J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 01 Naked In Death v1.3
Naked In Death
J.D. Robb
Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle
Me
Mystery And Detective

NAKED
IN DEATH (v1.3)

J. D.
Robb, 1995

What's
past is prologue.

--
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Violence
is as American as cherry pie.

--
RAP (HUBERT GEROLD) BROWN

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 stream, 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 hobbled, 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. Station 45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, Free-Star 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
bolstering 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-corn.”

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 cafe 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
ninety-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 objets 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 Start'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 selfconsciously 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 for
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 cherry wood -- 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 capital, 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
affects 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
V-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 mahjongg 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
V-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 mahjongg 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 comer 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 his 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 Georgie?”

“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 integral
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. AI
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 innuendoes -- “

“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 grand-daddy. 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.”

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 01 Naked In Death v1.3

Title:

Naked In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective