alice’s brother, Eve remembered. She’d forgotten.

Then he focused on Eve, his eyes suddenly alert, and much too adult. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

What the hell was his name? Eve struggled to remember, then decided it didn’t matter at the moment. She rose. He was a tall boy, she realized, with sleep creases in his cheeks and a body already braced to take the worst. “There’s been an accident. I’m sorry but—”

“It’s Alice.” His chin quivered, but his eyes stayed steady on hers. “She’s dead.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

He continued to stare at her as Peabody came in with a cup of tea, set it awkwardly on the table. “What kind of accident?”

“She was hit by a car early this morning.”

“Hit and run?”

“No.” Eve watched him carefully, considering. “She stepped into the path of a cab. The driver was unable to stop. We’re in the process of analyzing his vehicle and the scene, but there was a witness who corroborates the driver’s statement. I don’t believe he was at fault. He didn’t attempt to flee the scene, and his driving record is clean.”

The boy simply nodded, dry-eyed, while his mother’s weeping filled the room. “I’ll take care of her. It’d be best if you left us alone now.”

“All right. If you have any questions, you can reach me at Cop Central. I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I know who you are. Leave us alone now,” he repeated and went to sit by his mother.

“The kid knows something,” Eve stated as they stepped outside.

“That would be my take. Maybe Alice felt more comfortable talking to him than other members of the family. They were pretty close in age. Brothers and sisters squabble, but they confide in each other.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She started her car, pined for coffee. “Where the hell do you live, Peabody?”

“Why?”

“I’ll drop you at home. You can catch some sleep, report to Central at eleven.”

“Is that what you’re going to do, catch some sleep?”

“Yeah.” That was probably a lie, but it served her purposes. “Which way?”

“I live on Houston.”

Eve winced only a little. “Well, if it’s going to be inconvenient, it might as well be way inconvenient.” She headed south. “Houston? Peabody, you bohemian.”

“It was my cousin’s place. When she decided to move to Colorado and weave rugs, I took it over. Rent control.”

“A likely story. You probably spend all your free time hanging at poetry bars and performance art clubs.”

“Actually, I prefer the mating lounges. Better food.”

“You’d probably get more sex if you didn’t think about it so much.”

“No, I tried that, too.” She yawned, abruptly and hugely. “Sorry.”

“You’re entitled. When you report in, check on the status of the autopsy. I want to be sure there’s nothing weird in the tox report. And make sure to change out of that silly dress.”

Peabody shifted on her seat. “It’s not that silly. A couple guys at the Aquarian seemed to like it. So did Roarke.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it.”

Jaw dropped, Peabody swiveled her head. “He did? Really?”

Foolishness, Eve thought, helped soothe. “He said something about you looking appealing. So I hit him. Just in case.”

“Appealing. Jesus.” Peabody patted her heart. “I’m going to have to dig through some of the other stuff my mother’s made for me. Appealing.” She sighed. “Roarke doesn’t have any brothers, cousins, uncles, does he?”

“As far as I know, Peabody, he’s one of a kind.”

She found him dozing. Not in bed, but on the sofa in the sitting area of the master suite. The moment she stepped into the room, his eyes opened.

“You’ve had a long, rough one, Lieutenant.” He reached out a hand. “Come here.”

“I’m going to grab a shower, some coffee. I’ve got some calls to make.”

He’d tagged onto the police scanner and knew exactly what she’d been dealing with. “Come here,” he repeated, and closed his hand over hers when she reluctantly obliged. “Are the calls going to make any difference if you make them an hour from now?”

“No, but—”

So he tugged until she tumbled onto the sofa with him. Because her struggle was only halfhearted, he managed to snuggle her down beside him quickly. And wrapping an arm around her, he kissed her hair. “Sleep a little,” he said quietly. “There’s no need to exhaust yourself.”

“She was so young, Roarke.”

“I know. Close it off, just for a little while.”

“The data? Frank’s log. Did you find anything?”

“We’ll talk about it after you sleep.”

“An hour. Just an hour.” Linking her fingers with his, she let herself go under.

chapter five

Sleep helped. So did the hot shower and the food Roarke ordered up. Eve shoveled eggs into her mouth as she studied the data he’d unearthed on-screen.

“More like a diary than an investigative log,” she decided. “Lots of personal comments, and obviously he was worried about Alice. ‘I’m not sure how deeply they’ve influenced her mind, or hurt her heart.’ He was thinking like a grandfather, not like a cop. You got this off his home unit?”

“Yes. He had it coded and passkeyed. I suspect he didn’t want his wife stumbling across it.”

“If he had it coded, how did you access?”

Roarke took a cigarette from a carved box, studied it. “You don’t really want me to explain that, do you? Lieutenant?”

“No.” Eve forked up more eggs. “Guess not. Still, his personal thoughts and worries aren’t going to be a lot of help. I need to know what he found out, and how far his private investigation went before he died.”

“There’s more.” Roarke scrolled over dates. “There, he talks about tailing Selina Cross, and lists some of her…associates.”

“But there’s nothing there. He suspects she’s dealing illegals. He believes she’s holding unacceptable ceremonies in her club and perhaps her home. He observes suspicious characters coming and going, but he bases it all on emotion. No facts. Frank had been off the streets too long.” Eve set her plate aside and rose. “If he didn’t want to involve cops, why the hell didn’t he at least hire a PI to handle the legwork? What’s this?”

Frowning, she stepped closer to the screen.

I think she made me. Can’t be sure, but it’s almost as though she’s leading me along now. I’m going to have to make a move soon. Alice is terrified, begging me to stay away from Cross, and from her. The poor kid spends too much time with that Isis character. Isis may be a harmless weirdo, but she can’t be a good influence on Alice. I’ve told Sally I’m working late. Tonight, I’m going in. Cross spends Thursday nights at the club. The apartment should be empty. If I can get inside and find anything, anything at all to prove Alice saw a child murdered, I can report to Whitney anonymously. She’s going to pay for what she and her filthy lover did to my little girl. One way or the other, she’s going to pay.

“Christ, nighttime breaking and entering, illegal search and seizure.” Frustrated, Eve dragged both hands through her hair. “What the hell was he thinking? He had to know that anything he found would get tossed out in court. He’d never nail them this way.”

“I have a feeling he wasn’t worried about court, Eve. He wanted justice.”

“And now he’s dead, isn’t he? And so’s Alice. Where’s the rest?”

Roarke scrolled to the last entry.

Security’s too tight on the building, couldn’t get through it. I’ve been off the streets too damn long. I may have to tag someone to help me on this after all. I’m going to see that witch pays if it’s the last thing I do.

“That’s all on this—that entry was logged on the night before he died. There may be more, under a different code.”

So, he hadn’t made her pay, Eve thought. And he hadn’t had time to get help. Not enough time, she thought again with twin surges of relief and sorrow. The entries went a long way toward clearing both Frank and Feeney.

“But you don’t think so. You don’t think there’s anything else.”

“No, I don’t. There’s the timing, of course. And he wasn’t that clever with electronics,” Roarke explained. “It was child’s play to find this. Still, we’ll look. It’ll take some time to break through if there’s anything there. And it’ll have to be later. I have several meetings this morning.”

She turned to him. Odd, she realized, she’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t working with her. His business and the direction of it was in a much different sphere from hers. “So many billions, so little time.”

“How true. But I should be able to fiddle a bit more this evening.”

She knew he hadn’t so much as glanced at the stock reports or taken the morning calls that never failed to come in daily. “I’m taking up a lot of your time.”

“You are, indeed.” He came around the console, leaned back against it. “And the payment will be your time, Lieutenant. A day or two away when we can both manage it.” Then his smile faded. He took her hand, ran his thumb over the carving on her wedding ring. “Eve, I don’t like to interfere with your work, but I’ll ask you to be particularly careful in this matter.”

“A good cop’s always careful.”

“No,” Roarke said, looking into her eyes, “she’s not. She’s courageous, she’s smart, she’s driven, but she’s not always careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with worse than Selina Cross.” She kissed him lightly. “I’ve got to go in, check on some reports. I’ll try to let you know if I’m going to be late.”

“Do that,” he murmured, and watched her go.

She was wrong, he mused. He doubted very much if she’d ever dealt with worse than Selina Cross. And he had no intention of letting her deal with it alone. Moving to the ’link, Roarke called his assistant and arranged to have all his off-planet and out-of-town trips for the next month canceled.

He intended to stay very close to home. And his wife.

“No drugs,” Eve stated as she looked over the toxicology report on Alice. “No alcohol. She wasn’t under the influence. But you heard her talking to someone who wasn’t there, and she runs out into the path of an oncoming cab. She’s worked herself up into a state of terror, then was triggered by the chanting on the phone. They knew how to get to her, how to manipulate her.”

“It’s not illegal to chant over a ’link.”

“No.” Eve considered. “But is it illegal to threaten to harm over a public transmitter.”

“That’s reaching,” Peabody returned. “And it’s only a misdemeanor.”

“It’s a start. If we manage to tie the transmission to Selina Cross, we can hassle her. In any case, I think it’s time we met. How about a little trip to Hell, Peabody?”

“I’ve been dying to go.”

“Who isn’t?” But before she could rise, Feeney burst into her office. His eyes were shadowed, his face unshaven.

“Why are you primary on Alice’s case? A traffic accident. Why the hell is a homicide lieutenant handling a traffic fatality?”

“Feeney—”

“She was my goddaughter. You didn’t even call me. I heard it on the goddamn news.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Sit down, Feeney.”

He jerked away when she touched his arm. “I don’t need to sit down. I want answers, Dallas. I want some fucking answers.”

“Peabody,” Eve murmured, and waited until her aide had gone out and closed the door. “I am sorry, Feeney, I didn’t know you were her godfather. I spoke to her mother and her brother, and simply assumed they would let the rest of the family know.”

“Brenda’s under sedation,” Feeney tossed out. “What the hell do you expect? She lost her father and her daughter within days of each other. Jamie’s only sixteen. By the time he called a doctor and saw to his mother, got a hold of Sally, I’d already heard it on-screen. Jesus, Jesus, she was just a kid.”

He turned away, pulled at his hair. “I used to give her piggyback rides, sneak her candy.”

This was what it was like to lose someone you loved, she thought. And was grateful she loved so few. “Please sit down, Feeney. You shouldn’t have come in today.”

“I said I don’t need to sit down.” His voice leveled as he turned back to study her. “I want an answer, Dallas. Why are you on Alice’s accident?”

She couldn’t afford to hesitate, couldn’t afford not to lie. “Peabody was a witness,” she began, grateful she could give him that much. “She was on a free evening, and she’d been to a club. She saw the accident. It shook her, Feeney, and she called me. It was knee-jerk, I guess. I couldn’t be sure what had happened, so I told her to relay to Dispatch, to secure the scene, and I responded. Since I had, and I had all the data, I notified next of kin. I figured it would be easier on the family if I handled it.” She moved her shoulders, bitterly ashamed at using old friends. “I thought it was the least I could do, for Frank.”

He never took his eyes off her face. “Is that all of it?”

“What else is there? Listen, I just got the tox report. She wasn’t using, Feeney. She wasn’t drunk. Maybe she was still upset about Frank, or something else. I don’t know. Could be she didn’t even see the damn cab. It was a lousy night, fog, rain.”

“The bastard was speeding, wasn’t he?”

“No.” She couldn’t give him anyone to blame, couldn’t offer even that prickly comfort. “He was within the limit. His record’s clean, and so was the on-site drug and alcohol. Feeney, she bolted out in front of him, and there was nothing he could do. I want you to understand that. I talked with the driver myself, and I investigated the scene. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.”

It had to be someone’s, he thought. He couldn’t lose two people back to back for no reason. “I want to talk to Peabody.”

“Give her a little time, will you?” Layers of guilt added onto the burden she already carried. “It really wrecked her. I’d really like to keep her focused on something else until she settles with it.”

He drew a deep breath, shuddered it out. Beneath his tearing grief was gratitude that someone he trusted would care for his godchild. “You’ll close it then, personally? And give me all the data?”

“I’ll close it, Feeney. I promise you.”

He nodded, rubbed his hands over his face. “Okay. I’m sorry I jumped you.”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.” She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm, squeezed lightly. “Go home, Feeney. You don’t want to be here today.”

“I guess I will.” He put a hand on the door. “She was a sweetheart, Dallas,” he said quietly. “My God, I don’t want to go to another funeral.”

When he left, Eve sank into her chair. Misery and guilt and anger twisted around her throat like barbs. She rose again, grabbed her bag. She was, she told herself, in the perfect mood to meet Selina Cross.

“How do you want to play it?” Peabody asked as they pulled up in front of an elegant old building downtown.

“Straight. I want her to know Alice talked to me, and that I suspect her of harassment, dealing, and conspiracy to murder. If she’s got any brains, she’ll know I don’t have anything solid. But I’ll give her something to think about.”

Eve stepped out of the car, ran her gaze over the building with its carved glass windows and grinning gargoyles. “She lives here, she’s not hurting financially. We’re going to have to find out just where she gets her money. I want everything on record, Peabody, and keep your eyes open. I want your impressions.”

“I’ll give you one right now.” Peabody clamped her recorder onto her uniform jacket, but kept her eyes on the topmost window of the building, a wide, round glass intricately carved. “That’s another inverted pentagram. Satanic symbol. And those gargoyles don’t look friendly.” She smiled wanly. “You ask me, they look hungry.”

“Impressions, Peabody. Try to keep the fantasies down to a minimum.” Eve approached the security screen.

“Please state your name and your business.”

“Lieutenant Eve Dallas and aide, NYPSD.” She held up her badge to be scanned. “To see Selina Cross.”

“Are you expected?”

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be surprised.”

“One moment.”

While she waited, Eve studied the street. There was plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic, she noted. But most of those who walked used the other side of the street, and many of those eyed her and the building warily.

Oddly, there wasn’t a single glida grill or street hawker in sight.

“You are cleared to enter, Lieutenant. Please proceed to elevator one. It is already programmed.”

“Fine.” Eve looked up, caught the shadow of movement behind the topmost glass. “Look official, Peabody,” she murmured as they approached the heavily grilled front doors. “We’re under observation.”

The grills slid back, locks snicked open. The light on a recessed security panel blinked from red to green. “A lot of hardware for an apartment building,” Peabody commented, and ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, stepped in behind Eve.

Like a viewing parlor, the lobby area was heavily into red. A two-headed serpent slithered over the bloodred carpet, the gold threads of its eyes glinted as it watched a black-robed figure slice a curved knife over the throat of a white goat.

“Lovely art.” Eve lifted a brow as Peabody carefully picked her way around the snake. “Wool doesn’t bite.”

“You can’t be too careful.” She glanced back as they stepped to the elevator. “I really hate snakes. My brother used to catch them out in the woods and chase me with them. Always had a phobia.”

The ride up was smooth and fast, but it gave Eve enough time to detect yet another security camera in the small, black-mirrored car.

The doors opened into a spacious foyer with floors of black marble. Twin red velvet settees flanked an archway and boasted carved arms of snarling wolves. A floral arrangement speared out of a pot shaped like a boar’s head.

“Wolfbane,” Peabody said quietly, “belladonna, foxglove, skullcap, peyote.” She shrugged at Eve’s considering look. “My mother’s an amateur botanist. I can tell you that’s not your usual flower arrangement.”

“But the usual is so tedious, isn’t it?”

They got their first face-to-face look at Selina Cross exactly as she wanted to be seen. Flanked by the archway in a snug black dress that brushed the floor, her feet bare with the toenails painted a violent red, she posed. And smiled.

Her skin was vampire white, the slash of red over her full lips glossy as fresh blood. Her eyes glittered green and feline in a narrow, undoubtedly witchlike face that wasn’t beautiful, but was eerily compelling. Her hair fell, black against black, from that rigid center part, to her waist.

The hand she gestured with held rings on every finger and her thumb. A silver chain was attached to each and twisted into an intricate mesh over the back of her hand.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Officer Peabody, isn’t it? What interesting visitors on such a dull day. Will you come in…to my parlor?”

“Are you alone, Ms. Cross? It would simplify this if we could speak with Mr. Alban as well.”

“Oh, what a shame.” She turned, silks whispering, and slipped through the arch. “Alban’s busy this morning. Sit down.” She gestured again, encompassing a generous room crowded with furniture. Every seat boasted the heads or claws or beaks of some predator. “Can I offer you something?”

“We’ll skip the refreshments.” Considering it apt, Eve chose a chair with the arms of a hound.

“Not even coffee? That is your drink, isn’t it?” Then she shrugged, slicked a fingertip over the pentagram above her eyebrow. “But suit yourself.” With that same studied skill, she lowered to a curved settee that stood on cloven feet and draped her long arms over the back. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Alice Lingstrom was killed early this morning.”

“Yes, I know.” She continued to smile pleasantly, as though discussing the nice run of weather. “I could tell you I witnessed the…accident through my scrying mirror, but I doubt you’d believe that. Of course, I’m not one to disdain technology and often watch the news and other forms of entertainment on-screen. The information’s been public for hours.”

“You knew her.”

“Of course; she was a pupil of mine for a time. A dissatisfactory one as it turned out. Alice complained to you about my tutelage.” It wasn’t formed as a question, but she waited, as if for an answer.

“If you mean she reported to me that she was drugged, sexually abused, and was a witness to an atrocity, then yes, she complained.”

“Drugs, sex, and atrocities.” Selina let out a low, purring laugh. “What an imagination our little Alice had. A shame she couldn’t use it to broaden her vision. How is your imagination, Lieutenant Dallas?” She flicked the hand gloved with mesh. In the small marble fireplace, flames burst to life.

Peabody jolted, didn’t manage to muffle a yelp, but neither woman acknowledged her. They continued to stare, unblinking at each other.

“Or may I call you Eve?”

“No. You can call me Lieutenant Dallas. It’s a little warm for a fire, don’t you think? And a bit early in the day for parlor tricks.”

“I like it warm. You have excellent nerves, Lieutenant.”

“I also have low tolerance for grifters and dealers and child killers.”

“Am I all of that?” Selina tapped her sharp red nails on the back of the settee, her only outward sign of annoyance in Eve’s lack of response. “Prove it.”

“I will. Where were you last night between the hours of one and three A.M.?”

“I was here, in my ritual room, with Alban and a young initiate we call Lobar. We were engaged in a private sexual ceremony from midnight until nearly dawn. Lobar is young and…enthusiastic.”

“I’ll want to talk to them both.”

“You can contact Lobar any evening between eight and eleven at our club. As for Alban, I don’t keep his schedule, but he is generally here or at the club most nights. Unless you believe in magic, Lieutenant, you’re wasting your time. I could hardly have been here, fucking two very entertaining men, and out luring poor Alice to her death.”

“Is that what you consider yourself, a magician?” Eve glanced toward the still burning fire with a mild sneer. “That’s nothing more than trickery and distraction of the eye. You can be licensed to juggle on the streets for two thousand credits a year.”

Selina’s muscles quivered as she sat forward. Her eyes were burning now, as the fire did. “I am a high priestess of the dark lord. Our numbers are legion, and I have powers that would make you weep.”

“I don’t cry easily, Ms. Cross.” Ah, a temper, Eve thought with satisfaction. And easily ruffled pride. “You’re not dealing with an impressionable eighteen-year-old girl now, or her frightened grandfather. Which one of your legion called Alice last night and played a tape of chanting threats?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And you’re beginning to bore me.”

“The black feather on the windowsill was a nice touch. Or simulated feather, I should say, but she wouldn’t have known that. Are you into droid pets, Ms. Cross?”

Idly, Selina lifted a hand, skimmed it through then down her hair. “I don’t care for…pets at all.”

“No? No cats and ravens?”

“How predictable that would be.”

“Alice believed you were a shape-shifter,” Eve said and watched as Selina smiled. “Care to give us a demonstration of that little talent?”

Selina’s nails began to tap again. Eve’s tone was as insulting as a backhanded slap. “I’m not here to entertain you. Or to be mocked by your small mind.”

“Is that what you call it? Were you entertaining Alice with cats and birds and threatening chants over her ’link? How could she feel safe in her own home? Was she such a threat to you?”

“She was nothing to me but an unfortunate failure.”

“You were seen selling illegals to Frank Wojinski.”

The abrupt switch had Selina blinking. When her lips curved now, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this discussion here in my home, but in Interview. I’m an herbalist, again licensed, and I often sell or trade perfectly legal substances.”

“Do you grow your herbs here?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, and distill my potions and medications.”

“I’d like to see them. Why don’t you show me your work area?”

“You’ll need a warrant for that, and we both know you haven’t cause for one.”

“You’re right. I guess that’s why Frank didn’t bother with a warrant.” Eve rose slowly, spoke softly. “You knew he was onto you, but did you suspect he might get in here, inside? You didn’t see that in your magic ball, did you?” Eve said when Selina’s breath shortened and thickened. “What would you think if I told you he was in your house, and he documented what he saw, and what he found.”

“You have nothing. Nothing.” Selina sprang to her feet. “He was an aging man with slow wits and bad reflexes. I made him for a cop the first time he tried to tail me. He was never in my home. He told you nothing when he was alive, and he can’t tell you anything now.”

“No? Don’t you believe in talking to the dead, Ms. Cross? I make my living at it.”

“And do you think I don’t recognize smoke and mirrors, Lieutenant?” Her spectacular breasts strained against the material of her dress as she struggled to even her breathing. “Alice was a foolish girl who believed she could flirt with dark forces, then run back to her pathetic white magic and tidy little family. She paid the price for her ignorance and her cowardice. But not at my hand. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“That’ll do for now. Peabody?” She started toward the archway. “Your fire’s going out, Ms. Cross,” she said mildly. “Pretty soon you’re going to have nothing but a mess of ashes.”

Selina stood where she was, shaking with rage. When the door closed and security engaged, she balled her hands into fists and screamed with temper.

A panel on the wall slid open. The man who stepped out was tall and golden. His chest gleamed and rippled with muscle. The tattoo over his heart was of a horned goat. He wore only an open black robe carelessly belted at the waist with silver cord.

“Alban.” Selina ran to him, threw her arms around him.

“There, my love.” His voice was deep, soothing. On the hand that stroked her hair was a large silver ring carved with an inverted pentagram. “You mustn’t unbalance your chakras.”

“Fuck my chakras.” She was weeping now, wildly, pounding on him like a child in a blind tantrum. “I hate her. I hate her. She has to be punished.”

With a sigh, he let her go to storm the room, cursing, smashing crockery. He knew the temper would pass more quickly if he stood back and let it purge.

“I want her dead, Alban. Dead. I want her to suffer agonies, to scream for mercy, to bleed and writhe and bleed. She insulted me. She challenged me. She all but laughed in my face.”

“She doesn’t believe, Selina. She has no vision.”

Exhausted as always after a fit of temper, she collapsed on the settee. “Cops. I’ve hated them all my life.”

“I know.” He picked up a tall, slim bottle, poured her some thick, cloudy liquid. “We’ll have to be careful with her. She’s very high-profile.” He passed her a chalice. “But we’ll think of something, won’t we?”

“Of course we will.” She smiled again, sipped slowly at the brew. “Something very special. The master would want something…inventive in her case.” Now she laughed, full-throated, head thrown back. The police had been the bane of her existence—until she’d discovered a higher power. “We’ll make a believer out of her, won’t we, Alban?”

“She’ll believe.”

She drank deeply now, felt the lovely haze coat her tangled emotions. And let the chalice drop. “Come here, and take me.” Eyes glittering, she slid down. “Force me.”

And when he covered her body with his, she turned her head, bared her teeth, and dug them into his shoulder to draw blood.

“Hurt me,” she demanded.

“With pleasure.” he replied.

And when they lay apart, their violent passion sated, he lay quiet beside her. She would revive now, he knew. She would cool and she would calm, and she would think.

“We should preform a ceremony tonight. Call together the entire coven for a Black Mass. We need power, Alban. She isn’t weak, and she wants to destroy us.”

“She won’t.” With affection now, he stroked her cheek. “She can’t. After all, she’s only a cop with no past and a limited future. But you’re right, of course, we’ll call the coven. We’ll perform the rite. And, I think, we’ll provide Lieutenant Dallas with a distraction—or two. She won’t have the time or inclination to worry overmuch about little Alice for long.”

Fresh arousal rippled through her, a dark wave that flooded into her eyes. “Who dies?”

“My love.” He lifted her, speared her, sighed when her muscles clamped viciously around him. “You have only to choose.”

“You really pissed her off.” Peabody struggled to ignore the light sweat of fear that dried on her skin as Eve drove away from the building.

“That was the idea. Now that I know control isn’t her strong point, I’ll be sure to piss her off again. She’s all ego,” Eve decided. “Imagine, thinking we’d fall for a second-rate trick like the fire.”

“Yeah.” Peabody managed a sickly smile. “Imagine.”

Eve tucked her tongue in her cheek and decided against ragging on her aide. “Since we’re into witches, let’s swing by and check out this Isis at Spirit Quest.” She slid her eyes right. Well, maybe she’d rag just a little. “You can probably buy a talisman or some herbs,” she said solemnly. “You know, to ward off evil.”

Peabody shifted in her seat. Feeling foolish wasn’t nearly as bad as worrying about being cursed. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“After we deal with Isis, we can grab a pizza sub—with plenty of garlic.”

“Garlic’s for vampires.”

“Oh. We can have Roarke get us a couple of his antique guns. With silver bullets.”

“Werewolves, Dallas.” Amused at both of them now, Peabody rolled her eyes. “A lot of good you’re going to do if we have to defend ourselves against witchcraft.”

“What does it to witches, then?”

“I don’t know,” Peabody admitted. “But I’m damn sure going to find out.”

chapter six

Shopping wasn’t something Eve considered one of the small pleasures in life. She wasn’t a browser, a window shopper, or a electronic catalogue surfer. She avoided, whenever possible, the shops and boutiques in, above, and below Manhattan. She shuddered at the very thought of a trip to one of the sky malls.

She imagined her outward resistance to the consumption of merchandise was the primary reason Isis pegged her as a cop the minute she stepped into Spirit Quest.

As stores went, Eve considered it tolerable. She wasn’t interested in the crystals and cards, the statues and candles, even though they were attractively displayed. The background music was soft, more of a murmur than a tune, and the light was allowed to play over the edges of raw crystals and polished stones in pretty rainbows.

The place smelled, she thought, not offensively of forest.

If witches were what she was dealing with, Eve decided, Isis and Selina couldn’t have been more dramatically opposed in appearance. Selina had been pale and slim and feline. Isis was an exotic amazon of a female with gypsy curls of flaming red, round black eyes, and cheekbones that could have carved wood. Her skin was the soft gold of a mixed-race heritage, her features bold and broad. Eve measured her at just over six feet and a well-packed and curvy one-seventy.

She wore a loose, flowing robe of blinding white with a belt studded with rough stones. Her right arm was wound with gold coils from elbow to shoulder, and her large hands winked and flashed with as many as a dozen rings.

“Welcome.” The voice suited her, oddly accented and throaty. Her lips curved, but it was a smile of grieving rather than pleasure. “Alice’s cop.”

Eve lifted a brow as she took out her shield. She figured she looked like a cop. And, since Roarke, her face had been in the media relentlessly. “Dallas. You’d be Isis, then?”

“I would. You’ll wish to talk. Excuse me.” She walked to the door. Graceful, Eve observed, the way an athlete is graceful. She turned an old-fashioned hand-lettered sign to Closed, pulled the shade over the glass of the door, and flicked a thumb latch.

When she turned back, her eyes were intense, her mouth grim. “You bring dark shadows into my light. She clings—such a stench.” At Eve’s narrowed look, she inclined her head. “Selina. One moment.”

She went to a wide shelf and began to light candles and cones of incense. “To purify and shield, to protect and defend. You have shadows of your own, Dallas.” She smiled briefly at Peabody. “And not just your aide.”

“I’m here to talk about Alice.”

“Yes, I know. And you’re impatient with what you see as my foolish window dressing. I don’t mind. Every religion should be open to questions and change. Will you sit?”

She gestured to a corner where two chairs flanked a round table etched with symbols. Again, she smiled at Peabody. “I can get another chair from the back for you.”

“No problem. I’ll stand.” She couldn’t help it; her gaze traveled the room, lingering now and then wistfully on some pretty bauble.

“Please feel free to browse.”

“We’re not here to shop.” Eve took a seat, shot Peabody a withering glance. “When did you last see or speak with Alice?”

“On the night she died.”

“At what time?”

“I believe it was about two A.M. She was already dead,” Isis added, folding her large, beautiful hands.

“You saw her after she was dead.”

“Her spirit came to me. You find this foolish; I understand. But I can only tell you what is, and was. I was asleep, and I awoke. She was there, beside the bed. I knew we’d lost her. She feels she’s failed. Herself, her family, me. Her spirit is restless and full of grief.”

“Her body’s dead, Isis. That’s my concern.”

“Yes.” Isis picked up a smooth, rose-colored stone from the table, worried it in her hand. “Even for me, with my beliefs, it’s difficult to accept her death. So young, so bright.” The huge, dark eyes swam. “I loved her very much, as you would a younger sister. But it wasn’t meant for me to save her in this life. Her spirit will return, be reborn. I know we’ll meet again.”

“Fine. Let’s concentrate on this life. And this death.”

Isis blinked back the tears and managed a quick, genuine smile. “How tedious you must find all of this. You have such a logical mind. I want to help you, Dallas, for Alice. For myself, perhaps for yourself as well. I recognize you.”

“I gathered that.”

“No, from another time. Another place. Another plane.” She spread her hands. “I last saw Alice alive on the day of her grandfather’s memorial service. She blamed herself, was determined to make an atonement. She’d strayed for a time, been misled, but she had a strong and bright heart. Her family was dear to her. And she was afraid, desperately afraid of what Selina would do to her—body and soul.”

“You know Selina Cross?”

“Yes. We’ve met.”

“In this life?” Eve asked dryly, and made Isis smile again.

“In this life, and others. She’s no threat to me, but she is dangerous. She seduces the weak, the confused, and those who prefer her way.”

“Her claims to be a witch—”

“She is no witch.” Isis drew her shoulders back, lifted her head. “We who embrace the craft do so in the light and live by an unbreakable code. And it harm none. She used what pitiful power she has to call on the dark, to exploit its violence, its ugliness. We know what evil is, Dallas. We’ve both seen it. Whatever form it takes doesn’t change its basic nature.”

“We can agree on that. Why would she harm Alice?”

“Because she could. Because she would enjoy it. There’s no question that she’s responsible for this death. You won’t find it easy to prove it. You won’t give up.” Isis kept her eyes on Eve’s, looking long, looking deep. “Selina will be surprised and infuriated by your tenacity, your strength. Death offends you, and the death of the young cuts small slices from your heart. You remember too well, but not all. You weren’t born Eve Dallas, but you’ve become her, and she you. When you stand by the dead, stand for the dead, nothing moves you aside. His death was necessary for your life.”

“Stop,” Eve ordered.

“Why should it haunt you?” Isis’s breathing was slow and thick, her eyes dark and clear. “The choice was made correctly. Innocence was lost, but strength took its place. For some, it must be so. You’ll need all before this cycle passes. A wolf, a boar, and a silver blade. Fire, smoke, and death. Trust the wolf, slay the boar, and live.”

Abruptly, she blinked. Her eyes clouded as she lifted a hand to press fingers to her temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend—” She let out a quiet moan, squeezed her eyes shut. “Headache. Vicious. Excuse me one minute.” She got shakily to her feet and hurried into the back.

“Jesus, Dallas, this is getting way too weird. Do you know what she was talking about?”

“His death was necessary for your life.” Her father, Eve thought, fighting off a shudder. A cold room, a dark night, and blood on the knife clutched in a desperate child’s hand.

“No, it’s just jibberish.” Her palms were damp, infuriating her. “These people figure they have to pull out some magic tricks to keep us interested.”

“I studied at the Kijinsky Institute in Prague,” Isis said as she stepped back into the room. “And was studied.” She set a small cup aside, managed a smile as the headache eased. “My psychic abilities are documented—for those who need documentation. But I apologize, Dallas. I didn’t intend to drift in that manner. It’s very rare for it to happen without my consciously controlling it.”

She came back to sit as she spoke, spread the skirts of her robe gracefully. “It would be sheer hell to be privy to thoughts and memories without some power to control and block. I don’t like to pry into personal thoughts. And it hurts,” she added, gently rubbing her temple again. “I want to help you do what Alice wanted, so she can rest. I want, for personal and selfish reasons, to see Selina pay the proper price for what she’s responsible for. I’ll do whatever I can, whatever you’ll allow me to do, to help you.”

Trust didn’t come easily for Eve, and she would check very thoroughly into Isis’s background. But for now, she’d use her. “Tell me what you know about Selina Cross.”

“I know she’s a woman without conscience or morals. I would think your term would be sociopath, but I find that too simple and too clean for what she is. I prefer the more direct term of evil. She’s a clever woman with a skill for reading weaknesses. As for her power, what she can read or see or do, I can’t say.”

“What about Alban?”

“About him I know next to nothing. She keeps him close. I assume he’s her lover and she finds him useful or she would have—dispatched him by now.”

“This club of hers?”

Isis smiled thinly. “I don’t frequent such…establishments.”

“But you know of it?”

“One hears rumors, gossip.” She lifted her broad shoulders. “Dark ceremonies, Black Masses, the drinking of blood, human sacrifice. Rape, murder, infanticide, the calling up of demons.” Then she sighed. “But then, you might hear such talk about Wiccans from those who have no understanding of the craft and who see black draped crones and eye of newt when they think of witches.”

“Alice claimed to have seen a child murdered.”

“Yes, and I believe she did. She couldn’t have invented such a thing. She was in shock and ill when she came to me.” Isis pressed her lips together, shuddered out a breath. “I did what I could for her.”

“Such as encouraging her to report the incident to the police?”

“That was for her to decide.” Isis lifted her chin again, met the iced anger in Eve’s eyes. “I was more concerned with her emotional and spiritual survival. The child was already lost; I had hoped to save Alice from the same fate.” Her eyes dropped now, and dampened. “And I regret, bitterly, that I didn’t act differently. And that, in the end, I failed her. Perhaps it was pride.” She looked at Eve again. “You’d understand the power and the deception of personal pride. I thought I could handle it, that I was wise enough, strong enough. I was wrong. So, Dallas, to atone, I’ll do anything you ask, avail you of all knowledge and any power the goddess grants me.”

“Information will do.” Eve angled her head. “Selina treated us to a little demonstration of what she’d call power. It impressed Peabody.”

“It caught me off guard,” Peabody muttered, studying Isis warily. She didn’t think she was up for another demonstration. To Peabody’s surprise, and Eve’s, Isis threw back her magnificent head and laughed. It was like hearing silver buoys clang in pearly fog.

“Should I call up the wind?” With one hand pressed to her breast, she chuckled. “Summon the dead, strike the cold fire? Really, Dallas, you believe in none of that, so it would be a waste of my time and energy. But perhaps you’d be interested in observing one of our gatherings. We have one at the end of next week. I can arrange it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You smirk,” Isis said lightly, “yet the pledge you wear on your finger carries the ancient symbol of protection.”

“What?”

“Your wedding ring, Dallas.” With that quiet smile, Isis lifted Eve’s left hand. “It’s carved with an old Celtic design for protection.”

Baffled, Eve studied the pretty etching in the slim gold ring. “It’s just a design.”

“It’s a very specific and powerful one, to give the wearer protection from harm.” Amused, she raised her brows. “I see you didn’t know. Is it so surprising, really? Your husband has the blood of the Celts, and you lead a very precarious life. Roarke loves you very much, and you wear the symbol of it.”

“I prefer facts to superstitions,” Eve said and rose.

“As you should,” Isis agreed. “But you will be welcome at the next gathering, should you choose to attend. Roarke will also be welcome.” She smiled at Peabody. “And your aide. Will you accept a gift?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“And rules are to be respected.” Rising, Isis moved behind a display counter, took out a small, clear bowl with a wide lip. “Then perhaps you will buy this. I have, after all, lost potential business by closing to speak to you. Twenty dollars.”

“Fair enough.” Eve dug into her pocket for credits. “What is it?”

“We’ll call it a worry bowl. In this you place all your pain, your sorrow, your worries. Set it aside and sleep without shadows.”

“Such a deal.” Eve set the credits on the counter and waited for Isis to wrap the bowl in protective paper.

Eve got home early, a rarity. She thought she could dive into work in the quiet of her home office. She could get past Summerset easily enough, she mused as she pulled up at the end of the drive. The butler would simply sniff and ignore her. She’d have a couple of hours clear to run data on Isis and to contact Dr. Mira’s office and make an appointment with the psychiatrist. It would, Eve decided, be interesting to get Mira’s take on personalities such as Selina Cross and Isis.

Eve got no farther than the front door when her plans disintegrated.

Music pounded, blasting out of the front parlor like compact nuclear explosions. Staggering against the waves, Eve slapped her hands over her ears and shouted.

She didn’t have to be told it was Mavis. No one else in her sphere would play clashing, discordant notes at that decibel. When she reached the doorway, the volume was still revved high. Her shouted demands reached neither the remote nor the single occupant of the room.

Alone, decked out in a micro robe of searing magenta that echoed the spiral curls shooting out of her head, Mavis Freestone lounged on the couch, doing the impossible. She slept like a baby.

“Jesus Christ.” Since vocal commands were useless, Eve risked her eardrums and dropped her hands to fumble with the recessed control unit. “Off, off, off!” She shouted stabbing buttons. The noise shut down in midblast and made her moan.

Mavis’s eyes popped open. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“What?” Eve shook her head to try to dispel the high-pitched ringing. “What?”

“That was a new group I picked up this morning. Mayhem. Pretty decent.”

“What?”

With a chuckle, Mavis unfolded her neat little body and bounced to a cabinet. “Looks like you could use a drink, Dallas. I must have zoned. Up pretty late the last few nights. Wanted to talk to you—about stuff.”

“Your mouth is moving,” Eve observed. “Are you talking to me?”

“It wasn’t that loud. Have a drink. Summerset said it would be all right if I hung for awhile. Didn’t know when you’d check in.”

For reasons that eluded Eve, the stiff-necked butler appeared to have a major crush on Mavis. “He’s probably in his cage, composing odes to your legs.”

“Hey, it’s nothing sexual. He just likes me. So.” Mavis clunked her glass against Eve’s. “Roarke’s not around, right?”

“With that music blasting?” Eve snorted, sipped. “Figure it out.”

“Well, that’s good, because I wanted to roll it out with you.” But she sat, twisted the glass in her hands, and said nothing.

“What’s the problem? You and Leonardo have a fight or something?”

“No, no. You can’t really fight with Leonardo. He’s too sweet. He’s in Milan for a few days. Some fashion deal.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Eve sat, rested her booted feet on the priceless coffee table, crossed her ankles.

“I’ve got the gig at the Down and Dirty. I wouldn’t let Crack down after he bailed me.”

“Hmm.” Eve rolled her shoulders and began to relax. Mavis’s career as a performer—it was difficult to use the term singer when defining Mavis’s talents—was moving along. There had been some serious roadblocks, but they’d been overcome. “I didn’t figure you’d work there much longer. Not with a recording contract.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. The contract. You know, after finding out Jess was using me—and you and Roarke—for his mind games, I didn’t figure the demo I’d cut with him would go anywhere.”

“It was good, Mavis; flashy, unique. That’s why it got picked up.”

“Is it?” She rose again, a tiny woman with wild hair. “I found out today that Roarke owns the recording company that offered the contract.” Gulping her drink, she paced away. “I know we go back a ways, Dallas, a long ways, and I appreciate you putting Roarke up to it, but I don’t feel right about it. I wanted to thank you.” She turned then, her silver eyes tragic and bleak. “And tell you that I’m going to turn it down.”

Eve pursed her lips. “Mavis, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Are you telling me that Roarke, the guy who lives here, is producing your disc?”

“It’s his company. Eclectic. It produces everything from classical to brain drain. It’s the company. Totally mag, which was why I was so wired up about the deal.”

Eclectic, Eve mused. The company. It sounded just like him. “I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t ask him to do anything, Mavis.”

She blinked, lowered slowly to the arm of a chair. “You didn’t? Solid?”

“I didn’t ask,” Eve repeated, “and he didn’t tell me.” Which was also just like him. “I’d have to say that if his company is offering you a contract, it’s because Roarke, or whoever he’s put in charge of that stuff, figures you’re worth it.”

Mavis took slow breaths. She’d worked herself up to the selfless sacrifice, unwilling to take advantage of friendship. Now she teetered. “Maybe he arranged it, like a favor.”

Eve cocked a brow. “Roarke’s business is business. I’d say he figures you’re going to make him richer. And if he did do it as a favor, which I doubt, then you’ll just have to prove to him that you’re worth it. Won’t you, Mavis?”

“Yeah.” She let out a long breath. “I’m going to kick ass, you wait and see.” Her smile beamed out. “Maybe you could come by the D and D tonight. I’ve got some new material, and Roarke could get another close-up of his latest investment.”

“Have to pass tonight. I’ve got work. I’ve got to check out The Athame.”

Mavis grimaced. “What the hell are you going there for? Nasty place.”

“You know it?”

“Only by rep, and the rep’s down below bad news.”

“Someone I’ve got to talk to there, connected with a case I’m working on.” She considered. There was no one she knew more likely to have a line on the unusual. “Know any witches, Mavis?”

“Yeah, sort of. A couple of servers down at the Blue Squirrel were into it. Brushed a few way back when I was on the grift.”

“You believe in that stuff? Chanting and spells and palm reading?”

Mavis cocked her head and looked thoughtful. “It’s major bullshit.”

“You never fail to surprise me,” Eve decided. “I figured you’d be into it.”

“I ran a con once. Spirit guide. I was Ariel, reincarnation of a fairy queen. You’d be amazed how many straights paid up for me to contact their dead relatives or tell them their future.”

To demonstrate, she let her head fall back. Her eyes fluttered, her mouth went slack. Slowly, her arms lifted, palms turned up. “I feel a presence, strong, seeking, sorrowful.” Her voice had deepened, attained a faint accent. “There are dark forces working against you. They hide from you, wait to do harm. Beware.”

She dropped her arms and grinned. “So, you tell the mark you need to have trust in order to offer protection from the dark forces. All they have to do is put say, a thousand cash—cash is all that works—in an envelope. Seal it. You make sure you tell them to seal it with this special wax you’re going to sell them. Then you’re going to do this cool chant over it, and bury the envelope in a secret place under the dark of the moon. After the moon’s cycled, you’ll dig up the envelope and give it back. The dark forces will have been vanquished.”

“That’s it? People just hand over the money?”

“Well, you string it out a little longer, do some research so you can hit them with names and events and shit. But basically, yeah. People want to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because life can really suck.”

Yes, Eve thought when she was alone again, she supposed it could. Hers certainly had for long stretches of time. Now she was living in a mansion with a man who, for some reason, loved her. She didn’t always understand her life or the man who now shared it, but she was adjusting. So well, in fact, that she decided not to go bury herself in work, but to go outside, into the golden autumn evening and take an hour for herself.

She was used to streets and sidewalks, crowded sky-glides, jammed people movers. The sheer space Roarke could command always astonished her. His grounds were like a well-tended park, quiet and lush, with the foliage of rich man’s trees in the dazzling flame of fall. The scents were of spicy flowers, the faintly smoky fragrance of October in the country.

Overhead, the sky was nearly empty of traffic, and even that was a dignified hum. No rumbling airbuses or lumbering tourist blimps over Roarke’s land.

And the world she knew, and that knew her, was beyond the gates and over the walls, in the seamy dark.

Here she could forget that for a short time. Forget New York existed with its death and its anger—and its perpetually appealing arrogance. She needed the quiet and the air. As she walked over thick, green grass, she worried the ring with its odd symbols on her finger.

On the north side of the house was an arbor of thin, somehow fluid iron. The vines twisting and tumbling over it were smothered with flowers wildly red. She had married him there, in an old, traditional ceremony where vows were exchanged and promises made. A ceremony, she thought now. A rite that included music, flowers, witnesses, words that were repeated time after time, place after place, century through century.

And so, she thought, other ceremonies were preserved and repeated and believed to hold power. Back to Cain and Abel, she mused. One had planted crops, the other tended a flock. And both had offered sacrifice. One had been accepted, the other dismissed. Thus, she imagined, some would say good and evil were born. Because each needed the balance and challenge of the other.

So it continued. Science and logic disproved, but the rites continued, incense and chanting, offerings and the drinking of wine that symbolized blood.

And the sacrifice of the innocent.

Annoyed with herself, she rubbed her hands over her face. Philosophizing was foolish and useless. Murder had been done by human force. And it was human force that would dispense justice. That was, after all, the ultimate balance of good and evil.

She sat on the ground under the arbor of bloodred blossoms and drew in the burning scent of evening.

“This isn’t usual for you.” Roarke came up quietly behind her—so quietly, her heart gave a quick trip before he settled on the grass beside her. “Communing with nature?”

“Maybe I spent too much time inside today.” She had to smile when he handed her one of the red flowers. She twirled it in her fingers, watched it spin before she looked over at him.

He was relaxed, his dark hair skimming his shoulders, as he leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles. She imagined his pricey and beautiful suit would pick up grass stains that would horrify Summerset. He smelled male, and expensive. Lust curled comfortably in her stomach.

“Successful day?” she asked.

“We’ll have bread on the table another day or two.”

She flicked her fingers at the ends of his hair. “It’s not the money, is it? It’s the making it.”

“Oh, it’s the money.” His eyes laughed at her. “And the making it.” In a quick move she told herself she should have seen coming, he reached up, cupped the back of her neck, and overbalanced her onto him and into a hot kiss.

“Hold on.”

She didn’t squirm quickly enough and ended up under him.

“I am.”

His mouth fastened greedily on her throat and sent little licks of heat straight down her body to her toes.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Okay, you talk while I get you out of these clothes. Still wearing your weapon,” he observed as he hit the release for the harness. “Thinking of zapping some wildlife?”

“That’s against city ordinance. Roarke.” She caught his wrist as his hand closed sneakily over her breast. “I want to talk to you.”

“I want to make love with you. Let’s see who wins.”

It should have infuriated her, the fact that he already had her shirt open and her breasts aching. Then his mouth closed over that sensitive flesh and had her eyes all but crossing in pleasure. Still, it wouldn’t do to let him win too easily.

She let her body go limp, moaned, and combed her fingers through his hair, ran them over his shoulders. “Your jacket,” she murmured and tugged at it. When he shifted to shrug free, she had him.

It was a basic tenet of hand-to-hand. Never lower your guard. She scissored, shoved, and pinned him with a knee to the crotch and an elbow to the throat.

“You’re tricky.” He calculated he could dislodge the elbow, but the knee…There were some things a man didn’t care to risk. He kept his eyes on hers and slowly, carefully skimmed his fingertips up her bare torso, circled her breast. “I admire that in a woman.”

“You’re easy.” His thumb brushed lightly over her nipple, quickening her breath. “I admire that in a man.”

“Well, you’ve got me now.” He unsnapped her waistband, teased her stomach muscles to quiver. “Be kind.”

She grinned, levered her elbow away to brace her hands on either side of his head. “I don’t think so.” Lowering her head, she caught his mouth with hers.

She heard his breath suck in, felt his arms come around her, fingers digging in. His groan thundered through her pulse.

“Your knee,” he managed.

“Hmm?” Lust was full-blown now and raging. She shifted lips and teeth to his throat.

“Your knee, darling.” She moved to attack his ear and nearly unmanned him. “It’s very effective.”

“Oh, sorry.” Snorting, she lowered her knee, lowered her body, and let him roll her over. “Forgot.”

“A likely story. You may have caused permanent damage.”

“Aw.” With a wicked grin, she tugged open his trousers. “I bet we can make it all better.”

His eyes went dark when she stroked him, stayed open and on hers when their lips met again. This kiss, surprisingly tender, twined that terrifyingly strong emotion with the easy lust.

The lower edges of the sky were as wildly red as the blossoms arching over them. The shadows were long and soft. She could hear birdsong and the whisper of air through the dying leaves. The touch of his hands on her was like a miracle, chasing away all the ugliness and pain of the world she walked in.

She didn’t even know she needed to be soothed, he thought as he stroked, and he soothed, so that arousal was slow and warm and liquid. Perhaps neither had he, until they held like this, touched like this. The romance of the air, the light, the gradual surrender of a strong woman was gloriously seductive.

He eased into her, watching her face as the first orgasm rolled through her, feeling her body clench, shudder, go pliant as his fueled it and filled it.

She kept her eyes open, as fascinated by the intensity of his stare as the silvery ripples of sensation that pumped through her. She matched his pace, silky and smooth even as her breath tore. And when she saw those dark Celtic eyes cloud, go opaque, she framed his face with her hands, pulled his mouth to hers to savor his long, long groan of release.

When his body was ranged weightily over hers, his face buried in her hair, she wrapped her arms companionably around him. “I let you seduce me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Thank you. You tolerated it all so stoically, too.”

“It’s the training. Cops have to be stoic.”

He reached out, ran a hand over the grass, and plucked up her shield. “Your badge, Lieutenant.”

She snickered, slapped him on the ass. “Get off me. You weigh a ton.”

“Keep sweet-talking me, and God knows what could happen.” Lazily, he rolled aside, noted that the sky had gone from cloudy blue to pearl gray. “I’m starving. You distracted me, and now it’s well past dinnertime.”

“It’s going to be a little more past.” She sat up and began to tug on her clothes. “You had your sex, pal. Now it’s my turn. We have to talk.”

“We could talk over dinner.” He sighed when she sent him a steely stare. “Or we could talk here. Problem?” he asked and skimmed his thumb over the dent in her chin.

“Let’s just say I have some questions.”

“I might have the answers. What are they?”

“To begin with—” She broke off, blew out a breath. He was sitting there, mostly naked, looking very much like a sleek, well-satisfied cat. “Put some clothes on, will you? You’re going to distract me.” She tossed his shirt at him when he only grinned. “Mavis was waiting for me when I got home.”

“Oh.” He shook out his shirt, noted its deplorable condition, but slipped it on. “Why didn’t she stay?”

“She’s got a gig at the Down and Dirty. Roarke, why didn’t you tell me you own Eclectic?”

“It’s not a secret.” He hitched into his slacks, then handed her her weapon harness. “I own a number of things.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” She would be patient here, Eve told herself, because it was a delicate area for everyone. “Eclectic’s offered Mavis a contract.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I know you know,” she snapped, slapping away his hand as he attempted to smooth down her hair. “Damn it, Roarke, you could have told me. I’d have been prepared when she asked me about it.”

“Asked you what? It’s a standard contract. She’ll certainly want an agent or representative to look it over, but—”

“Did you do it for me?” she interrupted, and her eyes were focused on his face.

“Did I do what for you?”

Now her teeth went on edge. “Offer Mavis the recording contract.”

He folded his hands, cocked his head. “You’re not planning on giving up law enforcement to be a theatrical agent, are you?”

“No, of course not. I—”

“Well then, it has nothing to do with you.”

“You’re not going to sit there and tell me you like Mavis’s music.”

“Music is a term I’m not sure applies to Mavis’s talents.”

“There.” She jabbed a finger into his chest.

“That talent, however, is—I believe—commercial. Eclectic’s purpose is to produce and distribute commercial recording artists.”

She sat back, tapped her finger on her knee. “So it’s a business thing. Straight business.”

“Naturally. I take business very seriously.”

“You could be snowing me,” she said after a moment. “You’re good enough.”

“Yes, I am.” Pleased that he was one of the very few who could snow her, he smiled at her. “Either way, the deal’s done. Is that all?”

“No.” She hissed out a breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. “Thanks, either way.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Next, I have to hit The Athame tonight, check a guy out.” She saw the flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw. “I’d like you to go with me.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from snickering when he narrowed those eyes at her.

“Just like that? It’s police business, but you’re not going to make an issue out of it?”

“No, first because I think you might be helpful, and second because it saves time. We’d argue about it, and you’d just go, anyway. This way, I ask you to come and you go, understanding I’m in charge.”

“Clever of you.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “Agreed. But after dinner. I missed lunch.”

“One more thing. Why did you have a Celtic symbol of protection carved into my wedding ring?”

He felt the jolt of surprise, covered it smoothly. “Excuse me?”

“No, you weren’t quick enough that time.” It pleased her that she’d spotted that minute and masterfully covered awareness. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. One of our friendly neighborhood witches tagged it today.”

“I see.” Caught, he realized, and he stalled by lifting her hand to examine the ring. “It’s an appealing design.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Roarke. I’m a professional.” She stepped in until their eyes were level again. “You buy into it, don’t you? You actually buy all this hocus-pocus.”

“It’s not a matter of that.” He fumbled and knew it when she furrowed her brow.

“You’re embarrassed.” Her brow cleared in surprise and amusement. “You’re never embarrassed. By anything. This is weird. And kind of sweet.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” Mortified, he decided, but not embarrassed. “I’m simply…not entirely comfortable explaining myself. I love you,” he said and stilled her muffled chuckle. “You risk your life, a life that’s essential to me, just by being who you are. This…” He brushed his thumb over her wedding band. “Is a small and very personal shield.”

“That’s lovely, Roarke. Really. But you don’t really believe all that magic nonsense.”

His gaze lifted, and as twilight turned to night, his eyes glinted in the dark. Like a wolf’s, she thought.

And it was a wolf, she remembered, she was to trust.

“Your world is relatively small, Eve. You couldn’t call it sheltered, but it’s limited. You haven’t seen a giant’s dance, or felt the power of the ancient stones. You haven’t run your hand over the Ogham carving in the trunk of a tree petrified by time or heard the sounds that whisper through the mist that coats sacred ground.”

Baffled, she shook her head. “It’s, what, an Irish thing?”

“If you like, though it’s certainly not limited to a single race or culture. You are grounded.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “Almost brutal in your focus and your honesty. And I’ve lived, let’s say, a flexible life. I need you, and I’ll use whatever comes to hand to keep you safe.” He lifted the ring to his lips. “Let’s just call it covering the bases.”

“Okay.” This was a new aspect of him it would take time to explore. “But you don’t have, like, a secret room where you dance around naked and chant?”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I did, but I turned it into a den. More versatile.”

“Good thinking. Okay, let’s eat.”

“Thank God.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the house.

chapter seven

The Athame slicked a high-gloss sheen over depravity, like the baby-kissing smile on a corrupt politician. One scan convinced Eve she’d have preferred to spend an evening in a low-level dive, smelling stale liquor and staler sweat.

Dives didn’t bother with disguises.

Revolving balconies of smoky glass and chrome trim ringed the main level in two tiers so that those who preferred a loftier view could circle slowly and check out the action. The central bar speared out in five points, and each was crowded with patrons perched on high stools fashioned to resemble optimistically exaggerated body parts.

A couple of women decked out in micro skirts sat spread-legged on a pair of bulging, flesh-toned cocks and laughed uproariously. A skinheaded bar surfer checked them out by prying his hand down their snug blouses.

All the walls were mirrored, and they pulsed with cloudy red lights. Some of the tables flanking the dance floor were tubed for privacy, some were smoked so that silhouettes of couples in various states of fornication wavered against the glass to entertain the crowd, and all were coated with a shiny black lacquer that made them resemble small, dark pools.

On a raised platform, the band pumped out harsh and clever rock. Eve wondered what Mavis would think of their wildly painted faces, tattooed chests, and black leather codpieces studded with silver spikes. She decided her friend would probably have dubbed them mag.

“Do we sit?” Roarke murmured in her ear, “or case the joint?”

“We go up,” she decided. “For the overview. What’s that smell?”

He stepped onto the auto-stairs with her. “Cannabis, incense. Sweat.”

She shook her head. There was something under that mix, something metallic. “Blood. Fresh blood.”

He’d caught it as well. That broody underlayer. “In a place like this, they put it in the air vents for mood enhancement.”

“Charming.”

They stepped off onto the second level. Here, rather than tables and chairs, there were floor pillows and thick rugs where patrons could lounge as they sipped their brew of choice. Those on the prowl leaned on the ornate chrome rail, scoping, Eve imagined, for a likely partner to lure into one of the privacy rooms.

There were a dozen such rooms on this level, all with heavy black doors bearing chrome plaques with such names as Perdition, Leviathan, and—more direct, in Eve’s opinion—Hell and Damnation.

She could too easily imagine the personality type who would find such invitations seductive.

As she watched, a man whose eyes were glazed with liquor began to slurp his way up his companion’s legs. His hand snuck under her crotch-skimming skirt as she giggled. Technically, she could have busted them both for engaging in a sexual act in public.

“What would be the point?” Roarke commented, reading her perfectly. His voice was mild. Anyone taking a casual glance would have seen a man faintly bored with the ambiance. But he was braced to attack or defend, whichever became necessary. “You’ve got more interesting things to do than toss a horny couple from Queens in lockup.”

That wasn’t really the point, Eve thought as the man tugged apart the self-stick fly on his baggy blue trousers. “How do you know they’re from Queens?”

Before he could answer, a young, attractive man with a flowing mane of blond hair and bare, gleaming shoulders, hunkered down beside the busy couple. Whatever he said had the woman giggling again then grabbing him into a sloppy kiss.

“Why don’t you come, too?” she demanded in an unmistakable accent. “We could have ourselves a manage and twas.”

Eve lifted a brow at the borough massacre of the French term, and at the easy skill with which the bouncer disengaged himself and led the staggering couple off.

“Queens,” Roarke said, smug. “Definitely. And that was smoothly done.” He inclined his head as the couple was taken through a narrow door. “They’d add the price of the privacy room to the tab, and no harm done.” There was a scream of female laughter as the bouncer came back out and secured the door. “Everyone’s happy.”

“Queens might not be in the morning. The cost of a privacy room in a place like this has to hurt. Then again…” She scanned the crowd. Ages varied from the very young—many of whom she was sure had gained entrance with forged ID—to the very mature. But from the wardrobe and jewelry, the tone of faces and bodies that slyly hinted at salon enhancements, the clientele was solidly upper middle-class.

“Money doesn’t look to be a problem here. I’ve spotted at least five high-credit licensed companions.”

“My count was more like ten.”

She quirked a brow. “Twelve bouncers with low-grade palm zappers.”

“On that count, we agree.” He slipped an arm around her waist and walked to the rail. Below, the dance floor was packed, bodies rubbing suggestively against bodies. Wild laughter bounced off the mirrored walls and shot upward.

The band was into their performance mode. The two female vocalists were being bound to dangling silver chains with leather straps. The music pounded, heavy on the drums. The dancers surged forward, closing in, as eager as a mob at a lynching. Audience participation was realized as a man was brought forward and accepted the invitation to strip the women out of their flimsy robes. Beneath, they were naked but for glittery stars over nipples and pubes.

The crowd began to chant and howl as he coated them with thick oil, and they writhed and screamed and begged for mercy.

“That’s skirting the line,” Eve muttered.

“Performance art.” Roarke watched the man scourge the first vocalist with a velvet cat ’o nine tails. “Still within the law.”

“A simulation of debasement encourages the real thing.” She set her teeth as a band member began to lightly slap the second vocalist as their voices soared in fervent duet. “We’re supposed to be beyond this kind of female exploitation. But we’re not. We never are. What are they looking for?”

“Thrills. Of the cheaper and meaner variety.” His hand soothed the base of her back. She knew what it was to be bound, to be abused. There was nothing artful and nothing entertaining about it. “There’s no need to watch this, Eve.”

“What makes them do it?” she wondered. “What makes a woman let herself be used that way, in simulation or in reality? Why doesn’t she kick his balls into his throat?”

“She’s not you.” He kissed her on the brow and firmly turned her away.

The railing was thick with people, now straining to see the show.

As they took a quick tour of the top floor, a woman in a sheer black gown glided up to them. “Welcome to The Master’s Level. Do you have a reservation?”

Enough was enough, Eve thought. She flipped out her badge. “I’m not interested in what you’re selling here.”

“Fine food and wine,” the hostess said after only a quick hitch at the sight of police identification. “You’ll find we’re completely within code here, Lieutenant. However, if you wish to speak with the owner—”

“I’ve already done that. I want to see Lobar. Where do I find him?”

“He doesn’t work this level.” With the subtlety and discretion that would have made the poshest maître d’ proud, the hostess steered Eve back toward the stairs. “If you will go to the main level, you will be met, and a table provided. I’ll contact Lobar and send him to you.”

“Fine.” Eve studied her, saw an attractive woman in her mid-twenties. “Why do you do this?” she asked and glanced at one of the screens where a woman screamed and struggled as she was strapped to a raised slab of marble. “How can you do this?”

The hostess merely glanced down at Eve’s badge, then smiled sweetly. “How can you do that?” she countered and drifted away.

“I’m letting it get to me,” Eve admitted as they headed down to the main level. “I know better.”

The band continued to play, the music a frenzy now. But the performance aspect had switched to a huge view screen that filled the wall behind the stage. It took Eve only a glance to see why. The club wasn’t licensed for live sex acts, but such minor inconveniences were transcended by video.

The female vocalists were still bound, still singing their hearts out without missing a beat. But they were behind the stage now, on camera, along with the man from the audience and a second man who wore nothing but an ornate mask of a boar’s head.

“Pigs,” was all Eve had to say, then looked into gleaming red eyes.

“Your table is this way.” The young man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth with incisors sharpened to vicious fangs. He turned. His hair streamed down his naked back, black, tipped with red like flames. He opened the rounded door on a privacy tube, stepped in ahead of them.

“I’m Lobar.” He grinned again. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He might have been pretty without the affectation of vampire fangs and demon eyes. As it was, Eve thought he looked like an overgrown child dressed up for Halloween. If he was of legal age, she deduced it couldn’t have been by much. His chest was thin and hairless, his arms slim as a girl’s. But she didn’t think it was the red tint of his eyes that took away his innocence. It was the look in them.

“Sit down, Lobar.”

“Sure.” He dropped into a chair. “I’ll have a drink. You’re buying,” he told Eve. “You want my time during work hours, you gotta pay.” He punched out a selection on the electronic menu, adjusted his chair so that he could see the view screen. “Great show tonight.”

Eve glanced over.

“The script could use work,” she said dryly. “You got ID, Lobar?”

He peeled his lips back from his fangs, lifted his hands, palm out. “Not on me. Unless you think I got secret pockets in my skin.”

“What’s your legal name?”

His smile disappeared, and his eyes were suddenly the sulky eyes of a child. “It’s Lobar. That’s who I am. I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I’m cooperating.”

“You’re a real sterling citizen.” Eve waited while his drink slid out of the serving slot. Another show, she mused, as the heavy glass chalice smoked with some murky gray brew. “Alice Lingstrom. What do you know about her?”

“Not much, except she was a dumb bitch.” He sipped the drink. “She hung around for awhile, then went crying off. It was fine with me. The master doesn’t need any weaklings.”

“The master.”

He sipped again, smiled. “Satan,” he said, relishing it.

“You believe in Satan?”

“Sure.” He leaned forward, slid his hand with its long, black-painted nails toward Eve. “And he believes in you.”

“Careful,” Roarke murmured. “You’re too young and stupid to loose a hand.”

Lobar snorted, but he slid his hand back again. “Your watchdog?” he said to Eve. “Your rich watchdog. We know who you are,” he added, fixing his red eyes on Roarke. “Big fucking deal. You don’t have any power here. And neither does your cop bitch.”

“I’m not his cop bitch,” Eve said mildly, shooting a warning glance at Roarke. “I’m my own cop bitch. And as to power…” She leaned back. “Well, I’ve got the power to take you down to Cop Central and slap you into Interview.” She smiled, letting her gaze run over the naked chest and gleaming nipple rings. “The guys would just love to get a load of you. Cute, isn’t he, Roarke?”

“In an apprentice demon sort of fashion. You must have a very…interesting dentist.” As it was a privacy booth, he took out a cigarette, lighted it.

“I could use one of those,” Lobar said.

“Could you?” With a shrug, Roarke slid another cigarette onto the table. When Lobar picked it up, looked at him expectantly, Roarke grinned. “Sorry, you want a light? I assumed you’d shoot flame out of your fingertips.”

“I don’t do tricks for straights.” Lobar leaned forward, sucking on the filter as Roarke flicked his lighter at the tip. “Look, you want to know about Alice, and I can’t help you. She wasn’t my type. Too inhibited, and always asking questions. Sure I banged her a couple of times, but those were like community fucks, you know? Nothing personal.”

“And on the night she was killed?”

He blew out smoke, sucked more in. He hadn’t had real tobacco before, and the expensive drug made him light-headed and relaxed. “Never saw her. I was busy. I had a private ceremony with Selina and Alban. Sexual rites. After, we fucked around most of the night.”

He took another deep drag, holding it in as he would a toke from a prime joint, then exhaling lustily through his nostrils. “Selina likes double bangers, and when she’s done, she likes to watch and get herself off. Was dawn, easy, before she’d had enough.”

“And the three of you were together the entire night. No one left, even for a few minutes.”

He moved his bony shoulders. “That’s the thing about three people. No waiting.” He lowered his gaze suggestively to her breasts. “Want to try it?”

“You don’t want to solicit a cop, Lobar. And I like men. Not skinny boys in silly costumes. Who called Alice and played the recording. The chant?”

He was sulky again, his ego pricked. If she’d come alone, he thought, he’d have shown her a few things. A bitch was a bitch as far as he was concerned, badge or no badge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Alice was nothing. Nobody gave a shit about her.”

“Her grandfather did.”

“Heard he was dead, too.” The red eyes gleamed. “Old fart. Desk cop, button pusher. Means nothing to me.”

“Enough to know he was a cop,” Eve put in. “A cop who rode a desk. How’d you know that, Lobar?”

Realizing his mistake, he crushed out what was left of the cigarette in quick, vicious little jabs. “Somebody must’ve mentioned it.” He exposed his fangs in a wide grin. “Probably Alice did, while I was banging her.”

“Doesn’t say much for your performance rating, does it, if she was talking about her grandfather when you were…banging her.”

“I heard it somewhere, all right?” He grabbed his drink, gulped deeply. “What’s the big fucking deal where? He was old, anyway.”

“Did you ever see him? In here?”

“I see a lot of people in here. I don’t remember any old cop.” He waved a hand. “Place rocks like this most every night. How the hell do I know who comes in? Selina hired me to keep the occasional asshole in line, not to remember faces.”

“Selina’s got quite the enterprise going here. Is she still dealing? She deal for you?”

His eyes went sly. “I get power from my beliefs. I don’t need illegals.”

“Have you ever participated in human sacrifice? Ever slice up a child for your master, Lobar?”

He polished off his drink. “That’s an outsider’s hallucination. People like you like to make Satanists out to be monsters.”

“People like us,” Roarke murmured, skimming his gaze over Lobar from the fire-tipped hair to the nipple rings. “Yes, obviously we’re biased when anyone can see you’re simply… devout.”

“Look, it’s a religion, and we’ve got freedom of religion in this country. You want to push your God down our throats? Well, we reject him. We reject him and all his weak-kneed creeds. And we’ll rule in Hell.”

He shoved back from the table and stood. “I’ve got nothing more to say.”

“All right.” Eve spoke quietly, looking up into his eyes. “But you think about this, Lobar. People are dead. Somebody’s going to be next. It might just be you.”

His lips trembled, then firmed. “It might just be you,” he shot back and slammed out of the booth.

“What an attractive young man,” Roarke commented. “I do believe he’ll be a delightful addition to Hell.”

“That may be where he’s going.” After a quick glance around, Eve nudged the empty glass into her bag. “I want to find out where he came from. I can run his prints at home.”

“Fine.” He rose, took her arm. “But I want a shower first. This place leaves something nasty coated on the skin.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Robert Allen Mathias,” Eve stated, reading data off her monitor. “Turned eighteen six months ago. Born in Kansas City, Kansas, son of Jonathan and Elaine Mathias, both of whom are Baptist deacons.”

“A PK.” Roarke put in. “Preacher’s kid. Some can rebel in extreme manners. Looks like little Bobby has.”

“History of problems,” Eve continued. “I got his juvie file here. Petty theft, break in, truancy, assault. Ran way from home four times before he hit thirteen. At fifteen, after a joy ride that landed him a grand theft auto, his parents had him termed legally incorrigible. Did a year at a state school, which ended with him being kicked to a state institution after an attempted rape on a teacher.”

“Bobby’s a sweetheart,” Roarke murmured. “I knew there was a reason I wanted to jab his little red eyes out. They kept latching onto your breasts.”

“Yeah.” Unconsciously, Eve rubbed a hand over them as if to erase something vile. “Psych profile’s pretty much what you’d expect. Sociopathic tendencies, lack of control, violent mood swings. Subject harbors deep, unresolved resentment toward parents and authority figures, particularly female. Displays both fear and resentment toward females. Intelligence rating, high, violence quotient, high. Subject displays complete lack of conscience and an abnormal interest in the occult.”

“Then what is he doing out on the street? Why isn’t he in treatment?”

“Because it’s the law. You have to kick him when he turns eighteen. Until you nail him as an adult, he’s clear.” Eve puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “He’s a dangerous little bastard, but there’s not much I can do about him. He corroborates Selina’s statement for the night of Alice’s death.”

“He’d have been instructed to,” Roarke pointed out.

“Still sticks—unless I can break it.” She pushed back. “I’ve got his current address. I can check it out, knock on doors. See if his neighbors can give me something on him. If I can get him in on something, lay on some pressure, I think little Bobby would break.”

“Otherwise?”

“Otherwise, we keep digging.” She rubbed her eyes.

“We’ll deal with him. Sooner or later, he’ll revert to type—bust somebody’s face, assault some woman, kick the wrong ass. Then we’ll lock him in a cage.”

“Your job is miserable.”

“Most of the time,” she agreed, then looked over her shoulder. “Are you tired?”

“Depends.” He glanced at the screen where Lobar’s data scrolled. He had an image of her diving deeper, spending the quiet hours of night wading through the muck. He didn’t bother to sigh. “What do you need?”

“You.” She could feel her color rise as he lifted a curious brow. “I know it’s late, and it’s been a long day. I guess I was thinking of it kind of like the shower. Something to wash away the grime.” Embarrassed, she turned back, stared hard at the screen. “Stupid.”

It was always hard for her to ask, he mused. For anything. “Not the most romantic proposal I’ve ever had.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaged gently. “But far from stupid. Disengage,” he ordered and the screen went dark. He turned her chair around, drew her to her feet. “Come to bed.”

“Roarke.” She put her arms around him, held tight. She couldn’t explain how or why the images she’d seen that night had left something inside her shaky. With him, she didn’t have to. “I love you.”

Smiling a little, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “It’s getting easier to say. I think I’m starting to like it.”

With a short laugh, he pressed a kiss to her chin. “Come to bed,” he repeated, “and say it again.”

The rite was ancient, its purpose dark. Cloaked and masked, the coven gathered in the private chamber. The scent of blood was fresh and strong. The flames spearing above black candles flickered to send shadows slithering over the walls like spiders hunting prey.

Selina chose to be the altar and lay naked, a candle burning between her thighs, a bowl of sacrificial blood nestled between her generous breasts.

She smiled as she glanced toward the silver bowl overflowing with the cash and credits the membership had paid for the privilege to belong. Their wealth was now her wealth. The master had saved her from a scrabbling life on the streets and brought her here, into power and into comfort.

She had gladly traded her soul for them.

Tonight there would be more. Tonight there would be death, and the power that came from the rending of flesh, the spilling of blood. They would not remember, she thought. She had added drugs to the blood-laced wine. With the right drugs, in the right dosage, they would do and say and be what the master wanted.

Only she and Alban would know that the master had demanded sacrifice for his protection, and the demand had been happily met.

The coven circled her, their faces hooded, their bodies swaying, as the drug, the smoke, the chanting hypnotized them. At her head stood Alban, with the boar’s mask and the athame.

“We worship the one,” he said in his clear and beautiful voice.

And the coven answered. “Satan is the one.”

“What is his, is ours.”

“Ave, Satan.”

As Alban lifted the bowl, his eyes met Selina’s. He took up a sword, thrust it at the four points of the compass. The princes of hell were called, the list long and exotic. Voices were a hum. Fire crackled in a blackened pot set on a marble slab.

She began to moan.

“Destroy our enemies.”

Yes, she thought. Destroy.

“Bring sickness and pain on those who would harm us.”

Great pain. Unbearable pain.

When Alban laid a hand on her flesh, she began to scream. “We take what we wish, in your name. Death to the weak. Fortune to the strong.”

He stepped back, and though it was his right to take the altar first, he gestured to Lobar. “Reward to the loyal. Take her,” he commanded. “Give her pain as well as pleasure.”

Lobar hesitated a moment. The sacrifice should have come first. The blood sacrifice. The goat should have been brought out and slaughtered. But he looked at Selina, and his drug-clouded brain shut off. There was woman. Bitch. She watched him with cold, taunting eyes.

He would show her, he thought. He would show her he was a man. It wouldn’t be like the last time when she had used and humiliated him.

This time, he would be in charge.

He cast aside his robe and stepped forward.

chapter eight

The steady beep of an alarm had Eve rolling over and cursing. “It can’t be time to get up. We just went to bed.”

“It’s not. That’s security.”

“What?” Now she sat up quickly. “Our security?”

Roarke was already out of bed, already pulling on slacks, and answered with a grunt. Instinctively Eve reached for her weapon first, clothes second. “Someone’s trying to break in?”

“Apparently someone has.” His voice was very calm. As the lights were still off, she could see only his silhouette in the scattered light of the moon through the sky window. And joining that silhouette was the unmistakable outline of a gun in his hand.

“Where the hell did you get that? I thought they were all locked up. Goddamn it, Roarke, that’s illegal. Put it away.”

Coolly, he plugged a round in the chamber of the antique and banned-for-use Glock nine millimeter. “No.”

“Damn it, damn it.” She snatched up her communicator, shoved it in the back pocket of her jeans out of habit. “You can’t use that thing. I’ll check it out—that’s my job. You call Dispatch, report a possible intruder.”

“No,” he said again and started for the door. She was on him in two steps.

“If someone’s on the grounds or in the house, and if you shoot him with that, I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“Fine.”

“Roarke.” She grabbed at him as he reached for the door. “There’s procedure for something like this, and reasons for that procedure. Call it in.”

His home, he thought. Their home. His woman, and the fact that she was a cop didn’t mean a damn at the moment. “And won’t you feel foolish, Lieutenant, if it’s a mechanical malfunction?”

“Nothing of yours ever malfunctions,” she muttered and made him smile despite the circumstances.

“Why, thank you.” He opened the door, and there was Summerset.

“It appears someone is on the grounds.”

“Where’s the breech?”

“Section fifteen, southwest quadrant.”

“Run a full video scan, employ full house security when we’re out. Eve and I will check the grounds.” Absently, he ran a hand down her back. “A good thing I live with a cop.”

She looked down at the gun in his hand. Attempting to disarm him would likely prove unsuccessful. And it would take too much time. “We’re going to talk about this,” she said between her teeth. “I mean it.”

“Of course you do.”

They went side by side down the stairs, through the now silent house. “They haven’t gotten in,” he said as he paused by a door leading onto a wide patio. “The alarm for a breech of the house is different. But they’re over the wall.”

“Which means they could be anywhere.”

The moon was waxing toward full, but the clouds were thick and shadowed its light. Eve scanned the dark, the sheltering trees, the huge ornamental bushes. All provided excellent cover for observation. Or ambush. She heard nothing but the air teasing leaves going brittle with age.

“We’ll have to separate. For Christ’s sake don’t use that weapon unless your life’s threatened. Most B and E men aren’t armed.”

And most B and E men, they both knew, didn’t attempt to ply their trade on a man like Roarke. “Be careful,” he said quietly and slipped like smoke into the shadows.

He was good, Eve assured herself. She could trust him to handle himself and the situation. Using the dim and shifting moonlight as a guide, she headed west, then began to circle.

The quiet was almost eerie. She could barely hear her own footsteps on the thick grass. Behind her, the house stood in darkness, a formidable structure of old stone and glass, guarded, she thought, by a skinny snob of a butler.

Her lips curled. She’d love to see an unsuspecting burglar come up against Summerset.

When she reached the wall, she scanned for any breech. It was eight feet high, three feet thick, and wired to deliver a discouraging electric shock to anything over twenty pounds. Security cameras and lights were set every twelve feet. She whispered out an oath when she noted the narrow beams were blinking red rather than green.

Disengaged. Son of a bitch. Weapon drawn and ready, she circled to the south.

Roarke did his own circuit in silence, using the trees. He’d bought this property eight years before, had had it remodeled and rehabbed to his specifications. He’d supervised the design and implementation of the security system personally. It was in a very real sense his first home, the place he’d chosen to settle after too many years of wandering. Beneath the icy control, as he slipped from shadow to shadow, was a bubbling, grinding fury that his home had been invaded.

The night was cool, clear, quiet as a tomb. He wondered if he was up against a very ballsy thief. It could be as simple as that. Or it could be something, someone much more dangerous. A pro hired by a business competitor. An enemy—and he hadn’t fought his way to where he was without making them. Particularly since many of his interests had been on the dark side of the law.

Or the target could be Eve. She, too, had made enemies. Dangerous enemies. He glanced over his shoulder, hesitated. Then told himself not to second-guess his wife. He knew of no one better equipped to take care of herself.

But it was that hesitation, that instinctive need to protect that turned his luck. As he paused in the shadows, he caught the faint sound of movement. Roarke took a firmer grip on the gun, stepped back, stepped to the side. And waited.

The figure was moving slowly, in a crouch. As the distance between them melted away, Roarke could hear the puff of nervous breathing. Though he couldn’t make out features, he judged male, perhaps five-ten, and on the lean side. He could see no weapon, and thinking of the difficulty Eve might have explaining why her husband had held off an intruder with a banned handgun, tucked the Glock into the back of his slacks.

He braced, looking forward to a little hand-to-hand, then lunged when the figure slunk by. Roarke had an arm around a throat, a fist clenched and raised in anticipation of quiet, perhaps petty revenge, when he realized it wasn’t a man, but a boy.

“Hey, you son of a bitch, let go. I’ll kill you.”

A very rude and very frightened boy, Roarke decided. The struggle was short and all one-sided. It took seconds only for Roarke to pin the boy against the trunk of a tree. “How the hell did you get inside?” Roarke demanded.

The kid’s breath was coming in whistles, and his face was pale as a ghost. Roarke could hear the audible click in his throat as he swallowed. “You’re Roarke.” He stopped struggling and tried to smirk. “You’ve got pretty good security.”

“I like to think so.” Not a thief, Roarke decided, but ballsy, certainly. “How did you get past it?”

“I—” He broke off, eyes going huge as they shot over Roarke’s shoulder. “Behind you!”

With a smoothness the boy would later appreciate, Roarke pivoted, keeping his grip unbreakable. “We have our intruder, Lieutenant.”

“So I see.” She lowered her weapon, ordered her heart to slow to normal. “Jesus, Roarke, it’s just a kid. It’s—” She stopped, narrowed her eyes. “I know this kid.”

“Then perhaps you’d introduce us.”

“It’s Jamie, right? Jamie Lingstrom. Alice’s brother.”

“Good eye, Lieutenant. Now, you want to tell him to stop choking me?”

“I don’t think so.” She holstered her weapon, stepped up. “What the hell are you doing, breaking into private property in the middle of the night? You’re a cop’s grandson, for Christ’s sake. You want to end up in juvie?”

“I’m not your big problem right now, Lieutenant Dallas.” He made a valiant attempt to sound tough, but his voice wavered. “You’ve got a dead body outside the wall. Really dead,” he added and began to shake.

“Did you kill someone, Jamie?” Roarke asked mildly.

“No, man. No way. He was there when I came by.” Terrified his stomach would revolt and humiliate him, Jamie swallowed hard again. “I’ll show you.”

If it was a trick, Eve considered it a fine one. She couldn’t take a chance. “All right. Let’s go. And if you try to run, pal, I’ll zap you.”

“Wouldn’t make any sense to run, would it, when I went to all this trouble to get in? This way.” His legs were rubber, and he sincerely hoped neither of them noticed that his knees kept knocking together.

“I’d like to know how you got in,” Roarke said as they headed for the main gate. “How you bypassed security.”

“I fool around with electronics. A hobby. You’ve got a really high-grade system. The best.”

“So I thought.”

“I guess I didn’t disengage all the alarms.” Jamie turned his head, tried another weak smile. “You knew I was here.”

“You got in,” Roarke repeated. “How?”

“This.” Jamie pulled a small palm-sized unit out of his pocket. “It’s a jammer I’ve been working on for a couple of years. It’ll read most systems,” he began, frowning when Roarke plucked it out of his hand. “When you engage this,” he continued, leaning over to point, “it’ll scan the chips, run a cloning program. Then it’s just a matter of backing out the program step by step. Takes some time, but it’s pretty efficient.”

Roarke stared at the mechanism. It was no bigger than one of the E-games one of his companies manufactured. Indeed, the casing looked distressingly familiar. “You adapted a game unit into a jammer. Yourself. One that read and cloned and breached my security.”

“Well, most of it.” Jamie’s eyes clouded in annoyance. “I must have missed something, one of the backups maybe. Your system must be ultra mag. I’d like to see it.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Roarke muttered and shoved the unit into his pocket.

When they reached the gates, he disengaged and opened them manually, sliding a narrow look at Jamie as the boy craned over his shoulder to see.

“Way impressive,” Jamie commented. “I didn’t figure I could get through this way. That’s why I had to come over the wall. Needed a ladder.”

Roarke simply closed his eyes. “A ladder,” he said to no one in particular. “He climbed up a ladder. Lovely. And the cameras?”

“Oh, I blanked them from across the street. The unit’s got a range of ten yards.”

“Lieutenant.” Roarke snagged Jamie by the collar. “I want him punished.”

“Later. Now, where’s this body you’re supposed to have seen?”

The cocky smile fell away from his face. “To the left,” he told her, paling again.

“Keep a hold of him, Roarke. Stay here.”

“I’ve got him,” Roarke replied, but he’d be damned if he’d stay back. He tugged Jamie through the gate, met Eve’s annoyed stare blandly. “Our home, our problem.”

She said something nasty under her breath and turned left. She didn’t have to go far. It wasn’t hidden, it wasn’t subtle.

The body was naked and strapped to a wooden form in the shape of a star. No, she realized. A pentagram. Inverted so that the head with its dead doll eyes and gaping throat hung over the bloody sidewalk. The arms were outstretched, the legs parted in a wide vee. The center of his chest was a mass of black blood and gore, the hole hacked out of it bigger than a man’s fist.

She doubted the ME would find a heart inside when he opened the body for autopsy.

She heard the choked sound behind her and turned to see Roarke shift his grip on Jamie and step over to shield the boy from the view.

“Lobar,” was all he said.

“Yeah.” She stepped closer. Whoever had taken his heart had also plunged a knife through a sheet of paper and through his groin.

DEVIL WORSHIPPER

BABY KILLER

BURN IN HELL

“Take the boy inside, will you, Roarke?” She glanced at the collapsible ladder tilted against the wall. “And get rid of that. Pass the kid off to Summerset for now. I can’t leave the scene.” She turned, her face blank and impassive. Her cop face. “Will you bring me my field kit?”

“Yes. Come on, Jamie.”

“I know who he is.” Tears swam in Jamie’s eyes and were viciously blinked away. “He’s one of the bastards who killed my sister. I hope he rots.”

Because his voice had broken at the end, Roarke slipped an arm around his shoulder. “He will. Come inside. Let the Lieutenant do her job.” Roarke sent Eve one last look before hefting the ladder and leading Jamie back through the gates.

With her gaze still fixed on the body, Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Dispatch, acknowledged.”

“Reporting homicide, requesting assistance.” She gave the necessary data, then replaced her communicator. Turning, she stared across the wide, quiet street into the dark, shifting shadows of the great park. In the east the sky was stripping off the first layers of night, and the stars, such as they were, were blinking out.

Murder had come into her life before and would again. But someone would pay for bringing it into her home.

She turned as Roarke approached not only with her field kit but her battered leather jacket. “It gets chilly this close to dawn,” he said and handed it to her.

“Thanks. Jamie all right?”

“He and Summerset are eyeing each other with mutual dislike and distrust.”

“I knew I liked that kid. You can go inside and referee,” she told him as she took out Seal-It and clear-coated her hands, her boots. “I’ve called it in.”

“I’m staying.”

Since she’d already figured he would, she didn’t argue. “Then make yourself useful and record the scene.” She took her recorder out of the kit, passed it to him, then covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re too smart to be sorry for something that isn’t your responsibility. He wasn’t killed here, was he?”

“No.” Confident that Roarke could function as her aide until Peabody arrived, Eve approached the body again. “Not nearly enough blood. He’d have gushed from the jugular. That was likely the cause of death. We’ll find the other wounds are postmortem. In any case, there’d be splatters all over hell and back. We’d be wading in it. Record on?”

“Yes.”

“Victim identified as Robert Mathias, aka Lobar. White male, eighteen years of age. Preliminary visual exam indicates death was caused by a sharp-bladed instrument that severed the throat.” Shutting off everything but training, she took out a pencil light, examined the chest wound. “Additional insults include a wound in the chest, probably inflicted by the same weapon. The victim’s heart has been removed. The organ is not on scene. I need close-ups here,” she said to Roarke.

She took instruments out of her kit to calibrate. “The throat wound is six and a quarter inches across, approximately two inches deep.” Quickly, competently, she measured and recorded the other wounds. “A knife, black-handled with carving, was left in the body in the groin area to anchor what appears to be a computer-generated note on treated paper.”

She heard the shrill sound of sirens coming closer. “Uniforms,” she told Roarke. “They’ll secure the scene. Not much traffic out this way at this time of night.”

“Fortunately.”

“The body has been strapped by leather strips to a wooden structure, pentagram shape. The small amount of blood and blood patterns indicate victim was killed and mutilated elsewhere and transported to scene. Perimeter security to be scanned. Possibility of breech onto private property beyond security gate and wall. Body discovered at approximately four-thirty A.M. by Lieutenant Eve Dallas and Roarke, residents.”

She turned and walked over as the first black-and-white screeched up to the curb. “I want a privacy screen employed. Now. Block off the street in a twenty-foot perimeter. I don’t want gawkers here. I don’t want the fucking media. Got it?”

“Sir.” The two uniforms hustled out of the car and to the trunk. They wrestled out the privacy screen.

“I’m going to be awhile,” she told Roarke. Taking the recorder from him, she passed it to another uniform. “You should go inside, keep an eye on the kid.” Wearily, she watched the cruiser cops erect the screen. “He should call his mother or something. But I don’t want him to leave until I talk to him again.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll cancel my appointments for the day. I’ll be available.”

“That would be best.” She started to touch him, wanted to badly, then realized her sealed hands were smeared with blood and dropped them again. “It would help if you kept him occupied, kept his mind off of it for now. Goddamn it, Roarke, this bites.”

“A ritual killing,” he murmured, and understanding, laid a hand on her cheek. “But which side did it?”

“I guess I’m going to be spending a lot of time interviewing witches.” She huffed out a breath, then frowned when she saw Peabody striding double-time down the street. “Where the hell’s your vehicle, Officer?”

Her uniform might have been pressed to within an inch of its life, but her face was flushed and her breathing short. “I don’t have a vehicle, Lieutenant. I use city transpo. The closest public stop is four blocks from here.” She slanted a look at Roarke as though it was his personal responsibility. “Rich people don’t use public transportation.”

“Well, requisition a damn vehicle,” Eve ordered. “We’ll be in as soon as we’re done out here,” she told Roarke, then turned away. “Body’s behind the screen. Get the recorder from the uniform, I don’t trust his eye, and his hands are shaking. I want measurements on the blood pool and stills of the wounds, all angles. Seal up. I don’t think the sweepers are going to find much here, but I don’t want anything compromised. I’ll do the prelim for time of death. The ME’s on the way.”

Roarke watched her march off, flip through the screen, and figured she was finished with him.

Inside the house, he found Jamie, guarded by a visibly irritated Summerset. “You will not be allowed free range of this house,” Summerset snapped out. “You will touch nothing. If you break one piece of crockery, soil one centimeter of fabric, I will resort to violence.”

Jamie continued to pace, continued to paw the statuary in the small—and as Summerset thought of it lesser—parlor. “Well, now I’m shaking. You really put the fear of God in me, old man.”

“Your manners continue to disintegrate,” Roarke commented as he stepped into the room. “Someone should have taught you to show some respect for your elders.”

“Yeah, well, someone should have taught your guard dog to be polite to guests.”

“Guests don’t tamper with security systems, climb over walls, and skulk around private property. You are not a guest.”

Jamie deflated. It was tough to stand up under those cool blue eyes. “I wanted to see the Lieutenant. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Next time, try using the ’link,” Roarke suggested. “It’s all right, Summerset, I’ll deal with this.”

“As you wish.” Summerset shot Jamie one last withering look, then stalked, stiff-backed, out of the room.

“Where’d you find Count Boredom?” Jamie asked and slumped into a chair. “The morgue?”

Roarke sat on the arm of a sofa, took out a cigarette. “Summerset can eat runts like you for breakfast,” he said mildly and flicked on his lighter. “I’ve seen him.”

“Right.” Still Jamie sent a cautious look toward the doorway. Nothing in this house was what he’d expected, so he wouldn’t underestimate the butler. “Speaking of breakfast, you got anything to eat around here? It’s been like hours since I had anything.”

Roarke blew out smoke. “You want me to feed you now?”

“Well, you know. We got to hang anyway. Might as well eat.”

Cheeky little bastard, Roarke thought, not without admiration. Only youth, he supposed, could have an appetite after seeing what was outside the wall. “And what did you have in mind? Crêpes, an omelette, perhaps a few bowls of sugar-soaked cereal?”

“I was thinking more of pizza, maybe a burger.” He fixed on a winning smile. “My mom’s a real nutrition fanatic. We only get health shit at home.”

“It’s five in the morning, and you want pizza?”

“Pizza goes down smooth anytime.”

“You may be right.” And he thought he could use something, himself, after all. “Let’s go then.”

“It’s like a museum in here,” Jamie said as he followed Roarke into the hall with its luminous paintings and gleaming antiques. “I mean, in a good way. You must be rolling in it.”

“I must be.”

“People say you just touch something and the credits fly out.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah, and you didn’t make all of it exactly on the upside, you know? But being hooked up with a cop like Dallas, you’d have to be straight.”

“One would think,” Roarke murmured and swung through a door into a huge kitchen.

“Wow. Ultimate. You got people who, like, cook things—by hand and stuff?”

“It’s been known to happen.” Roarke watched the boy prowl, toy with controls on the compu-range, the subzero refrigerator. “It’s not going to happen this morning.” He walked to a large AutoChef. “What is it then, pizza or burger?”

Jamie grinned. “Both? I could probably drink a gallon of Pepsi.”

“We’ll start with a tube.” Roarke programmed the AutoChef, then went to the refrigerator himself. “Sit down, Jamie.”

“Frigid.” But he kept his eye on Roarke as he slid onto the padded bench of a breakfast nook.

After a short debate, Roarke punched in for two tubes, slipped them out of the door slot when they slid down. “You’ll want to contact your mother,” he said. “You can use the ’link there.”

“No.” Jamie put his hands under the table, rubbed them on his jeans. “She’s zoned. She can’t handle it. Alice. She’s tranqued out. We—the viewing’s tonight.”

“I see.” And because he did, Roarke let it drop. He handed the drink to Jamie, then took a large bubbling pizza from the AutoChef. He set it, then the burger that followed, on the table.

“Rocking A.” With the appetite of the young, Jamie grabbed the burger and bit in. “Man! Man, it’s meat,” he said with his mouth full. “It’s meat.”

It took a master not to let his mouth twitch. “You’d prefer soy?” Roarke asked politely. “Veggie?”

“No way.” Jamie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinned. “Really decent. Thanks.”

Roarke got two plates and a slicer. He went to work on the pizza. “I suppose breaking and entering stimulates the appetite.”

“I’m always hungry.” Without shame, Jamie transferred the first slice to his plate. “Mom says it’s growing pains, but I just like to eat. She’s real worried about junk intake, so I’ve got to sneak real food in. You know how moms are.”

“No, actually, I don’t. I’ll take your word.” And because he’d never been quite as young as Jamie, or quite as innocent, he took a slice for himself and prepared to enjoy watching the boy devour the rest.

“Parents are okay.” Jamie shrugged, alternating between the pizza and the burger. “I don’t see my father—not in a few years. He’s got a life over in Europe, the Morningside Community outside London.”

“Structured, programmed residential,” Roarke put in. “Very tidy.”

“Yeah, and very boring. Even the grass is programmed. He digs on it, though, him and his foxy new wife—his third already.” He jerked a shoulder, sucked on the Pepsi. “He isn’t much on the father game. It bothered Alice a lot. Me, I can take it or leave it.”

No, Roarke thought, he didn’t think so. Wounds were there. Odd what deep and permanent injury a parent could cause a child. “Your mother hasn’t married again?”

“Nah. She’s not into it. She was bummed pretty bad when he took off. I was six. I’m sixteen now, and she still thinks I’m a kid. I had to nag for weeks to get her to let me go for my vehicle license. She’s okay really. She’s just…” He trailed off, stared down at his plate as if he wondered how food had gotten there. “She doesn’t deserve this. She does the best she can. She doesn’t deserve this. She loved Grandpa. They were really tight. And now Alice. Alice was really weird, but she…”

“She was your sister,” Roarke said quietly. “You loved her.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to her.” He lifted his gaze slowly, met Roarke’s with a kind of terrifying fury. “When I find them, the one who hurt her, I’m going to kill them.”

“You want to be careful what you say, Jamie.” Eve stepped in. Her eyes were shadowed, her face pale with fatigue. Though she’d been careful, there were a few smears of blood on her jeans. “And you want to put away any thoughts of revenge and leave investigation to the cops.”

“They killed my sister.”

“It hasn’t been determined that your sister was a victim of homicide.” Eve headed to the AutoChef, programmed coffee. “And you’re in enough trouble,” she added before he could speak, “without hassling me.”

“Be smart,” Roarke said when Jamie opened his mouth again. “Be quiet.”

Peabody stood in the humming silence. She studied the boy, felt a little tug. She had a brother his age. With this in mind, she slapped on a smile. “Pizza for breakfast,” she said with determined cheer. “Got more?”

“Help yourself,” Roarke invited and patted the bench beside him in invitation. “Jamie, this is Officer Peabody.”

“My grandfather knew you.” Jamie studied her with cautious, appraising eyes.

“Did he?” Peabody picked up a slice. “I don’t think I ever met him. I knew about him, though. Everybody at Central was sorry when he died.”

“He knew about you. He told me Dallas was molding you.”

“Peabody’s a cop,” Eve broke in, “not a lump of clay.” Annoyed, she picked up the last slice of pizza, bit in. “This is cold.”

“It’s great cold.” Peabody winked at Jamie. “Nothing better than cold pizza for breakfast.”

“Eat while you can.” Respecting her own advice, Eve took another bite. “It’s going to be a long day.” She pinned Jamie with a glance. “Starting now. Until you have a guardian or representative present, I can’t record your statement or officially question you. Do you understand?”

“I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a child. I can—”

“You can be quiet,” Eve interrupted. “With or without representation, I can toss you into juvenile lockup for trespassing. If Roarke chooses to press charges—”

“Eve, really—”

“You be quiet, too.” She rounded on him, all frustration and fatigue. “This isn’t a game, it’s murder. And the media is already outside, sniffing blood. You’re not going to be able to step outside your own house without having them jump you.”

“Do you think that disturbs me?”

“It disturbs me. It damn well disturbs the hell out of me. My job doesn’t come here. It doesn’t come here.” She stopped herself, turned away.

This, she realized abruptly, was what ate at her insides, chewed at her control. There was blood on her home, and she had brought it there.

Steadier, she turned back. “That’s all beside the point for now. You have some explaining to do,” she said to Jamie. “Do you want to do it here or down at Central after I contact your mother?”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just watched her as if measuring. It was, she realized, the same look that had been in his eyes when she had told him his sister was dead. It was very adult, very controlled.

“I know who the dead guy is. His name is Lobar, and he’s one of the bastards who killed my sister. I saw him.”

chapter nine

Jamie’s eyes were fierce, furious. Eve kept hers on his as she laid her palms on the table and leaned forward. “Are you telling me that you saw Lobar kill your sister?”

Jamie’s mouth worked as if he was chewing the words, and the words were bitter. “No. But I know. I know he was one of them. I saw him with her. I saw all of them.” His chin wobbled and his voice cracked, reminding her he was only sixteen. But his eyes stayed ageless. “I got in one night. In that apartment downtown.”

“What apartment?”

“Spooky Selina and Asshole Alban.” He shrugged a shoulder, but the movement was more nervous than cocky. “I watched one of their devil shows.” His hand wasn’t quite steady as he picked up his drink and sucked down the last of the Pepsi.

“They let you observe a ceremony?”

“They didn’t let me do anything. They didn’t know I was there. You could say I let myself in.” He glanced at Roarke. “Their security isn’t nearly as jazzy as yours.”

“There’s good news.”

“You’ve been a busy boy, Jamie,” Eve said evenly. “Planning on cat burglary as a career?”

“No.” He didn’t smile. “I’m going to be a cop. Like you.”

Eve blew out a breath, scrubbed her hands over her face, and sat. “Cops who make a habit of illegal entry end up on the wrong side of a cage.”

“They had my sister.”

“Were they holding her against her will?”

“They messed with her mind. That’s the same thing.”

Touchy area, Eve mused. She couldn’t go back and stop the kid from breaking into private property. His grandfather had been a solid cop, she remembered, and had tried to do the same. The boy had simply succeeded.

“I’m going to do you a favor because I liked your grandfather. We’re going to keep this off the record. As far as the record goes, you were never there. Never inside that place. You got that?”

“Sure.” He jerked a shoulder. “Whatever.”

“Tell me what you saw. Don’t exaggerate, don’t speculate.”

Jamie’s lips curved a little. “Grandpa always said that.”

“That’s right. You want to be a cop, give me a report.”

“Okay. Cool. Alice was in Weird City, right? She’d been cutting classes, making noises about dropping out. Mom was really wrecked over it. She thought it was a guy, but I knew it wasn’t. Not that she was talking to me. She’d stopped talking to me.”

He broke off then, his eyes dark and miserable. Then he shook his head, sighed once, and continued. “But I knew her. Alice would get all moony over a guy, dreamy-eyed and spastic. But with this, she was different. I figured she’d started experimenting. Illegals. I know my mom had talked to my grandfather, and he’d talked to Alice, but nobody was getting anywhere. So I figured I’d check it out. I followed her a couple times. I thought it would be good practice. Surveillance. She never tagged me. None of them did. A lot of people don’t see kids, or if they do, they think they’re harmless idiots.”

Eve kept her eyes hard on his face. “I don’t think you’re harmless, Jamie.”

His lips twisted in a smirk. He recognized that Eve’s statement wasn’t exactly flattering. “So I tailed her to that club. The Athame. First time I had to wait outside. I wasn’t prepped for it. She went in about ten, came out about twelve, with the ghoul patrol.”

He smirked again when Eve lifted a brow. “Okay, subject exited premises in the company of three individuals, two male, one female. You already got their descriptions, so I’ll say they were later identified by investigator as Selina Cross, Alban, and Lobar. They proceeded east, on foot, then entered multiunit housing structure owned by Selina Cross. Investigator observed light go on in top window. After weighing the options, investigator decided to enter building. Security was bypassed with minimal to average effort. Can I have another Pepsi?”

Saying nothing, Roarke took the empty tube, slipped it into the recycling slot, and fetched the boy another.

“It was really quiet inside,” Jamie continued as he broke the seal. “Like dead. Dark. I had a minilight, but I didn’t use it. I got upstairs, bypassed the palm plate and the cameras. The locks weren’t that tricky. I figure they didn’t think anybody’d have the nerve to come that far without an invite, you know? I got inside and the place was empty. I couldn’t figure it. I’d seen them go in, I’d seen the light, but the place was empty. So I poked around. They’ve got some screwy stuff in there. And it smelled…off. Sorta like the incense and junk in a Free-Agers’ shop, but different. Just off. I was in one of the bedrooms. There’s this wild statue in there. This guy with a pig head and a man’s body with a really monster cock at full alert.”

He stopped, flushed a little as he remembered he was talking to females as well as cops. “Sorry.”

“I’ve seen cocks at full alert before,” Eve said mildly. “Go on.”

“Okay. So I was just sort of looking at it, and this guy comes in. I thought, Shit, I’m busted, but he didn’t see me. He got something out of a drawer, turned around, and walked out. Never even looked my way.” Jamie shook his head, sipped deeply, as he reexperienced the bowel-liquefying fear. “I got to the doorway just as he was going through the wall. Secret panel,” he explained with a quick grin. “I thought they were only in old videos. I gave it a couple of minutes and went in after him.”

At this, Eve simply pressed her hands to her face, digging her fingers into the knots. “You went in after him.”

“Yeah, my luck was holding pretty good. There’s this stairway, narrow. I think it was stone. I could hear music. Not really music, more like voices, sort of humming. And that off smell was stronger. The stairway turns and there’s this room. About half the size of this one, with mirrored walls. Lots of candles and more horny statues. It’s smoky. Something’s in the smoke, because it makes me light-headed. I try to be careful not to breathe too much in.”

He stared down at the drink in his hand. This part was hard, he realized. Harder than he’d thought it would be. “There’s this raised platform, all this carving. Some sort of words, I think, but I can’t make it out. Alice is lying on it. She’s naked. The three of them are standing over her saying something. Singing it, I guess, but I can’t understand them. They’re doing things to her, to each other.”

He had to swallow again. His face was bone white with high, red blotches on the cheeks. “They’ve got like sex toys and she’s…letting them. Both of them. And she lets them, she lets them do her while that Cross bitch watches. Alice just lets them…”

Without realizing it, Eve reached out, took his hand, let him grip her fingers hard enough to rub bone.

“I couldn’t stay there. I was sick, seeing that, and the smoke, the sounds. I had to get out.” His eyes were wet now as he looked up. “She wouldn’t have let them do that if they hadn’t messed with her mind. She wasn’t a slut. She wasn’t.”

“I know. Did you tell anyone?”

“I couldn’t.” He swiped the back of one hand over his face. “It would’ve killed my mom. I wanted to hit Alice with it, hit her hard with it. I was so pissed off. But I couldn’t. I was embarrassed I’d seen her like that, I guess. My sister.”

“It’s all right.”

“I went back to the club a couple nights later and got in.”

“They let you inside?”

“I got fake ID. Places like that, they don’t care if you look twelve if you got ID that says different. Security’s tighter there. They’ve got scanners, electronic and human, every damn where. I spotted Alice with that Lobar creep. They went upstairs, all the way up to the fancy level. I couldn’t get in, but I got close enough to see they’d disappeared again. So I figure there must be a room up there, too. Like the one in the apartment. I was working out a way to get in after hours, then Alice ditched them. She moved in with that Isis character for awhile, got her own place and that job. And she didn’t go to the club anymore, or back to the apartment.”

He let out a sigh. “I thought she’d straightened herself out, that it had gotten through what creeps they were. She talked to me a little.”

“Did she tell you about the people she’d been involved with?”

“Not really. She just said she’d made a mistake, a terrible one. That she was like, atoning, cleansing, that zip brain stuff of hers. I knew she was scared, but she talked to my grandfather, so I figured things would be mellow again. Did they kill him, too?”

“There’s no evidence of that. I’m not going to discuss it with you,” she added when he lifted his haunted eyes to hers. “And you’re not to discuss this with anyone. You’re not to go near that club or that apartment again. If you do and I find out—and I will find out—I’ll slap a security bracelet on you and you won’t be able to burp without a scanner picking it up.”

“It’s my family.”

“Yes, it is. And if you want to be a cop, you’d better learn that if you can’t be objective, you can’t do the job.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t have been objective,” Jamie said quietly. “And now he’s dead.”

She had no answer for that, so she rose. “Now the problem is getting you out of here and keeping your involvement out of the media. They’ll be watching the gate.”

“There’s always an alternative,” Roarke commented. “I’ll arrange it.”

She had no doubt he could, and nodded. “I’ve got to change, get down to Central. Peabody.” She flicked a meaningful look in Jamie’s direction. “Stand by.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She means guard dog me,” Jamie muttered as Eve and Roarke left the kitchen.

“Yeah.” But Peabody flashed a companionable smile. “Want another Pepsi?”

“I guess.”

She got up to play with the delivery slot on the fridge, helped herself to a cup of Roarke’s magnificent coffee. “So how long have you wanted to be a cop?”

“For as long as I remember.”

“Me, too.” She settled down to talk shop.

“I’ll take him out by air,” Roarke told her as he and Eve cleaned up and changed in the bedroom.

“By air?”

“I’ve been meaning to take the minichopper out for a spin, anyway.”

“This area isn’t zoned for personal choppers.”

Wisely, he disguised a laugh with a cough. “Say that again when you’re wearing your badge.”

She muttered to herself and pulled on a clean shirt. “Take him home, will you? I appreciate it. The kid’s lucky to be alive.”

“He’s resourceful, bright, focused.” Roarke smiled as he picked up the jammer, admired it. “Now, if I’d had one of these at his age…ah, the possibilities.”

“You do well enough with your magic fingers.”

“True.” He tucked the jammer in his pocket. He was going to have one of his engineers analyze and very possibly reproduce it. “I’m afraid youth today doesn’t appreciate the satisfaction of hands on. If young Jamie changes his mind about law enforcement, I think I could find a nice slot for him in my little world.”

“Don’t even mention it. You’ll corrupt him.”

Roarke picked up his slim gold wrist unit, fastened it on. “You did very well with him. Firm without being cold. A nice, authoritative, yet maternal style.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re good with children.” He grinned as she paled.

“I’d wondered.”

“Get a grip. A good strong grip,” she advised and strapped on her weapon harness. “I’m going to hit Central first, file my report, feed Whitney the data that’s not going into it. Officially, Jamie’s name isn’t going to be linked with this. I’m sure, if necessary, the two of you can work out a plausible story for his mother.”

“Child’s play,” Roarke said with tongue in cheek.

“Hmm. From my prelim, Lobar was killed at oh three thirty. That would be about an hour after we left the club. Hard to tell how long he’d been propped outside the gate, but at a guess, no more than fifteen minutes or so before Jamie happened on him. It’s not likely that whoever left Lobar hanging, let’s say, stuck around. But if they did, and spotted Jamie, he could be a target. I want the kid under surveillance, and until Whitney uncuffs me, I can’t use a cop.”

“Would you like me to put one of my trusted employees on him?”

“No, but that’s what I’m going to ask you to do.” She turned to the mirror, raked fingers through her hair in lieu of a comb. “I’m bringing this home, too many angles of it. I’m sorry.”

He walked to her, turned her around, caught her face in his hands. “You can’t separate what you do from who you are. I don’t expect or want you to. What touches you, touches me. That’s what I expect and what I want.”

“The last case that touched me almost killed you.” She wrapped her hands around his wrist, squeezed. “I need you too much. It’s your own fault.”

“Exactly.” He bent down, kissed her. “That’s what I want as well. Go to work, Lieutenant.”

“I’m going.” She strode to the door, paused, glanced back. “I don’t want to hear from Traffic that my husband was hotdogging the skyways in his minichopper.”

“You won’t. I bribe too well.”

It made her laugh as she headed back down to fetch Peabody and face the first media onslaught.

She’d no more than strapped into her vehicle when she heard the throaty purr of an expensive engine. Wincing only a little, she glanced east and saw the sleek little copter with its tinted one-way glass cabin and whirling silver blades rise, circle playfully—and illegally—before bulleting off.

“Wow! What a machine. Is that Roarke’s? Have you been up?” Peabody craned her head to try to get a last look. “That is one rapid mother.”

“Shut up, Peabody.”

“I’ve never been up in a personal.” With a wistful sigh, Peabody settled. “Makes the units Traffic use look like dog meat.”

“You used to be intimidated when I told you to shut up.”

“Those were the good old days.” Grinning, Peabody crossed her ankles. “You handled the kid really well, Lieutenant.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “I know how to interview a cooperative witness, Peabody.”

“Not everybody can handle a teenager. They’re brutal, and fragile. That one’s seen more than anyone should.”

“I know.” So had she by that age, Eve remembered. Perhaps that’s why she’d understood. “Prepare yourself, Peabody. The sharks are circling.”

Peabody grimaced at the pack of reporters crowded outside the gate. There were minicams, recorders, and hungry looks. “Gee, I hope they get my best side.”

“Tough when you’re sitting on it.”

“Thanks. I’ve been working out.” Automatically, Peabody wiped off the grin and assumed a blank, professional expression. “I don’t see Nadine,” she murmured.

“She’s around.” Eve hit the remote for the gates. “Furst wouldn’t miss this one.” She timed it, opening the gates seconds before the nose of the car would have brushed iron. Reporters streamed forward, engulfing the car, aiming their cameras, shouting their questions. One or two were ballsy or stupid enough to step onto private property. Eve took note, switched the volume on her outside speakers to blast.

“The investigation is ongoing,” she announced. “There will be an official statement at noon. Any media representative who trespasses on this property will not only be prosecuted but will be blocked from all data.”

She all but slammed the gates on scrambling feet. “Where the hell are the uniforms I left on duty?”

“Probably eaten alive by now.” Peabody stared through the reporter who plastered himself against her side of the windshield. “This one’s kind of cute, Lieutenant. Try not to damage his face.”

“His choice.” She kept driving. Someone bounced off her fender and cursed. There was a slight bump, and a very loud scream.

“That’s ten points for the foot,” Peabody commented, secretly thrilled. “See if you can swipe that one there. The woman with the yard of legs in the green suit. That’ll get you five more.”

The reporter clinging to the windshield slid off as Eve juggled the wheel. “Missed her. Well, can’t win them all.”

“Peabody.” Eve shook her head, hit the accelerator, and headed downtown. “Sometimes I worry about you.”

She wanted to see Whitney first, but wasn’t surprised to find Nadine waiting in ambush at the first-level interior glide at Central.

“Busy night, Dallas.”

“That’s right, and I’m still busy. There’ll be a press release by noon.”

“You can give me something now.” Nadine elbowed her way onto the glide. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was a sneaky one. You didn’t get to be one of the top on-air reporters in the city without some quick moves. “Just a nibble, Dallas. Something I can take to the public for my ten o’clock bumper.”

“Dead guy,” Eve said shortly, “identification withheld until next of kin are notified.”

“So you know who he was. Got any leads on who opened his throat?”

“My professional opinion would be someone with a sharp implement,” Eve said dryly.

“Um-hmm.” Nadine’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a rumor rolling around that there was a message left at the scene. And that it was a ritual killing.”

Goddamn leaks. “I can’t comment on that.”

“Wait a minute.” At the top of the glide, Nadine took Eve’s arm. “You want me to hold something, you know I’ll hold it. Give me something, and let me work.”

Trusting the media was a dicey business, but she’d trusted Nadine before. To their mutual benefit. As a research tool, Eve knew Nadine was a finely honed instrument. “If it was a ritual killing, which is not substantiated and not for broadcast, my next step would be to gather all pertinent data on established cults and their members—registered and otherwise—in the city.”

“There are all kinds of cults, Dallas.”

“Then you’d better get busy.” She shook her arm free before dropping one more crumb. “Funny, cult must be the root word for occult. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe it is.” Nadine swung to the downward glide. “I’ll let you know.”

“That was tidy,” Peabody decided.

“Let’s hope it stays that way. I’m for Whitney. I want you to find out the names of every uniform that was on scene this morning. I want to have a talk about internal security with every one of them.”

“Ouch.”

“Damn right,” Eve muttered and stalked to the elevator.

Whitney didn’t make her wait. She noted as she took her seat in his office that he didn’t appear to have slept any more than she the night before.

“Internal Affairs is beefing on the Wojinski matter. They’re pushing for an official investigation.”

“You can’t hold them off.”

“Not past end of shift today.”

“My report should help.” She took a disc out of her bag. “There is absolutely no evidence that DS Wojinsky was using illegals. There’s every indication that he was running his own sting on Selina Cross. His reasons were personal, Commander, but even IAD should understand them. I have Alice’s statement, recorded, and fully transcribed in the report. In my opinion, she had been drugged, and her naïveté exploited. She was used sexually. She became involved with the cult established by Selina Cross and Alban. And when she broke with them, she was threatened, and she was frightened. Eventually, she went to Frank.”

“Why did she break loose?”

“She claims she witnessed the ritual slaying of a child.”

“What?” His knuckles went white as he surged up from his desk. “She witnessed a murder, reported this to Frank, and he didn’t file?”

“She waited some time before telling him, Commander. There was no evidence to support her allegations. I can’t substantiate them now. But I can say that Alice believed she saw the killing. And she was terrified for her life. She also felt she was responsible for the death of her grandfather. She believed, strongly, that he had been murdered because of his private investigation of Selina Cross. Her claim was that Selina Cross has expert knowledge of chemicals and essentially poisoned Frank.”

“We don’t have enough to prove foul play.”

“Not yet. Alice was certain she would be next, and she died the same night she gave her statement to me. She also claimed Cross was a shape-shifter.”

“Excuse me?”

“She believed that Cross could take other forms. A raven, for one.”

“She thought Cross could become a crow and fly? Jesus, Dallas, the boys in IAD are going to love that one.”

“It doesn’t have to be real for her to have believed it. She was a terrified young girl, tormented by these people. I found a black feather on her windowsill the night she died—a simulated feather, and there was a threatening message on her ’link. They were tormenting her, Commander. There’s no mistake there. What Frank did, he did to try to protect his family. Maybe he went about it wrong, but he was a good cop. He died a good cop. IAD isn’t going to change that.”

“We’ll make sure they don’t.” He locked the disc away. “For now, this stays here.”

“Feeney—”

“Not at this time, Lieutenant.”

Damn if she’d be brushed off like a fly, she thought, and set her jaw. “Commander, my investigation to this point discloses absolutely no connection between DS Wojinski’s private investigation and Captain Feeney. I can find no evidence that Feeney tampered with any records for Frank.”

“Do you actually believe Feeney would leave evidence, Dallas?”

She kept her eyes level. “I’d know if he was involved. He’s grieving for both his friend and his goddaughter, and he doesn’t know anything other than the official line on either. He doesn’t know, Commander, and he has a right to.”

It was going to cost them, Whitney knew. All of them. But it couldn’t be helped. “I can’t take his personal rights into consideration, Lieutenant. Believe me, IAD won’t. All data here is on need-to-know only. It’s a rough spot. You’ll have to handle it.”

It ate a hole in her gut, but she nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

“What connection is this to the body left outside your home this morning?”

Left with no choice, she fell back on training and delivered data. “Robert Mathias, known as Lobar, white male, eighteen years. My report on cause of death is the throat wound, but the body was also mutilated. The victim was a member of Cross’s cult. I also interviewed him last night at his place of employment. A club called The Athame, owned by Selina Cross.”

“People you talk to are ending up dead very quickly, Dallas.”

“He was Cross’s alibi for the night Alice was killed. Hers and Alban’s. He corroborated this during questioning.” She opened her bag. “He wasn’t killed at the scene, and he was left there in a manner designed to indicate a ritual killing.” She placed one of the death stills on Whitney’s desk.

“The murder weapon was likely the knife he’s got stuck in his groin. It’s an athame—a ritual knife. Supposedly, Wiccans dull the blade and use it only for symbolism.” She took out another shot, a close-up of the note. “The message appears to indicate the murder was done by an enemy of the Church of Satan.”

“Church of Satan,” Whitney muttered. The death photo didn’t sicken him, it tired him. He’d seen far too many. “The ultimate oxymoron. Someone took a dislike to the practices and took him out.”

“The scene was set that way. It’s possible, and I’ve got a couple of lines I can tug on that angle.”

He looked up from the photo. “You’re thinking Cross had a hand in this. She’d execute her own alibi.”

“She’d execute her own progeny if she had any. I think she’s smart,” Eve continued. “And I think she’s crazy. I’ll be consulting with Mira on that end. But I also think she’d get a real bang out of doing this, out of rubbing it in my face. She didn’t need him anymore. I had his statement.”

Whitney nodded, pushed the photos back to her. “Talk to her again. And this Alban.”

“Yes, sir.” She put the photos away. “There’s more. It’s…delicate.”

“What?”

“I’ve deleted any reference to this from the official report. Slightly altered the timing. For the record, Roarke and I were awakened by the security alarm, which was tripped when the body was placed against the perimeter wall. Off the record, we didn’t discover the body initially. Jamie Lingstrom did.”

“Jesus,” Whitney said after a long minute. He pressed his fingers over his eyes. “How?”

Eve cleared her throat and gave a quick and concise report of everything that took place after the alarm. She concluded with what Jamie had told her at the breakfast table.

“I don’t know how much of that you want to feed to IAD. Jamie’s statement corroborates Alice’s contention that Frank was trying to trap Cross.”

“I’ll filter out what I can.” He continued to rub his eyes. “First his granddaughter, now his grandson.”

“I think I shook him enough to keep him in line.”

“Dallas, teenagers are remarkably hard to shake. I’ve been there.”

“I do want him to have some protection, as well as surveillance. Using my own judgment, I’m arranging for this privately.”

Whitney lifted a brow. “You mean Roarke’s arranging it?”

Eve folded her hands. “The boy will be watched.”

“We’ll leave it at that.” He leaned back. “A homemade, hand-held jammer, you said? One the kid jerry-rigged that managed to bypass the outer layers of the security on that fortress you live in?”

“So it would seem.”

“Where is it? You didn’t give it back to him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said as if she’d been slapped on the wrist. “Roarke has it.” And as she completed the sentence, and the thought, her training slipped enough for her to wince.

“Roarke has it.” Despite the situation, Whitney threw back his head and laughed. “Oh that’s rich. You gave the wolf the key to the henhouse.” He caught her narrow-eyed scowl and muffled the next chuckle. “Just trying for a little levity, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. Ha ha. I’ll get it back.”

“No offense, Dallas, but if you’re taking bets, I’ve got a hundred I’ll put on Roarke. In any case, unofficially, the department appreciates his assistance and cooperation.”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t relay that. It’ll only go to his head.” Recognizing dismissal, she rose. “Commander, Frank was clean. IAD is going to confirm that. Whether his death was of natural causes or induced is going to be more difficult to establish. I could use Captain Feeney.”

“You know you don’t need Feeney on this, Dallas, not in an investigative sense. I appreciate your feelings, but this stays here until further notice. You might find yourself sitting in this chair one day,” he said and watched her brow furrow in surprise. “Difficult decisions sit here with you. And giving unpleasant orders is every bit as frustrating as taking them. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir.” She walked out, knowing that she didn’t want his chair, his rank, or his responsibilities.

chapter ten

Her first duty was to inform Lobar’s next of kin. Once it was done, Eve spent a few moments pondering family. They hadn’t cared. The woman’s face on-screen had stayed blank, as if Eve had informed her of the death of a stranger rather than a son she had birthed and raised. She had thanked Eve politely, asked no questions, agreed that the remains be sent home when released.

They would, she’d said, give him a decent, Christian burial.

She imagined they would have done the same for a family pet.

What calcified the feelings to that extent? she wondered. If there had been feelings to begin with. What made one mother grieve so pitifully, as Alice’s mother was, and another take the news of her child’s death without a single tear?

What had her own mother felt on her birth? Had she been happy, or simply relieved to have the nine-month intruder finally evicted from her body?

She had no memory of a mother, not even some shadowy female form in her life. Only of her father, of the man who had dragged her from place to place, kept her in locked rooms. Who had raped her. And the memories of him, after so many years of denial, were much too clear.

Perhaps some people were fated to survive without family, she thought. Or simply to survive them.

Because her thoughts were dark, it was with mixed feelings she called Dr. Mira’s office for a consultation. After she’d managed to intimidate Mira’s assistant into squeezing her in the next day, she grabbed her bag, beeped Peabody, and headed out.

She didn’t miss Peabody’s wary expression as they pulled up in front of Selina’s apartment, but she ignored it. It was starting to rain, a nasty, surprisingly cold drip out of suddenly leaden skies. The wind was up, whistling down the long canyon of street and biting where it struck exposed flesh.

On the opposite sidewalk, a man rushed east, huddled under a black umbrella. He turned quickly into a shop with a grinning skull and the words The Arcane painted on the door.

“Perfect day to pay a visit to Satan’s handmaid.” Peabody strained for false cheer and surreptitiously fingered a bit of Saint-John’s-wort she’d stuck in her pocket. Her mother’s advice for protection against black magic. The stalwart Peabody had discovered she believed in witches after all.

They went through the same routine with security, only the wait was longer and more unpleasant as the rain began to stream down in earnest. Nasty forks of lightning jabbed at the sky, their tines bright bloodred at the edges.

Eve glanced up, then back at her aide. Her smile was hard and cold. “Yeah, perfect.”

They trailed water into the lobby, into the elevator, and into the foyer of Selina Cross’s apartment.

And it was Alban who greeted them. “Lieutenant Dallas.” He offered a beautifully sculptured hand graced with a single ring of thick brushed silver. “I’m Alban, Selina’s companion. I’m afraid she’s meditating at the moment. I hesitate to disturb her.”

“Let her meditate. You’ll do for now.”

“Well then, come in and sit down. Please.” His manner was sophisticated, faintly formal, and at odds with the bare-chested black leather unisuit he wore. “Can I get you something? Some tea perhaps to ward off the chill. Such an interesting change in the weather.”

“Nothing.” Eve thought she’d have preferred a quick hit of Zeus to anything brewed in that place.

The gloom suited it, she decided. The dank light, the wicked hiss of rain and wind on the windows. Then there was Alban, with his pretty poet’s face and warrior god body. A perfect fallen angel.

“I’d like your whereabouts for last night between the hours of three hundred and five hundred hours.”

“Three and five A.M.?” He blinked as if translating the military time. “Last night—or this morning, rather. Why, here. I think we got back from the club a bit before two. We haven’t been out yet today.”

“We?”

“Selina and myself. We had a coven meeting, which concluded around three. We cut it a little short as Selina wasn’t feeling herself. Normally, we might entertain afterwards, or continue with a smaller, more private rite.”

“But you didn’t do so last night.”

“No. As I said, Selina wasn’t feeling well, so we went to bed early. Early for us,” he explained with a smile. “We’re night people.”

“Who attended the coven meeting?”

His smile shifted into a serious, almost studious expression. “Lieutenant, religion is a private matter. And still in this day and age, one such as ours is persecuted. Our membership prefers discretion.”

“One of your membership was indiscreetly murdered last night.”

“No.” He rose, slowly, keeping his hand braced on the arm of his chair as if unsteady. “I knew it was something horrible. She was so disturbed.” He took a deep breath as if preparing both mind and body. “Who?”

“Lobar.” Selina said the name as she stepped through a narrow archway. She was deathly pale, her cat’s eyes shadowed. She wore her black hair loose today, with a wide dip over generous breasts. “It was Lobar,” she repeated. “I saw it just now, in the smoke. Alban.” She pressed a hand to her head, swayed.

“Quite a show,” Eve murmured as Alban rushed across the room to catch her, to hold her against him. “You saw it in the smoke.” Eve cocked her head. “That’s handy. Maybe I should take a look at the smoke myself, see who cut his throat.”

“There’s nothing in the smoke for you but your own ignorance.” Leaning on Alban, Selina walked slowly to the sofa. She sat with a rustle of her robes, lifted a hand to Alban’s. “I’m all right.”

“My love.” He brought her hand to his lips. “I’ll get you a soother.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.”

She bowed her head while he went quietly out. Oh, it was hard to keep a cat grin off her face, to stop the glorious images from playing back in her brain of the rite, the sacrifice, the blood.

And only she and Alban knew of the excitement, the power of that moment when Lobar had been offered to the master.

Only she fully understood the thrill of making that sacrifice with her own hand. She shuddered once with dark pleasure, stirred by the memory. The way Lobar’s eyes had met hers, the way the athame had fit cold in her hand. Then the hot fountain of blood when she’d used it.

Imagining the shock, the fury Eve must have felt when she’d found Lobar so carefully positioned at the entrance to her own sanctuary, Selina nearly snickered. She pressed her fingers to her lips a moment, as if holding back a sob.

Alban was a genius, she thought, for truly only a genius would have created such beautiful irony.

“Visions can be a blessing or a curse.” She continued in a voice strained with weariness. “I prefer to think of them as blessings, even when they cause me sorrow. Lobar is a heavy loss.”

“Laying it thick, aren’t you?”

Selina’s head shot up, and her eyes glimmered with something more of hate than grief. “Don’t mock my feelings, Dallas. Do you think power such as mine means I don’t have them? I feel, I experience. I bleed,” she added and, with a lightning movement, raked one of her long, lethal nails over her own palm. Blood welled dark and red.

“A demonstration wasn’t necessary,” Eve said easily. “I know you bleed. Lobar certainly did.”

“His throat. Yes, that’s what I saw in the smoke.” She reached out for Alban when he came in, carrying a shallow silver bowl. “But there was more. Something else.” She took the bowl, tipped it up to her lips. “Mutilation. Oh, how they despise us.”

“They?”

“The weak and the white.”

She took a black swatch of cloth from the pocket of her robe, passed it to Alban. He lifted her injured hand, raised it to his lips. With quick efficiently, he bound up her wounded palm. Selina never spared him a glance.

“Those who view our master with hate,” she continued. “And more, those who practice the magic of the foolish.”

“So, in your opinion, this was a religious murder?”

“Of course; I have no doubt.” She finished the soother, set the bowl aside. “Do you?”

“Quite a number of them; but then, I have to investigate the old-fashioned way. I can’t call up the devil and ask for a consult. Lobar was here last night.”

“Yes, until nearly three. He would have taken the mark soon.” Selina sighed, idly running her red-tipped nails up and down Alban’s arm. “One of his last acts was to join his body with mine.”

“You had sex with him last night.”

“Yes. Sex is an important part of our rituals. I chose him last night.” She shuddered again because the choice had been hers. And the deed. “Something must have told me.”

“A bird maybe. A big black bird.” Lifting a brow, Eve studied Alban. “So, it’s no problem with you to watch while other men have sex with your…companion. Most men are a little territorial. They might harbor unhealthy resentments.”

“We don’t believe in monogamy. We find it limiting and foolish. Sex is pleasure, and we don’t put restrictions on our pleasures. Consensual sex in a private home or licensed club isn’t against your laws, Lieutenant.” He smiled. “I’m sure you engage in it yourself.”

“You like to watch, Alban?”

His brows lifted. “Is that an invitation?” At Selina’s quick chuckle, he shifted and took her hand. “There, you’re feeling better now.”

“Grief passes, doesn’t it, Selina?”

“It must,” she agreed, nodding at Eve. “Life is to be lived. You’ll look for who did this, and perhaps you’ll find them. But the punishment of our master is greater and more terrible than any you could invent.”

“Your master isn’t my concern. Murder is. Since you have an interest in the deceased, maybe you’ll let me take a look around.”

“Get a warrant, and you’re welcome.” The tranq had clouded her eyes, but her voice was strong enough when she stood. “You’re more a fool than I originally thought if you believe I had anything to do with this. He was one of ours. He was loyal. It is against the law to harm a loyal member of the cult.”

“And he talked to me last night in a privacy booth. Did the smoke tell you what he told me, Selina?”

Her eyes shifted, darkened. “You’ll have to find other waters to fish in, Dallas. I’m tired, Alban. Show them out.” She glided a way, back through the arch.

“There’s nothing we can do for you, Lieutenant. Selina needs to rest.” He glanced toward the arch, worry in his eyes. “I need to tend her.”

“Got you trained, does she?” With light disdain coating her voice, Eve rose. “Do you do tricks, too?”

Sadly, he shook his head. “My devotion to Selina is personal. She has powers, and the powerful have needs. I meet hers, gratefully.” He walked back into the foyer, opened the door. “We would like to take Lobar’s body when it’s possible. We have our death ceremony.”

“So does his family, and they come ahead of you.”

“What do we have on this Alban?” Eve demanded the moment they were outside in the now drenching rain.

“Next to nothing.” Peabody ducked into the car and immediately felt more at ease. She knew it was foolish to hope she never had to go back inside that building, but she hoped in any case. “No priors, next to no background. If he was born with a name other than Alban, it doesn’t pop.”

“There’s more. There’s always more.”

Not so, Eve thought, drumming her fingers against the wheel. She’d once investigated another suspicious character and had found little to nothing. His only name was Roarke.

“Look again,” she ordered and pulled away from the curb.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she continued while Peabody plugged in her data unit. “There’s next to no traffic on this block. Turn the corner…” She did so and immediately hit a snarl of nasty and comforting vehicular traffic, bumping bad-temperedly through the rain. People hustled along sidewalks and glides, huddled in doorways. Two glide-cart operators on opposing corners hunched under ratty awnings and scowled at each other.

“People have instincts they’re not even aware of.” Still less than comfortable, Peabody glanced back, as if expecting something not quite human might be scrabbling behind them. “There’s a bad feeling around that building.”

“It’s brick and glass.”

“Yeah, but places tend to take on the personalities of the people who live in them.”

A car turned the corner ahead, blasting its horn at the sea of pedestrians who streamed across against the go light. Insults were cheerfully hurled both verbally and through equally graphic hand signals. Someone spat.

Steam poured up through the vents from the underground system in dirty clouds. It tangled thickly with the smoke belching from a ratty and obviously under code glida grill fighting its way through the mass of wet humanity. A level up, the nearest skywalk shuddered to a halt and sent all its passengers into a riot of cursing and complaints.

Overhead, a tourist blimp blasted out a spiel of the advantages and highlights of living in an urban wonderland.

Peabody took a cleansing breath, pleased to be back in the midst of the arrogant and crowded New York she understood. “Take Roarke’s place,” she continued. “It’s grand and elegant and intimidating, but it’s also sexy and mysterious.” She was too busy fiddling with the unit to notice the amused look Eve shot her. “My parents’ place? It’s all open and warm and a little confused.”

“What about your place, Peabody? What’s that?”

“Temporary,” Peabody said definitely. “Dallas, your car unit isn’t cooperating here. I should be able to transfer data to—” She broke off as Eve leaned over, smacked the dash above the car screen. An image popped on, wobbling drunkenly. “That’s some better,” Peabody decided and requested a run on Alban.

Alban—no known alternate name—born 3-22-2020 Omaha, Nebraska.

“Funny,” Eve interrupted, “he didn’t look corn fed.”

ID number, the computer continued with a definite hiccup in its program, 31666-LRT-99. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. No known means of support. No financial data available.

“Interesting. Sounds like he’s leeching off Selina. Criminal records, all arrests.”

No criminal record.

“Education?”

Unknown.

“Our boy’s wiped, or had somebody wipe records,” Eve told Peabody. “You don’t get to be nearly forty years old without generating more data than this. He’s got connections somewhere.”

She needed Feeney, she thought grumpily. Feeney could tickle the computer and trick additional data. Instead, she was going to have to go to Roarke and add another layer to his involvement.

“Well, shit.” She pulled up in front of Spirit Quest, frowned at the Closed sign on the door. “Run up for a look-see, Peabody. Maybe she’s inside.”

“Got an umbrella or a rain shield?”

Eve arched a brow. “Are you trying to be funny?”

Peabody only sighed, then pushed out of the car. She plodded and splashed through the rain, peered into windows. Shivering a little, she turned back, shook her soaking head, then groaned when Eve jerked a thumb toward the apartment over the shop. Resigned, Peabody trudged around the side, climbed a set of rickety metal stairs. Moments later, she was back, streaming water.

“No answer,” she told Eve. “Minimal security. Unless you count the swatch of Saint-John’s-wort over the entrance.”

“She has a swatch of warts? That’s disgusting.”

“Not warts.” Despite her wet uniform and dripping hair, Peabody indulged in a good laugh. “It’s a plant. Saint-John’s-wort.” Amused enough, she dug into her pocket for her sprig. “Like this. It’s for protection. Guards against evil.”

“You carry plants in your pocket, Officer?”

“I do now.” Peabody pushed it back in her pocket. “Want some?”

“No, thanks, I prefer trusting my weapon to guard against evil.”

“I consider this my clutch piece.”

“Whatever works for you.” Eve scanned the area. “Let’s try that café place across the street. Maybe they know why she’s closed in the middle of a business morning.”

“Maybe they’ve got decent coffee,” Peabody said and sneezed twice, hard. “If I catch a cold, I’ll kill myself. It takes me weeks to throw one of those suckers off.”

“Maybe you need a plant to cart around that wards off common germs.” Leaving it at that, Eve hopped out of the car, coded the locks, and jogged across the street into Coffee Ole.

The stab at a Mexican theme wasn’t bad, she decided. Bright colors—heavy on orange—gave it a sunny appearance even on a filthy day. It might have fallen far short of Roarke’s gorgeous villa on the west coast of Mexico, but it had a certain tacky charm with its plastic flowers and papier-maˆché bulls. Bright mariachi music piped through the speakers.

Either the rain or the ambiance had brought in a crowd. But as Eve scanned the room, she noted that the people packed around tables weren’t wolfing down plates of enchiladas. Most were huddled over single stingy cups of what smelled remotely like overboiled soy coffee.

“Baseball’s closing in on the league titles, isn’t it, Peabody?”

Peabody sneezed again. “Baseball? I guess. Arena ball’s my game.”

“Uh-huh. Seems to me there a pennant race going on. Pivotal game today. I imagine lots of money’s going to change hands.”

Peabody’s head was starting to feel stuffy—a very bad sign—but it was still clear enough for her to latch on. “You figure this is a front, an illegal betting parlor.”

“Just a hunch. We may be able to use it.” She sidled up to the counter, tagged a harassed-looking man. Short of stature, dark of complexion, weary of eye.

“Eat in or carry out?”

“Neither,” she began, then relented as she heard Peabody sniffle. “One coffee, for her. And a couple of answers.”

“I’ve got coffee.” He swiveled around to plug thick dark brew into a cup barely bigger than a thimble. “I got no answers.”

“Maybe you should hear the questions.”

“Lady, I got a full house here. I serve coffee. I got no time for conversation.” He dumped the cup on the counter and would have backed away, but Eve snagged his wrist. “What are the house odds on the game today?”

His eyes shifted left and right before settling on her face. But he’d spotted Peabody and her uniform. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, if me and my pal here settle in for a few hours, your business is going into the recycler. Personally, I don’t give a good damn about your business, any of your business. But I could.” Still holding his wrist, she turned her head and stared hard at two of the men seated at the counter.

It took less than ten seconds for them to decide to drink coffee elsewhere. “How long do you think it’d take me to clear this place out?”

“What do you want? I make my contribution. I’m covered.”

She let him go. It annoyed her to find out that he had cop protection. Didn’t surprise her, just annoyed. “I’m not going to interfere unless you irritate me. Tell me about the shop across the street. Spirit Quest.”

He snorted, visibly relaxed. She wasn’t after him. Feeling cooperative, he refilled Peabody’s cup, then picked up a rag and wiped the counter. He ran a clean place. “The witch? She don’t come in here. Don’t drink coffee, if you know what I mean.”

“She’s closed today.”

“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes to try to see through the window, through the rain. “Not usually.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Shit.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Let’s see. Seems I saw her yesterday. Closing time? Yeah, yeah, she closes about six, and I was washing the front windows. You gotta keep on the windows in this city. Dirt just jumps right on them.”

“I bet. She closed about six. Then what?”

“Went off with that guy she lives with. Walking. They don’t got transpo.”

“You haven’t seen her today?”

“Now that you mention it, guess not. She lives up above, you know. Me, I live across town. Keep business and personal life separate, that’s my motto.”

“Any of her people ever come over here?”

“Nah. Some of her customers, sure. And some of mine go over there looking for lucky charms. We bump along okay. She ain’t no problem for me. Even bought the wife a birthday present over there. Pretty little bracelet, colored stones. Kinda stiff in the price, but women like that glitter shit.”

He tossed the rag aside and ignored the request for coffee from down the counter. “Look, she in trouble? She’s okay in my book. Weird maybe, but ain’t no harm in her.”

“What do you know about the girl who used to work there? Young girl, about eighteen. Blonde.”

“The spooky one? Sure, I used to see her come and go. Always looking over her shoulder that one, like somebody was going to jump out and say boo.”

Someone did, Eve thought. “Thanks. If you see Isis come back today, give me a call.” She slipped a card onto the counter along with credits for the coffee.

“No problem. Wouldn’t like to see her get in trouble, though. She’s okay for a whacko. Hey.” He lifted a finger as Eve started to turn. “Speaking of whackos, I saw one a couple of nights ago when I was closing up.”

“What sort of whacko?”

“Just a guy. Well, might have been a woman. Couldn’t tell ’cause they was all wrapped up in this black robe, hood and everything. Just standing there on the curb, staring across the street at her place. Just standing and staring. Gave me the creeps. I walked the other way. Twice as far to the bus stop, but I didn’t like the feel of it. And you know what? I looked back, and there wasn’t no one there. Nothing but a damn cat. Whacko, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eve murmured. “Whacko.”

“I saw a cat,” Peabody began when they headed back to the car, “on the street when Alice was killed.”

“There are lots of cats in the city.”

But Eve remembered the one on the ramp. Sleek and black and mean. “We’ll follow up with Isis later. I want to check with the ME before I feed the statement to the media.” She uncoded the car as Peabody sneezed again. “Maybe he’ll have something for that cold.”

Peabody rubbed her hand under her nose. “I’d just as soon stop by a pharmacy, if you don’t mind. I don’t want Dr. Death treating me until absolutely necessary.”

After she was back in her office and Peabody was off changing into a dry uniform and dosing herself with a small fortune of over-the-counters, Eve studied the autopsy report on Lobar.

She’d had the time of death right in the prelim, and the cause. Then again, she mused, it was tough to miss a mile-wide gash in the throat and a crater in the chest. And, fancy that, there had been traces of a hallucinogen, a stimulant, and a mind hazer—all of the illegals variety—in his bloodstream.

So he’d died sexually fulfilled and zoned. Some, she imagined, would say that wasn’t such a bad deal. But then, most of them hadn’t had a knife raked over their throats.

She lifted the sealed weapon, studied it. No prints, of course, and none expected. No blood on it but for the victim’s. She studied the carved black handle, scanning the symbols and letters that meant nothing to her. It appeared to be old and rare, but she doubted that would help her pin ownership. The blade was under legal limit, required no registration.

Still, she would check antique shops, knife shops, and, she supposed, witch shops. That would only take weeks, she thought in disgust, and was unlikely to lead anywhere.

Since she had twenty minutes before she had to face the media, she turned to her machine and got started. She’d no more than plugged in the description of the weapon when Feeney walked in, shut her door.

“Heard you had a rude awakening this morning.”

“Yeah.” Her stomach clutched, not in memory of what had come into her home, but at knowing she would have to weigh every word with him. “Not the kind of package I like to receive.”

“You need help on it?” He smiled wanly. “I’m looking for busywork.”

“I’ve got it covered for now, but I’ll let you know.”

He paced to her narrow window, back to her door. He looked exhausted, she thought. So tired. So sad.

“What’s the story? Did you know the guy?”

“Not really.” Oh, Christ, what did she do here? “I’d talked to him once about a case I was on. Didn’t pan out. Could be he knew more than he was telling me. It’s going to be hard to say now.” She took a deep breath, hating herself. “I figure it was someone who wanted to take a swipe at me or Roarke. Most cops can keep their home addresses quiet. I can’t.” She shrugged.

“Price you pay for falling for a public figure. You happy?” he said abruptly and turned to study her face.

“Sure.” She wondered if guilt was plastered on her forehead like a neon sign.

“Good. Good.” He paced again, jiggling the bag of nuts he habitually carried in his pocket and no longer seemed to have the appetite for. “It’s tough to be on the job and make a decent personal life. Frank did.”

“I know.”

“Alice’s viewing is tonight. You going to make it?”

“I don’t know, Feeney. I’ll try.”

“It rips me, Dallas. It really rips me. My wife’s with Brenda now. She’s wrecked. Just wrecked. I couldn’t handle it anymore so I came in. But I can’t focus.”

“Why don’t you go back home, Feeney?” She rose, reached out to touch his arm. “Just go home. Maybe you and your wife could go away for a few days. You’ve got the time coming. Get away from this.”

“Maybe.” His eyes were bleak, heavy with bags. “But where do you go to get away from what’s always there?”

“Listen, Roarke’s got this place in Mexico. It’s great.” She was fumbling and knew it, desperate to give. “It’s got a monster view, and it’s fully equipped. It would be.” She managed a smile. “It’s Roarke’s. I’ll square it with him. You can go there, take your family.”

“Take the family.” He repeated it slowly, finding the idea was almost soothing. “Maybe I will. You never seem to make time to be with your family. I’ll think about it,” he decided. “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing. It’s Roarke. It’s just there.” She turned blindly toward her desk. “I’m sorry, Feeney, I’ve got to get it together for a media statement.”

“Sure.” He worked up a smile for her. “I know how much you love that. I’ll let you know about using the place.”

“Yeah, do that.” She stared hard at her screen until he went out. She’d followed orders, she reminded herself. She’d done the right thing.

So why did it make her feel like a traitor?

chapter eleven

She made the tail end of the viewing, grateful that Roarke had come with her. It was too familiar, the same memorial parlor, the same scents, many of the same people.

“I hate this,” she murmured. “Sanitized death.”

“It comforts.”

Eve looked over to where Brenda was supported by her mother and her son while tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She had the glazed and delicate look of the heavily medicated.

“Does it?”

“It closes,” he corrected and took her cold hand in his. “For some.”

“When it’s my turn, don’t do this. Recycle the parts, burn the rest. Get it done.”

He felt the fist clutch around his heart and gave her hand a hard squeeze. “Don’t.”

“Sorry. I tend to have morbid thoughts in places like this. Well.” Her room scan stopped when she spotted Isis. “There’s my witch.”

Roarke followed her gaze and studied the imposing woman with flame-colored hair and wearing a simple robe of pure white. She stood by the viewing box beside a man a full head shorter than she. He wore a plain, almost conservative suit, also in white. Their fingers were linked.

“The man with her?”

“I don’t know him. Might be a member of her sect or whatever. Let’s check it out.”

They moved across the room and by tacit agreement, flanked the couple. Eve looked down at Alice first, at the young face, composed now. Death had a way of relaxing the features. After the insult had passed.

“She’s not here.” Isis spoke quietly. “Her spirit still searches for peace. I’d hoped…I’d hoped to find her here. I’m sorry I missed you today, Dallas. We were closed in Alice’s memory.”

“You weren’t at home, either.”

“No, we gathered at another place, for our own ceremony. The man across the street told me you’d been looking for me.” A faint smile wisped around her mouth. “He was concerned that I had a cop on my trail. He has a good heart, despite a certain imbalance.”

She stepped back to introduce the man beside her. “This is Chas. My mate.”

Training kept Eve’s eyes bland, but she was surprised. He was as ordinary as Isis was spectacular. His hair was a washed-out blond, thin in texture. His body was almost fragile, narrow in the shoulders, short in the leg. His square, unremarkable face was stopped just short of homely by a pair of surprisingly lovely deep gray eyes. When he smiled, it was with a sweetness that demanded a smile in return.

“I’m sorry to meet you under such sad circumstances. Isis told me you were a very strong and purposeful soul. I see she was right, as always.”

She nearly blinked at his voice. It was a deep, creamy baritone any opera singer would have wept for. She caught herself watching his mouth move and imagining a ventriloquist’s dummy. It wasn’t a voice that should have come out of that body and that face.

“I need to talk to you both as soon as possible.” She glanced around, wished for a discreet way to slip out and conduct an interview. It would have to wait. “This is Roarke.”

“Yes, I know.” Isis offered a hand. “We’ve met before.”

“Have we?” His smile was politely curious. “I can’t imagine forgetting meeting a beautiful woman.”

“Another time, another place.” Her eyes stayed on his. “Another life. You saved mine once.”

“That was wise of me.”

“Yes, it was. And kind. Perhaps someday you’ll revisit the county of Cork and see a small stone dance alone in a fallow field…and you’ll remember.” She slipped the silver cross she wore off her neck, handed it to him. “You gave me a talisman then. Similar to this Celtic cross. I suppose that’s why I wore it tonight. To close a circle.”

The metal was warmer against his hand than it should have been, and it stirred something in cloudy memory he didn’t care to explore. “Thank you.” He slipped it into his pocket.

“One day I may return the favor you did me.” She turned to Eve then. “I’ll speak with you whenever you like. Chas?”

“Of course, whenever it’s convenient for you, Lieutenant Dallas. Will you attend our ceremony? We’d very much like to share it with you. Night after next. We have a small place upstate. It’s quiet and private and, when the weather cooperates, perfect for outdoor rites. I hope you—”

He broke off, his stunning eyes going dark. His thin body shifting to what Eve recognized immediately as a guard stance. “He’s not one of us,” he said.

She glanced around, spotted a man in a dark suit. His face was cell-block white and framed by a black wedge of hair. The suit was expensive, his skin wan, making him appear both sickly and successful.

He started toward the viewing box, saw the group already there. In one jerky move he turned on his heel and hurried out.

“I’ll check it out.”

She was moving quickly when Roarke caught up with her. “We’ll check it out.”

“It would be better if you stayed inside with them.”

“I’m staying with you.”

She only shot him a frustrated look. “Don’t cramp my style.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The retreating man was nearly at a run as he hit the door. Eve only had to touch his arm to have him jolt. “What? What do you want?” He whirled, pressing the door for release, backing out of it into the rainy night. “I haven’t done anything.”

“No? He sure looks guilty for an innocent man, doesn’t he?” She took a firmer grip on his arm to keep him from rabbiting away. “Maybe you should show me some ID.”

“I don’t have to show you anything.”

“It’s not necessary,” Roarke said smoothly. He’d gotten a better look now. “Thomas Wineburg, isn’t it? Of Wineburg Financial. You’ve nabbed yourself a deadly type here, Lieutenant. A banker. Third generation. Or is it fourth?”

“It’s fifth,” Wineburg said, struggling to look down his narrow nose at what his family would consider new and not quite decent money. “And I’ve done nothing to warrant being accosted by a police officer and a financial rogue.”

“I’m the cop,” Eve decided glancing at Roarke. “You must be the financial rogue.”

“He’s just mad because I don’t use his bank.” Roarke flashed a wolfish grin. “Aren’t you, Tommy?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, then, you can talk to me. What’s the rush?”

“I—I have an appointment I’d forgotten. I’m quite late.”

“Then a couple more minutes won’t matter. Are you a friend of the deceased’s family?”

“No.”

“Oh, I get it, you just like to while away a rainy evening at a viewing parlor. I’ve heard that’s the coming thing for singles.”

“I—I’d mistook the address.”

“I don’t think so. What did you come to see? Or who?”

“I—” His eyes widened when Isis and Chas stepped out. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m sorry, Dallas. We were concerned when you didn’t come back.” Isis turned her exotic eyes on Wineburg. “Your aura is dark and muddy. You dabble without belief. Toy with power beyond your scope. If you don’t change your path, you damn yourself.”

“Keep her away from me.” Straining against Eve’s grip, Wineburg cringed back.

“She’s not hurting you. What do you know about Alice’s death, Wineburg?”

“I don’t know anything.” His voice went shrill. “I don’t know anything about anything. I mistook the address. I have an appointment. You can’t hold me.”

No, she couldn’t, but she could scare the hell out of him. “I could take you down to Central, play with you awhile before your representative managed to get there. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“I haven’t done anything.” To Eve’s surprise and mild disgust, he began to sob like a baby. “You have to let me go. I’m not part of this.”

“Part of what?”

“It was just for sex. That’s all. Just for sex. I didn’t know anybody would die. Blood everywhere. Everywhere. Dear God. I didn’t know.”

“Where? What have you seen?”

He continued to sob, and when she started to shift her grip, he rammed his bony elbow hard into her gut, sending her flying violently back into Roarke so that they both hit the pavement.

Later, she could curse herself for letting him catch her off guard with his sniveling. But for now, she scrambled up, struggling to suck in air and gave chase.

Son of a bitch. She could only think it. He’d knocked the wind out of her and prevented her from swearing aloud or shouting out an order for him to freeze.

She reached for her weapon just as he dove into an underground garage and darted into the forest of vehicles.

“Shit.” She had enough air for that, then snarled at Roarke as he rushed in behind her. “Get out. Damn it, he’s probably not armed, but you’re sure as hell not. Call it in if you want to do something.”

“The day I let a pissant banker knock me on my ass and walk away has not come.” He veered off to circle around and left her scowling at him.

The security lights were blinding, but the opportunity for cover was endless. Echoes of running footsteps bounced off the floor and walls and ceiling. Trusting instinct, she moved left.

“Wineburg, you aren’t helping yourself. You’ve got assaulting an officer on you now. You come out without making me dig you out, I might cut you a break.”

Crouched, she swung toward the narrow opening between cars, scanned under, behind, moved on.

“Roarke, hold still a minute, goddamn it, so I can tag location.” The echoes softened a bit, allowing her to strain her ears and venture farther to the left at running speed. He was heading up, she decided, hoping to lose himself on the next level.

She darted up the first ramp, then whirled and braced, weapon aimed, when footsteps pounded behind her. “I should have known,” was all she said as Roarke passed her. She dug in and continued pursuit. “He’s heading up,” she snapped out. “He keeps going, he’ll corner himself. All the idiot has to do is stop, lay low. It would take a fucking platoon to find him in here.”

“He’s scared. When you’re scared, you run away.” He glanced at Eve, and felt ridiculously exhilarated as they hit the next ramp. “Or some do.”

Then the footsteps silenced. Eve threw out an arm to hold Roarke in place, held her breath as she strained to hear. “What is that?” she whispered. “What the hell is that sound?”

“Chanting.”

Her heart jumped. “Jesus Christ.” She broke into a fresh run just as one long, terrified scream ripped the air. It seemed to go on, endlessly, high and inhuman and horrible. Then it snapped off into silence. She dragged out her communicator without breaking stride. “Officer needs assistance. Officer needs assistance, parking garage, Forty-ninth and Second. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve in pursuit of…Goddamn it.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, please say again.”

She didn’t bother to stare at the body spread in a growing pool of blood on the concrete floor. One glance at the terrified, wide eyes and the carved hilt of a knife plunged into the heart had been enough to determine death.

Wineburg had run the wrong way.

“I need backup, immediately. I’ve got a homicide. Perpetrator or perpetrators possibly still on premises. Dispatch all available units to this address for blockade and search. I need a field kit and my aide.”

“Received. Units en route. Dispatch out.”

“I’ve got to look,” she said to Roarke.

“Understood.”

“I don’t have my clutch piece or I’d give it to you. I need you to stay here, with the body.”

Roarke looked down at Wineburg and felt a stir of pity. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“I need you to stay here,” she repeated. “In case they come back this way. Don’t be a hero.”

He nodded. “You, either.”

She took one last glance at the body. “Fuck,” she said wearily. “I should have had a better grip on him.”

She moved off slowly, scanning cars and corners, but without much hope.

He’d watched her work before, studied and admired the efficient, concentrated field she created around the dead. Roarke wondered if she fully understood why she did it, or how she could, while examining a lifeless, violently dispatched body with such clear-cut objectivity, see through the pity that haunted her eyes.

He’d never asked her. He doubted he ever would.

He watched her order Peabody to record the scene from a different angle, saw her jerk her thumb at a uniform—obviously a rookie who wasn’t holding up well. Sending him off on an errand, Roarke imagined, so he could be sick in private.

Some of them never got used to the blood or the smell of bladder and bowels releasing with death.

The lights were viciously bright, merciless, really. The heart wound had bled profusely. She’d worn heels and a little black suit to the viewing. Of course, she would ruin both now. She was kneeling beside the body, tearing her stockings on the concrete and removing the murder weapon now that the scene had been duly recorded.

She sealed it, bagged it for evidence, but he’d gotten a good look at it. The handle was a deep brown, possibly horn of some sort. Yet there had been no mistaking its similarity to the one left at the last murder. An athame. The knife of ritual.

“Bad business.”

Roarke made a sound of assent as Feeney walked up to him. The man looked uncharacteristically fragile, Roarke observed. Eve was right to be concerned about him.

“You know anything about it? I’m not getting much buzz except that Dallas was talking to him outside, he ran, and ended up dead.”

“That’s about it. He seemed nervous about something. Apparently he had reason to be.” It wasn’t a place they could go together, Roarke decided and shifted away from it. “I hope you’ll take Eve up on the offer of the house in Mexico.”

“I’ll talk it over with my wife. I appreciate it.” Then he moved his shoulders. “I guess she doesn’t need me here. I should get home.” But he studied the scene another minute. Behind the fatigue in his eyes lurked the cop. “Screwy business. Some guy getting stuck in here. Fancy knife took out that stiff left at your place last night, too, right?”

“The other had a black handle. Some sort of metal, I think.”

“Yeah, well…” He rocked back on his heels a moment. “I’d better head home.”

He crossed to Eve, careful to avoid getting too close in his untreated shoes. She looked up, distracted, wiping the blood off her sealed hands with a rag.

And she watched him walk away until he was out of sight.

She rose, raked her not quite clean hands through her hair. “Bag him,” she ordered, and walked to Roarke. “I’m going to go in, do the report while it’s fresh in my mind.”

“All right.” He took her arm.

“No, you should go home. I’ll catch a ride with one of the team.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Peabody—”

“Peabody can catch a ride with one of the team.” She needed a few minutes, he knew, to decompress. He touched a button on his wrist unit to signal his driver.

“I feel stupid going into Central in a limo,” she muttered.

“Really? I don’t.” He walked her out of the garage, then around to the front of the funeral parlor. The limo streamed up to the curb. “You can catch your breath,” he suggested as he slid in behind her. “And I can have a brandy.” He poured one from a crystal decanter, and knowing Eve, programmed her coffee.

“Well, since we’re going it this way, you can tell me what you know about Wineburg.”

“One of the irritating rich and pampered.”

She took the hot, rich coffee served in a thin, classy cup of bone china, and gave Roarke—his plush limo, his pricey brandy—a long, cool look. “You’re rich.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “But pampered? Certainly not.” He swirled his brandy, kept smiling. “That’s what stops me from being irritating.”

“You think so?” The coffee helped, got her circuits running. “So he was a banker. He ran Wineburg Financial.”

“Hardly. His father’s still hale and hearty. This little fish would have been more of a minion. The type given busywork and a useless title and a big office. He’d gobble up his expense account, shuffle forms, and have his cosmetician in for weekly sessions.”

“Okay, you didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t know him, actually.” He gave the brandy a lazy swirl and sip. “Just the type. I don’t have any business dealings with Wineburg. In the dawn of my…career, I needed some backing for a couple of projects. Legal projects,” he added at Eve’s speculative look. “They wouldn’t let me in the door. I wasn’t up to their level of client. So I went elsewhere, got the backing, and made a killing. Figuratively speaking. The Wineburg organization took it poorly.”

“So they’re a conservative, established, family-run institution.”

“Exactly.”

“It would be embarrassing to have the scion…Would he be like the scion?”

“If there’s such a thing as a minor scion, I suppose.”

“Okay if he was into Satanism, it probably wouldn’t go down well at the company picnic.”

“It would turn the board of directors white with shock—and, family or not, this little Wineburg would have been out on his ass.”

“He didn’t look like the type to risk it, but you never know. Sex, he said. Just for the sex. He could have been one of the ones who had at Alice. Then he’s guilty or curious and comes by the viewing. The one thing he was, was scared. He saw something, Roarke. He saw someone murdered. I know it. If I’d gotten him in, I’d have pulled it out of him. I could have broken him in ten minutes.”

“Apparently, someone else thought so, too.”

“Someone who was right there. On the spot. Watching him. Watching the viewing.”

“Or watching you,” Roarke finished. “Which is more likely.”

“I hope they keep watching, because before long, I’m going to turn around and bite them on the throat.” She glanced up as the limo pulled up to the front of Cop Central. Vaguely embarrassed, she peered out, hoping no cops were loitering nearby. She’d be ragged on for days. “I’ll see you at home. Couple hours.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go home.”

He simply leaned back, ordered the screen to engage and list the latest stock information. “I’ll wait,” he repeated and poured another brandy.

“Hardhead,” she muttered as she got out, then winced when someone called her name.

“Woowee, Dallas, going to slum with us working poor for awhile?”

“Bite me, Carter,” she muttered, and rushed inside before the delighted laughter forced her to break someone’s face.

An hour later, she was back, bone weary and sparking mad. “Carter just had it announced over the main that my carriage awaited anon. What an idiot. I don’t know whether to kick his ass or yours.”

“Kick his,” Roarke suggested and draped an arm around her. He’d switched from work to pleasure mode and had an old video on screen.

She caught the scent of expensive tobacco clinging to the air and wished she could claim it irritated her. But it soothed, along with his arm and the ancient black-and-white video.

“What is this?”

“Bogart and Bacall. First film together. She was nineteen, I think. Here’s the line.”

Eve stretched out her legs and listened to Bacall ask Bogie if he knew how to whistle. Her lips twitched. “Clever.”

“It’s a good film. We’ll have to watch it all the way through sometime. You’re tense, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll have to fix that.” He shifted, poured a stemmed glass full of straw-colored liquid. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Wine, just wine.”

She sniffed it suspiciously. He wasn’t above doctoring it, she knew. “I was going to work a little when we get home. I need my head clear.”

“You have to shut down sometime. Relax. Your head can be clear in the morning.”

He had a point. She had too much data in her head, and none of it was helping. Four deaths now, and she was no closer. Maybe if she backed off for a few hours, she’d see better.

“Whoever did Wineburg was quick and quiet. And smart, going for the heart. Hit the throat like Lobar, and you get blood all over you. Hit the heart, it’s over fast and with minimal mess.”

“Umm-hmm.” He began to knead the back of her neck. It was always a magnet for her stress.

“What were we, thirty, forty seconds behind? Fast, really fast. If Wineburg cracked, there could be another. I’ve got to get the membership list. There has to be a way.” She sipped at the wine. “What were you and Feeney talking about?”

“Mexico. Stop worrying.”

“Okay, okay.” She leaned her head back, closed her eyes for what seemed like three seconds. But when she opened them again, they were through the gates and pulling up in front of the house. “Did I fall asleep?”

“For about five minutes.”

“That was just wine, right?”

“Absolutely. The next part of our program is a hot bath.”

“A bath isn’t…” She reconsidered as they stepped inside. “Actually, that sounds pretty good.”

Ten minutes later, while water gushed into the tub and swirled in the power of jets, it began to sound better. But she arched a brow when she saw Roarke begin to undress. “Who’s the bath for, me or you?”

“Us.” He gave her a tap on the butt, nudging her forward.

“That’s fine then. It’ll give you a chance to tell me all about saving the life of a beautiful woman.”

“Hmm.” He slipped into the frothy water, facing her. “Oh. I can’t be held responsible for actions that took place in a former life.” He passed her another glass of wine he’d had the foresight to pour. “Now, can I?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t the theory something like you repeat things, or learn from them, or don’t?” She held the glass aloft and dunked herself down, resurfacing with a sigh. “You figure you were lovers, or what?”

Considering, he trailed a fingertip up and down Eve’s leg. “If she looked then the way she looks now, I’d certainly hope so.”

She gave him a sour smile. “Yeah, I’d guess you’d go for the big, beautiful, exotic type then and now.” With a shrug, she drank more wine, then toyed with the stem. “Most people figure you stepped wide of the mark with me.”

“Most people?”

She downed the rest of the wine, set the glass aside. “Sure. I get the drift when we’ve got to make time with some of those rich and high-toned business associates of yours. Can’t blame them for wondering what came over you. I’m not big, beautiful, or exotic.”

“No, you’re not. Slim, lovely, strong. It’s a wonder I looked twice.”

She felt ridiculous and flustered. He could do that to her just by the way he looked at her. “I’m not fishing,” she muttered.

“And it surprises me that you’d give a damn what any of my associates thought of either one of us.”

“I don’t.” Damn it, she’d stepped right in it. “I was just making an observation. The wine’s got my tongue running away with me.”

“You annoy me, Eve.” His voice was dangerously cool. A warning she recognized. “Criticizing my taste.”

“Forget it.” She dunked again, surfaced like a shot when his hands clamped over her waist. “Hey, what are you doing? Trying to drown me?” She blinked water out of her eyes and saw that his were indeed annoyed. “Listen—”

“No, you listen. Or better yet.” He crushed his mouth to hers, hot, hungry, hurried. It made the top of her lead lift off and spin. “We’ll just move to the third part of our program a little early,” he said when he let her suck in a gulp of air. “And I’ll show you why I’m precisely on the mark with you, Lieutenant. Precisely. I don’t make mistakes.”

She scowled at him even as the blood hummed under her skin. “That arrogant routine doesn’t work for me. I said it was the wine.”

“You won’t blame what I can do to you on the wine,” he promised. He tilted his hands so that his thumbs traced the vulnerable fold between thigh and crotch. “You won’t blame it on the wine when I make you scream.”

“I won’t scream.” But her head fell back as a moan tore through her lips. “I can’t breathe when you do that.”

“Then don’t. Don’t breathe.” He lifted her up until her breasts were above water, and his hands busy below. He dipped, caught one dripping point between his teeth. “I’m agoing to take you. You’re going to let me.”

“I don’t want to be taken, unless I take back.” But even as her arms came around him, he ripped her to peak, made her body buck and her arms go limp.

“Not this time.” He was suddenly ravenous for her, just this way, limp and open and mindless.

“How do you do that?” Her voice was weak and slurred.

He nearly chuckled, though the need was growing painful. Saying nothing, he stood, lifted her. Her eyes fluttered open as he carried her out of the bath.

“I want you in bed,” he said. “I want you wet, inside and out. I want to feel your body tremble when I touch you.” He laid her down, fastened his mouth on her throat. “And taste you.”

She felt drunk, too loose for control, too pliant for shock, as his hands got busy again. She bucked, she reached for him, but he slipped away, sliding down her damp body, hands fast, mouth urgent. She couldn’t keep up. Now her body was tight, a white-knuckled fist, ready to strike. She came abruptly, violently, and didn’t hear her own scream.

He took what he wanted. Everything. His blood pounded harder and hotter every time he dragged her over the next edge. Their flesh was wet with sweat now as he drove them both ruthlessly.

When the need to be inside of her was unbearable, he pulled her up, parted her legs until they clamped around his waist. And when her arms were around him as well, clinging, her body trembling hard against his, he gripped her hips and filled her in one deep stroke.

His mouth found her breast, felt the wild, ragged beat of her heart beneath the damp flesh. And when she climaxed again, vising around him like silk-coated iron, he held himself back.

“Look at me.” He arched her back, watching as her body shuddered, her hips moved. Arousal built fresh as he took himself deeper into her. “Look at me, Eve.” He stroked his hands over her, molding each curve again while he continued to thrust, slow, steady. His breath came in pants. His control vibrated on a thin, fraying wire.

She opened her eyes. They were glazed, heavy, but they watched him. “You’re the one,” he said, and braced himself over her. “You’re the only.”

His mouth swooped down to hers, found it eager and open as he emptied himself into her.

For once, he slept first. She lay in the dark, listening to him breathe, stealing a little of his warmth as her own body cooled. Since he was asleep, she stroked his hair.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I love you so much, I’m stupid about it.”

With a sigh, she settled down, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to empty.

Beside her, Roarke smiled into the dark.

He never slept first.

chapter twelve

In his midtown office high above the city, Roarke dealt with his last meeting of the morning. As originally scheduled, he should be concluding this business in Rotterdam, but he had arranged to take the meeting holographically so as to remain close to home. Close to Eve.

He sat at the head of his gleaming conference table, aware that his image sat at a similar one an ocean away. His assistant sat on his left, feeding him the necessary hard copy for his approval and signature. His translator sat on his right, as backup, should there be any problem with the computer headset’s language program.

The board of ScanAir filled the other seats. Or their images did. It had been a very good year for Roarke Enterprises and its subsidiaries. It had not been a good year nor a good several years for ScanAir. Roarke was doing them the favor of buying them out.

From the stony expressions on several holographic faces, they were not entirely grateful.

The company needed to be right-sized, which meant several of the cushier positions would be adjusted in salary and responsibility. Some would be eliminated altogether. He had already hand-picked several men and women who were willing to relocate to Rotterdam and whip the skyline back into shape.

As the computer-generated translation of the contract droned in his ears, he watched the faces, the body language. Occasionally, he conferred with his translator for subtleties and syntax.

He already knew every phrase, every word of the buyout agreement. He wasn’t paying what the board had hoped for. Then again, they had hoped his examination of the company wouldn’t turn up some of the more delicate—and well-hidden—financial difficulties.

He couldn’t blame them for that. He would have done the same. But his examinations were always thorough and turned up everything.

He signed his name on each copy, added the date, then passed the contracts to his assistant for her to witness and seal. She rose, fed the contacts into a laser fax. Seconds later, the copy was across the ocean and being signed by his counterpart.

“Congratulations on your retirement, Mr. Vanderlay,” Roarke said pleasantly when the countersigned and witnessed copies were faxed back to him. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

This was acknowledged by a brief nod and a short formal statement. The holograms winked off.

Roarke eased back, amused. “People aren’t always grateful when you give them large quantities of money, are they, Caro?”

“No, sir.” She was tidy, with hair shockingly white and gloriously styled. She rose, taking both the hard copy and the record disc of the transaction for filing. Her trim, rust-colored suit showed off beautifully shaped legs. “They’ll be less grateful when you turn ScanAir into a financial success. Within a year, I’d say.”

“Ten months.” He turned to the translator. “Thank you, Petrov, your services were invaluable, as always.”

“My pleasure, sir.” He was a droid, created by one of Roarke’s science arms. His body was slim, garbed in a well-cut dark suit. His face was attractive, but not distractingly so, and formed to simulate trustworthy middle age. Several of his line were leased by the UN.

“Give me an hour, Caro, before the next. I have some personal business to tend to.”

“You have a one o’clock lunch with the department heads of Sky Ways to discuss the absorption of ScanAir, and the publicity strategies.”

“Here, or off site?”

“Here, sir, in the executive dining hall. You approved the menu last week.” She smiled. “In anticipation.”

“Right. I remember. I’ll be there.” He moved through the side door and into his office. Before going to the desk, he engaged locks. It wasn’t strictly necessary. Caro would never come in unannounced, but it paid in certain areas to be cautious. The work he intended to do couldn’t go on his log. He would have preferred to handle it at home, but he was squeezed for time. And so, he thought, was Eve.

At his desk unit, he engaged the jamming field that would block any scan by CompuGuard. The law frowned on unauthorized hacking, and the penalties were stiff.

“Computer, membership data, Church of Satan, New York City branch, under direction of Selina Cross.”

Working…That data is protected under religious privacy act. Request denied.

Roarke only smiled. He’d always preferred a challenge. “Oh well, I think we can change your mind about that.” Prepared to enjoy himself, he slipped off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

Downtown, Eve paced Dr. Mira’s pretty, designed-to-soothe office. She was never completely relaxed there. She trusted Mira’s judgment; she always had. More recently, she had come to trust the doctor on a personal level. As much as it was possible. But it didn’t make her relax.

Mira knew more about her than anyone. More, Eve suspected than she knew about herself. Facing someone with that kind of intimate knowledge wasn’t relaxing.

But she hadn’t come to talk about personal matters, Eve reminded herself. She was here to talk murder.

Mira opened the door and stepped in. Her smile was slow and warm and personal. She always looked so…perfect, Eve decided. Never too glossy, never undone, never less than competent. Today, instead of her customary suit, Mira wore a slim, pumpkin-colored dress with a single-button matching coat of the same above-the-knee length. Her shoes were of a slightly darker tone and boasted the skinny heels that Eve always marveled a woman would wear by choice.

Mira offered both hands, a gesture of affection that simultaneously baffled and pleased Eve.

“It’s good to see you back in fighting shape, Eve. No problem with the knee?”

“Oh?” With a faint frown Eve glanced down, remembering the injury she’d suffered while closing a recent case. “No. The MTs did a good job. I’d forgotten about it.”

“A side affect of your job.” Mira settled in one of her scoop chairs. “I’d think it would be a bit like childbirth.”

“Excuse me?”

“The ability to forget the pain, the trauma to both body and mind, and go on to do the same thing again. I’ve always believed women make good cops and doctors because they’re inherently resilient that way. Won’t you sit, have some tea, tell me what I can do for you?”

“I appreciate you fitting me in.” Eve sat, shifted restlessly. She always felt inclined to bare her soul once she was settled in this room with this woman. “It’s about a case I’m working on. I can’t give you many details. There’s an internal block.”

“I see.” Mira programmed tea. “Tell me what you can.”

“One subject is a young woman, eighteen, very bright, and apparently very impressionable.”

“It’s an age for explorations.” Mira took out the tea steaming fragrantly in delicate china cups, offered one to Eve.

Eve would drink it, but she wouldn’t particularly like it. “I suppose. The subject has family. Close family. Though the father is out of the picture, there is extended family—grandparents, cousins, that kind of thing. She wasn’t—isn’t,” Eve corrected, “alone.”

Mira nodded. Eve had been alone, she thought, brutally alone.

“The subject had an interest in ancient religions and cultures, was studying same. Over the past year, she developed a certain interest in the occult.”

“Hmm. That’s also fairly typical. Youth often explores various creeds and beliefs in order to find and cement their own. The occult, with its mystique and its possibilities is very attractive.”

“She became involved in Satanism.”

“As a dabbler?”

Eve frowned. She’d expected Mira to show some surprise or disapproval. Instead, she was sipping tea with that slight attentive smile playing around her mouth. “If that means was she toying with it, I’d say she went deeper.”

“Initiated?”

“I’m not sure what that involves.”

“Depending on the sect, there would be slight variations. Broadly, it would entail a waiting period, the taking of vows, a physical mark on the body, generally on or near the genitalia. The initiate would be accepted into the coven with a ceremony. There would be an altar, a human one, probably female, within a circle. The princes of hell would be called while the initiate or initiates knelt. Symbolism would include flame, smoke, the ringing of a bell, graveyard dirt, preferably from an infant. They would be given water or wine mixed with urine to drink, then the high priest or priestess would mark the initiate with a ceremonial knife.”

“An athame.”

“Yes.” Mira smiled, as though pleased with a bright student. “And though it’s illegal, if the coven is able, they will then sacrifice a young goat. With some, the blood of the goat is mixed with wine and consumed. Once done, the coven engages in sex. The altar may be used by all or many. It would be considered both a duty and a pleasure.”

“Sounds like you’ve been there.”

“No, but I was allowed to observe a sabbat ceremony once. It was quite fascinating.”

“You don’t actually believe that stuff.” Stunned, Eve set the cup aside. “Calling up the devil.”

Mira lifted a smoothly arched brow. “I believe in good and evil, Eve, and I don’t by any means discount the likelihood of an ultimate good, or an ultimate evil. In my profession, and yours, we see too much of both to deny it.”

Humans committed evil, Eve thought. Evil was human. “But devil worship?”

“Those who choose to focus their lives—and shall we say souls—on this creed generally do so for its freedom, its structure, and its celebration of selfishness. Others are seduced by the promise of power. And many by the sex.”

“It was just sex.” That’s what Wineburg had said, had sobbed, Eve remembered, before he died.

“Your young woman, Eve, was likely drawn in first by the intellect. Satanism is centuries old, and like most pagan religions, predates Christianity. Why does it survive, and in some eras even prosper? It’s filled with secrets and sins and sex, its rites are mysterious and elaborate. She would have wondered, and coming from a close and likely sheltered homelife, was at an age ripe for rebellions against the status quo.”

“The ceremony you described was similar to one she described to me. But she had only begun to observe and she was sexually used. She was a virgin, and was, I suspect drugged.”

“I see. There are always sects that diverge from the established rules of law. Some can be dangerous.”

“She had blanks, time losses, and became almost slavishly devoted to two of the members. She backed away from her family and her studies. Until she witnessed the ritual murder of a child.”

“Human sacrifice is an old practice, and a deplorable one.” Mira sipped delicately. “If drugs were involved, it’s highly possible she was made an addict, dependent upon these people. That would explain the blanks. I take it the murder she witnessed shocked her away from the cult and its rituals.”

“She was terrified. She didn’t go to her family, didn’t report the incident. She ran to a witch.”

“A white witch? A Wiccan?”

Eve compressed her lips. “She did what I expect would be considered a religious one eighty. Started burning white candles instead of black. And she lived in terror, claimed that one of the membership could turn into a raven.”

“Shape-shifting.” Thoughtfully, Mira rose to program more tea. “Interesting.”

“She believed they would kill her, had killed someone close to her, though that death is for now officially listed under natural causes. I have no doubt they tormented her, found a way to play on her delusions and fears. I’m thinking some of that came from her own sense of guilt and shame.”

“You could be right. Emotions influence the intellect.”

“Just how much?” Eve demanded. “Enough for her to see things that weren’t there? Enough for her to run from an illusion into the path of an oncoming car and kill herself?”

Mira sat again. “She’s dead then. I’m sorry. Are you quite sure she ran from an illusion?”

“A trained observer was on the scene. There was nothing there. Except,” Eve added with a twist of her lips, “a black cat.”

“The traditional familiar. That alone might have been enough to push her over the edge. Even if the cat was planted in order to frighten her, you would have a difficult time terming it homicide.”

“They played on her mind, drugged her, possibly used hypnosis. They tormented her with tricks and ’link transmissions. Then they pushed her over. Damned if that isn’t murder. And I will make it stick.”

“Taking religion, particularly religions the masses don’t wish to acknowledge, into court won’t be easy.”

“I don’t care about easy. The people behind this cult are dirty. And I believe they have killed four people in the last two weeks.”

“Four.” Mira paused, set the cup down. “The body that was left near your home. The details in the media were sketchy. It’s connected?”

“Yeah. He was an initiate, and he had his throat slit by an athame. It was left in him, stuck in his groin with a note that condemned Satanism. He was strapped to an inverted pentagram.”

“Mutilation and murder.” Mira pursed her lips. “If it was Wiccans, it’s very much out of character. Very much against their creed.”

“People do things out of character and against their creeds all the time,” Eve said impatiently. “But at this time, I suspect a member or members of his own cult. Another man was killed last night with an athame. We held it from the morning reports, but it’ll be all over the media within a couple of hours. I was on scene, chasing him down. I didn’t run fast enough.”

“He was killed quickly, without ritual? With a police officer in pursuit?” Mira shook her head. “A desperate or arrogant move. If this was committed by the same people, it shows a growing boldness.”

“And maybe a taste for it. Blood becomes addictive. I want to know where the weaknesses are in the kind of personality who runs a cult like this. I’ve got a female, long yellow sheet involving illegal sex and drug trafficking. Bisexual. She heads up the club, lives well. Her companion is a well-built male who caters to her. She likes to show off,” Eve added, remembering the fire trick. “She claims to be clairvoyant. She’s edgy, with a slippery temper.”

“Pride would likely be the first weakness. If she’s in a position of power and authority, she would likely take disrespect badly. Is she clairvoyant?”

“Are you serious?”

“Eve.” Mira sighed lightly. “Psychic abilities exist, and always have. Studies have established that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve waved a hand in dismissal. “The Kijinsky Institute, for one. I’ve got a detailed report on the white witch from there. They claim she’s off the charts.”

“And you don’t agree with the Kijinsky Institute?”

“Crystal balls and palm reading? You’re a scientist.”

“Yes, I am, and as such, I accept that science is fluid. It changes as we learn more about the universe and what inhabits it. Many well-respected scientists believe that we’re born with what we can term this sixth sense, or a heightened sense, if you will. Some develop it, some block it. Most of us retain at least some level. We’d call it instinct, hunches, intuition. You rely on that yourself.”

“I rely on evidence, on facts.”

“You have hunches, Eve. And your intuition is a finely crafted tool. And Roarke.” She smiled when Eve’s brows drew together. “A man doesn’t rise so high so young without a strong instinct for making the right move at the right time. Magic, if you want to use a more romantic term, exists.”

“You’re telling me you believe in mind reading and spell casting?”

“I can intuit what’s going through your mind right now.” Mira chuckled, finished her tea. “Mira, you’re thinking, is full of shit.”

Eve’s lips curved in a reluctant smile of her own. “Close enough.”

“Let me say this, since I believe it’s part of what you came here for. Witchcraft, black and white, has existed since the dawn of humanity. And where there is power, there is benefit, and there is abuse. That, too, is the nature of humanity. We can’t, through all our scientific and technical skill, destroy one without damaging the other. Power requires tending, as do beliefs, so we have our ceremonies and our rituals. We need the structure, the comfort, and yes, the mystery of them.”

“I don’t have any problem with ceremonies and rituals, Dr. Mira. Unless they cross the line of the law.”

“I would agree. But the law can also be fluid. It changes, adapts.”

“Murder stays murder. Whether it’s accomplished with a stone spear or a laser blast.” Her eyes were dark and fierce. “Or whether it’s done with smoke and mirrors. I’ll find the perpetrator, and no magic in the world is going to stop me.”

“No.” A small, niggling fear—what might have been called a hunch—knotted in Mira’s gut. “I would agree with that as well. You’re not without power, Eve, and you’ll match yours against this.” She folded her hands. “I can provide you with a more detailed analysis on both Satanism and Wicca, if it might help.”

“I like to know what I’m dealing with. I’d appreciate it. Can you give me a profile of a typical member of both cults?”

“There isn’t a typical member, any more than there are typical members of the Catholic faith or of Buddhism, but I can generalize certain personality types who are often attracted to the occult. The Wiccan the young woman went to, is she a suspect?”

“She’s not the prime, but she’s a suspect. Revenge is a strong motive, and if Satanists keep ending up with a ritual knife in vital organs, I won’t overlook revenge.” Unable to resist, Eve ran her tongue over her teeth. “But I suppose she’d be more likely to put a curse on them.”

“Check the nails and hair of your victims, or of any subsequent ones. If a curse is involved, there should be signs of recent snippings.”

“Yeah? I’ll do that.” Eve rose. “I appreciate the help.”

“I’ll get you a report by tomorrow.”

“Great.” She started out, paused. “You seem to know a lot about all of this. Is it the kind of thing you study for psychiatry?”

“To some extent, but I have a more personal interest and studied fairly extensively.” Her lips curved. “My daughter is Wiccan.”

Eve’s jaw dropped. “Oh.” What the hell did she say now? “Well. I guess that explains it.” Uncomfortable, she dug her hands into her pockets. “Around here?”

“No, she lives in New Orleans. She finds it less restrictive there. I may be a bit unobjective on the matter, Eve, under the circumstances, but I think you’ll find it’s a lovely faith, very earthy and generous.”

“Sure.” Eve edged for the door. “I’m going to observe a meeting tomorrow night.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you think. And if you have questions I’m unable to answer, I’m sure my daughter would be happy to speak with you.”

“I’ll let you know.” She headed to the elevator, blowing out a long breath. Mira’s daughter was a witch, for Christ’s sake, she thought. That was a hell of a capper.

She headed back to Central with the intention of rounding up Peabody, then heading to Wineburg’s townhouse. She wanted to get a look at his lifestyle, his logs, and his personal records. She had a feeling a drone like him would have kept some private list of names and places.

The sweepers had already been through, routinely, and had turned up nothing of particular interest. But she could get lucky.

She passed Peabody in the bullpen as she swung through. “My vehicle, fifteen minutes. I want to check my messages, make a couple of calls.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant—”

“Later,” Eve said shortly, hurrying by and missing Peabody’s wince.

The reason for it was waiting in her office.

“Feeney?” She tugged her jacket off, tossed it on a chair. “You decide to head to Mexico? You’re going to need to call Roarke for the details. He should be—”

She broke off when Feeney stood up, walked over, and shut her door. It had only taken one look at his face to know.

“You lied to me.” There was a quaver in his voice that came as much from hurt as anger. But his eyes were flat and cold. “You fucking lied to me. I trusted you. You’ve been investigating Frank behind my back. Over his own dead body.”

There was no point in denying, less in asking how he’d found out. She’d known he would. “There was going to be an internal investigation. Whitney wanted me to clear him, and that’s what I’ve done.”

“Internal investigation my ass. Nobody was cleaner than Frank.”

“I know that, Feeney. I was—”

“But you investigated. You went through his records, and you did it around me.”

“That’s the way it had to be.”

“Bullshit. I goddamn trained you. You’d still be in uniform if I hadn’t put you here. And you back stab me.” He stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides.

She preferred him to use them.

“You’ve got Alice’s file open, suspected homicide. She was my goddaughter, and you don’t tell me you think some son of a bitch killed her? You block me out of the investigation, you lie to me. You looked right in my face and lied to me.”

Her stomach had gone to ice. “Yes.”

“You think she’d been drugged and raped and murdered, and you don’t take me in?”

He’d gotten into the records, the reports, she realized. They’d been sealed and coded, but that wouldn’t have stopped him if he’d gotten a whiff. And, she decided, he’d gotten one the night before, over Wineburg’s body.

“I couldn’t,” she said in a flat voice. “Even if I hadn’t been under orders, I couldn’t. You were too close. You can’t objectively assist on an investigation involving family.”

“What the hell do you know about family?” he exploded and made her jerk.

Yes, she’d have preferred his fists.

“Orders?” he continued, bitterness spewing out and scalding her. “Fucking orders? Is that your line, Dallas? Is that your reason for treating me like some lame rookie? ‘Take a vacation, Feeney. Use my rich husband’s fancy house in Mexico.’” His lips peeled back in a sneer. “That would have been fine for you, wouldn’t it? Get me out of your way, shuffle me off and out from underfoot because I’m useless to you on this one.”

“No. God, Feeney—”

“I’ve gone through doors with you.” His voice was abruptly quiet, and made her throat burn. “I trusted you. I’d have put my back up against yours anytime, anyplace. But no more. You’re good, Dallas, but you’re cold. The hell with you.”

She said nothing when he walked out, leaving her door swinging open. Could say nothing. He’d nailed it, she decided. And he’d nailed her.

“Dallas.” Peabody rushed the door. “I couldn’t—”

Eve cut her off, simply lifting a finger, turning her back. Slowly, with slow even breaths, she pulled her guts back in. Even then, they ached. She could still smell him in the room. That stupid cologne his wife always bought him.

“We’re going to do a follow-up sweep of Wineburg’s townhouse. Get your gear.”

Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again. Even if she’d known what to say, she didn’t imagine it would be welcome. “Yes, sir.”

Eve turned back. Her eyes were blank, cool, composed. “Then let’s move.”

chapter thirteen

She was in a pisser of a mood by the time she got home. She’d turned Wineburg’s townhouse inside out, reworking every step already taken by the sweepers. For three hours she and Peabody had searched closets and drawers, run logs, and traced ’link records.

She found two dozen all-but-identical dark suits, shoes so glossy she’d seen her own scowl reflected in the tips, an incredibly boring collection of music discs. Though he’d had a lock box, the contents hadn’t been very illuminating. Two thousand in cash, another ten in credits, and an extensive collection of hard-core pornographic videos might have given some insight into the man, but no solid leads toward his killer.

He’d kept no personal diary, and his appointment book listed times and dates and very little about the content of any meeting, personal or professional. His financial records were ordered and precise, as one might expect from a man who dealt with money as an occupation. All expenses and income were carefully logged. Though the large and regular bimonthly withdrawals from credit into cash over the last two-year period of Wineburg’s fussy life gave Eve a solid notion just how Selina managed to live so well, the withdrawals were all logged under personal expenses.

The consistency of late-night appointments over the last two years, again bimonthly and always on the same date as the personal cash withdrawal, wasn’t enough to establish a solid connection with Selina Cross’s cult.

The lady herself was never mentioned.

He’d been divorced, childless, and he’d lived alone.

So she knocked on doors, talked to neighbors. Eve learned Wineburg hadn’t been the sociable sort. He’d rarely had visitors, and none of his neighbors had been curious enough or would admit to paying close enough attention to any of those rare visitors to give a description.

She came away with nothing but a raw feeling in the gut and a mounting sense of frustration. She knew, without a doubt, that Wineburg had been part of Cross’s cult, that he’d paid heavily, first monetarily and then with his life, for the privilege. But she was no closer to proving it, and her mind wasn’t as focused on the business at hand as it should have been.

When she headed home, alone, Feeney’s angry face and bitter words played back in her head, and frustration slammed up hard against misery.

She’d more than let him down, she knew. She had betrayed him by doing precisely what he had helped train her to do. She’d followed orders, she’d been a cop. She’d done her job.

But she hadn’t been a friend, she thought, as her temples throbbed with stress. She’d weighed her loyalties, and in the end had chosen the job over the heart.

Cold, he’d called her, she remembered and squeezed her eyes shut. And cold she had been.

The cat padded to her the moment Eve stepped in the door, winding around her legs as she stepped into the foyer. She kept walking, cursing lightly when he tripped her. Summerset slipped out of a doorway.

“Roarke has been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve been busy.” She nudged Galahad away impatiently with her foot. “Is he here?”

“Not as yet. You might reach him at his office.”

“I’ll talk to him when he gets home.” She wanted a drink, something strong and mind-misting. Recognizing the danger and the weakness of that crutch, she turned away from the parlor and walked in the opposite direction. “I’m not here to anybody else. Get it?”

“Certainly,” Summerset said stiffly.

As she strode away, Summerset bent and picked up the cat to stroke—something he never would have done had anyone been around to observe. “The lieutenant is very unhappy,” Summerset murmured. “Perhaps we should make a call.”

Galahad purred, stretched his neck in appreciation of Summerset’s long, bony fingers. Their mutual affection was their little secret.

It would have surprised Eve, though she wasn’t thinking of either of them. She took the stairs, moved through the indoor pool and garden area, and into the gym. Physical exertion, she knew, blocked emotional distress.

Keeping her mind blank, she changed into a black skin suit and high tops. She programmed the full body unit, ordering the machine to take her through a brutal series of reps and resistance exercises, gritting her teeth as the clipped computer voice demanded that she squat, lift, stretch, hold, repeat.

She’d worked up a satisfactory sweat by the time she switched machines for aerobics. The combo-unit took her on a punishing run, up inclines, down them, a race up endless flights of stairs. She’d set it for variety, and found the change of texture on her running surface from simulated asphalt to sand to grass to dirt interesting, but it wasn’t doing anything to ease the ache in her belly.

You could run, she thought with dull fury, but you couldn’t hide.

Her heart was pumping hard, her skin suit soaked with sweat, but her emotions were still fragile as glass. What she needed, Eve decided as she tugged on soft, protective gloves, was to pound on something.

She’d never tried out the sparring droid. It was one of Roarke’s newest toys. The unit was a middleweight: six feet, one ninety, and firmly muscled. Good reach, Eve decided with her hands on her hips as she sized him up.

She punched in the code on his storage tube. There was a faint hum as circuits were engaged. The unit opened dark, polite brown eyes. “You wish a match?”

“Yeah, pal, I wish a match.”

“Boxing, karate—Korean or Japanese—tae kwon do, kung fu, street style. Self-defense programs are also available. Contact is optional.”

“Straight hand-to-hand,” she said, backing up and gesturing. “Full contact.”

“Timed rounds?”

“Hell, no. We go till one of us is down, pal. And out.” She curled her fingers in a come-ahead gesture.

“Acknowledged.” There was a faint humming from the unit as he self-programmed. “I outweigh you by approximately seventy pounds. If you prefer, my program includes a handicap—”

She brought her fist up hard and fast, an uppercut to the jaw that snapped his head back. “There’s my handicap. Come on.”

“As you wish.” He crouched as she did and began to circle. “You did not indicate if you desired vocal additions to the program. Taunting, insults—” He staggered back as her foot whipped up and plowed into his guts. “Compliments or suitable exclamations of pain are available.”

“Come at me, will you, for Christ’s sake?”

He did, with a swiftness and force that had her stumbling back, nearly losing her footing. This, she decided as she pivoted and caught him backhanded, was more like it.

He blocked her next blow, shifted weight, and wrapped his arm around her throat. Eve planted her feet, elbowed, and flipped him over her shoulder. He was up like lightning before she could attempt a pin.

His gloved fist made a solid connection with her solar plexus, pushing a whoosh of air out of her lungs and ringing bright pain straight into her head. Doubled over, she followed through with a head butt, stomped hard on his instep.

When Roarke walked in ten minutes later, he watched his wife fly through the air and go skidding across the mat. Lifting a brow, he leaned back against the door and settled down to watch.

She didn’t have time to gain her feet before the droid was on her, so she grabbed one of his ankles, twisted, hauled, and thrusted. Her mind was a blank now, a black blank. Her breath was heaving, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood inside her mouth.

She went at her opponent like a hail storm, cold and relentless. Each jab, each blow, each kick given or received sang through her body with icy, primitive rage. Her eyes were flat with violence now, her fists merciless as she concentrated on the head, working the droid back, back.

Frowning, Roarke straightened. Her breath was wheezing out now, all but sobbing, yet she didn’t stop. When the droid staggered, went down on its knees, she crouched for the kill.

“End program,” Roarke ordered, and caught his wife’s rigid arm before she could kick the droid’s lolling head. “You’re going to damage the unit,” he said mildly. “It isn’t designed for to the death.”

She bent over, resting her hands on her knees, to catch her breath. Her mind was full of red now, red rage, and she needed to clear it. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away.” She eyed the droid, who remained slumped on his knees, mouth slack, eyes blank as a doll’s. “I’ll run a diagnostic on it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He started to turn her to face him, but she broke away, moved across the room for a towel. “In the mood for a fight?”

“I guess I wanted to pound something.”

“Should I suit up?” He was smiling a little. Until she lowered the towel. The rage had drained from her face. All that was left in her eyes was misery. “What is it, Eve? What happened?”

“Nothing. Just a rough day.” She tossed the towel aside, moved to the cold box unit for a bottle of mineral water. “So far, Wineburg’s house is a bust. Nothing there to help us. Sweepers didn’t find anything in the garage, either. Didn’t expect them to. I jabbed some at Cross again, and at Alban the Magnificent. Had a consult with Mira. Her daughter’s a Wiccan. Can you beat that?”

It wasn’t work, he thought, that put that painful unhappiness in her eyes. “What is it?”

“Isn’t that enough? It’s going to be tough to get an objective consult from Mira when her daughter’s into spell-casting. Then there’s Peabody. She’s caught a damn cold, and her head’s so full of snot I have to say everything twice before it gets through.”

She was talking too fast, Eve realized. Words were tumbling out of her mouth and she couldn’t seem to stop them. “A hell of a lot of good she’s going to be to me hacking and sneezing all goddamn day. The media picked up on Wineburg, and the fact that you and I were on scene when it went down. My ’link’s jammed with fucking reporters. Leaks everywhere. Fucking leaks everywhere. Feeney found out I’ve been holding back on him.”

Ah, Roarke thought, there we are. “He was hard on you?”

“Why shouldn’t he be?” Her voice rose as she whirled and searched for temper to cover the hurt. “He should’ve been able to trust me. I lied to him, right to his face.”

“What choice did you have?”

“There’s always a choice.” She bit the words off, heaved the half-empty bottle at the wall, where it bounced and spewed out bubbling water. “There’s always a choice,” she repeated. “I made mine. I knew how he felt about Frank, about Alice, but I blocked him out. I followed orders. I walked the line.”

She could feel the pain rising, straining to spew as the water had spewed out of the bottle. She fought to block it back. “He was right, everything he said to me. Everything. I could have gone to him on the side.”

“Is that what you were trained to do? Is that what he trained you to do?”

“He made me,” she said fiercely. “I owe him. I should have told him how it was going down.”

“No.” He stepped to her, took her by the shoulders. “No, you couldn’t.”

“I could have.” She shouted it. “I should have. I wish to God I had.” And broke. Covered her face with her hands and broke. “Oh God, what am I going to do?”

Roarke gathered her close. She cried rarely, a last resort, and always when the tears finally came they were vicious. “He needs time. He’s a cop, Eve. Part of him already understands. The rest just needs to catch up.”

“No.” Her hands fisted in his shirt, held on. “The way he looked at me…I’ve lost him, Roarke. I’ve lost him. I swear I’d rather lose my badge.”

He waited while the tears stormed out, while her body shook with them. There was such strong emotions in her, he thought, rocking as her hands clenched and unclenched against his back. Emotions she’d spent a lifetime bottling up, so they were only the more potent when they broke free.

“Damn it.” She let out a breath, long and shaky. Her head felt achy, muffled, her throat raw. “I hate doing that. It doesn’t help.”

“More than you think.” He stroked a hand over her hair, then tipped it under her chin to lift her face. “You need food and a decent night’s sleep, so you can do what you need to do.”

“What I need to do?”

“Close the case. Once you have, you can put all this behind you.”

“Yeah.” She pushed her hands over her hot, wet cheeks. “Close the case. That’s the bottom line.” She hissed out a breath. “That’s the goddamn job.”

“That’s justice.” He brushed a thumb over the dent in her chin. “Isn’t it?”

She looked up at him, her eyes reddened, swollen, exhausted. “I don’t know anymore.”

She didn’t eat, and he didn’t press her. There had been grief in his life, and he knew food wasn’t the answer. He’d considered browbeating her into taking a sedative. That, he knew, would have been an ugly business. So he was grateful when she went to bed early. He made some excuse about a conference call.

From his office, he watched on the monitor until her restless twists and turns stopped, and she slept. What he had to do would take no more than an hour or two. He doubted she’d surface before then and miss him.

He’d never been to Feeney’s. The apartment building was comfortably shabby, well-secured, and unpretentious. Roarke thought it suited the man. Because he didn’t want to risk being refused entrance, he bypassed the security buzzer and entrance locks.

That suited him.

He strolled through the tiny lobby, caught the faint scent of a recent insect extermination. Though he approved the intent, he disliked the lingering reminder of it, and made a note to have it dealt with.

After all, he owned the building.

He stepped into an elevator, requested the third floor. He noticed when he stepped out again that the corridor carpet could use replacing. But it was well lit, the tiny beam on the security cameras blinking efficiently. The walls were clean and thick enough to muffle all but a faint hum of life behind closed doors.

A low drift of music, a quick rumble of laughter, a fretful baby’s nighttime wail. Life, Roarke thought, and a pleasant one. He rang the bell at Feeney’s door and waited.

His eyes stared soberly at the peep screen, continued to stare when Feeney’s irritated voice came through the intercom.

“What the hell do you want? You slumming?”

“I don’t think this building qualifies as a slum.”

“Anything does, compared to that palace you live in.”

“Do you want to discuss the difference in our living arrangements through the door, or are you going to ask me in?”

“I asked what you want.”

“You know why I’m here.” He quirked a brow, making sure it was just insulting enough. “You’ve got guts enough to face me, don’t you, Feeney?”

It had, as Roarke had expected, the right effect. The door swung open. Feeney stood, blocking entrance with his compact body braced for war, his rumpled face bright with fury. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“On the contrary.” Roarke stood where he was, kept his voice even. “It’s very much my fucking business. But I don’t believe it’s any of your neighbors’.”

Teeth clenched, Feeney stepped back. “Come in and say what you have to say, then get the hell out.”

“Is your wife at home?” Roarke asked when Feeney slammed the door at his back.

“She’s got a girl’s thing tonight.” Feeney inclined his head, much like a bull, Roarke thought, preparing to charge. “You want to take a shot at me, you go ahead. I wouldn’t mind pounding that pretty face of yours.”

“Christ Jesus, she’s just like you.” Shaking his head, Roarke wandered the living room. Homey, he decided. Not quite tidy. The viewing screen was set on the ball game, the sound muted. The batter swung, the ball flew in total silence. “What’s the score?”

“Yanks are up by one, bottom of the seventh.” He caught himself on the verge of offering Roarke a beer, then stiffened again. “She told you, didn’t she? Filled you in right from the get-go.”

“She wasn’t under orders not to. And she thought I could help.”

He could help, Feeney thought and tasted bitterness. Her rich, fancy husband could help, but not her former trainer, not her former partner. Not the man who had worked side by side with her with pride, and goddamn it, affection, for ten years. “Doesn’t make you less of a civilian.” His tired eyes went broody. “You didn’t even know Frank.”

“No, I didn’t. But Eve did. She cared.”

“We’d been partners, me and Frank. We were friends. Family. She had no business bumping me out of it. That’s how I feel, that’s what I told her.”

“I’m sure you did.” Roarke turned away from the view screen, looked Feeney dead in the eye. “And however you told her, it broke her heart.”

“Dented her feelings some.” Feeney walked away, picked up a half-empty bottle of beer. Even through the murky haze of his fury, he’d seen the devastation in her eyes when he’d come down on her. And had willed himself not to give a damn. “She’ll get over it.” He drank deeply, knowing the taste wouldn’t overpower the bitterness lodged in his throat. “She’ll do her job. She just won’t do it with me anymore.”

“I said you broke her heart. I meant it. How long have you known her, Feeney?” Roarke’s voice hardened, demanding attention. “Ten years, eleven? How many times have you seen her fall apart? I imagine you could count them on the fingers of one hand. Well, I watched her fall apart tonight.” He took a careful breath. Temper wasn’t the answer here, not for any of them. “If you wanted to crush her, you succeeded.”

“I told her how things were, that’s all.” Guilt was already seeping in. He slammed down the bottle, determined to chase it away. “Cops back each other, they trust each other or they’ve got nothing. She was digging on Frank. She should have come to me.”

“Is that what you’d have told her to do?” Roarke countered. “Is that the kind of cop you helped her become? It wasn’t you in Whitney’s office, taking the orders, doing the job,” he went on without giving Feeney time to answer. “And suffering for it.”

“No.” A fresh wave of bitterness passed through him. “It wasn’t me.” He sat, deliberately turned up the sound, and stared at the ancient battle on the screen.

Stubborn, thick-headed Irish bastard, Roarke thought with twin tugs of sympathy and impatience. “You did me a favor once,” Roarke began. “When I was first involved with Eve and I hurt her because I misunderstood a situation. You straightened me out on that, so I’m going to do you a similar favor.”

“I don’t want your favors.”

“You’ll have it, anyway.” Roarke sat in a chair comfortably sprung. He helped himself to Feeney’s nearly empty bottle. “What do you know about her father?”

“What?” Baffled now, Feeney turned his head and stared. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with her. Did you know he beat her, tortured her, raped her repeatedly until she was eight years old?”

A muscle worked in Feeney’s jaw as he turned away again, muted the screen. He’d known that she’d been found in an alley at eight, beaten, broken, sexually abused. That was on record, and he never worked with anyone without knowing their official data. But he hadn’t known it was her father who’d done it. He’d suspected as much, but he hadn’t known. His stomach twisted, his hands clenched.

“I’m sorry for that. She never brought it up.”

“She didn’t always remember. Or, more likely, she did and refused to remember. She still has nightmares, flashbacks.”

“You got no business telling me this.”

“She’d likely say the same, but I’m telling you, anyway. She made herself what she is, and you helped. She’d go to the wall for you; you know that.”

“Cops back up cops. That’s the job.”

“I’m not talking about the job. She loves you, and she doesn’t love easily. It’s difficult for her to feel it, and to show it. Part of her may always be braced for betrayal, for a blow. You’ve been her father for ten years, Feeney. She didn’t deserve to be broken again.”

Roarke stood, and saying nothing more, walked out.

Alone, Feeney raked his hands up over his face, into his wiry red hair, then let them drop on his lap.

It was six fifteen when Eve rolled over, blinked at the light streaming through the windows. Roarke preferred waking to sun. Unless she snuck out of bed or climbed in well after him, she didn’t get her shot at pulling the privacy screens.

She felt logy, decided it was too much sleep, and started to slip out of bed.

Roarke’s arm swept out and pinned her. “Not yet.” His voice was husky, his eyes still closed as he tugged her back over.

“I’m awake. I can get an early start.” She wiggled. “I’ve been in bed nearly nine hours. I can’t sleep anymore.”

He opened one eye—sufficient to note that she did indeed look rested. “You’re a detective,” he pointed out. “I’ll bet if you investigated, you’d uncover the startling fact that there are activities that can be done in bed other than sleep.”

His lips curved as he rolled on top of her. “Allow me to give you the first clue.”

It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was already hard, or that she would be so instantly ready for him. He slid inside her, smooth, slow, deep, and watched the lingering sleep clear from her eyes into awareness.

“I think I’ve figured it out already.” She lifted her hips, matched his lazy pace.

“You’re such a quick study.” He lowered his lips to nuzzle just under her jawline. “I like this spot,” he murmured. “And this one.” His hand trailed up her rib cage, cupped her breast.

The arousal was sweet, simple, and made her sigh. “Let me know when you get to something you don’t like.”

She wrapped her arms around him, her legs. He was so solid, so warm, the steady beat of his heart against hers so comforting. Pleasure built in gauzy layers, floating over her mind, stroking through her body.

“Go over for me.” He nibbled her lips, then swept his tongue inside to tangle with hers. To nip, to suck. “Go over,” he repeated. “Slow.”

“Well…” Her breath was already hitching, catching in her throat. “Since you ask so nice.”

The climax rolled through her, one long, lingering wave. She felt him follow, caught in the same current, and pressed her cheek to his.

“Was that like a cookie?” she wondered.

“Hmmm?”

“You know, have a cookie. You’ll feel better.” She put her hands on either side of his face, lifting it as he laughed. “Were you making me feel better?”

“I certainly hope so. It worked for me.” He dipped his head to kiss her lightly. “I wanted you. I always do.”

“It’s funny how men can wake up with their brains in their cocks.”

“It makes us what we are.” Still chuckling, he rolled her over him, patted her butt. “Let’s take a shower. I’ll give you another cookie.”

Thirty minutes later, she stumbled out of the shower and into the drying tube. He was a quick change artist when it came to mood, she thought dizzily. From lazy to amused to hot, steamy, mind-numbing sex, all in one short morning.

Because her system was still frazzled, she braced a hand against the curve of the tube as warm air blew around her. When he stepped out of the shower, she jabbed out a finger.

“Stay away from me. You grab me again, I’ll have to take you down. I mean it. I’ve got work.”

He hummed a tune and used a towel. “I like making love to you in the morning. You only wake up fast if you get a call from dispatch or if I seduce you.”

“I’m awake now.” She stepped out, pushed a hand through her hair. Giving herself safe distance, she reached for a robe. “Go look at the stock reports or something.”

“I intend to. You’ll want breakfast,” he added as he left the room. “I’ll order it up.”

She started to tell him she wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t. But she knew without fuel she wouldn’t make it through the day.

When she joined him in the bedroom, he was slipping into a shirt, his gaze focused on the table monitor where he could view the headlines and financial reports. She walked past him to her closet, chose plain gray trousers.

“I’m sorry I lost it last night.”

He lifted his gaze, noted she kept her back to him as she pawed out a shirt. “You were upset. You had a right to be.”

“Anyway, I appreciate you not making me feel like an idiot.”

“How do you feel now?”

She jerked a shoulder. “I’ve got a job to do.” She’d come to that end while she’d tossed her way into sleep. “I’m going to do it. Maybe…Well, maybe if I do it right, Feeney won’t hate me so much when it’s over.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Eve.” When she didn’t answer, he let it drop. He’d already programmed their meal in the recessed AutoChef. “I thought ham and eggs would do the trick this morning.”

He got the coffee first, brought it to the table in the sitting area.

“It’ll do the trick any morning.” She pasted on a determined smile, went over to get the food herself. He ordered the viewing screen on Channel 75 while she shoveled in creamy eggs.

She scowled as the on-air reporter, glossy as a china doll at seven thirty in the morning, recited the data on the Wineburg homicide.

“Though Lieutenant Eve Dallas, assigned to the homicide division of NYPSD, was on the scene, only yards away from the murder site, the police have no solid leads. The investigation continues. This is the second stabbing death connected with Lieutenant Dallas in as many days. When asked if the cases are linked, Dallas refused to comment.”

“A ten-year-old kid with a vision defect could see they’re linked, for Christ’s sake.” She had been eating on automatic, and now shoved the plate aside. “That Cross bitch is sitting in her hell house, laughing.”

Springing up, she began to pace. Roarke took it as a good sign. If she was angry, she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself. He chose some fresh strawberry jam for his croissant.

“I’m going to nail her, I swear to God, I’m going to nail her. For all of them. I need to connect Wineburg to her. If I can do that, I can harass her some more. May not be enough to get me a warrant to toss her place, but I can keep on her ass.”

“Well, then.” Roarke wiped his fingers with a pale blue linen cloth, set it aside. “I should be able to help you with that.”

As she continued to pace and mutter, he rose, walked to a dresser, took a sealed disc from a drawer. “Lieutenant?”

“What? I’m thinking.”

“Then I won’t interrupt your train of thought with the list of membership from Cross’s cult.” With a half smile on his face, he tapped the disk against his palm and waited for her eyes to clear and shoot to him.

“The list? You got the membership roster? How?”

He cocked his head. “You don’t really want to know how, do you?”

“No.” She said it immediately. “No, I guess I don’t.

Just tell me he’s on it.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Just tell me Wineburg’s on the list.”

“He certainly is.”

Her grin flashed quick and fever bright. “I love you.”

Roarke handed her the disc. “I know you do.”

chapter fourteen

Feeney wanted to see Whitney first. So he made it early, and he made it personal. They, too, went back together a long way, Feeney thought as he pulled up in front of the neat two-level home in the ’burbs. He’d been here socially over the years. The commander’s wife loved to throw parties.

His mood wasn’t sociable now as he strode up the pebbled walk toward the quiet house in the wakening neighborhood. A few yards down, a dog was barking in high, monotonous yips. The bark had none of the faintly metallic ring that said droid, but held a vibrancy of flesh and blood. The kind of dog that shit in the yard, Feeney thought with a shake of his head, and scratched at fleas.

Leaves skittered playfully along the street, most of them making beelines for lawns. Lawns that were, in a neighborhood like this, tended like a religion.

Feeney, himself, didn’t get ’burb life, where you had to rake and mow and water or hire someone to rake and mow and water. He’d raised his family in the city, used the public parks. Hell, you had to pay for them, anyway. He moved his shoulders restlessly, not quite comfortable with the morning silence.

Anna Whitney answered his knock, and though she couldn’t have been expecting company at that hour, she was already decked out in a trim jumpsuit. Her light hair waved stylishly, and her makeup was subtle and perfect. Her lips curved in welcome. Her eyes may have flickered with surprise and curiosity, but she was too much the cop’s wife to ask questions.

“Feeney, how nice to see you. Come in, please, have some coffee. Jack’s just having his second cup in the kitchen.”

“Sorry to disturb you at home, Anna. I need a few minutes of the commander’s time.”

“Of course. And how’s Sheila?” she asked as she led the way down the hall toward the kitchen.

“She’s fine.”

“She looked just wonderful the last time I saw her. Her new stylist is terrific. Jack, you’ve got company for coffee.” She breezed into the kitchen, caught the surprise, then the speculation in her husband’s eyes. She knew enough to make a quick exit. “I’ll let you two chat. I’ve got a million things to do this morning. Feeney, you give Sheila my best, now.”

“I will. Thanks.” He waited until the door swung closed, never taking his eyes off Whitney’s. “Goddamn it, Jack.”

“This should be discussed in my office, Feeney.”

“I’m talking to you.” Feeney jabbed a finger. “To someone I’ve known twenty-five years. To someone who knew Frank. Why’d you cut me out of this? Why did you order Dallas to lie to me?”

“That was my decision, Feeney. The investigation had to be on a need-to-know basis.”

“And I didn’t need to know.”

“No.” Whitney folded his big hands. “You didn’t need to know.”

“Frank and I raised some of our kids together. Alice was my godchild. Frank and I rode as partners for five fucking years. Our wives are like sisters. Who the hell are you to decide I don’t need to know he’s being investigated?”

“Your commander,” Whitney said shortly and pushed his still steaming coffee aside. “And the reasons you just stated are the very reasons I made the decision.”

“You pushed me aside. You know damn well my division should have been involved. You needed records.”

“Records were part of the problem,” Whitney said evenly. “There was no record of a heart defect in his medical files, no record of a connection, personal or professional, between him and a known chemi-dealer.”

“Frank had nothing to do with illegals.”

“No records,” Whitney continued. “And his closest friend is the best E-detective in the city.”

Feeney’s eyes went wide, and his color rose hot. “You think I wiped records? You had Dallas looking at me?”

“No, I didn’t think you wiped records, but it wasn’t something I could ignore with IAD breathing down my neck. Who would you have picked to do the work, Feeney?” Whitney demanded with an impatient gesture. “I knew that Lieutenant Dallas would be thorough and careful and that she’d bust her ass to clear both you and Frank. I knew she had—contacts—that could access those records.”

Deluged by emotion, Feeney turned to stare out of the gleaming window into the backyard with its tidily mowed grass and majestic fall flowers. “You put her in a bad spot. You ordered her into a lousy position, Jack. Is that what happens when you command? You put your troops’ backs to the wall?”

“Yeah, that’s what happens.” Whitney ran a hand over his dark, grizzled hair. “You do what needs to be done, and you live with it. I had IAD drooling. My priority was to clear Frank and shield his family from anymore hardship. Dallas was my best shot. You trained her, Feeney, you know she was my best shot.”

“I trained her,” Feeney agreed, sick inside.

“What would you have done?” Whitney demanded. “Straight, Feeney. You’ve got a dead cop who’s been tagged buying illegals from a suspected dealer who’s under surveillance. There were drugs in his system when he died. Your gut tells you no way, no way he was dirty. And maybe your heart’s telling you, too, because you remember when you were both rookies. But IAD’s got no gut, and it’s got no heart. What would you have done?”

And because he’d had a sleepless night to think on it, to worry the steps, Feeney shook his head. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want your job. Commander.”

“You’ve got to be crazy to want this job.” Whitney’s wide face relaxed slightly. “Dallas has gone a long way to clearing Frank, and she took you out of it within the first twenty-four hours. She’d hardly had more than a week on this, and she’s already cleared a path. With her reports, I’ve been able to back IAD off. They’re not happy about Frank setting up his own sting, but they’ve eased the pressure.”

“That’s good.” Feeney dug his hands into his pockets as he turned back. “She’s good. Christ, Jack, I hit her hard.”

Whitney’s brows knit. “You should have come to me. Going after her was off, Feeney. I gave the orders.”

“I took it personal. I made it personal.” He remembered how she’d looked at him, her face pale, her eyes blank. He’d seen people with that look before—victims, he thought now, who were used to taking a fist in the face. “I’ve got to fix it with her.”

“She called in a couple minutes before you showed up. She’s doing a follow-through on a new lead. At home.”

Feeney jerked his head in a nod. “I’d like a couple hours personal time.”

“You’ve got it.”

“And I want in on this.”

Whitney sat back, considered. “That’ll be up to Dallas. She’s primary. If we’re opening this up, she chooses her own team.”

“Answer the ’link, will you, Peabody?” Eve continued to scan the data on-screen as her ’link beeped insistently. It was a wonder to her how many names she recognized from the social, political, and professional registers. It was doubtful she’d have recognized quite so many a year before, but connecting with Roarke had broadened her horizons.

“Doctors, lawyers,” she muttered. “Christ, this guy’s been to dinner here. And I think Roarke used to sleep with this woman. This dancer. She’s got a hit on Broadway and a mile of leg.”

“It’s Nadine,” Peabody announced and wondered if Eve was talking to herself or really wanted to share that particular information. She hacked, sneezed, then added in her now raspy voice. “Furst.”

“Perfect.” Eve cleared the screen, just in case, and turned to the ’link. “So, Nadine, what’s the story?”

“You’re the story, Dallas. Two dead people. It’s dangerous to know you.”

“You’re still breathing.”

“So far, so good. I thought you might be interested in some data that’s come my way. We can do a trade.”

“Show me yours, maybe I’ll show you mine.”

“Exclusive one on one, in your home, with you discussing the investigation of both knifings, for the noon broadcast.”

Eve didn’t bother to snort. “One on one reporting the status of my investigation, in my office, for the evening broadcast.”

“The first body was found at your house. I want in.”

“It was found outside on the sidewalk, and you’re not getting in.”

Nadine huffed out a breath. The pout was for her own benefit. She knew better than to think it would budge Eve. “I want the noon.”

Eve checked her watch, calculated, considered. “I’ll clear you into my office. Arrival time eleven forty-five. If I can make it, I’ll be there. If not…”

“Damn it, we need setup time. Fifteen minutes isn’t—”

“It’s enough, Nadine, for someone as good as you are. Be sure your data makes this worth my while.”

“Make sure you don’t look like a rag picker,” Nadine shot back. “Do something with your hair, for God’s sake.”

Rather than respond, Eve ended transmission. “What is this obsession people have with my hair and wardrobe?” She raked a bad-tempered hand through the hair in question.

“Mavis told me you’re overdue for a style session. Leonardo’s bummed about it.”

“You hanging with Mavis?”

“I’ve gone down to catch her act a couple times.” She blew her nose heartily. Over-the-counters were pure crap, she decided. “I like watching her.”

“I haven’t had time for a style session,” Eve muttered. “I trimmed it myself a couple days ago.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” At Eve’s narrow look, Peabody smiled blandly. “It looks just lovely, sir.”

“Kiss ass.” Eve switched her screen back on. “And if you’re finished with your critique of my personal appearance, maybe you’d like to run a few of these names.”

“I recognize some of them.” Peabody bent over Eve’s shoulder. “Louis Trivane: big shot celebrity lawyer. Gets the stars out of legal jams. Marianna Bingsley: department store heiress and professional manhunter. Carlo Mancinni, cosmetic enhancement guru—medical doctor—you have to be way rich to have him even consider doing body sculpting on you.”

“I know the names, Peabody. I want background, personal data, financial data, medical data, any arrests. I want to know the names of their spouses and kids and pets. I want to know when and how they connected with Cross and why they decided Satan was a cool guy.”

“It’ll take days.” Peabody said it mournfully and reminded Eve painfully of Feeney. “Even shooting them into the IRCCA.”

Eve said nothing. The International Resource Center on Criminal Activity was one of Feeney’s prides and joys.

“If I could tag someone in the E-Division for help, we could cut the time in half. Maybe less.” Peabody jerked a shoulder. “So, where do you want me to start?”

“We’ve got a hop on Wineburg, so dig deeper there, andon Lobar—Robert Mathias. Then start at the top and work down. I’ll start at the bottom and work up. Look for withdrawals of large amounts at regular intervals. We damn well better have what we need when we meet in the middle.”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking. The financial data on Selina’s cult would be protected by the Privacy Act and its status as a registered religion. Still, there was a chance, a slim one, that she’d been cocky enough to make deposits in her personal account.

That was a simple matter to check on. For the other, she would have to decide if the data would hold solid if she was able to access it, and to access it, she needed Roarke.

She’d wait, she decided, a day or two. Once they ascertained how much money the membership list was suspected of feeding into Selina’s pockets, she’d reassess.

It would be tough to sell the PA on religious contributions as extortion, but it might be a start.

“With Wineburg’s name linked to Cross’s cult, I can pull her into Interview. I think we’ll make it, say, around eleven thirty.”

“You’ve got the spot with Nadine at eleven forty-five.”

“Yeah.” Eve’s smile spread. “That’ll work.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not my fault if some big-nosed reporter finds out I’m questioning Selina Cross, knows I’m primary on two recent homicides, then puts two and two together.”

“And goes on air with it.”

“Might shake up some of these fine, upstanding Satanists. Some people get real chatty when they’re shook. Get me that data, and I can shake them harder.”

“I bow to you.”

“Save it until we see if it works. You use this unit. I can use one of Roarke’s to make the first pass. Computer, copy disc, print out hard copy.” She glanced up at the movement in the doorway, went very still. “Abort,” she murmured and braced to take the next hit from Feeney.

“Peabody.” He sent her a quiet look out of sleep-starved eyes. “I need a moment with your lieutenant.”

“Sir?” Though she rose, Peabody waited for Eve’s signal.

“Take a break, Peabody. Get yourself some coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” She headed out, feeling the needles of edgy tension prickling the air.

Eve didn’t speak, simply stood. Her body was set, he noted, not to defend, but to absorb the next blow. Her eyes were carefully empty. But her hand that she braced on the desk shook. He stared at it a moment, amazed and ashamed that he’d caused that.

“Your, ah, Summerset said I should just come up.” It was warm in the room, but he didn’t remove his rumpled overcoat. Instead, he shoved his hands in the pockets. “I was off yesterday. Coming down on you was off. You were doing your job.”

He saw her lip tremble, as if she would speak or make some sound. Then she firmed it again and said nothing. She looked, he realized, whipped.

“You broke her heart.”

“Her father beat her, tortured her, raped her.”

“You’ve been her father for ten years.”

How the hell was he supposed to deal with that? And how could he possibly ignore it?

“The things I said—I shouldn’t have.” He pulled his hands free to scrub them hard over his face. “Jesus, Dallas. I’m sorry.”

“Did you mean them?” It was out before she could stop it. She held up a hand, turned away, stared blindly out the window.

“I wanted to mean them. I was pissed.” He crossed to her, his hands flapping uselessly. “I got no excuse,” he began. He touched her, then snatched his fingers away from her shoulder when she cringed. “I got no excuse,” he said again after a steadying breath. “And you got a right to step back from me. I jumped hard where I shouldn’t have jumped.”

“You don’t trust me now.” She skimmed the back of her hand over her cheek, ashamed the single tear had gotten past her guard.

“That’s bullshit, Dallas. There’s nobody I trust more. Look, goddamn it, it takes a laser hit to get me to apologize to my own wife. I’m telling you I’m sorry.” Impatient now, he grabbed her arm, pulled her around. She froze. Her eyes were bright, tears sheening them but not, thank Christ, falling. “Don’t go female on me, Dallas. I can’t kick myself in the ass much harder than I already am.”

He jerked up his chin, tapped a finger on it. “Go ahead. Free shot. We won’t say anything about you punching out a superior officer.”

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“Goddamn it, I outrank you. I said take your shot.”

A ghost of a smile flitted around her mouth. He looked so fierce, she thought, those drooping camel eyes sparking with temper and frustration. “Maybe after you shave. That stubble’d skin my knuckles.”

Relief flooded through him at the slight curve of her lips. “You’re going soft. Living the high life with that rich Irish son of a bitch.”

“I beat hell out of a sparring droid last night. One of Roarke’s finest.”

“Yeah?” Pride swelled in him, ridiculously.

She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “I pretended it was you.”

He grinned, took out the bag of candied almonds from his pocket, offered it. “E-detectives don’t have to use their fists. They use their brains.”

“You taught me to use both.”

“And to follow orders,” he added, his eyes resting on hers again. “I’d have been ashamed of you if you’d forgotten that. You did right, Dallas, for Frank, for the department. For me,” he said and watched her eyes swim again. “Don’t do that.” His voice shook with the plea. “Don’t start that shit. That’s an order.”

She swiped the back of her hand under her nose. “I’m not doing anything.”

He waited a moment, just to be sure she wasn’t going to lose it and embarrass them both. When her eyes cleared, he nodded in both relief and approval. “Good.” He jiggled the bag in his hand. “Now, are you going to let me in?”

She opened her mouth, shut it.

“I’ve seen Whitney,” he told her. Feeney found he wanted to smile. This was the cop he’d trained. Solid, sturdy, and straight. “Chewed him out in his own kitchen.”

“Did you?” She lifted her brows. “I’d like to have seen it.”

“Trouble was, once it was over, I had to agree with him. He’d picked the best cop for the job. I know you’ve been busting ass to push IAD out of the picture, clear Frank. Me,” he added. “And I know you’ve been working on finding out who did him and Alice.” He had to take a breath because it hurt, still hurt. “I want in, Dallas. I’m going to tell you straight, I need in to clear this out of my gut. Whitney said it was up to you.”

The tension seeped out of her. She could give him this, give both of them this. “Let’s get to work.”

Eve was so pleased to have Selina Cross in Interview, she’d missed anticipating the obvious bonus of having her represented by Louis Trivane. She flashed grins at both of them as she secured the door to Interview Room A.

“Ms. Cross, I appreciate your cooperation. Mr. Trivane.”

“Eve—”

“Lieutenant Dallas,” she corrected, snapping off the grin. “We’re not socializing here.”

“You know each other.” Selina’s eyes went icy, pinned her lawyer.

“Your representative knows my husband on a social level. I’m acquainted with a number of attorneys in the city, Ms. Cross. This doesn’t affect my or their job performance. We’ll go on record.”

Eve engaged the recorder, recited the pertinent data. After reading the revised Miranda, she sat. “You’ve exercised your right to an attorney, Ms. Cross.”

“I certainly have. I’ve already been harassed by you twice, Lieutenant Dallas. I prefer that this continued harassment go on record.”

“Me, too.” Eve smiled. “You were acquainted with Robert Mathias, also known as Lobar.”

“He was Lobar,” Selina corrected. “It was his chosen name.”

“Was is the operative word, seeing as he’s in a refrigerated unit at the morgue. And so is Thomas Wineburg. Are you acquainted with him?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well, that’s interesting. He was a member of your cult.”

Selina set her chin, waved away Trivane as he leaned forward to speak to her. “I can’t be expected to recognize the name of every member of my church, Dallas. We are…” She spread her hands on the small table. “Legion.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Eve opened a file, took a still out, and slid it across the table. Death shots were always ugly.

Selina studied it with a small smile tugging at her mouth. A finger of the hand she wore webbed again today traced the spread of harsh red blood. “I can’t say for certain. We meet in the dark.” Her gaze lifted to Eve. “It’s our way.”

“I can say for certain. Both he and Lobar were yours, and both were murdered with a style of knife used in your rituals.”

“An athame, yes. We are not the only religion who uses such an instrument in ceremony. I feel, after this violence, this persecution of members of my church, the police should be concerned with protecting us rather than pointing fingers. Obviously, there is a person or persons determined to eliminate us.”

“I figured you had your own protection. Doesn’t your master look out for his own?”

“Your mockery only shows your ignorance.”

“Having sex with an eighteen-year-old delinquent shows yours. Did you have sex with Wineburg, too?”

“I said I can’t be sure I knew him. But if I did, I very likely had sex with him.”

“Selina.” Trivane cut her off, his voice firm. “You’re goading my client, Lieutenant. She’s stated she can’t positively identify this victim.”

“She knew him. Both of you did. He was a weasel. Do you know what a weasel is in cop-speak, Ms. Cross? An informant.” Eve rose, leaned over, bending her body close to Selina’s. “Were you worried about how much he’d told me? Is that why you arranged for him to die? Were you having him followed?” She slanted her gaze toward Trivane briefly. “Maybe you have all your…faithful followed.”

“I see whatever I need to see in the smoke.”

“Yeah, in the smoke. The psychic’s version of the Peeping Tom. It was risky for Wineburg to come by the viewing room. Why do you suppose he wanted a look at Alice? Had he been there the night she was drugged, raped? Did you let him have her?”

“Alice was an initiate. A willing one.”

“She was a child, a confused one. You like luring the young, don’t you? They’re so much more interesting than stubby fools like Wineburg. With their firm bodies, their malleable minds. People like Wineburg and the distinguished counsel here, they’re just for the money, and the cachet. But those like Alice, they’re so tender. So tasty.”

Selina looked up smugly through her thick, dark lashes. “She was. She enjoyed and was enjoyed. She didn’t have to be lured, Dallas. She came to me.”

“Now she’s dead. Three deaths. Your members must be getting nervous.” Eve smiled thinly at Trivane. “I would be.”

“Martyrdom isn’t new, Dallas. People have been killed because of their faith for centuries. And still, the faith survives. We’ll survive. We’ll triumph.”

Eve took out another still, slapped it on the table. “He didn’t.”

It was Lobar, his mutilated body caught it the garish lights of the crime scene. The wound on his throat gaped open like a scream.

It was Trivane who Eve watched. His eyes blinked rapidly, horror flickering through. His skin went pasty, and his chest rose and fell in jerks.

“He didn’t survive,” Eve said softly, “did he, Selina?”

“His death is a symbol. He will not be forgotten.”

“Do you own an athame?”

“I own several, naturally.”

“Like this?” She took out another photo, this one a close-up of the weapon left pinned into Lobar. Blood crusted the blade.

“I have several,” Selina repeated. “Some similar to this, as one might expect. But I don’t recognize this particular one.”

“Hallucinogens were found in Lobar’s system. You use drugs during rituals.”

“Herbals, and some chemicals. All legal.”

“Not everything found in Lobar’s system was on the legal list.”

“I can’t be responsible for the choices other people make.”

“He was with you the night he died. Was he using?”

“He had taken the ritual wine. If he took something otherwise, it was without my knowledge.”

“You have priors as a chemi-dealer.”

“And paid my debt to so-called society. You have nothing on me, Lieutenant.”

“I have three bodies. And they’re yours. I’ve got a dead cop, and he’s on you, too. I’m closing in on you, Selina. Step by step.”

“Keep out of my face.”

“Or?”

“Do you know pain, Dallas?” Selina’s voice went low and thick. “Do you know the pain that eats at the stomach like drops of acid spreading? You beg for relief, but none comes. The pain becomes agony, and agony almost pleasure. The pain becomes so intense, so unspeakable that if a knife came to your hand, you would gladly slice through your own guts to cut out the source of it.”

“Would I,” Eve said coolly. “Would I really?”

“I can offer you that. I can offer you pain.”

Eve smiled, and her smile was slow and humorless. “That slips into the area of threatening a police officer. And that’ll get you some time in a cage until your lawyer finesses you out again.”

“You bitch.” Furious that she’d been trapped so neatly and with so little effort, Selina sprang to her feet. “You can’t hold me for that.”

“Sure, I can. Selina Cross, you’re under arrest for verbal threat to physically harm a police officer.”

She was fast, but Eve’s reflexes were sharp. She blocked the first blow as Selina flew at her. But the second rapid swipe caught her along the throat with those lethal dark nails. She smelled her own blood and indulged herself by bringing her elbow up to ram Selina’s chin.

The dark eyes rolled back, went glassy. “Looks like we add resisting arrest. You’re going to have your hands full for the next couple hours, counselor.”

He hadn’t moved, not a muscle. Trivane continued to sit, staring at the photos of the dead. When Feeney opened the door, a uniform behind him, Eve nodded. “Book her,” she ordered. “Verbal threat and resisting.”

Selina staggered as Eve passed her to the uniform. But her eyes cleared and fixed on Eve’s face with bubbling malice. She began to speak softly, in a chant that rose and fell almost musically. She swiveled her head, looking over her shoulder as the uniform took her out.

Eve dabbed fingers on her throat, disgusted when they came away smeared with blood. “Did you catch what she was saying there?”

Feeney took out a handkerchief, handed it to her. “Sounded like Latin, bastardized some. My mother made me learn when I was a kid. Had delusions about me becoming a priest.”

“See if you can make any of it out from the record. We may be able to add to the charges. Shit, this burns. Interview is concluded,” she added and logged the time and date. “Trivane, you want to talk to me?”

“What?” He looked over, swallowed, shook his head. “I’ll see my client, Lieutenant, as soon as she’s booked. These charges won’t hold.”

Eve held out her bloody fingers. “Oh, I think they will. Take a good look, Louis.” She stepped closer, jammed her fingers under his nose. “It could be yours next time.”

“I’ll see my client,” he repeated, and his face was still white as death as he hurried from the room.

“That bitch is loony,” Feeney commented.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“She hates your ever fucking guts,” he said pleasantly, happy to be in tandem again. “But you knew that, too. Put the hoodoo on you.”

“Huh?”

“Cursed you.” He winked at her. “Let me know if you start getting stomach cramps. You’re starting to get to her.”

“Not enough,” Eve murmured. “But my money’s on the lawyer. Let’s keep a man on him, Feeney. I don’t want him ending up dead before he breaks. It was the way he looked at the shot of Lobar. Shock, then something like recognition.” She shook her head. “Let’s not lose him.” She glanced at her watch, hummed with satisfaction. “Just in time to make my nooner with Nadine.”

“You want to have that neck looked after. Nasty.”

“Later.” She headed out, moving fast. Nadine wouldn’t miss the injury. Nor, Eve thought, would the all-seeing eye of the camera.

“What the hell happened to you?” Nadine demanded. She stopped pacing, stopped looking at her watch.

“Little problem in Interview.”

“You cut it close, Dallas, we got two minutes before air. You don’t have time to clean up.”

“Fine, we’ll go like we are.”

“Get a voice and light level,” Nadine told her camera operator. She took out a mirrored compact, polishing up her face when she sat. “Looks like female,” she added. “Long, nasty nails, four separate grooves.”

“Yeah.” Eve patted the already stained handkerchief against the wound. “Somebody was curious, they could check booking, get the data.”

Nadine’s eyes went sharp. “I imagine someone could,” she purred. “You didn’t do anything with your hair.”

“I cut it.”

“I meant anything constructive. Coming up in thirty. Set, Suzanna?”

The operator made a circle of forefinger and thumb. “The fresh blood shows up real good. Nice touch.”

“Gee, thanks.” Eve settled back, hooked one booted foot over her knee. “Let’s keep this short, Nadine. I haven’t seen yours yet.”

“Here’s a preview then. What local white witch is the son of infamous mass murderer David Baines Conroy, who is currently doing five separate life stretches, no parole options, in maximum lockup on Penal Station Omega?”

“Who—”

“In five,” Nadine said sweetly, delighted to have snagged Eve’s full attention. “Four, three…” She signaled the last of the countdown with her fingers, below camera level. On cue, she stared into the camera with sober eyes. “Good afternoon, this is Nadine Furst, leading off the noon hour with an exclusive interview with homicide Lieutenant Eve Dallas in her office at Cop Central…”

Eve was prepared for the questions. She knew Nadine’s style well, too well to allow herself to be rattled by the information that had been dumped on her seconds before air time. As, she imagined, Nadine had hoped. She answered briefly, carefully, and knew she was bumping up Channel 75’s and Nadine’s rating points with every on-the-air second.

“The department is proceeding with the belief that the cases are connected as evidence indicates. Though different weapons were left at the scene of each murder, they are of similar style.”

“Can you describe the weapons?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“But they were knives.”

“They were sharp instruments. I’m not at liberty to go into any more detail. Doing so would jeopardize our investigation at this point.”

“The second victim. You were pursuing him at the time of his death. Why?”

She was ready for this, had already decided to exploit the question for her own benefit. “Thomas Wineburg had indicated he had information which would be useful to my investigation.”

“What information?”

Zip, Eve thought, but kept her eyes level. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that. I can only say we spoke, and he became agitated and ran. I pursued.”

“And he was killed.”

“That’s correct. Running didn’t help him.”

Annoyed that her director indicated her time was up through her earpiece, Nadine wound the interview to a close. “And we’re clear. Suzanna?” Nadine simply gestured to the door and sent her operator out. “Off the record,” she began.

“Nope. Gimme.”

“All right then.” Nadine sat back, crossed her pretty legs. “Charles Forte took his mother’s maiden name legally twelve years ago after his father was convicted of the ritual slayings of five people. It’s believed he killed countless others, but it’s never been proved. The bodies have never been found.”

“I know the story behind Conroy. I didn’t know he had a kid.”

“That was kept locked. Privacy Act. The family was already out of it. The mother had divorced and relocated a few years before Baines was caught. The kid was sixteen when she took him and left. Twenty-one when his father was tried and convicted. My sources claim the son attended court every day.”

Eve thought of the small, unassuming man she’d met at Alice’s viewing. Son of a monster. How much of that came through the blood? She thought of her own father, nearly shuddered. “I appreciate it. If it comes to anything, I’ll owe you.”

“Yeah, you will. I’ve got lots of data on cults in the city. Nothing as dramatic as this, but it may lead somewhere. Meanwhile, if you were in Interview with someone pissed off enough to try to slice your jugular, should I assume you have a suspect?”

Eve studied her nails. She supposed some would have said she was overdo for a manicure. “I can’t comment on that. You know, Nadine, cameras aren’t allowed down in Booking.”

“Damn shame. Thanks for the spot, Dallas. I’ll be in touch.”

“Do that.” Eve watched her stroll out, had no doubt Nadine was making tracks to Booking. And that Selina Cross was going to have her name broadcast by the end of the noon report.

All in all, she decided, not a bad morning.

Wincing, she dragged through her drawers hoping for a first aid kit.

chapter fifteen

“I won’t make it home.” Eve juggled the call to Roarke while her computer searched for all data on David Baines Conroy. “Can you swing by here about six? We can drive upstate for the witch party.”

Roarke lifted an elegant brow. “As long as it’s not in your vehicle.” He frowned, gestured. “Come a little closer to the screen. What now?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘What now’? I’m busy.”

“No, your neck.”

“Oh, that.” She touched her fingers to the still-raw scratches. She’d never found that first aid kit. “A difference of opinion. I won.”

“Naturally. Put something on it, Lieutenant. I should be able to make it there by six thirty. We can eat on the way.”

“Fine.” Eat on the way? “Wait a minute. Don’t bring the limo.”

He only smiled. “Six thirty.”

“I mean it, Roarke, don’t—” She hissed when the screen blanked. “Damn.” With a sigh, she swiveled back to the computer.

The IRCCA was a fount of data on this one, she thought. she skimmed through, pausing over pertinent facts on David Baines Conroy.

Divorced, one child, male, Charles, born January 22, 2025, custody awarded to mother, Ellen Forte.

Big surprise, Eve thought. Mass murderers weren’t generally given custody of minor children. “Let’s get down to it,” she murmured. “Charges and convictions.”

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, torture killing, posthumous rape, and dismemberment of Doreen Harden, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Emma Tangent, black female, age 25. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Lowell McBride, white male, age 18. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Darla Fitz, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, posthumous rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Martin Savoy, mixed race male, age 20. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.

Currently serving term on Penal Station Omega.

Suspected of twelve additional murders, cases open. Insufficient evidence to charge. Primary investigators available on request.

“List primaries,” Eve ordered and watched as names and data scrolled. “Moved around, did you, Conroy?” she muttered, noting that the detectives in charge were scattered all over the country.

She’d still been a teenager when Conroy had dominated the news. She remembered snatches, weeping family members begging Conroy to tell them where to find the remains of loved ones, grim-faced cops giving statements, and Conroy himself, a quiet face slashed with vicious, dark eyes.

They’d called him evil, she remembered. The Antichrist. That was the term used over and over again to describe him, to try, perhaps, to separate him from the human.

But he’d been human enough to conceive a child. A son. And that son was on her current list of suspects. Maybe, just maybe, she’d been focused too relentlessly on Selina Cross.

The son was drawn to power, she mused. Witchcraft was about power, wasn’t it? He’d known at least one of the victims. And two had been killed with a knife. Conroy had been very handy with a knife.

He’d also claimed to have been the instrument of a god, she recalled, scanning data. Yes, there, there in one of his rambling statements. She highlighted. “Give me audio on this.”

Working…

“I am a force beyond you,” Conroy’s voice crooned out, beautiful diction, almost musical. The son’s voice, Eve thought, was equally charismatic. “I am the instrument of the god of vengeance and pain. What I do in his name is grand. Tremble before me for I will never be vanquished. I am legion.”

“You are garbage,” Eve corrected. Legion. Cross had used the same term. Interesting…Had Conroy dabbled in Satanism, she wondered, in witchcraft? And had the son been attracted to the same areas?

Just how much, she wondered, did Charles Forte know about his father’s work? And how did he feel about it?

“Computer, run Charles Forte of this city, formerly Charles Conroy, son of David Baines Conroy, all data.

Working…

As the information beeped on, she tapped her fingers on the desk and considered. The mother had taken her son to New York, which meant, Eve mused, that the boy had traveled back to attend the trial. He’d made the effort, likely over his mother’s objections. Dropped out of college, second term. Studied pharmaceuticals. Very interesting. Licensed as a chemical drone, worked on drug cloning and manufacture. Moved around quite a bit, she noted. Like his dear old dad. Then settled back in New York, co-owner of Spirit Quest.

She leaned back, unconsciously rubbing her wounded throat. No marriages, no children, no arrests. She played a hunch.

“Medical data.”

Charles Forte, age six, broken hand. Age six, minor concussion, abdominal bruising. Age seven, second-degree burns, forearms. Age seven, concussion and fractured tibia.

The list went on through childhood in a pattern that made Eve’s stomach clench. “Hold. Probability of child abuse?”

Probability ninety-eight percent.

“Why the hell wasn’t it picked up?”

Medical records indicate treatment was issued at varying hospitals in varying cities over course of ten years. No record of requested search through National Child Abuse Prevention Agency.

“Idiots. Idiots.” She rubbed her hands over her face, pressing hard on the headache now brewing in the center of her forehead. It was too close to home.

“List any psychiatric treatment or available psychological profiles.”

Subject entered Miller Clinic voluntarily as outpatient. Doctor of record, Ernest Renfrew from February 2045 to September 2047. Files sealed. No other data.

“Okay, that’s enough to chew on. Save data, file Forte, Charles, case number 34299-H. Cross-reference, Conroy. Disengage when complete.”

She glanced up as Feeney stuck his head in her doorway. “Cross just got sprung.”

“Well, it was too good to last.”

“You have anybody look at those cat scratches?”

“I will. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“David Baines Conroy.”

Feeney whistled, made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. “That’s going back. Sick bastard. Cut his victims up when he was done with them. Kept the parts in a portable cold box. Had a trailer, traveled around. Preaching.”

“Preaching?”

“Well, that’s not exactly the term. Set himself up as a sort of Antichrist. Lots of shit about anarchy, freedom to pursue carnal pleasures, opening the gates of Hell. That sort of thing. Figures he plucked most of his victims off the road. Itinerant LCs. At least three they pinned him on were licensed companions. Hookers have always been easy marks for psychos.”

“He was found competent to stand trial.”

“Passed the tests. Legally, he was sane. In reality, a real whacko.”

“He had a family.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” Feeney closed his eyes to try to bring it back. “I was still working Homicide then, and there wasn’t a cop on planet who wasn’t personally caught up by the case. Never did any of his work here, that we know of, but I remember he had a wife. Pale, jumpy little woman. Left him—before he got snagged seems to me. And there was a kid, a boy. Spooky.”

“Why?”

“He had his old man’s eyes. Except they were dead, you know? I remember thinking we might be tracking him one day. In his father’s footsteps. Then they ducked under the Privacy Act, and nobody ever heard of them again.”

“Until now.” Eve kept her eyes level. “I’m seeing Conroy’s son tonight. At a witch’s coven.”

Roarke brought the limo. She’d been certain he would, just to annoy her. She’d have stayed annoyed if he hadn’t seen that the AutoChef was stocked, Italian style.

Eve was wolfing down manicotti before they crossed the Jacqueline Onassis Bridge. But she shook her head at the burgundy he poured.

“I’m on duty,” she said with her mouth full.

“I’m not.” He sipped, studied her. “Why haven’t you taken care of that?” he asked, brushing gentle fingers over her throat.

“I got tied up.”

“Now, that’s something we’ve yet to explore.” He smiled genially when she goggled at him. “Just a thought. I caught the replay of your little tête-à-tête with Nadine on the way over to Central. I’m surprised you agreed to it.”

“It was a trade. I got my share.” She leaned forward, engaged the privacy shield between them and the driver. “And I’d better fill you in before we join in tonight’s festivities.”

She detailed the new line she was pursuing, then sampled one of the sweet, fat olives on the antipasto tray. “It bumps him up a few notches on the list,” she concluded.

“The sins of the father?”

“Sometimes it works that way.”

He said nothing a moment. They both had reason to be uncomfortable with the theory. “You know best, Lieutenant, but isn’t it just as likely circumstances would push him to the opposite pole?”

“He knew Alice, he has knowledge of chemicals. Her grandfather had chemicals in his system, and she’d been hallucinating. The other two victims were ritual slayings. Forte belongs to a cult. I can’t ignore the steps.”

“He looked remarkably unhomicidal to me.”

She poked through the antipasto, selected a marinated pepper. “I once took down this little old lady, looked like everybody’s favorite granny. She took in stray cats and baked cookies for the neighborhood kids. Grew geraniums on her windowsill.” Enjoying the bite, Eve chose another pepper. “She’d lured a half a dozen kids into her apartment, and had fed their internal organs to the kitties before we nailed her.”

“Charming story.” Roarke slipped his plate into the holding slot. “Point taken.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out the amulet Isis had given him the night before, slipped it over Eve’s neck.

“What’s this for?”

“It looks better on you than me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Bull. You’re being superstitious.”

“No, I’m not,” he lied and set her plate in with his before he shifted and began to unbutton her shirt.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Passing the time.” His hands, clever and quick, swooped down to take her breasts. “It’ll take an hour to get there by car.”

“I’m not having sex in the back of a limo,” she told him. “It’s—”

“Delicious,” he finished and replaced his hands with his mouth.

She felt remarkably limber and relaxed by the time the limo turned onto a narrow country road. Here the trees were plentiful, the stars brilliant, and the dark complete. Half-denuded trees arched over the roadway, tunneling them in. She caught the glinting gold eyes of what might have been a fox as a shadow darted across the road and into the woods.

“Feeney and Peabody still behind us?”

“Hmm.” Roarke tucked his shirt back into his trousers. “It would seem so. “You’re putting that on inside out,” he said mildly and grinned.

“Hell.” Eve struggled back out of the shirt, pulled the arms through, and tried again. “Don’t look so smug, I just pretended to enjoy that.”

“Darling Eve.” He took her hand, kissed it. “You’re too good to me.”

“You’re telling me.” She slipped the amulet off, looped it over his head. “You wear it.” Before he could object, she caught his face in her hands. “Please.”

“You don’t believe in it, anyway.”

“No.” She tucked it under his shirt, patted it. “But I think you do. Your driver knows where he’s going?”

“The directions from Isis are programmed in.” He checked his watch. “By my calculations, we should be nearly there.”

“Looks like we’re nowhere if you ask me.” She stared out the window. Nothing but dark, trees, and more dark. “I’d rather be on my own turf. Hard to believe there’s this much nothing less than two hours’ drive from New York.”

“You’re such an urbanite.”

“And you’re not?”

He moved his shoulders. “The country’s an interesting place to visit for short periods of time. Quiet can be restful.”

“It makes me edgy.” They turned onto another winding road. “And everything looks the same. There’s no…action,” she decided. “Now, you stroll into Central or Green-peace Park and you’re bound to run into a mugger or chemi head at least. Maybe an unlicensed hooker, couple of perverts.”

She glanced back, saw he was grinning at her. “Well?”

“Life with you has such…color.”

She snorted, strapped on her side arm. “Yeah, like everything was gray in your little world before I came along. All that wine, women, and money. Must have been pretty tedious.”

“The ennui,” he said on a sigh, “was unspeakable. I might have faded away from it if you hadn’t tried to hang a murder or two on me.”

“Just your lucky day.” She caught the glimmer of lights through the trees as the car turned up a steep, rutted incline. “Thank Christ. Looks like the party’s already under way.”

“Try not to sneer.” Roarke patted her knee. “It would offend our hosts.”

“I’m not going to sneer.” She already was. “I want impressions. Not just of Forte, of everybody. And if you happen to recognize a face, let me know.” She took a small device out of her bag, slipped it into her pocket.

“Micro recorder?” Roarke clucked his tongue. “I believe that’s illegal. Not to mention rude.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And unnecessary,” he added. He turned his wrist, tapped a tiny button on the side of his watch. “This one is much more efficient. I should know. I manufacture both brands.” He smiled as the car stopped at the edge of a small clearing. “I believe we’ve arrived.”

Eve spotted Isis first. She was impossible to miss. The sheer, white robe she wore seemed to glow out of the dark like moonlight. Her hair was left long and loose, flowing over her shoulders. A gold band studded with colored stones circled her brow. Her long, narrow feet were bare.

“Blessed be,” she said and disconcerted Eve by kissing both her cheeks. She greeted Roarke the same way, then turned back to Eve. “You’re injured.” Before Eve could respond, she lay fingers against the scratches. “Poison.”

“Poison?” Eve had visions of vicious nails dipped into a slow-acting brew that crept through the bloodstream.

“Not of the physical but of the spiritual kind. I feel Selina here.” Her eyes stayed on Eve’s as she lowered her hand to Eve’s shoulder. “This won’t do. Mirium, please welcome our other guests.” She spoke to a small, dark-skinned woman as Feeney’s rattletrap of a car bumped up the road. “Chas will see to your wound.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see an MT in the morning.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Please come this way. It’s unhealthy to have even this much of her here.”

She led the way around the clearing. Eve could see a wide circle formed by a ring of white candles. People stood outside it chatting, she mused, as they might at a midtown cocktail party. Dress varied. Robes, suits, long and short skirts.

Twenty in all, by her count, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty with a mixture of race and gender. There seemed no specific type. Coolers were stacked nearby, which, she supposed, explained why several members were sipping drinks. Conversation was muted, punctuated by the occasional laugh.

Chas turned from a folding table as they approached. He wore a simple blue unisuit and soft shoes in the same tone. He smiled, noting Eve’s suspicious scan of the table.

“Witch’s tools,” he told her.

Red cords, a white-handled knife. An athame, she thought. She saw more candles, a small brass gong, a whip, a gleaming silver sword, colored bottles, bowls, and cups.

“Interesting.”

“It’s an old ritual, requiring old tools. But you’re hurt.” He took a step toward her, his hand lifting, then pausing when she aimed a cool, warning look. “I beg your pardon. It looks painful.”

“Chas is a healer.” Isis curved her lips in challenge. “Consider this a demonstration. After all, you did come to observe, didn’t you? And your mate wears protection.”

And so, Eve thought, feeling the comfortable weight of her weapon, did she.

“Okay, demonstrate.” She tilted her head, inviting Chas to examine the scratches.

His fingers were surprisingly cool, surprisingly soothing as they played over her abraded skin. She kept her eyes on his, watched them focus, then flicker. “You’re fortunate,” he murmured. “The result didn’t equal the intent. Will you relax your mind?”

His gaze lifted from his hand, met hers. “The mind and body are one,” he said quietly in that lovely voice. “One guides the other, one heals the other. Let me ease this.”

She thought she felt warmth move through her, from the point where his fingers lay, into her head, down through her body, until a drowsiness seeped through. She jerked herself alert, saw him smile quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

He turned, picked up an amber bottle, uncorked the stopper and dabbed clear, floral-scented liquid on his hands.

“This is a balm, an old recipe with modern additions.” He spread it gently, his fingers following the path Selina’s nails had raked. “It will heal clean, and there will be no more discomfort.”

“You know your chemicals, don’t you?”

“This is an herbal base.” He took a cloth from his pocket, wiped his fingers. “But yes, I do.”

“I’d like to talk to you about that.” She waited a beat, her eyes keen. “And about your father.”

She saw the demand hit home in the way his pupils dilated, then contracted. Then Isis was stepping between them, fury glorious on her face.

“You’ve been invited here; this place is sacred. You have no right—”

“Isis.” Chas touched her arm. “She has a mission. We all do.” He looked at Eve, seemed to gather himself. “Yes, I’ll speak with you, when you wish. But this isn’t the place to bring despair. The ceremony’s about to begin.”

“We won’t stop you.”

“Will tomorrow, nine o’clock, at Spirit Quest, be suitable?”

“That’s fine.”

“Excuse me.”

“Do you always repay kindness with pain?” Isis demanded in a furious undertone as Chas stepped away. Then she shook her head, aimed her gaze deliberately at Roarke. “You are welcome to observe, and we hope you and your companions will show the proper respect for our rite tonight. You aren’t permitted within the magic circle.”

As she swept away, Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. “Well, now I’ve got two witches pissed off at me.” She looked over as Peabody hurried to her side.

“It’s an initiation,” Peabody whispered. “I got it from the big gorgeous witch in the Italian suit.” She smiled across the clearing at a man with burnished bronze hair and a million-watt smile. “Jesus, makes a woman consider converting.”

“Get a grip on yourself, Peabody.” Eve nodded at Feeney.

“My sainted mother would be saying half a dozen rosaries tonight if she knew where I was.” He pushed on a grin to cover nerves. “Damn spooky place. Nothing out here but a lot of nothing.”

Roarke sighed, slipped an arm around Eve’s waist. “Cut from the same cloth,” he murmured and turned as the rite began.

The young woman Isis had called Mirium stood outside the circle of candles and was bound and blindfolded by two men. Everyone, but for the observers, was now naked. Skin glowed, white and dark and gold in the streaming moonlight. Deeper in the woods night birds called liltingly.

Itchy, Eve slid a hand inside her jacket, felt the weight of her weapon.

The red cords were used for the binding of the initiate, leaving a kind of tether. As the ankle cord was attached, Chas spoke.

“Feet neither bound nor free.”

And there was unmistakable joy and reverence in his voice.

Curious, Eve watched the casting of the circle, the opening ritual. The mood was, she had to admit, happy. Overhead, the moon swam, sprinkling light, silvering the trees. Owls hooted—an odd sound that rippled through her blood. Nudity seemed to be ignored. There was none of the surreptitious groping or sly glances she knew she’d have seen at any city sex club.

Chas took up the athame, making Eve’s hand close on her weapon as he held it to the postulant’s heart. He spoke, his words rising and falling on the smoky breeze.

“I have two passwords,” Mirium answered. “Perfect love and perfect trust.”

He smiled. “All who have such are doubly welcome. I give you a third to pass you through this dread door.”

He handed the knife to the man beside him, then kissed Mirium. As a father might kiss a child, Eve thought, frowning. Chas walked around the postulant, embraced her, then gently nudged her forward into the circle. Behind them, the second man traced the tip of the athame over the empty space, as if to close them in.

There was chanting now as Chas led Mirium around the circle, as she was turned by hands after hands in a playful child’s game of dizziness and disorientation. A bell rang three times.

It was Chas who knelt, speaking, then kissing the postulant’s feet, her knees, her belly just above the pubis, her breasts, then her lips.

She’d thought it would be sexual, Eve mused. But it had been more…loving than that.

“Impressions?” She murmured to Roarke.

“Charming and powerful. Religious.” He slid his hand up and covered the one that still curled around her weapon, gently tugging it away. “And harmless. Sexual, certainly, but in a very balanced and respectful sense. And yes, I see one or two people I recognize.”

“I’ll want names.”

As the rite continued, she reached up absently to rub her throat. She found the skin smooth, unbroken, and free of pain.

As she dropped her hand, Chas looked at her, met her eyes. And smiled again.

chapter sixteen

Spirit Quest wasn’t open for business when Eve arrived with Peabody. But Chas was there, waiting on the sidewalk, sipping something that steamed out of a recycle cup.

“Good morning.” The air was just chilled enough to have slapped color into his cheek. “I wonder if we could talk upstairs, in our apartment, rather than in the shop.”

“Cops bad for business?” Eve asked.

“Well, we could say that the early customers might be disconcerted. And we do open in half an hour. I assume you don’t need Isis.”

“Not at the moment.”

“I appreciate it. If you could, ah, give me just a moment.” He shot her a sheepish look. “Isis prefers not to have caffeine in the house. I’m weak,” he said, taking another sip. “She knows I sneak off every morning to feed my addiction and pretends not to. It’s foolish, but it makes us happy.”

“Take your time. You get that across the street?”

“That would be a little too close to home. And to be honest, the coffee’s filthy there. They make a decent cup down at the corner deli.” He sipped again with obvious pleasure. “I gave up cigarettes years ago, even herbals, but I can’t quite do without a cup of coffee. Did you enjoy the ceremony last night?”

“It was interesting.” Since the morning air was sharp, she tucked her ungloved hands in her pockets. Traffic, both street and air, was beginning to thin a little with the first commuter rush passing. “Getting a little brisk to run around naked in the woods, isn’t it?”

“Yes. We probably won’t hold any more outdoor ceremonies this year. Certainly not skyclad. But Mirium had her heart set on being initiated to first-degree witch before Samhain.”

“Samhain.”

“Halloween,” he and Peabody said together. She shuffled her feet as he smiled at her. “Free-Ager,” she muttered.

“Ah, there are some basic similarities.” He finished off his coffee, stepped over to a recycling bin, and neatly slipped the cup in the slot. “You have a cold, Officer.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody sniffled, determinedly blocked a sneeze.

“I have something that should ease that. One of our members recognized you, Lieutenant. She said she’d given you a reading lately. On the night, actually, that Alice died.”

“That’s right.”

“Cassandra is very skilled and very sweet-natured,” Chas began as he started up the steps. “She feels she should have been able to see more clearly, to tell you that Alice was in danger. She believes you are.” He paused, looked back. “She hoped that you’re still carrying the stone she gave you.”

“It’s around somewhere.”

He let out a sound that might have been a sigh. “How’s your neck?”

“Good as new.”

“I see it’s healed cleanly.”

“Yeah, and quickly. What was in that stuff you put on it?”

Humor flickered in his eyes, surprising her. “Oh, just some tongue of bat, a little eye of newt.” He opened the door to a musical chime of bells. “Please be comfortable. I’ll get you some tea to warm you up since I kept you standing.”

“You don’t have to bother.”

“It’s no bother at all. Just be a moment.”

He slipped through a doorway, and Eve took the time to study his living quarters.

She wouldn’t call them simple. Obviously, a lot of the stock from the shelves downstairs made its way up here. Large, many-speared hunks of crystals decorated an oval table and circled a copper urn filled with fall flowers. An intricate tapestry hung on the wall over a curved, blue sofa. Men and women, suns and moons, a castle with flame spewing from the arrow slits.

“The major arcana,” Peabody told her as Eve stepped up for a closer look. She sneezed once, violently, and dug out a tissue. “The Tarot. It looks old, hand-worked.”

“Expensive,” Eve decided. Art such as this didn’t come cheaply.

There were statues in pewter and carved from smooth stone. Wizards and dragons, two-headed dogs, sinuous women with delicate wings. Another wall was covered with odd, attractive symbols in splashes of color.

“From the Book of Kells.” Peabody lifted her shoulders at Eve’s curious glance. “My mother likes to embroider the symbols, like on pillows and samplers. They look nice. It’s a nice place.” And it didn’t give her the willies like the Cross apartment. “Eccentric, but nice.”

“Business must be good for them to be able to afford the antiques, the metalwork, the art.”

“The business does well enough,” Chas said as he came back with a tray laden with a flower patterned ceramic pot and cups. “And I had some resources of my own before we opened.”

“Inheritance?”

“No.” He set the tray down on a circular coffee table. “Savings, investments. Chemical engineers are well paid.”

“But you gave it all up to work retail.”

“I gave it up,” he said simply. “I was unhappy in my work. I was unhappy in my life.”

“Therapy didn’t help.”

He met her eyes again, though it seemed to cost him. “It didn’t hurt. Please sit down. I’ll answer your questions.”

“She can’t make you go through this, Chas.” Isis slipped into the room like smoke. Her gown was gray today, the color of storm clouds, and swirled around her ankles as she moved to him. “You’re entitled to your privacy, under any law.”

“I can insist that he answer my questions,” Eve corrected. “I’m investigating murder here. He is, of course, entitled to counsel.”

“It isn’t a lawyer he needs, but peace.” Isis whirled, her eyes alive with emotion, and Chas took her hands, lifted them to his lips, pressed his face to them.

“I have peace,” he said quietly. “I have you. Don’t worry so. You have to go down and open, and I have to do this.”

“Let me stay.”

He shook his head, and the look they exchanged had Eve staring in surprise. It was baffling enough to speculate on their physical relationship, but what she saw pass between them wasn’t sex. It was love. It was devotion.

It should have been laughable, the way Isis had to lean down, bend that goddess body to reach his lips with hers. Instead, it was poignant.

“You have only to call,” she told him. “Only to wish for me.”

“I know.” He gave her hand a quick, intimate pat to send her off. She shot Eve one last look of barely controlled rage and swept out.

“I doubt I would have survived without her,” Chas said as he stared at the door. “You’re a strong woman, Lieutenant. It would be difficult for you to understand that kind of need, that kind of dependence.”

Once she would have agreed. Now she wasn’t so sure. “I’d like to record this conversation, Mr. Forte.”

“Yes, of course.” He sat, and as Peabody engaged her recorder, mechanically poured the tea. He listened without glancing up as Eve recited the traditional caution.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

“Yes. Would you care for sweetener?”

She looked down at her tea with some impatience. It smelled suspiciously like what Mira insisted on serving her. “No.”

“I’ve added a bit of honey to yours, Officer.” He sent Peabody a sweet smile. “And a bit of…something else. I think you’ll find it soothing.”

“Smells pretty good.” Cautious, Peabody sipped, tasted home, and smiled back. “Thanks.”

“When’s the last time you saw your father?”

Caught off guard by the abruptness of Eve’s question, Chas looked up quickly. The hand holding his cup shook once, violently. “The day he was sentenced. I went to the hearing and I watched them take him away. They kept him in full restraints and they closed and locked the door on his life.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“Ashamed. Relieved. Desperately unhappy. Or perhaps just desperate. He was my father.” Chas took a deep gulp of tea, as some men might take a gulp of whiskey. “I hated him with all of my heart, all of my soul.”

“Because he killed?”

“Because he was my father. I hurt my mother deeply by insisting on attending his trial. But she was too battered emotionally to stop me from doing as I chose. She could never stop him, either. Though she did leave him eventually. She took me and left him, which was, I think, a surprise to all of us.”

He stared down into his cup, as if contemplating the pattern of the leaves skimming the bottom. “I hated her, too, for a very, very long time. Hate can define a person, can’t it, Lieutenant? It can twist them into an ugly shape.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Nearly. Ours was not a happy home. You wouldn’t expect that it could be with a man like my father dominating it. You suspect I could be like him.” Chas’s sensual voice remained calm. But his eyes were swirling with emotions.

It was the eyes you watched during interview, Eve thought. The words often meant nothing. “Are you?”

“‘Blood will tell.’ Is that Shakespeare?” He shook his head a little. “I’m not quite sure. But isn’t that what all children live with, and fear no matter what their parents, that blood will tell?”

She lived with it, she feared it, but she couldn’t allow herself to be swayed by it. “How strong an influence was he on your life?”

“There couldn’t have been a stronger one. You’re an efficient investigator, Lieutenant. I’m sure you’ve studied the records by now, run the discs, watched them. You would have seen a charismatic man, terrifyingly so. A man who considered himself above the law—any and all laws. That kind of steely arrogance is in itself compelling.”

“Evil can be compelling to some.”

“Yes.” His lips curved without humor. “You’d know that, in your line of work. He wasn’t a man you could…fight, on a physical or emotional level. He’s strong. Very strong.”

Chas closed his eyes a moment, reliving what he was constantly struggling to put to death. “I was afraid I could be like him, considered giving back the most precious gift I’d been given. Life.”

“You attempted self-termination?”

“I never got as far as the attempt, just the plan. The first time, I was ten.” He sipped tea again, determined to soothe himself. “Can you imagine a child of ten pondering suicide?”

Yes, she could, all too well. She’d been younger yet when she had pondered it. “He abused you?”

“Abuse is such a weak term, don’t you think? He beat me. He never seemed to be in a rage when he did. He just struck out at unexpected moments, snapping a bone, raising a fist, with the absent calm another man might display while flicking away a fly.”

His fist was clenched on his knee. Deliberately, Chas opened his hand, spread his fingers. “He struck like a shark, fast and in utter silence. There was never a warning, never a gauge. My life, my pain, was totally dependent on his whim. I’ve had my time in Hell,” he said softly, almost as a prayer.

“No one helped you?” Eve asked. “Attempted to intervene?”

“We never stayed in one place very long, and were allowed to form no attachments or friendships. He claimed he needed to spread the word. And he would snap a bone, raise a fist, then take me into a treatment center himself. A concerned father.”

“You told no one?”

“He was my father, it was my life.” Chas lifted his hands, let them fall. “Who was I to tell?”

Neither had she told anyone, Eve thought. Neither had she had anyone to tell.

“And for quite a while, I believed him when he said it was just.” Chas’s eyes flickered. “And I certainly believed him when he told me there would be terrible pain and terrible punishment if I said anything. I was thirteen when he sodomized me for the first time. It was a ritual, he told me, when he bound my hands and I wept. A rite of passage. Sex was life. It was necessary to take it. He would take me on the journey as was his duty and his right.”

He picked up the tea pot, poured, set it neatly aside. “I don’t know if it was rape. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t beg him to stop. I simply cried without sound and submitted.”

“It was rape,” Peabody said, and her voice was very quiet.

“Well…” He found he couldn’t drink the tea he’d just poured but lifted the cup, held it. “I told no one. Even years later when they had him in a cage, I didn’t tell the police. I didn’t believe they would hold him. I simply didn’t believe they could. He was too strong, too powerful, and all the blood on his hands seemed to add to it. Oddly enough, it was the sex that pushed my mother to run, and take me. Not the violence, not the little boy with broken bones or even the deaths I think she knew he’d caused. It was the sight of him kneeling over me on his altar, with the black candles lit. He didn’t see her, but I did. I saw her face when she stepped into the room. She left me there, let him finish with me, and that night when he went out, we ran.”

“And still she didn’t go to the police.”

“No.” He looked at Eve. “I know you believe if she had, lives might have been saved. But fear is a very personal emotion. Survival was her only goal. When they arrested him, I went to the trial, every day. I was sure he would stop it somehow. Even when they said they would lock him away, I still didn’t believe. I erased his name, and I tried to slip into normality. I took a job that interested me, that I had some talent for. And I allowed myself to get close to no one. There was a rage in me. I would look at a face and hate it because it was happy. Or it was sad. I hated them all for their unshadowed existence. And like my father, I didn’t stay in one place very long. And when I found myself considering suicide again with great calm and great seriousness, I was frightened enough to seek help.”

He was able to smile again. “It was, though I didn’t realize it at the time, the beginning for me, taking that step, allowing myself to speak the unspeakable. I learned to accept my own innocence, and to forgive my mother. But the rage was still there, this hard, secret knot inside me. Then I met Isis.”

“Through your interest in the occult,” Eve prompted.

“Through my study of it, as part of my therapy.” He drank his tea now, and his lips were curved. “I was angry and rude. Religion of any kind was an abomination to me, and I detested what she stood for. She was so beautiful, so full of light. I hated her for that. She challenged me to come to a ceremony, to observe much as you did last night. I preferred to think of myself as a scientist. I would go, I thought, to prove there was nothing in her faith but old words repeated by fools. Just as there had been nothing in my father’s creed but an excuse to hurt and dominate.

“I stood back, separate, cynical, and secretly enraged. I hated them for their simplicity and their devotion. Hadn’t I seen that same captured look on the faces of those who’d gathered to hear my father speak? I wanted nothing to do with it, with them, but I was drawn back. Three times I went back and watched, and though I didn’t know it, I had begun to heal. And one night, on Alban Eilir, the Spring Equinox, Isis asked me into her home. When we were alone, she told me that she had recognized me. I panicked. I’d tried so hard to bury all of that, all of him. She said she hadn’t meant from this life, though I could see in her eyes that she knew. She knew who I was, what I’d come from. She told me I had a great capacity for healing, and I would discover it once I had healed myself. Then she seduced me.”

He gave a short laugh, and in it was great warmth. “Imagine my surprise when this beautiful woman led me to her bed. I went along like a puppy, half eager, half terrified. She was the first woman I’d had, and the only one I’ve been with. And on the night of the Spring Equinox, that hard, secret knot inside me began to dissolve.

“She loves me. And the miracle of that made me believe in other miracles. I became Wiccan, I embraced and was embraced by the craft. I learned to heal myself and others. The only person I’ve ever harmed in my life has been myself. But I understand better than Isis with all her insights, the lure of violence, of selfishness, of bowing to another master.”

She believed him, yet too much of his past mirrored her own for her to trust her instincts. “You’ve gone to a great deal of effort to hide your connection with your father.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Did Alice know?”

“Alice was innocence. She was youth. There were no David Baines Conroys in her life. Until Selina Cross.”

“And Cross is an intelligent and vindictive woman. If she’d discovered your secret, she might have used Alice, and others, to blackmail you. Would the members of your cult trust you if they knew your history?”

“Since that’s never been tested, I don’t have the answer. I’d prefer, certainly, to keep my privacy.”

“And on the night Alice was killed, you were here. Alone with Isis.”

“Yes, and we were here, alone, on the night Lobar was killed. You know I was on hand at the last murder, again with Isis. And yes.” He smiled slightly. “I have no doubt she would lie for me. But while she would live with a murderer’s son, she would never live with a murderer. It’s against everything she is.”

“She loves you.”

“Yes.”

“And you love her.”

“Yes.” He blinked, and horror filled his eyes. “You can’t believe she’d have a part in any of this, beyond the fact that she loved Alice, cared for her as a mother would a sick child. She’s incapable of hurting anyone.”

“Mr. Forte, everyone is capable.”

“You don’t think he’s involved,” Peabody said as they started down the outside stairs.

“There’s history of aberrant behavior in his family. He has an expert knowledge of chemicals, including hallucinogens and herbals. He has no alibi for any of the incidents. He was associated with Alice, closely enough that she may have stumbled across the secret he’s been hiding for years, and that exposed, could destroy his cult.”

She paused, tapping her fingers against the rail as she ticked off her mental list. “He has good reason to hate Selina Cross and her membership, to want to punish them as he couldn’t punish his father. He was on hand when Wineburg started to break, and could have easily circled around and killed him. That gives him motive and opportunity, and with his background, the potential for violent behavior.”

“He’s made himself a decent life after a nightmare childhood,” Peabody protested. “You can’t condemn him for what his father did.”

Eve stared out at the street and fought her own demons. “I’m not condemning him, Peabody, I’m investigating every possibility. Consider this.” She turned. “If Alice knew, and told Frank, his reaction might very well have been to demand she break off the connection. It’s likely, following this line of speculation, that he confronted Forte himself, even threatened him with exposure if he didn’t break off his influence. He was in Homicide when Conroy was taken in, and he’d have known and remembered every filthy detail.”

“Yes, but—”

“And Alice moved into her own place. She continued to work part time for Isis, but she no longer lived here. Why did she move out, away from here, when she was afraid?”

“I don’t know,” Peabody admitted.

“And we can’t ask her.” Eve turned back, started down the stairs again, then swore when she saw the boy leaning on her vehicle. “Well, hell.”

She strode down, straight over to Jamie. “Get your butt off my hood. This is an official vehicle.”

“An official piece of shit,” he corrected with a quick, sassy grin. “The city puts you cops into recycled garbage heaps. A high-profile detective like you ought to have better.”

“I’ll tell the chief you said so next time I’m in the Tower. What are you doing here?”

“Just hanging.” His grin flashed again. “And I ditched the shadow you put on me. He’s good.” Jamie tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “I’m better.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“Don’t bother to call the Truant Brigade, Lieutenant, it’s Saturday.”

How the hell was she supposed to keep track? “Then why aren’t you terrorizing one of the sky malls like a normal delinquent?”

His grin spread. “I hate sky malls. They’re so yesterday. Caught you on Channel 75.”

“Did you drop by for my autograph?”

“You scrawl it on a credit slip, I could outfit this heap of yours and make it rock.” He looked past her toward the shop. “I got a load of the witch through the glass. She’s doing some heavy retail today.”

Eve glanced back, noted the customers browsing inside. “You’ve seen her before.”

“Yeah, couple times when I tailed Alice.”

“Ever see anything interesting?”

“Nope. Everybody’s always wearing clothes in there.” He wiggled his brows. “A guy has to hope. I studied up on Wicca. They liked to be naked a lot. Did see the head witch kick a guy out of the shop once.”

“Really.” It was Eve’s turn to lean on the hood. “Why?”

“Couldn’t say, but she was maximum pissed. I could see they were having words, and I thought she was going to belt him. Especially when he shoved her.”

“He shoved her.”

“Yeah. I thought about going in then, though she was a hell of a lot bigger than he was. Still, guys got no business pushing women around. But whatever she said had him backing off. Backing way off until he was backing right out of the door. And he went off in a big hurry.”

“What did he look like?”

“Skinny dude, five ten, maybe a hundred and twenty-five. Couple years older than me. Long black hair, red tips. Long face, with his incisors fanged. Red eyes. Light complexion. Turned out in tight black leather, no shirt, couple of tattoos, but I was too far away to make them out.”

He shot her a smile, grim around the edges. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Last time I saw him, he wasn’t looking so jazzy.”

Lobar, Eve thought, exchanging a glance with Peabody. The kid had given a solid and nearly professional description. “And when was this? When did you see the incident?”

“The day—” His voice cracked a little, so he cleared his throat. “The day before Alice died.”

“And what did Isis do after Lobar?”

“She made a call. Couple minutes later the dude she lives with came on the run. They talked for a couple minutes, real intense, then she put up the Closed sign and they went into the back room. Ticked me off,” he added. “I could have followed the leather guy.”

“You want to stop tailing people, Jamie. They make you, they tend to get annoyed.”

“People I tail don’t make me. I’m too good.”

“You thought you were good at B and E too,” she reminded him dryly and watched as his color rose.

“That was different. Look, the guy that was stabbed, he was right there, at Alice’s viewing. It has to be connected, to her, to that Lobar creep, and I got a right to know.”

She straightened. “Are you requesting the status of my investigation?”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “What’s the status of your investigation?”

“Ongoing,” she said shortly, then jerked a thumb. “Now, scram.”

“I got a right to know,” he insisted. “Survivors of victims, and all that.”

“You’re the grandson of a cop,” she reminded him. “You know I’m not going to tell you anything. And you’re a minor. I don’t have to tell you anything. Now, go play somewhere else, kid, before I have Peabody here roust you for loitering.”

The muscles of his jaw tightened and jumped. “I’m not a kid. And if you don’t deal with Alice’s killer, I will.”

Eve snagged his arm by the jacket before he could storm away. “Don’t cross the line,” she said very quietly. She kept her face close to his, forcing him to look directly into her eyes. “You want justice, you’ll get it. I’ll by God get it for you. You want revenge, I’ll slap you in a cage. You remember what Frank stood for, and what your sister was, and then you think it all through again. Now, get out of here.”

“I loved them.” He jerked his arm free, but not before she saw tears rush into his eyes. “Fuck your justice. And fuck you.”

She let him walk because, though the language had been an adult’s, the tears had been a child’s.

“The kid’s hurting,” Peabody murmured.

“I know.” So was she now. “Tail him, will you, just to be sure he doesn’t get in any trouble. Give it thirty minutes, until he calms down, then beep your location. I’ll pick you up.”

“You going to talk to Isis?”

“Yeah, let’s see what she and Lobar had to say to each other. Oh, and Peabody, watch your step. Jamie’s a clever kid. If he made one of Roarke’s men, he’s likely to make you.”

Peabody flashed a smile. “I think I can manage to tail a kid for a few blocks.”

Trusting her aide to keep Jamie out of trouble, Eve walked into Spirit Quest. The air swam with incense and the scented melted wax from dozens of candles. The October sun was strong and gleamed in shooting colors through hanging prisms.

The look Isis sent her held none of that exotic welcome.

“You’ve finished with Chas, Lieutenant?”

“For now. I’d like a few minutes.”

Isis turned to answer a question from a customer on a blend of herbs to enhance memory. “Steep it for five minutes,” Isis told her. “Then strain it. You’ll need to drink it daily for at least a week. If it doesn’t help, let me know.” She turned her head back to Eve. “As you can see, this is a bad time.”

“I’ll be quick. I’m just curious about the visit you had from Lobar here, a few days before he ended up with his throat slashed.”

She’d kept her voice down, but left her intention clear. They would talk, in private, or in public. The location was up to Isis.

“I don’t think I misjudged you,” Isis said quietly, “but you make me doubt myself.” She signaled to a young woman Eve recognized from the initiation rite. “Jane will handle the customers,” Isis said as she started toward the back room. “But I don’t want to leave her long. She’s very new at shop work.”

“Alice’s replacement.”

Isis’s eyes burned. “No one could replace Alice.”

She entered what appeared to be a combination of office and storeroom. On the reinforced plastic shelves were gargoyles, candles, sealed bins of dried herbs, clear stoppered bottles filled with liquids of varying hues.

On the small desk was a very modern and efficient computer and communication system. “Jazzy equipment,” Eve commented. “Very now.”

“We don’t eschew technology, Lieutenant. We adapt, and we use what is available to us. It’s always been so.” She gestured to a chair with a high, carved back, took another for herself, one with armrests shaped like wings. “You said you would be quick. But first I need to know if you intend to leave Chas in peace.”

“My priority is closing a case, not the peace of mind of a suspect.”

“How could you suspect him?” Her hands curled around the armrests as she leaned forward. “You, of all people, know what he’s overcome.”

“If his past is relevant—”

“Is yours?” Isis demanded. “Is the fact that you survived a nightmare to your credit or to your detriment?”

“My past is my business,” Eve said evenly, “and you know nothing about it.”

“What comes to me, comes in flashes and impressions. Stronger in some cases than others. I know you suffered and were innocent. Just as Chas is. I know you carry scars and harbor doubts. As he does. I know you struggle to make your own peace. And I see a room.”

Her voice changed, deepened, just as her eyes did. “A small, cold room washed with dirty red light. And a child, battered and bleeding, huddled in a corner. The pain is unspeakable, beyond endurance. And I see a man. He’s covered with blood. His face is—”

“Stop it.” Eve’s heart was hammering, choking off her air. For a moment, she’d been back there, back in that child who’d crawled whimpering like an animal into the corner with blood staining her hands. “Damn you.”

“I’m sorry.” Isis lifted a hand to press it to her own heart, and it trembled. “I’m so very sorry. That’s not my way. I let anger take over.” She shut her eyes tight. “I’m so very sorry.”

chapter seventeen

Eve lurched out of the chair. There was no room to pace, to prowl, to steam off the dregs of memory. “I’m aware,” she began coldly, “that you have what is commonly called heightened psychic skill. HPS is still being studied. I have a report on my desk right now. So you’ve got a talent, Isis. Congratulations. Now, stay the hell out of my head.”

“I will.” Pity swam in her eyes and couldn’t be blinked away. She’d seen much more than she’d expected or intended. “I can only apologize again. Part of me wanted to hurt you. I didn’t control it.”

“It must be hard to control it when you’re angry. When you’re threatened. When you see a weakness and can exploit it.”

Isis took a careful breath. Her system was still rocked, not only by what she’d seen, but what she’d done. “It isn’t my way. It’s against the foundation of my faith. I will cause no harm.” She lifted her hands, rubbing her fingertips under her eyes to dry them. “I’ll answer your questions. You wanted to know about Lobar.”

“You were seen arguing with him here in the store, the day before Alice died.”

“Was I?” She drew her composure back, cloaked it over her. “It’s always a mistake to believe yourself alone. Yes, he was here. Yes, we had words.”

“About?”

“Alice, most specifically. He was a misguided young man, filled with a dangerous self-importance. He thought himself powerful. He was not.”

“Alice wasn’t here, she wasn’t working that day?”

“No. I’d hoped she’d spend time with her family, connect with them again through her grandfather’s death. That was the primary reason I’d encouraged her to move out of here and into a place of her own. I’d asked her not to come in for a few days. Lobar expected her to be here. I don’t believe he was sent, but came on his own. Maybe to prove himself.”

“And you argued.”

“Yes. He said that I couldn’t hide her, that she’d never get away. She’d broken the law—the law that Cross and those who belong to her subscribe to. He said her punishment would be torture and pain and death.”

“He threatened her life, and you didn’t tell me. I was here before, and I questioned you.”

“No, I didn’t tell you. I considered it no more than a clash of wills, his against mine. He was no more than a pawn. I didn’t require HPS to intuit that. He only wanted to upset me, to prove his superiority. His way of doing so was to describe, graphically, what he had done to Alice sexually.” She drew another breath. “And he told me that I had been promised to him. That when I was taken in, when my power was crushed, he would be the first to lay hands on me. Then he told me what he intended to do and how much I would enjoy it. He invited me to sample some of his many talents then and there, so that I would see how much more of a man he was than Chas. I laughed at him.”

“Did he assault you?”

“He pushed me. He was angry. I’d deliberately baited him into it. Then I used it. An old spell,” she said with a flick of her hand. “What you might call a mirror or boomerang spell, so that what he was sending toward me—all the darkness, the violence, the hate—was reflected back at him, and when reflected, enlarged.” She smiled a little. “He left quickly, and very frightened. He didn’t come back.”

“And you were frightened?”

“Yes, on a physical level, I was.”

“You called Forte.”

“He’s my mate.” Isis lifted her chin. “I have no secrets from him, and I depend on him.”

“He’d have been angry.”

“No.” Eyes level, she shook her head. “Concerned, yes. We cast a circle, performed a rite for protection and for purification. We were content. I should have seen,” she continued, with regret shimmering in her voice. “I should have seen that Alice was their goal. Pride made me believe they would turn on me, that they wouldn’t dare touch her while she was under my protection. Maybe I wasn’t as honest with you as I might have been, Dallas, because without my pride blinding me, I know Alice might still be alive.”

Guilt was there, Eve decided as she drove off to pick up Peabody. And guilt could lead to retribution. Frank and Alice had been killed by a different method than Lobar and Wineburg. The deaths were connected, she was certain, but the connection didn’t mean they’d all been committed by the same hand.

She wanted to get back to Central, run a probability scan. There was enough data for it now. And if the numbers warranted it, she could go to Whitney and request the manpower for a twenty-four-seven watch on both groups of suspects.

Damn the budget, she thought as she fought traffic. She’d need a high probability ratio to wangle the expense of time, money, and manpower. But Peabody and Feeney weren’t enough to keep round-the-clock tabs on everyone involved.

Including Jamie, she thought. The kid was looking for trouble. She believed he was smart enough to find it.

Peabody hopped in when Eve swung to the curb at Seventh and Forty-seventh. Across the sidewalk, the rowdy noise and computerized warfare of a VR den spilled out of the open doorway. It nicked the ordinance on noise pollution, but Eve figured the proprietors were willing to risk a fine or two in order to lure in tourists and the bored.

“He in there?”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody looked hopefully at the rising steam from a glida grill. She could smell fresh soy burgers and oil fries. It was near enough to lunch to make her stomach yearn and her heart sink at the thought of facing the slop served at the Eatery back at Central. “Do you mind if I grab something from this cart?”

Eve shot an impatient look out the window. “Aren’t you supposed to starve a cold or something?”

“I never could keep that straight. Anyway,” Peabody took a long deep breath through her nose, “I feel great. That tea did the trick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Make it quick, and eat it on the way.”

“Do you want anything?” Peabody asked over her shoulder as she pushed out of the car.

“No. Snap it up and let’s roll.”

Drugs, sex, Satan, and power, Eve mused. A religious war? Hadn’t humans fought and died for beliefs since the dawn of time? Animals fought for territory; people fought for territory as well. And for gain, for passion, for beliefs. For the hell of it.

They killed, she thought, very much for the same reasons.

“Got two of everything,” Peabody announced and set the thin cardboard filled with food on the seat between them. “Just in case. If you don’t want it, I can probably choke it down. It’s the first time I’ve had an appetite in two days.”

She bit into the loaded burger while Eve waited for a break in traffic. “The kid led me on quite a route. Walked off his mad for ten blocks, caught an uptown tram, got off, headed west. And talk about appetite. He hit a cart on Sixth and downed two real pig dogs, and a mega scoop of fries. Hit another a block down for an orange Freezie, which happens to be a personal favorite of mine. Before he went into the VR den, he tagged this guy for three candy bars.”

“Growing boy,” Eve commented, and shot out like a bullet when she saw a slim gap in traffic. Horns bellowed in protest. “As long as he’s eating junk and playing VR, he should stay out of trouble.”

Inside the whoops and whistles of the arcade, Jamie sneered at the holograms battling on his personal screen. He listened to the exchange in Eve’s car, courtesy of his earpiece, and the micro recorder and location device he’d planted.

Yeah, it had been worth the risk, he decided, diddling with the VR controls with his mind wandering. Of course, it hadn’t been that much of a challenge. Not only was the cop car a rolling heap of refuse, but its security system was rinky. At least when it came up against the skills of the master of electronics.

Dallas wouldn’t tell him what was going on, he thought grimly and destroyed the holo image of an urban tough. He’d just keep tabs on things his own way. And he’d deal with things his own way.

Whoever had killed his sister had better prepare to die.

Eve ran the probability program with mixed results. The computer agreed, by a ninety-six percentile, that the four cases were connected. The numbers dropped ten points when it came to tagging different perpetrators.

Charles Forte scored high on the index, as did Selina Cross. For Alban, she continued to run up against insufficient data.

Frustrated, she buzzed Feeney. “I’ve got some data I want to download on you. For a probability scan. Can you see what you can do with the numbers?”

He wiggled his brows. “You want them higher or lower?”

She laughed, shook her head. “I want them higher, but I want it solid. Could be I’m missing something.”

“Shoot it over, I’ll take a look.”

“Appreciate it. And there’s something else. I’m running into blanks every time I try to access data on this Alban character. The guys in his thirties. There has to be more on him. I’m not getting education, medical, family history. There’s no criminal record, not even an illegal zone stop. My take is he had it wiped.”

“Takes a lot of talent and a lot of money to wipe it clean. Something’s always somewhere.”

She thought of Roarke, and the suspiciously limited data on record. Well, he had a lot of talent, she reminded herself. And a lot of money. “I figured if anybody could find anything…”

“Yeah, flatter me, kid.” He winked. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Feeney.”

“Was that Feeney?” Mavis bounced in, literally, on new air pump, stack-heeled, neon yellow sneakers. “Shoot, you zipped off. I wanted to talk to him.”

Eve ran her tongue around her teeth. Mavis was decked out in classic Mavis style. Her hair matched her sneakers and made the eyes burn. She wore it in a spiral mass of curls that exploded up as much as down. Her slacks were glossy simulated rubber, dipped well below the glinting red stone in her navel, and hugged every curve. Her blouse, if it could be called that, was a snug band of material that matched the slacks and almost covered her breasts.

Over it all she wore a transparent duster.

“Anybody try to arrest you on the way in?”

“No, but I think the desk sergeant had an orgasm.” Mavis fluttered emerald green lashes and dropped into a chair. “Great outfit, huh? Just off Leonardo’s drawing board. So, are you ready?”

“Ready? For what?”

“We’ve got a salon date. Trina shuffled you in. I left the message on your unit. Twice.” She narrowed her eyes at Eve. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it, because I know you did. You logged it out.”

Logged it out, Eve remembered. And ignored it. “Mavis, I don’t have time to play hair.”

“You haven’t taken lunch today. I checked with the desk sarge,” Mavis said smugly. “Before his orgasm. You can eat while Trina whips you into shape.”

“I don’t want to be whipped into shape.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t hacked at it again yourself.” Mavis rose, picked up Eve’s jacket. “You might as well come quietly. I’m just going to keep hounding you. Log out for lunch, take an hour. You’ll be back and making our city safe by one thirty.”

Because it was easier than arguing, Eve snatched the jacket, shrugged it on. “Just the hair. I’m not having her put all the gunk on my face.”

“Dallas, relax.” Mavis began to tug her out. “Enjoy being a girl.”

Eve snapped out her log book to mark time, scanning Mavis’s rubber clad butt bouncing along. “I don’t think that means the same thing to you as it does to me.”

Maybe it was the fumes—the potions and lotions, the oils and dyes and lacquers so typical in salons—but Eve found inspiration striking as she tipped back in her treatment chair.

She wasn’t sure how they’d gotten her to take off her clothes, submit to the indignity of the body smoother, the facial, the poking and prodding. She had managed to put her foot down—her bare, now toenail-painted foot down—when the discussion had veered toward temporary tattoos and body piercing.

Otherwise, she was a hostage, coated with goop, her hair covered with the spermlike cream Trina swore by. Privately, she could admit she was deeply terrified of Trina with her snapping scissors and green glop. That’s why she kept her eyes shut during the procedure, so as not to imagine herself emerging looking like a Trina clone with frizzed fuchsia hair and torpedo breasts.

“Been too long,” Trina lectured. “I told you, you need regular treatments. You got the basics, but you don’t enhance, you lose the edge. If you came in regular, it wouldn’t take so long to bring you back.”

She didn’t want to be brought back, Eve thought. She wanted to be left alone. She suppressed a shudder as she felt something buzzing around her eyes. Brow shaping, she reminded herself and struggled to calm. Trina was not tattooing a smiley face on her forehead.

“I’ve got to get back. I’ve got work.”

“Don’t rush me. Magic takes time.”

Magic, Eve thought and rolled her eyes, causing Trina to hiss at her. Everybody was obsessed with magic, it seemed.

She frowned, listening to Mavis chirp happily about a new body polish that gave the skin a gold glow. “This is mag, Trina. I’ve got to try it full body. Leonardo would lap it up.”

“You can get it temp, and edible. Six flavors on the market now. Apricot’s real popular.”

Potions and lotions, Eve thought. Smoke and mirrors. Rites and rituals. She opened her eyes to slits, saw Mavis and Trina huddled over a vial of gold liquid. Mavis with her neon hair, she thought with odd affection, Trina with her pink frizz.

Weird sisters.

Weird sisters, she thought again and sat up. Trina let out another hiss.

“Back down, Dallas. You got two minutes left.”

“Mavis, you said you used to run a psychic con.”

“Sure.” Mavis fluttered her newly painted neon nails. “Madam Electra sees all, knows all. Or Ariel, the sad-eyed sprite.” She dipped her head, managed to look delicate and forlorn. “I guess I had about six grifts on that theme.”

“You could spot somebody pulling the same grift?”

“Shit, are you kidding? From three blocks with sunshades on.”

“You were good,” Eve considered. “I never saw you in that gig, but you were good in the others.”

“You busted me.”

“I’m better.” Eve flashed a smile and felt the glop on her face ooze. “Listen; there’s this place you could check out for me,” she began as Trina marched over and shoved her back into the horizontal. “Both of you,” she added, eyeing Trina.

“Hey, is this a cop deal?”

“Maybe.”

“Frigid,” Trina said and pushed Eve back toward the rinsing bowl.

“You could scope it out.” Eve squeezed her eyes shut as water flooded. “See if you can get the clerk—her name’s Jane—to talk. Give me a rundown. They don’t come clean with cops.”

“Who does?” Trina wanted to know.

“I want impressions,” Eve continued. “You’re interested in herbs, in mind expansion, love potions, sex enhancers. Soothers.”

“Illegals?” It didn’t take Mavis long to catch on. “You think they might be dealing?”

“It’s a possibility I need to confirm or eliminate. You could spot it every bit as quick as an undercover. And you could spot a grift. If they’re hosing customers. If they’re playing any cons. The money’s coming from somewhere.”

“This could rock, Mavis.” Trina grinned. “You and me, a couple of detectives. Like Sherlock and Dr. Jekyll.”

“Decent. I thought it was Dr. Holmes, though.”

Eve closed her eyes again.

Must be the fumes, she decided.

When she arrived home, Mavis and Trina were there, entertaining Roarke with their exploits. Eve scooped up the cat and followed the laughter.

“I bought this lotion to rub on,” Trina was saying. “It’s supposed to bring out the animal in men. Like pheromones.” She stuck her long arm under Roarke’s nose. “What’s it do for you?”

“If I wasn’t married to a woman who carries a weapon, I’d…” He trailed off, grinned. “Hello, darling.”

“You could finish the thought,” Eve told him and dumped Galahad in his lap.

“I’ll wait until you’re unarmed.”

“Dallas, it was so, so decent.” Mavis popped up, waving her glass of wine so that the straw-colored liquid sloshed to the rim. “I can’t wait to get home and tell Leonardo. But Trina and I, we wanted to grab some nutrition, you know, and come right over and report. You should see all the stuff I bought.”

She started to dive into one of several shopping bags with the Spirit Quest logo. Eve resisted groaning and tugged Mavis’s arm. “Talk now, show later. I must have lost my mind, sending the two of you in there. I tell you,” she said whirling to Roarke. “It’s the fumes in those places. That’s what makes people sit there and let themselves be shaved and painted and pierced.”

His eyes clouded briefly. “Pierced? Where, exactly?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t go for the nipple job.” Trina waved a hand. “Said she’d zap me if I came near her with the jabber.”

“Good girl,” Roarke murmured. “I’m proud of your restraint.”

Because her head was starting to ache, Eve poured herself a glass of wine. “Did the two of you do anything in there but spend your credits?”

“We had readings,” Mavis told her. “Genuinely iced. I’ve got an adventurous soul, and my narcissism is balanced by a generous heart.”

Eve couldn’t help it; she laughed. “You don’t have to be psychic to read that one, Mavis. You just have to have eyes. You did go in dressed like that, right?”

Mavis dangled her neon sneaker. “Sure. Jane, the clerk, was real helpful, seemed to know her herbs. We judged her sincere, right Trina?”

“Jane was sincere,” Trina agreed, soberly. “Kinda dull. I could fix her up with a couple sessions. A little highlighter, some body work. Now, the goddess, hard to improve on that one.”

“Isis.” Eve sat up. “She was there?”

“She came out of the back while we were doing the herb thing,” Mavis put in. “I was saying how I wanted something to improve my performance level, boost my stage energy. See, when you’re working a grift, you hang better if you believe the con. So if you can do true, it’s mag.”

“I was looking for sex stuff.” Trina smiled sinuously. “Stuff to attract men, lift sexual performance. And I said how I had this stressful job. Kept me tense and edgy. Over-the-counters just weren’t cutting it for me. So I thought they might have something more potent, and I didn’t mind the cost.”

“They had lots of blends.” Mavis took up the story. “I didn’t see anything off. Fact is, she said how drugs weren’t the answer. What we wanted was the natural way. Like holistic.”

“Holistic,” Trina agreed. “We nudged her, flashed credits and stuff, but she wasn’t buying. Or I guess that would be selling.”

“The Amazon Queen went into the back.” Mavis picked up the story. “Came back with this mix.” Hair flying, Mavis dug into her shopping bag, tossed the smaller, clear bag to Eve. “Said I should sample it, and wouldn’t charge me. She wants me to let her know if it worked for me. You can test it out, but I’d say it’s clean.”

“Who gave you the reading?”

“Isis. She didn’t look too keen when she came in.” Mavis tipped back her glass. “We were playing it up, you know. I went with the wide-eyed giggle act. Oohed and aahed a lot over the stock.”

Eve shifted her gaze to the shopping bags. “I see you carried the act through.”

“I liked the stuff.” Mavis grinned, unrepentant. “Then AQ, you know, Amazon Queen, she started to get into it. I had my sights on this A-one crystal ball, a green one. What did she call it, Trina?”

“Tourma-something.”

“Tourmaline,” Roarke provided.

“Yeah, right. Tourmaline. She steered me away, said it was for relaxing, for soothing, and if I wanted energy, I should go for the orange one. For, like, vitality.”

“More expensive?” Eve assumed.

“No, cheaper. Way cheaper. She said how the green one wasn’t for me. She thought I had a friend who could use it, someone close to me who carried too much stress. But she should choose it for herself, when she was ready.”

Eve grunted, frowned.

“Then she gave us a reading. Mega. She said how she was glad we’d come in. She’d needed the positive energy. She wouldn’t charge us for the readings. I liked her, Dallas. She hasn’t got the eyes of a grifter.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll check out the package.” One way to make money, Eve mused, was to round up repeat customers. And a sure way to insure repeaters was to addict them.

“We got to make it.” Mavis was up again, gathering her bags. “I bought this candle for romance. I want to see if it works. See you Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday?”

Mavis tapped her platform sneaker. “Our Halloween party, Dallas. You said you’d come.”

“I must have been drunk.”

“No, you weren’t. Nine o’clock, our place. Everybody’s coming. I even tagged Feeney. See you.”

“Loosen up,” Trina advised as she strolled out. “Wear a costume.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Eve muttered. “Well.” She bounced the small bag of leaves and seeds in her hand. “That was probably a monumental waste of time.”

“They enjoyed themselves. And you’ll feel better once you analyze that mix.”

“I suppose. I’m not getting anywhere.” Eve set the bag on the table. “I keep taking wrong turns. I can feel it.”

“Enough wrong turns, and you usually end up in the right place after all.” He leaned forward, set his hands on her shoulders, and began to rub. “Mavis has a close friend who carries around too much stress.” He worked on the knots. “I wonder who that could be?”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled, kissed the nape of her neck. “You smell wonderful.”

“It’s that goop Trina poured all over me.”

“She mentioned it. She said I’d enjoy it.” He sniffed her neck again, made her chuckle. “And I am. She also said she managed to hold you down for a full body treatment. I’m to pay particular attention to your butt.”

“She certainly did. She tried to talk me into a temp tattoo of a rosebud on my right cheek.” She started to sigh, then bolted up, grabbing her ass. “Jesus Christ, she had me on the table for ten minutes. You don’t think she snuck one on.”

Roarke lifted a brow, then smiled slowly as he rose. “I’ll have to make it my job to find out.”

chapter eighteen

She had a rosebud on her ass, and wasn’t happy about it. Standing naked in the bathroom, Eve adjusted the trifold mirror until she could get a good look.

“I think I could bust her for this,” she muttered.

“Decorating a cop’s posterior without a license?” Roarke suggested as he strolled in. “Felonious reproduction of floral imagery?”

“You’re getting a big charge out of this, aren’t you?” Miffed, Eve snagged a robe off the hook.

“Darling Eve, I thought I made it perfectly clear last night I was on your side of the issue. Didn’t I do my best to chew it off?”

She would not laugh, she ordered herself as she bit down hard on her tongue. There was nothing funny about it. “I’ve got to get some solution or something. Whatever they make to get it off.”

“What’s your hurry? It’s rather…sweet.”

“What if I have to go in for a disinfect? Or need to shower or change at the station? Do you know what kind of grief a butt tattoo’s going to get me?”

He slid his arms around her, clever enough to get them under rather than over the robe. “You’re not working today.”

“I’m going in. I’ve got to check my unit, see if Feeney shot back some data.”

“And it won’t make any difference if you do it Monday morning. We’ve got the day off.”

“To do what?”

He merely smiled, slid his hands lower to stroke her rosebud.

“Didn’t we just do that?”

“It bears repeating,” he mused, “but it could wait a bit. Why don’t we spend the day lazing around the pool?”

Lazing around the pool? It had a certain appeal. “Well, maybe…”

“In Martinique. Don’t bother to pack,” he told her, planting a quick kiss on her mouth. “You won’t need anything but what you’re wearing.”

She spent the day in Martinique, wearing nothing but a smile and a rosebud. That might have been why she was dragging a bit more than usual on Monday morning.

“You look tired, Lieutenant.” Peabody dug a bag out from her field kit, set two fresh cream donuts on the desk. She was still beaming over the fact that she’d gotten them through the bullpen without the hounds sniffing them out. “And sort of tanned.” She peered closer. “You get a flash?”

“No. Just got some sun yesterday, that’s all.”

“It rained all day.”

“Not where I was,” Eve muttered and filled her mouth with pastry. “I’ve got a probability ratio to run by the commander. Feeney worked some numbers, we’re still pretty light, but I’m going to shoot for round-the-clocks on the top suspects.”

“I don’t suppose you want my probability ratio on your chances of getting it. New interoffice came down this morning about excess overtime.”

“Fuck it. It’s not excess if it’s necessary. Whitney could play it to the chief—and the chief could play it to the mayor. We’ve got two high-profile homicides, generating a lot of media. We need the manpower to close them and turn off the heat.”

Peabody risked a smile. “You rehearsing your pitch.”

“Maybe.” She blew out a breath. “If the numbers were a few points higher, I wouldn’t have to pitch so hard. There are too many people involved; that’s the problem.” Lifting her hands, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “We’ve got to run the name of every member of both cults. Over two hundred people. Say we eliminate half on data and profile, then we’ve still got a hundred to tag, check alibis.”

“Days of work,” Peabody agreed. “The commander would probably spring for a couple of uniforms to knock on doors, sweep out the obvious noninvolved.”

“I’m not sure there are any obvious noninvolved.” Eve pushed away from her desk. “It took more than one person to transport Lobar’s body, strap him onto that form. And it took a vehicle.”

“None of the primes owns a vehicle large enough to have carried and concealed the body and the pentagram.”

“Maybe one of the membership does. We run names through vehicle licensing. Failing that, we start checking on rentals, vehicles reported stolen on the night of the murder.” She pushed at her hair. “And it’s just as likely whoever dumped him jumped a vehicle from one of the long-term lots, and nobody ever noticed.”

“Do we check, anyway?”

“Yeah, we check, anyway. Maybe Feeney can spare somebody in EDD to do some of the grunt work. Meanwhile, you get started, and I’ll go begging to the commander.” She punched her ’link when it beeped. “Dallas, Homicide.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Louis?”

Eve cocked a brow. “You want to talk about the charges against your client regarding resisting, you talk to the PA.”

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, and she watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth and began to gnaw away his perfect manicure. “Alone. Privately. As soon as possible.”

She lowered a hand, signaling Peabody to keep back and out of view. “What about?”

“I can’t talk about it on the ’link. I’m on my pocket unit, but even that’s risky. I need you to meet me.”

“Come here.”

“No, no, they may be following me. I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I’m being careful.”

Had he made the shadow Feeney’d put on him, Eve wondered, or was he just being paranoid? “Who might be following you?”

“You’ve got to meet me,” he insisted. “At my club. The Luxury on Park. Level Five. I’ll leave your name at the desk.”

“Give me some incentive, Louis. I’ve got a full plate here.”

“I think—I think I saw a murder. Just you, Eve. I won’t talk to anyone else. Make sure you’re not followed. Hurry.”

Eve pursed her lips at the blank screen. “Well, that’s incentive. I think we’ve caught a break, Peabody. See if you can sweet-talk Feeney into giving you an extra pair of hands from EDD.”

“You’re not going to meet him alone,” Peabody protested as Eve grabbed her bag.

“I can handle one scared lawyer.” Eve bent down, checked the clinch piece strapped to her ankle. “We’ve got a man outside the club in any case. And I’m leaving my communicator on. Monitor.”

“Yes, sir. Watch your back.”

The fifth floor of the Luxury Club held twenty private suites for the members’ use. Meetings of a professional or private nature could be held there. Each suite was individually decorated to depict its own era, and each contained a complete communication and entertainment center.

Parties could be held there, of the large or the intimate nature. The catering department was unsurpassed in a city often preoccupied with food and drink. Licensed companions were available through the concierge for a small additional service charge.

Louis always booked Suite 5-C. He enjoyed the opulence of the eighteenth-century French style with its emphasis on the decorative. The rich fabrics of the upholstery on curved-backed chairs and velvet settees appealed to his love of texture. He enjoyed the thick, dark draperies, the gold tassels, the gleam of gilt on pier glass mirrors. He had entertained his wife, as well as an assortment of lovers, in the wide, high, canopy bed.

He considered this period to have embodied hedonism, self-indulgence, and a devotion to earthly pleasures.

Royalty had ruled and had done as it pleased. And hadn’t art flourished? If peasants had starved outside the privileged walls, that was simply a societal mirror of nature’s natural selection. The chosen few had lived life to the hilt.

And here, in midtown Manhattan, three hundred years later, he could enjoy the fruits of their indulgence.

But he wasn’t enjoying them now. He paced, drinking unblended scotch in quick, jerky gulps. Terror was a dew on his brow that refused to be wiped away. His stomach roiled, his heart rabbitted in his chest.

He’d seen murder. He was nearly sure of it. It was all so hazy, all so surreal, like a virtual reality program with elements missing.

The secret room, the smoke, voices—his own among them—lifted in chant. The taste, lingering on the tongue, of warm, tainted wine.

Those were all so familiar, a part of his life now for three years. He’d joined the cult because he believed in its basic principles of pleasure, and he’d enjoyed the rituals: the robes, the masks, the words repeated and repeated while candles guttered into pools of black wax.

And the sex had been incredible.

But something was happening. He found himself obsessing about meetings, desperately craving that first deep gulp of ceremonial wine. And then there were the blackouts, holes in his memory. He’d be logy and slow to focus the morning after a rite.

Recently, he’d found blood dried under his nails and couldn’t remember how it had gotten there.

But he was starting to. The crime scene photos Eve had shown him had clicked something open in his mind. And had filled that opening with shock and horror. Images swirled behind his eyes. Smoke swirling, voices chanting. Flesh gleaming from sex, the moans and grunts of vicious mating. Dank black hair swaying, bony hips pumping.

Then the spray of blood, the gush of it, spurting out like that final cry of sexual release.

Selina with her feral, feline smile, the knife dripping in her hand. Lobar—God it had been Lobar—sliding from the altar, his throat gaping wide like a screaming mouth.

Murder. Nervously, he twitched the heavy drapes open a fraction, let his frightened eyes search the street below. He’d seen a blood sacrifice, and not of a goat. Of a man.

Had he dipped his fingers into that open throat? Had he slipped them between his lips to taste the fresh blood? Had he done something so abhorrent?

My God, dear God, had there been others? Other nights, other sacrifices? Could he have witnessed and blanked it from his mind?

He was a civilized man, Louis told himself as he jerked the draperies back into place. He was a husband and a father. He was a respected attorney. He wasn’t an accessory to murder. He couldn’t be.

With his breath coming fast and short, he poured more scotch, stared at himself in one of the ornately framed mirrors. He saw a man who hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t seen his family in days.

He was afraid to sleep. The images might come more clearly in sleep. He was afraid to eat, sure the food would clog in his throat and kill him.

And he was mortally afraid for his family.

Wineburg had been at the ceremony. Wineburg had stood beside him and had seen what he had seen.

And Wineburg was dead.

Wineburg had had no wife, no children. But Louis did. If he was in danger and went home, would they come for him there? He had begun to understand during those long, sleepless nights, when liquor was his only company, that he was ashamed at the thought of his children discovering what he had participated in.

He had to protect them and himself. He was safe here, he assured himself. No one could get inside the suite unless he opened the door.

Possibly, he was overreacting. He mopped his sweating forehead with an already sodden handkerchief. Stress, overwork, too many late nights. Perhaps he was having a small breakdown. He should see a doctor.

He would. He would see a doctor. He would take his family and go away for a few weeks. A vacation, a time to relax, to reevaluate. He would break off from the cult. Obviously, it wasn’t good for him. God knew it was costing him a small fortune in the bimonthly contributions. He’d gotten in too deeply somehow, forgotten he’d entered into the cult out of curiosity and a thirst for selfish sex.

He’d swallowed too deeply of wine and smoke, and it was making him imagine things.

But he’d had blood under his nails.

Louis covered his face, tried to catch his breath. It didn’t matter, he thought. None of it mattered. He shouldn’t have called Eve. He shouldn’t have panicked. She would think him mad; or worse, an accessory.

Selina was his client. He owed his client his loyalty as well as his professional skill.

But he could see her, a knife gripped in her hand as she sliced it across exposed flesh.

Louis stumbled across the suite, into the master bath and, collapsing, vomited up scotch and terror. When the cramps passed, he pulled himself up. He leaned over the sink, croaked out a request for water, at forty degrees. It poured out of the curved gold faucet, splashed into the blindingly white sink and cooled his fevered skin.

He wept a moment, shoulders trembling, sobs echoing off the shining tiles. Then he lifted his head, forced himself to look in the mirror once more.

He had seen what he had seen. It was time to face it. He would tell Eve everything and shift his burden into her hands.

He felt a moment of relief, sweet in its intensity. He wanted to call his wife, hear his children’s voices, see their faces.

A movement reflected in the glass had him whirling, had his heart bounding into his throat. “How did you get in here?”

“Housekeeping, sir.” The dark woman in the trim black-and-white maid’s uniform held a stack of fluffy towels. She smiled.

“I don’t want housekeeping.” He passed a shaking hand over his face. “I’m expecting someone shortly. Just leave the towels and…” His hand slid slowly to his side. “I know you. I know you.”

Through the smoke, he thought through the cracked ice of fresh terror. One of the faces in the smoke.

“Of course you do, Louis.” Her smile never wavered as she dropped the towels and revealed the athame she held. “We fucked just last week.”

He had time to draw breath for a scream before she plunged the knife into his throat.

Eve strode out of the elevator, bristling with annoyance. The reception droid had kept her waiting five full minutes while he checked her ID. He’d given her a hassle over taking her weapon into the club. She’d been considering just using it on him to shut him up when the day manager had bustled out full of apologies.

The fact that they’d both been aware he’d been apologizing to Roarke’s wife rather than Eve Dallas had only irritated her.

She’d deal with him later, she promised herself. See how the Luxury Club would like a full-scale inspection by the Department of Health, maybe a visit from Vice to check out their LCs. She had strings she could pull to insure the management a couple of days of minor hell.

She turned toward 5-C, started to punch the buzzer under the peep screen. Her gaze flickered over the security light. It beeped green for disengaged.

She drew her weapon. “Peabody?”

“Here, sir.” Though her voice was muffled against Eve’s shirt pocket.

“The door’s unlocked here. I’m going in.”

“Do you want backup, Lieutenant?”

“Not yet. Stay on me.”

She slipped inside, soundlessly, shut the door at her back. She kept to her defensive crouch, sweeping her weapon and her gaze through the room.

Fancy furniture, ugly and overdone in her mind, a rumpled suit jacket, a half-empty bottle. Drapes drawn. Quiet.

She stepped farther into the room, but kept near the wall, guarding her own back as she circled. No one hid behind the furniture, behind the drapes. The small kitchen was empty and apparently unused.

She stepped to the doorway of the bedroom, again crouched, again sweeping her weapon. The bed was made, heaped with decorative pillows and apparently hadn’t been slept in. Her gaze moved to the closet, the firmly shut carved doors.

She sidestepped toward it, then heard the sounds from the bathroom. Quick, heavy breathing, grunts of effort, a distinctly female chuckle. It passed through her mind that Louis might be having a quick roll with the LC of his choice, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance.

But she didn’t relax her guard.

She stepped left, shifted her weight, and swung to the doorway.

The smell hit her an instant before she saw it.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

“Lieutenant?” Peabody’s voice, ringing with concern, piped out of her pocket.

“Back off.” Eve leveled her weapon at the woman. “Drop the knife and back off.”

“Sending backup now. Give me your situation, Lieutenant.”

“I’ve got a homicide. Really fresh. I said back the hell off.”

The woman only smiled. She straddled Louis, or what was left of him. Blood pooled on the floor, splattered the white tiles, coated her hands and face. The stench of it, and the gore, was thick as smoke.

Louis, Eve noted, was well beyond hope. He’d been gutted and disemboweled. And he was busily being eviscerated.

“He’s already dead,” the woman said pleasantly.

“I can see that. Put down the knife.” Eve took a step closer, gesturing with the weapon. “Put it down and move away from him. Slow. Face down on the floor, hands behind your back.”

“It had to be done.” She slid her leg over the body until she was kneeling beside it, like a mourner over a grave. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Yeah.” Even through the mask of blood, Eve had made the face. And she’d remembered the voice, the sweetness of it. “Mirium, right? First-degree witch. Now, drop the fucking knife and kiss the floor. Hands behind you.”

“All right.” Obligingly, Mirium set the knife aside, barely glancing at it when Eve trapped it under her heel, sent it skidding across the room well out of reach. “He told me to be quick. In and out. I lost track of time.”

Eve tugged her restraints from her rear pocket, snapped them in place over Mirium’s wrists. “He?”

“Chas. He said I could do this one all by myself, but to be fast.” She let out a sigh. “I guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

With her mouth thin, Eve looked down at Louis Trivane. No, she thought I wasn’t fast enough. “You copy that, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick up Charles Forte for questioning. Do it personally, and take two uniforms for backup. Don’t approach him alone.”

“Affirmative. Do you have the situation under control there, Lieutenant?”

Eve stepped back from the blood running in a rivulet toward her boots. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

She showered and changed before the interviews. The ten minutes it took was necessary. She’d all but bathed in Louis Trivane’s blood before she’d released his body to the ME. If anyone in the lockers noticed the elegant little flower on her ass, there was no comment.

The buzz on the state of this particular crime scene had already swarmed through the station.

“I’m taking Mirium first,” Eve told Feeney as she studied the dainty woman through the one-way glass.

“You could take a break, Dallas. Word is, it was pretty rough over there this morning.”

“You always think you’ve seen it all,” she murmured. “But you never do. There’s always something else.” She blew out a breath. “I want to do it now. I want to close this.”

“Okay. Duet or solo?”

“Solo. She’s going to talk. She’s on something…” Eve shook her head. “Maybe she’s just plain crazy, but I think she’s using. I’m going to get her to sign for a chemi-scan. The PA doesn’t like confessions given under the influence.”

“I’ll order one up.”

“Thanks.” She moved past him, walked into the room. Mirium’s face had been washed clean of blood. She wore a baggy disposable shift in police station beige. And still managed to look like a young, eager fairy.

Eve set the recorder, entered standard, then sat. “You know I’ve got you tagged, Mirium, so we don’t have to take that dance. You murdered Louis Trivane.”

“Yes.”

“What are you on?”

“On?”

“Doesn’t look like straight Zeus, you’re too mellow. Will you agree to a drug scan?”

“I don’t want to.” Her pretty mouth pouted; her dark eyes sulked. “Maybe later I’ll change my mind.” She pursed her lips and plucked at the thin skirt of the shift. “Can I get some of my own clothes? This thing’s itchy, and it offends the eye.”

“Yeah, we’re real worried about that right now. Why did you kill Louis Trivane?”

“He was evil. Chas said so.”

“By Chas you’re referring to Charles Forte.”

“Yes, but no one calls him Charles. It’s just Chas.”

“And Chas told you Louis was evil. Did he ask you to kill Louis?”

“He said I could. Other times I just got to watch. But this time I got to do it myself. There was a lot of blood.” She lifted a hand, studied it carefully. “Gone now.”

“What other times, Mirium?”

“Oh, other times.” She moved her shoulders. “Blood purifies.”

“Did you assist or witness other murders?”

“Sure. Death is a transition. I got to do this one. It was a very powerful act. I cut the demon out of him. Demons exist, and we fight them.”

“By killing the people they inhabit.”

“Yes. He said you were smart.” Mirium beamed at her out of slanted black eyes. “But you’ll never touch him. He’s too far removed from your law.”

“Let’s go back to Louis. Tell me about it.”

“Well, I have a friend on staff at the Luxury. All I had to do was screw him, and that was okay. I like to screw. Then I slipped one of the master codes in my pocket. You can get in most anywhere with a master. I put on one of the maids’ dresses, so no one would bother me, and I went right on in Louis’s suite. I took him towels. He was in the bathroom. He’d been sick, I could smell it. Then I stabbed him. I went for the throat, just like I was supposed to. Then I guess I got into it.”

She moved her shoulders again, sent Eve a mischievous smile. “It’s kind of like punching a knife through a pillow, you know. And it makes this sucky noise. Then I cut the demon out of him, and you came. I guess I’d finished, anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess you had. How long have you known Chas?”

“Oh, a couple of years. We like to make it in the park, in the daytime, because you never know if somebody’s going to come along and see.”

“How does Isis feel about that?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know.” Mirium rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t like it.”

“How does she feel about the murders?”

Mirium’s brows knit and her eyes unfocused for a moment. “The murders? She doesn’t know. Does she? No, we wouldn’t tell her about that.”

“So it’s just between you and Chas.”

“Between me and Chas.” Her eyes fluttered, stayed blank. “I guess. Sure.”

“Have you told anyone else in the coven?”

“The coven?” She laid her fingers on her lips, tapped them. “No, no, it’s our secret. Our little secret.”

“What about Wineburg?”

“Who?”

“In the parking garage. The banker. Do you remember?”

“I didn’t get to do that.” She bit her bottom lip now, shook her head. “No, he did that. He was supposed to bring me the heart, but he didn’t. He said there wasn’t time.”

“And Lobar?”

“Lobar, Lobar.” Her fingers kept tapping. “No, that was different. Wasn’t it? I can’t remember. I’m getting a headache.” Her voice turned petulant. “I don’t want to talk anymore now. I’m tired.” She laid her hands down on her folded arms and closed her eyes.

Eve watched her for a moment. There wasn’t any point in pushing now, she decided. She had enough.

Eve signaled a uniform. Mirium murmured sulkily as Eve slipped the restraints back into place. “Take her down to Psych. Get Mira to do the evaluation, if possible; make a note to request permission for a drug scan.”

“Yes, sir.” Eve stepped to the door behind them, pushed a call button. “Have Forte brought to Interview Room C.”

It occurred to her that she would like to lay her head on pillowed arms herself. Instead, she turned down the corridor into the observation area. Peabody stood beside Feeney.

“I want you in on this, Peabody. What did you think of her, Feeney?”

“She’s whacked.” He held out his bag of nuts. “Whether it’s psych or induced, I dunno. Looks like a mix of both to me.”

“That was my take. How come she seemed so damn normal the other night?” Then she pulled her hands through her hair and laughed. “I can’t believe I’m saying that. She was standing naked in the woods letting Forte kiss her crotch.”

She lowered her hands, pressed them to her eyes, then dropped them. “His father never used a partner. That was never hinted at. He worked alone.”

“So, he’s got a different style,” Feeney said. “Whacked or not, the girl pinned Forte.”

“It doesn’t feel right to me,” Peabody murmured, and Eve turned to her with a mildly interested glance.

“What doesn’t feel right, Officer?”

Detecting the light trace of sarcasm, Peabody lifted her jaw. “Wiccans don’t kill.”

“People kill,” Eve reminded her. “And not everybody takes their religion seriously. Had any red meat lately?”

The flush worked up from under Peabody’s starched uniform collar. Free-Agers were strict vegan and used no animal by-products. “That’s different.”

“I walked in on a murder,” Eve said shortly. “The woman with the knife in her hand identified Charles Forte as her accomplice. That’s fact. I don’t want you to take anything but fact into that interview room. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody stiffened her shoulders. “Perfectly.” But she stood in place a moment longer when Eve strode off.

“She’s had a rough morning,” Feeney said sympathetically. “I got a quick scan of the first crime scene shots. It doesn’t get any rougher.”

“I know.” But she shook her head, watching as Charles Forte was led into the room behind the glass. “But it just doesn’t feel right.”

She turned away, headed around the corner, and stepped into the interview room just as Eve was reading Forte his rights.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand your rights and obligations?”

“No, no, I understand them. I don’t understand why I’m here.” There was puzzlement and a vague sense of disappointment as he turned his gaze toward Peabody. “If you’d wanted to speak with me again, you had only to ask. I would have met you, or come in voluntarily. It wasn’t necessary to send three uniformed officers to my home.”

“I thought it was necessary,” Eve answered shortly. “Do you want counsel or representation at this time, Mr. Forte?”

“No.” He shifted in agitation, tried to ignore the fact that he was inside a police facility. Like his father. “Just tell me what you want to know. I’ll try to help you.”

“Tell me about Louis Trivane.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Do you usually send your handmaids out to murder strangers?”

“What?” His face went white as he pushed himself to his feet. “What are you talking about?”

“Sit down.” Eve snapped the order out. “Louis Trivane was murdered two hours ago by Mirium Hopkins.”

“Mirium? That’s ridiculous. That’s impossible.”

“It’s very possible. I walked in while she was cutting out his liver.”

Chas swayed, then sank onto his chair. “There’s a mistake. It couldn’t be.”

“I think the mistake was yours.” Eve rose, wandered over, then leaned over his shoulder. “You should pick your weapons more carefully. When you use defective ones, they can turn on you.”

“I don’t know what you mean. May I have some water? I don’t understand this.”

Eve jerked a thumb to Peabody, signaling her to pour a glass. “Mirium told me everything, Chas. She told me that you were lovers, that you neglected to bring her Wineburg’s heart as promised, and that you’d allowed her to execute Trivane herself. Blood purifies.”

“No.” He lifted the glass in both hands and still slopped water over the edge as he tried to drink. “No.”

“Your father liked to slice people up. Did he show you how it was done? How many other defective tools have you used? Did you dispose of them after you’d finished with them? Keep any souvenirs?”

She continued to hammer at him while he sat, just sat, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“Was this your version of a religious war, Chas? Eliminate the enemy? Cut out the demons? Your father was a self-styled Satanist, and he’d made your life a misery. You couldn’t kill him, you can’t get to him now. But there are others. Are they substitutes? When you kill them, are you killing him, hacking him to pieces because of what he did to you?”

He squeezed his eyes tight, began to rock. “God. My God. Oh God.”

“You can help yourself here. Tell me why, tell me how. Explain it to me, Chas. I may be able to cut you a break. Tell me about Alice. About Lobar.”

“No. No.” When he lifted his head, his eyes were streaming. “I’m not my father.”

Eve didn’t flinch, didn’t look away from the desperate plea in his eyes. “Aren’t you?” Then she stepped back and let him sob.

chapter nineteen

She worked him for an hour, relentlessly pushing, then backtracking, then shifting directions. She kept the death photos on the table, dealt out like grisly playing cards.

How many more, she demanded. How many more images of the dead should there be?

Through it all, he wept and denied, wept and was silent.

When she turned him over to holding, his eyes stayed on hers until he was led around the corner and away. But it was the look in Peabody’s eyes that caught her and had her waiting until they were alone.

“Problem, Officer?”

Observing the interrogation had been like watching a wolf toy and tear at a wounded deer. Peabody drew a breath, braced. “Yes, sir. I didn’t like your interview technique.”

“Didn’t you?”

“It seemed overly harsh. Cruel. Using his father, over and over again, directing him to look at the stills.”

Eve’s stomach was raw, her nerves scraped clean, but her voice was cool, her hands steady, as she gathered up the stills. “Maybe I should have asked him politely to please confess so we could all go home and get back to our comfy lives. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it. I’ll make a note to try it the next time I have a murder suspect in interview.”

Peabody wanted to wince, managed not to. “It just seemed to me, Lieutenant, particularly since the suspect had no representation—”

“Did I read him his rights, Officer?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Did he verify that he understood those rights?”

Peabody pulled back, nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“Can you estimate, Officer Peabody, how many interviews you’ve conducted on homicide cases?”

“Sir, I—”

“I can’t,” Eve snapped, and her eyes went from cool to hot. “I can’t, because there’s been too fucking many of them. You want to take a look at the stills again? You want to see this guy with his guts spilled out all over the tiles? Maybe it’ll toughen you up a little, because if my interview techniques upset you, Peabody, you’re in the wrong career.”

Eve strode to the door, then whirled back while Peabody stood where she was at rigid attention. “And I expect my aide to back me up, not question me because she happens to have a soft spot for witches. If you can’t handle that, Officer Peabody, I’ll approve your request for transfer. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody let out a shaky breath as Eve’s boots clicked down the corridor. “Understood,” she said to herself and shut her eyes.

“A little rough on her,” Feeney commented when he caught up.

“Don’t you start on me.”

He only held up a hand. “Isis came in voluntarily. I put her in Room B.”

With a jerk of the head, Eve changed directions and pulled open the door of Room B.

Isis stopped her restless pacing and spun around. “How could you do this to him? How could you bring him here? He’s terrified of places like this.”

“Charles Forte is being held for questioning in the stabbing death of Louis Trivane, among others.” In contrast to Isis’s raised and furious voice, Eve’s was cold and flat. “He has not yet been charged.”

“Charged?” Her golden skin paled. “You can’t believe Chas had anything to do with a murder. Trivane? We don’t know any Louis Trivane.”

“And you know everyone Forte knows, Isis?” Eve set the file on the table, kept her hand on it as if to remind herself what was inside. “You know everything he does and thinks and plans?”

“We are as close as it’s possible for human bodies and minds and souls to be. There is no harm in him.” The temper drained out of her. Now her voice trembled. “Let me take him home. Please.”

Eve met the pleading eyes straight on, forced herself not to feel. “Did you know, being as close as it’s possible, that he’d decided to get equally close, bodily speaking, with Mirium?”

“Mirium?” Isis blinked once, then nearly laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“She told me herself. She smiled when she told me.” Remembering that, bringing that image back, dried up any sympathy. “She smiled as she straddled what was left of Louis Trivane, while his blood was smeared all over her hands and her face and the knife she held.”

As her legs went weak, Isis reached out blindly to brace a hand on the back of a chair. “Mirium killed someone? That’s impossible.”

“I thought all things were possible in your sphere. I walked in on her little ceremony myself.” Eve’s fingers curled on the file, but she didn’t open it. There was still pity, after all, for the woman who loved and believed. “She was very cooperative, happily told me that Forte had allowed her to kill Trivane herself. Unlike the others, where she only observed.”

Using her hand to keep her balance, Isis stepped unsteadily around the chair, eased herself into it. “She’s lying.” There was a lance in her heart, quivering there. “Chas has nothing to do with this. How could I have missed this part of her?” Closing her eyes, Isis rocked herself gently. “How could I not have seen? We initiated her, we took her in. We made her one of us.”

“Can’t see everything, can you?” Eve angled her head. “I think you should be more worried about your vision as it applies to Charles Forte.”

“No.” She opened her eyes again. There was misery in them, but behind it was a steel Eve recognized. “There’s no one I see more clearly than Chas. She’s lying.”

“She’ll be tested. In the meantime, you may want to rethink allowing yourself to be used as his alibi. He’s betrayed your trust,” Eve said, stepping closer. “It could have been you, Isis, at any time. Mirium’s younger, probably more biddable. I wonder how much longer he’d have pretended to let you run the show.”

“How can you not understand what there is between us when you have it yourself? Do you think the word of some disturbed young woman would make me doubt the man I love? Would it make you doubt Roarke?”

“It’s not my personal life that’s in dire straits here,” Eve said evenly. “It’s yours. If you care for him so much, then cooperate with me. It’s the only way to stop him, and to get him help.”

“Help?” Isis’s mouth twisted. “You don’t want to help him. You want him to be guilty, you want him to be punished, because of where he came from. Because of his father.”

Eve looked down at the folder in her hands, the plain tan cover that hid the terrible images of terrible death. “You’re wrong.” She spoke quietly now, almost to herself. “I wanted him to be innocent. Because of his father.”

Then she lifted her gaze, met Isis’s. “The warrant will have come through by now. We’ll search your shop and your apartment. Whatever we find can be used against you as well.”

“It won’t matter.” Isis forced herself to stand. “You won’t find anything to help you.”

“You’re entitled to be present during the search.”

“No. I’ll stay here. I want to see Chas.”

“You’re not related or legally married—”

“Dallas.” Isis interrupted quietly. “You have a heart. Please listen to it and let me see him.”

Yes, she had a heart. And it ached to see the plea in the eyes of a strong woman. “I can give you five minutes through security glass.” As she wrenched the door open, she set her teeth. “Tell him to get a lawyer, for God’s sake.”

In the storeroom of Spirit Quest and in a workroom in the apartment above, were dozens of bottles and containers and boxes. They were filled with liquid and powder and leaves and seeds. She found organized records detailing the contents and their uses.

Eve ordered everything sent to the lab for analysis.

She found knives, carved handles and plain, long-bladed and short. She tagged a sweeper, ordered him to scan for traces of blood. Ceremonial robes and street clothes were scanned as well.

She blocked out the voices—sweepers never worked quietly—and went about her job with focused efficiency.

And there, under a neatly folded stack of robes kept fresh in a chest smelling of rosemary and cedar, she found the balled-up and bloody black robe.

“Here.” She signaled to a sweeper. “Scan it.”

“Nice sample.” The sweeper snapped her gum, ran the nozzle of her shoulder unit over the cloth. “Mostly on the sleeves.” Behind her protective goggles, the sweeper’s eyes were mildly bored. “Human,” she confirmed. “A neg. Can’t tell you much more with a portable.”

“That’s enough.” Eve slid the robe into a bag, sealed and labeled it for evidence. “Wineburg was A negative.” She looked at Peabody as she handed the bag to her. “Careless of him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” Dutifully, Peabody stored the bag in her evidence kit. “It would seem so.”

“Lobar was O positive.” She moved to another chest, hauled back the domed lid. “Keep looking.”

Twilight had settled with its dim light and fitful breezes when she climbed back in her car. Since the tension was still simmering between her and Peabody, she didn’t bother to speak but engaged her car ’link instead.

“Lieutenant Dallas for Dr. Mira.”

“Dr. Mira is in session,” the receptionist said politely. “I’ll be happy to log your message.”

“Has she tested Mirium Hopkins?”

“One moment while I check the logs.” The receptionist slid her gaze to the side, then back. “That session has been rescheduled for eight thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Rescheduled, why?”

“The log notes indicate that the subject complained of severe head pain, and on examination by the physician on duty, was medicated.”

“Who was the physician on duty?” Eve asked through clenched teeth.

“Dr. Arthur Simon.”

“Simon Says; figures.” Disgusted, Eve whipped her car around a slow-moving maxibus packed with commuters. “He’ll give you a double tranq for a hangnail.”

The receptionist grimaced in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but the subject was already medicated before her scheduled testing. Dr. Mira is unable to proceed until morning.”

“Fine. Terrific. Ask her to let me know as soon as she’s done.” Eve broke transmission. “Son of a bitch. I’m going in to take a look at her, myself. Deliver the bags to the lab, Peabody, with a request for rush—for what good that does. Then you’re off duty.”

“You’ll interview Forte again tonight.”

“That’s right.”

“Sir, I request to be present during interview.”

“Request denied,” Eve said shortly as she pulled into the garage at Central. “I said you’re off duty.” She shoved out of the car and walked away.

It was midnight and her own head was aching viciously. The house was quiet when she slipped in, dragged herself up the stairs. It didn’t surprise her to see Roarke, awake and on the bedroom ’link. She glanced at the monitor as she passed through and recognized the young, eager face of one of the engineers assigned to the Olympus Resort.

It made her think of the last few days of her honeymoon. There had been death there, as well. Big surprise, she thought as she leaned over the sink and splashed her face with cold water. There was never any escaping it.

She toweled off, then walked to the bed to sit and remove her boots. When they hit the floor, the effort of undressing further seemed beyond her. She crawled onto the bed and lay across it, facedown.

Roarke listened to his engineer with half an ear while he watched her. He knew the signs, the shadowed eyes, the pale skin, the slow, deliberate movements. She’d worked herself to the breaking point again—a habit that both fascinated and frustrated him.

“I’ll get back to you on that tomorrow,” he said and abruptly ended transmission. “You’ve had a bad one, Lieutenant.”

She didn’t stir when he straddled her and began to knead her neck and shoulders. “I know there’s been worse,” she murmured. “I just can’t think of when right now.”

“Louis Trivane’s murder has been all over the news.”

“Goddamn vultures.”

He unhooked her weapon harness, wiggled it off her, and set it aside. “A prominent attorney gets himself hacked up in an exclusive private club, it’s news.” Competently, he worked his thumbs up her spine. “Nadine’s called here several times.”

“Yeah, she’s buzzed Central, too. I don’t have time for her.”

“Mmm.” He tugged her shirt free of her slacks, and used the heels of his hands. “Did you walk in on it, or was that added for entertainment value?”

“No, I walked in on it. Maybe if that idiot droid at the desk hadn’t—” She broke off, shook her head. “I was too late. She’d already opened him up. She was still working on him, like a kid with a science project. She implicated Charles Forte.”

“That’s out, too.”

“Of course it is,” she said with a sigh. “You can’t plug all the leaks.”

“You have him in custody?”

“We’re questioning him. I’m questioning him. He denies everything. I found physical evidence in his apartment, but he still denies everything.”

Denies, she thought, while looking shocked, dislocated, terrified.

“Oh shit.” She turned her head, pressed her face into the spread. “Oh shit.”

“Come on.” He kissed the top of her head lightly. “Let’s get you undressed and into bed.”

“Don’t baby me.”

“Try to stop me.”

She started to shift, then moved quickly before she’d realized her intent or the need. She had her arms around him, her face buried against his shoulder, her eyes squeezed tight as if to block out visions.

“You’re always here. Even when you’re not.”

“We’re not alone, anymore. Either of us.” Because he thought she needed it, he lifted her onto his lap. “Talk to me. You’ve got more than murder and evidence on your mind.”

“I’m not a good person.” She blurted it out before she could stop herself. “I’m a good cop, but I’m not a good person. I can’t afford to be.”

“That’s nonsense, Eve.”

“It’s not. It’s true. You just don’t want to see it, that’s all.” She pulled back so she could look at him. “When you love somebody, you can handle the little faults, but you don’t want to see the big ones. You don’t want to admit what the person you’ve attached yourself to is capable of, so you pretend it’s not there.”

“What are you capable of that I’m blind to?”

“I beat Forte into pulp. Not physically,” she continued, dragging her hair away from her face. “That’s too easy, that’s too clean. I ripped him to pieces emotionally. I wanted to. I wanted him to tell me what he’d done so I could finish it, close it away. And when Peabody had the balls to tell me she disapproved of my interview techniques, I trounced her. I sent her off duty so I could go back in and hammer at him again.”

He was silent a moment, then rose to turn the covers down. “So let me recap. You walked in on a mutilation in progress, took the killer into custody, a killer who implicated Charles Forte in this and in other murders. This is a matter of days after you discover a mutilated body on your doorstep.”

“It can’t be personal.”

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but that’s bullshit. To continue,” he said, coming around to unbutton her shirt, “you then take Charles Forte in for interview, a man you suspect with good cause is responsible for several violent deaths. You play hardball, something which your aide whom you’re training, and who, though highly competent, has considerably less experience than yourself in these matters, disapproves of. A police officer who did not walk into a room and find a woman gleefully carving a man into pieces. The news reports were quite specific,” he told her.

“And,” he added before Eve could speak, “you then reprimanded your aide when she questioned your judgment, subsequently sending her off duty so that you could resume your interrogation. Does that about sum it up?”

Frowning, she studied the top of his head as he bent to pull off her slacks. “You’re making it black and white. It’s not.”

“It never is.” He swung her legs into bed, pushed her down gently. “I’ll tell you what it makes you, Eve. It makes you a good cop, a dedicated one. And a human one.” He undressed, slipped into bed beside her. “And that being the case, it’s probably best if I divorce you and get on with my life.” He pulled her close until her head cozied into the curve of his shoulder. “Obviously, up till now, I’ve been blind to your hideous character flaws.”

“You make me sound like an idiot.”

“Good, I intended to.” He kissed her temple, ordered the lights to dim. “Now, go to sleep.”

She turned her head so that she could smell his skin on her way to sleep. “I don’t think I can let you have that divorce,” she said on a sigh.

“No?”

“Uh-uh. No way I’m giving up the coffee.”

Eve arrived at her office at eight A.M. She had already been by the lab to harass them, which had, in part, cheered her. Her ’link was beeping with an incoming when she opened the door.

And Peabody stood at attention beside her desk.

“You’re early, Peabody.” Eve moved to the ’link, coded in, and waited for the messages to dispense. “You’re not on for thirty minutes.”

“I wanted to speak to you, Lieutenant, before I came on duty.”

“All right.” Eve put the messages on hold, turned to give Peabody her full attention. “You look like hell,” she commented.

Peabody kept her gaze steady. She knew how she looked. She hadn’t eaten or slept. Symptoms, she knew that were embarrassingly similar to those she displayed when a love affair ended badly. And this, she’d realized during the long night, was worse than any breakup with a man.

“I would like to formally apologize, Lieutenant, for statements made after the Forte interview. It was insubordinate and incorrect to question your methods. I hope that my lack of judgment in this matter will not influence you to dismiss me from this case, or from this division.”

Eve sat, leaned back in a chair that creakily begged for lubricant. “Is that all, Officer Peabody?”

“Yes, sir. Except to say—”

“If you’ve got more to say, pull the stick out of your butt first. You’re off duty and off the record.”

Peabody’s shoulders slumped slightly, but in defeat rather than relaxation. “I’m sorry. Watching him fall to pieces that way got to me. I wasn’t able to divorce myself from the situation and view it objectively. I don’t believe—don’t want to believe,” she corrected, “that he’s responsible. It tainted my viewpoint.”

“Objectivity’s essential. And, more often than any of us want to admit, impossible. I wasn’t completely objective either, which is why I overreacted to your comments. I apologize for that.”

Surprise and relief spread through her. Peabody found them both easier to swallow than crow and fear. “Will you keep me on?”

“I’ve got an investment in you.” Leaving it at that, Eve turned back to her ’link.

Behind Eve’s back, Peabody closed her eyes tightly, dug for composure. She took a breath, swallowed hard, and found it. “So, does this mean we’ve made up?”

Eve slanted a look at Peabody’s hopeful grin. “Why don’t I have any coffee?” She engaged the ’link, let her messages run. The first had barely begun when Peabody set a steaming cup at her elbow.

“Come on, Dallas, come on. Give me a break. I can go on with an update any time, day or night. Get back to me damn it. Just a couple details.”

“Not going to happen, Nadine,” Eve murmured and zipped through the next three messages from the reporter, all increasingly desperate.

There was a communication from the ME, with the autopsy report. Eve downloaded and ordered a hard copy print. Finally, a relay from the lab which verified the blood on the robe was Wineburg’s.

“I can’t see it,” Peabody said quietly. “Why can’t I see it? It’s all there.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “It’s all right there.”

“We charge him and book him.” Eve rubbed a finger up and down the center of her forehead. “Murder one on Wineburg. We’ll hold off on the conspiracy to murder on Trivane until Mira’s done the testing. Have him brought up for interview again, Peabody. We’ll see how many more we can pin to him.”

“Why Alice?” Peabody asked. “Why Frank?”

“He didn’t do them. They’re not his.”

“Separate cases? You still think Selina’s responsible for them?”

“I know she is. But we’re a long way from proving it.”

She spent the day going over reports, filing her own. By noon, when she faced Chas in interview again, she was ready to try a different tack.

She studied his chosen representative, a young, sad-eyed woman who, by Eve’s estimate, could barely be old enough to have passed the bar. She didn’t bother to sigh as she recognized the woman from the initiation ceremony.

A lawyer witch, she mused. And wondered if that would be considered a redundancy.

“This is your chosen counsel, Mr. Forte?”

“Yes.” His face was a sickly gray, his eyes shades darker. “Leila has agreed to help me.”

“Very well. You’ve been charged with murder, Mr. Forte.”

“I’ve requested a bail hearing,” Leila began and passed Eve some paperwork. “It’s scheduled for two P.M. today.”

“You won’t get bail.” Eve handed the papers to Peabody. “And it won’t delay this very long.”

“I didn’t even know the man who was killed,” Chas began. “I’d never seen him before that night. I was with you.”

“Which puts you on the scene at the time, giving you opportunity. Motive?” She leaned back. “You were there, you knew he was about to break, to talk. His blood wasn’t the first to spill, was it, Mr. Forte?”

“I don’t know anything about it.” His voice quavered. He took a breath, laid his hand over Leila’s as if for support. Their fingers linked and his voice came stronger. “I’ve never harmed anyone in my life. It’s against everything I believe, everything I’ve made myself. I’ve told you. I held nothing back from you, trusting you to understand.”

“Do you own a black robe? Natural silk, wrap style, floor length?”

“I own many robes. But I don’t care for black.”

Eve held a hand out, waited until Peabody put the sealed garment into it. “Then you don’t recognize this?”

“It’s not mine.” He seemed to relax a little. “That doesn’t belong to me.”

“No? Yet it was found in a chest in the bedroom of the apartment you share with Isis. Carelessly, perhaps quickly hidden under a stack of other robes. There’s blood on it, Mr. Forte. Wineburg’s blood.”

“No.” He cringed back. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s a fact. Your representative is free to study the lab report. I wonder if Isis will recognize it. It might…jog her memory.”

“She has nothing to do with this. Nothing to do with any of this.” Panic had him lurching up. “You can’t suspect her of—”

“Of what?” Eve cocked her head. “Of being an accessory? She lives with you, works with you, she sleeps with you. Even if she’s just been protecting you, it puts her in it.”

“She can’t be drawn into this. She can’t be put through this. Leave her alone.” He leaned forward, resting trembling hands on the table. “Leave her alone. Promise me that, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear.”

“Chas.” Leila stood, put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. Don’t say anything else. My client has nothing further to say at this time, Lieutenant. I need to confer with him and request privacy to do so.”

Eve took her measure. The woman no longer looked young and sad-eyed, but cool and determined. “There won’t be a deal, counselor, not on this one.” She rose, signaled Peabody. “But a full confession might get him a psych facility rather than a maximum lockup. Think about it.”

She swore under her breath once she was outside the room. “She’ll put a lid on him. He’ll do what she tells him because he’s too scared not to.”

Eve paced a yard down the corridor then back. “I’ve got to get to Mira. She’s bound to be done by now with testing. You contact the PA’s office. We need somebody down here. Maybe if we have a prosecutor talk to his rep lawyer to lawyer, we can open it up.”

“Isis cracked him.” Peabody glanced back toward the door as they headed away. “He really loves her.”

“There’s all kinds of love, isn’t there?”

“I don’t get why he had sex with Mirium.”

“There’s all kinds of sex, too. Some is straight manipulation.” She turned into her office to call Mira.

chapter twenty

Delusional, sociopathic, an addictive and easily influenced personality. Eve tossed Mira’s report aside. She hadn’t needed a psychiatrist to tell her Mirium was a lunatic with no conscience. She’d seen that for herself.

Or that she had obsessive leanings toward the occult, a low intelligence quotient, and a capacity for violence.

Mira’s recommendation for further testing, and for treatment as a mentally defective might have been sound, but it didn’t change the facts.

Mirium had butchered a man in cold blood, and would more than likely do her time in the quiet rooms of a mental health facility.

The truth testing hadn’t been much more helpful. It indicated the subject was telling the truth—as the subject saw the truth. There were gaps and hitches and confusion.

Likely due, Eve noted, glancing at the drug scan results, from having a half dozen illegal substances bouncing around in her system.

“Lieutenant?” Peabody stepped in, waited for Eve to look up. “Schultz from the PA’s office just tagged me.”

“What’s the status?”

“The lawyer won’t budge. She’s pushing for a truth test, but Forte keeps refusing. Schultz thinks she’s stalling, says she wants forty-eight to study all the reports and evidence. It’ll keep Forte in since bail was denied, but she’s insisting. Schultz thinks Forte’s ready to roll over, but she’s keeping him on a short leash.”

“Schultz give you all that?”

“Yeah, well, I think he was looking to make time. Fresh divorce.”

“Oh.” Eve lifted a brow. “And he likes a woman in uniform.”

“I’d say it’s more like he likes a human with breasts at this point. Bottom line, he doesn’t think we’re getting any more tonight. The lawyer exercised her client’s right for minimum break. Schultz agreed to talk more in the morning. He’s headed out.”

“All right. Maybe it’s best to give them both time to stew. We’ll swing by Isis’s place. May be able to shake her.”

“You’ve got it pretty well wrapped.” Peabody fell into step beside her. “You’ll be able to relax some tonight at the party.”

“Party?” Eve stopped dead. “Mavis’s party? That’s tonight? Hell.”

“So speaks the party animal,” Peabody said dryly. “Personally, I’m looking forward to it. It’s been a shitty week.”

“Halloween’s supposed to be for kids, so they can blackmail adults into forking over junk food. Grown men and women running around in dopey costumes. It’s embarrassing.”

“Actually it’s an old, revered tradition with its roots in earth religions.”

“Don’t get started,” Eve warned as they rode down to the garage. She eyed Peabody suspiciously. “You’re not actually wearing a costume.”

“How else can I guarantee getting my share of candy?” Peabody brushed some lint from the front of her uniform.

The store was dark, and so was the apartment. No one answered the knock on any door. Eve considered, checked her watch. “I’m going to stake it out for a couple of hours. I’d rather hit her tonight.”

“She’s probably at the sabbat ceremony.”

“I don’t figure she’s in the mood for naked dancing under the circumstances. I’ll stick. You can catch transpo from here.”

“I can stay.”

“It’s not necessary. If she doesn’t show in a couple hours, I’ll head to Mavis’s.”

“Like that?” Peabody scanned Eve’s faded jeans, worn boots, and battered jacket. “Don’t you want to wear something more…festive?”

“No. I’ll see you there.” Eve climbed back in the car, lowered the window. “So, what are you wearing?”

“It’s a secret,” Peabody said with a grin and walked off to catch a tram home.

“Embarrassing,” Eve decided, and settling back, engaged her ’link. The system put her through to Roarke at his midtown office.

“Just caught me,” he told her, and noted the edge of the steering wheel on the monitor. “Obviously, you’re not at home getting yourself ready for tonight’s festivities.”

“Obviously not. I’ve got a couple more hours here, so I’ll meet you at Mavis’s. We can duck out early.”

“I can see you’re already looking forward to an exciting evening.”

“Halloween.” She glanced over as a ghoul, a six-foot pink rabbit, and a mutant transexual crossed the street in front of her car. “I just don’t get it.”

“Darling Eve, for some it’s simply an excuse to be foolish. For others it’s a serious holy day. Samhain, the beginning of Celtic winter. The beginning of the year, the turn of it with the old dying and the new yet unborn. On this night the veil between is very thin.”

“Boy.” She gave a mock shudder. “Now I’m spooked.”

“Tonight we’ll concentrate on using it as an excuse to be foolish. Want to get drunk and have wild sex?”

“Yeah.” Her lips twitched. “That sounds pretty good.”

“We could get started now. A little ’link sex.”

“That would be illegal over an official line. Besides, you never know when Dispatch is going to get nosey.”

“Then I won’t mention how much I want to get my hands on you. My mouth on you. How exciting it is to feel you under me, when I’m inside you and you arch back, struggling to breathe and fist your hands in my hair.”

“No, don’t mention it,” she told him as the muscles in her thighs tingled and went lax. “I’ll see you in a couple hours. We’ll, ah, go home early. Then you could mention it.”

“Eve?”

“Yeah?”

“I adore you.” With a silky, satisfied smile on his face, he disengaged.

She blew out a long, slow breath. “When am I going to get used to this?” she muttered.

The sex was mind-scrambling enough. She’d never thought of the act as any more than a necessary and mildly pleasurable physical release. Until Roarke. He could turn her dry-mouthed and needy with a look. But more was the hold he had on her heart in that firm, possessive grip that was alternately comforting and terrifying.

She’d never understood the demanding power of love.

Frowning, she looked back at the apartment across the street. Hadn’t that been what she’d seen there? Power and love? Isis was a strong, powerful woman. Could love have blinded her so completely?

It wasn’t impossible, Eve mused. But it was…disappointing, she admitted. For herself, she knew Roarke had spent much of his life skirting the law. Hell, she thought, he’d stomped on it.

She knew he’d stolen, cheated, finagled. She knew he’d killed. The abused child from the mean streets of Dublin had done what he’d needed to do to survive. Then had done as he’d liked to profit. She couldn’t entirely blame him for either.

Yet, if he used his power and his position today to kill, what would she do? Would she stop loving him? She wasn’t sure, but she was sure that she would know. And the code that she lived by wouldn’t allow her to turn a blind eye to murder.

Maybe the code Isis lived by wasn’t as strong.

And yet, as she sat in the dark with the sharp little teeth of the wind biting at her windows, she found she couldn’t balance it.

Forte had all but confessed now, she reminded herself. Once she’d confronted him with the robe, with the evidence, he’d started toward surrender.

That wasn’t entirely true, she thought. It was when she’d brought Isis into it that he’d changed directions.

Protecting her. Shielding her. Sacrificing for her.

With a new theme playing in her mind, she got out of the car, crossed the street.

A number of people wandered the street, many of them in costumes. Even as she stepped over the curb, a gaggle of teenagers rushed by, making enough noise to wake the dead. No one paid any attention to a lone woman in a leather jacket climbing the stairs to a dark apartment.

She stood on the landing a moment, scanning the street, the surrounding buildings. It was an area where people minded their own business, she decided. And wouldn’t the neighbors be accustomed to seeing people—perhaps the-less-than-usual type of person—going up and into the apartment.

To test her theory farther, Eve tried the door. Finding it locked, she simply fished a master code out of her pocket. She had the door open in seconds and waited just outside it for the sound of a security alarm.

There was only silence inside.

No security, she decided, and resisted the temptation to go in. The average civilian wouldn’t have access to a master, but there were other ways of popping unsecured locks.

Hadn’t the apartment been empty the day before? With both Forte and Isis at Central, how easy would it have been for someone to slip in, to plant a bloodstained robe in an obvious place?

Eve shut the door again and stood arguing with herself. Mirium had implicated him. She’d said his name as she sat on the floor, blood still running from her hands.

Delusional, sociopathic, easily influenced.

Damn it. Eve trooped down the steps, back to her car. The evidence was there, wasn’t it? Motive, opportunity. It was a fucking textbook checklist. She even had a confessed accomplice in custody.

An accomplice he’d been sleeping with on the side. Having sex in Central Park, using his influence to bring her into the coven right under his lover’s nose.

It fit, she told herself. And that was the trouble. It slid so well into place it was as if someone had oiled the slot. All you had to do was leave out love—selfless, devoted, unquestioning love. Add that, and it scraped along the sides of that slot, screaming in protest.

If there was a chance it was a setup, and that she was being used to make it click, she was damn well going to find out. She considered calling Peabody, started to reach for her ’link, when she heard the scream. She was out of the car, her hand on her weapon, when she spotted the black-robed figure dragging a woman into the shadows.

“Police.” She rushed forward, drawing. “Back off.”

He did more than that. He ran. When Eve reached the woman, she was lying facedown, moaning. Holstering her weapon, she crouched down.

“How bad did he hurt you?” As she rolled the woman over, she saw the glint of a blade. It was pressed, keen-edged, against her stomach before she saw Selina’s face.

“All I have to do is push, just a little.” Selina smiled. “I’d enjoy that. But for now…” Her hand tapped against Eve’s throat. She felt the pressure and the sting an instant before her vision blurred.

“Now you’re going to help me to the car. Or it’s going to look that way if anyone notices.” Smiling, Selina put her arms around Eve, keeping close so it appeared she was being lifted to her feet. “And if you don’t do exactly what I say, your guts will hit the sidewalk and I’ll be gone before you realize you’re dead.”

Eve’s head was swimming, her legs like rubber as Selina led her down the sidewalk. “Get in,” Selina ordered, “slide over.”

She found herself obeying dully, while a part of her mind screamed in protest. “Not so smart now, are you, Lieutenant Dallas? Not so cool. We led you right where we wanted you. Stupid bitch. How do you set this thing to auto?”

“I—” She couldn’t think. Fear couldn’t get through the haze, nor could anger or training. She stared blankly at the controls. “Auto?”

Her voice was enough. The vehicle shuddered, then hummed discordantly.

“I don’t believe you’re in any shape to drive.” Selina threw back her head and laughed. “Give it the address. My apartment. We have a very special ceremony in mind for you.”

Mechanically, Eve repeated the address and stared straight ahead as the vehicle slowly slid from the curb. “Not Forte,” she managed, struggling to snap back. “It was never him.”

“That pathetic excuse for a man? He couldn’t kill a fly if it landed on his dick. If he’s got one. But he and that half-breed Wiccan are going to pay. You’ve seen to that, haven’t you? They thought they could save poor little Alice. Well, so did her stupid grandfather. See where it got them. No one challenges me and lives. You’ll find out just how much power I have very soon now. And you’ll beg me to kill you and end it.”

“You killed them all.”

“Every one of them.” Selina leaned closer. “And more. Many more. I enjoy the children most. They’re so…fresh. I walked right in on the grandfather, used his weakness for females. Sobbed, told him I was afraid for my life. Alban would kill me. Then I slipped the drugs into his drink and I killed him. I wanted blood but, well, it was nearly as satisfying to watch his eyes as he realized he was dying. You’ve seen how the eyes die first, haven’t you, Dallas? They die first.”

“Yes.” The mists were moving back to the corners of her mind. She could feel her legs and arms tingle as the nerves pumped back to life. “Yes, they do.”

“And Alice. I was almost sorry when we had to end that. Tormenting her day after day was so arousing. They way she would jump at a cat or a bird. Droids. Easily programmed. We used the cat that night, had it speak to her with my voice. We were waiting for her, we had plans for her, but she ran into the street and killed herself instead.

“So we’ll do to you what we’d planned for her. Here we are now.”

As the car veered toward the curb, Eve tested her hand, forced it into a fist. She struck out, backhanded, felt the satisfying connection with flesh and bone. Then the door was wrenched open behind her, hands clenched around her throat.

And the world went black.

“She should be here by now.” Though her apartment was filled with people and noise and wildly spinning lights, Mavis pouted. “She promised.”

“She’ll be right along.” Roarke managed to avoid being butted by a red-robed bull, lifted a brow at the manic call of “Toro!” An angel spun by, desperately dancing with a headless corpse.

“I really wanted her to see what Leonardo and I have done with the place.” Proud, Mavis turned a quick circle. “She’d never recognize her old digs, would she?”

Roarke scanned the magenta walls with their uninhibited splashes and streaks of cerise and periwinkle. The furniture consisted of heaps of glossy pillows and glass tubes. In keeping with the event, streamers of orange and black swayed everywhere. Skeletons danced, witches flew, and black cats arched.

“No.” He could agree with complete honesty. “She’d never recognize her old apartment. You’ve done…wonders.”

“We just love it. And we’ve got the best landlord on planet.” She kissed him enthusiastically.

While he hoped her purple lipstick hadn’t transferred to his face, he smiled. “My favorite tenant.”

“Could you call her, Roarke?” With fingers tipped the same shade, she plucked at his sleeve. “Just give her a little goose.”

“Of course. Go play hostess, and don’t worry. I’ll get her here.”

“Thanks.” She rolled off on glittery, red-wheeled shoes.

Roarke turned with the idea of hunting up somewhere quiet to make his call, then blinked at the apparition. “Peabody?”

Her elaborately painted face fell. “You recognized me.”

“Barely.” With a faint smile, he stepped back to take a full measure.

Long blonde hair swirled over her shoulders, down her back, over the tiny scallop-shaped bra that covered her breasts. From the waist down, she was encased in shimmering green.

“You make a lovely mermaid.”

“Thanks.” She perked up again. “It took me forever to rig myself out.”

“How the hell do you walk?”

“I’ve got a cutout for my feet, the skirt of the tail covers it.” She wiggled back. “Pretty restrictive to movement though. Where’s Dallas?” She twisted her head to search. “I want her to get a load of it.”

“She isn’t here yet.”

“No?” Because she hadn’t worn her watch, she peered down at his. “It’s almost ten. She was only going to stake out Isis’s place for a couple hours then come straight here.”

“I was about to call her.”

“Good idea.” Peabody tried to ignore the prickle of nerves. “She’s probably stalling. She hates stuff like this.”

“Yes, you’re right.” But she’d have been there for Mavis, he thought as he slipped into the corner. And for him.

When her ’link went unanswered, he bypassed security and called through her communicator. There was a humming buzz that indicated it was on standby, but it went unanswered.

“Something’s wrong,” he said when he stepped back up to Peabody. “She isn’t picking up.”

“Let me get my bag, try her communicator.”

“I already tried it,” he said shortly. “She isn’t picking up. She was staking out Spirit Quest?”

“Yeah, she wanted to talk to Isis…let me get out of this costume. We’ll go check it out.”

“I can’t wait for you.” He pushed his way through the crowd as Peabody shuffled and looked for Feeney.

She thought it was a dream at first when she woke, groggy and hot. Her head spun, and when she tried to lift a hand to it, she found she couldn’t move.

Panic rushed in first. Her hands were bound. He’d often tied her hands when she was a child. Tied her to the bed, clamped a hand over her mouth to hold in her screams when he raped her.

She pulled at them, felt the vague, faraway pain of the straps cutting into her wrists. Her breath sobbed out as she struggled. Her legs were secured as well, tied down at the ankles so that her thighs were spread.

She whipsawed her head, trying to see. Shadows shifted through the room, chased by the flickering lights of dozens of candles. She could see herself in a mirror, a wall of black glass that reflected images and light.

She wasn’t a child, and it wasn’t her father who had tied her.

She forced down the panic. It wouldn’t help. It never did. She’d been drugged, she told herself. She’d been brought here, stripped naked, and tied to a marble slab like a piece of meat.

Selina Cross meant to kill her, and maybe worse, unless she could keep her mind clear and fight back. She continued to work at her wrist straps, twisting, tugging, while she forced her mind to focus.

Where was she? In the apartment, most likely, though she couldn’t quite remember. The club would have been too dangerous, full of people. It was more private here, in this room. This room where Alice had seen a child sacrificed.

What time was it? God, how long had she been out? Roarke was going to be pissed. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood to hold back the bubble of hysteria.

They would miss her, wonder about her. Peabody knew her last location, and they would check it out.

And what good would that do her?

Eve closed her eyes to wait for calm. She was on her own, she told herself. And she meant to survive.

The mirrored wall slid open and Selina, draped in an open black robe, slipped through. “Ah, you’re awake. I wanted you awake and aware before we started.”

Alban stepped in behind her. He wore a similar robe and the fierce, toothed mask of a boar. Saying nothing, he picked up a thick candle, set it between Eve’s thighs. He stepped back, lifted an ivory-handled athame from a black pillow, then held it aloft.

“Now, we begin.”

Roarke opened the door of his car when his pocket ’link beeped. He whipped it out. “Eve?”

“It’s Jamie. I know where she is. They’ve got her. You have to hurry.”

“Where is she?” As he spoke, Roarke climbed behind the wheel.

“That Cross bitch. They’ve got her inside the apartment. Or I think they do. I lost transmission when they got her out of the car.”

Roarke didn’t wait, but pushed the accelerator and flew through traffic. “What transmission?”

“I bugged her car. I wanted to know what was going on. I planted a transmitter. I heard stuff tonight. Cross told her to put the car on auto, go to the apartment. Dallas must’ve been drugged or something, because she sounded weird. And Cross said how she’d killed my grandfather and Alice.” His voice flooded with tears. “She killed them both. And kids. And Christ…”

“Where are you?”

“I’m right outside their place. I’m going in.”

“Stay out. Goddamn it, you listen to me. Stay out. I’ll be there in two minutes. Call the cops. Report a break-in, a fire, anything, but get them there. Understand me?”

“She killed my sister.” Jamie’s voice was suddenly calm and cold. “And I’m going to kill her.”

“Stay out,” Roarke repeated, swearing as the transmission ended. Digging for control, he called Mavis’s, snapped out a demand for Peabody when the call was answered with wild laughter.

He was already pulling up at Selina’s building when Peabody answered. “Roarke. Feeney and I are heading to Spirit Quest right—”

“She’s not there. Cross has her, most likely in the apartment building. I’m there now, and I’m going in.”

“Jesus, don’t do anything crazy. I’ll call for a cruiser. Feeney and I are on our way.”

“There’s a young boy in there, too. You’d better hurry.”

With no weapon but his wits and his will, he rushed the door.

They were chanting over her. Alban had lighted a fire in a black cauldron and the smoke was thick and overly sweet. Selina had discarded her robe and was now slowly rubbing glistening oil over her body.

“Ever been raped by a woman? I’m going to hurt you when I do it. So will he. And we won’t kill you quickly, the way we did Lobar, the way we told Mirium to kill Trivane. It’s going to be slow and unspeakably painful.”

Eve’s head was clear now, brutally clear. Her wrists burned, slicked with her own blood as she continued to strain against the straps. “Is this how you call up your demons? Your religion’s a sham. You just like to rape and kill. It makes you a degenerate, just like any creep crawling in the gutter.”

Selina brought her hand back, whipped it down hard over Eve’s face. “I want to kill her now.”

“Soon, my love.” Alban crooned it. “You don’t want to rush the moment.”

He reached into a box, pulled a black cockerel out. It clucked and squawked, wings flapping as Alban held it over Eve’s body. He spoke in Latin now, his voice musical, as he took the knife and sliced off the head. Blood gushed out, steaming over Eve’s torso. Beside her, Selina moaned in ecstasy.

“Blood, for the master.”

“Yes, my love.” He turned to her. “The master must have blood.” And very calmly, very quickly, he raked the knife over Selina’s throat. “You have been so…tedious,” he murmured when she stumbled back, breath gurgling as she grabbed at her throat. “Useful, but tedious.”

When she collapsed, he stepped over her, removed the mask, set it aside. “Enough of the pageantry. She enjoyed it. I find it stifling.” He smiled, charmingly. “I don’t intend to make you suffer. There’s no purpose in it.”

The stench of blood was nauseating. Using all her will, Eve concentrated on his face. “Why did you kill her?”

“She’d ceased to be useful. She’s quite insane, you know. Too many chemicals, I suspect, in addition to a defective personality. She liked me to beat her before sex.” He shook his head. “There were times I actually enjoyed it. The beating part, anyway. She was very clever with chemicals.” Absently, he ran a hand up and down Eve’s calf. “And I discovered with the right direction, the proper incentive, she was a clever businesswoman. We’ve made an enormous amount of money over the last couple of years. And, of course, there’s the membership contributions. People will pay ridiculous amounts of money for sex and the possibility of immortality.”

“So it was just a con.”

“Come on, Dallas. Calling up demons, selling the soul.” He chuckled, delighted. “It’s the best grift I’ve ever run, but it’s hit its peak. Now Selina…” He glanced down, idly rubbed a thumb over his chin. “She became quite serious about it. She actually believed she had power.” He studied the sprawled body with something like amused pity. “That she could see in the smoke, call up the devil.” He smiled again, made the ageless sign for lunacy by circling his finger at his temple.

A sham, Eve thought, from the beginning, nothing but a long con for profit. “Most grifters don’t add human sacrifice to the theme.”

“I’m not most grifters, and a few realistic ceremonies kept Selina in line. She developed a taste for blood. So did I,” he admitted. “That I did find addicting. Taking a life is a powerful thing, an arousing thing.”

He let his gaze roam over her, appreciating the slim, subtle lines. Selina had been all lush curves, just on the point of overabundance. “I may have you first, after all. It seems a waste not to.”

Everything in her revolted at the thought. “You were the one who had sex with Mirium, you were the one who told her to kill Trivane, to infiltrate the Wiccans.”

“She is the most malleable of women. And under a little chemical inducement, some posthypnotic suggestion, selectively forgetful.”

“It was never Selina. That’s where I was off. You weren’t her lap dog. She was yours.”

“That’s very accurate. She was losing control. I’ve known that for some time. She did the cop on her own.” His mouth thinned in annoyance. “That was the beginning of the end for this, and for her. He’d never have pinned us, and should have been left to fumble around until he gave up.”

“You’re wrong. Frank wouldn’t have given up.”

“Hardly matters now, does it?” He turned away, taking up a small vial and a pressure injector. “I’ll give you just a bit, to take the edge off. You’re really quite attractive. I can make you enjoy it when I rape you.”

“There aren’t enough drugs in the world for that.”

“You’re wrong,” he murmured and walked toward her.

Roarke had to force himself not to enter the apartment at a run. If she was inside and in trouble, his rushing in could do her more harm than good. He closed the door quietly at his back. Since the security had already been bypassed, he knew Jamie had gone in.

Still, the movement at his side had him lashing out, grabbing at the throat.

“It’s me. It’s Jamie. I can’t get into the room. They’ve installed something new. I can’t bypass.”

“Where is it?”

“There, that wall. I haven’t heard anything, but they’re in there. They have to be.”

“Go outside.”

“I won’t. And you’re wasting time.”

“Then stay back,” Roarke ordered, refusing to waste more.

He approached the wall, running his fingers over it, ordering himself to be thorough, methodical, while every instinct in him screamed to hurry.

If there was a device, it was well concealed. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his daily log, tapped in a program. He thought he caught the distant wail of a siren.

“What is that?” Jamie demanded in a whisper. “Jesus, is that a jammer? I’ve never seen one worked into a pocket diary.”

“You’re not the only one who knows the tricks.” He began to play it over the wall, cursing it for being too slow, too inefficient. Abruptly, it emitted a low hum, beeped twice. “There’s the little bastard.”

As the door slid open, he crouched and, baring his teeth, prepared to spring.

She strained away from the injector, but it pressed against her upper arm, then just as quickly, was removed.

“No.” With a quick laugh, Alban, set it aside. “Not for sex. That would be unfair to you and a blow to my pride. Afterward, I’ll put you under deeply so you won’t feel the knife. It’s the least I can do.”

“Just kill me, you son of a bitch.” With a final vicious pull, she popped the strap, dragged one arm free, and shot her fist into his face. But when she reached for the knife lying beside her, it clattered to the floor.

Then, for just a moment, she thought the demons of hell had been loosed after all.

He came in like a wolf, with a snarl and a lunge. The force of Roarke’s attack sent Alban flying back, sent candles flying to gutter out in pools of blood.

Rearing up, Eve struggled to free her other hand, and panic left no room for shock as she spotted Jamie. “Hurry up, for Christ’s sake. Get the knife, cut me loose. Hurry!”

His stomach was heaving, but he stepped over Selina’s body, grabbed the knife. Keeping his eyes locked on her wrist, he hacked at the strap.

“Give it to me. I can get the rest.” Her gaze was locked on Roarke, the desperate struggle over the bloody floor. Fire was beginning to live in the corner, growing from up-ended candle to hungry flame. “There’s the cops,” she said when she heard the siren. “Go let them in.”

“The door’s unlocked.” He said it calmly, flatly, as he moved to her feet to cut her ankles free.

“Do something about that fire in the corner,” she ordered as she scrambled down.

“No, let it burn. Let the whole damn place burn to the ground.”

“Put it out,” she snapped again, then leapt like a madwoman onto Alban’s back. “You bastard, you son of a bitch.” Even as she dragged his head back, Roarke’s fist flew up and cracked against his face.

“Get the hell back,” Roarke demanded. “He’s mine.”

They rolled over in a violent tangle of limbs to discover only two of them were still conscious.

“Did he hurt you?” Roarke’s eyes were still wild when he grabbed her arms. “Did he put his hands on you?”

“No.” She had to be calm now, she realized, for he wasn’t. She wasn’t entirely sure what Roarke was capable of when he was in this state. “He never touched me. You took care of that. I’m all right.”

“You were taking care of yourself, as usual, when I got here.” He lifted her hand, stared at the blood seeping from the abrasions on her wrist, and lifted it to his lips. “I could kill him for that. Just for that alone.”

“Stop. It’s part of the job.”

He was struggling to accept that. His jacket was ruined, a bloody mess, but he took it off and wrapped it around her. “You’re naked.”

“Yeah, I noticed. I don’t know what they did with my clothes, but I’d just as soon be wearing something other than skin when the troops get here.”

She rose, discovered she wasn’t entirely steady on her feet. “They drugged me,” she explained, shaking her head to clear it as Roarke moved her away, eased her down to sit on a clear spot on the floor.

“Just get your breath back. I have to put out that fire.”

“Good thinking.” She drew a couple of cleansing breaths as he used one of the robes to smother the flames flicking along the floor. Then she shot to her feet, cried out. “No. Jamie, don’t.” She took the first running steps forward, but it was already too late.

Face white, Jamie got to his feet. The knife still wet with Alban’s blood was in his hand. “They killed my family.” His eyes were huge, the pupils pinpricks as he offered the knife to Eve. “I don’t care what you do to me. He won’t ever kill anyone else’s sister.”

She heard the footsteps rushing through the outside door, and following instinct, gripped the athame by the handle so that her own fingerprints were on it. “Shut up. Just shut the hell up. Peabody.” Eve turned as her aide rushed in, weapon drawn. “Get me something to wear, will you?”

Peabody’s breath came out in three unsteady puffs as she scanned the carnage. “Yes, sir. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Cross and Alban ambushed me, drugged me up, and got me here. They’ve both confessed to the murders of Frank Wojinski and Alice Lingstrom, Lobar, Wineburg, and conspiracy to murder Trivane. Alban killed Selina, for reasons I will detail in my report. Alban was killed during the struggle to contain him. It was confusing, I’m not sure exactly how it happened. I don’t think it matters.”

“No.” Feeney stood beside Peabody, scanned Jamie’s face, then Eve’s. And he knew. “I don’t think it matters now. Come on, Jamie, you shouldn’t be in here now.”

“Lieutenant, with respect. I think it would be best if you and Roarke went home and cleaned up. You’re a little too in tune with the season, so to speak.”

Eve glanced at Roarke, grimaced. Blood and smoke coated his face. “You look disgusting.”

“You should see yourself, Lieutenant.” He slipped an arm around her. “I think Peabody has a point. We’ll find a blanket. That should be sufficient to get you home without you freezing or getting arrested.”

She wanted a bath so desperately she could have wept. “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Dallas, it isn’t necessary for you to come back tonight.”

“An hour,” she repeated. “Secure the scene, call the ME. Get that boy an MT. He’s shocky. Contact Whitney. He’ll want to know what happened here, and I want Charles Forte released as soon as possible.”

Eve tugged Roarke’s jacket more securely around her. “You were right about him, Peabody. Your instincts were on target. They’re good instincts.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Use them again. If that boy says anything that doesn’t jibe with my brief statement of the events, ignore him. He’s emotionally wrecked and in shock. I don’t want him questioned tonight by anyone.”

Peabody nodded, kept her eyes carefully blank. “Yes, sir. I’ll see that he’s taken home. I’ll remain on scene until you return.”

“Do that.” Eve turned, started to button the jacket.

“By the way, Dallas?”

“What, Peabody?”

“That’s a lovely tattoo. New?”

Eve clamped her teeth together, strode toward the door with as much dignity as she could manage. “See?” She jabbed a finger into Roarke’s chest as they walked down the corridor. “I told you I’d be humiliated by that stupid rosebud.”

“You’ve been drugged, slapped, tied up naked, and nearly killed, but a rose on your butt humiliates you?”

“All that other stuff’s the job. The rosebud’s personal.”

Laughing, he swung his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. “Christ, Lieutenant, I love you.”

•  •  •

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Naked in Death

- Copyright
- Contents
- chapter one
- chapter two
- chapter three
- chapter four
- chapter five
- chapter six
- chapter seven
- chapter eight
- chapter nine
- chapter ten
- chapter eleven
- chapter twelve
- chapter thirteen
- chapter fourteen
- chapter fifteen
- chapter sixteen
- chapter seventeen
- chapter eighteen
- chapter nineteen
- chapter twenty

Glory in Death

- Copyright
- Contents
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY

Immortal in Death

- Copyright Page
- Praise
- chapter one
- chapter two
- chapter three
- chapter four
- chapter five
- chapter six
- chapter seven
- chapter eight
- chapter nine
- chapter ten
- chapter eleven
- chapter twelve
- chapter thirteen
- chapter fourteen
- chapter fifteen
- chapter sixteen
- chapter seventeen
- chapter eighteen
- chapter nineteen
- chapter twenty

Rapture in Death

- Copyright
- Contents
- chapter one
- chapter two
- chapter three
- chapter four
- chapter five
- chapter six
- chapter seven
- chapter eight
- chapter nine
- chapter ten
- chapter eleven
- chapter twelve
- chapter thirteen
- chapter fourteen
- chapter fifteen
- chapter sixteen
- chapter seventeen
- chapter eighteen
- chapter nineteen
- chapter twenty

Ceremony in Death

- Copyright
- Contents
- A tradition of murder…
- Praise for Naked in Death:
- chapter one
- chapter two
- chapter three
- chapter four
- chapter five
- chapter six
- chapter seven
- chapter eight
- chapter nine
- chapter ten
- chapter eleven
- chapter twelve
- chapter thirteen
- chapter fourteen
- chapter fifteen
- chapter sixteen
- chapter seventeen
- chapter eighteen
- chapter nineteen
- chapter twenty