J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 09 Loyalty In Death v1.1
Loyalty In Death
J.D. Robb
Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle
Me
Mystery And Detective

[version 1.1 - March 2, 2002 - Converted to .rtf,
fixed LOTS of formatting, read in detail and corrected typos.]

LOYALTY IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 1999

-=O=-***-=O=-

[Blurb]

An unknown
bomber is stalking New York City. He is sending Eve Dallas taunting letters
promising to wreak mass terror and destruction among the “corrupt masses.” And
when his cruel web of deceit and destruction threatens those she cares for
most, Eve fights back. It's her city ... it's her job... and it's hitting too
close to home. Now, in a race against a ticking clock, Eve must make the pieces
fit -- before the city falls.

-=O=-***-=O=-

For Vanessa
Darby because I really want to go to heaven

-=O=-***-=O=-

As flies to
wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.

--
Shakespeare

Politics,
as the word is commonly understood, are nothing but corruptions.

-- Jonathan
Swift

-=O=-***-=O=-

PROLOGUE

Dear
Comrade,

We are
Cassandra.

It has
begun.

All we have
worked for, all we have trained for, all we have sacrificed for is in place. A
dawn after so long a twilight. The goals set over thirty years ago will be
achieved. The promises made will be kept. And the martyr's blood that was shed
avenged at long last.

We know you
are concerned. We know you are cautious. This is what makes you a wise general.
Believe that we have taken your counsel and your warnings to heart. We do not
break the moratorium on this righteous and bitter war with a battle we intend to
lose. We are well-equipped, our cause well-financed, and all steps and options
have been considered.

We send
this transmission to you, dear friend and Comrade, as we joyfully prepare to
continue our mission. Already, first blood has been spilled, and we rejoice.
Circumstances have put an opponent in our path you would find worthy. We have
attached to this transmission a dossier on Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the
so-called New York City Police and Security Department so that you might
familiarize yourself with this adversary.

Through the
defeat of this enemy, our victory will be all the sweeter. She is, after all,
another symbol of the corrupt and oppressive system we will destroy.

Your wise
counsel directed us to this place. We have lived among these pitiful pawns of a
weak-kneed society, wearing our smiling mask as we scorn their city and their
system of repression and decay. We have to their blind eyes become one of them.
No one questions us as we move about these immoral and filthy streets. We are
invisible, a shadow among shadows as you, and the one we both loved, taught us
the canniest soldier must be.

And when we
have destroyed, one by one, the symbols of this overfed society, demonstrating
our power and our clean-minded plan for the new realm, they will tremble. They
will see us, and they will remember him. The first symbol of our glorious
victory will be a monument to him. In his image.

We are
loyal, and our memory is long.

You will
hear the first rumble of battle tomorrow.

Speak of us
to all the patriots, to all the loyal.

We are
Cassandra.

CHAPTER ONE

On this
particular night, a beggar died unnoticed under a bench in Greenpeace Park. A
history professor fell bloodied, his throat slashed three feet from his front
door for the twelve credits in his pocket. A woman choked out one last scream
as she crumpled under her lover's pounding fists.

And not yet
done, death circled its bony finger, then jabbed it gleefully between the eyes
of one J. Clarence Branson, the fifty-year-old co-president of Branson Tools
and Toys.

He'd been
rich, single, and successful, a jolly man with reason to be as co-owner of a
major interplanetary corporation. A second son and the third generation of
Bransons to provide the world and its satellites with implements and
amusements, he'd lived lavishly.

And had died
the same way.

J. Clarence's
heart had been skewered with one of his own multi-power porta drills by his
steely-eyed mistress, who'd bolted him to the wall with it, reported the incident
to the police, then had calmly sat sipping claret until the first officers
arrived on the scene.

She continued
to sip her drink, settled cozily in a high-backed chair in front of a
computer-generated fire while Lieutenant Eve Dallas examined the body.

“He's
absolutely dead,” she coolly informed Eve. Her name was Lisbeth Cooke, and she
made her living as an advertising executive in her deceased lover's company.
She was forty, sleekly attractive, and very good at her job. “The Branson 8000
is an excellent product -- designed to satisfy both the professional and the
hobbyist. It's very powerful and accurate.”

“Uh-huh.” Eve
scanned the victim's face. Pampered and handsome, even though death had etched
a look of stunned and sorrowful surprise on his face. Blood soaked through the
breast of his blue velvet dressing gown and puddled glossily on the floor.
“Sure did the job here. Read Ms. Cooke her rights, Peabody.”

While her aide
attended to the matter, Eve verified time and cause of death for the record.
Even with the voluntary confession, the business of murder would follow
routine. The weapon would be taken into evidence, the body transported and
autopsied, the scene secured.

Gesturing to
the crime scene team to take over, Eve crossed the royal red carpet, sat across
from Lisbeth in front of the chirpy fire that blew out lush heat and light. She
said nothing for a moment, waiting several beats to see what reaction she might
get from the fashionable brunette with fresh blood splattered somehow gaily on
her yellow silk jumpsuit.

She got
nothing but a politely inquiring stare. “So ... you want to tell me about it?”

“He was
cheating on me,” Lisbeth said flatly. “I killed him.”

Eve studied
the steady green eyes, saw anger but no shock or remorse. “Did you argue?”

“We had a few
words.” Lisbeth lifted her claret to full lips painted the same rich tone as
the wine. “Most of them mine. J. C. was weak-minded.” She shrugged her
shoulders and silk rustled. “I accepted that, even found it endearing in many
ways. But we had an arrangement. I gave him three years of my life.”

Now she leaned
forward, eyes snapping with the temper behind the chill. “Three years, during
which time I could have pursued other interests, other arrangements, other
relationships. But I was faithful. He was not.”

She drew in a
breath, leaned back again, very nearly smiled. “Now he's dead.”

“Yeah, we got
that part.” Eve heard the ugly suck and scrape as the team struggled to remove
the long steel spike from flesh and bone. “Did you bring the drill with you,
Ms. Cooke, with the intention of using it as a weapon?”

“No, it's J.
C.'s. He putters occasionally. He must have been puttering,” she mused with a
casual glance toward the body the crime scene team was now removing from the
wall in a ghastly ballet of movements. “I saw it there, on the table, and
thought, well, that's just perfect, isn't it? So I picked it up, flicked it on.
And used it.”

It didn't get
much simpler, Eve mused, and rose. “Ms. Cooke, these officers will take you
down to Cop Central. I'll have some more questions for you.”

Obligingly,
Lisbeth swallowed the last of the claret, then set the glass aside. “I'll just
get my coat.”

Peabody shook
her head as Lisbeth tossed a full-length black mink over her bloody silks and
swept out between two uniforms with all the panache of a woman heading out to
the next heady social engagement.

“Man, it takes
all kinds. She drills the guy, then hands us the case on a platter.”

Eve shrugged
into her leather jacket, picked up her field kit. Thoughtfully, she used
solvent to clean the blood and Seal-It from her hands. The sweepers would
finish up, then secure the scene. “We'll never get her on murder one. That's
just what it was, but I'll lay odds it's pleaded down to manslaughter within
forty-eight hours.”

“Manslaughter?”
Genuinely shocked, Peabody gaped at Eve as they stepped into the tiled elevator
for the trip down to the lobby level. “Come on, Dallas. No way.”

“Here's the
way.” Eve looked into Peabody's dark, earnest eyes, studied her square,
no-nonsense face under its bowl-cut hair and police-issue hat. And was nearly
sorry to cut into that unswerving belief in the system. “If the drill proves to
be the victim's, she didn't bring a weapon with her. That cuts down on
premeditation. Pride's got her now, and a good dose of mad, but after a few
hours in a cell, if not before, survival instinct will kick in, and she'll
lawyer up. She's smart, so she'll lawyer smart.”

“Yeah, but
we've got intent. We've got malice. She just made a statement for the record.”

That was the
book. As much as Eve believed in the book, she knew the pages often became
blurred. “And she doesn't have to renege on it, just embellish it. They argued.
She was devastated, upset. Maybe he threatened her. In a moment of passion --
or possibly fear -- she grabbed the drill.”

Eve stepped
off the elevator, crossed the wide lobby with its pink marble columns and
glossy ornamental trees. “Temporary diminished capacity,” she continued. “Possibly
an argument for self-defense, though it's bullshit. But Branson was about
six-two, two-twenty, and she's five-four, maybe one-fifteen. They could make
that work. Then, in shock, she contacts the police immediately. She doesn't
attempt to run or to deny what she did. She takes responsibility, which would
earn points with a jury if it comes down to it. The PA knows that, so he'll
plead it down.”

“That really
bites.”

“She'll do
time,” Eve said as they stepped outside into a cold as bitter as the scorned
lover now in custody. “She'll lose her job, spend a hefty chunk of credits on
her lawyer. You take what you can get.”

Peabody
glanced over at the morgue wagon. “This one should be so easy.”

“Lots of times
the easy ones have the most angles.” Eve smiled a little as she opened the door
of her vehicle. “Cheer up, Peabody. We'll close the case, and she won't walk.
Sometimes that's as good as it gets.”

“It wasn't
like she loved him.” At Eve's arched brow, Peabody shrugged. “You could tell.
She was just pissed because he'd screwed around on her.”

“Yeah, so she
screwed him -- literally. So remember, loyalty counts.” The car 'link beeped
just as she started the engine. “Dallas.”

“Hey, Dallas,
hey. It's Ratso.”

Eve looked at
the ferret face and beady blue eyes onscreen. “I'd never have guessed.”

He gave the
wheezy inhale that passed for a laugh. “Yeah, right. Yeah. So listen, Dallas, I
got something for you. How 'bout you meet me and we'll deal. Okay? Right?”

“I'm heading
into Central. I've got business. And my shift's over ten minutes ago, so -- “

“I got
something for you. Good data. Worth something.”

“Yeah, that's
what you always say. Don't waste my time, Ratso.”

“It's good
shit.” The blue eyes skittered like marbles in his skinny face. “I can be at
The Brew in ten.”

“I'll give you
five minutes, Ratso. Practice being coherent.”

She broke the
connection, swung away from the curb, and headed downtown.

“I remember
him from your files,” Peabody commented. “One of your weasels.”

“Yeah, and he
just did ninety days on a D and D. I got the indecent exposure tossed. Ratso
likes to flaunt his personality when he's piss-faced. He's harmless,” Eve
added. “Mostly full of wind, but every now and again, he comes up with some
solid data. The Brew's on the way, and Cooke can hold for a bit. Run the serial
number on the murder weapon. Let's verify if it belonged to the victim. Then
find the next of kin. I'll notify them once Cooke's booked.”

The night was
clear and cold with a stiff wind snapping down the urban canyons and chasing
most of the foot traffic indoors. The glide-cart vendors held out, shivering in
the steam and stink of grilling soy dogs, hoping for a few hungry souls hearty
enough to brave February's teeth.

The winter of
2059 had been brutally cold, and profits were down.

They left the
swank Upper East Side neighborhood with its clear, unbroken sidewalks and
uniformed doormen and headed south and west where the streets went narrow and
noisy and the natives moved fast, their eyes on the ground and their fists over
their wallets.

Smashed
against curbs, the remnants of the last snowfall was soot gray and ugly. Nasty
patches of ice still slicked sidewalks and lay in wait for the unwary.
Overhead, a billboard swam with a warm blue sea hemmed by sugar-white sand. The
busty blonde frolicking in the waves wore little more than a tan and invited
New York to come to the islands and play.

Eve
entertained herself with thoughts of a couple of days in Roarke's island
getaway. Sun, sand, and sex, she mused as she negotiated bad-tempered
evening traffic. Her husband would be happy to provide all three, and she was
nearly ready to suggest it. Another week or two maybe, she decided. After she
cleared up some paperwork, finished some court appearances, tied a couple of
dangling loose ends.

And, she
admitted, felt a little more secure about being away from the job.

She'd lost her
badge and had nearly lost her way too recently for the sting to have faded. Now
that she had both back, she wasn't quite ready to set duty aside for a quick
bout of indulgence.

By the time
she found a parking space on the second-level street ramp near The Brew,
Peabody had the requested data. “According to the serial numbers, the murder
weapon belonged to the victim.”

“Then we start
off with murder in the second,” Eve said as they trooped down to the street.
“The PA won't waste time trying to prove premeditation.”

“But you think
she went there to kill him.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve
crossed the sidewalk toward the murky lights of an animated beer mug with dingy
foam sliding down the sides.

The Brew
specialized in cheap drinks and stale beer nuts. Its clientele ran to grifters
down on their luck, low-level office drones and the cut-rate licensed
companions who hunted them, and a smaller of hustlers with nothing left to
hustle.

The air was
stale and overheated, conversation scattered and secret. Through the smeared
light, several gazes slid to Eve, then quickly away.

Even without
Peabody's uniform beside her, she whispered cop. They would have recognized it
in the way she stood -- the long, rangy body alert, the clear brown eyes
steady, focused, and flat as they took in faces and details.

Only the
uninitiated would have seen just a woman with short, somewhat choppily cut
brown hair, a lean face with sharp angles and a shallow dent in the chin. Most
who patronized The Brew had been around and could smell cop at a dead run in
the opposite direction.

She spotted
Ratso, his pointy rodent face nearly inside the mug as he sucked back beer. As
she walked toward his table, she heard a few chairs scrape shyly away, saw more
than one pair of shoulders hunch defensively.

Everyone's
guilty of something, she thought, and
sent Ratso a fierce, bare-toothed smile. “This joint doesn't change, Ratso, and
neither do you.”

He offered her
his wheezy laugh, but his gaze had danced nervously over Peabody's
spit-and-polish uniform. “You didn't hafta bring backup, Dallas. Jeez, Dallas,
I thought we was pals.”

“My pals bathe
regularly.” She jerked her head toward a chair for Peabody, then sat herself.
“She's mine,” Eve said simply.

“Yeah, I heard
you got you a pup to train.” He tried a smile, exposing his distaste for dental
hygiene, but Peabody met it with a cool stare. “She's okay, yeah, she's okay
since she's yours. I'm yours, too, right, Dallas? Right?”

“Aren't I the
lucky one.” When the waitress started over, Eve merely gave her a glance that
had her changing directions and leaving them alone. “What have you got for me,
Ratso?”

“I got good
shit, and I can get more.” His unfortunate face split into a grin Eve imagined
he thought cagey. “If I had some working credit.”

“I don't pay
on account. On account of I might not see your ugly face for another six
months.”

He wheezed
again, slurped up beer, and sent her a hopeful look out of his tiny, watery
eyes. “I deal square with you, Dallas.”

“So, start
dealing.”

“Okay, okay.”
He leaned forward, curving his skinny little body over what was left in his
mug. Eve could see a perfect circle of scalp, naked as a baby's butt, at the
crown of his head. It was almost endearing, and certainly more attractive than
the greasy strings of paste-colored hair that hung from it. “You know The
Fixer, right? Right?”

“Sure.” She
leaned back a little, not so much to relax but to escape the puffs of her
weasel's very distasteful breath. “He still around? Christ, he must be a
hundred and fifty.”

“Nah, nah,
wasn't that old. Ninety-couple maybe, and spry. You bet The Fixer was spry.”
Ratso nodded enthusiastically and sent those greasy strings bobbing. “Took care
of himself. Ate healthy, got regular sex from one of the girls on Avenue B.
Said sex kept the mind and body tuned up, you know.”

“Tell me about
it,” Peabody muttered and earned a mild glare from Eve.

“You're giving
me past tense here.”

Ratso blinked
at her. “Huh?”

“Did something
happen to The Fixer?”

“Yeah, but
wait. I'm getting ahead of things.” He dug his skinny fingers into the shallow
bowl of sad-looking nuts. Chomped on them with what was left of his teeth as he
looked at the ceiling and pulled his easily scattered thoughts back into line.
“About a month ago, I got some... I had me a view-screen unit, needed a little
work.”

Eve's eyebrows
lifted under her fringe of bangs. “To cool it off,” she said mildly.

He wheezed,
slurped. “See, it got sorta dropped, and I took it in to Fixer so's he could
diddle with it. I mean, the guy's a genius, right? Nothing he can't make work
like brand-fucking-new.”

“And it's so
clever the way he can change serial numbers.”

“Yeah, well.”
Ratso's smile was nearly sweet. “We got to talking, and The Fixer, he knows how
I'm always looking for a little pickup work. He says how he's got this job
going. Big one. Really flush. They got him building timers and remotes and
little bugs and shit. Done up some boomers, too.”

“He told you
he was putting together explosives?”

“Well, we was
sorta pals, so yeah, he was telling me. Said how they heard he used to do that
kind of shit when he was in the army. And they was paying heavy credits.”

“Who was
paying?”

“I don't know.
Don't think he did, either. Said how a couple guys would come to his place,
give him a list of stuff and some credits. He'd build the shit, you know? Then
he'd call this number they give him, leave a message. Just supposed to say like
the products are ready, and the two guys would come back, pick the stuff up,
and give him the rest of the money.”

“What did he
figure they wanted with the stuff?”

Ratso lifted
his bony shoulders, then looked pitifully into his empty mug. Knowing the
routine, Eve lifted a finger, turned it down toward Ratso's glass. He
brightened immediately.

“Thanks,
Dallas. Thanks. Get dry, you know? Get dry talking.”

“Then get to
the point, Ratso, while you still have some spit in your mouth.”

He beamed as
the waitress came over to slop urine-colored liquid in his mug. “Okay, okay. So
he says how he figures maybe these guys are looking to shake down a bank or
jewelry store or something. He's working on some bypass unit for them, and he's
clued in that the timers and remotes set off the boomers he's got going for
them. Says maybe they'll want a little guy who knows his way under the street.
He'll maybe put in a word for me.”

“What are
friends for?”

“Yeah, that's
it. Then I get a call from him a couple weeks later. He's really wired up, you
know? Tells me the deal isn't what he figured. That it's bad shit. Real bad
shit. He ain't making any sense. Never heard old Fixer like that. He was real
scared. Said something about being afraid of another Arlington, and how he
needed to go under awhile. Could he flop with me until he figured out what to
do next? So I said sure, hey sure, come on over. But he never did.”

“Maybe he went
under somewhere else?”

“Yeah, he went
under. They fished him outta the river a couple days ago. Jersey side.”

“I'm sorry to
hear that.”

“Yeah.” Ratso
brooded into his beer. “He was okay, you know? Word I got is somebody cut his
tongue right outta his head.” He lifted his tiny eyes, fixed them mournfully on
Eve. “What kinda person does that shit?”

“It's bad
business, Ratso. Bad people. It's not my case,” she added. “I can take a look
at the file, but there's not a lot I can do.”

“They offed
him 'cause he figured out what they was gonna do, right? Right?”

“Yeah, I'd say
that follows.”

“So you gotta
figure out what they're gonna do, right? You figure it out, Dallas, then you
stop them and take them down for doing The Fixer like that. You're a murder
cop, and they murdered him.”

“It's not as
simple as that. It's not my case,” she said again. “If they fished him out in
New Jersey, it's not even my damn city. The cops working it aren't likely to
take kindly to me homing in on their investigation.”

“How much you
figure most cops gonna bother with somebody like Fixer?”

She nearly
sighed. “There are plenty of cops who'll bother. Plenty who'll work their butt
off trying to close the case, Ratso.”

“You'll work
harder.” He said it simply, almost childlike faith in his eyes. And Eve felt
her conscience stir restlessly. “And I can find out shit for you. If Fixer
talked to me some, he coulda maybe talked to somebody else. He didn't scare
easy, you know. He come through the Urban Wars. But he was plenty scared when
he called me that night. They didn't do him that way 'cause they was gonna take
out a bank.”

“Maybe not.”
But she knew there were some who would gut a tourist for a wrist unit and a
pair of airboots. “I'll look into it. I can't promise any more than that. You
find out anything that adds to this, you get in touch.”

“Yeah, okay.
Right.” He grinned at her. “You'll find out who did Fixer that way. The other
cops, they didn't know about the shit he was into, right? Right? So that's good
data I give you.”

“Yeah, good
enough, Ratso.” She rose, dug credits out of her pocket, and laid them on the
table.

“You want me
to run down the file on this floater?” Peabody asked when they stepped back
outside.

“Yeah.
Tomorrow's soon enough.” As they climbed back up to her vehicle, Eve dug her
hands into her pockets. “Do a run on Arlington, too. See what buildings,
streets, citizens, businesses, that kind of thing have that name. If we find
anything, we can turn it over to the investigating officer.”

“This Fixer,
did he weasel for anybody?”

“No.” Eve slid
behind the wheel. “He hated cops.” For a moment she frowned, drummed her
fingers. “Ratso's got a brain the size of a soybean, but he's got Fixer down.
He didn't scare easy, and he was greedy. Kept that shop of his open seven days
a week, worked it solo. Rumor was he had his old army-issue blaster under the
counter, and a hunting knife. Used to brag he could fillet a man as quick and
easy as he could a trout.”

“Sounds like a
real fun guy.”

“He was tough
and sour and would sooner piss in a cop's eye than look at one. If he wanted
out of this deal he was in, it had to be way over the top. Nothing much
would've put this old man off.”

“What's that I
hear?” Cocking her head, Peabody cupped a hand at her ear. “Oh, that must be
the sound of you getting sucked in.”

Eve hit the
street with a bit more bounce than necessary. “Shut up, Peabody.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

She missed
dinner, which was only mildly irritating. The fact that she'd been right about
the PA and the plea bargain on Lisbeth Cooke was downright infuriating. At
least, Eve thought as she let herself into the house, the twit could
have stuck for murder two a little longer.

Now, scant
hours after Eve had arrested her in the wrongful death of one J. Clarence
Branson, Lisbeth was out on bail and very likely sitting cozily in her own
apartment with a glass of claret and a smug little smile on her face.

Summerset,
Roarke's butler, slipped into the foyer to greet her with a baleful eye and a
sniff of disapproval. “You are, once again, quite late.”

“Yeah? And you
are, once again, really ugly.” She dropped her jacket over the newel post.
“Difference is, tomorrow I might be on time.”

He noted that
she looked neither pale nor tired -- two early signs of overwork. He would have
suffered the torments of the damned before he would have admitted -- even to
himself -- that the fact pleased him.

“Roarke,” he
said in frigid tones as she breezed by him and started up the steps, “is in the
video room.” Summerset's brow arched slightly. “Second level, fourth door on
the right.”

“I know where
it is,” she muttered, though it wasn't absolutely true. Still, she would have found
it, even though the house was huge, a labyrinth of rooms and treasures and
surprises.

The man didn't
deny himself anything, she thought. Why should he? He'd been denied everything
as a child, and he'd earned, one way or another, all the comforts he now
commanded.

But even after
a year, she wasn't really used to the house, the huge stone edifice with its
juts and its towers and the lushly planted grounds. She wasn't used to the
wealth, she supposed, and never would be. The kind of financial power that could
command acres of polished wood, sparkling glass, art from other countries and
centuries, along with the simple pleasures of soft fabrics, plush cushions.

The fact was,
she'd married Roarke in spite of his money, in spite of how he'd earned a great
portion of it. Fallen for him, she supposed, as much for his shadows as his
lights.

She stepped
into the room with its long, luxurious sofas, its enormous wall screens, and
complex control center. There was a charmingly old-fashioned bar, gleaming
cherry with stools of leather and brass. A carved cabinet with a rounded door
she remembered vaguely held countless discs of the old videos her husband was
so fond of.

The polished
floor was layered with richly patterned rugs. A blazing fire -- no
computer-generated image for Roarke -- filled the hearth of black marble and
warmed the fat, sleeping cat curled in front of it. The scent of crackling wood
merged with the spice of the fresh flowers spearing out of a copper urn nearly
as tall as she and the fragrance of the candles glowing gold on the gleaming
mantel.

On-screen, an
elegant party was happening in black and white.

But it was the
man, stretched out comfortably on the plush sofa, a glass of wine in his hand,
who drew and commanded attention.

However
romantic and sensual those old videos with their atmospheric shadows, their
mysterious tones could be, the man who watched them was only more so. And he
was in three glorious dimensions.

Indeed, he was
dressed in black and white, the collar of his soft white shirt casually
unbuttoned. At the end of long legs clad in dark trousers, his feet were bare.
Why, she wondered, she should find that so ripely sexy, she couldn't say.

Still, it was
his face that always drew her, that glorious face of an angel leaping into hell
with the light of sin in his vivid blue eyes and a smile curving the poetic
mouth. Sleek black hair framed it, falling nearly to his shoulders. A
temptation for any woman's fingers and fists.

It hit her
now, as it often did, that she'd started falling for him the moment she'd seen
that face. On her computer screen in her office, during a murder investigation.
When he'd been on her short list of suspects.

A year ago,
she realized. Only a year ago, when their lives had collided. And irrevocably
changed.

Now, though
she'd made no sound, came no closer, he turned his head. His eyes met hers. And
he smiled. Her heart did the long, slow roll in her chest that continued to
baffle and embarrass her.

“Hello,
Lieutenant.” He held out a hand in welcome.

She crossed to
him, let their fingers link. “Hi. What are you watching?”

“Dark
Victory. Bette Davis. She goes blind
and dies in the end.”

“Well, that
sucks.”

“But she does
it so courageously.” He gave her hand a little tug and urged her down on the
sofa with him.

When she
stretched out, when her body curved easily, naturally against his, he smiled.
It had taken a great deal of time and a great deal of trust between them to
persuade her to relax this way. To accept him and what he needed to give her.

His cop, he
thought as he toyed with her hair, with her dark corners and terrifying
courage. His wife, with her nerves and her needs.

He shifted
slightly, content when she settled her head on his shoulder.

Since she'd
gone that far, Eve decided it would be a pretty good idea to pull off her boots
and to take a sip from his glass of wine. “How come you're watching an old
video like this if you already know how it ends?”

“It's the
getting there that counts. Did you have dinner?”

She made a
negative sound, passed him back his wine. “I'll get something in a bit. I got
hung up on a case that came in right before end of shift. Woman screwed a guy
to the wall with his own drill.”

Roarke
swallowed wine, hard. “Literally, or metaphorically?”

She chuckled a
little, enjoying the wine as they passed the glass back and forth. “Literally.
Branson 8000.”

“Ouch.”

“You betcha.”

“How do you
know it was a woman?”

“Because after
she pinned him to the wall, she called it in, then waited for us. They were
lovers, he was playing around, so she drilled a two-foot steel rod through his
cheating heart.”

“Well, that'll
teach him.” Ireland cruised through his voice like whiskey and had her tilting
her head to look up at him.

“She went for
the heart. Me, I'd've screwed it through his balls. More to the point, don't
you think?”

“Darling Eve,
you're a very direct woman.” He lowered his head to touch his lips to hers --
one brush, then two.

It was her
mouth that heated, her hands that reached up to fist in his thick, black hair
and drag him closer. Take him deeper. Before he could shift to set the wine
aside, she flipped over, knocking the glass to the floor as she straddled him.

He lifted a
brow, eyes glinting, as he used his nimble fingers to unbutton her shirt. “I'd
say we know how this one ends, too.”

“Yeah.”
Grinning, she bent down to bite his bottom lip. “Let's see how we get there
this time.”

CHAPTER TWO

Eve scowled at
her desk-link after she'd finished her conversation with the PA's office.
They'd accepted a plea of man two on Lisbeth Cooke.

Second-degree
manslaughter, she thought in disgust, for a woman who had cool-headedly,
cold-bloodedly ended a life because a man couldn't control his dick.

She'd do a
year at best in a minimum-security facility where she'd paint her nails and
brush up on her fucking tennis serve. She'd very likely sign a disc and video
deal on the story for a tidy sum, retire, and move to Martinique.

Eve knew she'd
told Peabody to take what you could get, but even she hadn't expected it to be
so little.

She damn well
let the APA -- and she'd told the spineless little prick in short, pithy terms
-- inform the next of kin why justice was too overworked to bother -- why it
had been in such a fucking hurry to deal it hadn't even waited to settle until
she'd finished her report.

Setting her
teeth, she rapped a fist against her computer in anticipation of its vagaries
and called up the ME's report on Branson.

He'd been a
healthy male of fifty-one, with no medical conditions. There were no marks or
injuries to the body other than the nasty hole made by a whirling drill bit.

No drugs or
alcohol in the system, she noted. No indication of recent sexual activity.
Stomach contents indicated a simple last meal of carrot pasta and peas in a
light cream sauce, cracked wheat bread, and herbal tea ingested less than an
hour before time of death.

Pretty boring
meal, she decided, for such a sneaky ladies' man.

And who, she
asked herself, said he was a ladies' man but the women who'd killed him? In
their damn rush to clear the dockets, they hadn't given her time to verify the
motive for the pissy man two.

When it hit
the media, and it would, she imagined a lot of dissatisfied sexual partners
were going to be eyeing the tool closet.

Lover piss
you off? she thought. Well, see
how he likes a taste of the Branson 8000 -- the choice of professionals and
serious hobbyists. Oh yeah, she thought Lisbeth Cooke could work up a
pretty jazzy ad campaign using that angle. Sales would shoot right up.

Relationships
had to be society's most baffling and brutal form of entertainment. Most could
make an arena ball playoff game look like a ballroom dance. Still, lonely souls
continued to seek them out, cling to them, fret and fight over them, and mourn
the loss of them.

No wonder the
world was full of whacks.

The glint of
her wedding ring caught her eye and made her wince. That was different, she
assured herself. She hadn't sought anything out. It had found her, taken her
down like a hard tackle to the back of the knees. And if Roarke ever decided he
wanted out, she'd probably let him live.

In a permanent
body cast.

Disgusted all
around, she spun back to her machine and began to hammer out the investigative
report the PA's office apparently didn't want to bother with.

She glanced up
as E-Detective Ian McNab poked a head in her doorway. His long golden hair was
braided today, and only one iridescent hoop graced his earlobe. Obviously to
make up for the conservative touch, he wore a thick sweater in screaming greens
and blues that hung to the hips of black pipe-stem trousers. Shiny blue boots
completed the look.

He grinned at
her, green eyes bold in a pretty face. “Hey, Dallas, I finished checking out
your victim's 'links and personal memo book. The stuff from his office just
came in, but I figured you'd want what I've got so far.”

“Then why
isn't your report on my desk unit?” she asked dryly.

“Just thought
I'd bring it over personally.” With a friendly smile, he dropped a disc on her
desk, then plopped his butt on the corner.

“Peabody's
running data for me, McNab.”

“Yeah.” He
moved his shoulders. “So, she's in her cube?”

“She's not
interested in you, pal. Get a clue here.”

He turned his
hand over, examined his nails critically. “Who says I'm interested in her? She
still seeing Monroe, or what?”

“We don't talk
about it.”

His eyes met
hers briefly, and they shared a moment of the vague disapproval neither of them
liked to show for Peabody's continued involvement with a slick if appealing
licensed companion. “Just curious, that's all.”

“So ask her
yourself.” And report back to me, she added silently.

“I do.” He
grinned again. “Gives her a chance to snarl at me. She's got great teeth.”

He got up,
paced around Eve's cramped box of an office. They both would have been
surprised to realize their thoughts on relationships were, at that moment,
running on parallel lines.

McNab's hot
date with an off-planet flight consultant had cooled and soured the night
before. She'd bored him, he thought now, which should have been impossible as
she'd put her truly magnificent breasts on display in something sheer and
silver.

He hadn't been
able to work up any enthusiasm because his thoughts had continued to drift to
the way a certain prickly cop looked in her starched uniform.

What the hell
did she wear under that thing? he wondered now, as he had unfortunately
wondered the night before. That speculation had caused him to end the evening
early, annoying the flight consultant so that when he came to his senses -- as
he was sure he would -- he'd never get another shot at those beautiful breasts.

He was, he
decided, spending too many nights home alone, watching the screen.

Which reminded
him.

“Hey, I caught
Mavis's video on-screen last night. Frigid.”

“Yeah, it's
pretty great.” Eve thought of her friend; even now on her first tour to promote
her recording disc for Roarke's entertainment arm, singing her butt off in
Atlanta. Mavis Freestone, Eve thought sentimentally, was a long way from
shrieking her lungs out for the zoned and the glazed at dives like the Blue
Squirrel.

“The disc is
starting to take off. Roarke thinks it'll make the top twenty next week.”

McNab jingled
credit chips in his pocket. “And we knew her when, right?”

He was
stalling, Eve thought, and she was letting him. “I think Roarke's planning a
party or something once she gets back.”

“Yeah? Great.”
Then he perked up at the unmistakable sound of police-issue shoes slapping worn
linoleum. McNab had his hands in his pockets and a look of sheer disinterest on
his face when Peabody came through the door.

“NJPSD came
through with -- “ She broke off, scowled. “What do you want, McNab?”

“Multiple
orgasms, but you guys copped that one out of the goodie bag.”

A laugh tried
to bubble into her throat, but Peabody controlled it. “The lieutenant doesn't
have time for your pitiful jokes.”

“Actually, the
lieutenant kind of liked that one,” Eve said, then rolled her eyes when Peabody
glared at her. “Take off, McNab, play period's over.”

“Just thought
you'd be interested,” he continued, “that in running the 'links and memo books
of the deceased, no calls, incoming and outgoing, were transmitted to a female
other than his assailant or his office staff. No records of appointments appear
in his log for liaisons,” he said, rolling out the word with a smirk for
Peabody, “other than those involving Lisbeth Cooke -- who he often refers to as
Lissy my love.”

“No record of
another woman?” Eve pursed her lips. “What about another guy?”

“Nope, no
dates either way, and no indication of bisexuality.”

“Interesting.
Run the office logs, McNab. I wonder if Lissy my love was lying about her
motive, and if so, why she killed him.”

“I'm on it.”
As he strolled out, he paused just long enough to throw Peabody a loud,
exaggerated kiss.

“He is such a
complete asshole.”

“Maybe he
irritates you, Peabody -- “

“There's no
maybe involved.”

“But he was
smart enough to see that his report might change a few angles on this case.”

The idea of
McNab dipping his toe into one of her cases, again, had Peabody bristling. “But
the Cooke case is closed. The perpetrator confessed, has been charged, booked,
and bonded.”

“She got man
two. If it wasn't a crime of passion, maybe we get more. It's worth finding out
if Branson was bouncing on somebody on the side or if she made that up to cover
another motive. We'll take a run over to his office later today, ask some
questions. Meanwhile ...” She wagged her curled fingers toward the disc Peabody
still held.

“Detective
Sally's primary,” Peabody began as she handed Eve the disc. “He's got no problem
cooperating. Basically because he's got nothing. The body'd been in the river
at least thirty-six hours before discovery. He's got no witnesses. The victim
wasn't carrying any cash or credits, but he did have ID and credit cards. He
was wearing a wrist unit -- Carder knockoff but a good one -- so Sally ruled
out a standard mugging, especially when the autopsy didn't turn up a tongue.”

“There's a
clue,” Eve muttered and slid the disc into a slot on her unit.

“ME's report
indicates the tongue was severed with a serrated blade, premortem. However,
lacerations and bruising at the back of the neck, and the lack of defensive
indicate the victim was probably knocked unconscious before the impromptu
surgery, then dumped in the river. They strapped his hands and feet before
giving him the toss. Drowning's down as cause of death.”

Eve tapped her
fingers. “Any reason I should bother reading this report?” she asked and earned
a grin.

“Detective
Sally was talkative. I don't think he'd struggle if you wanted to take the
case. He pointed out that since the victim lived in New York, it's a toss-up
right now if he was killed here or on the other side of the river.”

“I'm not
taking the case, I'm just looking at it. You run Arlington?”

“Everything
that popped is on side B of the disc.”

“Fine. I'll
skim through, then we'll head over to Branson's office.”

Eve narrowed
her eyes as a tall, gangly man in worn jeans and an ancient parka hesitated at her
doorway. Early twenties, she judged, with a look of such open innocence in eyes
of dreamy gray she could already hear the street thieves and hustlers lining up
to pluck his pockets clean.

He had the
thin, bony face she associated with martyrs or scholars, and brown hair worn in
a smooth tail and liberally streaked from the sun.

His smile was
slow and shy.

“Looking for
someone?” Eve began. At the question, Peabody turned, gaped, then let out what
could only be called a squeal.

“Hey, Dee.”
His voice creaked, as if he used it rarely.

“Zeke! Oh wow,
Zeke!” She took one vaulting leap and jumped into long, welcoming arms.

The sight of
Peabody in her ruthlessly pressed uniform with her regulation shoes dangling
inches off the floor while she giggled -- it was the only word to describe the
sound -- and pressed cheerful kisses onto the long face of the man who held her
had Eve slowly rising to her feet.

“What are you
doing here?” Peabody demanded. “When did you get here? Oh, it's so good to see
you. How long can you stay?”

“Dee,” was all
he said, and hauled her up another inch to press his lips to her cheek.

“Excuse me.”
Well aware how quickly tongues could wag in the unit, Eve stepped forward.
“Officer Peabody, I suggest you have this little reunion on your personal
time.”

“Oh, sorry.
Put me down, Zeke.” But she kept an arm wrapped possessively around him even
when her feet hit the floor. “Lieutenant, this is Zeke.”

“I got that
far.”

“My brother.”

“Oh yeah?” Eve
took another look, searching for family resemblance. There was none -- not body
type, not coloring, not in features. “Nice to meet you.”

“Didn't mean
to interrupt.” Zeke flushed a little and held out a big hand. “Dee's had lots
of good things to say about you, Lieutenant.”

“Glad to hear
it.” Eve found her hand lost inside one the consistency of granite and as
gentle as silk. “So which one are you?”

“Zeke's the
baby,” Peabody said with such adoration Eve had to grin.

“Some baby.
What are you, about six-six?”

“And a
quarter,” he said with a shy smile.

“He takes
after our father. They're both tall and skinny.” Peabody gave her brother a
fierce squeeze. “Zeke's a wood artist. He builds the most beautiful furniture
and cabinets.”

“Come on.
Dee.” The flush became a blush. “I'm just a carpenter. Handy with tools, that's
all.”

“There's a lot
of that going around lately,” Eve murmured.

“Why didn't
you tell me you were coming to New York?” Peabody demanded.

“Wanted to
surprise you. Didn't know for sure I'd come until a couple of days ago.”

He stroked a
hand over her hair in a way that made Eve think of relationships again. Some
weren't about sex or power or control. Some were just about love.

“I got a
commission to custom-build cabinets from these people who saw my work back in
Arizona.”

“That's great.
How long will it take?”

“Don't know
till they're done.”

“Okay, well,
you'll stay at my place. I'll get you the key and tell you how to get there.
You'll take the subway.” She gnawed her lip. “Don't go wandering around, Zeke.
It's not like home. Are you carrying your money and ID in your back pocket,
because -- “

“Peabody.” Eve
held up a finger for attention. “Take the rest of the day on personal time, get
your brother settled in.”

“I don't want
to be any trouble,” Zeke began.

“You'll be
more trouble if she's worried about you getting mugged six times before you get
to her apartment.” Eve added a smile to soften it, though she'd already decided
the guy had M for mark all over his face. “Things are slow here,
anyway.”

“The Cooke
case.”

“I think I can
handle it solo,” Eve said mildly. “Anything pops, I'll tag you. Go show Zeke
the wonders of New York.”

“Thanks,
Dallas.” Peabody took her brother's hand, vowing that she'd make sure he didn't
see the seamier side of those wonders.

“Nice to've
met you, Lieutenant.”

“You, too.”
She watched them go off, Zeke bending his body slightly toward Peabody as she
bubbled with sisterly affection.

Families, Eve
mused. They continued to baffle her. But it was nice to see that, occasionally,
they worked.

-=O=-***-=O=-

“Everyone
loved J.C.” Chris Tipple, Branson's executive assistant, was a man of about
thirty with hair approximately the same shade as the swollen red rims of his
eyes. Even now he wept unashamedly, tears trickling down his chubby, pleasant
face. “Everyone.”

Which might
have been the problem, Eve mused, and waited once again while Chris scrubbed
his cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“It's just
impossible to believe he won't come through that door.” His breath hitched as
he stared at the closed door of the big, bright office suite. “Ever again.
Everyone's in shock. When B. D. made the announcement this morning, no one
could speak.”

He pressed the
handkerchief to his mouth as if his voice had failed him again.

B. Donald
Branson, the victim's brother and partner, Eve knew, and waited for Chris to
finish.

“You want some
water, Chris? A soother?”

“I've taken a
soother. It doesn't seem to help. We were very close.” Mopping his streaming
eyes, Chris didn't notice Eve's look of consideration. “You had a personal
relationship?”

“Oh yes. I'd
been with J. C. for nearly eight years. He was much more than my employer. He
was ... he was like a father to me. Pardon me.”

Obviously
overcome, he buried his face in his hands. “I'm sorry. J. C. wouldn't want me
to fall apart this way. It doesn't help. But I can't -- I don't think any of us
can take it in. We're closing down for a week. The whole operation. Offices,
factories, everything. The memorial ...” He trailed off, struggling. “The
memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Quick.”

“J. C.
wouldn't have wanted it to be drawn out. How could she have done it?” He fisted
the damp cloth in his hand, staring blindly at Eve. “How could she have done
it, Lieutenant? J. C. adored her.”

“You know
Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Of course.”

He rose to
pace, and Eve could only be grateful. It was difficult to watch a grown man
grieve while he was sitting in a chair shaped like a pink elephant. Then again,
she was sitting in a purple kangaroo.

It was
obvious, with one look at the late J. Clarence Branson's office, that he'd
enjoyed indulging in his own toys. The shelves lining one wall were loaded with
them, from the simple remote-control space station to the series of multitask
minidroids.

Eve did her
best not to look at their lifeless eyes and small-scale bodies. It was too easy
to imagine them popping to life and... well, God knew what.

“Tell me about
her, Chris.”

“Lisbeth.” He
sighed heavily, then in an absent gesture adjusted the sunshade tint on the
wide window behind the desk. “She's a beautiful woman. You'd have seen that for
yourself. Smart, capable, ambitious. Demanding, but J. C. didn't mind that. He
told me once if he didn't have a demanding woman, he'd end up puttering and
playing his life away.”

“They spent a
lot of time together?”

“Two evenings
a week, sometimes three. Wednesdays and Saturdays were standard -- dinner with
theater or a concert. Any social event that required his presence or hers, and
Monday lunch -- twelve-thirty to two. A three-week vacation every August
wherever Lisbeth wanted to go, and five weekend getaways through the year.”

“Sounds pretty
regimented.”

“Lisbeth
insisted on that. She wanted conditions spelled out and obligations on both
sides clear-cut and in order. I think she understood J. C's mind tended to
wander, and she wanted his full attention when they were together.”

“Any other
part of him tend to wander?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was J. C.
involved with anyone else?”

“Involved --
romantically? Absolutely not.”

“How about
just sexually?”

Chris's round
face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. “If you're insinuating that J.
Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he'd made a commitment to, nothing
could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal.”

“You can be
sure of that? Without question?”

“I made all of
his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments.”

“Couldn't he
have made some of his own, on the side?”

“It's
insulting.” Chris's voice rang out. “The man is dead, and you're sitting there
accusing him of being a liar and a cheat.”

“I'm not
accusing him of anything,” Eve corrected calmly. “I'm asking. It's my
responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can.”

“I don't like
how you go about it.” He turned away again. “J. C. was a good man, an honest
man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn't have entered into some
illicit affair, and certainly couldn't have done so without my knowledge.”

“Okay, so tell
me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?”

“I don't know.
He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want.
She killed the golden goose.”

“The what?”

“Like in the
story.” He nearly smiled now. “The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was
happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he's dead. No more golden
eggs.”

Unless, Eve
thought as she left the office, she'd wanted all the eggs at one time.

She knew as
she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson's
office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother's. Hoping to find
him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass
doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.

The building
itself seemed to be grieving.

At regular
intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys'
new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts
amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child
to his tearfully grateful mother.

The cop faced
the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as
Peabody's. “It's our job to serve and protect.”

Then the image
pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product
and accessories while the computer's voice stated product and pricing details.
A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.

Shaking her
head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures,
or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game
interesting. Then, of course, you'd need victim-droids.

Jesus.

The clear
glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a
sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.

“Thank you
very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on
to the family. Mr. Branson's memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two
o'clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it's a great shock. A great
loss. Thank you for calling.”

She swiveled
the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. “I'm sorry, Mr. Branson
isn't available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week.”

Eve took out
her badge. “I'm primary on his brother's homicide. Is he in?”

“Oh,
Lieutenant.” The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. “One
moment, please.”

She slipped
gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white
door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the
multiline 'link, then the door opened again.

“Please come
in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I'm
fine.”

She entered
the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to
J. C.'s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly
animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were
designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets,
clear for business.

B. Donald
Branson stood behind that desk. He didn't have the bulk of his brother but was
slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a
high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of
pale green.

“Lieutenant
Dallas, it's kind of you to come in person.” His voice was as quiet and
soothing as the room. “I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness
when you called last night to inform me of my brother's death.”

“I'm sorry to
intrude at this time, Mr. Branson.”

“No, please.
Sit down. We're all trying to deal with it.”

“I gather your
brother was well liked.”

“Loved,” he
corrected as they took their seats. “It was impossible not to love J. C. That's
why it's so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like
part of the family. My God.” He looked away for a moment, trying to compose
himself.

“I'm sorry,”
he managed. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Branson,
let me get this over with as quickly as I can. Ms. Cooke claims she discovered
your brother was involved with another woman.”

“What? That's
absurd.” Branson dismissed the idea with one angry wave of his hand. “J. C. was
devoted to Lisbeth. He never looked at another woman.”

“If that's
true, why would she have killed him? Did they quarrel often, violently?”

“J. C.
couldn't maintain an argument for five minutes,” Branson said wearily. “It just
wasn't in him. He had no violence, and he certainly was no womanizer.”

“You don't
believe he could have been interested in someone else?”

“If he was --
which is difficult to believe -- he would have told Lisbeth. He would have been
honest with her and dissolved their relationship before starting another. J. C.
had almost childishly honest standards.”

“If I accept
that, then I'm looking for motive. You and your bother were co-presidents. Who
inherits his share?”

“I do.” He
folded his hands on the desk. “Our grandfather founded this company. J. C. and
I have been at the helm together over thirty years. In our business agreement
it's stipulated that the survivor or the survivor's heirs inherit the
partnership.”

“Could he have
designated any portion of it to Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Not of the
company, no. We have a contract.”

“Of his
personal funds and holdings, then.”

“Certainly,
he'd be free to designate any or all of his personal estate to whomever he
pleased.”

“Would we be
talking substantial?”

“Yes, I
believe we would say substantial.” Then he shook his head. “You think she
killed him for money? I can't believe that. He was always very generous with
her, and Lisbeth is -- was -- a well-paid member of this company. Money
shouldn't have been an issue.”

“It's an
angle,” was all Eve said. “I'd like the name of his lawyer, and I'd appreciate
it if you'd clear it so I can have the terms of the will.”

“Yes, of
course.” He tapped a finger on the top of his desk and the center drawer slid
open. “I have one of Suzanna's business cards right here. I'll contact her
right away,” he added, rising as Eve did to hand her the card. “Tell her to
give you whatever information you need.”

“I appreciate
your cooperation.”

Eve checked
her wrist unit as she left. She could probably hook up with the lawyer by
mid-afternoon, she decided. And since she had some time, why not juggle in a
trip to Fixer's shop?

CHAPTER THREE

Peabody
shifted two of the three bags of groceries and foodstuffs she'd stopped off for
on the trip home and dug out her key. She'd loaded up on fresh fruits and
vegetables, soy mix, tofu, dried beans, and the brown rice she'd disliked since
childhood.

“Dee.” Zeke
set down the single duffel bag he'd packed for New York and added his sister's
two sacks to the one he already carried. “You shouldn't have bought all this
stuff.”

“I remember
how you eat.” She grinned over her shoulder at him and didn't add that most of
her larder consisted of things no respectable Free-Ager would consider
consuming. Fat- and chemical-laden snacks, red meat substitutes, alcohol.

“It's robbery
what they charge for fresh fruit here, and I don't think those apples you
bought came off a tree in the last ten days.” Plus he sincerely doubted they'd
been organically grown.

“Well, we're
kind of short on orchards in Manhattan.”

“Still. You
should've let me pay for it.”

“This is my
city, and you're the first of the family to visit me.” She pushed open the
door, turned to take the sacks.

“There's got
to be some Free-Ager co-ops around.”

“I don't
really do any co-opping or bartering these days. Don't have the time. I pull in
a decent salary, Zeke. Don't fuss. Anyway.” She blew her hair out of her eyes.
“Come on in. It's not much, but it's home now.”

He stepped in
behind her, scanned the living area with its sagging sofa, cluttered tables,
bright poster prints. The windowshade was down, something she hurried over to
remedy.

She didn't
have much of a view, but she enjoyed the rush and rumble of the street below.
When the light shot in, she noted that the apartment was every bit as untidy as
the street below.

And
remembered, abruptly, she'd left a disc text on the mind of the serial torture
killer in her computer. She'd have to get it out and bury it somewhere.

“If I'd known
you were coming, I'd've picked up a little.”

“Why? You
never picked up your room at home.”

He grinned at
her and headed to the tiny kitchen to set down the food sack. Actually, it
relieved him to see her living space was so much like her. Steady,
unpretentious, basic.

He noted a
slow drip from the faucet, a blister burn in the countertop. He could fix those
for her, he thought. Though it surprised him she hadn't done so herself.

“I'll do
this.” She stripped off her coat, her cap, and hurried in behind him. “Go put
your things in the bedroom. I'll bunk on the couch while you're here.”

“No, you won't.”
Already he was poking in cabinets to put things away. If he was shocked by the
stock in her pantry, particularly the bright red and yellow bag of Tasty Tater
Treats, he didn't mention it. “I'll take the sofa.”

“It's a
pull-out, and fairly roomy.” And she thought she probably had clean sheets for
it. “But it's lumpy.”

“I can sleep
anywhere.”

“I know. I
remember all those camping trips. Give Zeke a blanket and a rock, and he's down
for the count.” Laughing, she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her cheek to
his back. “God, I missed you. I really missed you.”

“We -- Mom and
Dad and the rest of us -- hoped you'd make it home for Christmas.”

“I couldn't.”
She stepped back as he turned. “Things got complicated.” And she wouldn't speak
of that, wouldn't tell him what had been happening, what had been done. “But
I'll make time soon. I promise.”

“You look
different, Dee.” He touched his big hand to her cheek. “Official. Settled in.
Happy.”

“I am happy. I
love my work.” She lifted her hand to his, pressed down on it. “I don't know
how to explain it to you, to make you understand.”

“You don't
have to. I can see it.” He pulled out a six-pack of juice tubes and opened the
tiny friggie. Understanding wasn't always the answer. He knew that. Accepting
was. “I feel bad about pulling you away from your job.”

“Don't. I
haven't had any personal time in ...” She shook her head as she stuffed boxes
and bags onto shelves. “Hell, who remembers? Dallas wouldn't have green-lighted
it if we'd been jammed.”

“I liked her.
She's strong, with dark places. But she's not hard.”

“You're
right.” Head angled, Peabody turned back to him. “And what did Mom tell you
about peeking at auras without consent?”

He flushed a
little, grinned around it. “She's responsible for you. I didn't look that close,
and I like to know who's looking out for my big sister.”

“Your big
sister's doing a pretty good job of looking out for herself. Why don't you
unpack?”

“That'll take
me about two minutes.”

“Which is
about twice the time it'll take me to give you the grand tour.” She took his
arm and led him across the living space into the bedroom.

“This is about
it.” A bed, a table, and lamp, a single window. The bed was made -- that was
habit and training. There was a book on the nightstand. She'd never understood
why anyone could choose to curl up with a palm unit and disc. But the fact that
it was a grisly murder mystery made her wince when Zeke flipped it over.

“Busman's
holiday?”

“I guess.”

“You always
did like this kind of stuff.” He set the book back down. “It comes down to good
and evil, doesn't it, Dee? And good's supposed to win when it's over.”

“That's the
way it works for me.”

“Yeah, but
what's evil there for in the first place?”

She might have
sighed, thinking of all she'd seen, what she'd done, but she kept her gaze
level on his. “Nobody's got the answer to that, but you've got to know it's
there and deal with it. That's what I do, Zeke.”

He nodded,
studied her face. He knew it was different from the routine she'd had when
she'd moved to New York and put on a uniform. Then it had been traffic
incidents, squabbles to break up, and paperwork. Now she was attached to
homicide. She dealt with death every day and rubbed shoulders with those who
caused it.

Yes, she
looked different, Zeke acknowledged. The things she'd seen and done and felt
were there behind those dark, serious eyes.

“Are you good
at it?”

“Pretty good.”
Now she smiled a little. “I'm going to be better.”

“You're
learning from her. From Dallas.”

“Yeah.”
Peabody sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “Before she took me on
as her aide, I studied her. I read her files, I crammed on her technique. I
never expected to be able to work with her. Maybe that was luck, maybe it was
fate. We were taught to respect both.”

“Yeah.” He sat
next to her.

“She's giving
me a chance to find out what I can do. What I can be.” Peabody drew in a long
breath, let it out slowly. “Zeke, we were raised to take our own path, to
pursue it, and to do the best we were capable of. That's what I'm doing.”

“You think I
don't approve, don't understand.”

“I worry about
it.” She slid her hand down to the regulation stunner strapped to her belt.
“About what you -- especially you -- feel.”

“You
shouldn't. I don't have to understand what you do to know it's what you need to
do.”

“You were
always the easiest of us, Zeke.”

“Nah.” He
bumped his shoulder against hers. “It's just when you're the last coming up,
you get to watch how everyone else screws up. Okay if I take a shower?”

“Sure.” She
patted his hand and rose. “Water takes awhile to come up to temp.”

“No hurry.”

When he got
his bag and took it into the bath, she pounced on the kitchen 'link, called
Charles Monroe, and left a message on his service canceling their date that
night.

However wise
and broad-minded and adult he'd sounded, she didn't see her baby brother
embracing her casual, and just lately spotty, relationship with a licensed
companion.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She might have
been surprised at just how much her little brother would understand. As he
stood under the spray, let the hot water ease away the faint stiffness from
travel, he was thinking of a relationship that wasn't -- couldn't be -- a
relationship. He was thinking of a woman. And he told himself he had no right
to think of her.

She was a
married woman, and she was his employer.

He had no
right to think of her as anything else, less to feel this shaky heat in his gut
at the knowledge he would see her again very soon.

But he
couldn't get her face out of his mind. The sheer beauty of it. The sad eyes,
the soft voice, the quiet dignity. He told himself it was a foolish, even
childish crush. Horribly inappropriate. But he had no choice but to admit here,
in private, where honesty was most valued, that she was one of the primary reasons
he'd taken the commission and made the trip east.

He wanted to
see her again, no matter how that wanting shamed him.

Still, he
wasn't a child who believed he could have whatever he needed.

It would be
good for him to see her here, in her own home, with her husband. He liked to
think it was the circumstances of how they'd met, of where they'd met, that had
caused this infatuation. She'd been alone, so obviously lonely, and had looked
so delicate, so cool and golden in the deep desert heat.

It would be
different here because she would be different here. And so would he. He would
do the job she had asked him to do and nothing more. He would spend time with
the sister he had missed so deeply it sometimes made his heart ache. And he
would see, at long last, the city and the work that had pulled her away from
her family.

The city, he
could already admit, fascinated him.

As he toweled
off, he tried to see through the tiny, steam-misted window. Even that blurry,
narrow view made his blood pump just a little faster.

There was so
much of it, he thought now. Not the open vastness of desert and mountain and
field he'd grown used to since his family had relocated in Arizona a few years
before. But so much of everything rammed and jammed into one small space.

There was so
much he wanted to see. So much he wanted to do. As he hitched on a fresh shirt
and jeans, he began to speculate, to plot, and to plan. When he stepped back
out into the living area, he was eager to begin.

He saw his
sister busily tidying and grinned. “You make me feel like company.”

“Well...”
She'd tucked away every murder and mayhem disc and file she could find. It
would have to do. She glanced over, blinked.

Wow, was all
she could think. Why hadn't she noticed in her first rush of delight in seeing
him? Her baby brother had grown up. And he was a genuine eye treat. “You look
good -- sort of filled out and everything.”

“It's just a
clean shirt.”

“Right. Do you
want some juice, some tea?”

“Ah ... I
really want to go out. I've got this whole guidebook thing. I studied it on the
way east. You know how many museums there are in Manhattan alone?”

“No, but I bet
you do.” Inside her regulation shoes, Peabody's toes curled and flexed. Her
feet, she decided, were about to get a workout. “Let me change, and we'll check
them out.”

An hour later,
she was almost tearfully grateful for the airsoles, for the thick soft wool of
her slacks, and the lining of her winter coat. It wasn't just museums Zeke was
after. It was everything.

He took videos
with the palm unit he told her he'd splurged on for the trip. It would have
been ripped off a dozen times if she hadn't kept her eyes peeled for street
thieves. No matter how often she lectured him to watch himself, to recognize
the signs and the moves, he just smiled and nodded.

They rode to
the top of the Empire State Building, stood in the freezing, bitter wind until
the tips of her ears went numb. And his pale gray eyes glowed with the wonder
of it. They toured the Met, gawked at the storefronts along Fifth, stared up at
the tourist blimps, bumped along the sky glides, and gnawed on stale pretzels
he'd insisted on buying from a glide-cart.

Only deep and
abiding love could have convinced her to agree to skidding over the ice rink at
Rockefeller Center when her calf muscles were already weeping from three hours
of urban hiking.

But he made
her remember what it was to be stunned by the city, to see all it had to offer.
She realized, watching him be awed, time after time, that she'd forgotten to
look.

And if she had
to flash the badge she'd tucked in her coat pocket at a gimlet-eyed grifter
looking to score the tourist, it didn't spoil the day.

Still, by the
time she finally talked him into stopping for a hot drink and a bite to eat,
she'd decided it was imperative she outline some very specific do's and don'ts.
He was going to be on his own a great deal when he wasn't working, she thought.
He might have been twenty-three, but he had all the naive trust in his fellow
man of a sheltered five-year-old.

“Zeke.” She
warmed her hands on a bowl of lentil soup and tried not to think about the
soy-beef burger she'd spied on the menu. “We should talk about what you're
going to do while I'm working.”

“I'll be
building cabinets.”

“Yeah, but my
hours are ...” She gestured vaguely. “You never know. You'll be spending a lot
of time on your own, so -- “

“You don't
have to worry about me.” He grinned at her, spooned up his own soup. “I've been
off the farm before.”

“You've never
been here before.”

He sat back,
shot her the exasperated look brothers reserve for nagging sisters. “I carry my
money in my front pocket. I don't talk to the people who cart around those
cases full of wrist units and PPCs, and I don't move in to play that card game
like the one they had going on Fifth Avenue, even though it looks like fun.”

“It's a con.
You can't win.”

“Still looked
like fun.” But he wouldn't brood on it, not when she had that line dug between
her eyebrows. “I don't strike up conversations on the subway.”

“Not with a
chemi-head looking to score.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Zeke, the guy was
practically foaming at the mouth. Anyhow.” She waved that away. “I don't expect
you to lock yourself into the apartment on your free time. I just want you to
be careful. It's a great city, but it eats people every day. I don't want one
of them to be you.”

“I'll be
careful.”

“And you'll
stick to the major tourist areas, carry your palm-link?”

“Yes, Mom.” He
grinned at her again, and looked so young Peabody's heart stuttered. “So, you
up for the Fly Over Manhattan tour?”

“Sure.” She
managed to smile instead of wince. “You bet. Soon as we're done here.” She took
her time with the soup. “When are you supposed to get started on this job?”

“Tomorrow. We
set it all up before I left. They approved the plans, the estimates. They paid
for my transpo and expenses.”

“You said they
saw your work when they were out in Arizona on vacation?”

“She did.” And
just thinking of it had his pulse running a little faster. “She bought one of
the carvings I'd done for Camelback Cooperative Artworks. Then she and Silvie
-- I don't think you ever met Silvie, she's a glass artist. She was running the
co-op that day and she mentioned how I'd designed and built the cabinets and
counters and the displays. And then Mrs. Branson mentioned how she and her
husband were looking for a carpenter, and -- “

“What?”
Peabody's head snapped up.

“They were
looking for a carpenter, and -- “

“No, what was
that name?” She grabbed his hand, clamped down. “Did you say Branson?”

“That's right.
The Bransons hired me. Mr. and Mrs. B. Donald Branson. He owns Branson T and T.
Good tools.”

“Oh.” Peabody
set down her spoon. “Oh, shit, Zeke.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Fixer's was a
grungy smear in an area not known for its tidiness. Just off Ninth, a bare
block from the entrance to the tunnel, Fixer's was a dilapidated storefront
mined with security bars, patched with intercoms and peek lenses, and as
welcoming as a cockroach.

The one-way
windows offered the passerby a dingy field of black. The door was reinforced
steel, studded with a complicated series of locks that made the police seal
look like a joke.

People who
loitered in the area knew how to mind their own business -- which was usually
second-story work. One glance at Eve had most of them finding something else to
do and somewhere else to do it.

Eve used her
master on the police seal, relieved that the sweeper team hadn't engaged
Fixer's locks. At least she wouldn't have to spend time decoding them. It made
her think of Roarke and wonder how long it would have taken him to slide right
through them.

Since a part
of her would have enjoyed watching him do just that, she scowled as she stepped
inside and shut the door behind her.

It smelled --
not quite foul but close, she decided. Sweat, grease, bad coffee, old piss.
“Lights, full,” she ordered, then narrowed her eyes at the sudden brightness.

The interior
of the shop was no more cheerful than the exterior. Not a single chair invited
a customer to sit and relax. The floor, the sickly green of baby vomit, carried
the grime and scars of decades of wear. The way her boots stuck and made
sucking noises as she walked told her that mopping up hadn't been a major
occupation of the deceased.

Gray metal
shelves rose up one wall and were jammed full in a system that defied all
logic.

Miniscreens,
security cams, porta-links, desk logs, communication and entertainment systems
crowded together in varying stages of repair or harvesting.

Jumbled on the
other side of the room were more units she took to be complete as the
hand-lettered sign above warned that pickup must be made within thirty days or
the customer defaulted the merchandise.

She counted
five No Credit Given postings in a room no larger than fifteen feet wide.

Fixer's sense
of humor -- for lack of a better term -- was evidenced by the dangling human
skull over the cashier's counter. The sign under the sagging jaw read The Last
Shoplifter.

“Yeah, that's
a laugh riot,” Eve murmured and huffed out a breath.

Damn if the
place didn't give her the creeps, she realized. The only window was behind her
and barred. The only outside door mired with locks. She glanced up, studied the
security monitor. It had been left running and gave her a full view of the
street. On another, securing the interior, she could study herself on the
crystal-clear screen.

Nobody got in,
she decided, unless Fixer wanted them in.

She made a
note to ask Sally at NJPSD for copies of the security discs, exterior and
interior.

She crossed to
the counter, noted that the computer stationed there was an ugly hybrid of
scavenged parts. And in all probability, she mused, ran with more speed,
efficiency, and reliability than the one in her office at Cop Central.

“Engage,
computer.”

When nothing
happened, she frowned and attempted to boot it manually. The screen shimmered.

Warning:
This unit protected by fail safe. Code proper password or voice print within
thirty seconds of this message or disengage.

Eve
disengaged. She'd see if Feeney, top dog in the Electronic Detective Division,
had the time and inclination to play with it.

There was
nothing else on the counter but some greasy fingerprints, the dull sheen left
by the sweepers, and a scatter of parts she couldn't identify.

She uncoded
the door leading to the back area and stepped into Fixer's workshop.

The guy
could've used a few elves, she thought. The place was an unholy mess with the
bones and sinews of dozens of electronic devices scattered around. Tools were
hung on pegs or tossed wherever they landed. Minilasers, delicate tweezers, and
screwdrivers with bits hardly wider than a single hair.

If he'd
been attacked here, how the hell would you tell? she wondered, nudging the shell of a monitor with her
boot. But she didn't think he had been. She'd only dealt with Fixer a handful
of times and hadn't seen him in a couple of years, but she remembered he kept
his place and his person in constant disarray.

“And they
wouldn't have gotten into this dungeon unless he'd wanted them to,” she murmured.
The man had been seriously paranoid, she mused, checking out yet more monitors
overhead. Every inch of his space and several feet outside the shop were all
under surveillance twenty-four/seven.

No, they
didn't take him from inside, she decided. If he was panicked, as Ratso had
said, he'd have been all the more careful. Still, he hadn't felt safe enough to
simply barricade himself inside and wait it out. So he'd called a friend.

She moved into
the tiny room beyond, scanned the mess of Fixer's living space. A cot with
yellowed sheets, a table with a jury-rigged communications center, a pile of
unwashed clothes, and a narrow bathroom with hardly enough room for the skinny
shower stall and toilet.

The
kitchenette was a turnaround space packed with a fully loaded AutoChef and a
minifridge stocked to bursting. Canned and dry goods were stacked in a wall as
high as her waist.

“Jesus, he
could have waited out an alien attack in here. Why go out to go under?”

Shaking her
head, she tucked her thumbs in her pockets and turned a slow circle.

No windows, no
outside doors, she noted. He'd lived in a fucking box. She studied the monitor
across from the bed, watched the traffic move along Ninth. No, she corrected.
Those were his windows.

She closed her
eyes and tried to picture him there, using the image of him she remembered.
Skinny, grizzled, old. Mean.

He's
scared, so he moves fast, she
thought. Takes only what he needs. He's former military. He knows how to
decamp fast. Some clothes, some money. Not enough money on him for a man going
under, she realized. Not nearly.

Greed, she
thought. That was another facet of the man. He'd been greedy, hoarding his
money, overcharging his clients who paid because of his magic hands.

He'd have
taken cash, credits, bank and brokerage passkeys.

And where was
his bag? He'd have packed a bag. Could be in the river, too, she decided,
hooking her thumbs in her front pockets. Or whoever killed him took it.

“He'd've had
money,” she thought aloud. “He sure as hell wasn't spending it on home
decorating or personal hygiene and enhancements.”

She'd check
into his finances.

He packs a
bag. Going under, she thought again. What
does he put into it?

He'd have
taken a palm-link, a PPC. He'd have wanted his logs, his connections. And
weapons.

She moved back
out, poked under the counter. She found an empty rack with a quick-release bar.
Hunkering down, she narrowed her eyes as she studied it. Had the old bastard
really had an illegal blaster? Was this some kind of weapon holder? She'd check
the sweepers' report, see if they'd confiscated a weapon.

She hissed out
a breath, picked up the rack to examine it. She didn't have a clue what an
army-issue blaster circa the Urban Wars looked like.

Then she
sighed, pushed the rack into her evidence bag. She knew where to find one.

CHAPTER FOUR

Because she
wanted to speak to Feeney in person, Eve swung back to Cop Central. She took
the glide up to EDD, hopping off long enough to hit up a vending machine for a
nutra-bar.

The Electronic
Detective Division was a hive of activity. Cops were working on computers,
tearing them apart, rebuilding them. Others sat in privacy booths playing and
copying discs from confiscated 'links and logs. Nevertheless, the beeps and
buzzes and whines of electronics crowded the air and made her wonder how anyone
could manage to squeeze in a stray thought.

Despite the
noise level, the door of Captain Ryan Feeney's office was open. He sat at his
desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, his wiry, rust-colored hair
standing up on end, his droopy eyes enormous behind the lenses of microgoggles.
While Eve watched from the doorway, he plucked a tiny translucent chip from the
guts of the computer upended on his desk.

“Gotcha, you
little bastard.” And with the delicacy of a surgeon, he slid the chip into an
evidence bag.

“What is it?”

“Hah?” Behind
the goggles, his hound dog eyes blinked, then he shoved the goggles up to his
forehead and focused on her. “Hey, Dallas. This little darling? It's basically
a counter.” He tapped the bag and smiled a little. “Bank teller with a talent
for e-work installed it in her unit at work. Every twenty transfers, a deposit
got zipped into an account she'd set up for herself in Stockholm. Pretty
slick.”

“You're
slicker.”

“Damn right.
What are you doing over here?” He continued to work as he spoke, methodically
tagging evidence. “Want to hang out with real cops?”

“Maybe I
missed your pretty face.” She eased a hip onto the corner of his desk, grinning
when he snorted. “Or maybe I wondered if you had any spare time.”

“For what?”

“You remember
The Fixer?”

“Sure. Bad
attitude, magic hands. The son of a bitch's nearly as good as I am. He can take
a unit like this XK-6000 here, strip her down, harvest her, and spread her into
six other units before she cools down. He's goddamn good.”

“Now he's
goddamn dead.”

“Fixer?”
Genuine regret showed in his eyes. “What happened?”

“He took a
last swim.” She filled him in quickly, moving from her meeting with Ratso
through her quick tour of the shop.

“Had to be
something big and something bad to scare an old warhorse like Fixer,” Feeney
mused. “You say they didn't take him from inside?”

“I'd say that
would've been next to impossible. He had full security scan. Interior and
exterior. A hive of locks. One exit -- reinforced -- and one window, one-way
luminex, barred. Oh, and I checked his supplies. He had enough unperishables
and bottled water to last a man used to rations a good month.”

“Sounds like
he could've held off an invasion.”

“Yeah. So why
run?”

“Got me. The
Jersey primary cleared you to look into it from this end?”

“Well, he's
got nothing. I haven't got much more,” she admitted. “The story's from my
weasel, and he tends to spook easy. But Fixer was into something, and they took
him out. They didn't get into his place, so they didn't get to his equipment.
He's got a fail-safe on his shop unit. I thought you could play with it, see if
you can get past it.”

Feeney
scratched his ear, reached absently for a handful of the sugared nuts in a bowl
on his desk. “Yeah, I can do that. Gotta figure he'd've taken his logs with him
if he was going under. But he was smart. Might've left a copy behind. So I'll
look.”

“Appreciate
it.” She straightened. “I'm just juggling this in for now. I haven't run it by
the commander.”

“Let's see
what I find; then we'll take it to him.”

“Good.” She
snatched some of the nuts before she headed for the door. “So how much did she
get? The bank teller?”

Feeney glanced
down at the micro-timer. “Three million and change. If she'd settled for the
three and skipped, she might've gotten away with it.”

“They always
want more,” Eve said.

She munched on
nuts as she headed to her own office. The detective's bullpen clattered with
voices, curses, and whines from suspects, from victims giving statements, the
incessant trill of 'links, and the quick screams and scratches as two women
went at each other with teeth and nails over a dead man they both claimed to
love.

Eve found the
atmosphere oddly soothing after her trip to EDD.

As a
professional courtesy, she stepped in and hauled one of the shrieking women up
in a headlock while the detective in charge struggled with the other.

“Thanks,
Dallas.” Baxter grinned at her.

She only
sneered. “You were enjoying that, weren't you?”

“Hey, nothing
like a catfight.” He cuffed his charge to a chair before she could slice at
him. “If you'd have waited another minute, clothes might've gotten ripped off.”

“You're so
sick, Baxter.” Eve bent close to the woman's ear. “You hear that?” she
murmured, tightening her grip just a little as the woman continued to squirm
like a fish. “You go after her again, the guys in the squad are going to get
off on it. Is that what you want?”

“No.” She bit
the word off, then sniffled. “I just want my Barry back!” she wailed.

The sentiment
set the other woman off, so that the room was filled with the wild sobbing of
women. Seeing Baxter wince, Eve smiled thinly and pushed the woman to him.
“There you go, pal.”

“Thanks a lot,
Dallas.”

Satisfied with
her part in the little drama, Eve went into her office, shut the door. In the
relative peace, she sat down and contacted Suzanna Day, the late J. Clarence
Branson's attorney.

After being
passed from reception to assistant, Eve watched Suzanna's face swim on-screen.
She was a sharp-looking woman of perhaps forty. Black hair was cut short and
sleek around an attractive face. Her complexion was dark and deep as onyx, her
eyes like jet. Her unsmiling mouth was painted a rich crimson that matched the
tiny bead pierced through the trailing tip of her left eyebrow.

“Lieutenant
Dallas. B. D. told me you'd be in touch.”

“I appreciate
you taking the time to speak to me, Ms. Day. You're aware I'm primary in the
matter of J. Clarence Branson's death?”

“Yes.” Her
mouth thinned. “I'm also aware, through a contact at the PA's office, that
Lisbeth Cooke is being charged with man two.”

“You're not
happy with that decision.”

“J. C. was a
friend, a good one. No, I'm not happy that the woman who killed him will do
hardly more than turnaround time in a high-class cage.”

PAs make the
deals, Eve thought sourly. Cops take the heat. “It's not my job to make that
determination, but it is to gather all possible evidence. Mr. Branson's will
could shed a different light on matters.”

“The will is
to be read tonight, in the home of B. Donald Branson.”

“You already
have the information as to the beneficiaries.”

“I do.”
Suzanna paused, seemed to struggle with herself. “And I can't reveal any of the
terms before the official reading, as per my client's instructions when the
document was drawn up. My hands are tied here, Lieutenant.”

“Your client
didn't expect to be murdered.”

“Regardless.
Believe me, Lieutenant, I'm already skimming corners by insisting the reading
be held tonight.”

Eve considered
a moment. “What time tonight?”

“Eight
o'clock.”

“Any legal
reason why I can't be there?”

Suzanna lifted
her ornamented eyebrow. “No, not if Mr. and Mrs. Branson clear it. I'll speak
to them about it, get back to you.”

“Good. I'm
going out in the field, but I'll get the message. Just one more thing. Did you
know Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Very well. I
often socialized with her and J. C.”

“Opinion?”

“She's
ambitious, determined, possessive. And hot-tempered.”

Eve nodded.
“You didn't like her.”

“On the
contrary, I liked her very much. I admire a woman who knows what she wants,
gets it, and hangs on to it. She made him happy,” she added and pressed her lips
together as tears swam into her eyes. “I'll get back to you,” she said and
broke transmission.

“Everybody
loved J. C.,” Eve murmured, then, shaking her head, began to gather her things.
Her communicator beeped before she got to the door. She tugged it out.
“Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Peabody. I
figured you'd have your brother out on the town.”

“Try vice
versa.” On-screen, Peabody rolled her eyes. “I've already been to the top of
the Empire State Building, taken the glide around the Silver Palace twice, gawked
at skaters in Rockefeller Center -- “ Not under the tortures of hell would she
admit she'd strapped on skates herself. “And I walked my feet off in two
museums. He's dying to do the Fly Over Manhattan tour. It leaves in fifteen.”

“Tons of fun,”
Eve commented as she made her way to the elevator that would take her down to
her car.

“Zeke's never
been to the city before. I've had to stop him from talking to every LC and
beggar on the street. Jesus, Dallas, he wanted to play three-card monte.”

Eve grinned. “Good
thing his sister's a cop.”

“You're
telling me.” Then she sighed. “Look, this probably doesn't mean anything, but
it's weird, and I thought I should let you know.”

Eve stepped
out of the elevator into the garage. “What?”

“You know how
Zeke said he came out because he had a commission? Building custom cabinets and
stuff? Well, it turns out his commission is from B. Donald Branson.”

“Branson?” Eve
pulled up short. “Branson hired your brother?”

“Yeah.”
Peabody studied Eve out of unhappy eyes. “What are the odds?”

“Low,” Eve
murmured. “Pretty low. How'd Branson hear about Zeke?”

“Mrs. Branson,
actually. She was out in Arizona at some spa and was shopping, saw his work in
one of the artists' co-ops. Zeke does a lot of custom work, built-ins,
furniture. He's really good. She asked about the craftsman, and they put her in
touch with Zeke. One thing led to another, and here he is.”

“It sounds
normal, logical.” She slipped into her car. “Has he been in touch with them
since he got in?”

“He's calling
now. Their name just came up, and I told him. He thought he should call Mrs.
Branson and see if she wanted to put off the work.”

“Okay. Don't
worry about it, Peabody. But let me know how they handle it. And if he hasn't
already spilled it about having a cop for a sister, tell him to keep that
little bit of data to himself.”

“Sure. But
it's not like the Bransons are suspects. We've got the killer.”

“Right. Let's
just be cautious. Go play tour guide. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Coincidence,
Eve mused as she drove out of the garage. She really hated coincidence. But no
matter how she played the information through her mind, she couldn't come up
with anything off about the family of her murder victim hiring Peabody's
brother to do carpentry work.

J. Clarence
had been alive when Zeke had been hired. Neither of the Bransons were involved
in his death. There was no way to stretch it into anything shaky.

Sometimes
coincidence was just coincidence. But she pushed the information into a corner
of her mind and let it stew there.

-=O=-***-=O=-

There was
music playing softly when Eve walked in the house. Summerset entertaining
himself, she decided as she stripped off her jacket, while he went about doing
whatever the hell it was he did all day.

She tossed the
jacket over the newel post as she started upstairs. He would know she was home,
she thought. The man knew every damn thing. He also hated to have his routine,
whatever it was, disturbed. It was unlikely he would bother her.

She turned,
walked down the corridor to the tall double doors of Roarke's weapon room.
Frowning a little, she hitched her bag on her shoulder more securely. She was
aware that only Roarke, Summerset, and she could gain access to this room.

Roarke's
collection was legal -- at least it was legal now. She had no idea if every
piece had been obtained by legal means. She doubted that sincerely.

Eve laid her
hand flat on the palm plate, waited while the cool green light shimmered on to
take her print, then stated her name, and finally used the key code.

The security
computer verified her identification, and the locks snicked open.

She stepped
inside, closed the door behind her, and let out a long breath.

Weapons of
violence through the ages were displayed, somehow elegantly, in the great room.
Encased in glass, showcased in beautiful cabinets, gleaming on the walls were
guns, knives, lasers, swords, pikes, maces. All testaments, she thought, to
man's continued ambition to destroy man.

And yet, she
knew the weapon strapped to her side was as much a part of her as her arm.

She remembered
the first time Roarke had showed her this room, when her instinct and her
intellect had been waging a battle. One telling her he could be the killer she
sought, the other insisting it wasn't possible.

The first time
he'd kissed her had been here, in this private museum of war. And another
element had been added to her personal battle: her emotions. She'd never quite
gotten her emotions back on track when it came to Roarke.

Her gaze
skimmed over a case of handguns, all illegal but for collections like this
since the Gun Ban implemented decades before. Clumsy, she thought, with their
bulk and their weight. Lethal with their propulsion of hot steel into flesh.

Taking such
impulsive killing devices off the street saved lives, she was sure. But as
Lisbeth Cook had proved, there were always new ways to kill. The human mind
never tired of dreaming them up.

She took the
rack out of her bag, then studied her choices to find one that would fit.

She'd narrowed
it down to three side arm types when the door behind her opened. She turned,
intending to scald Summerset for interrupting, and Roarke strolled in.

“I didn't know
you were here.”

“I'm working
at home today,” he told her and lifted a brow. She looked a little frazzled, he
noted, a bit distracted. And alluring.

“Do I assume
the same for you, or are you just playing with guns?”

“I've got a
case, sort of.” She set the rack down, gestured to it. “Since you're here,
you'd be better at this. I need an army-issue blaster, Urban War style, that
would fit into this rack.”

“U.S. Army?”

“Yeah.”

“European
style's a bit different,” he commented as he walked to a display cabinet. “The
U.S. had two hand blasters during that period, the second -- toward the end of
the war -- was lighter, more accurate.”

He chose a
piece with a long double over-and-under barrel and molded grip in a dull gray.
“Infrared sight, heat-seeking directional. The blast can be toned down to stun
-- which would drop a two-hundred-pound man to his knees and have him drooling
for twenty minutes -- or tuned up to shoot a fist-sized hole in a charging
rhino. It can be pinpointed or scattered to wide range.”

He turned the
weapon over, showing Eve the controls on either side. She held out her hand,
testing the weight when Roarke passed the weapon to her.

“Can't weigh
more than five pounds. How does it charge?”

“Battery card
in the butt. Same principle as a clip on an old-fashioned automatic.”

“Hmm.” She
turned and tried it in the rack. It slid in, settled snug, like a foot in a
comfortable shoe. “Looks like a winner. Are there many of these around?”

“That depends
on if you choose to believe the U.S. government, which claims that the vast
majority were confiscated from its troops and destroyed. But if you believed
that, you wouldn't be the cynic I know and love.”

She grunted.
“I want to test this out. You've got a battery card, right?”

“Of course.”
He picked up the gun and rack himself, walked to the wall, and opened the
panel. Frowning a little, Eve got on the elevator with him.

“Don't you
have to go back to work?”

“That's the
beauty of being the boss.” He smiled as she hooked her thumbs in her pockets.
“What's this about?”

“I'm not sure.
Probably a waste of time.”

“We don't get
to waste nearly enough time together.”

The doors
opened to the lower-level target range with its high ceilings and sand-colored
walls. He hadn't indulged his appreciation for comfort here. This room was
spartan and efficient.

Roarke ordered
the lights, set the rack on a counter area on the long glossy black console. He
took a slim battery card from a drawer. He slid it into a slot on the butt of
the weapon, gave it a quick shove with the heel of his hand.

“Fully
charged,” he told her. “You've only to activate. A thumb flick on the side
here,” he showed her. “Set your preferences and let it rip.”

She tried it
out, nodded. “It's fast, efficient. If you were worried about an attack, you'd
have it on, already set.” Experimentally, she laid it against her own weapon
harness. “With decent reflexes, you could have it out, aimed, and fired in
seconds. I want to discharge it a couple of times.”

He opened
another drawer, took out earplugs and safety goggles. “Hologram or still
target?” Roarke asked as she put them on, then laid his palm on the
identiscreen so that console lights glowed on.

“Hologram.
Give me a couple of guys, night scene.”

Obligingly,
Roarke programmed the target range, then settled back to enjoy the show.

He'd given her
two bulky men who were nonetheless fast on their feet. Their images came at her
from both sides. With a quick pivot, she blasted them both.

“Too easy,”
she complained. “You'd have to be a one-armed moron with a vision impairment to
miss with this thing.”

“Try it
again.” He reprogrammed while she balanced on the balls of her feet and tried
to imagine herself a scared old man getting ready to run.

The first one
came at her fast, out of the shadows, and head-on. She shifted, firing in a
crouch, then swiveling around in anticipation. It was closer this time. The
second man had a steel bat lifted, had started into his swing. She rolled
clear, fired up, and took his face off.

“Christ, I
love to watch you work,” Roarke murmured.

“Maybe he
wasn't as fast,” she considered as she rose. “Maybe they knew about the
blaster. But it would've given him the edge. And I had it on pinpoint. If he'd
put it on wide range, he'd have taken out half the block in one swing.”

To
demonstrate, she switched it herself, then using a two-handed grip sprayed the
street scene. The vehicle parked on the opposite curb went up in flames, window
glass shattered, alarms screamed.

“See?”

“As I said.”
He stepped forward to take the weapon from her. Her hair was a tousled mess,
and in the hard light every shade upon shade, every tone upon tone in the mix
of brown showed. “I do love watching you work.”

“They didn't
just step up and knock him cold when he had one of those,” she insisted. “They
had to distract him, send in a decoy or someone he trusted. They needed enough
time to blindside him and not get blown to hell while they were at it. He
didn't have a vehicle, and he didn't call for transport. I checked. So he'd've
been on foot. Armed, ready, street savvy. But they took him out as quick and
easy as plucking a Nebraskan tourist's pocket in Times Square.”

“You're sure
it was quick and easy?”

“He had a blow
to the head, no defensive wounds. If he'd fired that thing and the blast didn't
go into someone, there'd be a sign of the discharge. It isn't neat.”

She blew her
hair out of her eyes, shrugged. “Maybe he was just old and slow after all.”

“Not everyone
reacts to fear clearheadedly, Lieutenant.”

“No, but I'd
have bet the bank he would.” She moved her shoulders again. “I say they were
armed. One of them drew his attention.” She began to set a new program herself
as she thought it through. To put herself more into the scene she was devising,
she removed her safety gear. “When he's focused on that target. ..”

She took the
weapon back from Roarke, engaged the program, slid herself into it. One man
slipping out of the shadows, swing toward him, reach for your weapon. Even as
she flicked it on, pivoted, she felt the slight shock of a computer hit on her
upper shoulder.

She'd gotten
off a shot, that was true, she mused as she absently rubbed her shoulder. But
she was young and fit, and her mind was cool.

“He was old
and scared, but he figured himself tough, too smart for them. But they flanked
him, somewhere between his door and the subway stop. He goes for one, and the
other stuns him. A stun's not going to show up on autopsy unless it was a
severe shock to the nervous system. They don't need that. They just need to
jolt him, then they can knock him out and haul him off.”

She laid the
weapon down. “Anyway, I've got some answers. I just have to figure out where
they fit.”

“Then I take
it this little demonstration is concluded.”

“Yeah. I'm
just going to -- Hey,” she protested when he reached out and yanked her against
him.

“I'm
remembering the first time with you.” He expected her to resist a little, at
first. It would only make her surrender sweeter. “It started right here.” He
lowered his mouth to graze her cheek, sampling the taste he intended to devour.
“Nearly a year ago. Even then, you were everything I wanted.”

“You just
wanted sex.” Even as she twisted, she angled her head so that his clever mouth
could skim down her throat. Under her skin dozens of pulse points awakened.

“I did.” He
chuckled as his hands roamed down to mold and squeeze. “I still do. Always with
you, darling Eve.”

“You're not
going to seduce me in the middle of a workday.” But he was circling her toward
the elevator, and she wasn't putting up much of a fight.

“Did you take
a lunch break?”

“No.”

He leaned back
long enough to grin. “Neither did I.” Then his mouth was hot and demanding on
hers, taking her in quick, greedy gulps that had her nerve ends going from
alert to sizzle.

“Oh hell,” she
muttered and groped clumsily for her communicator with one hand while she hung
onto him with the other. “Wait, stop. Hold it a minute. Block video.” She let
out a breath. God, the man could do the most amazing things with his tongue.
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

He dragged her
into the elevator, pressed her against the wall, and savaged her neck.

Dispatch,
acknowledged.

“I'm taking an
hour personal time.” She bit back a moan when his hand closed roughly over her
breast. And his other hand slipped between her legs, the heel pressed firmly
against her where the heat built fever bright.

The first
helpless orgasm had her fighting a scream.

Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve, on personal time. Affirmative. Dispatch out.

She barely
managed to end transmission before he was tugging her shirt open. She fumbled
for the release on her weapon harness, then grabbed a handful of his hair.
“This is crazy,” she panted. “Why do we always want to do this?”

“I don't
know.” He swung her out of the elevator, then into his arms for the quick trip
across the room to the big bed. “I just thank God for it.”

“Put your
hands on me. I want your hands on me.” And they were, even as she fell beneath
him onto the bed.

“A year ago.”
His lips traced over her face, along her jaw. “I didn't know your body, your
moods, your needs. Now I do. It only makes me want you more.”

It was insane,
she thought dimly, as she met his mouth with the same urgent hunger that
touching him, tasting him, always caused this deep ache to grind inside her.

Whether they
loved fast and furious such as now, or with sweeping tenderness, that ache,
that want never seemed to lessen.

He was right.
He knew her body now, as she knew his. She knew where to touch to make his
muscles tense, where to stroke to make them quiver. And that knowledge, that
familiarity was unbearably seductive.

She knew what
he would bring her, this time, every time, whether it was a slow, burning build
or one breathless burst: pleasure, deep and dazzling, with the excitement that
shimmered around it.

He found her
breast, giving himself the thrill of taking her into his mouth. Soft, firm,
his. Her back bowed, her breath caught, and beneath his busy tongue, her heart
hammered.

His hand
closed around the teardrop diamond she wore -- a symbol that she had learned to
take what he so needed to give her.

Then they
rolled, tugging at clothes so flesh could slide and stroke torturously against
flesh.

Her breathing
quickened, firing his blood. She who was strong and steady could be made to
tremble under him. He could feel her body straining toward release, see in her
face those flickers of shock and delight as it built.

As he took her
over, he closed his mouth over hers and swallowed her long, shuddering moan.

It wouldn't be
enough. Even as her system started that lovely glide toward contentment, she
knew he would drive her back up again. Drive her to where every pulse in her
body pounded, every nerve sparked.

Braced and
ready, she reached for him, struggling to give back even as her mind shattered
and emptied, her system careened helplessly back into the heat.

She said his
name, only his name, and arched up to take him inside her. The joining was
smooth, and it was hot. Agile, eager, she pistoned her hips to meet each
thrust. She could drive him as well as be driven. His fingers clamped down on
hers, locked tight. Another layer of intimacy.

She could see
in his eyes, so wildly blue, that he was as lost as she in this moment, this
magic.

Only you. She knew he thought it, even as she did. Then those
glorious eyes went opaque. With one breathless cry, she clung to his hands and
threw herself over with him.

He lowered
himself, sighing as he stretched out to rest his head between her breasts.
Beneath him her body had gone lax as water. He knew she'd spring up soon
enough, throw on her clothes, and go back to the work that consumed her.

But for now,
for just a few moments more, she was content to drift.

“You should
come home for lunch more often,” he murmured.

She laughed.

“Fun time's
over. I've got to get back.”

“Mm-hmm.” But
neither of them made a move to rise. “We have dinner at eight at The Palace
with some top-level staff and their spouses from one of my transportation
arms.”

She frowned a
little. “Did I know that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I've got
this thing at seven.”

“What thing?”

“Will reading.
At B. D. Branson's.”

“Ah. No
problem, I'll shift dinner to eight-thirty and we'll go by Branson's first.”

“There's no we
here.”

He lifted his
head from her breast, smiled. “I think I just proved you wrong.”

“It's a case,
not sex.”

“All right, I
won't have sex with you at Branson's, but it might have been interesting.”

“Look, Roarke
-- “

“It simply
makes sense, logistically.” He gave her cheek a pat and rolled aside. “We'll go
from Branson's to the hotel where dinner is set.”

“You can't
just sit in on a will reading. It's not a public event.”

“I'm sure B.
D. has some comfortable place where I can wait for my wife without intruding,
if that's necessary. As I recall, he has a very spacious home.”

She didn't
bother to grumble. “I guess you know him.”

“Of course.
We're competitors -- not unfriendly ones.”

She blew out a
breath as she sat up and eyed him. “I'll see if the lawyer approves it, so
pending that, fine. And maybe later, you'll give me your opinion of the Branson
brothers.”

“Darling, I'm
always delighted to help.”

“Yeah.” This
time she did grumble. “That's what worries me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Eve fidgeted
in the back of the limo. It wasn't the mode of transport she'd have chosen when
she considered herself on duty. The fact was, she preferred being at the wheel
when she was on the clock. There was something just plain decadent about
streaming along in a mile-long limo under any circumstances, but in the middle
of an investigation, it was, well, embarrassing.

Not that she
would use the words decadent or embarrassing to Roarke. He'd
enjoy her dilemma entirely too much.

At least the
long, somewhat severe black dress she wore was suitable enough for both a will
reading and a business dinner. It was straight and simple, covering her from neck
to ankle. She considered it practical, if foolishly expensive.

But there was
no place to strap on her weapon without looking ridiculous, no place for her
badge but the silly little evening purse.

When she
squirmed again, Roarke draped an arm over the backseat and smiled at her.
“Problem?”

“Cops don't
wear virgin wool and ride in limos.”

“Cops who are
married to me do.” He skimmed a finger over the cuff beneath the sleeve of her
coat. He enjoyed the way the dress looked on her -- long, straight, unadorned
so that the body under it was quietly showcased. “How do you suppose they know
the sheep are virgins?”

“Ha ha. We
could have taken my ride.”

“Though your
current vehicle is a vast improvement over your last, it hardly provides this
kind of comfort. And we wouldn't have been able to fully enjoy the wines that
will be served with dinner. Most importantly...” He lifted her hand, nipped at
her knuckles. “I wouldn't be able to nibble on you along the way.”

“I'm on duty
here.”

“No, you're
not. Your shift ended an hour ago.”

She smirked at
him. “I took an hour's personal time, didn't I?”

“So you did.”
He shifted closer, and his hand slid up her thigh. “You can go back on the
clock when we get there, but for now ...”

She narrowed
her eyes as the car swung to the curb. “I haven't gone off the clock, ace. Move
your hand, or I'll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer.”

“When we get
home, will you read me my rights and interrogate me?”

She snorted
out a laugh. “Pervert,” she muttered and climbed out of the car.

“You smell
better than a cop's supposed to.” He sniffed at her as they walked toward the
dignified entrance of the brownstone.

“You squirted
that stuff on me before I could dodge.” He tickled her neck, made her jerk
back. “You're awfully playful tonight, Roarke.”

“I had a very
satisfying lunch,” he said soberly. “Put me in a cheerful mood.”

She had to
grin, then cleared her throat. “Well, shake it off, this isn't exactly a
festive occasion.”

“No, it's
not.” He stroked an absent hand down her hair before ringing the bell. “I'm
sorry about J. C.”

“You knew him,
too.”

“Well enough
to like him. He was an affable sort of man.”

“So everyone
says. Affable enough to cheat on his lover?”

“I couldn't
say. Sex causes the best of us to make mistakes.”

“Really?” She
arched her brows. “Well, if you ever feel like making a mistake in that area,
remember what an annoyed woman can do with a Branson power drill.”

“Darling.” He
gave the back of her neck a quick squeeze. “I feel so loved.”

A solemn-eyed
maid opened the door, her slick, black jumpsuit conservatively cut, her voice
smooth and faintly British. “Good evening,” she began with the faintest of
nods. “I'm sorry, the Bransons aren't accepting visitors at the moment. There's
been a death in the family.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” Eve took out her badge. “We're expected.”

The maid
studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn't until Eve saw the quick
jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as
a droid.

“Yes,
Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?”

“Sure.” Eve
shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke's
over her arm.

“If you would
follow me. The family is in the main parlor.”

Eve glanced
around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban
landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of
her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and
wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling
like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white sweep, seemed to be
floating unsupported.

Two tall doors
slid silently into the wall at their approach. The maid paused respectfully at
the entrance. “Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke,” she announced, then stepped back.

“How come we
don't have her instead of Summerset?”

Eve's muttered
question earned her another light neck squeeze from her husband as they walked
into the room.

It was
high-ceilinged, spacious, the lighting muted. The monochromatic theme carried
through here, this time in layers of blue from the delicate pastels of
fan-shaped conversation pits to the cobalt tiles of the fireplace where flames
flickered.

Silver vases
of varying sizes and shapes were arranged on the mantel. Each held white
lilies. The air was ripely funereal with their scent.

A woman rose
from the near curve of the seating area and crossed the sea of carpet toward
them. Her skin was white as the lilies against her black suit. She wore her
wheat-colored hair pulled severely back, knotted at the nape in smooth, snaking
twists, in a way only the most confident and beautiful of women would dare.
Unframed, her face was stunning, a perfect creation of planed cheekbones, slim,
straight nose, smooth brow, shapely, unpainted lips all set off with large,
lushly lashed eyes of dark violet.

The eyes
grieved.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” She held out a hand. Her voice reminded Eve of her skin -- pale and
smooth and flawless. “Thank you for coming. I'm Clarissa Branson. Roarke.” In a
gesture that was both warm and fragile, she offered him her free hand so that,
for a moment, the three of them stood joined.

“I'm very
sorry about J. C., Clarissa.”

“We're all a
little numb. I saw him just this weekend. We had ... we all had brunch on
Sunday. I don't -- I still don't -- “

As she began
to falter, B. D. Branson stepped up, slid an arm around her waist. Eve watched
her stiffen slightly, saw the gorgeous eyes lower.

“Why don't you
get our guests a drink, darling.”

“Oh yes, of
course.” She released Eve's hand to touch her fingers to her temple. “Would you
like some wine?”

“No, thanks.
Coffee, if you have it.”

“I'll arrange
for some to be brought in. Excuse me.”

“Clarissa's
taking this very hard,” Branson said quietly, and his gaze never left his wife.

“She and your
brother were close?” Eve asked.

“Yes. She has
no family, and J. C. was as much a brother to her as he was to me. Now we only
have each other.” He continued to stare at his wife, then seemed to pull back
into himself. “I didn't make the connection until you'd left my office today,
Lieutenant. Your connection to Roarke.”

“Is that a
problem?”

“Not at all.”
He managed a small smile for Roarke. “We're competitors, but I wouldn't say
we're adversaries.”

“I enjoyed J.
C.,” Roarke said briefly. “He'll be missed.”

“Yes, he will.
You should meet the lawyers, so we can get on with this.” A bit grim around the
mouth now, he turned. “You've spoken with Suzanna Day.”

Catching
Branson's eye, Suzanna came over. Handshakes were brisk and impersonal before
Suzanna ranged herself beside Branson. The final person in the room rose.

Eve had
already recognized him. Lucas Mantz was one of the top and priciest criminal
defense attorneys in the city. He was trim, slickly attractive, with waving
hair of streaked white on black. His smile was cool and polite, his smoky eyes
sharp and alert.

“Lieutenant.
Roarke.” He nodded to both of them, then took another sip from the
straw-colored wine he carried. “I'm representing Ms. Cooke's interests.”

“She didn't
spare any expense,” Eve said dryly. “Your client figuring on coming into some
money, Mantz?”

His eyebrows
lifted in an expression of amused irony. “If my client's finances are in
question, Lieutenant, we'll be happy to provide you with records. Once you
provide a warrant. The charges against Ms. Cooke have been filed and accepted.”

“For now,” Eve
told him.

“Why don't we
get on with the business at hand.” Branson once more looked toward his wife who
was directing the maid to position the coffee cart. “Please, let's sit down.”
He gestured toward the seating area.

Once they took
their places and coffee was served, Clarissa sat beside her husband, her hand
clinging to his. Lucas Mantz shot Eve one more cool smile, then settled on the
far end. Suzanna sat in a facing chair.

“The deceased
left personal bereavement discs to his brother and sister-in-law, to Ms.
Lisbeth Cooke, and to his assistant, Chris Tipple. Those discs will be hand
delivered to the appropriate parties within twenty-four hours of the reading of
his will. Mr. Tipple was advised of tonight's reading but has declined to
attend. He is ... unwell.”

She took a
document out of her briefcase and began.

The opening
was technical and flowery. Eve doubted the language for such things had changed
in two centuries. The formal acknowledgment of one's own death had a long
tradition, after all.

Humans, she
thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to
be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance. I
bet so much a month that I'll live till I die, she mused.

Then there
were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and
income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking out a
sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.

Buy now,
die later.

Those little
details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant
in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and
testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had
managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.

A matter of
control, she'd always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be
maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button
pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the
nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during
life.

Either way, a
lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.

And she who
dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often
dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.

The minor
bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who'd enjoyed
foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream
sauce.

He'd
remembered the people who'd had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the
'link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist
sculpture she had admired.

Her voice
hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.

“To my
assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often
most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million
dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.

“To my
beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the
pearl necklace my mother left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my
grandmother's, and my love.”

Clarissa began
to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her
husband draped his arm around them.

“Hush,
Clarissa,” Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear.
“Control yourself.”

“I'm sorry.”
She kept her head lowered. “I'm sorry.”

“B. D.”
Suzanna paused, casting Clarissa a glance of quiet sympathy. “Would you like me
to stop for a few moments?”

“No.” Jaw set,
mouth grim, he kept his arm firmly around his wife and stared straight ahead.
“Please, let's finish.”

“All right. To
my brother and partner, B. Donald Branson.” Suzanna took a breath. “The
disposition of my share of the business we ran together is set down in a
separate document. I acknowledge here that all my interest in Branson Toys and
Tools is to be transferred into his name upon my death should he survive me. If
he should predecease me, that interest is to be transferred to his spouse or
any children of that union. In addition, I hereby bequeath to my brother the
emerald ring and diamond cufflinks that were our father's, my disc library
including but not exclusive to all family images, my boat the T and T, and
my air cycle in the hopes he'll finally try it out. Unless, of course, he was
right, and my crashing it is the reason this will is being read.”

Branson made a
sound, something that might have been a short, strained laugh, then closed his
eyes.

“To Lisbeth
Cooke.” Suzanna's voice chilled several degrees as she spared Mantz one
glimmering stare of dislike. “I leave all the rest of my personal possessions,
including all cash, bank and credit accounts, real estate, financial holdings,
furnishings, art, and personal property. Lissy my love,” Suzanne continued,
biting off the words, “don't grieve too long.”

“Millions.”
Branson got slowly to his feet. His face was deathly pale, his eyes brilliant.
“She murders him and stands to gain millions. I'll fight this.” Hands clenched,
he turned on Mantz. “I'll fight this with everything I have.”

“I understand
your distress.” Mantz rose as well. “However, your brother's wishes were
clearly and legally outlined. Ms. Cooke has not been charged with murder but
with second-degree manslaughter. There are legal precedents that protect her
inheritance.”

Branson bared
his teeth. Even as he lunged. Eve sprang up to block him. Before she could,
Roarke was doing so.

“B. D.” Roarke
spoke calmly, but he had Branson's arms pinned firmly to his sides. “This won't
help you. Let your lawyer handle it. Your wife's very distraught,” he continued
as Clarissa curled into a ball and wept wildly. “She should lie down. Why don't
you take her upstairs, give her a soother.”

The bones in
Branson's face stood out in sharp relief, so keen it seemed they might cut
right through the flesh. “Get out of my house,” he ordered Mantz. “Get the hell
out of my house.”

“I'll see him
out,” Roarke said. “Take care of your wife.”

For one long
moment, Branson strained against Roarke's hold; then he nodded, turned. He
gathered his wife up, cradling her as he would a child, and carried her from
the room.

“You're done here,
Mantz.” Eve faced him. “Unless you want to see if the Bransons have a dog you
could kick.”

He
acknowledged this, picked up his own briefcase. “We all do our jobs,
Lieutenant.”

“Right, and
yours is to run to a murderer and tell her she just got rich.”

His eyes never
wavered. “Life is very rarely black and white.” He nodded to Suzanna. “Good
evening, Counselor,” he murmured and left.

“He's right.”
Suzanna sighed and sat again. “He's only doing his job.”

“Will she
inherit?” Eve demanded.

Suzanna
pinched the bridge of her nose. “As things stand, yes. With charges of
second-degree manslaughter, it can be argued she killed J. C. in a moment of
jealous passion. His will was a sealed document. We can't prove she had prior
knowledge of its contents or that those contents in any way influenced her.
Under current law, she can gain by his death.”

“If the
charges are bumped up?”

Suzanna
dropped her hand into her lap, regarding Eve thoughtfully. “Then things change.
Is there a chance of that? I was under the impression the case was closed.”

“Closed
doesn't mean locked.”

“I hope you'll
keep me updated,” Suzanna said as she rose and walked out with them to where
the maid waited with their coats.

“I'll let you
know what I can when I can.” When they stepped outside, Eve slid her hands into
her pockets. The limo was waiting. She struggled not to be embarrassed by it.

“Can we give
you a lift home, Ms. Day?” Roarke asked.

“No, thanks. I
could use a walk.” She paused a moment and her sigh puffed out a thin stream of
white. “As an estate lawyer, I deal with this sort of thing all the time. Grief
and greed. But it's rare it hits this close to home. I really liked J. C. Some
people you think will live forever.” Shaking her head, she walked away.

“Well, that
was fun.” Eve started toward the car. “Wonder if Lissy my love will shed half
as many tears over this guy as Clarissa. You know her very well?”

“Hmm, no.”
Roarke slid into the car beside her. “In that false intimacy of social
acquaintances, I run into the Branson brothers at events occasionally. Clarissa
and Lisbeth were usually with them.”

“I'd've
reversed it.”

Roarke sat
back, lighted a cigarette. “Meaning?”

“I'd put
Clarissa with J. C. Just going by what I've learned about him, he was lighter, less
driven, more emotional than his brother. Clarissa comes off fragile, nearly
tender -- seems a little ... intimidated by Branson. She doesn't seem like your
slick corporate wife. The man's running a big, international company. Why
doesn't he have a slick corporate wife?” Even as she posed the question, Roarke
was grinning, making her narrow her eyes. “What?”

“I was going
to say that he might have fallen for a different type. It happens, even to the
heads of big, international companies.”

Now her
narrowed eyes glinted. “Are you saying I'm not a slick, corporate wife?”

He drew
contemplatively on his cigarette. “If I said you were, you'd try to hurt me,
then we'd end up wrestling back here. One thing would lead to another and we'd
be very late for a business dinner.”

“I'd be real
sorry about that,” she muttered. “You're not exactly the typical cop's spouse
either, pal.”

“If you said I
was, we'd end up wrestling back here, and so on.” He stubbed out his cigarette,
then trailed a fingertip down the center of her body from throat to waist.
“Wanna?”

“I didn't get
all polished up so you could leave fingerprints all over me.”

He smiled and
cupped her breast. “Darling, I never leave prints.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

During the
evening of dinner and conversation, Eve managed to slip away long enough to
request a warrant to access data on Lisbeth Cooke's finances. She cited the
sizable inheritance as cause and got lucky with a judge who either agreed with
her or was too tired to argue the point.

As a result,
she was alert and edgy when they arrived home.

“I've got some
stuff I want to check out,” she told Roarke when they walked into the bedroom.
“I'm going to change and work in my office awhile.”

“On...?”

“I asked for a
warrant to access Cooke's financial data.” She wiggled out of the dress, tossed
it aside, then stood there, much to her husband's interest, in two tiny scraps
of black and high leather boots. “It came through during the dessert course.”

“I must have a
whip around here,” he murmured.

“A what?”

Grinning, he
started toward her, amused when her eyes narrowed threateningly. “Keep your
distance, ace. I said I have work.”

“I can access
that information in half the time you can. I'll help you out.”

“I didn't ask
for help.”

“No. But we
both know I can do it faster and interpret it without getting a tension
headache. And all I want in return is one little thing.”

“What little
thing?”

“That when
we're finished you're still wearing this very interesting getup.”

“Getup?” She
glanced over, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and blinked in shock.
“Jesus, I look like -- “

“Oh yes,”
Roarke agreed. “Yes, you do.”

She looked
back at him, struggled to ignore the slick ball of lust the gleam in his eyes
caused. “Men are so weird.”

“Then have
pity on us.”

“I'm not
parading around in my underwear so you can cook up some sordid little fantasy.”

“That's all
right,” he said as she snatched up a robe and bundled into it. “It's already
cooked. We can do this faster in my office.”

As she belted
the robe, she eyed him suspiciously. “Do what faster?”

“Why, access
the data, Lieutenant. What else?”

She refused to
acknowledge the little tug of disappointment. “This is official business. I
want the search initialized from my machine.”

“You're the
boss.” He took her hand to lead her out.

“Just remember
that.”

“Darling, with
what you're wearing under that robe forever imprinted on my memory, how could I
forget?”

“All roads,”
she said dryly, “don't lead back to sex.”

“The best ones
do.” He gave her butt a friendly pat as she preceded him into her office.

Galahad was
curled up in her sleep chair. The cat raised his head in obvious annoyance at
the disturbance. Since neither of them headed for the kitchen, he closed his
eyes again and ignored them.

She slid the
warrant into a slot on her computer, engaged it. “I know how to do a financial
search. You're just here to interpret and tell me if you think she's got
anything buried under layers.”

“I'm here to
serve.”

“Cut that
out.” She dropped into the chair at her desk and called up Lisbeth Cooke's case
file. “Hold current data,” she ordered, “and initiate search of financial
records on subject's name and identification number. All accounts, cash,
credit, and debit. Start with one-year period back from this date.”

Working. ..
.

“Personal
property?” Roarke asked.

“I'll get to
it. We'll do the bucks first.”

Data
complete. Cooke, Lisbeth has four cash/credit accounts active.

“Scroll data
on-screen.”

Acknowledged.
...

Eve made a low
sound as the data popped. “Over two million in New York Security, another one
and a half in New World Bank, just under a mil in American Trust, and a quarter
million in Credit Managers.”

“The last
would be for living expenses,” Roarke told her. “The other three are security
and brokerage type accounts. Primarily long-term investments, managed by
financial teams endorsed by those particular institutions. It's smart business.
She's mixing high risk, big gain, with conservative interest income.”

“How can you
tell that from the names of the banks and the amounts in them?”

“It's my
business to know the nature of banks. If you break this down to the next level,
you'll see she likely has a balanced mix of stocks, bonds, mutuals, and fluid
cash to float into new investments as the market fluctuates.”

He ordered the
breakdown himself and tapped a finger on the screen. “There, you see she
believes in her own company. There's a healthy chunk of stocks in Branson T and
T, but she hedges her bets. She also has stocks in several other companies, including
a number of mine. And including three that are in direct competition with
Branson. She doesn't invest her money emotionally.”

“She's
calculating.”

“When it comes
to her finances, she's smart and she's realistic.”

“And she's got
over four million to play with. Seems like a lot for an ad exec. Computer,
detail on-screen deposits and e-transfers during the one-year period.”

Working.
...

When the data
appeared, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “Look at that. An e-transfer from J.
Clarence Branson's account to her living expense account. A quarter million
every three months. A fucking million a year. Computer, list all transfers from
subject Branson's account into the name of Lisbeth Cooke.”

Working.
... Data complete. Initial transfer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars
made July second, 2055. Transfers every quarter in that amount for period of
one year. Transfers increased to two hundred thousand on July second, 2056,
continuing at six-month increments until July second 2057, when transfers were
increased to two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Nice work if
you can get it,” Eve muttered.

“He provided
her with a steady and generous income.” From behind her chair, Roarke rubbed
absently at the tension in Eve's shoulders. “Why kill him?”

“A million a
year?” She glanced back at him. “That would be nothing to you.”

“Darling, it's
all something.”

“You probably
blow that on shoes.”

Chuckling, he
pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If your feet aren't happy, you aren't
happy.”

She grunted,
tapped her fingers on the desk. “So what if she got greedy, got tired of
hanging out for a million a year? Kill him, and do it right, and she gets it
all and gets it now.”

“It's a big
risk. It goes wrong, she's charged with murder and gets nothing but a cage for
her trouble.”

“She's
calculating. She'd figure the odds. Computer, what is the value of J. Clarence
Branson's personal estate, not including any holdings in Branson Toys and
Tools.”

Working.
...

Roarke moved
away to pour himself a brandy. He knew Eve would drink nothing -- save coffee
-- while she worked like this. And since he wanted her to sleep, he bypassed
the AutoChef.

She was up and
pacing when he turned back. The belt of her robe had loosened, reminding him he
had plans for her before sleep. Very specific, interesting plans.

Data
complete. Estimated value, including appraisals of real estate, transportation
vehicles, art, and jewelry is two hundred and sixty-eight million dollars.

“That's a hell
of an increase in salary.” Eve scooped her hair back with her hand. “You deduct
the minor bequests, the death taxes, and he'd have finagled some there to cut
them back, and she stands to get about two hundred million.”

“Mantz will
argue she didn't know about the inheritance.”

“She knew.
They'd been together over three years. Damn straight she knew.”

“How much am I
worth, Eve, and how are the bequests in my will distributed?”

She glanced up
briefly, irritation in her eyes. “How the hell would I know?” When he smiled at
her, she blew out a breath. “That's different. We didn't make a business
arrangement.”

“True enough.
But Mantz will still argue it.”

“He can argue
until his tongue falls out. She knew. I'm going to talk to her again, hit her
tomorrow. Her story about the other woman and her insane fit of jealousy just
isn't holding up for me.”

She swung back
behind the desk and called up the debit data. Dissatisfied, she studied it,
sliding her hands into her pockets. “Expensive taste, but nothing out of line
with her income. She bought a lot of men's jewelry, clothing. Maybe she had a
guy on the side. That's an angle worth looking into.”

“Hmm.” Her
robe was open now, revealing a delightful strip of flesh, black silk, and
leather. “I suppose all of that has to wait until tomorrow.”

“Not much more
I can do here tonight,” she agreed.

“On the
contrary.” He moved quickly, tugging the robe off, then running his hands over
her. “I can think of a great deal more.”

“Oh yeah?” Her
blood was already on boil. The man had the most creative hands. “Such as?”

“Why don't I
make a few suggestions.” With his lips curving against hers, he backed her up
against the wall. The first one murmured against her ear made her eyes cross.

“Wow. That's a
good one. I'm just not sure it's physically possible.”

“Never know
until you try,” Roarke said, and began to demonstrate.

CHAPTER SIX

Peabody was
already waiting when Eve arrived in her office in the morning. “Thanks for the
time off, Dallas.”

Eve eyed the
slim vase of red, hothouse roses on her desk. “You bought me flowers?”

“Zeke did.”
The smile Peabody offered managed to be both whimsical and wry. “He does stuff
like that all the time. He wanted to thank you for yesterday. I told him you
weren't the type for flowers, but he thinks everyone is.”

“I like
flowers.” Feeling slightly defensive about Peabody's take on her, Eve
deliberately bent down and sniffed them. Twice. “What's not to like? So what's
baby brother up to today?”

“He's got a
list of museums and galleries. A long list,” Peabody added. “Then he's going to
go down and stand in line for discount theater tickets for tonight. He doesn't
care what show, as long as he gets to see something on Broadway.”

Eve studied
Peabody's face, the concerned eyes, the teeth McNab had admired busily gnawing
her bottom lip. “Peabody, people manage to do all the things he's planning and
survive New York every day.”

“Yeah, I know.
And we went over all the warnings. Six or seven times,” she added with a wry
smile. “But he's just so ... Zeke. Anyway, first he's going to contact the
Bransons, again, see what they want him to do. He couldn't reach them
yesterday.”

“Hmm.” Eve sat
and began to poke through the interoffice and outside mail Peabody had already
brought in and stacked. “Roarke and I sat in on the will reading last night.
Cooke terminates her lover and inherits millions.” Eve shook her head. “We're
going to drop by her place this morning, have a little chat about that. Who the
hell is Cassandra?”

“Who?”

“That's what I
said.” Frowning, Eve turned over the disc pouch. “Outside package -- return address
in the Lower East Side. I don't like packages from people I don't know.”

“All outside
deliveries are scanned for explosives, poisons, and hazardous materials.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
But instinct had her reaching in a drawer for a can of Seal-It and coating her
fingers before she opened the pouch and took out the disc. “The virus killer on
this thing in working order?”

Peabody looked
sadly at Eve's computer. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Fucking piece
of junk,” Eve muttered and slipped the disc into a slot. “Computer, engage and
run disc.”

There was a
low buzzing, like a distant swarm of angry bees on the rise. Her screen blinked
on, off, then with a whine came on again.

“First chance
I get,” Eve vowed, “I'm paying a personal visit to those clowns in
maintenance.”

Disc in
text only. Message as follows ...

Lieutenant
Eve Dallas, New York Police and Security, Cop Central, Homicide Division.

We are
Cassandra. We are the gods of justice. We are loyal.

The present
corrupt government with its self-serving and weak-stomached leaders must and
will be destroyed. We will dismantle, we will remove, we will annihilate as it
becomes necessary to make way for the republic. No longer will the masses
tolerate the abuse, the suppression of ideas and voices, the neglect of the
pitiful few who cling to power.

Under our
rule, all will live free.

We admire
your skills. We admire your loyalty in the matter of Howard Bassi, known as The
Fixer. He was useful to us and terminated only because he proved defective.

Eve slammed
another disc into a slot. “Computer, copy disc currently running.”

We are
Cassandra. Our memory is long. We are prepared. We will make our needs and
demands known to you, in time. At nine-fifteen this morning, we will provide a
small demonstration of our scope. You will believe. Then you will listen.

“A
demonstration,” Eve said when the message ended. With a quick check of her
wrist unit, she grabbed both discs, sealed the original. “We've got less than
ten minutes.”

“To do what?”

“They gave us
an address.” .She tapped a finger on the pouch, scooped up her jacket. “Let's
check it out.”

“If these are
the people who took out Fixer,” Peabody began as they strode to the elevator,
“they already know you're looking into it.”

“Not that hard
to know. I've been in contact with New Jersey, I went to his shop yesterday.
Run the address, Peabody, see what it is. Apartment, private home, business.”

“Yes, sir.”

They climbed
into the car. Eve reversed, spun into a neat one-eighty, and shot out of the
garage. “Display map,” she ordered, heading south. “Lower East Side, sector
six.” When the street grid of the proper area shimmered onto her view screen,
she nodded. “That's what I thought. It's a warehouse district.”

“The building
in question is an old glass factory slated for rehab. It's listed as
unoccupied.”

“Maybe the
address is bogus, but they expect us to check it out. We won't disappoint them.
Time?”

“Six minutes.”

“Okay. We're
going up.” Eve punched the warning siren, hit vertical lift, and shot over the
roofs of southbound traffic.

She swung
east, passed reconditioned lofts where young professionals liked to live and
shop and eat in overpriced cafes with bad lighting and good wine.

Barely a block
over, the ambiance changed to disuse, disrepair, and despair. Misery walked the
streets below in the guise of the unemployed and the unwashed, the failed and
the desperate.

South of
there, the old factories and warehouses loomed, nearly every one abandoned.
Bricks were soot gray from smoke, smog, time. Window glass was in shards and
sparkling on ground littered with garbage and straggling with weeds that
struggled out of broken concrete.

Eve set the
car down, briefly studied the square six-story building of brick closed in
behind a security fence. The gate was equipped with a card lock but was wide
open.

“I'd say we're
expected.” She drove through, scanning the building for any sign of life. Then,
frowning, she stopped the car, climbed out. “Time?”

“About a
minute,” Peabody told her as she got out the opposite door. “Are we going in?”

“Not quite
yet.” She thought of Fixer and his nasty little shop. “Call for backup. Let
Dispatch know where we are. I don't like the feel of this.”

It was as far
as she got. There was a rumble, and the ground shook under her feet. A series
of flashes bloomed in the broken windows of the building and had her swearing.

“Take cover!”
Even as she started to dive behind the car, the air exploded and gave her a hot
little slap that had her skidding on her knees. The noise was huge, slamming
against her eardrums, shooting a high-pitched wine through the center of her
skull.

Bricks rained.
A smoldering chunk smashed into the ground inches from her face as she rolled
under the car. Her body bumped solidly into Peabody's.

“You hurt?”

“No. Jesus,
Dallas.”

A wave of heat
swarmed over them, brutally intense. The air was screaming. Debris flew
overhead, battering the car like hot, furious fists. This is what the end of
the world would feel like, Eve thought as she fought to catch her breath. Hot
and filthy and full of noise.

Above them,
the car rocked, bucked, shuddered. Then there was no sound but the ringing in
her ears and Peabody's ragged pants. No movement but the wild hammering of her
own heart.

She lay there
another moment, assuring herself she was still alive, that all her parts were
intact. There was a burning sensation where she'd met the concrete. Her fingers
came away wet with blood as she probed the area. That disgusted her enough to
have her bellying out from under the car.

“Goddamn it,
goddamn it! Just look at my ride.”

The car was
dents and scorch marks, the windshield a fancy web of cracks. The roof carried
a fist-sized hole.

Peabody
crawled to her feet, coughed at the smoke that was stinking the air. “You don't
look so good yourself, sir.”

“It's just a
scratch,” Eve muttered and wiped her bloody fingers on her ruined trousers.

“No, I meant
as a whole.”

Scowling, Eve
glanced over, then narrowed her eyes. Peabody's face was smeared with black,
making the whites of her eyes stand out like moons. She'd lost her uniform cap
and her hair was standing wildly on end.

Eve rubbed her
fingers over her own face, studied the now blackened tips, and swore. “Shit. That
caps it. Call this in. Get some units out here for crowd control. We're going
to have a hell of a crowd once people in this area crawl out from under their
beds. And get -- “

At the sound
of a car, she whirled, one hand on the butt of her weapon. She wasn't sure if
she was relieved or annoyed when she recognized the vehicle that pulled in
behind hers.

“What the hell
are you doing here?” she demanded when Roarke got out of the car.

“I could ask
the same. Your leg's bleeding, Lieutenant.”

“Not much.”
She rubbed a hand under her nose. “I've got myself a crime scene here, Roarke,
and a hazardous area. Go away.”

He took a
handkerchief out of his pocket and, crouching down, examined the cut before
tying the cloth over the wound. “You'll need that tended. It's full of grit.”
Rising, he stroked a hand over her hair. “Interesting do, and somehow you.”

She caught
Peabody's smirk out of the corner of her eye but decided to let it pass. “I
don't have time for you, Roarke. I'm working.”

“Yes, I can
see that. But I think you'll want to make time.” His eyes were cold and flat as
he scanned the smoldering rubble. “This used to be my building.”

“Oh hell.” Eve
shoved her hands into her pockets, paced away, back, away again. “Hell,” she
repeated and glared at him.

“I knew you'd
be delighted.” He took a disc pouch out of his pocket, offered it to her. He'd
already copied the disc and secured it. “I received that this morning. It's a
text message from a group calling themselves Cassandra. Basically, it calls me
a capitalist opportunist -- which of course is absolutely true -- and states
that I've been chosen in their first demonstration. There's some tired and
tedious political jargon thrown in. The redistribution of wealth, the
exploitation of the poor by the rich. Nothing terribly original.”

His words
might have been casual, but the tone was much too controlled. And she knew him.
Beneath those cool eyes, violence was bubbling.

She handled it
the only way she knew how, with professional dispatch. “I'm going to need you
to come in so I can take a detailed statement. I'll have to take this as
evidence.”

She broke off
as the violence in his eyes swam to the surface. No one, she thought
fleetingly, no one could look more dangerous than Roarke in an icy temper.

Abruptly, he
swung away from her to stride through the smoking bricks.

“Damn it.”
Impatient, she scooped a hand through her disordered hair and tossed a glance
at Peabody.

“Units are on
the way, Dallas.”

“Stand at the
gate,” Eve ordered. “Secure it if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”
With some sympathy, Peabody watched as Eve walked over to deal with her
husband.

“Look, Roarke,
I know you're pissed off. I don't blame you. Somebody blows up one of your
buildings, you've got a right to be pissed.”

“Damn right I
do.” He spun back to her, fury ripe in his eyes. The fact that she'd nearly
backed up a step in the face of it both mortified and infuriated her. She
compensated by leaning forward until her boots bumped his shoes.

“This is a
goddamn crime scene, and I don't have the time or inclination to stand around
and pat you on the head because one of your six million buildings got blown to
hell. Now, I'm sorry about it, and I understand you feel ticked off and
violated, but don't take it out on me.”

He gripped her
arms and hauled her up to her toes in a move guaranteed to make her snarl and
spit. If his property hadn't been heaved out in a half-block pile of stinking
ruin, she might have decked him.

“Do you think
that's the problem?” he demanded. “Do you think the fucking warehouse is the
problem?”

She struggled
to think through her own temper. “Yes.”

He hauled her
up another inch. “You're an idiot.”

“I'm an idiot?
I'm an idiot? You're a moron if you think I'm going to stand here making
clucky noises to your ego while I've got somebody blowing up buildings on my
watch. Now, get your hands off before I take you down.”

“How close
were you to going in?”

“That's not --
“ She broke off, deflating as it hit her. It wasn't the building that put that
wicked light in his eyes. It was her. “Not that close.” She said it quietly as
she unclenched her fists. “Not that close, Roarke. I didn't like the setup. I'd
just ordered Peabody to call it in, send for a couple of backup units. I know
how to handle myself.”

“Yeah.” He
took a hand off her arm to brush his fingertips over her filthy cheek. “It
shows.” Then he released her completely, stepped back. “Have that leg tended
to. I'll meet you at your office.”

When he
started to walk away, she jammed her hands in her pockets, pulled them out.
Rolled her eyes. Damn it, she did know how to handle herself. She just didn't
always know how to handle him. “Roarke.”

He stopped,
glanced back. And nearly smiled when he watched the obvious struggle between
duty and heart on her face. Looking over to make certain Peabody had her back
discreetly turned, she crossed to him, lifted a hand to his cheek.

“Sorry. I was
a little pissed off, myself. Having a building blow up in my face does that to
me.” When she heard the approaching sirens, she dropped her hands, frowned. “No
kissing in front of the uniforms.”

Now he did
smile. “Darling, no kissing until you wash your face. I'll meet you at your
office,” he repeated and walked away.

“Give it a
couple of hours,” she called out. “I'll be tied up here at least that long.”

“Fine.” He
stopped by her car, angling his head as he studied it. “Actually, this suits
you better now.”

“Bite me,” she
said with a laugh, then put on her official face for the bomb squad.

-=O=-***-=O=-

When she
returned to Cop Central, Eve hit the showers and washed off the stink and soot.
She remembered the gash in her leg when the hot water stung. Setting her teeth,
she cleaned the wound herself, dug out a first-aid kit, and went to work on it.
She figured she'd watched the med-techs poke around her body often enough to
handle a few cuts.

Satisfied, she
rooted through her locks for her spare set of clothes and made herself a memo
to bring more in. Those she'd been wearing went straight into the recycler as a
dead loss.

She found
Roarke in her office, having a cozy chat with Nadine Furst from Channel 75.

“Scram,
Nadine.”

“Come on,
Dallas, a cop nearly gets blown up when her husband's building is destroyed by
person or persons unknown, it's news.” She offered Eve one of her pretty cat
smiles, but there was concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, and
I wasn't nearly blown up. I was yards away from the building at the time of the
explosion. I've got nothing official to give you at this time.”

Nadine merely
re-crossed her legs. “What were you doing at the building?”

“Maybe I was
scoping out my husband's property.”

Nadine snorted
and managed to make the sound ladylike. “Yeah, and maybe you've decided to
retire and raise puppies. Give a little, Dallas.”

“The building
was abandoned. I'm homicide. There was no homicide. I suggest you stroll on up
to Explosives and Bombs.”

Nadine's eyes
slitted. “It's not your case?”

“Why would it
be? Nobody died. But if you don't get out of my chair, somebody might.”

“All right,
all right.” With a shrug, Nadine rose. “I'll go charm the boys in E and B. Hey,
I caught Mavis's video yesterday. She looked fantastic. When's she due back?”

“Next week.”

“We'll have a
welcome home party for her,” Roarke put in. “I'll let you know the details.”

“Thanks.
You're so much nicer than Dallas.” With a cocky grin, Nadine strolled out.

“I'm going to
remember that crack the next time she wants a one-on-one,” Eve muttered and
closed her door.

“What didn't
you tell her?” Roarke asked.

Eve dropped
into her chair. “It's going to take time for E and B to scan and sweep the
site. At this point, they have some pieces and suspect there were at least six
explosive devices, likely on timers. It'll be a couple of days before I have a
cohesive report.”

“But it's your
case.”

“At this
point, it appears the explosion is linked to a homicide I'm investigating.”
Fixer was hers now. She'd arranged it. “The people responsible for both
contacted me. I have a meeting with Whitney shortly, but yeah, until he says
differently, it's mine. Did you ever have any dealings with Fixer?”

Roarke
stretched out his legs. “Is that an official question?”

“Shit.” She
closed her eyes. “That means you did.”

“He had magic
hands,” Roarke said, examining his own.

“I'm getting
really tired of hearing that from people who should know better. Give.”

“Five, maybe
six years ago. He worked on a little device for me. Security probe, a very
cleverly designed code breaker.”

“Which I
suppose you designed.”

“For the most
part, though Fixer had some interesting input. He was brilliant with
electronics, but not completely trustworthy.” Roarke plucked a stray speck of
lint from his smoke gray slacks. “I decided it was unwise to use his services
again.”

“So nothing
recent.”

“No, nothing,
and we parted ways amicably enough. I've no links to him, Eve, that should
worry you or would complicate your investigation.”

“What about
this warehouse? How long have you owned it?”

“About three
months. I'll get you the exact date of purchase and the details. It was
intended for renovation. As the permits just came through, work was to begin
next week.”

“Renovating it
into what?”

“Housing
units. I also own the buildings on either side, and I have a bid on another in
the area. They're to be rehabbed as well. Markets, shops, cafes. Some offices.”

“Will that
sector support that kind of thing?”

“I believe it
will.”

She shook her
head, thinking of the income level and street crime. “You'd know more about
that sort of thing, I guess. The building was insured.”

“Yes, for
little more than the purchase price at this point. The project's worth a great
deal more to me.” Taking the neglected, the disdained and giving it value meant
a very great deal to him. “The building was old, but it was sound. The problem
with progress is that it often sweeps aside, destroying rather than respecting
what others have built before us.”

She knew of
his affection for old things but wasn't sure there was a point here. She'd seen
little more than a pile of bricks, and that was before it had been blown up.

His money, she
thought with a shrug. His time.

“Do you know
anyone name Cassandra?”

Now he smiled.
“I'm sure I do. But I sincerely doubt this is a former lover's jealous snit.”

“They had to
get the name from somewhere.”

He moved his
shoulders. “Maybe from the Greeks.”

“Greek Town
isn't anywhere near that sector.”

For a moment
he just stared at her; then he laughed. “The ancient Greeks, Lieutenant. In
mythology, Cassandra could foretell the future, but no one believed her. She
warned of death and destruction and was dismissed. Her predictions always came
true.”

“How do you
know all this shit?” She waved the question away before he could answer. “So
what's this Cassandra predicting?”

“According to
my disc, the uprising of the masses, the toppling of corrupt governments --
which is one of those annoying redundancies -- and the overthrow of the greedy
upper class. Of which I am a proud member.”

“Revolution?
Killing an old man and blowing up an empty warehouse is a pretty petty way to
revolt.” But she wouldn't dismiss the possibility of political terrorists.
“Feeney's working on Fixer's office unit. It had a fail-safe feature, but he'll
get by it.”

“Why didn't
they?”

“If they'd had
anyone good enough to break into that fortress of his, they wouldn't have
needed him in the first place.”

Roarke
considered, nodded. “Good point. Do you need me for anything else?”

“Not now. I'll
keep you updated on the investigation. If you do a press release, keep it
minimal.”

“All right.
Did you have your leg looked at?”

“I took care
of it.”

He raised his
brow. “Let me see.”

Instinctively,
she tucked her legs under the desk.”No.”

He only rose
and stepped over to bend down and tug her leg up. At her sputtering protest, he
tightened his grip and rolled up her trousers.

“Are you
crazy? Stop that.” Mortified, she reached out to slam the door shut. “Somebody
could come in.”

“Then stop
squirming,” he suggested, and gently peeled back the bandage. He nodded in
approval. “You did a decent job.” Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his
head and touched his lips to the cut. “All better,” he said with a grin just as
the door opened.

Peabody gaped,
flushed, then stammered out, “Excuse me.”

“Just
leaving,” Roarke said, patting the bandage back in place while Eve ground her
teeth. “How did you come through this morning's excitement, Peabody?”

“Okay, it was
... well, actually.” She cleared her throat and shot him a hopeful glance. “I
got this little nick right here.” She rubbed her finger at her jawline, heart
fluttering pleasantly when he smiled at her.

“So you do.”
He stepped to her, angled his head, and touched his lips to the tiny cut. “Take
care of yourself.”

“Man, man, oh
man,” was the best she could manage when he'd left. “He's got such a great
mouth. How do you stop yourself from just biting it?”

“Wipe the
drool off your chin, for Christ's sake. And sit down. We've got a report to
write for the commander.”

“I almost got
blown up and got kissed by Roarke all in the same morning. I'm writing it on my
calendar.”

“Settle down.”

“Yes, sir.”
She took out her log and got to work. But with a smile on her face.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Commander
Whitney was an imposing figure behind his desk. He was a big man with beefy
shoulders and a wide face. There were lines scored in his forehead his wife
fussed at him to have smoothed away. But he knew that when furrowed, that brow
symbolized authority and power to his officers. He'd sacrifice vanity for
results every time.

He'd called in
the top people in the required units. Lieutenant Anne Malloy from E and B,
Feeney from EDD, and Eve. He listened to the reports, dissected, calculated.

“Even using
three shifts,” Anne continued, “I'm projecting at least thirty-six hours before
we've swept the site. The fragments coming in indicate multiple devices, using
plaston explosives and intricate timers. This tells me the work was both
expensive and sophisticated. We're not dealing with vandals or a scatter group.
More likely we have an organized, well-funded operation.”

“And the
likelihood you'll be able to trace any of the fragments?”

She hesitated.
Anne Malloy was a small woman with a pretty, caramel-colored face and wide eyes
of quiet green. She wore her blond hair in a bouncy ponytail and had a
reputation for being both cheerful and fearless.

“I don't want
to make promises I can't keep, Commander. But if there's anything to trace,
we'll trace it. First we've got to put the pieces together.”

“Captain?”
Whitney shifted his attention to Feeney.

“I'm down to
the last couple of layers in Fixer's unit. I should have it bypassed by the end
of the day. He put in a maze, but we're working through it, and we'll have
whatever data there is. I've got some of my best going through his equipment at
his shop now. If, as we believe, he was connected with this morning's
explosion, we'll find the link.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, according to your report, the subject was never connected with any
political group or involved in any terrorist activity.”

“No, sir. He
was a loner. Most of his suspected criminal activity was in the area of
robbery, security bypass, small explosives used in those fields. After the
Urban Wars, he retired from the army. He was reputed to have become
disenchanted with the military, the government, and people in general. He
established himself as a freelance electronics artist, with his repair shop as
a front. In my opinion, it was for those very reasons that once he discovered
he hadn't been hired to take out a bank but to be a part in something much
larger, he panicked, attempted to go under, and was killed.”

“That leaves
us with a dead electronics man who may or may not have recorded data on his
activities, a previously unknown group with as yet undetermined purposes, and a
privately owned building that's been destroyed with enough overkill to spew
debris over a two-block area.”

He leaned
back, folded his hands. “Each of you will work on your particular angle, but I
want all efforts coordinated. Data is to be shared. We were told this morning
was a demonstration. They may not choose an uninhabited building in a scantily
populated area the next time. I want this shut down before we're picking
fragments of civilians as well as explosives out of the rubble. I want progress
reports by end of shift.”

“Sir.” Eve
stepped forward. “I'd like to take copies of both discs and each report to Dr.
Mira for analysis. We could use a more detailed profile on the kind of people
we're dealing with.”

“Granted. The
media will be given only the information that this explosion was a deliberate
act and is under investigation. I want no leaks regarding the discs or the
possible connection to a homicide. Work fast,” he ordered and dismissed them.

“Normally,”
Anne said when the three of them moved down the corridor together, “I'd arm
wrestle you for primary on this little project, Dallas.”

Eve slid her
eyes over, sized up Anne's tiny frame, and snorted. “I'd hurt you, Malloy.”

“Hey, I'm
little, but I'm tough.” She bent her arm, flexing her biceps. “In this case,
however, the ball bounced to you first, and these jerks contacted you
personally. I'll give way here.” As if to symbolize it, she gestured Eve onto
the glide ahead of her, then winked at Feeney and hopped on.

“I've got some
of my top people on site,” she continued. “I juggled the budget to work them
round the clock, but it won't shake loose for that kind of OT in the lab. IDing
and tracing these parts and pieces after a major explosion takes time. It takes
manpower. It takes some hot fucking luck.”

“We coordinate
what you find with what my team comes up with at Fixer's, we might find some of
that luck,” Feeney said. “We could get even luckier, and I'll find names,
dates, and addresses on his hard drive.”

“I'll take
luck, but I'm not going to count on it.” Eve tucked her hands in her pockets.
“If this is a well-funded, organized group, Fixer wouldn't have joined, but he
wouldn't have run, either. Not as long as they were paying. He ran because he
was scared. I'm going to tag Ratso again, see if he left anything out. What
does Arlington mean to you, Feeney?”

He started to
shrug, but Anne shot her hand between them, grabbed Eve's arm. “Arlington?
Where does that play?”

“Fixer told my
weasel he was afraid of another Arlington.” She stared into Anne's troubled
eyes. “Mean something to you?”

“Yeah, Christ,
yeah. And to any E and B man. September 25, 2023. The Urban Wars were basically
over. There was a radical group, terrorists -- assassinations, sabotage,
explosives. They'd kill anyone for a price and justified it as revolution. They
called themselves Apollo.”

“Oh shit,”
Feeney breathed when the name hit home. “Holy Mother of God.”

“What?”
Frustrated, Eve gave Anne a quick shake. “History's not my strong suit. Give me
a lesson here.”

“They're the
ones who took responsibility for blowing up the Pentagon. Arlington, Virginia.
They used what was then a new material known as plaston. They used it in such
amounts and in such areas that the building was essentially vaporized.

“Eight
thousand people, military and civilian personnel, including children in the
care center. There were no survivors.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

In Peabody's
apartment, Zeke cleaned and repaired the recycler and replayed the 'link
conversation with Clarissa Branson on the kitchen unit.

The first time
he played it back, he told himself he was just making sure of the details, of
what time he was to report to work, the address.

The second
time he played it, he convinced himself he'd missed something vital in the
instructions.

By the third
time, the parts of the recycler lay neglected while he stared at the screen and
let her soft voice wash over him.

I'm sure we
have everything you need in the way of tools. She smiled a little as she spoke and made his heart
beat just a little faster. But you've only to ask if there's anything else
you want.

It shamed him
that what he wanted was her.

Before he
could give in and replay the transmission one more time, he ordered the 'link
off. Color rose into his cheeks as he thought of his own foolishness, his own
dishonor in coveting another man's wife.

She'd hired
him to do a job, he reminded himself. That was all there was between them. All
there ever could be. She was a married woman, as removed from him as the moon,
and had never done anything to encourage these yearnings in him.

But as he
rebuilt the recycler with the energy of the guilty, he thought of her.

-=O=-***-=O=-

“How much more
can you tell me?” Eve asked.

Rather than
squeeze into her office, she'd set them up in a conference room. Already, she
had Peabody setting up crime scene photos and available data on a board. Right
now, the board was very thin.

“Arlington's
something anyone who wants into E and B studies.” Anne sipped the stale black
coffee the room's AutoChef offered. “The group had to have recruited inside people,
probably both military and civilian. An instillation like the Pentagon just
isn't easily infiltrated, and during that period, security was very tight. The
operation was very slick,” she continued. “The investigation indicated that a
trio of explosive devices loaded with plaston were placed in all five sides,
more in the underground facilities.”

Restless, she
rose, glancing at the board as she paced. “At least one of the terrorists must
have had high clearance in order to set the bombs underground. There was no
warning, no contact demanding terms. The entire facility went up at eleven
hundred hours, detonated by timers. Thousands of people were lost. It wasn't
possible to identify all the victims. There wasn't enough left of them.”

“What do we
know about Apollo?” Eve asked her.

“They took
credit for the bombing. Boasted that they could do the same again, anywhere, at
any time. And would unless the president resigned and their chosen
representative was established as leader of what they called their new order.”

“James Rowan,”
Feeney put in. “There's a dossier on him, but I don't think there's much data.
Paramilitary type, right, Malloy? Former CIA operative with ambitions toward
politics and lots of bucks. They figured him for the head guy, and likely the
inside man at the Pentagon. But somebody took him out before it was verified.”

“That's right.
It's assumed he was head of the group; that he was pushing the buttons. After Arlington,
he went public with video transmissions and on-air speeches. He was
charismatic, as a lot of fanatics are. There was a lot of panic, pressure on
the administration to cave rather than to risk another slaughter. Instead, they
put a price on his head. Five million, dead or alive. No questions asked.”

“Who did him?”

Anne looked
back at Eve. “Those files are sealed. That was part of the package. His
headquarters -- a house outside of Boston -- was blown up with him in it. His
body was ID'd, and the group scattered, fell apart. Splinter groups formed,
managed to do some damage here and there. But the tide of the Wars had turned
-- at least here in the States. By the late twenties, the core of the original
group was either dead or in cages. Over the next decade, others were tracked
down and dealt with.”

“And how many
slipped through?” Eve wondered.

“They never
found his right hand. Guy named William Henson. He'd been Rowan's campaign
manager during his political runs.” Anne rubbed a hand over her slightly queasy
stomach and set her coffee aside. “It was believed he was top level in Apollo.
It was never proven, and he disappeared the same day Rowan went up. Some
speculate he was inside when the bomb went, but that could be wishful
thinking.”

“What about their
holes, headquarters, arsenals?”

“Found,
destroyed, confiscated. It's assumed everything was found, but if you ask me,
that's a big assumption. A lot of the data's sealed tight. Rumor is that a lot
of the people taken in were killed without trial, tortured. Family members
unlawfully imprisoned or executed.” Anne sat again. “It might be true. It
couldn't have been pretty, and there's no way it was by the book.”

Eve rose,
studied the photos on the board. “In your opinion, this deal is linked with
what happened in Arlington?”

“I want to
study the evidence more closely, pull the available data on Arlington, but it
follows.” She hissed out a breath. “The names -- both mythical types -- the
political crap, the material used for explosives. Still, there are variations.
It wasn't a military target, there was a warning, no lives were taken.”

“Yet,” Eve
murmured. “Shoot me whatever data you spring on this, will you? Peabody, Fixer
was army during the Urban Wars, let's take a closer look at his service record.
Feeney, we need everything he put on that office unit.”

“I'm on it.”
He rose. “Let me put McNab on that service record. He'll be able to melt
through any seals quicker.”

Peabody opened
her mouth, then shut it again in a thin line at one warning look from Eve.

“Tell him to
send data to me as he gets it. Let's ride, Peabody. I want to find Ratso.”

“I can access
military data,” Peabody complained as they headed down to the garage. “It's
just a matter of going through channels.”

“McNab can
swim the channels faster.”

“He's a
show-off,” she muttered and made Eve roll her eyes.

“I'll take a
show-off as long as he gets the job done fast. You don't have to like everyone
you work with, Peabody.”

“Good thing.”

“Shit, would
you look at this?” Eve stopped to study her battered and abused car. Some joker
had put a hand-lettered sign on the cracked rear window that read: Show mercy.
Terminate me now.

“That's
Baxter's warped sense of humor.” Eve ripped the sign away. “If I turn this
sucker in to maintenance, they'll just screw it up.” She got behind the wheel.
“And they'll take a month to do it. I'll never get it back the way it was.”

“You're going
to have to have the windows replaced at least,” Peabody pointed out and tried
to squint through the starburst of cracks on her side.

“Yeah.” She
pulled out, wincing when the car shuddered. Glancing up, she saw the sky
through the hole in the roof. “Let's hope the temp controls still work.”

“I can put in
a request for a replacement.”

“This is a
replacement, remember?” Sulking, Eve headed south. “I'm going to take grief for
this.”

“I can ask
Zeke to take a look at it.”

“I thought he
was a carpenter.”

“He's good at
everything. He can tinker with the innards, then you just get the glass
replaced, the roof patched. It won't be pretty, but you won't have to turn the
whole deal over to maintenance or enter the black hole of requisitions.”

Something
inside the dash controls began to rattle ominously. “When could he do it?”

“Soon as you
want.” She slid Eve a sidelong glance. “He'd really like to see your house. I
told him about it, how you've got that mag old wood and furniture and stuff.”

Eve shifted in
her seat. “I thought you were going to a play or something tonight.”

“I'll tag him,
tell him not to get the tickets.”

“I don't know
if Roarke has plans.”

“I'll check
with Summerset.”

“Shit. All
right, okay.”

“That's so
gracious of you, sir.” Happily, Peabody took out her palm 'link to call her
brother.

They found
Ratso at The Brew, contemplating a plate of what looked like undercooked
brains. He blinked up as Eve slid into the booth across from him.

“These are
supposed to be eggs. How come they ain't yellow?”

“Must be from
gray chickens.”

“Oh.”
Apparently satisfied with that, he dug in. “So what's up, Dallas? You got the
guys who done Fixer?”

“I've got some
lines to tug. What have you got?”

“Word is
nobody sees Fixer that night. Don't expect to, 'cause he don't come out at
night usual. But Pokey -- you know Pokey, Dallas, he deals some Zoner if he
scores enough, and does some street work as an LC.”

“I don't
believe Pokey and I are acquainted.”

“Pokey's all
right. Mostly he minds his own, you know? He says how he was doing street work
that night. Not much business 'cause it's too fucking cold to fuck, you know?
But he was tapped out, so he's out on the stroll, and he sees a van down from
The Fixer's place. Nice new one. Figures how somebody's come around looking for
some action, but there ain't nobody in it he can see. Said he scoped it out
awhile in case somebody comes back and wants a quick poke. That's why they call
him Pokey, he gives a real quick poke.”

“I'll keep
that in mind. What kind of van was it?”

Ratso toyed
with his eggs and tried to look sly. “Well, see, I told Pokey you'd want to
know stuff, and if it was solid data, you'd pay.”

“I don't pay
until I get the data. Did you tell him that?”

Ratso sighed.
“Yeah, guess I did. Okay, okay, he says it was one of them fancy Airstreams,
looked spanking, was black. Had zap security.” Ratso smiled a little. “He knows
'cause he tried to get in and got the zap. So he's dancing and blowing on his
hand and he hears a kinda commotion down the street.”

“What kind of
commotion?”

“I dunno. Like
noise and maybe somebody yelling, and people coming. So he ducks around the
corner in case who owns the van maybe saw him trying to break in. What he sees
is two guys and one of 'em's carrying this big bag over his shoulder. The other
-- get this -- is holding what Pokey says looks like a gun -- like he's seen
on-screen and on discs and shit. So they toss this bag in the back, and it
makes a thump when it hits. Then they get in the front and drive away.”

He scooped up
more eggs, washed them down with the pissy-looking liquid in his glass. “I'm
just sitting here thinking on it and wondering if I should tag you and fill you
in, then here you are.” He grinned at her. “Maybe it was Fixer in that bag.
Maybe they took him off in it, and did him and tossed him in the river. Maybe.”

“Pokey get the
vehicle ID?”

“Nah. Pokey,
he's not too smart, you know. And he said his hand was on fire and he didn't
think nothing of it until I come around asking about Fixer.”

“Black
Airstream van?”

“Yeah, with
the zapper. And oh yeah, he says how it had the full blast entertainment center
in the dash. That's how come he thought maybe to get in. Pokey, he sometimes
trades off electronics.”

“Sounds like a
real solid citizen.”

“Yeah, he
votes and everything. So how about it, Dallas, that's good data, right?”

She took out
twenty. “If it leads anywhere, there's twenty more. Now, how much do you know
about Fixer's military history?”

The twenty
vanished inside one of the pockets in Ratso's dirty coat. “History?”

“What he did
in the army? He ever talk to you about it?”

“Not much.
Couple times when we was drinking and he sucked down too many. He said he took
out plenty of targets during the Wars. Said how the army called 'em targets 'cause
they didn't have the balls to call them people. He had a real hard-on for the
army. Said how he gave them every fucking thing he had, and they took
everything. Um, how they thought they could throw money at him to make it
right. He took their money and screw 'em. Screw the cops, too, and the CIA and
the goddamn president of the U.S. of A., too. But that was only when he was
sloppy. Otherwise, he never said nothing.”

“Have you ever
heard anything about Apollo or Cassandra?”

Ratso swiped a
hand under his nose. “Table dancer over at the Peek-A-Boo goes by Cassandra.
She got tits like watermelons.”

Eve shook her
head. “No, this is something else. You ask around, Ratso, but ask around real
careful. And if you hear anything, don't wonder if you should tag me. Just do
it.”

“Okay, but I'm
kinda low on operating expenses.”

She rose, then
tossed another twenty on the table. “Don't waste my money,” she warned.
“Peabody.”

“I'll start
the run on Airstream vans,” Peabody said, “New York and New Jersey
registrations.”

“Goddamn it!”
Eve dashed toward her vehicle. “Look at this shit, would you?” she demanded,
jerking a thumb toward the bright red frowny face someone had painted on her
dented hood. “No respect. No respect whatsoever for city property.”

Peabody
coughed, forced her face into stern, disapproving lines. “It's a disgrace, sir.
Absolutely.”

“Was that a
smirk, Officer?”

“No sir, it
certainly was not a smirk. It was a scowl. A righteous scowl. Should I canvas
the area for spray cans, Lieutenant?”

“Kiss my ass.”
Eve slammed into the car, giving Peabody just enough time to snort out the
laugh that had been burning in her chest.

“I do,” she
murmured. “Constantly.” She let out a long breath, shook off the grin, and
climbed in the passenger seat.

“We'll finish
out the shift at my home office. I'll be damned if I'm going to park this thing
in the garage and have the precinct snickering.”

“That works
for me. You've got better food.” And there'd be no chance of McNab swinging
through to do one of his tap dances.

“Have you got
Lisbeth Cooke's address? We can swing by and see if we can catch her before we
take the rest of this home.”

“Yes, sir, I
believe it's on the way.” Peabody called it up. “That's just off Madison at
Eighty-third. Should I call and set up an interview?”

“No, let's
surprise her.”

It was obvious
they did, and that Lisbeth didn't care for surprises. “I don't have to speak to
you,” she said when she opened the door. “Not without my attorney present.”

“Call him,”
Eve suggested. “Since you've got something to hide.”

“I've got
nothing to hide. I've given you my statement, I've interviewed with the
prosecuting attorney's office. I've taken the plea, and that's it.”

“Since it's
all neat and tidy, it shouldn't bother you to talk to me. Unless everything you
stated was a lie.”

Lisbeth's eyes
flashed. Her chin jutted. Pride, Eve saw, had been the right target.

“I don't lie.
I insist on honesty, for myself and the people I'm involved with. Honesty,
loyalty, and respect.”

“Otherwise,
you kill them. We've established that.”

Something
flickered in Lisbeth's eyes, then her mouth thinned and they were cool and hard
again. “What do you want?”

“Just a few
questions to tidy up my case file.” Eve angled her head. “Don't you include
neatness in your list of required virtues?”

Lisbeth
stepped back. “I warn you, the minute I feel you're out of line, I'm calling my
representative. I can file harassment charges.”

“Note that
down, Peabody. No harassing Ms. Cooke.”

“So noted,
Lieutenant.”

“I don't like
you.”

“Aw well, now
you've hurt my feelings.”

Eve studied
the living area, the absolute order, the flawless taste. Style, she mused, she
had to admit the woman had style. She could even admire it, in the twin
streamlined sofas in deep green and blue stripes that looked as comfortable as
they did attractive. In the trim, smoked glass tables and the vivid paintings
of seascapes.

There was a
case filled with books with faded leather bindings she knew Roarke would
approve of, and a view of the city neatly framed with swept-back curtains.

“Nice place.”
Eve turned to study the perfectly groomed woman in casual at-home wear of
buff-colored slacks and tunic.

“I don't
believe you're here to discuss my decorating skills.”

“J. Clarence
help you pick out your knickknacks?”

“No. J. C.'s
taste ran the gamut from the absurd to the tacky.”

Rather than
wait for an invitation, Eve sat on the sofa, stretched out her legs. “You
didn't seem to have much in common.”

“On the
contrary, we enjoyed a great many of the same things. And I believed he had a
warm, generous, and honest heart. I was wrong.”

“A couple
hundred million seems pretty damn generous to me.”

Lisbeth merely
turned away, took a bottle of water from a built-in minifridge. “I wasn't
speaking of money,” she said, and poured the water into a heavy, faceted glass.
“But of spirit. However, yes, J. C. was very generous with money.”

“He paid you
to sleep with him.”

Glass snapped
against glass as Lisbeth slammed down her water. “He certainly did not. The
financial arrangement was a separate matter, a personal one mutually agreed to.
It kept us both comfortable.”

“Lisbeth, you
were taking the guy for a million a year.”

“I was not taking
him for anything. We had an agreement, and part of that agreement included
monetary payments. Such arrangements are often made in relationships when one
party has considerable financial advantage over the other.”

“You have
considerable financial advantage now that he's dead.”

“So I'm told.”
She picked up her glass again, watched Eve over the rim. “I was unaware of the
terms of his will.”

“That's hard
to believe. You had an intimate relationship, a long-term and intimate
relationship that included, at your own admission, regular monetary payments.
And you never discussed, never questioned what would happen in the event of his
death.”

“He was a
robust, healthy man.” She tried for a smooth shrug, but it came off in a jerk.
“His death wasn't something we focused on. He did tell me I'd be taken care of.
I believed him.”

She lowered
her glass and passion leapt into her eyes. “I believed him. I believed in him.
And he betrayed me in the most insulting, the most intolerable of ways. Had he
come to me and told me he wanted to end our arrangement, I would have been
unhappy. I would have been angry, but I would have accepted it.”

“Just like
that?” Eve lifted her eyebrows. “No more payments, no more fancy trips and
expensive gifts, no more boinking the boss?”

“How dare you!
How dare you lower what we had to such crude terms. You know nothing, nothing
about what was between J. C. and me.” Her breath began to heave, her hands
to clench. “All you see is the surface because you don't have the capability to
see beneath it. And you, you're boinking Roarke; you wangled marriage
out of him. How many fancy trips and expensive gifts are you raking in,
Lieutenant? How many million a year goes in your pockets?”

With an
effort, Eve kept her seat. Temper had washed ugly color into Lisbeth's face,
turned her eyes into hot green glass. For the first time she looked fully
capable of punching a drill through a man's heart.

“I haven't
killed him,” Eve said coolly. “And now that you mention it, Lisbeth, why didn't
you wangle marriage out of J. C.?”

“I didn't want
it,” she snapped. “I don't believe in marriage. It was something we disagreed
on, but he respected my feelings. I will have respect!” She'd taken three long
strides toward Eve, fists clenched, when a movement from Peabody stopped her.

She seemed to
tremble, and her knuckles went white with strain. The lips she'd peeled back in
a snarl relaxed slowly and the wild color began to fade from her cheeks.

“That's some
trigger you've got there, Lisbeth,” Eve said mildly.

“Yes. Part of
my plea bargain is to enter anger control therapy. I begin sessions next week.”

“Sometimes
it's not better late than never. You claim you went off when you learned J. C.
was cheating on you. Yet no one knows of another woman in his life. His
personal assistant swears there was no one but you.”

“He's
mistaken. J. C. deceived him even as he deceived me. Or he's lying,” she said
with a shrug. “Chris would have cut off his hand for J. C., so lying would be
nothing.”

“Why lie? Why
cheat if, as you just told me, all he had to do was come to you and end the
arrangement?”

“I don't
know.” She pushed an agitated hand through her hair, disturbing its perfect
order. “I don't know,” she repeated. “Perhaps he was like other men after all
and found it more exciting to cheat.”

“Don't like
men much, do you?”

“As a whole,
no.”

“So, how'd you
find out about this other woman? Who is she? Where is she? How is it no one
else knows about it?”

“Someone
does,” Lisbeth said evenly. “Someone sent me photos of them together, discs of
conversations. Conversations where they talked about me. Laughed at me. God, I
could kill him all over again.”

She whirled
around, yanked open a cabinet, and pulled out a large pouch. “Here. These are
copies. We gave the PA the originals. Look at him, with his hands all over
her.”

Eve tapped out
the contents, frowned. They were decent shots. The man was very clearly J.
Clarence Branson. In one, he sat on what looked like a park bench with a young
blonde in a short skirt. His hand was resting high on her thigh. In the next,
they were kissing with apparent passion, and the hand was under her skirt.

The others
looked to be taken in a privacy room at a club. They were grainy, which fit if
they'd been duped from disc. A club could lose its sex license if the
management was caught running video of privacy rooms.

But grainy or
not, they clearly showed J. C. and the blonde in various and energetic sexual acts.

“When did you
receive these?”

“I've given
all that information to the PA's office.”

“Give it to
me,” Eve said shortly. And she was damn well going to find out why the PA
hadn't bothered to pass these tidbits on to the primary investigator.

“They were in
my mail slot when I got home from work. I opened them, I looked at them. I went
directly to J. C. to confront him. He denied it. He actually stood there and
denied it, told me he didn't know what I was talking about. It was infuriating,
insulting. I lost my temper. I was blind with rage. I grabbed the drill and...”

She trailed
off, remembering herself and her lawyer's instructions. “I must have lost my
mind, I can't remember what I was thinking, what I was doing. Then I called the
police.”

“Do you know this
woman?”

“I've never
seen her before. Young, isn't she?” Lisbeth's lips trembled before she firmed
them. “Very young and very ... agile.”

Eve slid the
photos and discs back in the pouch. “Why are you keeping these?”

“To remind me
that everything we had together was a lie.” Lisbeth took the bag back, placed
it in the cabinet again. “And to remind me to enjoy every cent of the money he
left me.”

She picked up
her water glass again, lifted it as if in a toast. “Every goddamn cent.”

Eve got back
in her car, slammed the door. And brooded. “It might have happened just the way
she said. Hell.” She rapped a fist on the wheel. “I hate that.”

“We can run
the photo of the woman, try to get an ID. Something may pop.”

“Yeah, shuffle
it in when you have time. And when we have the goddamn photos.” Disgusted, Eve
pulled away from the curb. “No way to prove she knew about the will or that was
her motive. And damn it, after seeing her in action up there, I tend to believe
her story.”

“I thought she
was going to try to rip your face off.”

“She wanted
to.” Then Eve sighed. “Anger control therapy,” she muttered. “What next?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Snag on
system,” Eve muttered as she pushed away from her desk-link. “The PA's office
said we didn't get the photos and discs on the Branson case because there was
an SOS. My ass.” She rose to pace. “SOS also stands for sack of shit.”

She heard the
snicker, turned to glare at Peabody. “What are you grinning at?”

“It's your way
with words, sir. I do so admire your way with words.”

Eve dropped
into her chair again, leaned back. “Peabody, we've been working together long
enough for me to know when you're gassing me.”

“Oh. Is that
also long enough for you to appreciate our personal rapport?”

“No.”

To help put
the Branson matter out of her mind for the moment, Eve squeezed the heels of
her hands on either side of her head. “Okay, back to priorities. Run the vans
while I see how much McNab's shaken loose on Fixer's military record. And why
don't I have any coffee?”

“I was just
wondering the same thing.” To avoid another snarl, Peabody hurried into the
kitchen.

“McNab,” Eve
said the minute she had him onscreen. “Gimme.”

“Just got the
basic front stuff for now. I'm weaving through.” He recognized the view out the
window behind her and pouted. “Hey, you working at home today? How come I'm not
there, too?”

“Because,
thank God, you don't live here. Now, let's have it.”

“I'll shoot it
to your home unit, but the quick rundown is as follows. Bassi, Colonel Howard.
Retired. Enlisted in 1997, enrolled officer's training. Top scores. As a first
lieutenant, he worked with STF -- Special Training Forces. Elite, real
hush-hush stuff. I'm working on that, but at this point, I'm just getting
commendations -- he had a hat full -- and remarks about his expertise with
electronics and explosives. He made captain in 2006, then worked his way right
up the ranks until he was given a field promotion to full colonel during the
Urban Wars.”

“Where was he
stationed? New York?”

“Yeah, then he
was transferred to East Washington in ... wait, I've got it. 2021. Had to put
in for a special family transfer package because most military weren't allowed
to take their families along during that period.”

“Family?” She
held up a hand. “What family?”

“Ah .. .
military records have him down for a wife Nancy, civilian, and two kids, one of
each. He got the transfer because his spouse was a civilian liaison between
army and media. Like, you know, public relations.”

“Hell.” Eve
rubbed her eyes. “Run the wife and kids, McNab.”

“Sure, they're
on the list to do.”

“No, now.
You've got the ID numbers there.” She glanced over as Peabody brought in
coffee. “Do a quick run on date of death.”

“Shit, they're
not old,” McNab muttered, but he turned away to check the records. “Man,
Dallas, they all bought it. Same DOD.”

“September 25,
2023, Arlington County, Virginia.”

“Yeah.” He let
out a sigh. “They must have been taken out with the Pentagon. Christ, Dallas,
the kids were only six and eight. That bites.”

“Yeah, I'm
sure Fixer agreed with you. Now we know why he turned.”

And, she
thought, why he ran. How could he expect to be safe, even in his dirty little
fortress, if he was up against the kind of people who could wipe out the most
secure military establishment in the country?

“Keep up the
search,” she ordered. “See if you can find anybody he worked with who's still
around and no longer military. Somebody who got transferred with him, in his
same unit. If he was STF, he probably had some part in dealing with Apollo.”

“I'm on it.
Hey, Peabody.” He wiggled his brows when she came into view, and sliding his
hand under his bright pink shirt mimed a thumping heart.

“Asshole,” she
muttered and stepped aside.

Scowling, Eve
cut him off. “Roarke thinks he's got a thing for you.”

“He's got a
thing for breasts,” Peabody corrected. “I happen to have a pair. I caught him
eyeballing Sheila's from Records, and hers aren't as good as mine.”

Thoughtfully,
Eve glanced down at her own. “He doesn't look at my tits.”

“Yes, he does,
but he's careful because he fears you nearly as much as he fears Roarke.”

“Only nearly?
I'm disappointed. Where's my data on the vans?”

“Here.” With a
smug smile, Peabody tapped a disc into the desk unit. “I used the one in the
kitchen to run it. We've got fifty-eight hits, but that's with
factory-installed zappers. If we consider that they were installed privately,
we more than triple that number.”

“We'll start
with the big number, check and see if anyone reported their vehicle stolen
during the forty-eight hours around the murder. If we don't hit there,
eliminate families. I can't see a professional mother running the kids to arena
ball practice in the afternoon, then Daddy transporting corpses in it at night.
Look for registration to companies and males. We'll run females if we crap out
on those.

“Use this
unit,” Eve told her and rose. “I can make calls on the one in the other room.”

She contacted
Mira and set up a meeting for the following day. The closest she could get to
Feeney was his e-mail announcement that he was on a priority and could only
take emergency transmissions.

Deciding to
leave him to what he did best, she tagged Anne Malloy in the field.

“Hey, Dallas,
your sexy husband just left.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve
could see the rubble and the E and B teams sifting through it.

“He wanted to
see what we had going here, which isn't any more than you already know, at this
point. We've transported fragments to the lab. We're finding more. Your man
took a look at a piece of one of the devices and said it was a chunk of
high-impact politex, like they use in space construction. Probably from a
remote. He could be right.”

He would be
right, Eve thought. He was rarely
otherwise.

“What does
that tell you?”

“A couple of
things,” Anne said. “One, at least some of the devices were made from space
salvage or parts manufactured for that use. And two, your man's got a sharp
eye.”

“Okay.” She
scooped a hand through her hair. “If he's right, can you trace it?”

“It narrows
the field. I'll be in touch.”

Eve sat back,
then out of curiosity looked up politex and its manufacturers.

It didn't
surprise her to see Roarke Industries as one of the four interplanetary
companies that made the product. But it did have her rolling her eyes. She
noted Branson Toys and Tools also manufactured it. Smaller scale, she noted. On
planet only.

She decided to
save time and simply ask Roarke for a rundown on the other two companies, then
spent the next hour backtracking, picking through old data, weeding through the
fresh data McNab transmitted. She was about to go in and harass Peabody for
results on the vehicle search when her 'link beeped.

“Dallas.”

“Hey, Dallas!”
Mavis Freestone's delighted smile filled the screen. “Catch this.”

Beside the
table, a column of air shimmered, then, in a blink, the hologram image of Mavis
standing in the kitchen on skinny ruby heels with bright pink feathers drifting
over her toes. She wore a short robe in eye-watering swirls of the same two
tones that drooped off one shoulder to display a tattoo of a silver angel
playing a gilt harp.

Her hair
tumbled in spiraling curls as fat as soy sausages in a mix of gold and silver
and glinted with a metallic sheen.

“Mag, huh?”
She laughed and did a little bump and grind dance around the kitchen. “My
room's got this way fine holo feature on the 'link. How do I look?”

“Colorful. Nice
tattoo.”

“That's
nothing, get this.” Mavis tugged the robe down her other shoulder to reveal a
second angel with a little whip tail who carried a pitchfork and wore a
maniacal grin. “Good angel, bad angel. Get it?”

“No.” But Eve
grinned. “How's the tour going?”

“Dallas, it is
like wow! We're going just everywhere and the crowds are panic city when I
perform. And Roarke's got us the most amazing transpo and all the hotels are
absolutely the ult.”

“Ult?”

“Ultimate.
Today, I've got this appearance at a music center to sign discs and a bunch of
interviews with media, then a gig at the Dominant here in Houston. It's like
packed. I hardly have time to do hair.”

Eve skimmed
her gaze off the shiny curls. “But you manage.”

“Yeah, I'd
never get it all done if Leonardo hadn't come with me. Hey, Leonardo, I've got
Dallas here. Come say hi.” Mavis laughed and bounced on her heels. “She doesn't
care if you're naked.”

“Yes, she
does,” Eve corrected. “You look happy, Mavis.”

“Beyond.
Dallas, I'm totally D and D.”

“Drunk and
disorderly.”

“No.” Mavis
giggled again and turned circles. “Dazed and delirious. It's everything I
always wanted and didn't know. When I come back, I'm going to kiss Roarke all
over his face.”

“I'm sure
he'll enjoy that.”

“I know I
will.” This time Mavis cackled. “Leonardo says he's not jealous, and maybe
he'll kiss Roarke, too. Anyway, how are things on the home front?” Before Eve
could answer, Mavis tilted her head, then sighed. “You haven't seen Trina.”

Eve paled a
little, squirmed in her chair. “Trina? Trina who?”

“Come on,
Dallas, you said you were going to get her to come by and do your hair and
stuff while I was gone. You haven't had a salon date in weeks.”

“Maybe I
forgot.”

“Maybe you
thought I wouldn't notice. But that's okay, we'll have her give us both the
works when I get back.”

“Don't
threaten me, pal.”

“You'll cave.”
Mavis twirled a silver curl around her finger, then grinned. “Hey, Peabody!”

“Hi, Mavis.”
Peabody stepped closer. “Great hologram.”

“Roarke has
the best toys. Whoops, gotta go. Leonardo says it's time to get ready. Watch
this.” She twirled, blowing kisses, then winked away.

“How does she
move like that on those heels?” Peabody wondered.

“Just one of
the many Mavis mysteries. What have you got on the van?”

“Pretty sure I
tagged it. Black Airstream, 2058 model, loaded.” She offered Eve a hard copy
data printout. “Registered to Cassandra Unlimited.”

“Bull's-eye.”

“But I checked
the address. It's bogus.”

“Regardless,
it ties Fixer in and gives us a target. Did you do a search on Cassandra
Unlimited?”

“Not yet. I
wanted to give you this first.”

“All right.
Let's just see.” Eve swiveled back. “Computer, search and report all data on
Cassandra Unlimited.”

Working.
... No data in banks on Cassandra Unlimited.

“Yeah,” Eve
murmured. “That would've been too easy.” She sat back a moment, closing her
eyes as she considered. “Okay, try this, search and list all companies and
businesses with Cassandra in the title. Keep it to New York and New Jersey.”

Working. ...

“You think
they'd use the name?” Peabody asked her.

“I think
they're smart, but they're cocky. There's a way to run it down. There's always
a way.”

Data
complete. List as follows. . .. Cassandra's House of Beauty, Brooklyn, New
York. Cassandra's Chocolate Delights, Trenton, New Jersey. Cassandra
Electronics, New York, New York.

“Stop. All
data on Cassandra Electronics.”

Working....
Cassandra Electronics, 10092 Houston, established 2049, no financial or
employee data in banks. A branch of Mount Olympus Enterprises. No available
data. Encoded block illegal under federal law and will be reported
automatically to CompuGuard.

“Yeah, you do
that. The data's there. It'll be there somewhere. Verify address on Houston.”

Working. .
. . Address is invalid. No such address exists.

Eve rose,
circled the room. “But they put it in. Why bother to register the companies,
risk an automatic search by CompuGuard, an IRS probe?”

Peabody took
the opportunity to program more coffee. “Because they're cocky?”

“That's just
exactly right. They don't know the van was spotted and tagged, but they had to
know I'd do a run on the name Cassandra and click into it.”

She took the
coffee Peabody offered absently. “They want me to waste my time on it. If they
can get an illegal into the data system, they've got funds and superior
equipment. They aren't worried about CompuGuard.”

“Everybody's
worried about CompuGuard,” Peabody disagreed. “You can't get by them.”

Eve sipped her
coffee and thought of Roarke's private room, his unregistered equipment, and
his talent for skimming smoothly by CompuGuard's all-seeing eye. “They did,”
was all she said. “We'll dump this on EDD.” Officially, Eve thought.
Unofficially, she would ask her clever husband what he could do. “For now we'll
just wait.”

She turned
back to the machine, called up the four companies that manufactured politex.
Roarke Industries, she noted, Branson Toys and Tools, Eurotell Corporation, and
Aries Manufacturing.

“Peabody, any
of these named for those god people?”

“God people?
Oh, I get it. Aries. I think he's a god of something or other, and I know he's
a sign of the Zodiac.”

“Greek?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's see if
they follow pattern.” She ordered the data search and found Aries listed at an
invalid address and attached to Mount Olympus.

“They're
certainly tidy.” Eve stepped back, leaned against the counter. “If they have a
pattern, we can start predicting. Like Cassandra,” she said with a cool smile.

She sent
Peabody off to transfer the data and start an updated report. Then, switching
to privacy mode, she called Roarke's office.

“I need to
speak with him,” she told Roarke's terrifyingly efficient assistant. “If he's
available.”

“Just one
moment, Lieutenant. I'll pass you through.”

One hand to
her headphones, Eve moved quietly to the doorway, saw Peabody hard at work at
the desk. With only a slight tug of guilt, she slipped back out of sight. She
wasn't deceiving her aide, she told herself. She was preventing Peabody from
stepping into the shadowy area between the law and justice.

“Lieutenant?
What can I do for you?”

Eve blew out a
breath and stepped into those shadows. “I need a consult.”

“Oh? Of what
sort?”

“Of the
unofficial sort.”

A glimmer of a
smile worked around his mouth. “Ah.”

“I hate when
you say 'ah' that way.”

“I know.”

“Look, I'm not
in a position to explain right now, but if you don't have anything on for
tonight -- “

“But I do. We
do,” he reminded her. “You invited guests.”

“I invited?”
She went totally blank. “I never invite anybody. You're the one.”

“Not this
time. Peabody and her young brother? Ring a bell?”

“Oh hell.”
Dragging a hand through her hair, Eve paced in a circle. “I can't get out of
that. I can't tell her the truth, and if I make some lame excuse, she'll pout.
You can't work with her when she pouts.”

She picked up
her coffee, drank with a scowl on her face. “Are we like feeding them and
everything?”

He laughed,
adoring her. “Eve, you are the most gracious of hosts. Personally, I'm looking
forward to meeting Peabody's brother. Free-Agers are so soothing.”

“I'm not much
in the mood for soothing.” But she shrugged. “Well, they have to go home
sometime.”

“They
certainly do. I'll be home in a couple of hours. That should give you time to
fill me in.”

“Okay, we'll
play it that way. You ever hear of Aries Manufacturing?”

“No.”

“Mount Olympus
Enterprises?”

She had his
interest now. “No. But Cassandra slides right in, doesn't she?”

“Looks that
way. I'll be home when you get here,” she told him and signed off.

She solved the
first problem by sending Peabody back to Cop Central with the updated report
and instructions to pass what they had on to Feeney and McNab.

With the idea
of clearing her head before she worked on the rest of the problem, she headed
downstairs. A quick workout, she decided, might jar something loose in her
brain.

Summerset
stood at the base of the stairs. He studied her baggy sweater and ancient
trousers with a cool and derisive eye. “I trust you intend to change into
something more appropriate before dinner this evening.”

“I trust
you'll continue to be an asshole for the rest of your life.”

He drew air
sharply through his nose, and because he knew she despised it, took her arm
before she could swing by him. She bared her teeth. He smiled. “There is a
messenger coming to the door with a package for you.”

“A messenger.”
Though she yanked her arm free as a matter of principle, she shifted to stand between
Summerset and the door. Her hand moved automatically to rest on her weapon.
“Did you scan?”

“Naturally.”
Puzzled, he lifted a brow. “It's a registered delivery service. The driver is a
young female. The scan showed no weapons.”

“Call the
delivery service and verify,” she ordered. “I'll take care of the door.” She
started forward, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You scanned for
explosives?”

He paled a
little but nodded. “Of course. Gate security is very thorough. Roarke designed
it himself.”

“Call and
verify,” she repeated. “Do it from the back of the house.”

Eyes grim,
Summerset drew out his palm 'link but moved no farther than the parlor doorway.
He'd be damned if he'd allow Eve to shield him as she'd done once before.

Eve watched
the mini-scooter approach on the security monitor. The logo for Zippy Service
was clearly printed on the fuel tank. The driver wore the standard bright red
uniform, goggles, and cap. She flipped them up as she stopped the scooter, then
stood gaping at the house.

She was young,
Eve noted, her cheeks still pudgy with baby fat. Her eyes were wide and dazzled
as she craned her head back to try to see the top of the house as she moved
forward.

She tripped on
the steps, then blushed as she looked around to see if anyone noticed. In one
hand she carried a disc pouch. She used the other to hitch down her jacket,
then ring the bell.

“The delivery
is verified,” Summerset said from behind Eve and nearly made her jolt.

“I told you to
call from the back of the house.”

“I don't take
orders from you.” He reached for the door, blocking her, then yelped in
absolute shock when Eve stomped hard on his instep.

“Get back,”
she snapped. “Stupid son of a bitch.” She muttered it as she yanked the door
open. Before the delivery girl could give her standard greeting, Eve had
dragged her inside, shoved her face first against the wall, and secured her
hands behind her back.

“You got a
name?”

“Yes, yes,
ma'am. Sherry Combs. I'm Sherry Combs.” She had her eyes squeezed shut. “I'm
with Zippy. I have a delivery. Please, lady, I don't carry any money.”

“Is that the
right name, Summerset?”

“Yes. She's
just a child, Lieutenant, and you've frightened her.”

“She'll live
through it. How'd you get the delivery, Sherry?”

“I-I-I...” She
gulped audibly, kept her eyes shut. “I'm on rotation.”

“No, how did
the package come in?”

“Oh, oh, oh,
drop box. I think. I'm pretty sure. Golly, I don't know. My supervisor just
told me to bring it here. It's my job.”

“Okay.” Eve
eased back, patted Sherry's shoulder. “We've been getting a lot of
solicitations,” she said with a smile. “We really hate that here.” She pulled
out a fifty-credit chip and pressed it into the girl's sweaty palm. “You drive
careful.”

“Okay, right,
thanks, gosh.” She started for the door, then turned back, almost tearfully.
“Man, gee lady, you're supposed to sign for it, but you don't have to if you
don't want to.”

Eve simply
jerked her head toward Summerset, then started upstairs with the pouch. She
heard him murmur to the girl. “I'm terribly sorry. She hasn't had her
medication today.”

Despite the
fact that she'd seen the return address on the pouch, Eve had to grin. But the
humor didn't last long. Her eyes were cool when she walked back into her
office. She sealed her hands, opened the pouch, then slipped the disc it held
into her machine.

We are
Cassandra.

We are the
gods of justice.

We are
loyal.

Lieutenant
Dallas, we hope our demonstration of this morning was enough to convince you of
our capabilities and the seriousness of our intent. We are Cassandra, and we
predict that you will show your respect to us by arranging for the release of
the following political heroes now wrongly imprisoned in the gestapo facilities
of Kent Prison in New York: Carl Minnu, Milicent Jung, Peter Johnson, and Susan
B. Stoops.

If these
patriots of freedom are not released by noon tomorrow, we will be forced to
sacrifice a New York landmark. A symbol of excess and foolishness where mortals
gawk at mortals. You will be contacted at noon for verification. If our demands
are not met, all lives lost will be on your head.

We are
Cassandra.

Susan B.
Stoops, Eve thought. Susie B, former nurse, who had poisoned fifteen elderly
patients at the rehab facility where she'd worked. Claiming they had all been
war criminals.

Eve had been
primary, had taken her in, and knew Nurse Susie B was doing five terms of life
in the mentally defective ward at Kent Prison.

She had a
feeling the other “political heroes” would have similar histories.

She copied the
disc and called Whitney.

-=O=-***-=O=-

“It's out of
my hands, at least for now,” Eve told Roarke as she paced the main parlor. “The
political heads are doing their circle and spin. I wait for orders. I wait for
contact.”

“They won't
agree to terms.”

“No. You add
up the body count the four names they want are responsible for, you come up
with over a hundred. Jung blew up a church claiming all religious symbols were
tools of the hypocritical right. A kids' choir was rehearsing inside. Minnu
burnt down a cafe in SoHo, trapping over fifty people inside. He claimed it was
a front for the fascist left, and Johnson was a hired assassin who killed
anyone for the right price. What the hell's the connection?”

“Maybe there
isn't one. It may just be a test. Will the governor acquiesce, or will he
refuse?”

“They have to
know he'll refuse. They've left us no way to negotiate.”

“So you wait.”

“Yeah. What
place in New York symbolizes excess and foolishness?”

“What place
doesn't?”

“Right.” She
frowned, paced. “I did a run on that Cassandra -- the Greek one. It said how
she was given her gift of prophecy by Apollo.”

“I'd say this
group enjoys symbolism.” He glanced toward the doorway when he heard voices.
“That'll be Peabody. Put it out of your mind for a couple of hours, Eve. It
might help.”

Roarke walked
over to greet Peabody, to tell her she looked lovely, to shake hands with Zeke.
He was so damn smooth, Eve thought. It never failed to fascinate her how he
could shift from mode to mode without a single visible hitch.

Beside Zeke --
gangling, his smile awkward as he struggled very obviously not to gawk -- the
contrast was only more marked.

“Give her the
thing, Zeke,” Peabody demanded and added a quick, sisterly jab in the ribs.

“Oh yeah. It's
not much of anything.” He offered that shy smile to Eve, then took a small wood
carving out of his pocket. “Dee said you had a cat.”

“Well, one
lets us live here.” Eve found herself grinning down at a thumb-sized carving of
a sleeping cat. It was rough and simple and cleverly done. “And this, next to
eating, is what he does best. Thanks, it's great.”

“Zeke makes
them.”

“Just for
fun,” he added. “I saw your vehicle outside. It looks a little rough.”

“It sounds
rougher.”

“I can take a
look at it, tinker around.”

“I'd
appreciate it.” She started to suggest he do just that, now, when she caught
Roarke's warning look and bit the words back. “Ah, let me get you a drink
first.”

Damn party
manners, she thought.

“Just some
water, or juice maybe. Thanks. There's beautiful work in this house,” he said
to Roarke.

“Yes, there
is. We'll show you through after dinner.” He ignored Eve's grimace and smiled.
“Most of the wood is original. I appreciate craftsmen who build to last.”

“I didn't
realize so much of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century interior work was left
in an urban area like this. When I saw the Branson home today, I was just
staggered. But this -- “

“You were at
the Bransons'?” Eve had finished scratching her head over the choices of juice
Summerset had arranged. She poured something rose-colored into a glass.

“I called this
morning to express my condolences and to ask if they'd prefer to postpone the
work they'd contracted for.” He took the glass she offered with a smile of
thanks. “But Mrs. Branson said they'd appreciate it if I'd come by and look
things over today. This afternoon, after the memorial service. She said the
project might help take their minds off things.”

“Zeke says
they have a fully equipped workshop on the lower level.” Peabody wiggled her
eyebrows at Eve. “Apparently B. Donald likes to putter.”

“Runs in the
family.”

“I still
haven't met him,” Zeke put in. “Mrs. Branson showed me around.” He'd spent time
with her, just a little time. And his system was still revving on it. “I'll get
started tomorrow, work right there in the house.”

“And get roped
into doing odd jobs,” Peabody said.

“I don't mind.
Maybe I should go take a look at the car, see what I can do.” He looked at
Roarke. “Do you have any tools I could borrow?”

“I think I
have what you need. They're not Branson, I'm afraid. I use Steelbend.”

“Branson's
good,” Zeke said soberly. “Steelbend's better.”

Sending his
wife a blinding smile, Roarke laid a hand on Zeke's shoulder. “Let's go see
what we've got.”

“Isn't he
great?” Peabody sent a look of affection after her brother. “Twenty minutes at
the Bransons' and he was repairing some plumbing blip. There's nothing Zeke
can't fix.”

“If he can
keep that car out of the hands of the monkeys in maintenance, I'll owe him for
life.”

“He'll do it.”

She started to
bring up her newest worry. Something in Zeke's eyes, in his voice, when he
spoke of Clarissa Branson. Just a crush, Peabody assured herself. The woman was
married, years older than Zeke. Just a little crush, she told herself again,
and decided her lieutenant was hardly the person to share foolish sisterly
concerns with. Certainly not in the middle of a difficult investigation.

Peabody blew
out a breath. “I know this isn't a great time for socializing. As soon as
Zeke's done, we'll take off.”

“We'll feed
you. Look, there's this stuff all ready.” Eve gestured absently to a tray of
beautifully arranged canapes. “You might as well eat them.”

“Well, since
you insist.” Peabody plucked one up. “No word from the commander?”

“Nothing yet.
I don't expect to hear anything before morning. Which reminds me, I'll need you
to report to Central at oh-six-hundred.”

Peabody
swallowed the canape before she choked. “Six. Great.” She blew out a breath and
snagged another canape. “Looks like it's going to be a very early evening.”

CHAPTER NINE

Dear
Comrade,

We are
Cassandra.

We are
loyal.

It has
begun. The preliminary stages of the revolution have proceeded precisely as
outlined. Our symbolic destruction of the property of the capitalist Roarke was
pitifully simple. The slow-witted police are investigating. The first messages
of our mission have been transmitted.

They will
not understand. They will not comprehend the magnitude of our power and our
plans. Now, they scramble like mice, chasing down the crumbs we've left for
them.

Our chosen
adversary studies the deaths of two pawns, and sees nothing. Today, unless we
were mistaken in her, she will go where we have led her. And be blinded to the
true path.

He would be
proud of what we accomplish here.

After this
bloody battle is won, we will take his place. Those who have stood for us, for
him, will join us. Comrade, we look forward to the day we raise our flag over
the new capital of the new order. When all those responsible for the death of
the martyr die in pain and terror.

They will
pay, in fear, in money, in blood, as one by one and city by city, we who are
Cassandra destroy what they worship.

Gather the
faithful today, Comrade. Watch the screen. I will hear your shouts of triumph
across the miles that separate us.

We are
Cassandra.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Zeke Peabody
was a conscientious man. He believed in doing a job well, in giving it all his
time, his attention, and his skill. He'd learned carpentry from his father, and
both father and son had been proud when the boy had outdistanced the man.

He'd been raised
a Free-Ager, and the tenets of his faith suited Zeke like his skin. He was
tolerant of others; part of his beliefs included the simple knowledge that the
human race was made up of diverse individuals who had the right to go their own
way.

His own sister
had gone hers, choosing to become a cop. No true Free-Ager would ever carry a
weapon, much less use one against another living thing. But her family was
proud of her for following her own path. That, after all, was the foundation of
Free-Agism.

One of the
sweetest benefits of the job he'd taken here was the chance it gave him to
spend time with his sister. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to see her in
what had become her milieu, to explore the city she'd made her home. And he
knew he amused her by dragging her around to every cliched tourist attraction
he could find on his guide disc.

He was very
pleased with her superior. Dee had called and written home countless details
about Eve Dallas that Zeke had arranged into a very complex and fascinating woman.
But seeing her for himself was better. She had a strong aura. The dark shimmer
of violence might have troubled him a bit, but the heart of it had been bright
with compassion and loyalty.

He'd wanted to
suggest that she try meditation to dull that shimmer, but he'd been afraid
she'd take offense. Some people did. He'd also thought, perhaps, that nimbus of
darkness might be necessary for her line of work.

He could
accept such things, even if he never fully understood them.

In any case,
he was satisfied that when the job was finished, he could return home content
that his sister had found her place and was with the people she needed in her
life.

As instructed,
he went to the service entrance of the Branson brownstone. The servant who
admitted him was a tall male with cool eyes and a formal manner. Mrs. Branson
-- she'd told him to call her Clarissa -- had told him that all staff members
were droids. Her husband considered them less intrusive and more efficient than
their human counterparts.

He was shown
to the lower-level workshop, asked if he required anything, then left alone.

And alone, he
grinned like a boy.

The shop was
nearly as well-equipped and organized as his own back home. Here, though he had
no intention of using them, were the additions of a computer and tele-link
system, a wall screen, VR unit and mood tube, and a droid assistant that was
currently disengaged.

He ran his
hands over the oak he knew would be a joy to work with, then took out his
plans. They were on paper rather than disc. He preferred to create his drawings
with a pencil as his father had, and his grandfather before him.

It was more
personal, Zeke thought, more a part of himself. He spread the diagrams out
neatly on the workbench, took his bottle of water from his sack, and sipped
contemplatively while he visualized the project, stage by stage.

He offered the
work up to the power that had given him the knowledge and skill to build, then
took his first measurements.

When he heard
Clarissa's voice, his pencil faltered. The flush was already working up his
neck as he turned. The fact that there was no one there only made the blush
deepen. He'd been thinking too much about her, he told himself. And had no
right to think about another man's wife. No matter how lovely she was, no
matter if something in her big, troubled eyes called to him.

Especially
because of that.

Because he was
flustered, it took him a moment to realize the murmur of sound he heard was
coming through the old vents. They should be sealed, he mused. He would ask her
if she wanted him to take care of that while he was here.

He couldn't
quite make out the words -- not that he would have tried, he assured himself.
Not that he would ever, ever, intrude on another's privacy. But he recognized
her tone -- the smooth flow of it, and his blood moved a little faster.

He laughed at
himself, went back to his measuring with the assurance that it was all right to
admire a woman because of her beauty and gentle manner. When he heard a voice
join hers, he nodded. Her husband. It was good to remember she had a husband.

And a
lifestyle, he added, lifting a board with a casual strength his gangly body
disguised. A lifestyle that was far removed from his own.

Even as he
carried the board to the braces for his first cuts, he heard the tones change.
Voices raised in anger now, loud and clear enough for him to catch a few words.

“Stupid bitch.
Get the hell out of my way.”

“B. D.,
please. Just listen.”

“To what? More
whining? You make me sick.”

“I only want
to -- “

There was a
thump, a crash that made Zeke wince, and the sound of Clarissa's voice, begging
now: “Don't, don't, don't.”

“Just
remember, you pathetic cunt, who's in charge.”

Another bullet
of sound, a door slamming. Then a woman's wild and miserable weeping.

He'd had no
right, Zeke told himself, no right to listen to the intimacies of a marriage.
No right to want to go upstairs and comfort her.

But, my God,
how could anyone treat their life partner so callously, so cruelly? She should
be cherished.

Despising
himself for imagining doing just that, of going upstairs, gathering Clarissa
against him, Zeke slipped on his ear protectors and gave her the privacy that
was her right.

-=O=-***-=O=-

“I appreciate
you changing your schedule and coming here.” Eve scooped her jacket off her
ratty chair and tried not to obsess that her tiny, cluttered office was a far
cry from the elegant Dr. Mira's work space.

“I know you're
working against the clock on this one.” Mira glanced around. Odd, she thought,
she'd never been in Eve's office before. She doubted Eve realized just how
completely the cramped little room suited her. No fuss, no frills, and very
little comfort.

She took the
chair Eve offered, crossed her smooth legs, lifted a brow when Eve remained
standing.

“I should have
come to you. I don't even have any of that tea you drink in here.”

Mira merely
smiled. “Coffee would be fine.”

“That I've
got.” She turned to the AutoChef, which did little more than spit at her. Eve
rammed it with the heel of her hand. “Goddamn budget cuts. One of these days
I'm taking every lousy piece of equipment in this room and chucking it out the
window. And I hope to God every piss-head in maintenance is down below when I
do.”

Mira laughed
and glanced at the narrow slit of grimy glass. “You'd have a hard time fitting
anything through that window.”

“Yeah, well,
I'd manage. It's coming up,” she said as the AutoChef gave a coughing hum. “The
rest of the team is working in their areas. We're meeting in an hour. I want to
be able to take them something.”

“I wish I had
more to give you.” Mira sat back, accepting the mug of coffee Eve offered. It
was barely seven a.m., yet Mira looked as elegant and polished as fine glass.
Her sable-toned hair waved gently back from her serene face. She wore one of
her trim suits, this one in a quiet sage green she'd accented with a single
strand of pearls.

In her tired
jeans and bulky sweater, Eve felt scruffy, gritty-eyed, and unkempt.

She sat,
thinking Roarke had said basically the same thing to her in the early hours of
the morning. He'd continued to search, but he was up against equipment and
minds as clever and complex as his own. It could be hours, he'd explained, or
days before he broke through the tangled blocks and reached the core of
Cassandra.

“Give me what
you've got,” Eve said shortly to Mira. “And it'll be more than I have now.”

“This
organization is exactly that,” Mira began. “Organized. It would be my
supposition that whatever they intend to do has been planned out meticulously.
They wanted your attention, and they have it. They wanted the attention of the
powers of the city, and have that as well. Their politics, however, elude me. The
four people they're demanding be released are from variable points on the
political compass. Therefore, this is a test. Will their demands be met? I
don't believe they think they will.”

“But they've
given us no mechanism to negotiate.”

“Negotiation
isn't their goal. Capitulation is. The destruction of the building yesterday
was merely a show. No one was hurt, they can say. We're giving you a chance to
keep it that way. Then, they ask for the impossible.”

“I can't link
any of the four on the list together.” Eve rested a booted ankle on her knee
when she sat. She'd spent hours the night before trying to find the connection
while Roarke had worked on Cassandra. “No political tenet, as you said. No
associations, no memberships. Ages, personal and criminal histories. Nothing
connects them. I say they picked those four names out of a hat, for the hell of
it. They couldn't care less if those people are back on the street or not. It's
smoke.”

“I agree.
Knowing that, however, doesn't ease the threat of what they'll do next. This
group calls itself Cassandra, links itself to Mount Olympus, so the symbolism
is clear. Power and prophecy, of course, but more a distance between them and
mere mortals. A belief, an arrogance, that they, or whoever heads them, has the
superior knowledge and ability to direct us. Perhaps even to care for us in the
ruthlessly cold directives of gods. They'll use us -- as they did Howard Bassi
-- when we have the potential to be useful. And when they are done, we are
rewarded or punished as they see fit.”

“This new
republic, new realm?”

“Theirs, of
course.” Mira sampled the coffee, delighted to discover it was Roarke's
marvelous blend. “With their tenets, their rules, their people. It's the tone
that troubles me more than the content, Eve. Underlying what is said is a glee
in saying it. 'We are Cassandra,'“ she added. “Is that the group, or one person
who believes himself to be many? If the latter is partially true, you're
dealing with a clever and damaged mind. 'We are loyal.' Loyal, we can assume,
to the organization, the mission. And to the terrorist group Apollo from which
Cassandra was given its prophetic powers.”

“'Our memory
is long,'“ Eve murmured. “It would have to be. Apollo was broken more than
thirty years ago.”

“You'll note
the constant use of the plural pronoun, the short declarative sentences
followed by political jargon, propaganda, accusations. There's nothing new in
that part of it, nothing original. It's recycled, and a great deal older than
three decades. But don't take this to mean they're not advanced in the ways and
means in which they operate. Their foundation may be tired and trite, but I
believe their intentions and capabilities are vital.

“They came to
you,” she continued, “because they respect you. Possibly admire you -- soldier
to soldier. Because when they win, as they believe they will, victory will have
a more satisfying taste if their opponent was worthy.”

“I need their
target.”

“Yes, I know
you do.” Mira closed her eyes a moment. “A symbol. Again, it would be something
worthy. A place of excess, they said, and foolishness. Where mortals gawk at
mortals. Perhaps a theater.”

“Or a club, an
arena. It could be anything from Madison Square to a sex joint on Avenue C.”

“More likely
the first than the second.” Mira set her coffee aside. “A symbol, Eve, a
landmark. Something that would have impact.”

“The first hit
was an empty warehouse. Not much impact.”

“It was
Roarke's,” Mira pointed out and watched Eve's eyes flicker. “It got your
attention. They mean to keep your attention.”

“You think
they'll target one of his properties again.” Eve pushed to her feet. “Well,
that narrows it down. The man owns most of the damn city.”

“Does that
bother you?” Mira began, then caught herself and nearly chuckled. “Sorry,
knee-jerk psychologist's question. I think it's a good possibility since
they've targeted you that they may focus on Roarke's properties. It's certainly
not conclusive, no more, really, than what you'd term a hunch. But you have to
look somewhere.”

“All right,
I'll contact him.”

“Concentrate
on important buildings, something with tradition.”

“Okay, I'll
get started.”

Mira got to
her feet. “I haven't given you much help.”

“I didn't give
you much to work with.” Then Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “I'm not
really in my area here. I'm used to dealing with straight murder, not the
threat of wholesale annihilation.”

“Are the steps
that different?”

“I don't know.
I'm still feeling my way around. And while I am, somebody's got their finger on
the button.”

She tried
Roarke in his home office first, and got lucky. “Do me a favor,” she said
immediately. “Work at home today.”

“For any
particular reason?”

Who was to
say, she thought, that the sumptuous lobby, the theaters and lounges in his
midtown office building didn't make it the target?

And, if she
told him that, he'd be down there in a heartbeat, doing a search and scan
personally. She wouldn't risk it.

“I don't like
asking, but if you could keep on that project we were dealing with last night,
it would help a lot.”

He studied her
face. “All right. I can shift some things around. I've got an auto-search going
in any case.”

“Yeah, but you
get things done faster when you're working them yourself.”

He lifted a
brow. “I believe that was very nearly a compliment.”

“Don't get
puffed up about it.” She leaned back, tried to look casual. “Look, I'm kind of
pressed right now, but can you shoot me some data here?”

“Of what
kind?”

“Your
properties in New York?”

Now both
eyebrows winged up. “All?”

“I said I was
pressed for time,” she said dryly. “I don't have a decade or so to deal with
this. Just the really jazzy ones. Jazzy old stuff.”

“Why?”

Why? Shit.
“I'm just doing a cross-check. Loose ends. Routine.”

“Darling Eve.”
He didn't smile when he said it, and she began to drum her fingers on the desk.

“What?”

“You're lying
to me.”

“I am not.
Jesus, ask a guy for some basic data, data which as his wife I'm entitled to,
and he calls you a liar.”

“Now I know
you're lying. You don't give two damns about my properties, and you hate when I
call you my wife.”

“No, I don't.
It's this certain tone you use that I object to. Forget it,” she said with a
shrug. “It's not important anyway.”

“Which one of
my properties do you believe is the target?”

She hissed out
a breath. “If I knew, don't you think I'd tell you? Just send me the goddamn
data, will you, and let me do my job.”

“You'll have
it.” His eyes were as cool as his voice now. “And if you find the target, let
me know. You can reach me at my midtown office.”

“Roarke, damn
it -- “

“Do your job,
Lieutenant, and I'll do mine.”

Before she
could swear at him again, he'd cut her off. She kicked the desk. “Stubborn,
tight-assed son of a bitch.” Without hesitation, she tossed procedure out the
window and called Anne Malloy.

“I need an E
and B team at a midtown address. Full search and scan.”

“You located
the target?”

“No.” She said
that much between her teeth, then forced her jaw to relax. “It's a personal
favor, Anne, I'm sorry to ask. Mira believes one of Roarke's properties will
likely be today's target. He's going into his office, and I -- “

“Give me the
address,” Anne said briskly, “and it's done.”

Eve closed her
eyes, breathed out slowly. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“No, you
don't. I've got a man of my own. I'd do the same thing.”

“I owe you anyway.
I've got data coming in,” she added when her machine beeped. “It's a place to
start. I'll be sifting through it, hopefully have it narrowed down by our
meeting.”

“Fingers
crossed, Dallas,” Anne said and signed off.

“Peabody.” Eve
signaled her aide. “My office.”

She sat,
tunneled her fingers through her hair, then called up the data Roarke had sent
her.

“Sir.” Peabody
stepped into the room. “I got the reports back on the Cassandra discs. Analysis
doesn't show anything. Standard units, no initializations or prints. No way to
trace.”

“Pull up a
chair,” Eve ordered. “I've got a list here of potential targets. We'll run a
probability scan, try to slim it down.”

“How did you
generate the list?”

“Mira's take
is that we're likely looking for a club or theater. I agree with that. She
thinks it's a pretty good bet they'll go for one of Roarke's again.”

“Follows,”
Peabody said after a moment, then sat down next to Eve. And gaped at the list
scrolling onscreen. “Man, those are his? He owns all that?”

“Don't get me
started,” Eve muttered. “Computer, analysis current data, select properties
considered landmarks or traditional symbols of New York, and list. Ah, add
buildings constructed on historic sites.”

Working. .
. .

“That's a good
call,” Peabody said. “You know, I was in a lot of these places with Zeke. We'd
have been even more impressed if we'd known you owned them.”

“Roarke owns
them.”

Task
complete, the computer announced with
such efficiency Eve eyed it suspiciously.

“Why do you
think this thing's working so well today, Peabody?”

“I'd knock
wood when I make statements like that, Lieutenant.” Peabody's brows drew
together as she studied the new list. “That didn't whittle it down by a whole
lot.”

“That's what
he gets for liking old things. The guy has a real obsession for old shit.” She
let out a breath. “Okay, we're thinking club or theater. Mortals gawking at
mortals. Computer, which of this list runs matinees today?”

Working. ..
.

“They want
people inside,” Eve murmured as the computer burped rudely. “Lives lost. Not
just a couple of tour groups, not just employees. Why not go for a full house.
Impact.”

“If you're
right, we could still have time enough to stop it.”

“Or we could
be peeking in the wrong window and some bar downtown blows up. Okay, okay.” Eve
nodded when the new data emerged. “That's better, that's workable. Computer,
copy current list to disk, print hard copy.”

Eve checked
the time, rose. “Let's get this in to the conference room.” She snatched up the
hard copy, stared at it. “What the hell is this?”

Peabody looked
over her shoulder. “I think it's Japanese. I told you to knock on wood,
Dallas.”

“Get the damn
disc. If it's in Japanese, Feeney can run it through a translator. Out the
fucking window,” she muttered as she strode from the room. “One of these days,
out the fucking window.”

The disc
proved to be in Mandarin Chinese, but Feeney dealt with it and put it on the
wall screen.

“Mira's
preliminary profile,” Eve began, “and the computer analysis of data and
supposition indicates these are the most likely targets. All are entertainment
complexes, either landmarks or constructed on the site of destroyed landmarks.
All have performances scheduled this afternoon.”

“That's a good
angle.” Anne tucked her hands in her back pockets as she read the screen. “I'll
send out teams for a search and scan.”

“How much time
will you need?” Eve asked her.

“Every damn
bit of it.” She whipped out her communicator.

“No uniforms
and unmarked vehicles,” Eve said quickly. “They may have the buildings under
surveillance. Let's not tip them off.”

With a nod,
Anne began to bark orders into her communicator.

“We got
through the fail-safe.” Feeney picked up with EDD's progress. “The old bastard
coded his data. I'm running a code breaker, but he used a good one. It's going
to take more time.”

“Let's hope
it's something worth looking at.”

“McNab tracked
down a couple of names from Fixer's old unit. Men still in the area. I've got
interviews set up for noon today.”

“Good.”

“Teams are
moving.” Anne tucked her communicator away. “I'll be in the field. You'll know
when I know. Oh, Dallas,” she added as she headed for the door. “That address
we discussed earlier? It's clean.”

“Thanks.”

Anne sent her
a grin. “Any time.”

“I'll be on
the code until we have something to move on.” Feeney rattled his bag of candied
nuts. “This kind of shit went on all the damn time during the Urban Wars.
Mostly we suppressed and subdued, but there's bigger and better shit out there
now.”

“Yeah, but
we're bigger and better, too.”

It made him
smile a little. “Goddamn right.”

Eve rubbed her
eyes when she was alone with Peabody. The scant three hours' sleep she'd
managed was threatening to fog her brain. “Man the computer in here. As
Malloy's teams report in, adjust the list. I'll report in to Whitney, then I'll
be in the field. Keep me updated.”

“You could use
me in the field, Dallas.”

Eve thought of
how close she'd come to getting her aide blown to pieces once already and shook
her head. “I need you here,” was all she said, and headed out.

An hour later,
Peabody swung between being miserably bored and outrageously edgy. Four
buildings had been tagged clean, but there were another dozen to go with just
under two hours until noon.

She wandered
the room, drank too much coffee. She tried to think like a political terrorist.
Eve could do that, she knew. Her lieutenant could slide into the mind of a
criminal, walk around in it, visualize a scene from the eyes of a killer.

Peabody envied
that skill, though it had occurred to her more than once it couldn't be a comfortable
one.

“If I were a
political terrorist, what building in New York would I want to take out to make
a statement?”

Tourist traps
and lures, she thought. The problem was she'd always avoided that kind of
thing. She'd come to New York to be a cop and had deliberately -- as a matter
of pride, she supposed -- avoided all the usual tourist havens.

The fact was,
she'd never been inside the Empire State or the Met until Zeke ...

Her head came
up, her eyes brightened. She'd call Zeke. She knew he'd studied his guide disc
front and back and sideways. So where would he, as an eager tourist from
Arizona, most like to attend a weekday matinee?

She turned
from the window to start toward the 'link, then scowled when McNab strolled in.

“Hey,
She-Body, they dump you on desk duty, too?”

“I'm busy,
McNab.”

“Yeah, I can
see that.” He wandered to the Auto-Chef, poked. “This thing's out of coffee.”

“Then go drink
somewhere else. This isn't a damn cafe.” She wanted him out and gone on general
principles, and because she didn't want him smirking when she called her little
brother.

“I like it
here.” Partially because he wanted to know, and partially to annoy her, he
leaned over her monitor. “How many have been eliminated?”

“Get away from
there. I'm manning this unit. I'm working here, McNab.”

“What are you
so touchy about? You and Charlie have a spat?”

“My personal
life is none of your business.” She tried for dignity, but something about him
always put her back up. She marched over, elbowed him aside. “Why don't you go
play with your motherboard?”

“I happen to
be part of this team.” To irritate her, he plopped his butt on the table. “And
I outrank you, sweetheart.”

“Only through
some obvious glitch in the system.” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “And
don't call me sweetheart. The name is Peabody, Officer Peabody, and I don't
need some half-wit, skinny-assed e-man breathing down my neck when I'm on
assignment.”

He glanced
down at the finger that had jabbed twice more into his chest. When he lifted
his gaze, she was mildly surprised to see his usually cheerful green eyes had
gone to pricks of ice. “You want to be careful.”

The chilly
steel of his voice surprised her, too, but she was too far in to back off.
“About what?” she said and gleefully jabbed him again.

“About
physically assaulting a superior officer. I'll only tolerate so much of your
abuse before I start dishing it back out.”

“My
abuse. You come sniffing around every time I blink with your lame comments and
innuendoes. You try to horn in on my cases -- “

“Your cases. Now she's got delusions of grandeur.”

“Dallas's
cases are my cases. And we don't need you poking into them. We don't need you
strolling in for comic relief with your stupid jokes. And I don't need you
asking questions about my relationship with Charles, which is completely
private and none of your damn business.”

“You know what
you do need, Peabody?”

Since she'd
raised her voice to a shout, he did the same. And he was up, toe to toe, nearly
nose to nose.

“No, McNab,
just what do you think I need?”

He hadn't
intended to do it. He didn't think. Well, maybe he had. Either way, it was
done. He'd grabbed her arms, he'd yanked her hard, and his mouth was currently
doing a damn fine job of devouring hers.

She made a
sound, something that was reminiscent of a swimmer inhaling water by mistake.
Somewhere under his bubbling temper was the knowledge that she was likely to
kick his ass the minute she recovered from the shock. So, what the hell, he
gave the moment all he had.

He trapped her
between the table and his body, and took as much of her in as a man could in
one, long, greedy gulp.

She was
paralyzed. It was the only rational explanation as to why the man still had his
mouth on her instead of lying broken and bleeding on the floor.

She'd had some
sort of a stroke or... Oh my God, who'd known an annoying little twit could
kiss like this?

The blood
simply drained out of her head and left it buzzing. And she discovered she
wasn't paralyzed after all, when her arms locked around him, and her mouth
began to meet his assault with one of her own.

They grappled,
groping and biting. Somebody moaned. Somebody swore. Then they were staring at
each other, panting.

“What the --
what the hell was that?” Her voice came out in a squeak.

“I don't
know.” He managed to suck in air, release it. “But let's do it again.”

“Jesus Christ,
McNab!” Feeney exploded from the doorway and watched the pair of them jump
apart like rabbits. “What the sweet hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.
Nothing.” He wheezed, coughed, tried to blink his vision clear. “Nothing,” he
said for a third time. “At all. Captain.”

“Holy Mary
McGuire.” Feeney rubbed his hands over his face, kept them there. “We'll all
just pretend I didn't see that. I didn't see a goddamn thing. I've just now
this second walked into this room. Is that understood?”

“Sir,” Peabody
said snappily, and prayed the blush she could feel burning her face would fade
sometime before the end of the decade.

“Yes, sir.”
McNab took a long sideways step away from Peabody.

Feeney lowered
his hands, studied the two of them. He'd locked less guilty-looking pairs in
cages, he thought with an inner sigh. “Target's been located. It's Radio City.”

CHAPTER TEN

They had time.
They still had time, was all Eve allowed herself to think. She wore riot gear:
the full anti-flak jacket, the assault helmet, and face visor. All of which,
she knew, would prove as useless as fresh, pink skin if they didn't have time.

So they did.
That was the only choice for her, for the E and B team, and for the civilians
they were working feverishly to evacuate.

The Great
Stage at Radio City had pulled in a full house: tourists, locals, preschoolers
with parents or caretakers, classroom groups with teachers and chaperons. The
noise level was huge, and the natives weren't just restless, they were pissed.

“Seats run
between one hundred and two hundred and fifty.” The six-foot blonde, who'd
identified herself as the theater manager, galloped beside Eve like a Viking
warhorse. Outrage and distress had gone to battle in her voice. “Do you have
any idea how complicated it's going to be to arrange alternate dates or
refunds? We're sold out through the run of the show.”

“Look, sister,
you'll be holding your run of the show in pieces blown over to Hoboken if you
don't let us do our job.” She elbowed the woman aside and pulled out her
communicator. “Malloy? Status.”

“Multiple
devices detected. We've located and neutralized two. Scan indicates six more.
Teams already deployed. The stage has four elevators, every one of them can go
down twenty-seven feet into the basement of this place. We got hot ones in all
of them. Working as fast as we can here.”

“Work faster,”
Eve suggested. She jammed the communicator back in her pocket and turned to the
woman beside her. “Get out.”

“I certainly
will not. I'm the manager.”

“That doesn't
make you captain of this sinking ship.” Because the woman outweighed her by a
good fifty pounds and looked frazzled enough to put up a good, entertaining
fight, Eve was tempted to haul her along personally. It was too bad she
couldn't spare the time. Instead, she signaled to a couple of beefy uniforms,
indicated the woman with a jerk of her thumb.

“Move this,”
was all she said and pushed her way through the noisy, complaining crowd of
evacuees.

She could see
the impressive block-long expanse of stage. A full dozen cops in riot gear were
posted on it to keep any ticket holders from scrambling in that direction. The
heavy red curtain was raised, the stage lights brilliant. No one, she thought
dryly, would mistake the helmeted figures onstage for The Rockettes.

Babies wailed,
the elderly griped, and a half dozen schoolgirls clutching their souvenir
Rockette dolls wept silently.

The cover
story of a water main leak had staved off panic, but it didn't make for
cheerful cooperation from the civilians.

The evacuation
teams were making progress, but it was no easy task to move several thousand
annoyed ticket holders out of a warm theater and into the cold. The main lobby
area was jammed shoulder to shoulder.

And there were
countless other rooms, lounges, lobbies. Beyond the public areas there were
dressing rooms, control centers, offices. Each one had to be searched, emptied,
secured.

Add panic to
annoyance, Eve mused, and you'd have several hundred casualties before they hit
the doors. She slapped on her headset and climbed onto a wide Art Deco table to
look down on the grumbling horde being pushed along through the grandiose lobby
with its stylized glass and chrome.

She switched
on her mike. “This is the NYPSD,” she announced over the echoing din. “Your
cooperation is appreciated. Please don't block the exits. Continue to move
outside.” She ignored the shouts and questions thrown at her and repeated her
statement twice more.

A woman in her
matinee pearls curled a hand around Eve's booted ankle. “I know the mayor. He's
going to hear about this.”

Eve nodded
pleasantly. “Give him my best. Please proceed in an orderly fashion. We
apologize for any inconvenience.”

The word inconvenience
pushed the bitch button. The shouts increased even as uniforms firmly led
people through the doors. Eve had just swiveled her mouthpiece aside, pulled
out her communicator for another status check when she saw someone come in
instead of out.

Her blood went
instantly on boil as Roarke slid gracefully through the crowd toward her.

Her teeth were
grinding as she stared down at him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Insuring that
my property -- and my wife,” he added just deliberately enough to make her
snarl, “remain in one piece.”

He hopped
agilely beside her. “May I?” he began and snatched her headset.

“That's police
property, ace.”

“Which means
it's an inferior product, but it should do the job.”

Then, looking
cool and sleek, he addressed the disorderly crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the
staff and performers of Radio City apologize for this difficulty. All tickets
and transportation costs incurred will be fully refunded. An alternate date
will be set for today's matinee at no change to any ticket holders who wish to
attend. We appreciate your understanding.”

The noise
level didn't abate, but the tone of it altered dramatically. Roarke could have
told Eve that money, unfailingly, talks.

“Pretty slick,
aren't you?” she muttered and swung down behind the table.

“You need them
out,” he said simply. “What's your status?”

She waited
until he stood down with her, then contacted Anne. “We're about fifty percent
evacuated. It's moving, but slow. Where are you?”

“About the
same. We've got half. Cooled one in the organ console. Working on one in the
orchestra pit now. This one's almost a lock, but they're scattered all over
hell and back. I've only got so many men.”

Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw Roarke checking a handheld scanner. It sank sickness
into her gut. “Keep me posted. You,” she said as she turned to him. “Get out.”

“No.” He
didn't bother to look up but did lay a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from
moving in on him. “There's one up on the catwalk. I'll take that one.”

“You're taking
nothing but a hike, and now.”

“Eve, we both
know there's no time to argue. If these people have the building under
surveillance, they know you've tagged them. They could decide to detonate any
time now.”

“Which is why
all civilians -- “ She broke off rather than talk to his back. He'd already
turned away and was slipping quickly through the oncoming crowd. “Goddamn it,
goddamn it, goddamn it.” Fighting off panic, she muscled her way through after
him.

She caught up
just as he was unlocking a side door and managed to push her way in behind him.

It slammed,
locked, and they eyed each other narrowly. “I don't need you here,” they said
together. Roarke very nearly chuckled.

“Never mind.
Just don't crowd me.” He moved fast up narrow metal steps, moved quickly along
twisting corridors.

Eve saved her
breath. They were in it now, win or lose.

She could hear
the echoes of voices from below, just a hum as the walls were thick. Here the
theater was plain and functional, like an actor without costume or makeup.

Roarke took
another set of steps, more narrow than the last, and came out on what looked to
Eve like the deck of a ship.

It swung out
over the plush seats, gave a full view of the stage far below. As heights
weren't on her list of favorite things, she turned away and studied the massive
and complicated control panels, puzzled over the thick hanging hanks of rope.

“Where ...”
she began, then lost all power of speech as he stepped through an opening and
out into space.

“I won't be
long.”

“Jesus,
Roarke. Jesus!” She scrambled over, saw he was not actually walking on air. But
from her perspective, he might as well have been. The platform was no more than
two feet wide, a kind of bridge that spanned above the theater, slicing through
huge hanging lights, more ropes and pulleys, metal beams.

Even as she
stepped onto it after him, her ears began to buzz. She'd have sworn she could
feel her brain start to swim in her skull.

“Go back, Eve.
Don't be so stubborn.”

“Shut up, just
shut up. Where is the fucker?”

“Here.” For
both their sakes, he put her fear of heights out of his mind. And hoped she
could do the same. Nimbly, he pivoted, knelt, then leaned over in a way that
made Eve's stomach flip in one long, slow rotation. “Under this catwalk.”

He ran the
scanner as Eve gratefully lowered to her hands and knees. She kept her teeth
gritted and told herself to watch him. Don't look down. Don't look down.

Of course, she
looked down.

The crowd was
thin now, just a few dozen stragglers being hurried along by uniforms. The trio
of E and B men in the orchestra pit looked like toys, but she heard their shout
of triumph through the ocean roar of blood in her ears.

“They took out
another one.”

“Mmm,” was
Roarke's only comment.

With sweaty
fingers, she took out her communicator and answered Anne's beep. “Dallas.”

“We've got two
more down. Closing in. I'm sending a team to the catwalk and another -- “

“I'm on the
catwalk. We're working on this one.”

“We?”

“Just do the
rest.” She blinked her vision clear and saw Anne stride out onstage, look up.
“We're under control here.”

“I hope to
Christ you are. Malloy out.”

“Are we under
control here, Roarke?”

“Hmm. It's a
clever little bastard. Your terrorists have deep pockets. I could use Feeney,”
he said absently, then held out a mini-light. “Hold this.”

“Where?”

“Just here.”
He indicated, then glanced at her, noted she was dead pale and clammy. “On your
belly, darling. Breathe slow.”

“I know how to
breathe.” She snapped it out, then bellied down. Her stomach might have been
doing a mad jig, but her hand was rock steady.

“Good, that's
good.” He stretched out across from her so they were nearly nose to nose and
went to work with a delicate tool that glinted silver in the lights. “They want
you to snip these wires here. If you do, you'll be blown into several
unattractive pieces. They're a front,” he went on conversationally while he
carefully removed a cover. “A lure. They've made it to appear to be a
second-rate boomer when in reality ... Ah, there's that little beauty. When in
reality, it's top of the line, plaston-driven, with compu-remote trigger.”

“That's
fascinating.” Her breath wanted to come in pants. “Kill the bastard.”

“Normally, I
admire your kick-in-the-face style, Lieutenant. But try that with this, and the
two of us will be making love in heaven tonight.”

“Heaven
wouldn't have either of us.”

He smiled. “Wherever,
then. It's this chip I need. Turn the light a bit. Aye, that's the way. I'll
need both hands here, Eve, so I'll need one of yours as well.”

“For what?”

“To catch this
when it pops out. If they're as clever as I think, they'd have used an impact chip.
Which means if this little darling falls, hits below, it'll take out a good
dozen rows and put a very nasty crater in my floor. Very possibly shaking us
off our perch here with the backwash. Ready?”

“Oh sure.
Absolutely.” She rubbed her sweaty hand on her butt, then held it out. “So you
figure we can still have sex, wherever?”

He glanced up
long enough to grin at her. “Oh sure. Absolutely.” He took her hand, squeezed
it once, then lowered it. You're going to need to lean out a bit. Keep your eye
on what I'm doing. Watch the chip.”

She emptied
her mind, shifted so that her head and shoulders were unsupported. She stared
at the little black box, the colorful wires, the dull green of the miniboard.

“This one.” He
touched the point of his tool to a gray chip no bigger than the first knuckle
on a baby's pinkie.

“I've got it.
Finish the job.”

“Don't squeeze
it. Be gentle. On three then. One, two.” He slid the tip around the edge of the
chip, pried it gently. “Three.” And it snapped out with a quiet click that sounded
like a bomb blast to Eve's ears.

It hit her
cupped palm, bounced. She rolled her fingers into a loose fist. “Got it.”

“Don't move.”

“I'm not going
anywhere.”

Roarke pushed
up to his knees, took out a handkerchief. Taking Eve's hand, he uncurled her
fingers and placed the chip in the center of the silk, folded it, folded again.
“Not much padding, but better than nothing. He slipped it into his back pocket.
“As long as I don't sit on it, we'll be fine.”

“Be careful. I
like your ass too much to see it blown off. Now, how the hell do we get off of
here?”

“We could go
back the way we came.” But there was a glint in his eye as he stood. “Or we can
have some fun with it.”

“I don't want
any fun.”

“I do.” He
took her hand to help her to her feet, then reached out to grip a rope and
pulley. “Do you know what today's matinee was?”

“No.”

“A revival of
that longtime children's favorite, Peter Pan. Hold tight, darling.”

“Don't.” But
he'd already pulled her close and in automatic defense, her arms locked around
him. “I'll kill you for this.”

“The pirates
look great swinging to stage on these. Inhale,” he suggested, then with a laugh
swung free.

She felt a
rush of wind that took her stomach and flung it behind her. Before her glazed
eyes, she watched color and shape fly. The only thing that stopped her from
screaming was pride, and even that was nearly used up as they flew over the
orchestra pit.

Then the crazy
man she was somehow married to closed his mouth silkily over hers. A hot little
ball of pure lust burned along with terror, and both managed to jelly her knees
so they buckled clumsily when her boots hit the stage.

“You're dead.
You're meat.”

He kissed her
again and chuckled against her mouth. “It was worth it.”

“Nice
entrance.” Feeney, his face rumpled and weary, walked toward them. “Now, if you
kids have finished playing, we've got two more of these bastards still armed.”

Eve elbowed
Roarke aside and managed to stand on her own. “Civilians out?”

“Yeah, we're
clear there. If they stick to deadline, we should make it. Cutting it damn
close, but -- “

He broke off
as the rumble sounded below and the stage shook beneath their feet. Above,
lights and cables swung wildly.

“Oh hell, oh
shit.” Eve slapped her communicator into her hand. “Malloy? Anne? Report. Give
me a report. Anne? Do you copy?”

The answering
buzz had her gripping Feeney's shoulder, then there was a crackle. “Malloy
here. We had it contained. No injuries, no casualties. The timer went and we
had to contain and detonate. Repeat, no injuries. But this understage area is
one holy mess.”

“Okay. All
right.” Eve rubbed a hand over her face. “Status?”

“We got them
all, Dallas. This building's clean.”

“Report to the
conference room at Central when you're secured here. Good work.” She broke
transmission, spared Roarke a quick glance. “You're with me, pal.” She offered
Feeney a brief nod before striding off. “We'll need all security data on this
building, a complete list of personnel -- techs, performers, maintenance,
managerial. Everyone.”

“I ordered
that for you when I learned the target. It should be waiting for you at
Central.”

“Fine. Then
you can go back to buying the planet and stay out of my hair. Give me the
chip.”

He lifted a
brow. “What chip?”

“Don't be
cute. Let me have the impact chip or whatever it's called.”

“Oh, that
chip.” With the appearance of cooperation, he took out his handkerchief,
unfolded it. And revealed nothing. “I seem to have lost it somewhere.”

“Like hell.
Give me the goddamn chip. Roarke. It's evidence.”

Smiling
blandly, he shook the handkerchief, shrugged.

She moved in
until her toes bumped his. “Give me the damn thing, Roarke.” She hissed it out.
“Before I order you strip-searched.”

“You can't do
that without a warrant. Unless, of course, you'd like to do it yourself, in
which case I'd be more than delighted to waive a few of my civil rights.”

“This is an
official investigation.”

“It was my
property, twice. My woman, twice.” His eyes had gone very cool. “You know where
to find me if you need me, Lieutenant.”

She grabbed
his arm. “If 'my woman' is your new way of saying 'my wife,' I don't like it
any better.”

“I didn't
think you would.” He gave her a friendly kiss on the brow. “See you at home.”

She didn't
bother to snarl. Instead, she contacted Peabody to let the rest of the team
know they were heading in.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Clarissa raced
into the workroom where Zeke was quietly fashioning the grooves for the
tongue-and-groove joints on his cabinet. He glanced up in surprise, noted that
her eyes were huge, her face flushed.

“Did you
hear?” she demanded. “Someone tried to set off a bomb in Radio City.”

“In the
theater?” His brow furrowed as he set down his tools. “Why?”

“I don't know.
Money or something, I suppose.” She brushed a hand over her hair. “Oh, you're
not using the entertainment center. I thought you would have heard. They aren't
giving out any real details, just that the building's been secured and there's
no danger.”

She fluttered
her hands as if she didn't know what to do with them now. “I didn't mean to
interrupt your work.”

“It's all
right. That's such a beautiful old place. Why would anyone want to destroy it?”

“People are so
cruel.” She ran a fingertip along one of the smoothly sanded boards he had
stacked on a worktable. “Sometimes there's no reason for it at all. It just is.
I used to go to the Christmas show there every year. My parents would take me.”
She smiled a little. “Good memories. I suppose that's why I got so upset when I
heard the news. Well, I should let you get back to work.”

“I was about
to take a break.” She was lonely -- and more. He was sure of it. Out of
politeness, he avoided looking beyond, scanning her aura. He could see enough
in her face. She'd used enhancers carefully, but the faint bruise on her cheek
showed, as did the results of weeping.

He opened his
lunch sack, took out his bottle of juice. “Would you like a drink?”

“No. Yes. Yes,
I suppose I would. You don't have to bring your lunch Zeke. The AutoChef is
fully stocked.”

“I'm sort of
used to my own.” Because he sensed she needed it, he smiled. “Got any glasses?”

“Oh, of
course.” She walked to a doorway, disappeared through it.

He tried not
to pay close attention. Really, he did. But it was such a pleasure to watch her
move. All that nervous energy just under the seamless grace. She was so tiny,
so beautiful.

So sad.

Everything
inside him wanted to comfort her.

She came back
with two tall, clear glasses, then set them down so she could study his work.
“You've already done so much. I've never seen the stages of something being
built by hand, but I thought it would take much more time.”

“It's just a
matter of sticking with it.”

“You love what
you do.” She looked back at him, her eyes just a little too bright, her smile
just a little too wide. “It shows. I fell in love with your work the first time
I saw it. With the heart of it.”

She stopped,
laughed at herself. “That sounds ridiculous. I'm always saying something
ridiculous.”

“No, it's not.
It's what matters to me, anyway.” He picked up a glass he'd filled, offered it.
He didn't feel tongue-tied and miserably shy around her as he often did with
women. She needed a friend, and that made all the difference. “My father taught
me that whatever you put of yourself in your work, you get back twice over.”

“That's nice.”
Her smile softened. “It's so important to have family. I miss mine. I lost my
parents a dozen years ago and still miss them.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” She
sipped the juice, stopped, sipped again. “Why, this is wonderful. What is it?”

“It's just one
of my mother's recipes. Mixed fruit, heavy on the mango.”

“Well, it's
marvelous. I drink entirely too much coffee. I'd be better off with this.”

“I'll bring
you a jug if you like.”

“That's kind
of you, Zeke. You're a kind man.” She laid a hand over his. As their eyes met,
he felt his heart stumble in his chest, fall flat. Then she slid her hand, and
her gaze, aside. “It, ah, smells wonderful in here. The wood.”

All he could
smell was her perfume, as soft and delicate as her skin. The back of his hand
throbbed where her fingers had skimmed it. “You've hurt yourself, Mrs.
Branson.”

She swung
around quickly. “What?”

“There's a
bruise on your cheek.”

“Oh.” Panic
shadowed her eyes as she lifted her hand to the mark. “Oh, it's nothing. I...
tripped earlier. I tend to move too fast and not watch where I'm going.” She
set her glass down, lifted it again. “I thought you were going to call me
Clarissa. Mrs. Branson makes me feel so distant.”

“I can make
you a salve for the bruise, Clarissa.”

Her eyes
filled, threatened to overflow. “It's nothing. But thank you. It's nothing at
all. I should go, let you get back to work. B. D. hates it when I interrupt his
projects.”

“I like the
company.” He stepped forward. He could imagine himself reaching out, taking her
into his arms. Just holding her there. Nothing more than that. But even that,
he understood, was too much. “Would you like to stay?”

“I...” A
single tear spilled over, slipped beautifully down her cheek. “I'm sorry. I'm
so sorry. I'm not myself today. My brother-in-law -- I suppose, the shock.
Everything. I haven't been able to ... B. D. hates public displays.”

“You're not in
public now.”

And he was
reaching out, taking her into his arms where she fit as if she'd been designed
for him. He held her there, nothing more than that. And it wasn't too much at
all.

She wept
quietly, almost silently, her face buried against his chest, her fists clenched
against his back. He was tall, strong, innately gentle. She'd known he would
be.

When the tears
began to slow, she sighed once, twice. “You are kind,” she murmured. “And
patient, letting a woman you barely know cry on your shoulder. I really am
sorry. I suppose I didn't realize I had all that pent up.”

She eased
back, offered him a watery smile. Her eyes glimmered with tears as she lifted
to her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She kissed his
cheek again, just as lightly, but her eyes had darkened, and her heart tripped
against his chest.

The hands
balled against his back opened, spread, stroked, her breath trembled out
through lips just parted.

Then somehow,
without thought or reason, his met them. Naturally as breathing, soft as a
whispered promise. He drew her in, she drew him down into a kiss that spun
delicately out until there was no time, no place for him but here and now.

She seemed to
melt against him, muscle by muscle and bone by bone as if to prove she was as
lost in that moment as he. Then she trembled, then shuddered until her body
quaked almost violently against his.

She yanked
back, her color high, her eyes huge and shocked. “That was -- that was entirely
my fault. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry.”

“It was my
doing.” He was as pale as she was flushed, and every bit as shaken. “I beg your
pardon.”

“You were just
being kind.” She pressed a hand against her heart as if to stop it from
bounding out of her chest. “I'd forgotten how that is. Please, Zeke, let's
forget it.”

He kept his
eyes locked on hers, nodded slowly while his pulse beat like a thousand drums.
“If that's what you want.”

“It's what has
to be. I stopped having choices a long time ago. I have to go. I wish -- “ She
bit back whatever she'd intended to say, shook her head fiercely. “I have to
go,” she said again and dashed from the room.

Alone, Zeke
laid his hands against the workbench, leaned in, and closed his eyes. What in
God's name was he doing? What in God's name had he done?

He'd fallen
flat-faced in love with a married woman.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Sir.” The
minute Eve walked into the conference room, Peabody was on her feet. Strain
showed in the tightness around her mouth. “You received another communication.”

Eve pulled off
her jacket. “Cassandra?”

“I didn't open
the pouch, but I had it scanned. It's clean.”

With a nod, Eve
took the pouch, turned it over in her hand. It was identical to the first. “The
rest of the team's on the way in. Where's McNab?”

“How would I
know?” It came out in something close to a squeak that had Eve glancing over to
watch Peabody stuff her hands in her pockets, take them out, fold her arms over
her chest. “I don't keep tabs on him. I don't care where he is.”

“Tag him,
Peabody,” Eve said with what she considered admirable patience. “Bring him in.”

“Ah, the
superior officer should send for him.”

“Your superior officer is telling you to get his skinny butt
in here. Now.” Annoyed, Eve dropped into a chair and ripped open the pouch. She
examined the disc briefly, then plugged it into the computer. “Run disc.”

Running. .
. . contents are text only as follows. . . .

We are
Cassandra.

We are the
gods of justice.

We are
loyal.

Lieutenant
Dallas, we enjoyed today's events. We are in no way disappointed in our choice
of you as adversary. In less than our projected time allotted, you located the
described target. We are pleased with your skills.

Perhaps you
believe you won this battle. Though we congratulate you on your quick and
decisive work, we feel, in fairness, we should inform you today's work was only
a test. A preliminary round.

The first
wave of police experts entered the target building at eleven hundred hours and
sixteen minutes. Evacuation proceedings began within eight minutes. You arrived
at target twelve minutes after evacuation had begun.

At any time
during this process, the target could have been destroyed. We preferred
observing.

We found it
interesting that Roarke became personally involved. His arrival was an
unexpected bonus and allowed us to study you working together. The cop and the
capitalist.

Forgive us
for being amused by your fear of heights. We were impressed that despite it,
you performed your duties as the tool of the fascist state. We had expected no
less from you.

In
triggering the last device, we allowed time for containment. Lieutenant Malloy
will confirm that without this time, without this containment, several lives
and a great deal of property would have been lost.

We will not
be as accommodating with the next target.

Our demands
must be met within forty-eight hours. To those initial demands, we now demand a
payment of sixty million dollars in bearer bonds in increments of fifty
thousand dollars. The capitalistic figureheads that line their pockets and
break the back of the masses must be made to pay in coin they worship.

Once
confirmation of the liberation of our compatriots is assured, instructions on
delivery of the monetary penalty will be issued.

To prove
our commitment to the cause, a small demonstration of our power will be made at
precisely fourteen hundred hours.

We are
Cassandra.

“A
demonstration?” Eve glanced at her wrist unit. “In ten minutes.” She pulled out
her communicator. “Malloy, are you still in the target?”

“Just
securing.”

“Get everybody
out, keep out for another fifteen minutes. Run another scan.”

“This place is
clean, Dallas.”

“Run it
anyway. After the fifteen, have Feeney send a unit of exterminators in. The
building's full of bugs. They were watching every move. We'll need the bugs
brought in for analysis, but get out and stay out of the building until after
fourteen hundred.”

Anne opened
her mouth, obviously decided to save her questions, then nodded. “Affirmative.
ETA to Central thirty minutes.”

“Do you think
they got a bomb past the scan?” Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.

“No, but I'm
not taking the chance. We can't track every damn building in the city. They
want to show us how big and bad they are. So they're going to take something
out.” She pushed away from the desk, walked to the window. “There's not a
fucking thing I can do to stop them.”

She scanned
her view of New York, the old brick, the new steel, the crowds of people jammed
onto glides or sidewalks, the nervous, edgy traffic in the streets, the rumble
of it in the air.

Serve and
protect, she thought. That was her job. That was her promise. And now all she
could do was watch and wait.

McNab came in,
looked anywhere but at Peabody. He preferred to pretend she wasn't in the room.
“You sent for me, Lieutenant?”

“See what you
can do with the disc I just ran. Make copies for my files and for the
commander. And what is the status on Fixer's code?”

McNab allowed
himself a small, smug smile and a sly sidelong glance at Peabody. “I just
cracked it.” He held up his own disc and struggled not to scowl as Peabody
turned her head away and studiously examined her nails.

“Why the hell
didn't you say so?” Eve strode over to snatch it out of his hand.

Insulted,
McNab opened his mouth, then shut it tight when he caught Peabody's smirk out
of the corner of his eye. “I'd just run the backups when you sent for me,” he
said stiffly. “I didn't take the time to read the contents comprehensively,” he
continued as Eve jammed the disc home. “But a quick skim indicates he lists all
materials used, all devices made, and there are enough of them to wipe out a
Third World country.”

He paused,
deliberately moving to the other side of Eve as Peabody shifted closer to see
the screen. “Or a major city.”

“Ten pounds of
plaston,” Eve read.

“An ounce
would take out half this level of Cop Central,” he told her. When Eve shifted
to the wall screen, he moved another lateral foot away from Peabody, and she
from him.

“Timers, remotes,
impacts, sound and motion activated.” Eve felt the ice crawl into her stomach.
“They didn't miss a trick. Plenty of security, sensors, surveillance toys, too.
He put together a goddamn warehouse for them.”

“They paid him
plenty,” Peabody murmured. “He's got his costs, his fees, his profits all
listed nice and tidy beside each unit.”

“Hell of a
businessman. Guns.” Eve's eyes narrowed. “He got hold of banned weapons for
them. Those are Urban War era.”

“Is that what
they are?” Interested, McNab leaned closer. “I didn't know what the hell he was
talking about there, but didn't take time to run a check. Fifty ARK-95s?”

“Riot
dispersers, military. A troop could take down a city block of looters --
stunned or terminated -- with a couple of passes.”

Roarke had one
in his collection. She'd tested it herself and had been stunned by the hot
ripple of power up her arms at discharge.

“Why would
they need guns?” Peabody wondered.

“When you
start a war, you arm the troops. It's not a damn political statement.” She shoved
back. “That's smoke. They want the city, and they don't much care if it's in
rubble.” She blew out a breath. “But what the hell do they want to do with it?”

She shifted to
continue the run. Without thinking, both Peabody and McNab moved in. Their
shoulders bumped. Eve glanced back with a baffled scowl when they leaped widely
apart.

“What the hell
are you doing?”

“Nothing.
Sir.” Peabody snapped to attention even as color washed into her cheeks.

“Well, stop
dancing around and contact the commander. Request he join us for debriefing and
update as soon as possible. Inform him of the new deadline.”

“Deadline?”
McNab asked.

“New
communication. A promised demonstration at fourteen hundred.” Eve looked at her
wrist unit. “Less than two minutes from now.” Nothing to be done, she thought,
but deal with the after. She turned back to the screen.

“We've got
what he made them and how many. We don't know, however, if he was their only
source. From his list here, we can calculate that he was paid more than two
million, cash, over a period of three months. I suspect they put that money
back into their pie when they took him out.”

“He knew they
meant to.” McNab glanced over. “Scan down to page seventeen. He adds a sort of
journal there.”

Eve did as he
suggested, then slid her hands into her pockets and read.

It's my own
fault, my own fucking fault. You keep looking at the money, you get blinded. So
the assholes sucked me in, and sucked me deep. This ain't no bank job. They
could take out the National fucking Mint with what I've put together for them.
Maybe it's money, maybe it's not. I don't give a rat's ass.

Guess I
thought I didn't give that rat's ass about nothing. Until I started thinking. I
started remembering. It's smarter not to remember. You got a wife and kids
once, they get blown to pieces, no point in thinking about it the rest of your
life.

But I'm
thinking about it now. I'm thinking what's in the works here is another
Arlington.

These two
jokers I've been dealing with figure I'm old and greedy and stupid. But they're
off. I got enough brain cells left to know they aren't running this song and
dance. Fucking-A. Mechanical muscle's all they are. Muscle with dead eyes. When
I started to tip to how things were, I added a little bonus to one of the
transmitters. Then all I had to do was sit and wait and listen.

Now I know
who they are and what they want. Bastards.

They're
going to have to take me out. It's the only way they can cover their asses. One
day soon, one of them's walking in here and slicing my throat.

I've got to
go under. I've built and handed over to them enough to blow me out of here as
soon as they're done with me. I've got to take what I can and go under deep.
They won't get inside my place, not for a while, and they don't have the brain
power to get to the data on here. This is my backup. The proof, the money,
they're going with me.

Jesus,
Jesus, I'm scared.

I gave them
everything they need to blow this city to hell. And they'll use it. Soon.

For money.
For power. For revenge. And God help us all, for the fun.

It's a
game, that's all. A game played in the name of the dead.

I have to
go under. I have to get out. Need time to think, to figure things out. Christ,
I might have to go to the cops with this. The fucking bastard cops.

But first
I'm getting out. If they come after me, I'm taking the two drones down with me.

“That's it.”
Eve curled her hands into fists. “That's all. He had names, he had data. Why
didn't the stubborn old fuck put the info on his machine?” She whirled away to
pace. “Instead, he takes it with him, whatever he had on them, he takes with
him. And when they off him, they have it all.”

She stalked to
the window. Her view of New York hadn't changed. It was five after two.
“Peabody, I need everything you can get on the Apollo group. Every name, every
incident they took responsibility for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“McNab.” She
turned, stopping when Feeney stepped into the doorway. His face was drawn, his
eyes too dark. “Oh hell. What did they hit?”

“Plaza Hotel.
The tea room.” He walked slowly to the AutoChef, jabbed his finger into the
controls for coffee. “They took it out, and the lobby shops, most of the
goddamn lobby, too. Malloy's headed to the scene. We don't have a body count
yet.”

He took out
the coffee, drank it down like medicine. “They'll need us.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

She'd never
lived through war. Not the kind that killed in indiscriminate masses. Her
dealings with death had always been more personal, more individual. Somehow
intimate. The body, the blood, the motive, the humanity.

What she saw
now had no intimacy. Wholesale destruction accomplished from a distance erased
even that nasty bond between killer and victim.

There was
chaos, the screams of sirens, the wails of the injured, the shouts of onlookers
who stood nearby, both shocked and fascinated.

Smoke
continued to stream out of the once-elegant Fifth Avenue entrance of the
revered hotel to sting the air and the eyes. Hunks of brick and concrete,
jagged spears of metal and wood, glittering remnants of marble and stone lay
heaped with grim pieces of flesh and gore scattered over them.

She saw
tattered rags of colorful cloth, severed limbs, hills of ash. And a single shoe
-- black with a silver buckle. A child's shoe, she thought, unable to stop
herself from crouching down to study it. It would have been shiny, a little
girl's dress-up-for-tea shoe. Now it was dull and splattered with blood.

She
straightened, ordered her heart to chill and her mind to clear, then began to
make her way over, around the rubble and waste.

“Dallas!”

Eve turned,
saw Nadine picking her way through the filth in lady heels and thin hose. “Get
back behind the press line, Nadine.”

“No one's put
up a line.” Nadine lifted a hand to push at her hair while the wind blew it
back in her face. “Dallas. Sweet God. I was finishing up a luncheon speech deal
over at the Waldorf when this came through.”

“Busy day,”
Eve muttered.

“Yeah. All
around. I had to pass on the Radio City story because I was committed to the
lunch. But the station kept me updated. What the hell's going on? Word was you
evacuated over there.”

She paused,
scanned over the destruction. “It wasn't any water main problem. And neither
was this.”

“I don't have
time for you now.”

“Dallas.”
Nadine caught at her sleeve, held firm. Her eyes, when they met Eve's, were
ripe with horror. “People have got to know.” She said it quietly. “They have a
right to.”

Eve jerked her
arm free. She'd seen the camera behind Nadine and the remote mike pinned to her
lapel. Everyone had their jobs. She knew it, understood it.

“I don't have
anything to add to what you see here, Nadine. This isn't the time or the place
for statements.” She looked down again at the small shoe, the silver buckle.
“The dead make their own.”

Nadine held up
a hand to signal her camera operator back. Lifting a hand, she closed it over
her mike and spoke softly. “You're right, and so am I. And just now, it doesn't
matter a damn. If there's anything I can do -- any sources I can tap for you,
just let me know. This time, it's for free.”

Nodding, Eve
turned away. She saw the MTs scurrying, a team of them working frantically on
the bloody mess that must have been one of the doormen. Most of him had been
blown clear, a good fifteen feet from the entrance.

She wondered
if they'd ever find his arm.

She stepped
away and through the blackened hole into what was left of the lobby.

The fire
sprinklers had gone off so that streams and puddles of wet ran through the
waste. Her feet squelched as she pushed through. The stench was bad, very bad.
Blood and smoke and ripe gore. She forced herself not to think about what
littered the floor, ordered herself to ignore the two emergency workers who
were weeping silently as they marked the dead, and looked for Anne.

“We'll need
extra shifts at the morgue and the labs, to deal with IDs.” Her voice was
rusty, so she cleared it. “Can you clear that with Central, Feeney?”

“Yeah, goddamn
it. I brought my daughter here on her sixteenth birthday. Fucking pigs.” He
yanked out his communicator and turned away.

Eve kept
going. The closer she came to point of impact, the worse it got. She'd been
there once before, with Roarke. She remembered the opulence, the elegance. Cool
colors, beautiful people, wide-eyed tourists, excited young girls, groups of
shoppers crowding at tables to experience the old tradition of tea at The
Plaza.

She fought her
way through rubble then stared, cold-eyed, at the blackened crater.

“They never
had a chance.” Anne stepped up beside her. Her eyes were wet and hot. “Not a
fucking chance, Dallas. An hour ago there were people in here, sitting at
pretty tables, listening to a violinist, drinking tea or wine and eating
frosted cakes.”

“Do you know
what they used?”

“There were
children.” Anne's voice rose, broke. “Babies in strollers. It just didn't mean
a damn. Not one damn to them.”

Eve could see
it, and much too well. She already knew it would come back to her in dreams.
But she turned, faced Anne. “We can't help them. We can't go back and stop it.
It's done. All we can do is move forward and try to stop the next. I need your
report.”

“You want
business as usual?” In a move Eve didn't bother to block, Anne snagged her by
the shirt front. “You can stand here and look at this and want business as
fucking usual?”

“They do,” Eve
said quietly. “That's all this is to them. If we're going to stop them, we have
to do the same.”

“You want a
goddamn droid. You can go to hell.”

“Lieutenant
Malloy.” Peabody stepped forward, laid a hand on her arm.

Eve had
forgotten Peabody was there, and now shook her head. “Stand back, Officer. I'll
settle for a droid if you can't give me your report, Lieutenant Malloy.”

“You'll get a
report when I've got something to give you,” Anne snapped. “And right now I
don't need you in my face.” She shoved Eve aside and pushed her way through the
ruins.

“She was off,
Dallas, way off.”

“Doesn't
matter.” But it stung, Eve realized, more than a little. “She'll pull herself
back together. I want you to edit that from the record. It isn't pertinent.
We'll need masks and goggles from the field kit. We won't be able to work in
here otherwise.”

“What are we
going to do in here?”

“The only
thing we can at this point.” Eve rubbed her stinging eyes. “Help the emergency
team collect the dead.”

It was
miserable and gruesome work -- the kind that would live inside you always
unless you turned off everything you were.

It wasn't
people she was dealing with, she told herself, but pieces, evidence. Whenever
her shield began to slip, whenever the horror of it crept through, she yanked
it up again, blanked her mind, and went on with the job.

It was dark
when she stepped outside with Peabody. “You all right?” Eve asked.

“I'll get
there. Jesus, Dallas, sweet Jesus.”

“Go home, take
a soother, get drunk, call Charles and have sex. Use whatever works, but blank
it out.”

“Maybe I'll go
for all three.” She tried for a halfhearted smile, then spotted McNab coming
their way and stiffened like a flagpole.

“I need a
drink.” He looked directly, deliberately at Eve. “I need a whole bunch of
drinks. Do you want us back at Central?”

“No. We've had
enough for one day. Report at eight hundred hours.”

“You got it.”
Then, following the lecture he'd given himself off and on throughout the day,
he made himself look at Peabody. “You want a lift home?

“I -- well...”
Flustered, she shifted from foot to foot. “No, um. No.”

“Take the
lift, Peabody. You're a mess. No point in fighting public transpo at this
hour.”

“I don't
want...” Before Eve's baffled eyes she blushed like a schoolgirl. “I think it
would be better. ..” She coughed, cleared her throat. “I appreciate the offer,
McNab, but I'm fine.”

“You look
tired, that's all.” And Eve watched in amazement as his color rose as well. “It
was rough in there.”

“I'm okay.”
She lowered her head, stared at her shoes. “I'm fine.”

“If you're
sure. Well, ah, eight hundred hours. Later.”

With his hands
in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, he headed off.

“What's the
deal here, Peabody?”

“Nothing. No
deal.” Her head came up sharply, and despising herself, she watched McNab walk
away. “Not a deal. Not a thing. Nothing going on.”

Stop it, she
ordered herself as babbling continued to stream out of her mouth. “Zip. Zero
happening here. Oh look.” With outrageous relief for the distraction, she saw
Roarke step out of a limo. “Looks like you've got a lift. A class one.”

Eve looked
across the avenue, studied Roarke in the blinking red and blue emergency
lights. “Take my vehicle and go home, Peabody. I'll get transpo to Central in
the morning.”

“Yes, sir,”
she said, but Eve was already crossing the street.

“You've had a
lousy day, Lieutenant.” He lifted a hand, started to stroke her cheek, but she
stepped back.

“No, don't
touch me. I'm filthy.” She saw the look in his eyes, knew he'd ignore her, and
yanked the door open herself. “Not yet. Okay? God, not yet.”

She climbed
in, waited for him to settle beside her, order the driver to take them home,
then lift the privacy screen.

“Now?” he said
quietly.

Saying
nothing, she turned to him, turned into him. And wept.

-=O=-***-=O=-

It helped, the
tears and the man who understood her enough to offer nothing more until they
were shed. When they were home, she took a hot shower, and the wine he poured
her and was grateful he said nothing.

They ate in
the bedroom. She'd been certain she wouldn't be able to swallow. But the first
spoonful of hot soup hit her raw stomach like a blessing.

“Thanks.” She
sighed a little, leaned her head back against the cushions in the seating area.
“For giving me an hour. I needed it.”

She needed
more than an hour, Roarke thought, studying the pale face, the bruised eyes.
But they'd take it a step at a time. “I was there earlier.” He waited while her
eyes opened. “I would have done what I could to help you, but civilians weren't
permitted.”

“No.” She
closed her eyes again. “They're not.”

But he had
seen, briefly at least, he had seen the carnage, the horrors, and her. He had
seen her deal with it, her hands steady, her eyes dark with the pity she
thought she hid from everyone.

“I don't envy
you your job, Lieutenant.”

She nearly
smiled at that. “You can't prove that to me when you're always popping up into
it.” With her eyes still closed, she reached out for his hand. “The hotel was
one of yours, wasn't it? I didn't have time to check.”

“Yes, it was
one of mine. And so are the people who died in it.”

“No.” Her eyes
flashed open. “They're not.”

“Only yours,
Eve? Are the dead your exclusive property?” He rose, restless, poured a brandy
he didn't want. “Not this time. The doorman who lost his arm, who may yet lose
his life, is a friend of mine. I've known him a decade, brought him over from
London because he had a yen to live in New York.”

“I'm sorry.”

“The wait
staff, the musicians, the desk and bell staff, every one of them died working
for me.” He turned back, and a fierce and cold fury rode in his eyes. “Every
guest, every tourist who wandered through, every single person was under my roof.
By Christ, that makes them mine.”

“You can't
take it personally. No, you can't,” she repeated when his eyes flashed. She got
up, gripped his arm. “Roarke, it's not you or yours they're interested in. It's
their point, it's the power.”

“Why should it
matter to me what they're interested in beyond using that to find them?”

“It's my job
to find them. And I will.”

He set his
brandy down, caught her chin in his hand. “Do you think you'll close me out?”

She wanted to
be furious, and part of her was, if for nothing more than the proprietary way
he held her face. But there was too much at stake, too much to lose. And he was
much too valuable a source. “No.”

His grip
gentled, his thumb skimmed over the shallow dent in her chin. “Progress,” he
murmured.

“Let's understand
each other,” she began.

“Oh, by all
means.”

Now she did
suck in a breath. “Don't start that with me. By all means, my butt. Makes you
sound like some sort of snotty blue blood, and we both know you grew up
scrambling for marks in Dublin alleys.”

Now he
grinned. “See, we already understand each other. You don't mind if I get
comfortable before the lecture, do you?” He sat again, took out a cigarette,
lighted it, then picked up his brandy while she smoldered.

“Are you
trying to irritate me?”

“Not very
hard, but it rarely takes true effort.” He drew in smoke, blew out a fragrant
stream. “I don't really need the lecture, you know. I'm sure I have the salient
points memorized. Such as this is your job, I'm not to interfere. I'm not to
explore any angles on my own, and so on.”

“If you know
the points, why the hell don't you follow them?”

“Because I
don't want to -- and if I did, you wouldn't have Fixer's data decoded.” He
grinned again when she gaped at him. “I had it late this morning and slipped
the code into McNab's unit. He was close, but I was faster. No need to mention
that,” Roarke added. “I'd hate to dent his ego.”

She frowned at
him. “Now I suppose you think I should thank you.”

“Actually, I
was hoping you would.” He crushed out his cigarette, set aside his barely
touched brandy. But when he reached for her hand, she folded her arms over her
chest.

“Forget it,
pal. I've got work.”

“And you'll
reluctantly ask me to assist you with it.” He hooked his fingers in her
waistband and tugged until she tumbled on top of him. “But first...” He rubbed
his mouth persuasively against hers. “I need you.”

Her protest
would have been lukewarm in any case. But those words melted it away. She
skimmed her fingers through his hair. “I guess I can spare a couple of
minutes.”

He laughed,
and tucking her close, reversed position. “In a hurry, are you? Well then.”

Now his mouth
crushed down on hers, hot, greedy, and with enough bite to shoot her pulse from
steady to screaming. She hadn't expected it, but then she never quite did
expect what he could do to her with a touch, with a taste, with as little as a
look.

All the
horror, the pain, the misery she'd waded through that day fell away in the
sheer drive to mate.

“I am. In a
big hurry.” She tugged at the hook of his trousers. “Roarke. Inside me. Come
inside me.”

He yanked down
the soft slacks she'd slipped into after her shower. Mouth still devouring
mouth, he lifted her hips. And he plunged into her.

Into the heat
and the welcome and the wet. His body shuddered once as he swallowed her groan.
Then she was moving under him, driving him, setting a frantic pace that ripped
her to peak and over before he could catch his breath.

She closed
around him, vise tight, erupted around him, nearly dragged him off that fine
edge with her. Gasping for air, he lifted his head, watched her face. God, how
he loved to watch her face when she lost herself. Those dark blind eyes against
flushed skin, that mouth full and soft and parted. Her head tipped back, and
there was that long smooth throat, its pulse wildly beating.

He tasted her
there. Flesh. Soap. Eve.

And felt her
building again, fast and sure, her hips pistoning as she climbed, her breath
ragged as the wave swept in.

And this time,
when it crested, he buried himself deep and let it swamp them both.

He collapsed
on her, let out a long, contented sigh as his system shimmered. “Let's get to
work.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“We're not
doing this in here because I want to get around CompuGuard.” Eve took her stand
in the center of Roarke's private office while he settled down at the control
console of his unregistered -- and illegal -- equipment.

“Mmmm,” was
his response.

She narrowed
her eyes to slits. “It's not the issue here.”

“That's your
story, and I'll stick with it.”

She gave him a
scalpel-thin smile. “Stick your smart-ass comments, pal. The reason I'm going
this route is because I've got good reason to believe Cassandra's got just as
many illegal toys as you do, and likely just as much disregard for privacy.
It's possible they can slide into my equipment here or at Central. I don't want
to chance them getting a line on any part of the investigation.”

Roarke leaned
back, nodded soberly. “And it's a very good story, too, well told. Now, if
you've finished soothing your admirable conscience, why don't you get us some
coffee?”

“I really hate
when you snicker at me.”

“Even when I
have cause?”

“Especially.”
She strode to the AutoChef. “What I'm dealing with here is a group that has no
kind of conscience, that has what appears to be heavy financial resources,
expert technical skills, and a knack for getting by tight security.”

She brought
both mugs to the console, smiled again. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Does it
really?” He said it mildly as he took the coffee she offered.

“Which is why
I'm willing to use everything you've got on this one. Money, resources, skills,
and that criminal brain of yours.”

“Darling, they
are now and always at your service. And following that line, I've made some
progress on Mount Olympus and its subsidiaries.”

“You got
something?” She went on full alert. “Why the hell didn't you tell me?”

“There were
other matters. You needed an hour,” he reminded her. “I needed you.”

“This is
priority,” she began, then stopped herself with a shake of her head.
Complaining was a waste of time. “What have you got?”

“You could
say, nothing.”

“But you just
told me you'd found them.”

“No, I said
I'd made progress, and that progress is nothing. They're nothing. They don't
exist.”

“Of course
they exist.” Frustration shimmered around her. She hated riddles. “They
appeared all over the computer -- electronics companies, storage companies,
office complexes, manufacturers.”

“They exist
only on the computer records,” he told her. “You might call Mount Olympus a
virtual company. But IRL -- in real life -- it's nothing. There are no
buildings, no complexes, no employees, no clients. It's a front, Eve.”

“A virtual
front? What the hell is the point of that?” Then she knew, and swore. “A
distraction, a time waster. Energy defuser, whatever. They knew I'd do a search
and scan on Cassandra, that it would lead me to this Mount Olympus, and then to
the other fake companies. So I waste time chasing down what was never there in
the first place.”

“Not very much
time,” he pointed out. “And whoever set up the maze -- and a very complex and
well-executed maze it was -- doesn't know you've gotten from one end to the
other.”

“They think
I'm still looking.” She nodded slowly. “So I continue to search through EDD,
tell Feeney to take it slow so Cassandra thinks we're still running into
walls.”

“Building
their confidence while you concentrate in other areas.”

She grunted
and, sipping her coffee, paced. “Okay, I'll handle that. Now, I need to know
all I can about the Apollo group. I gave Peabody the assignment, but she'll
have to go through channels and won't find enough data, not fast, anyway. I
don't just want their party line,” she added, turning back to him. “I want
what's under it. I've got to get a handle on them and hope that gives me one on
Cassandra.”

“Then that's
where we'll start.”

“I need names,
Roarke, of known members, living or dead. I need to know where they are, what
happened to them. Then I need names and locations of family members, lovers,
spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.”

She paused,
her eyes going cop flat. “In Fixer's little journal, he mentioned revenge. I
want survivors and loved ones. And I want those closest to James Rowan.”

“The FBI will
have files, sealed, but they'll have them.” He lifted a brow, amused by the
obvious struggle on her face. “It'll take some time.”

“We're a
little pressed in that area. Can you zing whatever you pull up into one of the
auxiliary units? I can start a comparison run on ID, see if I can tag anyone
connected who worked or works in the three target buildings.”

He nodded
toward a machine on the left of his console. “Help yourself. I'd focus on
lower-level positions,” he suggested. “Security checks are likely to be
spottier there.”

She settled
down, spending the next twenty minutes reviewing everything she could find on
the Pentagon bombing. At the control center, Roarke went coolly about the
business of bypassing FBI security and delving into sealed files.

He knew the
route -- had taken it before -- and slid through the locked levels like a
shadow through the dark. Occasionally, for his own amusement, he checked in to
see just what the Bureau had in their file marked Roarke.

It was
surprisingly lean for data on a man who had been and done and acquired all he
had been and done and acquired. Then again, he'd erased and destroyed a great
deal of that data, or at least altered it, when he'd still been a teenager.
Files at the FBI, Interpol, IRCCA, and Scotland Yard contained nothing he didn't
care for them to contain.

It was, he
liked to think, a matter of privacy.

He regretted
only mildly the fact that since he'd met Eve, none of those agencies had cause
to add any interesting facts about his activities.

Love had him
walking the straight and narrow, with only the occasional step into the dark.

“Incoming,” he
murmured, and had Eve's head coming up.

“Already?”

“It's only the
FBI,” he pointed out, and tipping back in his chair, ordered data onto the wall
screen. “There's your head man. James Thomas Rowan, born in Boston, June 10,
1988.”

“They so
rarely look like madmen,” Eve murmured, studying the image. A handsome face
with sharp bones, easily smiling mouth, clear blue eyes. His dark hair was shot
with distinguished gray, lending him the look of a successful executive or
politician.

“Jamie, as he
was called by friends, came from good, solid, New England stock.” Roarke angled
his head as he read data. “And healthy Yankee money. Prep schools, Harvard.
Poli-sci major. Likely being groomed for politics. Did his military stint --
angled into Special Forces. He did some work for the CIA. Parents deceased, one
sibling. Sister. Julia Rowan Peterman.”

“Professional
mother, retired,” Eve read. “She lives in Tampa. We'll check her out.”

She rose as
much to stretch her legs as to get a closer look at the screen. “Married Monica
Stone, 2015. Two children: Charlotte, DOB September 14, 2016, and James Junior,
DOB February 8, 2019. Where's Monica?”

“Display
current data on Monica Stone Rowan,” Roarke ordered. “Split screen.”

Going by the
age of the subject, Eve decided the picture was fairly recent. So the Bureau
was keeping tabs. She'd probably been an attractive woman once. The bones were
still good, but lines had dug deep around her mouth, her eyes, and both the
mouth and eyes carried bitterness. Her hair had gone gray and was carelessly
cut.

“She lives in
Maine.” Eve pursed her lips. “Alone and unemployed. Pulls in a retired
professional mother's pension. I bet it's stinking cold in Maine this time of
year.”

“You'll have
to wear your long Johns, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah. It'll
be worth a little chill to talk to Monica. Where are the kids?”

Roarke called
the data up and had Eve raising her brow. “Believed dead. Both of them? Same
date? Get me more here, Roarke.”

“One minute.
You'll note,” he added as he bent to the task, the dates of death coincide with
the date James Rowan was killed.”

“February 8,
2024. I saw that.”

“Explosion.
The feds blew up his house, though the public stand is he did the job himself.”
He glanced up again, face blank and set. “But that's confirmed in this file --
time, unit, authorization to terminate. It appears he had his children in the
house with him.”

“You're
telling me the FBI bombed his house to take him out, and took two kids along
for the ride?”

“Rowan, his
children, the woman he'd taken as his lover. One of his top lieutenants and
three other members of Apollo.” Roarke rose, moved to get more coffee. “Read
the file, Eve. They'd tagged him. They'd been hunting him since his group had
claimed responsibility for the Pentagon bombing. The government wanted payment,
and they were pissed.”

He brought
fresh coffee to Eve. “He'd gone under, moved from location to location. Using
new names, new faces when necessary.” Roarke settled behind her as they read
the data. “He still managed to make his videos and get them on air. But he
stayed a step or two ahead of the hounds for several months.”

“With his
kids,” she murmured.

“According to
these files, he kept them close. Then the FBI ran him to ground, surrounded his
house, moved in, and did the job. They wanted to take him out and break the
back of the group. That's what they did.”

“It didn't
have to be done that way.”

“No.” He met
her eyes. “It's rare in war for either side to consider the innocent.”

Why hadn't
they been with their mother? It was
her first thought, one that came unwillingly to mind. What did she know of
mothers? she reminded herself. Her own had left her in the hands of the man
who'd beaten and raped her throughout her childhood.

And would the
woman who had given birth to her have carried the same bitter look in her eyes
as the woman now on-screen? Would she have had that same tight-lipped scowl?

What did it
matter?

She shoved the
thought aside, sipped her coffee again. For once, Roarke's superior blend left
a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Revenge,” she
said. “If Fixer was right and that's part of the motive, this could be the root
of it. 'We are loyal,'“ she murmured. “Every message they send has that phrase
in it. Loyal to Rowan? To his memory?”

“A logical
step.”

“Henson.
Feeney said a man named William Henson was one of Rowan's top men. Do we have a
dead list on here?”

Roarke brought
it up to the wall screen. “Christ Jesus,” he said quietly. “There are
hundreds.”

“From what I
was told, the government hunted them down for years.” Quickly, Eve scanned the
names. “And they weren't too particular about it. Henson's not on here.”

“No. I'll run
a check on him for you.”

“Thanks. Shoot
this much through to my machine here, and keep digging.”

He stopped her
by brushing a hand over her hair. “It hurts you. The children.”

“It reminds
me,” she corrected, “of what it's like to have no choice, and to have your life
in the hands of someone who thinks of you as a thing to be used or discarded as
the mood strikes.”

“Some love,
Eve, and fiercely.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “And some don't.”

“Yeah, well,
let's see what Rowan and his group loved, and fiercely.”

She turned
away to man her computer.

The answer,
she thought, was in the series of statements on file that Apollo had issued
during its three-year run.

We are the
gods of war.

Each statement
began with that single line. Arrogance, violence, and power, she thought.

We have
determined the government is corrupt, a useless vehicle for those inside it,
used for exploitation of the masses, for suppression of ideas, for the
perpetuation of futility. The system is flawed and must be eradicated. Out of
its smoke and ashes, a new regime will rise. Stand with us, you who believe in
justice, in honor, in the future of our children who cry for food and comfort
while the soldiers of this doomed government destroy our cities.

We who are
Apollo will use their own weapons against them. And we will triumph. Citizens
of the world, break the chains binding you by the establishment with their fat
bellies and bloated minds. We promise you freedom.

Attack the
system, she decided, cry out for the common man, for the intellect. Justify the
mass murder of innocents, and promise a new way.

We are the
gods of war.

Today at
noon, our wrath struck down the military establishment known as the Pentagon.
This symbol and structure of this faltering government's military strength has
been destroyed. All within were guilty. All within are dead.

Once again,
we call for the unconditional surrender of the government, a statement by the
so-called Commander-in-Chief resigning all power. We demand that all military
personnel, all members of the police forces lay down their weapons.

We who are
Apollo promise clemency for those who do so within seventy-two hours. And
annihilation for those who continue to oppose us.

It was
Apollo's most sweeping statement, Eve noted. Broadcast less than six months
before Rowan's house had been destroyed, with all its occupants.

What had he
wanted, she wondered, this self-proclaimed god? What all gods wanted.
Adulation, fear, power, and glory.

“Would you
want to rule the world?” she asked Roarke. “Or even the country?”

“Good God, no.
Too much work for too little remuneration, and very little time left over to
enjoy your kingdom.” He glanced over. “I much prefer owning as much of the
world as humanly possible. But running it? No thanks.”

She laughed a
little, then propped her elbows on the counter. “He wanted to. When you take
out all the dreck, he just wanted to be president or king or despot. Whatever
the term would be. It wasn't money,” she added. “I can't find a single demand
for money. No ransoms, no terms. Just surrender, you fascist pig cops, or
resign and tremble, you big fat politicians.”

“He came from
money,” Roarke pointed out. “Often those who do fail to appreciate its charms.”

“Maybe.” She
skimmed back to Rowan's personal file. “He ran for mayor of Boston twice. Lost
twice. Then he ran for governor and didn't pull it off, either. You ask me, he
was just pissed. Pissed and crazy. The combo's lethal more often than not.”

“Is his motive
important at this point?”

“You can't get
a full picture without it. Whoever's pushing the buttons in Cassandra's linked
to him. But I don't think they're pissed.”

“Just crazy
then?”

“No, not just.
I haven't figured out what else yet.”

She shifted,
rolled her shoulders, then set up to run comparisons on the names Roarke had
fed into her machine.

It was a slow
process, and a tedious one that depended more on the computer than its
operator. Her mind began to drift as she watched names, faces, data, skim over
the screen.

She didn't
realize she'd fallen asleep. Didn't know she was dreaming when she found
herself wading through a river of blood.

Children were
crying. Bodies littered the ground, and the ones that still had faces begged
for help. Smoke stung her eyes, her throat, as she stumbled over the wounded.
Too many, she thought frantically. Too many to save.

Hands snatched
at her ankles, some no more than bones. They tripped her up until she was
falling, falling into a deep, black crater piled with still more bodies.
Stacked like cordwood, ripped and torn like broken dolls. Something was pulling
her in, pulling her down until she was drowning in that sea of dead.

Gasping,
whimpering, she clawed her way back, crawled frantically up the slippery side
of the pit until her fingers were raw and bloody.

She was back
in the smoke, crawling still, fighting to breathe, to clear her mind of panic
so that she could do something. Do what needed to be done.

Someone was
crying. Softly, secretly. Eve stumbled forward through the stinking, blinding
mist. She saw the child, the little girl huddled on the ground, balled up,
rocking herself for comfort as she wept.

“It's all
right.” She coughed her throat clear, knelt down, and pulled the girl into her
arms. “We'll get out.”

“There's no
place to go.” The little girl whispered in her ear. “We're already there.”

“We're getting
out.” They had to get out, was all Eve could think. Terror was crawling over
her skin like ants, crab claws of ice were scraping the inside of her belly.
She dragged the child up and began to carry her through the smoke.

Their hearts
thudded against each other's, hard and in unison. And the girl's fingers
gripped like thin wires when voices slithered through the mist.

“I need a
goddamn fix. Why the hell isn't there money for a goddamn fix?”

“Shut the fuck
up.”

Eve stopped
cold. She hadn't recognized the woman's voice, but the man's, the one who'd
answered with that sharp, sneering snap. It was one that lived in her dreams.
In her terrors.

Her father's
voice.

“You shut the
fuck up, you bastard. If you hadn't got me knocked up in the first place, I
wouldn't be stuck in this hole with you and that whiny little brat.”

Breath
shallow, the child like a stone doll in her arms, Eve crept forward. She saw
figures, male, female, hardly more than smudges on the smoke. But she
recognized him. The build, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.

I killed
you, was all she could think. I
killed you, you son of a bitch. Why won't you stay dead?

“They're monsters,”
the child whispered to Eve. “Monsters never die.”

But they did,
Eve thought. If you stood up long enough, they did.

“Should've
gotten rid of it while you had the chance,” the man who had been Eve's father
said with a careless shrug. “Too late now, sweetie-pie.”

“I wish to
Christ I had. I never wanted the little bitch in the first place. Now you owe
me, Rick. Give me the price of a corner fix, or -- “

“You don't
want to threaten me.”

“Goddamn you,
I've been in this hole all day with that sniveling kid. You fucking owe me.”

“Here's what I
owe you.” Eve cowered back at the sound of a fist smashing into bone. The sharp
cry that followed.

“Here's what I
fucking owe both of you.”

She stood
paralyzed as he beat the woman, as he raped her. And realizing the child she
held tight in her arms was herself, she began to scream.

“Eve, stop.
Come on now, wake up.” Roarke had bolted out of his chair at the first scream,
had her up and into his arms by the second. And still she thrashed.

“It's me.” She
shoved at him, kicked. “It's me, and I can't get out.”

“Yes, you can.
You're out now. You're with me now.” Shifting her, he pressed the mechanism on
the wall and brought out the bed. “Come on, all the way back. You're with me.
Understand?”

“I'm all right.
Let go. I'm okay.”

“Not a
chance.” She was shaking even as he sat on the edge of the bed and cradled her
in his lap. “Just relax. Just hold onto me and relax.”

“I fell
asleep, that's all. I nodded off for a minute.” He eased her back to study her
face. It was the understanding in his eyes, those fabulous eyes, the patience
there and the love that did her in. “Oh God.” Surrendering, she pressed her
face to his shoulder. “Oh God, oh God. Just give me a minute.”

“All you
need.”

“I guess I
hadn't let go of today. Everything. All those people -- what was left of them.
You can't let it get in the way of the job, or you can't do the job.”

“So it slices
you up when you shut down.”

“Maybe.
Sometimes.”

“Darling Eve.”
He brushed his lips over her hair. “You suffer for all of them. And always
have.”

“If they're
not people to me, what's the point?”

“None. Not for
you. I love who you are.” He drew back again to stroke her cheek. “And still,
it worries me. How much can you give and still stand up to it?”

“As much as it
takes. It wasn't only that.” She drew a breath, then another, steadying
herself. “I don't know if it was a dream or a memory. I just don't know.”

“Tell me.”

She did,
because with him she could. She told him of finding the child, of the vague
figures in the smoke. Of what she'd heard, and what she'd seen.

“You think it
was your mother.”

“I don't know.
I have to get up. I have to move.” She rubbed her hands over her arms when he
released her. “Maybe I was -- what do they call it? Projecting or transposing.
What the hell. I'd been thinking of Monica Rowan, what kind of woman would have
turned her kids over to a man like James Rowan. Like I said before, it reminded
me.”

“We don't know
that she did.”

“Well, he had
them, anyway, just like my father had me. It's probably all it was. I've never
had any memory of her. I've got nothing of her.”

“You've
remembered other things,” he pointed out, and rose to warm her arms himself.
“This could be one of them. Eve, talk to Mira.”

“I'm not ready
for that.” She pulled back immediately. “I'm not ready. I'll know when I am. If
I am.”

“It eats at
you.” And at him, when he saw her suffering like this.

“No, it
doesn't drive my life. It just gets in the way of it sometimes. Remembering
her, if there's anything to remember, isn't going to bring me any peace,
Roarke. To me, she's as dead as he is.”

And that,
Roarke thought as he watched Eve turn back to her machine, wasn't nearly dead
enough.

“You need some
sleep.”

“Not yet. I
can do another hour.”

“Fine.” He
walked to her and had her up and over his shoulder before she could blink.

“Hey!”

“An hour
should be just about right,” he decided. “You rushed me earlier.”

“We're not
having sex.”

“Okay, I'll
have sex. You can just lie there.” He rolled onto the bed with her.

There was
something miraculous about the way his body fit to hers. But she wasn't going
to pay any attention to that little miracle. “What part of no didn't you get?”

“You didn't
say no.” He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek. “You said you weren't having
sex, which is entirely different. If you'd said no ...” His fingers busily
unbuttoned her shirt. “I would, of course, respect that.”

“Okay, listen
up.”

Before she
could speak, his mouth was on hers, soft, seductive. And wonderfully sly. His
hands were already sliding, slipping, searching over her. She didn't quite
choke back the moan.

“Fine.” She
gave up and sighed when his lips laid a hot trail down her throat. “Be an
animal.”

“Thank you,
darling. I'd love to.”

He took every
bit of the hour, while the machines hummed away. He pleased her, and himself,
knowing when her body went lax with release under his, she would tumble
mindlessly into sleep.

And for a
night, at least, there would be no more dreams.

-=O=-***-=O=-

It was dark in
the room when she awoke, with just the lights from the console and screens
flickering. Blinking, her brain still musty, she sat up and saw Roarke at the
controls.

“What time is
it?” She didn't remember she was naked until she swung her legs from the bed.

“Just six. You
have some matches here, Lieutenant. They're on disc and hard copy.”

“Did you
sleep?” She started to search for her pants, and saw the robe neatly laid
across the foot of the bed. The man never missed a damn step.

“Yes. I
haven't been up long. I assume you're going straight in today?”

“Yeah. Team
briefing at eight hundred.”

“The report on
Henson -- what there is of it -- is printed out.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a
number of things to see to today, but you can reach me if you need to.” He
rose, looking dark and dangerous in the half light, the night's growth of beard
shadowing his face, the black robe carelessly belted. “There are a couple of
names on the match list I recognize.”

She took the
hard copy he offered. “I guess it was too much to expect otherwise.”

“Paul Lamont
rings the clearest bell. His father fought in the French Wars before the family
immigrated here. Paul's father was very skilled and passed considerable
knowledge on to his son. Paul is a member of the security team for one of my
businesses here in New York. Autotron. We make droids and various small
electronics.”

“You pals?”

“He works for
me -- and we ... developed a project or two several years ago.”

“And it's not
the kind of project a good cop needs to know about.”

“Exactly. He's
been with Autotron for more than six years now. We haven't had contact beyond
that relationship for nearly that amount of time.”

“Uh-huh. And
what are these skills his dear old dad passed along to him?”

“Paul's father
was a saboteur. He specialized in explosives.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peabody hadn't
slept well. She dragged into work heavy-eyed and vaguely achy, as if she were
coming down with some nasty little bug. She hadn't eaten, either. Though her
appetite was dependable -- sometimes too dependable -- she expected few could
eat hearty after spending several hours tagging body parts.

That she could
have lived with. That was the job, and she had learned how to channel all
thoughts and energies into the job during the months she'd worked under Eve.

What she
couldn't live with, and what spread a thin layer of cranky over fatigue, was
the fact that a great deal of her thoughts -- and not pure ones -- and entirely
too much of her energies had been centered on McNab during the long night.

She hadn't been
able to talk to Zeke. Not about this sudden weird compulsion for McNab. McNab,
for Christ's sake. And she hadn't wanted to talk about the bombing at The
Plaza.

He'd seemed
distracted himself, she thought now, and they'd circled each other the night
before and again that morning.

She'd make it
up to him, Peabody promised herself. She'd carve out a couple of hours that
night and take him to some funky little club for a meal and music. Zeke loved
music. It would do them both good, she decided as she stepped off the guide and
tried to rub the stiffness out of the back of her neck.

She turned
toward the conference room and rammed straight into McNab. He sprang back,
collided with a pair of uniforms who toppled into a clerk from Anti-crime.

Nobody took
his apology very well, and he was red-faced and sweaty by the time he managed
to look Peabody in the eye again. “You, ah, heading into the meeting.”

“Yeah.” She
tugged at her uniform coat. “Just now.”

“Me, too.”
They stared at each other a moment while people shoved by them.

“You shake
anything loose on Apollo?”

“Not much.”
She cleared her throat, tugged her coat again, and finally managed to start
moving. “The lieutenant's probably waiting.”

“Yeah, right.”
He fell into step beside her. “You get any sleep?”

She thought of
warm slick bodies . .. and stared straight ahead. “Some.”

“Me, either.”
His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, but it had to be said. “Look, about
yesterday.”

“Forget it.”
She snapped it out.

“I already
have. But if you're going to walk around all tight-assed about it -- “

“I'll walk any
way I want, and you just keep your hands off me, you moron, or I'll rip your
lungs out and use them for bagpipes.”

“Same goes,
sweetheart. I'd rather kiss the back end of an alley cat.”

Her breath was
coming quick now. Outrage. “I bet that's just your style.”

“Better that
than a stiff-necked uniform with an attitude.”

“Asshole.”

“Twit.”

They turned
together into an empty office, slammed the door. And leapt at each other.

She bit his
lip. He nipped her tongue. She body pressed him against the wall. He managed to
get his hands under her thick coat to squeeze her ass. The moans that ripped
from their throats came out as one single, tortured sound.

Then her back
was against the wall and he filled his hands with her breasts.

“Oh God,
you're built. You are so built.”

He was kissing
her as if he could swallow her whole. As if the universe centered on that one
taste. Her head was spinning too fast for her to catch her own thoughts. And
somehow the bright buttons of her uniform were open and his fingers were on her
flesh.

Who'd have
thought the man had such fabulous fingers?

“We can't do
this.” Even as she said it she was scraping her teeth along his throat.

“I know. We'll
stop. In a minute.” The scent of her -- all starch and soap -- was driving him
crazy. He was fighting with her bra when the 'link behind them beeped and had
them both muffling a scream.

Panting like
dogs, clothes twisted, eyes glazed, they stared at each other with a kind of
horror. “Holy God,” he managed.

“Step back,
step back.” She shoved him hard enough to knock him back on his heels and began
to fumble with her buttons. “It's the pressure. It's the stress. It's
something, because this is not happening.”

“Right, absolutely.
If I don't have sex with you, I think I'm going to die.”

“If you'd die,
I wouldn't have this problem.” She did her buttons up wrong, swore, and fumbled
them open again.

Watching her,
he felt his tongue go thick. “Having sex would be the mother of all mistakes.”

“Agreed.” She
buttoned her uniform again, then met his eyes dead-on. “Where?”

“Your place?”

“Can't. My
brother's staying with me.”

“Mine then.
After shift. We'll just do it, and it's done and we'll, you know. Get it out of
the way and be back to normal.”

“Deal.” With a
brisk nod, she bent and picked up her cap. “Tuck in your shirt, McNab.”

“I don't think
that's a good idea quite yet.” He grinned at her. “Dallas might wonder why I've
got a hard-on the size of Utah.”

Peabody
snorted, straightened her cap. “Your ego, maybe.”

“Baby, we'll
see what you say about that after shift.”

She felt a
little tingling between her thighs, but sniffed. “Don't call me baby,” she told
him and yanked open the door.

She kept her
head up and her eyes straight ahead as she walked the rest of the way to the
conference room.

Eve was
already there, which gave Peabody a quick twinge of guilt. Three boards were
set up, and her lieutenant was busy covering the last of them with hard copy
data.

“Glad you
could make it.” Eve said it dryly without turning around.

“I ran into
... traffic. Do you want me to finish that for you, sir?”

“I've got it.
Get me coffee, and program the screen for hard copy. We won't be using discs on
this.”

“I'll get the
screen,” McNab volunteered. “And I could use some coffee, too. No discs,
Lieutenant?”

“No, I'll
update when the full team's here.”

They went to
work quietly, so quietly that Eve got an itch between her shoulder blades. The
two of them should've been sniping at each other by now, she thought, and
glanced over her shoulder.

Peabody had
given McNab his coffee, which was weird enough. But while she printed out hard
copy of her own discs, she smiled at him. Well, not really a smile, Eve mused,
but close.

“You two take
happy pills this morning?” she asked, then frowned when they both blushed.
“What's the deal?” she began, then shook her head when Anne Malloy and Feeney
came in. “Never mind.”

“Dallas.” Anne
stayed in the doorway. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Make it
quick,” Feeney suggested. “Whitney and the chief are heading in.”

“I'll keep it
short.” Anne drew a breath when Eve joined her at the door. “I want to
apologize for yesterday. I had no call coming down on you that way.”

“It was a
tough scene.”

“Yeah. I've
done tough scenes before.” She glanced into the room, lowered her voice another
notch. “I didn't handle it well, and that won't happen again.”

“Don't beat
yourself up over it, Anne. It wasn't a big deal.”

“Big enough.
You're heading this investigation, and you have to count on all of us. I blew
it yesterday, and you need to know why. I'm pregnant again.”

“Oh.” Eve
blinked, shifted her feet. “Is that good?”

“It is for
me.” With a little laugh, Anne laid a hand on her belly. “Nearly four months
into it now, and I'll tell my shift commander in a couple weeks. I've done it
twice before and it hasn't interfered with my job. It did yesterday. It was the
kids that got me, Dallas, but I've got a handle on it now.”

“Fine. You're
not feeling ... weird or anything?”

“No, I'm good.
I just want to keep it quiet for a few more weeks. Once everybody finds out,
they start the betting pool and the jokes.” She lifted her shoulders. “I'd like
to close this case before all that gets going. So, are we square here?”

“Sure. Here
come the brass,” she murmured. “Give Peabody your report and evidence discs.
We'll be using hard copy.”

Eve remained
in the doorway, at attention. “Commander. Chief Tibble.”

“Lieutenant.”
Tibble, a tall, nearly massive man with sharp eyes, nodded as he walked by her
into the room. He glanced at the boards, then as was his habit, linked his
hands behind his back. “If everyone would please be seated. Commander Whitney,
would you close the door?”

Tibble waited.
He was a patient man and a thorough one, with a mind like a street cop and a
talent for administration. He scanned the faces of the team Whitney had put
together. Neither approval nor disapproval showed on his face.

“Before you
begin your reports, I've come to tell you that both the mayor and the governor
have requested a federal anti-terrorist team to assist in this investigation.”

He watched
Eve's eyes flash and narrow and silently approved her control. “This is not a
reflection on the work being done here. Rather it's a statement as to the scope
of the problem itself. I have a meeting this morning to discuss the progress of
the investigation and to make the final decision as to whether a federal team
should indeed be called in.”

“Sir.” Eve
kept her voice level and her hands on her knees. “If they're called in, which
team heads the investigation?”

His brows
lifted. “If the feds come in, the case would be theirs. You would assist. I
don't imagine that sits well with you, Lieutenant, or any of your team.”

“No, sir, it
doesn't.”

“Well then.”
He moved to a chair, sat. “Convince me that the investigation should remain in
your hands. We've had three bombings in this city in two days. What have you
got, and where are you going with it?”

She rose,
moved to the first board. “The Apollo group,” she began and went step by step
through all the gathered data.

“Henson,
William Jenkins.” She paused there as the square-jawed, tough-eyed face flashed
on-screen. She hadn't had time to closely review the data Roarke had accessed
for her, so she went slowly here. “He served as Rowan's campaign manager, and
according to sources, a great deal more. It's believed he acted as a kind of
general in Rowan's revolution. Assisting and often devising the military
strategies, selecting targets, training and disciplining the troops. Like
Rowan, he had a background in the military and in covert work. Initially, it
was believed he was killed in the explosion that destroyed Rowan's Boston
headquarters, but several subsequent sightings of the subject negated that
belief. He's never been located.”

“You believe
he's part of this current group, Cassandra.” Whitney studied the face
on-screen, then looked at Eve.

“There's a
connection, and it's my belief he's one of the links. The FBI files on Henson
remain open.” She shifted gears and relayed the information on the maze of
false companies inputted into the data banks.

“Apollo,” she
continued. “Cassandra, Mount Olympus, Aries, Aphrodite, and so on. It all
connects. Their expert manipulation of data banks, the high quality of the
materials used in their explosives, the employment of a disenfranchised former
soldier to manufacture their equipment, the tone and content of their
transmissions all connect and echo back to the original group.”

Because it
seemed so foolish, she let out a little breath before she spoke again. “In
Greek mythology, Apollo gave Cassandra the power of prophecy. Eventually, they
had a disagreement, and that's when he fixed it so she could predict, but
nobody would believe her. But I think the hook is she got her power from him.
This Cassandra doesn't really care if we believe her or not. She's not trying
to save, but to destroy.”

“That's an
interesting theory, Lieutenant. And logical enough.” Tibble sat back, listened,
watched the facts and images flash on-screen. “You've made the connections,
have at least partial motives. It's good work.” Then he glanced back at her.
“The FBI anti-terrorist team would be very interested in how you came by a
great deal of this information, Lieutenant.”

She didn't so
much as blink. “I used what sources were available to me, sir.”

“I'm sure you
did.” He folded his hands. “As I said, good work.”

“Thank you.”
She moved past the second board to the third. “The current line of
investigation corroborates our conclusions that there's a connection between
the old Apollo group and Cassandra. Fixer believed there was, and though any
evidence he may have gathered in that area is likely destroyed, the connection
continues to hold through this second line. The tactics used by both groups are
similar. In Dr. Mira's report, she terms Cassandra's political creed as a
recycling of Apollo's. Following this angle, I believe that the people who
formed Cassandra have connections to or were once a part of Apollo.”

Tibble held up
a hand. “Isn't it possible these people studied Apollo -- just as you are --
and chose to mirror that group as closely as possible?”

“It's not
impossible, sir.”

“If it's a
copycat,” Feeney put in, “it's going to be tougher.”

“Even a
copycat has to have a connection,” Eve insisted. “The Apollo group was
essentially disbanded when Rowan and some of his top people were killed. That
was over thirty years ago, and the public was never privy to any but the
sketchiest of details about him and his organization. Without a connection, who
cares? It was over years ago, a lifetime ago. Rowan's not even a smudge in the
history books because it was never proven -- in reports to media -- that he was
the head of Apollo. Files verifying this are sealed. Apollo claimed
responsibility for some bombings and for Arlington, then essentially vanished.
There's a connection,” she finished. “I don't believe it's a mirror, sir, but a
personal stake. The people who head Cassandra killed hundreds yesterday. And
they did it to prove they could. The bombs at Radio City were a tease, a test.
The Plaza was always the target. And this echoes the theme used by Apollo.”

She nodded
toward the screen again, shifted to new copy. “The first building Apollo claims
to have destroyed was an empty storehouse outside of what was then the District
of Columbia. The local police were alerted, and there were no injuries.
Following that, the locals were tipped that there were explosives in the
Kennedy Center. All but one bomb was defused, the building was successfully evacuated,
and the single explosive discharged caused only minor damage and injury. But
this was immediately followed up by a bombing in the lobby of the Mayflower
Hotel. There was no warning given. Casualties were steep. Apollo took
responsibility for all three incidents, but only the last was reported in the
media.”

Whitney leaned
forward, studying the screen. “What was next?”

“The newly
refurbished U-Line Arena during a basketball game. Fourteen thousand people
were killed or injured. If Cassandra runs true to form, I'm looking at Madison
Square or the Pleasure Dome. By keeping all data out of the mainframe and
within this room, there's no way for Cassandra to know our current avenue of
investigation. We should be a step ahead of them.”

“Thank you,
Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant Malloy, your report on the explosives?”

Anne rose,
moved to the middle board. The next thirty minutes were technical: electronics,
triggers, timers, remotes, materials. Rate of detonation, scope of impact.

“Pieces of the
devices are still being gathered on-scene and are under lab analysis,” she
concluded. “At this time we know we're working with intricate, handmade units.
Plaston appears to be the material of favor. Analysis is incomplete as to the
capabilities of distance on the remotes, but it appears to be extreme long
range. These aren't toys, no homemade boomers, but high-level military-style
explosives. I concur with Lieutenant Dallas's opinion on Radio City. If this
group had wanted it blown, it'd be dust.”

She sat,
giving way to Feeney. “This is one of the surveillance cameras my team swept
out of Radio City.” He held up a small round unit hardly bigger than the circle
made by his thumb and forefinger. “It's damn well made. We tagged twenty-five
of them from scene. They watched every step we took and could have blown us to
hell in a heartbeat.”

He slipped the
bug back into its seal. “EDD is working with Malloy and her people to develop a
longer-range, more sensitive bomb scanner. Meanwhile, I'm not saying the feds
don't have good people, but so do we. And it's our damn city. Added to that,
this group contacted Dallas. They targeted her. You pull her back now, and us
with her, you're going to change the balance. Once it tips, we could lose it
all.”

“So noted.
Dallas?” Tibble lifted a finger. “An opinion on why this group contacted you?”

“Only
conjecture, sir. Roarke owns or has interests in the targets thus far. I'm
connected to Roarke. It amuses them. Fixer referred to it as a game. I think
they're enjoying it. He also spoke of revenge.”

She rose
again, shifted the image of Monica Rowan on-screen. “She'd have the most cause
to enjoy some revenge, and as Rowan's widow, would be the most likely person to
have personal and inside knowledge of his group.”

“You and your
aide are cleared for immediate travel to Maine,” Tibble told her. “Commander?
Comments?”

“This team has
put together an impressive amount of evidence and probability in a short amount
of time.” Whitney rose. “It's my opinion that a federal team would be
superfluous.”

“I believe the
lieutenant and her team have given me enough balls to juggle for the
politicians.” Tibble got to his feet as well. “Dallas, you remain in charge
until further notice. I expect updates on every step. It's our city, Captain
Feeney,” he added as he turned to the door. “Let's keep it intact.”

“Whew.” McNab
let out a huge sigh when the door closed again. “Dodged that beam.”

“And if we
want to keep this case where it belongs, we're going to work our butts off.”
Eve smiled at him thinly. “Your social life just went down the sewer, pal. We
need that long-range scanner. And I want every arena and sports complex in
every borough scanned. New Jersey as well.”

“Christ,
Dallas, with our equipment and manpower, that'll take a week.”

“You've got a
day,” she told him. “Get in touch with Roarke.” She jammed her hands in her
pockets. “Odds are, he's got some toy that fits what you're looking for.”

“Hot damn.”
McNab rubbed his hands together and grinned at Anne. “Wait till you see what
this guy's got.”

“Feeney, is
there any way you can block the unit in here? Jam it? Or better yet, come up
with a new, unregistered unit with a shield.”

His hangdog
face brightened as he smiled at Eve. “Guess I could jury-rig something. Not
that we ever fiddle with unregistereds over at EDD.”

“Of course
not. Peabody, you're with me.”

“Hey, when are
you getting back?” McNab called out.

Eve turned,
stared at him, while Peabody wished herself invisible. “When we're finished,
Detective. I think you have enough to keep you busy in the meantime.”

“Oh sure, I
just wondered. Just wondered.” He grinned foolishly. “Have a nice trip.”

“We're not
going for lobster,” Eve muttered and, shaking her head, walked out.

“We'll be back
before end of shift, don't you think? Sir?”

Eve shrugged
into her jacket as she strode to the elevator. “Look, if you've got a hot date,
you'll just have to cool your glands.”

“No, I didn't
mean ... Ah, I just want to let Zeke know if I'm going to be on OT, that's
all.” And it shamed her that she hadn't given her brother a thought.

“It takes as
long as it takes. We've got a stop to make before we snag transpo north.”

“I don't
suppose we'll be taking one of Roarke's private jets?” When Eve merely eyed her
balefully, Peabody hunched her shoulders. “Nope, guess not. It's just that
they're so much faster than public shuttles.”

“And you're
just interested in speed, right, Peabody?” Eve stepped onto the elevator,
pushed for garage. “It has nothing to do with plush, roomy seats, the fully
stocked galley, or the screen selection.”

“A comfortable
body produces a sharp mind.”

“That's lame.
You're usually better than that when you try to hose me. You're off today,
Peabody.”

She thought of
that wild interlude with McNab in an empty office. “You're telling me.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Zeke worked
steadily, precisely, doing his best to focus his mind on the wood and his
pleasure in it.

He'd known his
sister hadn't slept well the night before. He'd heard her stirring and pacing
while he'd laid awake on the living room pull-out. He'd wanted to go to her,
offer to meditate with her, or to make her one of his organic soothers, but he
hadn't been able to face her.

His mind was
full of Clarissa, of the way she'd felt snuggled into his arms, of how sweet
her lips had tasted. It shamed him. He believed strongly in the sanctity of
marriage. One of the reasons he'd never pursued a serious relationship was that
he'd promised himself when he took those vows to another, he would keep them
throughout his life.

There had been
no one he'd loved enough to make promises to.

Until now.

And she
belonged to someone else.

Someone who
didn't appreciate her, he thought now as he had during the night. Someone who
mistreated her, made her unhappy. Vows were meant to be broken when they caused
pain.

No, he
couldn't talk to Dee when thoughts like that were skimming through his head.
When he couldn't get Clarissa out of his mind and offer his own sister comfort.

He'd seen the
reports of the bombing on the news the evening before. It had horrified him. He
understood that not everyone embraced the cause-no-harm tenets that formed the
foundation of the Free-Agers. He knew that even some Free-Agers modified that
foundation to suit their lifestyles, and after all, the religion was designed
to be fluid.

He knew
cruelty existed. That murder was done every day. But he had never seen the kind
of terrible disregard for life as he had on the viewing screen at his sister's
apartment the evening before.

Those who were
capable of it had to be less than human. No one with heart and soul and guts
could destroy lives in that way. He believed that, clung to the hope that such
a thing was an aberration, a mutation. And that the world had evolved beyond
acceptance of wholesale death.

It had been a
shock when he'd seen Eve moving through the carnage. Her face had been blank,
he remembered, her clothes splattered with blood. He'd thought she'd looked
exhausted, and hollow, and somehow courageous. Then it had struck him that his
sister must have been there as well, somewhere in the horror of all that.

Eve had only
spoken to one reporter, a pretty, foxy-faced woman whose green eyes had
mirrored her grief.

“I don't have
anything to add to what you see here, Nadine,” she'd said. “This isn't the time
or place for statements. The dead make their own.”

And when his
sister had come home, with that same exhausted look on her face, he'd left her
alone.

He hoped now
that he'd done so for her sake and not his own. He hadn't wanted to talk about
what she'd seen and done. Hadn't wanted to think about it. Or about Clarissa.
And while he'd been able to control his mind enough to blank out those images
of death, he hadn't had the power to do so with the woman.

She would stay
away from him now, he thought. They would stay away from each other, and that
was best. He would finish the job he'd promised to do, then he would go back to
Arizona. He'd fast and he'd meditate and he'd purge his system of her.

Maybe he'd
camp in the desert for a few days, until his mind and heart were in balance
again.

Then the
sounds came through the vent. The angry laugh of the man, the soft pleas of the
woman.

“I said I want
to fuck. It's all you're good for, anyway.”

“Please, B.
D., I'm not feeling well this morning.”

“I don't give
a damn how you feel. It's your job to spread your legs when I tell you to.”

There was a
thud, then a cry sharply cut off. The crash of glass.

“On your
knees. On your knees, you bitch.”

“You're
hurting me. Please -- “

“Use that
mouth of yours for something besides whining. Yeah, yeah. Put some effort into
it, for Christ's sake. It's a miracle I can get it up with you in the first
place. Harder, you whore. You know where I had my cock last night? You know
where I had what you've got in your whiny mouth? In that new 'link operator I
hired. I got my money's worth there.”

He was panting
now, grunting like an animal, and Zeke squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it
to stop.

But it didn't,
it only changed, with the sounds of Clarissa weeping, then pleading. He was
raping her now, there was no way to mistake those sounds.

Zeke caught
himself at the foot of the steps, shocked to find his hand curled around the
haft of a hammer. The blood was roaring violently in his ears.

My God, dear
God, what was he doing?

Even as he set
the hammer aside with a shaky hand, the sounds quieted. There was only weeping
now. Slowly, Zeke climbed the steps.

It had to
stop. Someone had to stop it. But he would face Branson empty-handed, and as a
man.

He walked
through the kitchen. Neither of the two remote domestics who worked there paid
any attention to him. He moved into the wide hallway beyond, past the beautiful
rooms and toward the sweep of floating stairs.

Perhaps he had
no right to intrude, he thought, but no one, no one had a right to treat
another human being as Clarissa was being treated.

He moved down
the hallway to the right, judging which room would be directly over the
workshop. The door was ajar; he could hear her crying inside. Placing his
fingertips against the polished wood, he eased it open. And saw her curled on the
bed, her naked body already blooming with bruises.

“Clarissa?”

Her head came
up, eyes wide, and her swollen lips trembled. “Oh God. No, no, I don't want you
to see me like this. Go away.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.
Gone. Oh please, please.” She pressed her face to the tangled sheets.

“He can't be.
I just came up the front stairs.”

“The side
entrance. He uses the side. He's gone, already gone. Thank God. If he'd seen
you come up ...”

“This has to
stop.” He came to the bed, gently untangled a sheet, and draped it over her.
“You can't let him hurt you this way.”

“He doesn't
mean -- He's my husband.” She let out a sigh that ripped at Zeke's heart. It
was so hopeless. “I have no place to go. No one to go to. He wouldn't have to
hurt me if I wasn't so slow and stupid. If I'd just do what he says. If I -- “

“Stop that.”
It came out sharper than he'd intended, and when he laid a hand on her
shoulder, she flinched. “What happened here wasn't your fault, it was his.”

She needed
counseling, he thought. She needed cleansing. A safe place to stay. Both her
body and her self-esteem had been battered, and such things harmed the soul. “I
want to help you. I can take you away from here. You can stay at my sister's
until you decide what to do. There are programs, people you can talk to. The
police,” he added. “You need to file charges.”

“No. No
police!” She gathered the sheet close and struggled up. Her dark violet eyes
were brilliant with fear. “He'd kill me if I did. And he knows people on the
force. High-up people. I can never call the police.”

She'd begun to
tremble, so he soothed. “That's not important now. Let me help you get dressed.
Let me take you to a healer -- the doctor,” he corrected, remembering where he
was. “Then we'll talk about what's next.”

“Oh, Zeke.”
Her breath shuddered out as she lay her head on his shoulder. “There is no
next. Don't you see this is it for me? He'll never let me go. He's told me.
He's told me what he'd do to me if I try to leave. I'm just not strong enough
to fight him.”

He slipped his
arms around her, rocked her. “I am.”

“You're so
young.” She shook her head. “I'm not.”

“That's not
true. You feel helpless because you've been alone. You're not alone now. I'll
help you. My family will.”

He brushed at
her loose and tangled hair, cloud soft under his hand. “At home, my home,” he
said, keeping his voice a reassuring murmur. “It's peaceful. Remember how big
and open and quiet the desert is? You can heal there.”

“I was almost
happy for those few days. All that space. The stars. You. If I believed there
was a chance -- “

“Give me the
chance.” Gently, he tipped her face back. The bruises on her face nearly broke
his heart. “I love you.”

Tears swam
into her eyes. “You can't. You don't know what I've done.”

“Nothing he's
made you do counts. And it doesn't matter what I feel, but what you need. You
can't stay with him.”

“I can't drag
you into this, Zeke. It's wrong.”

“I won't leave
you.” He pressed his mouth to her hair. “When you're safe, if you want me to
go, I will. But not until you're safe.”

“Safe.” She
barely breathed the word. “I stopped believing I could be safe. If there's a
chance...” She drew back, looked into his eyes. “I need time to think.”

“Clarissa -- “

“I have to be
sure I can go through with it. I have to have time. Please, try to understand.
Give me today.” She closed a hand over his. “He can't hurt me any more than he
already has. Give me today to look inside myself and see if there's anything
there worth offering you. Or anyone else.”

“I'm not
asking for anything.”

“But I am.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “Finally, I am. Will you give me a number where
I can reach you? I want you to go home now. B. D. won't be back until tomorrow
afternoon, and I need this time alone.”

“All right. If
you promise that whatever you decide, you'll call.”

“I will.” She
picked up a memo from the bedside table and offered it. “I'll call you by
tonight. I promise.” When he'd entered the number, she took it from him,
slipped it into the drawer. “Please, go now. I need to see how many pieces I
can pick up on my own.”

“I won't be
far away,” he told her.

She waited
until he reached the door. “Zeke? When I met you in Arizona -- when I saw you,
looked at you ... something inside me I'd thought had died seemed to stir
again. I don't know if it's love. I don't know if I have love anymore. But if I
do, it's for you.”

“I'll take
care of you, Clarissa. He'll never hurt you again.”

Opening the
door and leaving her was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Eve gave her
battered vehicle one long scowl as she strode across the garage. It wasn't that
appearance mattered much. Since Zeke and Roarke had played with it, the heap
was back in top running condition. But it was, by God, a heap.

“It's goddamn
pitiful when a homicide lieutenant has to drive around in a wreck like this
while those bozos in Illegals get zoomers.” She gave the shiny, streamlined
all-terrain two spaces down from hers an avaricious glare.

“Just needs
some body work, some paint, a little new shielding.” Peabody opened her door.

“It's the
principle. Murder cops always get the shaft.” Eve slammed in her side, a
mistake, as the door popped right back open. “Oh fine, great.”

“I noticed
that little hitch yesterday when I took it home. What you have to do is lift up
some, kind of jiggle it and slide it home. Zeke'll fix it for you first chance
he gets. I forgot to mention it to him last night.”

Eve held up
her hands, took several slow, deep breaths. “Okay, no point in bitching about
it.”

“But you have
such a smooth bitching style, sir.”

Eve slanted
Peabody a look as she went to work on the door. “That's better. You were
starting to worry me. I've hardly heard a single smart-ass remark out of you
for two days.”

“I'm off my
rhythm,” Peabody muttered, and pressed her lips together. She could still taste
McNab.

Eve secured
the door. “Problem?”

“I -- “ She
wanted to tell someone, but it was just too humiliating. “No, no problem.
Where's the first stop?”

Eve lifted her
brows. It was rare for Peabody not to walk through a door she'd opened.
Reminding herself that personal lives were personal lives for a reason, Eve
backed out of her slot. “Autotron. Get the address.”

“I know it.
It's a few blocks west of my place, on Ninth. Ninth and Twelfth. What's there?”

“A guy who
likes bombs.”

She filled
Peabody in on the way.

When she
pulled into the garage at Autotron, gate security took one look at her car and
strode over snappily to glance at the badge she held up for view.

“You've
already been cleared, Lieutenant. Your space is reserved. Slot thirty-six,
level A. It's just up on your left.”

“Who cleared
me?” Though she wondered why she bothered to ask.

“Roarke. Take
the first bank of elevators to the eighth floor. You'll be met.”

Her eyes
flashed once, then she drove in. “He just doesn't know when to step out.”

“Well, it
speeds things up. Saves time.”

She wanted to
say she wasn't in any hurry, but it was such a ridiculous lie Eve clamped her
mouth shut. And smoldered. “If he's already questioned Lamont, I'm tying his
tongue into a knot.”

“Can I watch?”
Peabody grinned as Eve braked hard in her parking slot. “I'm getting my rhythm
back.”

“Lose it.”
Irritated, she slammed the door before she remembered, then cursed roundly when
the leading edge of it bounced on the concrete floor. “Son of a bitch.” She
kicked it, only because it seemed called for, then muscled it back into the
frame. “Say nothing,” she warned Peabody, then stalked to the elevator.

Peabody
stepped into the elevator, folded her hands, and studiously studied the
ascending numbers over the door.

The eighth
floor was a wide, airy office and reception area filled with clerks and drones
and snazzily suited execs. It was done in navys and grays with the startling slap
and dash of wild red flowers streaming along under the windows and around a
central console.

She thought
that Roarke had a thing about flowers in the businessplace -- anyplace, really.
His main headquarters in midtown was alive with them.

She'd barely stepped
out, had yet to reach for her badge, when a tall man in a severely cut black
suit came toward her with a polished smile.

“Lieutenant
Dallas. Roarke's expecting you. If you and your aide would follow me?”

A nasty part
of her wanted to tell him to inform his boss to keep his pretty nose out of her
business, but she sucked it in. She needed to talk to Lamont, and if Roarke had
decided to be the line to him, it would take more time and energy than she had
to waste to go around him.

She followed
him through the cubicles, past snazzier offices, more flowers, and through open
double doors to a spacious conference room.

The center
table was a thick, clear slab, lined with matching chairs with deep blue
cushions, seat and back. A quick glance showed it held all the comforts and
over-the-top technology she expected from anything Roarke had his hand in or
his name on.

There was a
maxi AutoChef and cold box, a fully equipped communications center, a rather
jazzy entertainment console, and a wide window with full security and sun
shade.

On the
enormous wall screen an animated schematic twirled and spun. The man at the
head of the table turned his attention from it, lifted a cocky brow, and gave
his wife a charming smile.

“Lieutenant,
Peabody. Thank you, Gates.” He waited until the doors were closed, then
gestured. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“I don't want
a seat or any damn coffee,” Eve began.

“I'd like some
coffee.” Peabody winced under Eve's withering stare. “On the other hand ...”

“Sit,” Eve
ordered. “Quiet.”

“Sir.” She
sat, she was quiet, but sent Roarke a sympathetic glance before she did her
best to become blind, deaf, and invisible.

“Did I ask you
to have me cleared?” Eve began. “Did I ask you to be here when I came in to
interview Lamont? I'm in the middle of an extremely sensitive investigation,
one the feds would like to snatch out from under me. I don't want your name in
my reports any more often than absolutely necessary. You got that?”

She'd marched
to him as she spoke and ended by jabbing a finger at his shoulder.

“God, I love
it when you scold me.” He only smiled when she hissed breath between her teeth.
“Don't stop.”

“This isn't a
joke. Don't you have worlds to conquer, small industrial nations to buy,
businesses to run?”

“Yes.” The
humor cleared out of his eyes, leaving them dark and intense. “And this is one
of them. Just as the hotel where people died yesterday is one of them. If
someone in my employ turns out to be connected in any way, it's my business as
much as yours, Lieutenant. I thought that was understood.”

“You can't
blame yourself for yesterday.”

“If I say the
same to you, will you listen?”

She stared at
him a moment, wishing she didn't see his side so clearly. “Did you question
Lamont?”

“I know better
than that. I rescheduled my morning, arranged for your clearance, and made sure
that Lamont was in the lab. I haven't sent for him yet. I assumed you'd want to
rail at me a bit first.”

If she was
that predictable, Eve decided it was time for some realigning. “I'll take that
coffee before you send for Lamont.”

He skimmed his
fingers along the tips of her hair before turning to deal with it. Eve dropped
down in a chair, scowled at Peabody. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.
Sir.” Deliberately, Peabody looked away. It was so fascinating to watch them
together, she mused. An education in the tug-of-war of relationships. And the
way they looked at each other when their minds came together. You could
actually see it.

She couldn't
imagine what it was like to be that connected. So meshed that the brush of
fingertips over your hair was a simple and absolute declaration of love.

She must have
sighed. Roarke angled his head as he set her coffee in front of her. “Tired?”
he murmured, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Peabody felt
she was entitled to the lovely flush of heat and mild lust she experienced
nearly every time she looked at that spectacular face of his. But she didn't
think Eve would appreciate it if she sighed again. “Rough night,” she said and
dipping her head, concentrated on her coffee.

He gave her
shoulder a quick squeeze that sent her heart on a gallop, then turned back to
Eve. “Lamont will be right up. I'd like to stay while you interview him. And,”
he continued holding up a hand, “before you tell me why I can't be here during
an official interview, I'll remind you that I not only employ the subject, but
I know him and have for a number of years. I'll know if he's lying.”

Eve drummed
her fingers on the table. She knew that look in his eye -- cold, enigmatic, controlled.
He would study and he would see, every bit as expertly as a veteran police
interrogator.

“Observe only.
You don't question him or comment unless I indicate otherwise.”

“Agreed. Are
you cleared for Maine?”

“We'll catch a
shuttle as soon as we leave here.”

“There's a jet
at the airport. Take it.”

“We'll take
the shuttle,” Eve repeated, even when Peabody's head came up and her eyes held
all the hope of a puppy sniffing mother's milk.

“Don't be
stubborn,” Roarke said mildly. “The jet will get you there in half the time and
with none of the frustration. You can pick us up a couple of lobsters for
dinner.”

The phrase fat
chance trembled on her tongue, but she bit it back when the knock sounded
on the door.

“Showtime,”
Roarke murmured, and leaned back in his chair. “Come in.”

Lamont had
smooth, round cheeks, lively blue eyes, and a chin tattoo of a flaming arrow
that was new since his ID photo. He'd let his hair grow some as well, Eve
noted, so that it swirled in deep brown waves to his chin and gave him a
slightly angelic look rather than the uptight young conservative she'd viewed
on-screen the night before.

He wore a
white lab coat over a white shirt that was buttoned snugly to the Adam's apple,
stovepipe black pants. She recognized his boots as being hand tooled and
pricey, as Roarke had countless pairs in his endless closet.

He gave her a
polite glance, gave Peabody's uniform a slightly longer study, then shifted his
full attention to Roarke.

“You needed to
see me?” His voice carried the faintest whisper of France, like a sprinkle of
thyme over broth.

“This is
Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD.” Roarke didn't rise or gesture to a chair. It
was his tacit shift of control to Eve. “She needed to see you.”

“Oh?” The
well-mannered smile was vaguely puzzled.

“Have a seat,
Mr. Lamont. I have a few questions. You're entitled to have counsel present if
you like.”

He blinked
twice, two slow movements. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don't know,
Mr. Lamont. Do you?”

“I don't see
why.” He sat, shifted until he found comfort on the cushion. “What's this
about?”

“Bombs.” Eve
gave him a small smile. “On record, Peabody,” she added and read Lamont his
rights. “What do you know about the bombing of the Plaza Hotel yesterday?”

“Just what I
saw on-screen. They upped the body count this morning. It's over three hundred
now.”

“Have you ever
worked with plaston, Mr. Lamont?”

“Yes.”

“So you're
aware of what it is?”

“Of course.”
He shifted again. “It's a light, elastic, highly unstable substance most
commonly used as a detonation factor in explosives.” He'd lost a little color
since he'd taken his seat, but he kept his eyes on hers. They weren't quite so
lively now.

“The
explosives we manufacture here at Autotron for government contracts and some
private concerns often employ minute amounts of plaston.”

“How's your
Greek mythology?”

His fingers
linked together on the table, pulled apart, linked again. “Excuse me?”

“Know anyone
named Cassandra?”

“I don't think
so.”

“Are you
acquainted with Howard Bassi, more commonly known as Fixer?”

“No.”

“What do you
do with your free time, Mr. Lamont?”

“My -- my free
time?”

She smiled
again. The change in rhythm had thrown him off, as she'd intended. “Hobbies,
sports, entertainment. Roarke doesn't work you twenty-four/seven, does he?”

“I -- No.” His
gaze flicked to Roarke, then back. “I ... play a little handball.”

“Team or
solo?”

He lifted his
hand, rubbed it over his mouth. “Mostly solo.”

“Your father
made bombs during the French War,” she continued. “Did he work team, or solo?”

“I -- he
worked for the SRA -- the Social Reform Army. I guess that's a team.”

“I assumed he
freelanced, worked for the highest bidder.”

Color rushed
back into Lamont's face. “My father was a patriot.”

“Sabotage for
causes. Terrorists often call themselves patriots.” She kept her voice mild,
but saw the shimmer of anger in his eyes for the first time. “Do you believe in
sabotage for causes, Lamont? In the slaughter and the sacrifice of the innocent
for a just and righteous cause?”

He opened his
mouth, closed it again, then took one long breath. “War is different. During my
father's time, our country had been seized by exploitive bureaucrats. The
second revolution in France was necessary to give its people back the power and
justice that are their right.”

“So ...” Eve
smiled a little. “I take that as a yes.”

“I don't make
bombs for causes. I make them for mining, for the demolition of old buildings.
Empty buildings. For military testing. Contracts,” he said, smoothly now.
“Autotron is a respected and reputable company.”

“You bet. You
like making boomers?”

“We don't make
boomers here.” The tone was slightly scathing now and subtly more French. “Our
devices are highly sophisticated, technologically advanced. We produce the best
on the market.”

“Sorry. You
like making sophisticated, technologically advanced devices?”

“Yes. I enjoy
my work. Do you enjoy yours?”

A little cocky
now, Eve noted. Interesting. “I enjoy the results of mine. How about you?”

“I believe in
utilizing my skills.”

“Me, too.
Thank you, Mr. Lamont. That's all.”

The little
smile that had begun to form faded. “I can go?”

“Yes, thank
you. End record, Peabody. Thanks for the use of the room, Roarke.”

“We're always
pleased to cooperate with the police at Autotron.” He lifted a sleek eyebrow in
Lamont's direction. “I believe Lieutenant Dallas is finished with you, Lamont.
You're free to return to your work.”

“Yes, sir.” He
rose, stiffly, and walked from the room.

Eve sat back.
“He was lying.”

“Oh yes,”
Roarke agreed. “He was.”

“About what?”
It came out before Peabody could stop it.

“He recognized
the name Cassandra, and he knew about Fixer.” Contemplatively, Eve scratched
her chin. “He was a little shaky at first, but he started to warm up. He
doesn't care for cops.”

“A common
emotion,” Roarke pointed out. “Just as it's a common mistake to underestimate
certain cops. He thought he was stringing you quite nicely toward the end.”

She snorted,
rose. “Amateur. Peabody, order a shadow for our friend Lamont. Roarke, I'll
want you to -- “

“Pull his work
files, review his equipment and materials lists, any requisitions, and run a
fresh inventory.” He rose as well. “That's already being done.”

“Show-off.”

He took her
hand, and because watching her work put him in the mood, nibbled on her
knuckles before she could snatch it away. “I'll be keeping an eye on him.”

“Keep your
distance,” she ordered. “I want him to think he pulled off the interview.
Peabody...” She turned, then cleared her throat when she caught her aide
dreaming into space. “Peabody, snap to.”

“Sir!” She
blinked, leaped to her feet, and nearly upended her chair. Seeing Roarke's
clever mouth linger over Eve's fingers had made her wonder just what McNab
would have in store for her later.

“Stay on
planet, will you? I'll be in touch,” she added to Roarke.”

“Do that.” He
moved to the door with them, then caught Peabody's arm to hold her back a step.
“He's a lucky man,” he murmured.

“Huh? Who?”

“Whoever you
were just dreaming about.”

She grinned like
an idiot. “Not yet, but he's going to be.”

“Peabody!”

Peabody rolled
her eyes and double-timed it to catch up with Eve.

“Take the jet,
Lieutenant,” Roarke called after her.

She glanced
over her shoulder, saw him, tall, gorgeous, in the center of the wide doorway.
She wished she'd had the time and the privacy to stride back and give those
marvelous lips one quick little bite. “Maybe.” She shrugged and made the turn
for the elevator.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She took the
jet -- as much to keep Peabody from pouting as to save time. She'd been right.
It was brutally cold in Maine. Naturally, she'd forgotten her gloves, so she
stuffed her hands in her pockets as she stepped off the plane and into the
bitter wind.

An airport
official in cold-weather coveralls hustled over, handed her a vehicle coder.

“What's this?”

“Your
transportation, Lieutenant Dallas. Your vehicle is in the green parking area,
level two, slot five.”

“Roarke,” she
muttered and jammed the code into her pocket along with her frozen fingers.

“I'll show you
the way.”

“Yeah, do
that.”

They moved
across the tarmac and into the warmth of the terminal. The private
transportation sector was quiet, almost reverently so, as opposed to the
constant noise, bumping bodies and food and gift hawkers that crowded the
public areas.

They rode the
elevator down to green, where Eve was shown a sleek, black air-and-road number
that made the all-terrains the illegals detectives drove look like kiddie cars.

“If you'd prefer
another make or model, you're authorized for any available unit,” she was told.

“No. Fine.
Thanks.” She waited until he'd walked away before she seethed. “He's got to
stop doing this.”

Peabody ran a
loving hand over the glistening fender. “Why?”

“Because,” was
the best Eve could come up with, and she uncoded the door. “Map out directions
to Monica Rowan's address.”

Peabody
settled in, rubbed her hands together as she scanned the cockpit. “Air or
road?”

Eve spared her
a steely look. “Road, Peabody.”

“Air or road,
I bet this baby moves.” She leaned forward to study the on-board computer
system. “Oh wow, she is loaded.”

“When you
finish being sixteen, Officer, map out the damn route.”

“You never
stop being sixteen,” Peabody murmured, but followed orders.

The in-dash
monitor responded immediately with a detailed map of the best route.

Would you
like audio prompts during this trip? They
were asked in the computer's warm, silky baritone.

“I think we
can handle it, ace.” Eve cruised toward the exit.

As you
wish, Lieutenant Dallas. This trip comprises ten point three miles. Your
estimated time to complete at this time of day on this day of the week, at the
posted speed limits, is twelve minutes, eight seconds.

“Oh, we can
beat that.” Peabody shot Eve a quick grin. “Right, Lieutenant?”

“We're not
here to beat anything.” She drove decorously through the parking garage, into
and around airport traffic, and through the gates.

Then there was
a stretch of highway, long, wide, open.

Hell, she was
human. She punched it.

“Oh man! I
want one of these.” Peabody grinned as the scenery blurred and flew by. “How
much do you think this honey goes for?”

This model
retails for one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars, excluding tax, fees,
and licenses.

“Holy shit.”

“Still feeling
sixteen, Peabody?” With a quick laugh, Eve swung onto their exit.

“Yeah, and I
want a raise in my allowance.”

They hit the
commuter high-rises, strip malls, and hotel complexes that edged the suburbs.
Traffic thickened on the road and overhead, but remained well-mannered and
well-spaced.

That made Eve
immediately miss New York with its nasty streets, rude vendors, and snarling
pedestrians.

“How do people
live in places like this?” she asked Peabody. “It's like somebody cut it all
out of a travel disc, took a few thousand copies, and pasted it down outside of
every goddamn city in the country. They're all the same.”

“Some people
like all the same. It's comforting. We took a trip to Maine when I was a kid.
Mount Desert Island, the national park?”

Eve shuddered.
“National parks are full of trees and hikers and weird little bugs.”

“Yeah, no bugs
in New York.”

“I'll take a
good honest cockroach any day.”

“Come over to
my place. Sometimes we have parties.”

“Complain to
your super.”

“Oh yeah,
that'll work.”

Eve took a
right, slowed as the street narrowed. The duplexes and triplexes here were old
and shoved unhappily together. Lawns were quietly miserable, showing grass the
bitter yellow of winter where snow had melted. She pulled up at a curb by a
cracked sidewalk, shut off the engine.

Trip
complete. Time elapsed nine minutes, forty-eight seconds. Please remember to
code your door.

“You'd have
cut another two minutes off easy if you'd gone air over that traffic,” Peabody
told her when they climbed out.

“Stop grinning
and put on your cop face. Monica's peeking out the window.” Eve headed up the
bumpy, unshoveled walk and rapped on the middle door of the triplex.

It was a long
wait, though she judged Monica had about three steps to take to get from the
window to the door. She didn't expect a warm welcome. And didn't get one.

The door
opened a crack and one hard gray eye peered out. “What do you want?”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, New York Police and Security, and aide. We have a few questions we'd
like to ask you, Ms. Rowan. Can we come in?”

“This isn't
New York. You've got no authority here, no business here.”

“We have some
questions,” Eve repeated. “And we've been cleared to request an interview. It
would be easier for you, Ms. Rowan, if we conducted it here rather than
arranging for you to be transported to New York.”

“You can't
make me go to New York.”

Eve didn't
bother to sigh, and pocketed the badge she flipped out for Monica's study.
“Yes, we can. But we'd rather not inconvenience you. We won't take up much of
your time.”

“I don't like
the police in my house.” But she opened the door. “I don't want you touching
anything.”

Eve stepped
into what she supposed the architect had amused himself by calling a foyer. It
was no more than four square feet of faded linoleum, ruthlessly scrubbed.

“You wipe your
feet. You wipe your dirty cop feet before you come in my house.”

Dutifully, Eve
stepped back, wiped her boots on a mat. It gave her another moment to study
Monica Rowan.

The image on
file had been a true one. The woman was hard-faced, grim-eyed, and gray. Eyes,
skin, hair were all nearly the same dull color. She was wearing flannel from
top to toe, and the heat pumping through the house was already making Eve
uncomfortably warm in her jacket and jeans.

“Close the
door! You're costing me money letting the heat out. You know what it costs to
heat this place? Utility company is run by government drones.”

Peabody wiped
her feet, stepped in, closed the door, and was rammed up tight against Eve.
Monica stood glowering, her arms folded across her chest. “You ask what you got
to ask, then get out.”

So much, Eve
mused, for Yankee hospitality. “It's a little crowded here, Ms. Rowan. Maybe we
can go in the living room and sit down.”

“You make it
fast. I've got things to do.” She turned and led the way into a doll-sized
living area.

It was
painfully clean, the single chair and small sofa slicked with clear plastic.
Two matching lamps still wore their plastic shields on the shades. Eve decided
she didn't want to sit down after all.

The window
drapes were drawn together, leaving a thin chink. The inch-wide slit brought in
the only light.

There were
dust catchers, but no dust. Eve imagined if a mote wandered in, it soon ran
screaming in horror. A dozen little happy-faced figurines, gleaming clean,
danced over tabletops. A cheap model cat droid rose creakily from the rug, gave
one rusty meow, and settled again.

“Ask your
questions and go. I've got housework to finish.”

Eve recited
the revised Miranda when Peabody went on record. “Do you understand your rights
and obligations, Mrs. Rowan?”

“I understand
you've come in my house unwanted, and you're interrupting my work. I don't need
any bleeding-heart liberal lawyer. They're all government puppets preying on
honest people. Get on with it.”

“You were
married to James Rowan.”

“Until the
government killed him and my children.”

“You weren't
living with him at the time of his death.”

“Doesn't make
me less of his wife, does it?”

“No, ma'am, it
doesn't. Can you tell me why you were separated from him, and your children?”

“That's my
private marital business.” Monica's arms tightened on her chest. “Jamie had a
lot on his mind. He was a great man. It's a wife's duty to give way to her
husband's needs and wishes.”

Eve only
lifted a brow at that. “And your children? Did you take their needs and wishes
into account?”

“He needed the
children with him. Jamie adored them.”

But he
didn't think so much of you, did he? Eve
mused. “And you, Ms. Rowan, did you adore your children?”

It wasn't a
question she needed to ask, and Eve was annoyed with herself the moment it was
out.

“I gave birth
to them, didn't I?” Monica stretched her head forward aggressively on her
scrawny neck. “I carried each one of them inside me for nine months, gave birth
to them in pain and blood. I did my duty by them, kept them clean, kept them
fed, and the government gave me a pittance for my trouble. A damn cop made more
than a professional mother back then. Who do you think got up in the middle of
the night with them when they were squalling? Who cleaned up after them?
Nothing dirtier than children. You work your hands to the bone to keep a clean
house when there's children in it.”

So much for
mother love, Eve thought, and reminded herself that wasn't the issue.

“You were
aware of your husband's activities. His association with the terrorist group
Apollo?”

“Propaganda
and lies. Government lies.” She all but spat it out. “Jamie was a great man. A
hero. If he'd been president, this country wouldn't be in the mess it's in with
whores and filth in the streets.”

“Did you work
with him?”

“A woman's
place is to keep a clean house, to provide decent meals, and to bear children.”
She folded her lips into a sneer. “The two of you might want to be men, but I
knew what God had put women on Earth to do.”

“Did he talk
to you about his work?”

“No.”

“Did you meet
any of his associates?”

“I was his
wife. I provided a clean home for him and for the people who believed in him.”

“William
Henson believed in him.”

“William
Henson was a loyal and brilliant man.”

“Do you know
where I might find this loyal and brilliant man?”

Monica smiled,
thin and sly. “The government dogs hunted him down and killed him, just the way
they killed all the loyal.”

“Really? I
have no data that confirms his death.”

“A plot.
Conspiracy. Cover-ups.” Thin beads of spittie flew out of her mouth. “They
dragged honest people out of their homes, locked them in cages, starved and
tortured them. Executions.”

“Were you
dragged out of your home, Mrs. Rowan? Locked up, tortured?”

Monica's eyes
slitted. “I had nothing they wanted.”

“Can you give
me names of people who believed in him who are still alive?”

“It was thirty
years ago and more. They came and they went.”

“What about
their wives? Their children? You must have met their families. Socialized.”

“I had a house
to run. I didn't have time to socialize.”

Eve flicked a
glance around the room. There was no view screen in evidence. “Do you keep up
with the news, Ms. Rowan? Current events.”

“I mind my own
business. I don't need to know what other people are up to.”

“Then you
might not be aware that yesterday a terrorist group calling themselves
Cassandra bombed the Plaza Hotel in New York. Hundreds of people were killed.
Among them, women and children.”

The gray eyes
flickered, then leveled again. “They should have been in their own homes where
they belonged.”

“It doesn't
concern you that a group of terrorists is killing innocent people? That it's
believed this group is connected to your dead husband?”

“No one's
innocent.”

“Not even you,
Mrs. Rowan?” Before she could answer, Eve moved on. “Has anyone from Cassandra
contacted you?”

“I keep to
myself. I don't know anything about your bombed hotel, but if you ask me, the
country'd be better off if that whole city was blown to hell. I've given you
all the time I'm going to give. I want you out of my house, or I'm calling my
public representative.”

Eve gave it
one more shot. “Your husband and his group never asked for money, Mrs. Rowan.
Whatever they did, they did for their beliefs. Cassandra is holding the city
hostage for money. Would James Rowan have approved?”

“I don't know
anything about it. I'm telling you to leave.”

Eve took a
memo card out of her pocket, set it on the table in front of a figure of a
laughing woman. “If and when you remember or think of anything that might help,
I'd appreciate it if you contacted me. Thanks for your time.”

They headed
out, with Monica dogging their heels. Outside, Eve sucked in air. “Let's get
back to the whores and filth in the streets, Peabody.”

“Oh, you bet.”
She shuddered for effect. “I'd rather have been raised by rabid wolves than a
woman like that.”

Eve glanced
back to see that dingy gray eye peering through the chink in the drapes.
“What's the difference?”

Monica watched
them go, waited until the car had pulled away. She went back, picked up the
memo card. Could be a bug, she thought. Jamie had taught her well. She hurried
into the kitchen with it, dumped it in the recycler, and turned the whining
machine on.

Satisfied, she
went to the wall 'link. Could be bugged, could be bugged, too. Everything could
be. Dirty cops. Lips peeled back, she slipped a small jammer out of a drawer,
slid it onto the 'link.

She'd done her
duty, hadn't she? Done it without complaint. It was long past time for
compensation. She programmed the number.

“I want my
share,” she said in a hiss when she heard the voice answer. “The police were
just here, asking questions. I didn't tell them anything. But I might next
time. I might just have a few things to say to Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD
that would perk her ears up. I want my share, Cassandra,” she repeated,
attacking a faint smudge on the counter with a tattered disinfectant rag. “I
earned it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dear
Comrade,

We are
Cassandra.

We are
loyal.

I trust you
have received and are pleased with the latest progress reports transmitted to
your location. The next steps of our plan are under way. Much like the chess
games we used to play on those long, quiet nights, pawns are sacrificed for the
queen.

At this
time there is a small matter I would ask you to take care of for us, as our
time is limited and our concentration must remain focused on the events
unfolding. Timing over the next few days is vital.

Attached is
the data you will require to arrange an execution long overdue. This is a
matter we had hoped to handle ourselves at a future date, but circumstances
require its implementation immediately.

There is no
cause for concern.

We must
keep this transmission brief. Remember us at tonight's rally. Speak our name.

We are
Cassandra.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Zeke stayed in
the apartment all day, afraid if he so much as stepped out to the corner deli
for tofu, Clarissa would call, and berating himself for forgetting to give her
the number of his pocket 'link.

He kept
himself busy. There were a dozen minor chores and repairs around the apartment
his sister had neglected. He cleared the kitchen drain, repaired the drip,
sanded the bedroom door and window sashes so that they no longer stuck, dealt
with the temperamental light switch in the bathroom.

If he'd
thought of it, he would have bought a few kits and upgraded her lighting
system. He made a note to do so before he returned to Arizona.

If there was
time. If he and Clarissa weren't on a transport west that night.

Why didn't she
call?

When he caught
himself staring at the 'link, he moved into the kitchen and concentrated on the
recycler. He took it apart, cleaned it, put it back together again.

Then he stared
into space, imagining what it would be like when he took Clarissa home.

There was no
question his family would welcome her. Even if it hadn't been part of the
Free-Age dogma to offer shelter and comfort to any in need, without questions
or strings, he knew the hearts of those who had raised him. They were open and
generous.

Still, he knew
his mother's eyes were sharp, and would see his feelings no matter what he did
to hide them. And he knew she wouldn't approve of his romantic involvement with
Clarissa.

He could hear
his mother's counsel as if she were in the room with him now.

She has to
heal, Zeke. She needs the time and space to find what's inside her. No one can
know their heart when it's so badly injured. Step aside and be her friend.
You've no right to more than that. Neither does she.

He knew his
mother would be right to say those things. Just as he knew no matter how hard
he might try to follow her advice, he was already too deeply in love to turn
around.

But he'd be
careful with Clarissa, gentle, treat her the way she should be treated. He'd
coax her into therapy so she could find her self-worth again, introduce her to
his family so that she could see what family was meant to be.

He would be
patient.

And when she
was steady again, he would make love with her, sweetly, softly, so she would
understand the beauty between a man and a woman and forget the pain and fear.

She was so
full of fear. The bruises on the flesh would heal, but he knew those on the
heart, on the soul, could spread and fester and ache. For that alone he wanted
Branson to pay. It shamed him to crave retribution; it was against everything
he'd come to believe. But even as he struggled to concentrate only on Clarissa,
on how she would bloom away from the city -- like a desert flower -- his blood
called out for justice.

He wanted to
see Branson in a cage, alone, afraid. Wanted to hear him cry out for mercy as
Clarissa had cried.

He told
himself it was useless to wish it, that Branson's life would mean nothing to
Clarissa's happiness and recovery once she was away from him. His Free-Ager's
belief that each should move toward their own destiny without interference,
that man's insistence on judging and punishing his fellows only hampered their
rise to the next plane, was sorely tested.

He knew he'd
already judged B. Donald Branson, and that he wanted him punished. A part of
himself Zeke hadn't known existed craved to mete out that punishment.

He fought to
bury it, to erase it, but his hands were clenched into fists as he looked
toward the 'link once again and willed Clarissa to call.

When it
beeped, he jolted, stared, then leaped on it. “Yes, hello.”

“Zeke.”
Clarissa's face filled the screen. There were tears drying on her cheeks, but
she curved her lips into a trembling smile. “Please come.”

His heart
sprang to his throat, swelled. “I'm on my way.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Peabody itched
for the final team meeting of the day to be over. The fact was, she admitted,
she just itched. Period. McNab sat across the conference table, sending her an
occasional wink and bumping his foot against hers as if to remind her of what
was going to happen if they could ever get the hell out of Central.

As if she
could forget.

She had a
couple of bad moments, wondering if she'd lost her mind, if she should call it
off. It was torture trying to concentrate on the work:

“If we're
lucky,” Eve was saying as she paced the room, “Lamont will make a move tonight,
try for some contact. We have two tails on him. My impression of Monica Rowan
is that she's a basic whack, but I instructed Peabody to put in the request to
tap her home and porta-links. Ordinarily, I don't think we'd get it, but the
governor's jumpy, and he'll put pressure on the judge.”

She paused a
moment, dipped her hands into her pockets. It always unnerved her to bring up
Roarke's name in official business. “Added to that, I have some hope that
Roarke will gather some evidence from inside Autotron, without putting Lamont
any more on alert.”

“If it's
there,” Feeney said with a nod, “he'll find it.”

“Yeah, well,
I'll be checking in with him shortly. McNab?”

“What?” He was
caught in the middle of another wink at Peabody, coughed wildly. “Ah, sorry.
Yes, sir?”

“You
developing a tic or something?”

“Tic?” He
looked anywhere but at Peabody, who was struggling to turn a laughing snort
into a sneeze. “No, Lieutenant.”

“Then maybe
you'd entertain us with your report.”

“My report?”
How the hell was a guy supposed to think straight when the blood kept insisting
on draining out of his head and into his lap? “After contacting Roarke with
your request for a long-range scanner, I took Driscol from E and B to the lab
at Trojan Securities. At that time we met with Roarke and his lab manager. They
demonstrated a scanner currently in development. Man, oh man, it's a beauty,
Lieutenant.”

Warming up, he
leaned forward. “It can scan, triangulate, and scope through six inches of
steel with a range of five hundred yards. Driscol nearly wet his pants.”

“We can leave
out Driscol's bladder problems,” Eve said dryly. “Is the equipment developed
enough for use?”

“They haven't
done the fine tuning, but yeah. It's more sensitive and powerful than anything
we have available through NYPSD. Roarke put a round-the-clock in manufacturing.
We can have four of them, maybe five, by tomorrow.”

“Anne, will
that be enough?”

“If the units
are as sensitive as Driscol reported -- and I'm pretty sure he did wet his
pants -- it'll go a long way. I've had teams doing scans on arenas and sports
complexes all day. We haven't found anything, but it's slow work. I'm short of
men with so many assigned to the Plaza site.”

“Our problem
is time,” Eve put in. “If Cassandra sticks to the timetable used by the Apollo
group, we've got a couple of days. But we can't count on that. At this point,
we've got everything in place we can have in place. I suggest everyone go home,
try to get a decent night's sleep, and be ready to kick back into gear in the
morning.”

Peabody and
McNab sprang up immediately, making Eve eye them balefully. “Bladder problems?”

“I... I need
to call my brother,” Peabody said.

“Me, too. I
mean ...” McNab laughed nervously. “I've got a call to make.”

“Just
remember, you're on call until this is over.” She shook her head as they
hurried out. “What's with those two lately?”

“I didn't see
anything, I don't know anything.” Feeney got to his feet. “That warrant comes
through, I'll arrange the tap.”

“See what
anything?” she demanded, but he was already heading out. “Something's weird
around here.”

“We're all
wired.” Anne got to her feet. “And, oh joy, it's my turn to put dinner on the
table. See you in the morning, Dallas.”

“Yeah.”
Absently, Eve picked up her jacket, and alone, turned to study the boards one
last time.

-=O=-***-=O=-

McNab's
apartment was three blocks away. They took it at a fast clip with the wind
directly in their faces and the beginnings of an icy rain pricking their skin.

“Here's how
it's going to be,” Peabody began. She had to take control from the get-go,
she'd decided, to avoid any chance of disaster.

“I've got a
pretty good idea how it's going to be.” Once they were far enough away from
Central, he patted a hand on her butt.

“This is a
one-time deal.” Though she liked his hand where it was, she knocked it aside.
“We go to your place, we do it, and it's done. Then that's it, that's all. We
get back to the way things were.”

“Fine.” At
that point, he'd have agreed to strip naked and walk on his hands through Times
Square just to get her out of that uniform.

“I'm calling
my brother.” She pulled her palm-link out of her pocket. “To tell him I'll be a
little late.”

“Tell him
you'll be a lot late.” With that suggestion, he bit her ear and pulled her into
the skinny lobby of his building.

Heat washed
through her, nearly as annoying as it was arousing. “He's not home yet. Keep
out of range, will you? I don't want my brother knowing I'm stopping off for a
bounce on a bony EDD guy.”

Grinning,
McNab stepped back. “You've got a real strong romantic streak, She-Body.”

“Shut up.
Zeke,” she continued when her 'link clicked to message. “I'm running a little
late. Guess you are, too. I should be home in an hour...”

She trailed
off as, still grinning, McNab held up two fingers.

“Or so. We'll
go out to this club I think you'll like, if you're up for it. I'll call back
when I'm on my way home.”

She tucked the
'link away as they stepped into the creaky elevator. “Let's make this quick,
McNab. I don't want him wondering where I am.”

“Okay. Then
let's get started right now.” He grabbed her, had her up against the wall and
his mouth fused on hers before she could squeak.

“Hey, wait.”
Her eyes crossed when his teeth closed over the cord in her neck. “Is this a
secured elevator?”

“I'm EDD.” He
had fast hands and they were busy dragging open the buttons of her overcoat.
“Would I live in an unsecured building?”

“Then cut it
out. Wait. This isn't even legal.”

He could feel
her heart thudding, feel the frantic beat of it under his hand. “Screw it.” He
turned, jabbed the controls to stop the car between floors.

“What the hell
are you doing?”

“We're about
to live out one of my top ten fantasies.” From his pocket he took a mini-tool
kit, and went to work on the security panel.

“In here? In here!”
Just the thought of it had the blood swimming wildly in her head. “Do you
know how many city ordinances you're breaking?”

“We'll arrest
each other after.” God, his hands weren't steady. Who'd have thought it? But he
grunted in satisfaction when the light on the security camera overhead went
blank. He deactivated the alarm system, tossed the tools in the corner, and
swung around to her.

“McNab, this
is insane.”

“I know.” He
jerked his coat off, flung it aside.

“I like it.”

He grabbed her
again, grinned. “I thought you would.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Ice slicked
the streets and sidewalks by the time Zeke finished fighting traffic and
arrived at the Branson townhouse. It fell in thin, bitter needles and shimmered
in the streetlights.

He thought of
the baking heat of home, the strong, clean sunlight. And of how Clarissa would
heal there.

She answered
the door herself. Her face was pale and showed the ravages of tears. Her hand
shook, just a little, as she reached for his. “You took so long.”

“I'm sorry.”
She'd left her hair down, in a soft wave he wanted to press his face against.
“This weather's slowed everything down. I don't know how anyone lives here.”

“I don't want
to. Not anymore.” She closed the door, leaned back against it. “I'm scared,
Zeke, and I'm so tired of being scared.”

“You don't
have to be anymore.” Gently, swamped with love, he framed her face in his
hands. “No one's going to hurt you again. I'll take care of you.”

“I know.” She
closed her eyes. “I think I knew, the minute I met you, that my life was going
to change.” She lifted her hands to his wrists. “You're cold. Come in by the
fire.”

“I want to
take you out of here, Clarissa.”

“Yes, and I...
I'm ready to go.” Still, she walked into the parlor, close to the fire,
shivering a little. “I packed a bag. It's upstairs. I don't even remember what
I put in it.” She drew a breath, leaned back into him when Zeke laid his hands
on her shoulders. “I left a note for B. D. When he gets home tomorrow and reads
it... I don't know what he'll do, Zeke. I don't know what he's capable of, and
I'm afraid of what I've done by putting you between us.”

“I want to be
between you.” He turned her to face him, his eyes quietly intense on hers. “I
want to help you.”

She pressed
her lips together. “Because you feel sorry for me.”

“Because I
love you.”

Tears
glistened in her eyes again, shimmering like dew on wild violets. “I love you,
Zeke. It seems impossible, incredible that I could feel like this. But I do.
It's as if I'd been waiting for you.” Her arms slipped around his waist, her
mouth tilted toward his. “As if I could get through anything, survive anything,
because I had to wait for you.”

His mouth
moved softly over hers, to soothe and to promise. When she laid her head
against his heart, he drew her closer and simply held her.

“I'll get your
bag.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “And we'll go away from here.”

“Yes.” She
looked up at him, smiled. “Yes, we'll go away from here. Hurry, Zeke.”

“Get your
coat. It's cold.”

He walked out,
up the steps. Now his heart began to pound. She was going with him. She loved
him. And it was a miracle. He found the suitcase on the bed, saw the envelope
addressed to her husband propped on the pillow.

That had taken
courage, he thought. One day she'd understand how much courage she had inside
her.

He was halfway
down the steps again when he heard her scream.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Propped in a
corner of the elevator, mostly naked, Peabody struggled for air. McNab had his
face buried against her throat with his breath whistling like her mother's old
teakettle.

They'd pulled,
tugged, and torn at each other's clothes, bit, groped, and bruised each other's
flesh. Then had finished the job exactly where they stood.

It had been,
Peabody admitted as her brain began to engage again, the most incredible
experience of her life.

“Jesus.” His
lips formed the word against her throat and had her pulse picking up speed
again. “Jesus, Peabody.”

He didn't
think he could move if she'd stuck a stunner in his ear. Her body -- oh my God
-- her body was amazing: ripe and lush, the kind a man could just sink into. If
he could manage to get them both horizontal, he wanted to do just that. Maybe
drown there.

She had her
arms locked around him. Couldn't quite make herself let go. Just as she
couldn't quite remember what they'd done or how they'd managed it. The last ten
minutes were a whirling blur, a sexual haze. A quick walk through insanity.

“We've got to
get out of here.”

“Yeah.” But he
nuzzled at her neck another moment in a gesture she found scary and sweet. Then
he stepped back, blinked, and stared at her. His gaze skimmed down, up, then
made the trip again. “God, you look great.”

She knew it
was ridiculous. Her bra was hanging off one shoulder by one strap. She still
had one uniform sock and shoe on, with her trousers caught on the ankle. She
wasn't sure where her panties were, but thought they'd probably been torn to
pieces.

And the two
dozen ab crunches she suffered through every day still hadn't flattened her belly.

Despite it,
she felt the sly feminine thrill slide up her spine at the approval in his
voice and the heat in his eyes. “You look okay, too.”

He was thin,
she could nearly count his ribs, and his stomach was flat as a board. Normally,
that would have annoyed her. But just now, looking at him, seeing his long
blond hair tousled, and the goosebumps starting to pop out on his skin from the
chill in the elevator, she found herself grinning.

He grinned
back. “I'm not done yet.”

“Good. Neither
am I.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Zeke raced
down the stairs with Clarissa's suitcase tumbling after him. He burst into the
parlor to see her sprawled on the floor, one hand holding her cheek. Through
her splayed fingers an ugly red mark stood out against her skin.

B, Donald
Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.

“Where the
hell do you think you're going?” He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at
her with it. “I didn't tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out
while I'm away, you bitch?”

“Stay away
from her.” Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke's voice was calm.

“Well, well.”
Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. “Isn't
this cozy. The whore and the handyman.” He shoved Zeke in the chest. “Get the
hell out of my house.”

“I intend to.
With Clarissa.”

“Zeke, don't.
He doesn't mean anything, B. D.” She pushed herself to her knees like a woman
praying. “I was .. .just going out for a walk. That's all.”

“Lying bitch.
So you were going to help yourself to what's mine, were you?” He shoved Zeke
again. “Did she tell you how many others she's whored with?”

“That's not
true.” Clarissa's voice broke on a sob. “I never -- “ She broke off, cringing
when Branson swung back to her.

“Shut the fuck
up, I'm not talking to you. Thought you'd put in a little overtime while I was
out of town?” He sneered at Zeke. “Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you
shoved your dick into her already. No.” He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step.
“If you'd had her, you'd know she's lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But
she's mine.”

“Not anymore.”

“Zeke, don't.
I want you to go now.” Her teeth were chattering. “I'll be fine. Just go now.”

“We'll go.”
Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn't see Branson's
fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw,
radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard
Clarissa cry out again.

“Don't hurt
him. Please, don't hurt him. B. D., I won't go. I swear I -- “ Then she
screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

It happened
fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand,
grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the
polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull
rapped onto the marble hearth.

Frozen, Zeke
stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at
the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson's head.

“Sweet God.
Sit down, here, sit down.” He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her
huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them
against Branson's throat.

“There's no
pulse.” He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson's shirt, and began to pump
the heart. “Call for an ambulance, Clarissa.”

But he knew it
was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he
forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

“He's dead.
He's dead, isn't he?” She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke's, the pupils
contracted to needlepoints of shock. “What will we do, what will we do?”

Nausea churned
in Zeke's stomach as he rose. He'd killed a man. He'd left behind every belief
and had taken a life. “We have to call an ambulance. The police.”

“The police. No,
no, no.” She began to rock then, her face white and strained. “They'll lock me
away. They'll send me to prison.”

“Clarissa.” He
made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and
evil. “You didn't do anything. I killed him.”

“You -- you --
“ Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. “Because of me. It's all because of
me.”

“No, because
of him. You need to be strong now.”

“Strong. Yes.”
Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. “I will be
strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I... But... I feel ill. I -- Could you
get me some water?”

“We need to
call the police.”

“Yes, yes, I
will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?”

“All right.
Stay right here.”

His legs felt
like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the
streets outside.

He had killed.

The two
servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand
a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn't remember why he'd come
in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of
Branson's skull hitting the hearth.

“Water.” He
managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering.
Sickness reared up into his throat. “Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some
water.”

Without a
word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with
a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a
fresh lemon, added it and ice.

Because his
hands were shaking, he took the glass she brought him in both of them, managed
a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor.

Water leaped
over the rim of the glass and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on
her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood.

There was no
body beside her.

“What have you
done? What are you doing?” Panicked, he set the glass down and ran to her.

“What has to
be done. I'm being strong and doing what has to be done. Let me finish.”

She was
fighting him, shoving, weeping, and the smell of fresh blood was strong.

“Stop. Stop
this. Where is he?”

“He's gone.
He's gone, and no one has to know.”

“What are you
talking about?” Zeke pulled the bloody rag from her, tossed it back on the
hearth. “For God's sake, Clarissa, what have you done?”

“I had the
droid take him.” Her eyes were wild, as with fever. “I had the droid take him
out, put him in the car. He'll throw the body into the river. We'll clean up
the blood. And we'll run away. We'll just go away and forget this ever
happened.”

“No, no, we
won't.”

“I won't let
them put you in prison.” She reached out, grabbed his shirt. “I won't let them
lock you away for this. I couldn't bear it.” She lowered her head to his chest,
clung. “I couldn't stand it.”

“It has to be
faced.” He gentled his hands on her arms. “If I don't face it, I couldn't live
with myself.” When she sagged against him, he took her back to the chair.”

“You'll call
the police,” she said dully.

“Yes.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

They'd finally
made it to the bed. Peabody wasn't altogether sure how they'd managed to get
from the elevator to his apartment to his bed without killing each other, but
that's where they were. The sheets were hot and tangled, and even now when
McNab rolled weakly off her, her body pumped heat like a furnace.

“I'm not done
yet,” he said in the dark with a voice that hitched.

Peabody
snorted, then began to laugh like a loon. “Me, neither. What are we, crazy?”

“A couple of
more times, we'll probably burn it all out of our systems.”

“A couple of
more times, we'll be dead.”

He reached out
to stroke her breast. He had long, bony fingers, and she was becoming very fond
of them. “Game?”

“Looks like.”

He rolled
over, replaced his fingers with his tongue. “I love your tits.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean
... ummm.” He began to suck, slowly now, bringing an odd liquid flutter to her
belly. “I really love your tits.”

“They're
mine.” She could have bitten her tongue, and was grateful for the dark that
concealed the flush as he chuckled against her. “I mean, I didn't like buy them
or anything.”

“I know, Dee.
Believe me, nothing improves on Mother Nature.”

God, she
wished he hadn't called her Dee. It made it all personal, and well, intimate,
when it was -- it had to be ... otherwise. She started to tell him so, but his
hand was sliding, not rushing this time, just lazily sliding down her rib cage.

“Man, you are
so ... female.” He had an urge to kiss her, long and slow and deep. As he
lifted his head, started to order lights so he could see her when he did, a
'link beeped.

“Shit. Lights.
Yours or mine?”

All at once,
they were both cops. She dived for her coat pocket. “Mine, I think. It
shouldn't be from Dispatch, it's my palm-link. Block outgoing video,” she
ordered, shoving the hair back from her face. “Engage. Peabody.”

“Dee.” Zeke's
face filled the miniscreen. By the time he'd drawn a breath, let it out, her
heart had stopped. She'd seen that stunned and glazed look in too many other
eyes.

“What's
happened? Are you hurt?”

“No. No. Dee,
I need you to come. I need you to call Dallas and come to Clarissa Branson's
house. I just killed her husband.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Eve finished
reading the printout Roarke had given her and sat back in the chair at her
desk. “So, Lamont's been stealing material from Autotron, bits and pieces at a
time, for the last six months.”

“He covered
his tracks well.” It burned, oh, it burned to know he'd been paying the son of
a bitch all along. “He had some autonomy, his requisitions would hardly be
questioned. He just ordered a bit more than he required for the work, then
obviously smuggled out the extras.”

“Which were
handed over to Fixer, I'd guess. This is enough to nail him on theft of
hazardous material, anyway. And that's enough for me to haul his butt into
interview and cook him.”

Roarke studied
the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I don't suppose you could hold off on that
long enough for me to fire him. Personally?”

“I think I'll
save myself the trouble of getting you out of assault charges and dump him in a
cage out of your reach. I appreciate the help.”

“Excuse me?”
He turned back to her. “If you'd let me get my memo book, then repeat that for
the record.”

“Ha ha. Don't
let it go to your head.” Absently, she rubbed at a headache brewing in her
temple. “We have to find the next target. I'll have Lamont brought in tonight,
let him stew in a cage, but it's not likely he knows the where and when.”

“He's bound to
know a few of the whos.” Roarke moved around the desk, stood behind her, and
began to massage the tension from her shoulders. “You need to put this aside
for a while, Lieutenant. Give your mind a chance to clear.”

“Yeah, I do.”
She let her head fall forward as his hands worked magic. “How long can you keep
that up?”

“A lot longer
if we were naked.”

She laughed
and amused him by starting to unbutton her blouse. “We'll just see about that.
Hell.” She did up the buttons quickly when her communicator sounded.

“Dallas?”

“Jesus,
Dallas. God.”

“Peabody.” She
got to her feet quickly.

“It's my
brother. It's Zeke. It's my brother.”

Eve clamped a
hand over Roarke's, squeezed hard, and forced her voice into a command. “Tell
me. Say it fast and straight.”

“He says he
killed B. Donald Branson. He's at that address now. I'm on my way.”

“I'll meet you
there. Hold it together, Peabody. Don't do anything. Do you copy this? Do
nothing until I arrive.”

“Yes, sir.
Dallas -- “

“I'll be there
in five minutes.” She broke the connection and bolted for the door.

“I'm going
with you.”

She started to
refuse, then remembered the terrified look in Peabody's eyes. “We'll take one
of your cars. It'll be faster.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Eve wasn't
surprised to arrive on scene ahead of Peabody, but she was grateful. One look
at the parlor, the blood smeared on the hearth, and the possessive and
protective way Zeke kept his hand on Clarissa's shoulder had her stomach
sinking.

Oh shit,
Peabody, she thought. What a hell
of a fix.

“Where's the
body?”

“I got rid of
it.” Clarissa started to her feet on legs that were visibly shaking.

“Sit down,
Clarissa.” Zeke said it softly while easing her back into the chair. “She's in
shock. She should have medical attention.”

Shoving
sympathy aside, and for the moment doing no more than filing the bruises on
Clarissa's face away, she stepped forward. “Got rid of it?”

“Yes.” She
drew a deep breath, locked her hands together. “After -- after it... I sent
Zeke out of the room, asked him to get me some water.”

She glanced
toward the glass still sitting untouched on an inlaid table, the water that had
sloshed out of it ruining the finish. “When he was gone, I got one of the
droids to carry -- to carry it out, drive it away. I programmed the droid. I --
I know how. I instructed it to throw the body in the river. Off the bridge and
into the East River.”

“She was
upset,” Zeke began. “She wasn't thinking. It all happened so fast and I -- “

“Zeke, I need
you to sit down. Over there.” Eve indicated the sofa.

“She didn't do
anything. I did. I pushed him. I didn't mean ... he was hurting her.”

“Sit down,
Zeke. Roarke, would you take Mrs. Branson in another room? She should lie down
for a few minutes.”

“Of course.
Come on, Clarissa.”

“It wasn't his
fault.” She began to weep again. “It was my fault. He was just trying to help
me.”

“It's all
right,” Roarke murmured. “Eve will take care of it. Come with me now.” He sent
his wife a long, silent look as he led Clarissa away.

“We're not on
record yet, Zeke. No,” she continued with a quick shake of her head. “Don't say
anything until you listen to me. I have to know everything, every detail, every
step. I don't want you to even think about leaving anything out.”

“I killed him,
Dallas.”

“I said shut
up.” Damn it, why didn't people listen? “I'm going to read you your rights,
then we're going to talk. You can call for a lawyer, but I'm telling you now --
as your sister's friend -- not to do that, not yet. You give it to me straight,
then we go in and do a formal interview. That's when you lawyer up. I'm going
on record here in a minute, and when I do, you keep looking me dead in the eye.
You got that? You don't evade, you don't hesitate. I'm seeing self-defense
here, I'm seeing an accident, but when Clarissa ditched the body, she put both
of you in jeopardy.”

“She only -- “

“Quiet,
goddamn it.” Frustrated, she dragged her hands through her hair. “There are
ways to get around that. That's what the lawyer's going to be for. And the
psych tests I'm going to order. But right now, on record, you're going to tell
me everything, leaving nothing out. Don't think by smoking any details you're
protecting Clarissa. You won't. It'll only make it worse.”

“I'll tell you
what happened. All of it. But do you have to take her in? She's afraid of the
police. She's so fragile. He hurt her. If you could just take me.”

She moved
forward, sat on the edge of the coffee table to face him. Jesus, she thought.
Sweet Jesus, he was little more than a boy. “Do you trust your sister, Zeke?”

“Yes.”

“And she
trusts me.” Eve heard the commotion in the foyer and rose. “That'll be her now.
Are you going to be able to hold it together?”

He nodded, got
to his feet as Peabody burst in. “Zeke. God, Zeke, are you all right?” She
nearly leaped into his arms, then yanked back to run her hands over him, face,
shoulders, chest. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Dee.” He
pressed his brow to hers. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“It's all
right, it's okay. We'll take care of everything. We'll take care of it all. We
need to call a lawyer.”

“No. Not yet.”

Peabody
whirled to Eve, eyes damp and terrified. “He needs representation. Jesus,
Dallas, he's not going in a cage, he's not going into holding.”

“Suck it in,
Peabody,” Eve snapped. “That's an order.” The tears were already rolling,
causing Eve to feel a slick sense of panic. Oh God, oh God, don't fall apart
on me. Don't do it. “That's an order, Officer. Sit down.”

She'd seen
McNab out of the corner of her eye and didn't stop to think why he was there.
“McNab, take Peabody's recorder. You'll be acting as temporary aide in this
matter.”

“Dallas -- “

“This one
isn't for you,” Eve interrupted. “It can't be. McNab?”

“Yes, sir.” He
came over, leaned down to Peabody. “Hold on, okay? Just hang. It'll be all
right.” He took the recorder still pinned to her uniform collar, fixed it on
the lapel of his wrinkled pink shirt. “When you're ready, Lieutenant.”

“Record on.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on scene at residence of B. Donald Branson, conducting
interview with Zeke Peabody in regards to the suspected death of B. Donald
Branson.” She sat on the coffee table again, kept her eyes directly on his, and
read him his rights. Both of them ignored Peabody's muffled moan.

“Zeke, tell me
what happened.”

He drew a
breath. “I better start at the beginning. Is that all right?”

“That's fine.”

He did as Eve
had told him, kept his eyes on hers, never wavered. He spoke of the first day
he'd worked in the house, what he'd heard, his conversation with Clarissa
afterward.

His voice
trembled now and then, but Eve simply nodded and let him continue on. She
wanted the emotion in his voice, the obvious distress in his eyes. She wanted
it all on record while it was fresh.

“When I
started back downstairs with her suitcase, I heard her scream. She was on the
floor, crying, holding her face. He was yelling at her, drunk and yelling at
her. He'd knocked her down. I had to stop him.”

Blindly, he
reached out for his sister's hand, gripped it tight. “I just wanted to get her
out, away from him. No, that's not true.”

He closed his
eyes briefly. Leave nothing out, Eve had told him. “I wanted him to be
punished. I wanted him to pay for what he was doing to her, but I knew I had to
get her away where she'd be safe. He yanked her up, yanked her up by her hair.
Hurting her, just to hurt her. I grabbed for her, shoved him back. And that's
when ... that's when he fell.”

“You stepped
up to stop him.” It was the first time Eve had spoken since he started. And she
kept her voice quiet, even, expressionless. “To get Clarissa away when he hurt
her again. You shoved him and he fell? Is that correct?”

“Yes, he fell,
fell backwards. I watched. It was like I'd frozen, couldn't move, couldn't
think. His feet went out from under him and he stumbled back, went down hard. I
heard -- oh God -- I heard his head hit the stone. And then there was blood. I
checked his pulse, and there was nothing. His eyes were open, fixed and open
and his aura was gone.”

“His what?”

“His aura. His
life force. I couldn't see it.”

“Okay.” That
was an area they could just leave alone. “What did you do then?”

“I told
Clarissa we needed to call an ambulance. I knew it was too late, but it seemed
right. And the police. She was shaking and terrified. She kept blaming herself.
I said, I told her she had to be strong and she seemed to snap back a little.
She asked me to get her some water, just to give her a minute and get her some
water. If I'd known what was in her head ...”

He broke off
then, closed his mouth tightly.

“Zeke, you
have to finish. Finish it out. You won't help Clarissa by covering up now.”

“She did it
for me. She was afraid for me. It was the shock, you see?” Those young, soft
gray eyes pleaded with Eve for understanding. “She just panicked, that's all,
and thought if there wasn't a body, if she cleaned up the blood, it would be
all right. He'd hurt her,” Zeke murmured, “and she was afraid.”

“Explain what
happened. You went to get water.”

He sighed,
nodded, and finished.

Eve sat back,
considered. Calculated. “Okay, thank you. You're going to have to go downtown,
make a full statement.”

“I know.”

“McNab, call
Dispatch, report a homicide at this address.” She shot Peabody a look as her
aide sprang off the couch. “Believed self-defense. We need a team in here. And
we need a team out, dragging the river. Zeke, I'm calling in a couple of
uniforms to take you downtown. You're not under arrest, but you will be
detained until this scene can be secured and swept and we get your statement.”

“Can I see
Clarissa before I go?”

“It's not a
good idea. McNab.” She indicated by a jerk of her head for him to stay in the
room with Zeke. “Peabody, with me.”

She strode out
into the hall, saying nothing when Roarke slipped out of a door and shut it
gently. “She's asleep.”

“Not for long.
Peabody, pull it together and listen to me. You ride with your brother. I'm
going to order he be detained in an interview room, not a cage. And you're
going to talk to him and explain that he's going to agree to truth testing and
a psych and personality exam. Mira will do it. We'll put a rush on it and get
it done tomorrow. We'll lawyer him up and get him out tonight. He may have to
wear a bracelet until after testing results, but his end of the story is clean,
and it's going to hold.”

“Don't take me
off the case.”

“You were
never on. Don't push this,” she said in a fierce whisper when Peabody protested.
“I'll take care of your brother. If I let you on, it's going to look shaky.
It's going to be tricky enough for me to hang as primary.”

She was
struggling against the tears and losing fast. “You were good to him. You let
him get it out on record clean, without the lawyer. You were right about that.”

Eve jammed her
hands in her pockets. “For Christ's sake, Peabody, a blind man could see the
guy would trip over his own feet before he'd step on an ant. Nobody's going to
argue with self-defense here.” If they found the body. The goddamn body. “He'll
be okay.”

“I should've
looked after him.” Now she did begin to weep, in great gulping sobs. Helpless,
Eve looked at Roarke, spread her hands.

Understanding,
he turned Peabody into his arms. “It's all right, darling.” He stroked her
hair, rocked, watched his wife suffer more than a little. “You let Eve look
after him now. Let her take care of him.”

“I need to
talk to the woman.” Eve's stomach rolled every time a fresh sob shuddered out.
“McNab will secure the scene and wait for the uniforms. Can you ... handle
this?”

He nodded and
continued to murmur to Peabody as Eve slipped into the room where Clarissa
slept.

“I'm sorry.”
Peabody's voice was muffled against Roarke's chest.

“Don't be.
You're entitled to a good cry.”

But she shook
her head, eased back, and scrubbed at her wet face. “She wouldn't break down.”

“Peabody.”
Gently, Roarke cupped her cheek. “She breaks.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Eve yanked all
the chains she could reach, gathered strings and pulled each one. She argued,
justified, debated, and came close to threatening. In the end, she was primary
in the matter of the death of B. Donald Branson.

She booked two
interview rooms, positioning Zeke and Clarissa in separate areas, put the fear
of God into the crime scene team and sweepers, harangued the body retrieval
unit that was already dragging the East River, put McNab to work on the Branson
droid, and arrived at Central with a viciously brilliant headache.

But she had
everything she'd wanted.

Her last step
before taking statements was to contact Mira at home and arrange for both Zeke
and Clarissa to be tested the following day.

She took
Clarissa first. She imagined when the woman's initial shock passed, she'd want
a lawyer, and the lawyer would shut her up. Self-preservation was bound to
overshadow any concern Clarissa might have for Zeke.

But when she
walked into the interview room, Clarissa was sitting pale and quiet, her hands
clutched around a cup of water. Eve gestured the uniform outside, closed the
door.

“Is Zeke all
right?”

“Yeah, he's
okay. Feeling any better?”

Clarissa
turned the cup in her hands, but didn't lift it. “It's all like a dream. So
unreal. B. D.'s dead. He is dead, isn't he?”

Eve walked to
the table, pulled back a chair. “Tough to say at this point. We don't have a
body.”

Clarissa
shuddered, squeezed her eyes tight. “It's my fault. I don't know what I was
thinking. I guess I wasn't thinking.”

“Now's the
time to start.” She left any sympathy out of her voice. Sympathy would only
push the woman into tears again. She engaged the recorder, recited the
necessary information, and leaned forward. “What happened tonight, Clarissa?”

“I called
Zeke. He came. We were going to leave together. Go away.”

“You and Zeke
were having an affair?”

“No.” She
raised her eyes then, dark and bright and beautiful. “No, we'd never ... we
kissed once. We fell in love. I know it sounds ridiculous, we barely knew each
other. It just happened. He was kind to me, gentle. I wanted to feel safe. I
only wanted to feel safe. I called, and he came.”

“Where were
you going?”

“Arizona. I
think. I don't know.” She lifted a hand to her forehead, skimmed her fingers
over her skin. “Anywhere, as long as I got away. I'd packed. I'd packed a bag,
and Zeke went up to get it for me. I got my coat. I was getting away, I was
going away with him. Then B. D. came in. He wasn't supposed to.”

Her voice
started to hitch, her shoulders to tremble. “He wasn't supposed to come home
tonight. He was drunk, and he saw I had my coat. He knocked me down.” Her hand
drifted to her cheek where the bruise was raw. “Zeke was there, and he told him
to stay away from me. B. D. said awful things, and he kept pushing Zeke,
shoving him, shouting. I can't remember, exactly. Just shouting and pushing,
and he grabbed my hair. B. D. grabbed my hair and yanked me up. I think I was
screaming. Zeke pushed him away. He pushed him because he was hurting me. And
he fell. There was a terrible sound and the blood on the hearth. Blood,” she
said again and huddled over her cup of water.

“Clarissa,
what did Zeke do then, after your husband fell? After the blood?”

“He ... I'm
not sure.”

“Think. Pull
it back into your head and think.”

“He...” The
tears began to plop, in single drops, onto the table. “He made me sit down,
then he went to B. D. He told me to call an ambulance. He told me to hurry, but
I couldn't move. I just couldn't. I knew he was dead. I could see -- the blood,
his eyes. He was dead. Call the police. Zeke said we had to call the police. I
was so afraid. I told him we should run. We should just run away, but he
wouldn't. We had to call the police.”

She stopped,
shivering, then looked into Eve's eyes. “B. D. knows the police,” she said in a
whisper. “He said if I ever told anyone, if I ever went to them because he hurt
me, they'd lock me up. They'd rape me and lock me up. He knows the police.”

“You're with
the police now,” Eve said coolly. “Have you been raped and locked up?”

Clarissa's
eyes flickered. “No, but -- “

“What happened
after Zeke told you he was calling the police?”

“I sent him
away, into the other room. I thought if I could just... make it go away. I
asked him to get me some water, and when he was gone, I got the droid. I
programmed it to take the -- the body, to drive it to the river and throw it
in. Then I tried to clean up the blood. There was so much blood.”

“That was fast
work. Fast and smart.”

“I had to be
fast. And smart. Zeke would come back -- he'd try to stop me. He did stop me.”
She lowered her head. “And now we're here.”

“Why are you
here?”

“He called the
police. He called them and they'll put him in prison. It was my fault, but
he'll go to prison.”

No, Eve
thought, he wouldn't.

“How long were
you married to B. Donald Branson, Clarissa?”

“Almost ten
years.”

“And you claim
he abused you during this period?” Eve remembered the way Clarissa had
stiffened when Branson had put his arm around her at the will reading. “He hurt
you physically?”

“Not the whole
time.” She wiped a hand over her face. “At first. It was all right at first.
But I couldn't do anything right. I'm so stupid, and I never got anything
right. He'd get so angry. He hit me -- he said he hit me to knock some sense
into my head. To show me who was in charge.”

“Just
remember who's in charge around here, little girl. Just you remember.”

Eve's gut
clenched as the words played back in her head, and the sticky fear from
childhood that went with it. “You're a grown woman. Why didn't you leave?”

“And go
where?” Clarissa's eyes were ripe with despair. “Where would I go that he
wouldn't find me?”

“Friends, family.”
She'd had none, Eve thought. She had no one.

Clarissa shook
her head. “I didn't have any friends, and my family's gone. What people I knew
-- the ones he let me know -- think B. D. is a great man. He beat me whenever
he wanted, raped me whenever he chose. You don't know what it's like. You can't
know what it's like to live with that, with the not knowing what he'll do, what
he'll be like when he walks through the door.”

Eve rose,
walked away to the two-way mirror and stared at her own face. She knew exactly
what it was like, too much what it was like. And the remembering, the feeling,
would only cloud her objectivity. “And now, now that he won't walk through the
door again?”

“He can't hurt
me anymore.” She said it simply, causing Eve to turn. “And I'll have to live
with knowing I caused a good man, a gentle man to be responsible for his death.
Any chance Zeke and I had to be together, to be happy, died tonight, too.”

She laid her
head on the rough table. Her weeping, Eve thought, was the sound of a heart
breaking.

Eve ended the
recording and stepping out, instructed the uniform to arrange to have Clarissa
taken to her health center until morning.

She found
McNab by the vending machine, scowling at his choices. “The droid?”

“She did a
good job with him. He followed orders. I ran his program back and forward and
sideways. She inputted orders -- retrieve the body by the hearth, transport it
to the car, drive to the river, and dispose. There's nothing else in there. She
wiped previous memory.”

“Accident or
design?”

“Can't tell.
She'd have been rushed, nervous. It's easy to wipe out old with new programming
if you're in a hurry.”

“Yeah. How
many other servants in that place?”

McNab took out
his notes. “Four.”

“And nobody
hears anything, sees anything?”

“Two in the
kitchen at the time in question. Personal maid upstairs, groundskeeper tucked
in his shed.”

“Tucked in his
shed, in this weather?”

“They're all
droids. The Bransons had full droid staff. Top quality.”

“Figures.” She
rubbed her tired eyes. She'd think about that later, go through those steps and
stages later. First priority was to clear Zeke of any chance of formal charges.

“Okay, I'm
going to hit Zeke again. Peabody in there with him?”

“Yeah, and the
lawyer. No way around running him through again?”

She dropped
her hands and her eyes were cool. “We do this by the book. We fucking write the
book with this one. Every step documented. This'll hit the media by morning.
'Tool and Toy Tycoon Killed by Wife's Lover. Suspect is the brother of a police
officer assigned to Homicide. Investigation snagged. Body missing.'“

“Okay, okay.”
He held up a hand. “I can see the picture.”

“The only way
to avoid that is to beat them to it. We prove self-defense, quick and clean.
And we find the goddamn body. Tag the sweepers,” she said as she swung toward
the interview room. “If they haven't finished yet, light a fire under them.”

Peabody's head
came up the moment Eve walked in. Her hand continued to grip Zeke's. On the
other side of him was a lawyer she recognized as one of Roarke's.

The woman in
her was grateful, the cop furious. One more shadow on the case, she
thought grimly. “Husband of investigating officer arranged for
representation.” Fabulous.

“Counselor.”

“Lieutenant.”

Without a
glance at Peabody, she sat, engaged the recorder, and got to work.

Thirty minutes
later, when Eve walked out, Peabody was right on her heels. “Lieutenant. Sir.
Dallas.”

“I don't have
time to talk to you.”

Peabody
managed to skirt around Eve, face her. “Yes, you do.”

“Fine.” Braced
for a battle, Eve pushed into the women's room, marched to the sink, and
ordered the water on cold. “Say it and let me get back to work.”

“Thank you.”

Off balance
with the quiet words, Eve lifted her dripping face. “For what?”

“For taking
care of Zeke.”

Slowly, Eve
turned off the tap, shook the excess water from her hands, and moved to the
dryer. It ran with a nasty buzz and a chilly blow of air. “I've got a job to do
here, Peabody. And if you're thanking me for the lawyer, you're off. That's
Roarke, and I'm not happy about it.”

“Let me thank
you.”

She hadn't
expected it. She'd been prepared for anger, for accusations. “Why did you
push him that way? Why did you keep trying to trip him up? How can you be so
hard?”

And what she
got was Peabody's shaky gratitude and unhappy eyes. Eve rubbed her hands over
her face, closed her eyes. “God.”

“I know why
you were rough on him this round. I know how much stronger his story is because
you were. I was afraid...” She had to suck in breaths, one at a time. “Once I
got my head clear, I was afraid you'd give him room, go soft -- the way I
would. But you hammered him. So, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”
Eve let her hands drop. “He's not going down for this. You can hold onto that.”

“I know.
Because I'm holding onto you.”

“Don't do
that.” Eve bit off the words and turned away. “Don't.”

“I've got to
get this out. My family's the most important thing I've got. Just because I
don't live close doesn't mean we aren't close. After them comes the job.” She
sniffled, rubbed a hand impatiently under her nose. “You're the job.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yeah, you
are, Dallas. You're everything that's right about the job. And you're the best
thing that's happened to me since I picked up my badge. I'm holding onto you
because I know I can.”

Eve's heart
quivered. The backs of her eyes burned. “I don't have time to stand here and
get sloppy with you.” She strode to the door, stopping briefly to tap a finger
on Peabody's chest. “Officer Peabody, you're out of uniform.”

As the door
swung closed behind Eve, Peabody glanced down and saw the third button on her
uniform jacket was hanging by a thread. McNab, she realized, hadn't quite torn
it off.

“Oh hell.” She
swore again, viciously, and ripped the button free.

There was a
manic dance troupe doing a foot-stomping jig inside Eve's head. She gave a
passing thought to rooting out a pain blocker. Then she walked into her office
and saw Roarke.

He sat in her
ratty chair in his elegant suit. His equally elegant overcoat hung on her ugly
coat rack. His eyes were clear, his voice smooth and alert, as he conducted
whatever kind of business a man like him conducted at eleven o'clock at night.

On principle,
she rapped a fist against the supple Italian shoes currently making themselves
at home on the top of her desk. She didn't budge them, but she made her point.

“I'll have to
get back to you on the details.” His gaze skimmed over Eve. His sharp eyes saw
everything. The fatigue, the headache, the simmering emotions held ruthlessly
in check. “I have a meeting.”

He
disconnected, lazily swung his feet to the floor. “Sit down, Lieutenant.”

“This is my
office. I give the orders here.”

“Um-hmm.” He
rose to go to her AutoChef, and knowing she'd complain, programmed it for broth
rather than coffee.

“There was no
point in your waiting.”

“Of course
not.”

“You might as
well go home. I'm not sure when I'll get there. I'll just bunk here.”

In a pig's
eye, Roarke thought, but simply
turned and handed her the broth.

“I want
coffee.”

“You're such a
big girl now. You must know you can't have everything you want.” He moved past
her to the door, shut it just as she bristled at him.

“What I don't
need, in here, is a smart mouth.”

He winged up a
brow. “Are you having yours removed? I'm so fond of it.”

“I can have
two gorillas in uniform in here in thirty seconds. It would make their night to
toss you out on your excellent ass.”

He sat in her
spare chair, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped room would allow, and
studied her face. “Sit down, Eve, and drink your broth.”

Because she
caught herself, barely caught herself, before flinging the cup across the room,
she did sit. “I just pounded on Zeke. For thirty minutes I beat him up the wall
and down again. 'You wanted to fuck another man's wife. So you killed him to
get him out of the way. He was a rich man, wasn't he? She'll be rich now. That
oughta set you up just fine, Zeke. You get the woman, you get the money, and
Branson gets a tasteful memorial service.' And that was before I got nasty.”

Roarke said
nothing, simply waited her out. Eve picked up the broth. Her throat was raw,
and it was better than nothing. “And when I finished hammering him, Peabody
follows me into the John and thanks me for it. For Christ's sake.”

He rose
because she'd dropped her throbbing head into her hands. But when his hands
came down to rest on her shoulders, she tried to shrug them off. “Don't. I
can't take any more understanding tonight.”

“That's a
pity.” He lowered his lips to the top of her head. “You've been training
Peabody for months now. Do you think she doesn't know how your mind works?”

“Right now I
don't know how the hell it works. She -- Clarissa -- she said he'd beaten her,
raped her. Whenever he wanted. For years. Over and over for years.”

Roarke's
fingers tightened on her shoulders before he controlled them, gentled them.
“I'm sorry, Eve.”

“I've heard it
before, from witnesses, suspects, victims. I can handle it. I can deal with it.
But every time, every goddamn time, it's like a fist in the gut. Right under
the guard and into the gut. Every time.”

For a moment,
just a moment, she let herself lean back, into him, into the comfort. “I have
to keep going here.” She rose, moved away from him. “You shouldn't have called
in your spiffy lawyer, Roarke. It's sticky. This whole deal is very, very
sticky.”

“She cried on
my shoulder. Sturdy, stalwart Peabody. Would you ask me to turn away from
that?”

Eve shook her
head. “Okay.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing the headache away.
“We'll deal with it. I'm going to call Nadine.”

“Now?”

After blowing
out a breath, Eve turned back. Her eyes were clear again. “I'm going to offer
her a one-on-one, right here, right now. She'll jump at it, and we'll have our
spin on this right out of the box.”

She walked
back to the 'link to make the call. “Go home, Roarke.”

“I will. When
you do.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He bullied her
into going home. Or she let him think he did. Zeke had been released on his own
recognizance and was to report to Dr. Mira's office at nine a.m. Clarissa was
tucked in a private room at her swanky health center and sedated for the night.

Eve had
stationed a guard at her door.

Nadine's story
hit the air at midnight and carried exactly the brisk tone of a routine if
tragic accident that Eve had wanted.

The crime
scene evidence was in and would be fully analyzed the next morning. The body
was still somewhere in the depths of the East River, and there was simply no
more to be done.

So at two a.m.
she stripped off her clothes and prepared to fall into her own bed.

“Eve?” Roarke
noted her weapon and harness were now out of reach. When she turned her head
toward him, he caught her chin and shoved a pain blocker into her mouth. Before
she could spit it at him, he caught her close, clever hands roaming down to
squeeze her naked ass, and crushed his mouth to hers.

She choked,
swallowed in self-defense, and felt his tongue dance lightly over hers. “That
was low.” She shoved away, coughed a little. “That was despicable.”

“That worked.”
He caressed her cheek and gave her an affectionate shove into bed. “You'll feel
better for it in the morning.”

“In the morning,
after coffee, I'm going to smack you around.”

He slid into
bed beside her, cuddled her against him. “Mmm. I can't wait. Go to sleep.”

“You won't
think it's so funny when your head's bouncing off the floor.” But she rolled
hers onto his shoulder and dropped away.

Four hours
later, she awoke in exactly the same position. Exhaustion had gobbled her up,
and she'd slept like a stone. She blinked, saw Roarke's eyes were already open
and on hers. “Time?” she croaked it out.

“Just past
six. Take a few minutes more.”

“No, I can get
started from here.” She climbed over him, then stumbled groggily into the
bathroom. In the shower, she rubbed sleep out of her eyes, and realized -- with
some resentment -- her headache was gone.

“Jets on full,
a hundred and one degrees.”

Water streamed
out from half a dozen jets, billowing steam. She let out one low, appreciative
moan, then hair dripping, narrowed her eyes as Roarke stepped in behind her.

“Lower the
temp and suffer.”

“I thought I'd
boil with you this morning.” He handed her a cup of coffee, amused by the
suspicious look in her eyes, pleased that they showed no shadow of pain. “I'll
be working at home myself for a few hours today.”

He sipped his
own coffee, then set the mug on a high shelf above the pumping jets. “I'd like
you to keep me apprised of progress, in both the helpings you currently have on
your plate.”

“I'll tell you
what I can, when I can.”

“Good enough.”
He filled his hands with soap and began to slide them over her.

“I can manage
this myself.” She stepped back because the blood was already sizzling under her
skin. “I don't have time for water games this morning.”

He only moved
in, gliding his hands up over her belly, torso, breasts, which made her shiver.
“I said -- “ His mouth lowered to her shoulder, teeth nipping. “Cut it out.”

“I love it
when you're wet...” He took the mug out of her hand before she could drop it,
set it next to his own. “And slippery.” Nudged her against the wall running
with water, dripping with steam. “And reluctant. Go up.” He murmured against
her ear as his fingers dipped into her, slipping in, slipping out in a smooth,
lazy rhythm.

Her head fell
back, her body took over. “Damn it.” It came out in a moan as pleasure, dark
and drugged, spread from her center to the tips of her fingers.

“Go over.” He
slicked his tongue down the side of her throat and gave her no choice.

Her hands were
splayed against the wet tile, her body pulsing. Water rained over them, hot and
needle sharp, as he felt the orgasm tear through her.

A kind of
purging, he thought.

She was still
gasping when he spun her around and closed his mouth greedily over her breast.

She was
helpless against what he brought to her. Each time, every time, helpless,
staggered. And grateful. She dived her fingers into his hair, twisting,
tangling them in that thick wet silk while those good, strong tugs of desire in
her belly followed the restless hunger of his mouth on her.

His hands,
slick, skilled, strong, raced over her, took her to the edge and over. Where he
wanted her, where he needed her -- shuddering, moaning his name, swamped in her
own pleasure.

The nails
biting viciously into his back thrilled him, the frenzied race of her heart
against his incited him. More. All. Now, was all he could think as they
savaged each other's mouths.

“I want you.”
His breath was heaving as he gripped her hips. “Always. Ever. Mine.”

His eyes were
a wild and burning blue. She could see nothing else. It should have been too
much, this desperate, endless need for him. Yet somehow it was never, never
enough. “Mine.” She dragged his mouth back to hers, and when he drove into her,
met him beat for urgent beat.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She had to
admit, four solid hours of sleep, wet, wild sex, and a hot meal went a long way
to put the mind and body back into fighting trim. At seven-fifteen, she was at
her desk in her home office, ready to start her day with her head clear and
alert, her muscles warmed, and her energy up.

Marriage was
having a number of interesting side benefits she hadn't considered.

“You look ... limber,
Lieutenant.”

She glanced
over. “I'd better. I want to put in a half hour here before I head in. We've
still got Cassandra to deal with, and I need to keep Peabody's energies focused
in that direction.”

“While you
juggle Zeke's case with your other hand.”

“Cops are
always juggling.” She had some very definite ideas where she was heading in
that particular area. “I'm going to split McNab's duties. We can spare him to
put time into the Branson case until we smooth it out. It helped having him
around last night.”

She stopped,
frowned. “What the hell was he doing around last night, anyway? I didn't take
time to find out.”

“I'd say that
was obvious.” When Eve only stared at him blankly, Roarke laughed. “And you
call yourself a detective. He'd been with Peabody.”

“With her?
What for? They were off duty.”

Roarke stared
at her a moment, saw she was seriously at sea. With a chuckle, he walked over,
cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb over the dent in it. “Eve, they were off
duty and on each other.”

“On each
other?” It took her a beat, then two. “Sex? You think they had sex? That's
ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because --
because it is. She thinks he's a pest. He goes out of his way to irritate her.
I know you thought they had some ... thing developing, but you were off. She's
busy fooling around with Charles Monroe and he's ...” She trailed off, thinking
of the odd looks, the silences, the blushes. The signals.

“Oh, Jesus
Christ,” was all she could say. “Jesus Christ, they're having sex. I don't need
this.”

“Why should
you care?”

“Because.
They're cops. They're both cops, and damn it, she's my cop. This kind of
shit gets in the way, it messes things up. They'll moon over each other for a
while, then something's going to go wrong, and they'll start spitting and slapping.”

“Why do you
assume it won't work?”

“Because it
won't. It doesn't. Your energies and your focus get all split up when they need
to be channeled on the job. You start mixing sex and romance and Christ knows
what into it, everything gets tilted. They've got no business having sex. Cops
aren't supposed to -- “

“Have a
personal life?” he finished, just a bit coolly. “Personal feelings and
choices?”

“I didn't mean
that. Exactly. But they're better off without them,” she added in a mutter.

“Thank you so much.”

“This isn't
about us. I'm not talking about us.”

“Meaning
you're not a cop, and we haven't mixed sex, romance, and Christ knows what into
it?”

She'd pushed a
button all right, Eve noted and wished she'd broken her finger first. “This is
about two cops working on my team and on two messy investigations.”

“An hour ago I
was inside you, and you were wrapped around me.” His voice was more than cool
now, it was cold. As were his eyes. “That was about us, and the investigations
were still there, messy or otherwise. How long are you going to keep believing
you'd be better off without that?”

“That's not
what I meant.” She got to her feet, surprised to find herself just a little
shaken.

“Isn't it?”

“Don't put
words in my mouth or thoughts in my head. I don't have time for some marital
crisis right now.”

“Fine, I don't
have the tolerance for one.”

When he turned
and left her, snapping the door closed between their offices, she lifted a
fist. Then, as the temper refused to build and spare her from guilt, she lifted
the other and knocked them against her temples.

Heaving out a
breath, she strode to the door, opened it, and faced him down. He was already
behind his desk and barely acknowledged her.

“That's not
what I meant,” she said again. “But maybe it's part of it. I know you love me,
but I don't know why. I look at you, and I just can't get why it's me. Every
time I get my balance, I lose it again. Because it shouldn't be me, and I think
it'd kill me if you ever figured that out.”

He started to
get to his feet, but she shook her head. “No, I don't have time. I mean it. I
just wanted to say that, and to tell you it wasn't what I meant. Peabody -- she
got hurt before, she got bruised because she tipped for a cop -- another cop,
another case. I'm not going to see that happen to her again. That's it. That's
all. I'm going in. I'll be in touch if there's anything you need to know.”

She moved
fast. He could have stopped her, but he stayed where he was and let her go.

Later, he told
himself, he'd deal with her. And she would have to deal with him.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Eve strode
into Central. The glowing mood with which she'd started the day was now
tarnished. She thought it just as well. She'd work better, sharper, if she was
edgy. Spotting Peabody, she jerked her chin, then pointed a finger toward her
office.

She could see
the signs of an unhappy, sleepless night on her aide's face. She'd expected
that. She held the door herself until Peabody moved through, then closed it. “As
of now, you put Zeke out of your mind. It's being handled, and you have a job
to do.”

“Yes, sir. But
-- “

“I'm not
finished, Officer. If you can't guarantee that I'll have all your energy and
all your concentration on the Cassandra matter, I want you to withdraw from the
team and request leave. Now.”

Peabody opened
her mouth, closed it again before something nasty could escape. When her
control was back, she nodded briefly. “You'll have the best I can give you,
Lieutenant. I'll do my job.”

“So noted. Lamont
should have been picked up last night. Arrange for him to be brought up to
interview. When the scanners received from Securities arrive, I want to know
about it.” Keep her busy, Eve thought. Keep her swimming in grunt work.
“Contact Feeney and see if the tap warrant came through on Monica Rowan. Did
you sleep with McNab?”

“Yes, sir.
What?”

“Shit.” Eve
shoved her hands in her pockets, paced to the window, back. “Shit.” She
stopped, and they stared at each other. “Peabody, have you lost your mind?”

“It was a
momentary lapse. It won't be repeated.” She intended to tell McNab so at the
first opportunity.

“You're not...
stuck on him or anything?”

“It was a
lapse,” Peabody insisted. “A momentary lapse brought on by unexpected physical
stimuli. I don't want to talk about it. Sir.”

“Good. I don't
even want to think about it. Get me Lamont.”

“Right away.”

Delighted to
escape, Peabody fled.

Eve turned to
her 'link and began to run the incoming messages. When Lamont's name popped,
she swore, punched the machine. “Why the hell wasn't this transmission
forwarded when it came in?”

Due to a
temporary lapse in the system, all transmissions received between one hundred
and six hundred and fifty hours were placed on hold.

“Lapses.” She
smacked the machine again, for the hell of it. “We're just full of lapses these
days. Transmit full report on Lamont, hard copy.”

Working. .
. .

While her unit
hiccupped through the printout, Eve signaled Peabody on her communicator.
“Don't bother to dig up Lamont. He's in the morgue.”

“Yes, sir. The
mail just came in. There's another pouch.”

Eve's nerves
hummed. “I'll meet you in the conference room. Tag the rest of the team. Let's
move.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

The pouch was
tested, cleared. The disc was copied, secured. Eve took a seat at the computer,
slid the disc into the slot. “Run and print,” she ordered.

We are
Cassandra.

We are
loyal.

We are the
gods of justice.

We are
aware of your efforts. They amuse us. Because we are amused, we will warn you a
last time. Our compatriots must be freed. Until these heroes have liberty,
there will be terror -- for the corrupt government, the puppet military, the
fascist police, and the innocent they suppress and condemn. We demand payment,
as retribution for the murders and imprisonment of the righteous. The price is
now one hundred million dollars, in bearer bonds.

Confirmation
of the release of the unjustly imprisoned political prophets must be received
by sixteen hundred hours today. We will accept a public statement from each
individual listed, made live through the national media. All must be accounted
for. If even one is not released, we will destroy the next target.

We are
loyal. And our memory is long.

Payment
must be made at seventeen hundred hours. Lieutenant Dallas is to deliver this
payment, alone. The bonds are to be placed in a plain black suitcase.
Lieutenant Dallas is to go to Grand Central Station, track nineteen, westbound
landing, and await further instruction.

If she is
accompanied, followed, tracked, or attempts to make or receive any
transmissions from this position, she will be executed, and the target will be
destroyed.

We are
Cassandra, prophets of the new realm.

“Extortion,”
Eve murmured. “It's the money. It's the money, not those psycho jokers on the
list. A public statement over national screen. A ten-year-old could figure we'd
be able to rig that.”

She rose to
pace and think. “That's smoke. It's the money. And they'll blow the target whether
they get it or not. Because they want to.”

“Either way,”
Feeney pointed out, “it puts you in the crosshairs and some unknown target on
countdown.”

“Can you fix
me up with a tracker they can't make?”

“I don't know
what the hell they can make.”

“Do your
best.” She turned to Anne. “You've got a team who can work these high-end
scanners?”

“One of
Roarke's geniuses is giving us a briefing on it in twenty minutes. Then we're
in the field.”

“Find the
target. I'll deal with the drop.”

“You're not
going in alone.” This time Feeney rose. “Whitney won't clear it.”

“I didn't say
I was going in alone, but we'd better work out how it'll look that way,” she
said again. “We're going to need a hundred million in fake bearer bonds.” Her
smile was thin, humorless. “I think I know someone who can deliver those in
time for the deadline.”

“Give Roarke
my best,” Feeney said with a smirk.

She sent him a
bland look. “I need you to report to Whitney and rig me a tracker.”

“McNab and I
will get on that.”

“I need McNab
-- for a bit.”

Feeney looked
at her, at his detective, nodded. “I'll get another man on it until I've
finished with the commander.” He took the hard copy. “We'll want a good hour to
test it out on you beforehand.”

“I'll be
available. Peabody, you're with me. I'll meet you at my vehicle in five
minutes. McNab.” She signaled him out with the flick of a finger.

“I want you to
check in with Mira,” she began as they walked toward her office. “Get a line on
Zeke's testing. Then I want you to put the squeeze on Dickhead in the lab. I'd
do it myself, but I don't want to involve Peabody at this point.”

“I've got it.”

“Threaten him,
and if that doesn't work, bribe him. Arena ball tickets should work. I can
scope two VIP box seats for next weekend.”

“Yeah?” His
eyes went bright. “Gee, Dallas, how come you never share with pals? The Huds
are squaring off against the Rockets next weekend. If I threaten him into
shagging his ass, can I have the tickets?”

“Are you
asking for a bribe, Detective?”

Because she'd
stopped, because her eyes were flat and her mouth set, he sobered quickly. “Why
are you pissed off at me?”

“Why did you
have sex with my aide during a sensitive investigation?”

His eyes
glistened. “Does she need your permission to date, Lieutenant?”

“This wasn't
pizza and a video, McNab.” She strode into her office, yanked her jacket off
the hook.

“Oh, so she
only has to clear who she goes to bed with.”

Eve spun back.
“You're insubordinate, Detective.”

“You're out of
line, Lieutenant.”

It surprised
her, she had to admit. It threw her off rhythm to see him standing there, eyes
cold and fierce, body braced, teeth showing. She thought of him -- when she
thought of him -- as a good cop with a sharp mind for details, a good hand with
electronics. And as a man, a little foolish, vain, and glib, who talked too
much and took nothing beyond his work seriously.

“Don't you
tell me I'm out of line.” Working on control, she put her jacket on slowly.
“Peabody got kicked by a cop with a pretty face before. I'm not watching it
happen again. She matters.”

“She matters
to me, too.” The words were out before he could yank out his tongue and bite it
off. “Not that she gives a damn about that. She brushed me off this morning, so
you've got nothing to worry about.” He kicked her chair, sent it skidding
across the room. “Goddamn it.”

“Oh hell,
McNab.” The anger she'd worked up so nicely dipped toward nerves. “What are you
doing here? You're not getting sticky on her?” His only answer was one long,
miserable stare. “I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it.”

“It's probably
just a blip,” he muttered. “I'll get over it.”

“Do that. Just
do that, will you? This isn't the time -- it's never the time, but this is really
not the time. So forget it, okay?” Eve didn't wait for his reply -- she
wanted him to understand. “Her brother's on the hot seat, we've got bombs all
over the damn city. I've got one body in the morgue and another in the river. I
can't afford to have two members of my team tripping over heartstrings.”

He surprised
himself by laughing, and meaning it. “Christ, that's cold.”

“Yeah, I
know.” She remembered the way Roarke had looked at her that morning. “I suck at
this, McNab. But I need you on your toes.”

“I'm on them.”

“Stay on
them,” she told him and walked out.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Since she
calculated she couldn't do worse on her record of offending, insulting, and
injuring people who mattered to her that morning, Eve put a call through to
Roarke as she headed to the garage.

Summerset
answered, and her instinctive reaction of clenching her teeth felt a lot better
than guilt. “Roarke,” was all she said.

“He's engaged
on another call at the moment.”

“This is
police business, you cross-eyed putz. Put me through.”

His nostrils
flared in annoyance, and her mood lightened just a little more. “I will see if
he's available to take your call.”

The screen
went blank. Though she didn't doubt he'd have the nerve to cut her off, she
counted to ten. And ten again. She was heading toward thirty when Roarke came
on.

“Lieutenant.”
His voice was clipped, the Irish in it frigid temper rather than music.

“The
department needs one hundred million in fake bearer bonds -- good fakes, but
not good enough to pass a bank check. Sheets of ten thousand.”

“When's your
deadline?”

“I could use
them by fourteen hundred.”

“You'll have
them.” He waited a beat. “Anything else?”

Yes, I'm
sorry. I'm an idiot. What do you want from me? “That's it. The department -- “

“Appreciates
it. Yes, I know. I'm on an interplanetary conference call, so if that's all...”

“Yeah, that's
all. If you'd let me know when they're ready, I'll arrange transport.”

“You'll hear
from me.”

He cut her off
without another word and made her wince. “Okay,” she mumbled. “That hurt.
Bull's-eye.” She jammed the link back in her bag.

She remembered
her advice to McNab. Just forget it. She did her best to follow it, but some of
her feelings must have shown on her face. Peabody kept her mouth shut as Eve
stepped up to the car. And they drove to the morgue in silence.

-=O=-***-=O=-

The dead house
was packed like a lobby bar at a Shriners' convention. The corridors were full
of techs, assistant MEs, and the medical staff drafted from local health
centers to wade in during the current crisis. The stench of humanity, alive and
deceased, smeared the air.

Eve managed to
snag one of the morgue staff she knew. “Chambers, where's Morris?” She'd hoped
for a five-minute consult with the chief medical examiner.

“Up to his
eyebrows. The hotel bombing brought in a lot of customers. A lot of them in
pieces. It's like putting a jigsaw puzzle together.”

“Well, I need
to see one of your guests who checked in early this morning. Lamont. Paul
Lamont.”

“Jeez, Dallas,
we're working on priority here. We gotta get these stiffs ID'd.”

“It's
connected.”

“All right,
all right.” Obviously miffed, Chambers scurried to a computer, ran the log. “We
got him on ice in area D, drawer twelve. We're racking, packing, and stacking
them for now.”

“I need a look
at him, his personal effects and the incoming report.”

“Let's make it
quick.” His shoes slapped down the hall. He swung into area D, slid his key
card in the slot, and led them inside. “Drawer twelve,” he reminded her. “Just
use your master, and I'll pull up the rest.”

Eve uncoded
the drawer and out came a puff of icy smoke and Lamont. Or what was left of
him. ' They did a job on him,” she muttered, scanning his mangled, broken body.

“Sure did.
Says here the vehicle, a black Airstream van, jumped the curve and ran right
over him where he stood on the sidewalk. We haven't done anything on him yet,
just stored him. He's not priority.”

“No, he'll
keep.” Eve slid the drawer back in place. “What did he have on him?”

“Fifty couple
in credits, wrist unit, IDs and key cards, pack of breath mints, palm-link,
date book. Oooh, and a sticker.” He examined the long, slim blade. “Over the
legal limit, I'd say.”

“Only by a
mile or two. I need the 'link and date book.”

“Fine by me.
Sign for them and they're yours. Look, I have to get back. Hate to keep the
customers waiting.”

She signed the
checkout log. “Have these effects been dusted?”

“Hell if I
know. Enjoy.”

Eve turned to
Peabody as the area doors swung shut. “We'll dust and clean first. Let's go on
record.”

Peabody
shifted her field kit on her shoulder. “Here? Don't you want to do this
somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“Well, the
place is full of dead people.”

“And you want
to be a murder cop?”

“I'd rather
deal with one at a time.” But she opened her kit and went to work. “Good clean
prints on here.”

“We'll run
them after we check out his 'link and log. Probably Lamont's prints.”

Eve took the
'link, turned it over in her hand. It was a top-of-the-line model, sleek and
complex. She remembered his expensive shoes. “Wonder what Roarke pays these
guys? She turned the control to replay all incoming and outgoing transmissions
for the last twenty-four hours. “Note any numbers we hit. We'll need to run
them, too.”

She watched
the numbers zip by on the display, then pursed her lips. Video was blocked. But
the voices came through loud and clear.

Yes.

They're
looking at me. Lamont, Eve decided,
with the faintly French accent and the squeak of nerves in his voice. The
cops were here. They're looking at me. They know something.

Calm down.
You're shielded. This isn't something to discuss over 'links. Where are you?

It's all
right. I'm secured. I slipped out to the grill down from work. They called me
up, Roarke was there, too.

And what
did you tell them?

Nothing.
They got nothing out of me. But I'm telling you, I'm not taking the fall for
this. I want out. I need more money.

Your father
would be disappointed.

I'm not my
father, and I know when it's time to cut loose. I got you everything you
needed. I'm finished here. I want my share now, tonight, and I'm gone. I did my
part. You don't need me anymore.

No, you're
right. It would be best if you finished out the day as normal. You'll be
contacted later as to where to pick up your share. We still have to be careful.
Your work is done, but ours isn't.

Just get me
what I've got coming, and I'm gone by morning.

It'll be
arranged.

“Idiot,” Eve
muttered. “Signed his own execution papers.” She shook her head. “Greed or
stupidity.”

There was
another call, Lamont booking a private compartment on the off-planet transport
to Vegas II. He used a false name and identification number.

“Have a unit
go by his place, Peabody. I bet our boy was all packed and ready to go.”

The next was
an incoming, a recorded voice giving brief instructions.

The corner
of Sixth and Forty-third, one hundred hours.

Lamont made
two more outgoings, received no answer from either.

“Run the
numbers, Peabody,” Eve instructed as she picked up the day book.

“Already
running the first. It's a private code.”

“Use my
authorization number and get it. Whoever he was talking to didn't realize
Lamont was on his own 'link. Had to figure he was on a public job, or he'd
never have left this on the body. Even if he'd wanted it, the tails on Lamont
were right on scene.”

“The code's
shielded,” Peabody told her. “They won't release it.”

“Oh yeah, they
will.” Eve whipped out her communicator. Within thirty seconds she had Chief
Tibble on the line, and barely two minutes later, the governor's personal
authorization.

“Man, you are
good.” Peabody looked on with admiration. “You snarled at the governor.”

“Gives me that
shit about privacy acts. Politicians.” She set her teeth, flexed and unflexed
her fingers as she waited for the last line of bureaucracy to tumble. “Well,
son of a bitch.”

“What is it?
Who is it?” Peabody craned her neck to see the data on Eve's display.

“B. Donald
Branson's private line.”

“Branson.” The
blood drained out of Peabody's face. “But, Zeke. Last night...”

“Transmit that
call to Feeney, get him to run a voice check. We need to know if that was
Branson on the call.” She was moving fast as she snapped out the order.
“Contact the guard on Clarissa Branson's room,” she continued as they strode
down the corridor. “Tell him no one goes in or out of it until we get there.”

She pulled out
her own communicator as they swung outside into the cold. “McNab, get down to
Mira's. I want Zeke brought back up. Tuck him away until you hear from me.”

“Zeke wouldn't
know anything about Cassandra, Dallas. He'd never -- “

Eve spared
Peabody a look as she jumped into the car. “Toys and tools, Peabody. I'd say
your brother was being used as both.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Clarissa was
gone. There was nothing to be gained by berating and browbeating the guard on
duty, but Eve did it anyway.

“She looks at
him, smiles tearfully, and asks if she can go sit in the gardens.” Eve rolled
her eyes and tapped the note Clarissa had left behind in her palm. “Then she
uses the can I have a glass of water routine she did with Zeke and our
boneheaded hero runs off to fetch.”

She circled the
conference room, waiting for Zeke to be brought in. “Oops, where'd she go? It
takes him thirty fucking minutes to call it in because he's so sure a sweet
little thing like her is still around somewhere. But does he check her room?
See the tearful good-bye note?”

Eve unfolded
it again while Peabody wisely remained silent.

I'm sorry,
so sorry, for everything that happened. It was my fault. All of it. Please
forgive me. I'm doing what's best for Zeke. He can't be held responsible. I can
never face him again.

“So she leaves
him holding the bag. Let's hear it for true love.” Though Peabody said nothing,
Eve held up her hand and began to go through the steps and stages. “Zeke hears
them fighting through the vent in the workroom. It's Branson's house, his workroom.
He knows Zeke's down there. According to Clarissa, he was wild to keep anyone
from knowing he knocked her around. So why doesn't he fix the damn vent? The
staff's all droids, so he doesn't worry about them. But he's got a live one
now.”

“You think he wanted
Zeke to hear?”

“Follow along,
Peabody. I've been working this out since last night.”

“Last night?”
Peabody's mouth dropped open. “But, Dallas, there was nothing in the prelim
report about -- “

She broke off,
winced, as Eve shot her a cool stare. “You read my prelim, Officer Peabody?”

“Strap me in
irons,” Peabody muttered, “and flog me. He's my brother.”

“I'll reserve
the flogging for a later date. No, I didn't put anything into the prelim
because the main concern was getting Zeke's story down and putting him in the
clear. But the whole deal screamed setup. Slick, organized, damn well-oiled,
but a setup.”

“I don't see
it.”

“You can't see
past Zeke. Take the steps here. They pull Zeke in from out west. I don't care
how good he is, they could've found somebody to do this work without
transporting him in. But they pull him, a single guy, a Free-Ager. Branson
kicks his wife to hell and back, but he lets her import a young, attractive man
into the house. And he's diddling with having carpentry work done when, we
suspect, he's laying plans for the biggest terrorist siege on the city since
the Urban Wars.”

“None of it
makes sense.”

“Not
separately, but it does when you connect the dots. He needed a fall guy.”

“But, for
God's sake, Dallas, Zeke killed him.”

“I don't think
so. Why haven't they found the body? Why did this cowed, terrified woman manage
to get rid of it in less than five minutes?”

“But -- who
died?”

“This time
around, I don't think anybody did. Toys and tools, Peabody. I've seen several
of the prototype droids Roarke's R and D department's got under production. You
wouldn't make them at a glance, even a close look.” She glanced around as Zeke
came in, followed by Dr. Mira.

“Doctor?”

“Zeke's my
patient, and he's under considerable distress.” Gently, Mira walked him to a
chair. “If you feel it's necessary to interview him, I want to be here.”

“Zeke, do you
want your lawyer?” Eve asked him, and he only shook his head. Sympathy
threatened to surface. She knew firsthand how miserable Testing could be. She
set the recorder, sat across from him. “I just have a few questions. How many
times did you meet Branson?”

“I only saw
him twice. Once over the 'link and then last night.”

“Just once,
over a 'link?” But he'd recognized Zeke instantly. Branson had reportedly been
stumbling drunk, but he'd tagged Zeke at a glance. “The whore and the
handyman,” Zeke had quoted him as saying. “So most of your contact was through Clarissa.
How much time did you spend together?”

“Not a lot.
When she was in Arizona, we talked. We had lunch a couple of times.” He looked
up quickly. “It was harmless.”

“What did you
talk about?”

“Just...
things. All sorts of things.”

“Did she ask
you about yourself?”

“I guess,
yeah. She was so relaxed and happy. Not like she is here. She liked hearing
about my work, and she was interested in Free-Agism. She said it sounded like
such a gentle and kind religion.”

“Zeke, did she
come onto you?”

“No!” His shoulders
straightened. “It was nothing like that. She was married. I knew she was
married. She was just lonely. There was something there.” He said it with a
wonder that made Eve's heart sink for him. “Right away, and we both knew it,
but we wouldn't have done anything. I didn't know how he treated her, I just
knew she was unhappy.”

“Last night
was the first time you'd actually seen Branson in person. He never came down to
the workroom, never called you up to discuss the projects?”

“No, he never
came down.”

Eve sat back.
She was willing to bet Zeke had yet to meet B. Donald Branson in the flesh.
“That's all I need for now. Zeke, you're going to have to stay here, in
Central.”

“In a cell?”

“No. But you
have to stay here.”

“Can I see
Clarissa?”

“We'll talk
about that later.” Eve rose. “The uniform will take you up to the recreation
area. There's a sleeping bin off the side. I think you should tranq up and use
it.”

“I don't use
tranqs.”

“Me, either.”
She softened enough to smile at him. “Use the bin anyway. Get some rest.”

“Zeke.” There
was so much Peabody wanted to say, wanted to do, but she held it in and looked
at him soberly. “You can trust Dallas.”

“I'll be up in
a minute.” Mira patted his arm. “We'll use meditation.” She waited until the
uniform came to take him out. “My testing is complete enough for me to give you
an evaluation.”

“I don't need
it.” Eve cut her off. “It's for the record, not for me. He's not going to be
charged.”

Mira relaxed
fractionally. In the last two hours, Zeke had slipped past her professional
veneer. “He's suffering. The idea that he took a life, however accidentally --
“

“It wasn't an
accident,” Eve corrected. “It was a setup. If I'm on target, B. Donald
Branson's very much alive, and most likely with his wife. I can't get into the
details, I don't have time,” she continued. “You looked at Clarissa's
statement, you viewed the recording.”

“Yes. It's a
classic case of abuse and shattered self-esteem.”

“Classic,” Eve
agreed with a nod. “Like textbook. Like line for line out of a case study. She
didn't miss a trick, did she?”

“I don't know
what you mean.”

“No friends,
no family support. Delicate, helpless woman dominated by an older, stronger
man. He drinks, he beats her. He rapes her. She sticks. 'Where will I go, what
will I do?'“

Mira folded
her hands. “I realize you would find her inability to change her situation a
sign of weakness, but it isn't at all atypical.”

“No, it's dead
typical. And I'm saying that's just how she played it. Played Zeke, played me,
and would have played you. I think you'd have caught on, and she probably
figured the same. That's why she's gone. And when we check Branson's
financials, I guarantee the money's gone, too.”

“What possible
reason would the Bransons have to fake his death?”

“The same
reason they arranged his brother's. Money. The same reason they timed it to
pull part of the team away from the central theme. More money, with a little
payback thrown in. We'll tie them to Apollo. Sooner or later, something'll
click. Take care of Zeke. If I'm right, we'll be able to tell him he didn't
kill anyone. Let's move, Peabody.”

“I can't keep
up,” Peabody told her. “I can't get it straight in my head.”

“You will,
when we get the rest of the pieces. Check those financials.”

Peabody
scrambled to keep pace as they worked their way down to the garage. “Jesus,
Branson transferred fifty million -- that's most of the fluid cash in the
business -- to an off-planet, coded account. He did it last night, two hours
before Zeke ...”

“Check their
personal accounts.”

Working
one-handed, Peabody slid into the car. “Six personals, between twenty and forty
apiece. He cleaned them out yesterday.”

“A nice little
nest egg for Cassandra.” As she drove, Eve contacted Feeney on her communicator.

“Voiceprints
match,” he told her. “Now how are we going to arrest a dead guy?”

“I'm working
on it. Take a run by Branson T and T; take a look at the droids in development.
Did we get the order for tapping Monica Rowan's lines?”

“They're
tapped. Not a peep so far.”

“Keep me up.”
She ended transmission. “Peabody, contact the locals up in Maine, get a black
and white to do a runby. I want Monica under wraps.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Lisbeth wasn't
pleased to see cops at her door. She stared through Eve and ignored Peabody. “I
have nothing to say to you. My counsel has advised -- “

“Save it.” Eve
pushed her way in.

“This is
harassment. One call to my lawyer, and I'll have your badge.”

“How tight
were the Branson boys, Lisbeth?”

“Excuse me?”

“J. C. must
have talked to you about his brother. What did they think of each other?”

“They were
brothers.” Lisbeth shrugged. “They ran a business together. They had their ups
and downs.”

“Did they
fight?”

“J. C. didn't
fight with anyone, really.” Something like grief flickered in her eyes and was
quickly shut down. “They disagreed occasionally.”

“Who ran the
show?”

“B. D. ran the
show.” Lisbeth waved a hand. “J. Clarence was better with people, and
creatively he enjoyed having input in new projects. It didn't bother him that
B. D. held the reins.”

“What was his
relationship with Clarissa?”

“He liked her,
of course. She's a charming woman. I think she intimidated him somewhat. She's
very formal and aloof for all that air of fragility.”

“Really, but you
were friends?”

“Friendly.
After all, we were both involved with a Branson. We socialized, with and
without them.”

“Did she ever
tell you B. D. mistreated her?”

“Mistreated?”
Lisbeth let out a short laugh. “The man fawned on her. All she had to do was bat
her eyes and purr and he jumped.”

Eve glanced
toward the wall screen, noted it was turned off. “Not watching the news these
days?”

“No.” She
turned her head and for a moment looked tired and strained. “I'm making
arrangements to clean up some personal matters before I transfer to the
rehabilitation center.”

“Then you
wouldn't have heard that B. Donald Branson was killed last night.”

“What?”

“He fell
during a struggle when he was beating his wife.”

“That's
ridiculous. That's absurd. He wouldn't lay a hand on Clarissa. He worships
her.”

“Clarissa
claims he's been abusing her physically for years.”

“Then she's a
liar,” Lisbeth snapped out. “He treated her like a princess, and if she says
otherwise, she's lying through her teeth.”

She stopped
abruptly, went very pale.

“You didn't
find the photographs in your mail slot, did you, Lisbeth? You had them handed
to you by someone you trusted -- someone you thought cared about J.C.”

“I -- I found
them.”

“No point in
lying to protect the Bransons. He's dead, and she's gone. Who gave you the
photographs of J. C., Lisbeth? Who gave them to you and told you that he was
cheating on you?”

“I saw the
pictures. I saw them with my own eyes. He was with that blond bitch.”

“Who gave them
to you?”

“Clarissa.”
She blinked once, twice, and tears started to stream. “She brought them to me,
and she was crying. She said how sorry she was, how sorry. She begged me not to
tell anyone she'd given them to me.”

“How did she
get them?”

“I never
asked. I just looked at them, and I went crazy. She told me it had been going
on for months, and she couldn't pretend not to know any longer. She couldn't
stand to see me hurt and J. C. ruin his life over some cheap lay. She knew how
jealous I was, she knew. When I got to his house, he denied it. He told me I
was crazy, there wasn't any blonde. But I'd seen! And the next thing I
knew, I was picking up that drill. Oh my God, oh my God. J.C.”

She collapsed
into the chair, wailing.

“Get her a
tranq, Peabody.” Eve's voice held no sympathy. “We'll have a car come by and
pick her up. When she's pulled it together, McNab can take a statement.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

“I know we're
pressed for time.” Peabody jumped in the car again. “But I feel like I'm three
steps behind.”

“Branson's
connected to Cassandra. Clarissa's connected to Branson, Zeke's connected to
Clarissa. We're led to believe that both the Branson brothers meet with
untimely and violent ends within a week of each other. Meanwhile, the accounts
are stripped. Zeke's brought in from clear across the country to work at the
Branson house, and within a couple of days, he's tangled with Branson over
Clarissa and supposedly killed him. But Clarissa, out of her fear and concern
for Zeke, loses the body.

“That's the
part that hung me up all along, but a guy tells you he kills another guy, you
generally go with it. Still we've got no body, and there's nothing on the droid
playback to indicate he was instructed to weigh it down. The search team's
sensors don't pick another up, it doesn't bob up and float, but we know it got
tossed in the river.”

“Droids don't
float, and the sensors are looking for flesh, blood, and bone.”

“See, you're
catching up. Now, we connect those dots. Zeke killed himself a droid. We have
Lisbeth's statement that there were never any beatings, no rapes, and odds are
she'd have known if there were. Through J. C., if not on her own. We have the
coincidence that Zeke just happened to be in the right place at the right time
to hear beatings and rapes, then Clarissa turns to him for help. She's already
scoped him; she knows the kind of man he is, and very likely made the subtle
kind of play for him he wouldn't see as a come-on.”

“He doesn't
understand women,” Peabody murmured. “He's practically still a kid.”

“He wouldn't
understand this one if he'd hit the century mark. She trolled for him and
reeled him in. She and Branson got rid of the brother, which leads me to
believe he wasn't involved in Cassandra. He was weight, so they ditched him.
I'm primary on the case, and they don't want me looking too hard, having just
the kind of talk with Lisbeth I just finished having, so they tag me on the
bombings. Blowing up the city's going to pull my attention away from a plea
bargain I know I can't change.”

“Whoever had
pulled J. C. Branson's homicide would have been tagged? They moved to you
because of that?” Peabody considered. “That was their big mistake.”

“That was
excellent sucking up, Peabody. Smooth, subtle.”

“I've been
practicing.”

“The politics
are more smoke -- pull the attention away, waste our time. It's the money
they're after and the sheer delight in destroying.”

“But they have
money.”

“More's
better, especially if you grew up on the run, hiding out, maybe scraping for
the good life. What do you want to bet Clarissa Branson spent her formative
years in Apollo?”

“That's a big
leap, Lieutenant.”

“'We are
loyal,'“ Eve quoted as she zipped through the security gate to the parking area
under Roarke's midtown offices.

Peabody gawked
a little when they moved into the private elevator, but before she could
comment, Eve's 'link beeped.

“Lieutenant
Dallas? Captain Sully, Boston PD. The patrols just reported in from the Rowan
address. Monica Rowan has been the victim of what appears to be a bungled B and
E. She's dead.”

“Damn it. I'll
need a full report on that, priority level, Captain.”

“I'll get you
as much as I can as quick as I can. Sorry we can't be of more help.”

“So am I,” Eve
murmured as she ended the call. “Goddamn it, I should've put a wall around
her.”

“How could you
know?”

“I do know.
Just a little too late.” She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke's
efficient assistant without stopping.

Efficiency
prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got
there.

“Lieutenant, I
didn't expect you personally.”

“I'm heading
in. I'm pressed to the wall here.” She looked in his eyes, wished she could say
... wanted to. “Things are coming together, and the clock's running.”

“Then you'll
want your bait.” He looked into her eyes. “I assume several million in
counterfeit bonds is bait -- with you as hook.”

“We're closing
in. With any luck, this should finish it. I -- Peabody, take a walk,” she said
without looking back.

“Sir?”

“Step out,
Peabody.”

“Stepping out,
Lieutenant.”

“Look...” Eve
began. “I'm really hitting the wire on this, so I can't get into stuff. I'm
sorry about before.”

“You're sorry
I'm irritated.”

“Okay, fine.
I'm sorry you're irritated, but I have to ask for a favor.”

“Personal or
official?”

Oh, he was
going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek
twitched. “Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson --
everything -- And I need it really fast. I can't spare Feeney, and even if I
could, you'll be quicker and you won't leave fingerprints.”

“Where do you
want me to send the data?”

“I need you to
call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don't want her to
know I'm looking.”

“She won't.”
He turned and lifted a wide steel case. “Your bonds, Lieutenant.”

She tried a
smile. “I won't ask you how you managed this so fast.”

He didn't
smile back. “Best not.”

She nodded,
hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn't remember another time when
they'd been together for five minutes and he hadn't touched her in some way.
She'd gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a
backhanded slap.

“Thanks. I'll
-- The hell with it.” She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for
her was a great gulp of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. “See you later,”
she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.

Now he smiled,
just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she'd asked of him.

-=O=-***-=O=-

“You okay,
Dallas?”

“Yeah, shit.
I'm dancing.” She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which
mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.

“I can call in
a female to, ah, finish this.”

“Hell, I don't
want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it.”

“All right,
okay.” He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. “The tracker's wireless.
It's going to go right over your heart. We figure they'll scan you, but we're
going to coat it with this stuff -- it's like skin. They're using it on droids.
If they pick it up at all, it'll look like a blemish or something.”

“So they'll
think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine.”

“You know,
Peabody could do this.”

“Jesus,
Feeney.” Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his
shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. “Put the damn thing where it goes.”

The next five
minutes were mortifying for both of them.

“You, ah, want
to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries.”

“I've got it.”

“I'll be on
the tracker myself. We'll be able to monitor your location through your
heartbeat. We rigged this wrist unit.” Relieved the worst was over, he picked
it up from the table. “The mike's low frequency, so it shouldn't pop on a scan,
but its range is a joke, and you're going to have to talk straight into it for
us to pick you up. This is just backup.”

“I'll take
it.” Eve removed her own unit, replaced it. “Anything else I should know?”

“We're
positioning men all over Grand Central. You won't be on your own. Nobody moves
in until you give the go-ahead, but they're there.”

“Good to
know.”

“Dallas, any
protective gear over your chest will jam the tracker.”

She stared at
him. “No vest?”

“Your choice.
Gear or tracker.”

“Hell, they're
more likely to blast me in the head, anyway.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Joking.” But
she rubbed a hand over her mouth. “Any line on the target?”

“Nothing so
far.”

“You looked
over the droids at Branson T and T?”

“Yeah, they've
got a new Brainiac line.” He smiled a little now. “New shell covering, too.
Next best to skin. But they're toys,” he added. “I didn't see anything full
size.”

“Doesn't mean
they aren't there. Those toys capable of acting out a scene like what happened
at Branson's?”

“If they were
six foot instead of six inches, yeah. I'd say. Creepy little bastards, you ask
me.”

“That's my
personal 'link,” she said when she heard the signal. “I have to take this. It's
private.”

“Okay, I'll be
outside. We're ready to roll when you are.”

Alone, she
took out her 'link, engaged the privacy mode by unfolding and slipping on her
headphones. “Dallas.”

“I have your
data, Lieutenant.” Roarke's eyes narrowed. “Where's your shirt?”

“Somewhere.
Here.” She grabbed it up. “What have you got?”

“She checks
out easily if you skim the first few levels. Born in Kansas thirty-six years
ago, parents are teachers, pure middle class, one sister, married with son. She
went through the local school system, worked for a short time as a department
store clerk. She married Branson about ten years ago, moved to New York. I
assume you have all that.”

“I want what's
under it.”

“So I thought.
The names her records show as parents did indeed have a daughter named Clarissa
born thirty-six years ago. However, she died at the age of eight. Scraping off
the levels, we find this dead child with school and employment records and a
marriage license.”

“Bogus.”

“Yes, indeed.
A little dip into Clarissa Stanley's medical files indicates she hasn't seen
the age of thirty-six for some time. She's forty-six. Tracing the data input,
it appears Clarissa was reborn twelve years ago. Whoever, whatever she was
before, has been wiped. I might be able to jiggle some out, but it won't be
quick.”

“That's enough
for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age.”

“If you do a
bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as
Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed.”

“I've already
done the math, thanks.”

“Since I
followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther.”

“Farther
where?”

“Some may
disagree,” he said with a long look at her, “but people in intimate
relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each
other's ambitions and activities.”

Guilt fizzed
back into her chest. “Look, Roarke -- “

“Shut up,
Eve.” He said it so pleasantly, she did. “Since it appears Clarissa may have
close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald.
Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps
questionable contributions to the Artemis Society.”

“Another Greek
god?”

“Yes, and
Apollo's twin. I doubt we'll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking
a generation back, I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.'s father, contributed
large amounts to this same organization. He was also -- according to CIA files
-- briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him.”

“Which closed
the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so
did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are
loyal.” She let out a breath. “Thanks.”

“You're
welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?”

“I'll have
backup.”

“That wasn't
my question.”

“Nothing I
can't handle. I appreciate the help.”

“Any time.”

Words, many of
them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door.
“We have to move, Dallas.”

“Yeah, right.
I'm there. Time to saddle up,” she said with a half smile at Roarke. “See you
tonight.”

“Take care of
what's mine, Lieutenant.”

She smiled
again as she slipped the 'link away. She knew he hadn't meant the bonds.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Having backup
and a tracker didn't stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved
through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces
she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.

The speakers
droned overhead, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of
commuters lined the public 'links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their
bookies.

Eve strode
past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat
was smooth and steady.

She saw the
vagrants who'd come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by
security. Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs,
hot drinks, and cold beer.

She took the
stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as
if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.

“Leaving main
level for check point. No contact yet.”

She felt the
floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the
station.

She stood on
the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they
were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of
the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the
case, and they're lost in the confusion.

That's what
she would do. Eve thought. That's how she'd play the game.

Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw McNab in a bright yellow coat, blue shoes, and ski
hat, idling at a computer game while he sat on a bench in the waiting area.

They were
scanning her now, she imagined. They'd find she was armed, but they'd have
expected that. If she was lucky, and Feeney was good, they wouldn't make the
tracker.

The public
'link behind her began to ring, loud and shrill. Without hesitating, she turned
and answered. “Dallas.”

“Take the
incoming train to Queens. Buy a ticket onboard.”

“Queens,” she
repeated with her mouth all but against her wrist unit. The caller had already
disconnected. “Next train,” she added. “Incoming.”

Turning away, she
moved toward the tracks as the rumble started. McNab pocketed his computer game
and strolled up behind her. He'd been a good call, Eve mused. No one looked
less like a cop. He was wearing headphones, doing a little head and shoulder
dance as if he were listening to music that set him into motion. His body stood
at Eve's flank like a shield.

The displaced
air from the train blew over them. The whine shivered away, and people began to
bump and shove their way on and off the train.

Eve didn't
bother to try for a seat but gripped a security hook, planted her feet, and
braced for the takeoff.

McNab squeezed
in just down the line and began singing lightly under his breath. Eve nearly
smiled when she recognized one of Mavis's songs.

The trip to
Queens was crowded, hot, and blessedly short. Yet even that short jaunt made
Eve thankful she wasn't an office drone condemned to ride public transpo
throughout her days.

She stepped
off onto the platform. McNab moved by her without a blink and headed into the
station.

They sent her
to the Bronx next, then Brooklyn. Then shot her to Long Island, back to Queens.
She decided she'd just throw out her arms and beg for a laser blast if she had
to take one more ride.

Then she saw
them coming. One on the left, one on the right. She ran Fixer's description
through her head and decided these were the two who'd made his deliveries and
cut out his tongue.

She backed up
out of the crowd of weary commuters, noting the two-man team had slipped into a
pincher pattern:

They were
taking no chances, she mused, and as one flipped open his coat to show the
police-issue blaster, she assumed they meant to take no prisoners, either.

She bumped
deliberately into a man waiting behind her, lifted a hand as if to catch her
balance, “Contact. Two. Armed.”

“Lieutenant.”
One of them slipped a hand over her arm. “I'll take the payment.”

She let him
steer her back. Not a man, she realized when she took a good, hard look. Fixer
had been right there, too. They were droids. You couldn't even smell them.

“You'll get
the payment when I get the target, and it's confirmed. That's the deal.”

He smiled.
“New terms. We'll take the payment, my partner will cut you in half where you
stand, and the target will be destroyed as a celebration to the cause.”

She saw McNab
barreling down the glide. He jerked his thumb up, signaling that the target had
been made. Eve showed the droid her teeth. “I don't like those terms.”

She swung
back, slamming the case into the knees of the droid behind her. With the move
she swung down and to the side, catching him by the ankles as he discharged the
weapon. The blast put a fist-sized hole in his partner's chest.

Screaming for
civilians to take cover, she reared up, clamped her fingers over his weapon
hand, and twisted. The next blast hit the concrete, its path close enough to
singe her hair. She could hear shrieks, stumbling feet, the roaring whine of an
oncoming train.

Eve threw back
her weight, brought the droid down with her. They rolled through running feet,
toppling people like bowling pins.

She couldn't
get her hand to her weapon, and his was lost in the stampede. Her ears were
ringing with the noise, and beneath her, the ground shook like thunder. The
droid reared up; something sharp and silver flashed in his hand.

Eve bucked
back, swung up her legs, and slammed her feet into his groin. He didn't buckle
as a man would, but teetered back, arms pinwheeling for balance. She rocked to
her feet, made one frantic grab, missed.

He tumbled to
the tracks, then disappeared under the silver blur of the train.

“Jesus,
Dallas, I couldn't get through.” Panting, red welts swelling on his face, McNab
gripped her arm. “Did you take a hit?”

“No. Damn it,
I needed one of them working. They're useless to us now. Call for a cleanup and
crowd control here. Where's the target?”

“Madison
Square, they're evacuating and defusing right now.”

“Let's get the
hell out of Queens.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The first
charge went off in the upper deck of section B in Madison Square at precisely
eight forty-three. The game, a hockey match between the Rangers and the
Penguins, was in the bitterly contested first period. There'd been no score and
only one minor injury when the offensive guard from the Penguins had cross-checked
his man -- a little on the high side.

The Ranger
defensive lineman had been carried off, bleeding profusely from the nose and
mouth.

He was already
in the ER when the bomb blew.

The NYPSD had
moved fast once the explosives had been detected. The game was halted, and the
announcement was made that the arena was to be evacuated.

This was met
with catcalls, profanities, and from the Ranger side of the stadium, a rain of
recycled toilet paper and beer cans.

New York fans
took their hockey seriously.

Despite it,
the swarm of uniforms and officials had managed to move close to twenty percent
of the attendees out of the Garden in more or less an orderly fashion. Only
five cops and twelve civilians had reported minor injuries. There were only
four arrests for assault and lewd conduct.

Below the
Garden, Pennsylvania Station was being cleared as rapidly as possible, with all
incoming trains and transpos diverted.

Even the most
optimistic of officials didn't expect to scoop up every beggar and sidewalk
sleeper who hid in the station for warmth, but an effort was made to sweep
through the usual flop spots and hiding places.

When the bomb
blew, spewing steel and wood and pieces of the drunk who'd been dozing on the
floor of the bleachers along seats 528 through 530, people got the picture
fast.

They flooded
like a raging tide for the exits.

When Eve
arrived on scene, it looked as though the grand old building was vomiting
people.

“Do what you
can,” she shouted at McNab. “Get these people away from here.”

“What are you
doing?” He shouted over the screams and sirens, made a grab for her, but his
fingers skidded off her jacket. “You can't go in there. Holy God, Dallas.”

But she was
already pushing, punching, and peeling her way through the press of fleeing
bodies.

Twice she was
slammed hard enough to make her ears ring as she fought to get clear of the
doors and the frantic rush for escape.

She swung up
toward the closest set of stairs, climbing over seats as people leaped for
safety. Above, she could see one of the emergency team efficiently putting out
several small fires. The nosebleed seats were in smoking splinters.

“Malloy!” she
shouted into her communicator. “Anne Malloy. Give me your location.”

Static hissed
in her ear, words hiccupping through it. “Three -- cleared ... scanned ten ...”

“Your
location,” Eve repeated. “Give me your location.”

“Teams
spread...”

“Goddamn it,
Anne, give me a location. I'm helpless here.” Helpless, she thought, watching
people claw their way over each other to get out. She saw a child shoot out of
the crowd like soap from wet fingers, feet tripping over him as he slid out and
bounced facefirst on the ice.

She swore
again, viciously, and leaped over the rail. She hit the ice on her hands and
knees, skidding wildly until she slammed in with the toes of her boots. She
grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt and dragged them both away from the
stampeding crowd.

“Up to five.”
Anne's voice came through, clearer now. “We're clicking here. Update on
evacuation.”

“I can't tell.
Shit, it's a zoo.” Eve pushed a hand over her face, saw blood smeared on her
palm. “Fifty percent clear, up here. Maybe more. I've got no contact with the
team in Penn. Where the hell are you?”

“Moving toward
sector two. I'm under the floor in Penn. Get those civilians out.”

“I've got a
kid here. Injured.” She spared the boy under her arm a glance. He was sheet
white with a lump the size of a baby's fist on his forehead, but he was
breathing. “I'll get him clear and be back.”

“Get him out,
Dallas. Clock's ticking.”

She managed to
get to her feet, skidded, grabbed clumsily for the rail. “Move your men out,
Malloy. Abort and move out now.”

“Cleared six,
four to go. Have to stick. Dallas, we lose it down here, we take out Penn and
the Garden.”

Eve dumped the
boy over her shoulder in a fireman's carry and pulled herself onto the steps.
“Get them out, Anne. Save lives, fuck property.”

She stumbled
through the seats, kicking aside the bags and coats and food people had left
behind.

“Seven, down
to three. We're going to make it.”

“For God's
sake, Anne. Move your ass.”

“Good advice.”

Eve blinked
the sweat out of her eyes and saw Roarke just as he plucked the boy off her
shoulder. “Get him out. I'm going for Malloy.”

“The hell you
are.”

It was all he
managed before the floor began to tremble. He saw the crack in the wall behind
them split. Eve's hand was caught in his.

They leaped
off the platform and ran for the door where cops in full gear were pushing,
shoving, all but tossing the last of the civilians through. She felt her
eardrums contract an instant before she heard the blast. The wall of sizzling
heat slammed them from behind. She felt her feet leave the ground, her head
reel from the noise and heat. And the tidal wave force of air shot them through
the door. Something hot and heavy crashed behind them.

Survival was
paramount now. Hands gripped, they scrambled up, kept moving blindly forward
while rock and glass and steel rained down. The air was full of sounds, the
shrieks of metal, the crash of steel, the thunder of spewing rock.

She tripped
over something, saw it was a body trapped under a concrete spear as wide as her
waist. Her lungs were on fire, her throat full of smoke. Diamond-sharp fists of
glass showered down, propelled by vicious secondary explosions.

When her
vision cleared, she could see what seemed to be hundreds of shocked faces,
mountains of smoking rubble, and too many bodies to count.

Then the wind
slapped her face, cold. Hard. And she knew they were alive.

“Are you hurt,
are you hit?” she shouted to Roarke, unaware that their hands were still fused
together.

“No.” Somehow,
he still had the unconscious boy over his shoulder. “You?”

“No, I don't
think ... No. Get him to the MTs,” she told Roarke. Panting, she stopped,
turned, blinked. From the outside, the building showed little damage. Smoke
billowed from me jagged opening where doors had been, and the streets were
littered with charred and twisted rubble, but the Garden still stood.

“They got all
but two. Just two.” She thought of the station below -- the trains, the
commuters, the vendors. She wiped grime and blood off her face. “I have to go
back, get the status.”

He kept her
hand firmly in his. He'd looked behind as they'd flown through the door. And
he'd seen. “Eve, there's nothing to go back for.”

“There has to
be.” She shook him off. “I have men in there. I have people in there. Take the
kid to an MT, Roarke. He took a bad spill.”

“Eve ...” He
saw the expression on her face, and let it go. “I'll wait for you.”

She crossed
the street again, avoiding little pots of flame and smoking stone. She could
already see looters joyfully racing down the block, crashing in windows. She
grabbed a uniform, and when he shook her off and told her to move along, dug
out her badge.

“Sorry,
Lieutenant.” His face was dead white, his eyes glazed. “Crowd control's a
bitch.”

“Get a couple
of units together, get the looting stopped. Start moving the perimeter back and
get some security sensors up. You!” she called to another uniform. “Get the
medical teams a clear area for the wounded and start taking names.”

She kept
moving, making herself give orders, start routines. By the time she was ten
feet from the building, she knew Roarke was right. There was nothing to go back
for.

She saw a man
sitting on the ground, his head in his hands, and recognized him as part of E
and B by the fluorescent yellow stripe across his jacket.

“Officer,
where's your lieutenant?”

He looked up,
and she saw he was weeping. “There were too many. There were just too many, all
over hell and back.”

“Officer.” Her
breath wanted to hitch, her heart to pound. She wouldn't let them. “Where's
Lieutenant Malloy?”

“She sent us
out, down to the last two. She sent us out. Just her and two men. Only two
more. They got one. I heard Snyder call it over the headphones, and the
lieutenant told them to clear the area. It was the last one that took them. The
last fucking one.”

He lowered his
head and sobbed like a child.

“Dallas.”
Feeney came on the run and out of breath. “Damn, goddamn, I couldn't get closer
than half a block by the time I got here. Couldn't hear a damn thing over the
communicator.”

But he'd heard
her heart on the tracker, loud and strong, and it had kept him sane.

“Sweet holy
Jesus.” His hand gripped her shoulder while he looked at the entrance. “Mother
of God.”

“Anne. Anne
was in there.”

His hand
tightened on her shoulder, then his arm was around her. “Oh hell.”

“I was one of
the last out. We were nearly clear. I told her to get out. I told her to abort
and go. She didn't listen.”

“She had a job
to do.”

“We need
search and rescue. Maybe ...” She knew better. Anne would have been all but on
top of the bomb when it went off. “We need to look. We need to be sure.”

“I'll get it
started. You ought to see a med-tech, Dallas.”

“It's
nothing.” She drew in a breath, blew it out. “I need her address.”

“We'll get
done what needs to be done here, then I'll go with you.”

She turned
away, scanned over the huddles of people, the wrecks of cars that had been too
close to the building, the mangled hunks of steel.

And below the
streets, she thought, in the transpo station, it would be worse. Unimaginably
worse.

For money, she
thought as the heat rose in her like a geyser. For money, she was sure of it,
and for the memory of a fanatic without a clear cause.

Someone, she
swore it, would pay.

It was an hour
before she got back to Roarke. He stood, his coat rippling in the wind, as he
helped MTs load wounded into transports.

“The kid
okay?” Eve asked him.

“He will be.
We found his father. The man was terrified.” Roarke reached out, wiped a smear
off her cheek. “The talk is casualties are light. Most were killed in the panic
to get out. Most got out, Eve. What could have been a death toll in the
thousands is, at this point, less than four hundred.”

“I can't count
lives that way.”

“Sometimes
it's all you can do.”

“I lost a friend
tonight.”

“I know that.”
His hands lifted to frame her face. “I'm sorry for that.”

“She had a
husband and two children.” She looked away, into the night. “She was pregnant.”

“Ah, God.”
When he would have drawn her to him, she shook her head and stepped back.

“I can't. I'll
fall apart, and I can't. I have to go tell her family.”

“I'll go with
you.”

“No, it's a
cop thing.” She lifted her hands, pressed them to her eyes, and just held them
there a moment. “Feeney and I will do it. I don't know when I'll be home.”

“I'll be here
awhile yet. They can use extra hands.”

She nodded,
started to turn.

“Eve?”

“Yeah.”

“Come home.
You'll need it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I
will.” She walked off to find Feeney and prepared to deliver news that crushed
lives.

Roarke worked
another two hours with the wounded and the weeping. He sent for oceans of
coffee and soup -- one of the comforts money could buy. As bodies were
transferred to the already overburdened morgue, he thought of Eve and how she
faced the demands of the dead every day.

The blood. The
waste. The stink of both seemed to crawl over his skin and under it. This is
what she lived with.

He looked at
the building, the scars and the ruin. This could be mended. It was stone,
steel, glass, and such things could be rebuilt with time, with money, with
sweat.

He was driven
to own buildings like this. Symbols and structures. For profit, certainly, he
thought, reaching down to pick up a chunk of concrete. For business, for
pleasure. But it didn't take a session with Mira to understand why a man who'd
spent his childhood in dirty little rooms with leaking roofs and broken windows
was compelled to own, to possess. To preserve and to build.

A human
weakness to compensate, he supposed, that had become power.

He had the
power to see that this was rebuilt, that it was put back as it had been. He
could put his money and his energies into that and see it as a kind of justice.

And Eve would
look to the dead.

He walked
away, and went home to wait for his wife.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She drove home
in the damp, frigid chill of predawn. Billboards flashed and jittered around
her as she headed uptown. Buy this and be happy. See that and be thrilled. Come
here and be amazed. New York wasn't about to stop its dance.

Steam spilled
out of glida grills, belched out of street vents, pumped out of the maxibus
that creaked to a halt to pick up a scatter of drones who'd worked the
graveyard shift.

A few
obviously desperate street LCs strutted their stuff and called out to the
drones.

“I'll give you
a ride, buddy. Twenty, cash or credit'll buy you a hell of a ride.”

The drones
shuffled on the bus, too tired for cheap sex.

Eve watched a
drunk stumble along the sidewalk, swinging his bottle of brew like a baton. And
a huddle of teenagers pooling money for soy dogs. The lower the temperatures
fell, the higher the price.

Free
enterprise.

Abruptly, she
pulled over to the curb, leaned over the wheel. She was well beyond exhausted
and into the tightly strung stage of brittle energy and racing thoughts.

She'd gone to
a tidy little home in Westchester and had spoken the words that ripped a family
to pieces. She'd told a man his wife was dead, listened to children cry for a
mother who was never coming back.

Then she'd
gone to her office and written the reports, filed them. Because it needed to be
done, she'd cleaned out Anne's locker herself.

And after all
that, she thought, she could drive through the city, see the lights, the
people, the deals, and the dregs, and feel... alive, she realized.

This was her
place, with its dirt and its drama, its brilliance and its streak of nasty.
Whores and hustlers, the weary and the wealthy. Every jittery heartbeat pumped
in her blood.

This was hers.

“Lady.” A
grimy fist rapped on her window. “Hey, lady, wanna buy a flower?”

She looked at
the face peering through the glass. It was ancient and stupid and if the dirt
in its folds were any indication, it hadn't seen a bar of soap in this decade.

She put the
window down. “Do I look like I want to buy a flower?”

“It's the last
one.” He grinned toothlessly and held up a pitiful, ragged bloom she supposed
was trying to be a rose. “Give ya a good deal. Five bucks for it.”

“Five? Get a
handful of reality.” She started to brush him off, put the glass between them.
Then found herself digging in her pocket. “I got four.”

“Okay, good.”
He snatched the credit chips and pushed the flower at her before heading off in
a shambling run.

“To the
nearest liquor store,” Eve muttered and pulled away from the curb with the
window open. His breath had been amazingly foul.

She drove home
with the flower across her lap. And saw, as she headed through the gates, the
lights he'd left on for her.

After all
she'd seen and done that day, the simple welcome of lights in the window had
her fighting tears.

She went in
quietly, tossing her jacket over the newel post, climbing the stairs. The
scents here were quiet, elegant. The wood polished, the floors gleaming.

This, too, she
thought, was hers.

And so, she
knew, when she saw him waiting for her, was Roarke.

He'd put on a
robe and had the screen on low. Nadine Furst was reporting, and looked pale and
fierce on the scene of the explosion. She could see he'd been working --
checking stock reports, juggling deals, whatever he did -- on the bedroom unit.

Feeling
foolish, she kept the flower behind her back. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He
didn't go to her. She looked stretched thin, he decided, as if she might snap
at the slightest touch. Her eyes were bruised and fragile. “You need to rest.”

“Can't.” She
managed a half smile. “Wired up. I'm going to go back soon.”

“Eve.” He
stepped toward her, but still didn't touch. “You'll make yourself ill.”

“I'm okay.
Really. I was punchy for a while, but it passed. When it's over, I'll crash,
but I'm okay now. I need to talk to you.”

“All right.”

She moved
around him, shifting the flower out of sight, going to the window, staring at
the dark. “I'm trying to figure out where to start. It's been a rotten couple
of days.”

“It was
difficult, telling the Malloys.”

“Jesus.” She
let her brow rest against the glass. “They know. Families of cops know as soon
as they see us at the door. That's what they live with, day in and out. They
know when they see you, but they block it. You can see it in their faces -- the
knowledge and the denial. Some of them just stand there, others stop you --
start talking, making conversation, picking up around the house. It's like if
you don't say it, if you just don't say it, it isn't real.

“Then you say
it, and it is.”

She turned
back to him. “You live with that.”

“Yes.” He kept
his eyes on hers. “I suppose I do.”

“I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry about this morning. I -- “

“So you've
said already.” This time when he crossed to her, he touched, just a hand to her
cheek. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does. It
does matter. I've got to get through this, okay?”

“All right.
Sit down.”

“I can't, I
just can't.” She lifted her hands in frustration. “I've got all this stuff
churning inside me.”

“Then get rid
of it.” He stopped her by putting a hand to hers, lifting the flower. “What's
this?”

“I think it's
a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you.”

It was so rare
to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she
thought -- hoped -- it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he
looked down at the rose again. “You brought me a flower.”

“I think it's
sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up.”

“Darling Eve.”
He took the stem. The edges of the bud were blackened and curled from the cold.
The color was somewhere between the yellow of a healing bruise and urine. “You
fascinate me.”

“Pretty
pitiful, huh?”

“No.” This
time his hand cupped her cheek, skimmed into her hair. “It's delightful.”

“If it smells
anything like the guy who sold it to me, you might want to have it fumigated.”

“Don't spoil
it,” he said mildly, and touched his lips to hers.

“I do that --
spoil things.” She backed away again before she gave in and grabbed on. “I
don't do it on purpose. And I meant what I said this morning, even if it pisses
you off. Mostly, I think cops are better off going solo. I don't know, like
priests or something, so they don't keep dragging the sin and sorrow home with
them.”

“I have sin
and sorrow of my own,” he said evenly. “It's washed over you a time or two.”

“I knew it
would piss you off.”

“It does. And
by God, Eve, it hurts me.”

Her mouth
dropped open, trembled closed again. “I don't mean to do that.” Hadn't known
she could do that. Part of the problem, she realized. Her problem. “I don't
have the words like you do. I don't have them, Roarke, the kind you say to me
-- or even think, and I see you thinking them and it -- my heart just stops.”

“Do you think
loving you to excess is easy for me?”

“No. I don't.
I think it should be impossible. Don't get mad.” She hurried on when she saw
that dangerous flash in his eyes. “Don't get mad yet. Let me finish.”

“Then make it
good.” He set the flower aside. “Because I'm damn sick and I'm tired of having
to justify my feelings to the woman who owns them.”

“I can't keep
my balance.” Oh, she hated to admit it, to say it out loud to the man who
wobbled it so often and so easily. “I get it, and I cruise along for a while,
realizing this is who I am now, who we are now. And then, sometimes, I just
look at you and stumble. And I can't get my breath because all these feelings
just rear up and grab me by the throat. I don't know what to do about it, how
to handle it. I think, I'm married to him. I've been married to him for
almost six months, and there are times he walks into the room and stops my
heart.”'

She let out a
shuddering breath. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. In my life,
you're what matters most. I love you so much it scares me, and I guess if I had
a choice about it, I wouldn't change it. So ... now you can get pissed off,
because I'm done.”

“A fat lot of
room you've given me for that.” He watched her lips twitch into a smile as he
went to her. His hands slipped over her shoulders, down her back. “I've no
choice either, Eve. I wouldn't want one.”

“We're not
going to fight.”

“I don't think
so.”

She kept her
eyes on his as she tugged at the belt of his robe. “I stored up this energy in
case I needed it to fight with you.”

He lowered his
head, bit her bottom lip. “It's a shame to waste it.”

“I'm not going
to.” Slowly, she backed him toward the bed, up the short steps to the platform.
“I drove through the city tonight. I felt alive.” She tugged the robe away,
closed her teeth over his shoulder. “I'm going to show you.”

She tumbled to
the bed on top of him, and her mouth was like a fever. The frantic burst of
energy reminded her of the first time they'd come together on this bed, the
night she'd thrown all caution and restraint aside and let him take her where
they'd needed to go.

Now she would
drive him, with fast, rough hands, hot greedy lips. She took exactly what she
wanted, and what she took was everything.

The light was
gray and weak, trickling through the sky window overhead, filtering down on
her. His vision blurred, but he watched her as she destroyed him. Slim, agile,
fierce, the bruises from the hideous night blooming on her skin like the medals
of a warrior.

Her eyes
gleamed as she worked them both toward frenzy.

Then, and then
again, skin glowing, breath ragged, she lowered over him, sheathed him,
surrounded him.

She arched
back, arrowed with pleasure. He gripped her hips, said her name, and let her
ride.

Her skin was
slick with sweat when she collapsed onto him, melted into him. His arms came
around her, holding her there. Her cheek to his heart.

“Sleep
awhile,” he murmured.

“I can't. I
have to go in.”

“You haven't
slept in twenty-four hours.”

“I'm okay,”
she answered as she sat up. “Almost better than okay. I needed this more than
sleep -- really, Roarke. And if you think you're going to force a tranq down my
throat, think again.”

She rolled off
him and up. “I need to keep moving. If there's any down time, I'll catch a nap
at the crib at Central.”

She glanced
around for a robe, took his. “I need a favor.”

“Now would be
an excellent time to ask for one.”

She glanced
over, grinned. He looked sleek and satisfied. “I bet. Anyway, I don't want Zeke
stuck at the station the way he has been, but I need to keep him under wraps
awhile longer.”

“Send him
here.”

“Ah... if I
took one of your vehicles in, I could leave mine here. Working on it would give
him something to do.”

Roarke turned
his head. Eyed her. “Do you plan to be involved in any wrecks or explosions
today?”

“You never
know.”

“Take anything
but the 3X-2000. I've only driven it once.”

She made some
comment about men and their toys, but he was feeling mellow and let it pass.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dear
Comrade,

We are
Cassandra.

We are
loyal.

We are sure
you've been watching the bleeding liberal media puppets report on the incidents
in New York City. It sickens us to listen to their sobbing, their wailing.
While we are nothing but amused by their condemnation of the destruction of
their pathetic symbols of the blindly opportunistic society that now holds this
country under its rigid thumb, we are angry at their one-dimensional and
predictable stand on the issues.

Where is
their faith? Where is their comprehension?

They still
don't see, still don't understand what we are and what we will mean to them.

Tonight we
struck with the fury of the gods. Tonight we watched the scrambling rats. But
this is nothing, nothing to what we will do.

Our
adversary, the woman that fate and circumstance deemed we face down for our
mission, has proven difficult. She is skilled and strong, but we would be
satisfied with no less. It is true that through her, we have lost a certain
monetary payment, which we understand you had hoped to secure quickly. Do not
concern yourself with this matter. Our finances are very solvent, and we will
bleed this heedless city to its bones before we are finished.

You must
trust that we will finish what he began. You must not falter in your faith and
your commitment to the cause. Soon, very soon, the most precious symbol of
their corrupt and weeping nation will fall. It is all but done.

When this
is accomplished, they will pay.

We will see
you, face to face, within forty-eight hours. The necessary papers are in order.
This next battle to be waged and won in this place, we will complete
personally. He would have expected this. He would have demanded it.

Prepare for
the next stage, dear comrade. For we will be with you soon to drink to the one
who set us on this path. To celebrate our victory and to set the stage for our
new republic.

We are
Cassandra.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Peabody strode
toward the conference room. She'd just left Zeke and was feeling a little shaky
over the conversation they'd had with their parents over the 'link. Both of
them had put the pressure on for their parents to stay out west, though each
had separate reasons.

Zeke couldn't
stand the thought of them seeing him under the current circumstances. He wasn't
in a cell, but it was close.

Peabody was
determined to clear her brother and put him back on the path of his life in her
own way.

But her mother
had struggled not to cry, and her father had looked dazed and helpless. She
wasn't going to get the image of their faces out of her head any time soon.

Work was the
remedy, she decided. Unearthing that lying, murdering bitch Clarissa. Then
snapping her skinny neck like a twig.

It was with
violence brewing under her starched uniform that she walked into the room and
saw McNab.

Oh hell, was all she could think, and she marched straight over
for coffee. “You're early.”

“I figured
you'd be.” He'd also figured out what he intended to do, and he took the first
step by going over and closing the door. “You're not kicking me out of your way
without an explanation.”

“I don't need
to explain anything to you. We wanted to have sex, we had it. Done and over.
The lab reports come up?”

“I say it's
not done and over.” It should be, he knew it should be. But he'd been thinking
about that square, serious face and amazingly lush body for days. Weeks. Jesus,
maybe months. He'd damn well say when it was done and over.

“I've got more
important things on my mind than your ego, McNab.” She took a deliberate sip of
coffee. “Like my semiannual dentist appointment.”

“Why don't you
save up your lame insults until you have a better selection? They don't work.
I've had you under me.”

And over him,
she thought. Around and through. “Had's the operative word. Past tense.”

“Why?”

“Because
that's how it is.”

He stepped
closer, pulled the cup out of her hand, slammed it down. “Why?”

Her heart
began to pound. Damn it, she wasn't supposed to feel anything. “Because that's
the way I want it.”

“Why?”

“Because if I
hadn't been rolling around with you, I'd have been with Zeke. If I'd been with
him, I wouldn't have just told my parents my lieutenant is trying to clear him
on murder charges.”

“That's not
your fault. It's not mine.” Her breath had begun to hitch, unnerving him. He
was mortally afraid she might cry. “It's on the Bransons. And Dallas isn't going
to let him take the heat from it. Get a hold here, Dee.”

“I should've
been with him! I should've been with him, not you.”

“You were with
me.” He took her arms, gave her a quick, surprising shake. “You can't change
that. And I want you with me again. Damn it, Dee, I'm not done.”

He was kissing
her, with all the helpless rage and lust and confusion that roared through him.
She made some little sound, a sound caught between despair and relief. And was
kissing him with all the vivid fury and need and bafflement that pumped inside
her.

Eve walked in,
stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, jeez.”

They were too
busy trying to swallow each other to hear her.

“Man.” She
pressed her fingers to her eyes, half hoping they'd disappear before she
lowered them. No such luck. “Break it up.” She jammed her hands in her pockets
and tried to ignore the inarguable fact that McNab's hands were clamped on her
aide's ass. “I said break it up!”

The shout got
through. They leaped apart as if someone had snapped a spring between them. McNab
hit a chair, knocked it over, then stared at Eve as if he'd never seen her
before.

“Oh. Whoa.”

“Clamp it
shut,” Eve warned him. “Not a word out of you. Sit down, shut up. Peabody, damn
it to hell and back again. Why don't I have my coffee?”

“Coffee.” Eyes
dazed, blood screaming, Peabody blinked. “Coffee?”

“Now.” Eve
pointed to the AutoChef, then made a show of looking at her wrist unit. “You
are now on duty. Anything that happened here before this mark was on your own
time. Is that clear?”

“Uh-huh, you
bet. Listen, Lieutenant -- “

“Zip it,
McNab,” she ordered him. “I don't want any discussion, any explanations, any
verbal pictures drawn of activities pursued on your own time.”

“Your coffee,
sir.” Peabody set it down, shot McNab a look of dire warning.

“Lab reports?”

“I'll check on
them now.” Relieved, Peabody hurried to a chair.

Feeney came
in. The bags under his eyes were in danger of drooping past his nose. Seeing
him, Peabody got up again, ordered more coffee.

He sat, nodded
absently in thanks. “The emergency teams managed to clear down to the site of
the last explosion, Malloy's last known location.” He cleared his throat,
lifted his cup, drank. “The shield appeared to be in place, but the blast took
it out. They said it would have been over quick.”

No one spoke
for a moment; then Eve got to her feet. “Lieutenant Malloy was a good cop.
That's the best I can say about anybody. She died doing her job and trying to
give her men time to reach safety. It's our job to find the people responsible
for her death and take them down.”

She opened the
file she'd brought in, took out two photos, and moved to the boards to fix them
in place.

“Clarissa
Branson, aka Charlotte Rowan. B. Donald Branson. We don't stop,” Eve said,
turning, with eyes bright and cold. “We don't rest until these two people are
in a cage or dead. Labs, Peabody. McNab, I want the report on Monica Rowan's
'link. Feeney, I need Zeke in interview one more time. Maybe if you take him,
you'll push a button I missed. He might have heard something, seen something,
that can give us a line on where to look.”

“I'll take
care of it.”

“And I want
another round with Lisbeth Cooke, too. Same deal. If you can spare the time,
you'd probably get more out of her by going to her place and playing the
sympathetic ear.”

“She a
weeper?” Feeney wanted to know.

“Could be.”

He sighed.
“I'll take extra hankies.”

“There'll be a
trail,” Eve continued, scanning the faces of her team. “Where they went under,
where they're going next, where and when they've targeted the next one. They'll
know we're following the Apollo line now and probably know we've made -- or
will make -- Clarissa as James Rowan's daughter.”

She moved back
to the board, pinning up another photo. “This was Charlotte Rowan's mother. I
believe her daughter gave the order for her execution. If this is true,
understand we're dealing with an individual with a cool and focused mind. A
skilled actor who doesn't mind getting blood on her hands. She has, with her
husband, arranged or carried out the murder of four people we are aware of, one
tied to her by blood, one by marriage, and is responsible for the deaths of
hundreds through terrorist acts that are no more than disguised blackmail for
gain.

“She won't
hesitate to kill again. She has no conscience, no morals, and no loyalty to
anyone but herself and a man who's been dead for over three decades. This is
not a creature of impulse but of calculation. She's had thirty years to plan
what she's now setting out to accomplish. And so far, she's kicking the shit
out of us.”

“You took out
two of her droids,” McNab pointed out. “And she didn't get the bonds.”

“That's why
she's going to hit again and hit hard. Money's part of the motive, but it's not
all. Mira's analysis indicated a large ego, a mission, and a sense of pride.
Pulling from that, she is Cassandra.” Eve tapped a finger on the photo.
“Not just the woman, but the whole. And her ego and pride took a hit last night
-- and she hasn't yet accomplished her mission. She can't be dealt or bargained
with because she's a liar, and she's enjoying playing the goddess, high on
power and blood. She believes what she's saying. Even when what she's saying is
a lie.”

“We've still
got the scanners,” McNab pointed out.

“And we'll use
them. E and B's going to be shaken up, and they're also going to want payback
for Anne. They'll work their asses off on this one.”

“Labs,
Lieutenant.” Peabody held out the copy. “Blood, skin, and hair samples from the
Branson hearth match B. Donald Branson's DNA.”

Eve took them,
noted the fresh worry in Peabody's eyes. “They'd have been clever enough to
think of that. They stored the blood, and she had plenty of time to plant the
other samples while she was pretending to clean up the mess.”

“They haven't
come up with a body yet.” When McNab spoke, Peabody turned her head to watch
him. “They've got divers down now.” He moved his shoulders. “I'll keep in
touch.”

Her mouth
wanted to tremble, but she firmed it, nodded briskly. “Appreciate it.”

“Maine's
shooting me down the 'link unit from Monica Rowan's place,” he continued. “They
found a slew of jammers and code-spanners in the kitchen. Her 'link log's been
blocked. I'll unblock it.”

“Get it down.
I'll take the Branson house and the offices. Anything develops, I want a tag,
pronto.” She yanked out her communicator when it signaled. “Dallas.”

“Sergeant
Howard, Search and Rescue. My divers found something. I think you'll want to
see this.”

“Send through
your location. I'm on my way.” She glanced toward McNab. As he rose, Peabody
stepped forward.

“Sir, I know
you have reason to keep me off this part of the investigation. I don't believe
those reasons are valid at this time. I request, respectfully, to accompany you
as your aide.”

Eve
considered, tapped her fingers on her thigh. “Are you going to keep talking to
me that way? All tight-assed and formal, using long, polite sentences?”

“If I don't
get what I want, yes, sir.”

“I admire a
good threat,” Eve decided. “You're with me, Peabody.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

The wind
whipped like a nest of angry snakes and had the ugly water of the river
churning. Eve stood on the scarred and littered dock, cold to the bone, as one
of the search team uncovered the body.

“We probably
wouldn't have come on it for days if you hadn't told us to start looking for a
mechanical. Even with that, we got lucky. You wouldn't fucking believe what
people dump in this river.”

He crouched
down with her. “Looks a hell of a lot better than a floater would by this time.
No bloat, no decay. Fish gave him a try, but they don't get off on synthetics.”

“Yeah.” She
could see the nicks and dents where fish had taken nibbling samples. One had
apparently given the left eye a hell of a go before giving up. But the diver
was right; he looked a hell of a lot better than a floater.

He looked like
B. Donald Branson -- handsome and fit, if considerably bedraggled. She used a
fingertip on the chin to turn the head, then studied the massive damage to the
back of the skull.

“When I saw it
down there, I thought the sensors were whacked. Never seen a droid this good
before. Wouldn't have known for sure it wasn't a fresh dead guy if it wasn't
for the hand.”

Somewhere
along the line, the wrist had been injured enough to split the skin casing. The
structure, riddled with sensors and chips, showed clearly.

“Of course,
when we got him out and gave him a good look-see in the light -- “

“Yeah, doesn't
quite fit the bill. You get pictures?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“We'll just
get some to back up the record. Then I'll need it bagged and sealed and shipped
to the lab. Get all angles, Peabody.”

Eve rose,
moved to the side, and called Feeney. “I'm sending this droid into the lab. I
need someone from EDD to go in and work with Dickhead's team. I want to run his
programming back. Can we interface with our system? Get a playback of the night
Zeke was there?”

“Might.”

“And can we
dig in enough to get a time frame for the programming and the programmer?”

“It's not
impossible. Much damage?”

She glanced
back as Peabody got the crater in the skull on record. “Considerable.”

“We'll do what
we can. Does this put Zeke out of it?”

“No law
against killing a droid. He could get it on destruction of property, but I
don't think the Bransons will pursue that angle.”

Feeney smiled.
“Good work. Want me to tell him?”

“No.” She
looked back at Peabody. “Let him hear it from his sister.” She pocketed her
communicator and signaled to Peabody. “We're done here. Let's move.”

“Dallas.” She
walked over, laid a hand on Eve's arm. “I was afraid when we came down here.
Afraid you'd been wrong. I knew, in my head, that even if it was Branson, it
would go down as an accident, just the way Zeke said. He wouldn't have gone to
jail, but he'd have paid for it. All his life.”

“Now you can
tell him he doesn't have to.”

“He should hear
it from you. You weren't wrong,” she said before Eve could speak. “And it'll
matter more.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Zeke's hands
dangled between his knees. Slumped over, he stared at them as if they belonged
to a stranger. “I don't understand this.” He spoke slowly, again as if the
voice were someone else's and just happened to come out of his mouth. “You say
it was a droid that just looked like Mr. Branson.”

“You didn't
kill anyone, Zeke.” Eve leaned toward him. “Get that in your head first.”

“But he fell.
He hit his head. There was blood.”

“It fell, as
it was directed to fall. There was blood because blood had been injected under
its skin shield. Branson's blood. It was put there to make you think you'd
killed him.”

“But why? I'm
sorry, Dallas, but that's just crazy.”

“Part of a
game. He's dead -- his body conveniently disposed of by his terrified and
abused wife who's now run away. They can be anyone they want to be, anywhere
they want to be, and with a big pile of money to hide in. They thought they'd
have a lot more by the time we figured this out. If we ever did.”

“He hit her.”
Zeke's head snapped up. “I heard it -- I saw it.”

“A show, an
act. A few bruises were a small price to pay for winning the whole match.
They'd already arranged for his brother's death. They had to be able to access
all the fluid cash from the company. Once B. D.'s gone -- branded, they'd
hoped, as a wife beater, marital rapist, they pick up their new lives. He's
cleaned out the cash flow from all accounts. We'd probably have looked at that
as just one more vicious act on his part. But they left holes.”

He shook his
head, and fighting impatience, she tried to explain quickly. “Why does a man
like that let his wife go off to a spa out west, spend time on her own? He
doesn't even trust her out of the front door from what she told me in
interview. But he lets her bring you into the house. He's insanely jealous, but
it's fine and dandy to have a young, good-looking guy in the same house with
his wife all day. And she can barely decide to get out of bed in the morning,
but she gets in gear, orders a droid to ditch her dead husband's body, and gets
it done in the time it takes you to get her a glass of water. All while she's
in shock.”

“She can't
have been involved,” Zeke whispered.

“It's the only
way it can play. She's lived with a man she claims beats her for nearly ten
years, but she's ready to leave him to go with you, someone she barely knows --
and this after two conversations about her situation.”

“We fell in
love.”

“She loves no
one. She used you. I'm sorry.”

“You don't
know.” His voice lowered and went fierce. “You can't know what we felt for each
other. What she felt for me.”

“Zeke -- “

Eve simply
lifted her fingers from her knee to stop Peabody's protest. “You're right, I
can't know what you felt. But I can know that you killed no one. I can know
that the woman who said she loved you set you up to take the fall. I can know
that that same woman was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people this
last week. One of them was a friend of mine. That I can know.”

She rose,
started to walk out of the room, when Mavis burst in.

“Hey, Dallas!”
Smile brilliant, hair a purple explosion of curls, eyes the disconcerting shade
of copper, Mavis threw open her arms and sent the twelve-inch emerald fringe
running from armpit to wrist flying. “I'm back.”

“Mavis.” Eve
struggled to switch gears from the miserable to the absurd. “I thought you were
back next week.”

“That was last
week, now it is next week. Dallas, man, I was seismic! Hey, Peabody.”
Her laughing eyes landed on Zeke and sobered even as she winced. Even someone
dancing on Mavis's level of happy could sense the anger and grief. “Oops, bad
timing, huh?”

“No. It's
great. Come outside a minute.” Eve jerked her head at Peabody, signaling her to
deal with Zeke, and moved outside the office with Mavis. “It's good to see
you.” And suddenly it was more than good. Mavis, with her stupendously
ridiculous wardrobe, her ever-changing hair, her sheer delight with herself,
was the perfect antidote for misery.

“It's great to
see you.” Eve caught her in a fierce embrace that had Mavis giggling even as
she gave Eve's back soothing pats.

“Wow. You
missed me.”

“I did. I
really did.” Eve stepped back and grinned at her. “You kicked ass, didn't you?”

“I did. I
really did.” The narrow corridor didn't stop Mavis from turning three fast
circles on her platform airpumps. “It was orbital, it was mag, it was beyond
the ult. I came to see you, but my next stop is Roarke, and I figure I should
warn you I'm going to kiss him hard right on the mouth.”

“No tongues.”

“Spoilsport.”
Mavis shook back her curls, angled her head. “You look beat, wasted, absolutely
dead.”

“Thanks, just
what I needed to perk up my day.”

“No, I mean
it. I caught some of what's been going on -- didn't have much time for screen,
but what I didn't catch, people were talking about. I don't buy this Urban Wars
revival crap. I mean who wants to run around blasting people in the streets all
the damn time? It's so, you know, last century. So what's up?”

Eve smiled and
felt wonderful doing it. “Oh, nothing much. Just a whacked terrorist group
blowing up landmark property and blackmailing the city for millions of dollars.
Some droids tried to kill me, but I took them out. Peabody's brother's here
from Arizona and got pulled into the mix because he fell for some lying slut
bomber and thought he killed her husband by accident. But he only took out
another droid.”

“Gee, is that
all? I've been gone for a while. I figured you'd be busy.”

“Roarke and I
had kind of a fight, then terrific makeup sex.”

Mavis's face
brightened. “That's more like it. Why don't you take a break and tell me all
about it?”

“Can't. I'm
busy saving the city from destruction, but you can do me a favor.”

“Since you put
it that way. What?”

“Zeke,
Peabody's brother. I need to keep him under wraps. No media, no outside
contacts. I'm sending him to my place, but I know Roarke's busy, and I don't
want to stick the poor guy with Summerset. Can you take him over, hang awhile?”

“Sure,
Leonardo's busy on some designs. I've got plenty of swing time. I can keep him
happy at your place.”

“Thanks. Just
call Summerset. He'll send a car for you.”

“I bet he'll
send the limo if I ask nice.” Delighted with the prospect, she turned for the
door. “Well, intro me so Zeke knows who he's going to be playing with today.”

“No.
Peabody'll do it. He doesn't want to see me right now. He needs to be mad at
someone -- I'm it. Just tell her to meet me in the garage. We've got places to
go.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

“You've had a
rough time, Zeke.” Mavis licked pink frosting from her fingers and contemplated
eating another of the pretty little cakes Summerset had served them. Control,
greed, she mused. Control. Greed. Let's hear it for greed, she decided
and plucked up another.

“I'm so
worried about Clarissa.” He sat, steeped in his unhappiness.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He'd started
out shy with her so that she'd had to pry every second word out of him. So
she'd chattered away for the first hour, about her tour, about Leonardo, adding
little anecdotes about Peabody that had wormed through his defenses.

When she'd
seen him smile for the first time, Mavis had sensed victory. She'd drawn him
into talking about his work. She didn't understand a damn thing, but she'd made
interested noises and kept her glowing, copper-colored eyes on his face.

They'd settled
into the main parlor in front of the fire Summerset had built in anticipation
of her arrival. And when Summerset had brought in the tea and cakes, Zeke had
taken a cup out of politeness.

By the time
Mavis had charmed, nagged, and bullied the full story out of him, Zeke had gone
through two cups of tea and three cakes.

He felt
better. Then felt guilty because of it. When he'd been detained at Cop Central,
it had seemed he was paying for his crimes, for not completing his ride to
Clarissa's rescue. But here in the beautiful house, with the fire crackling and
his body warm from fragrant tea, it was like being rewarded for his sins.

Mavis curled
her legs under her and felt as comfortable as the cat who stretched out on the
top of the sofa above her. “Dallas said you killed a droid.”

Zeke jolted,
set down his tea. “I know, but I don't see how that's possible.”

“What did
Peabody say?”

“She said --
she said it was a mechanical they pulled out of the river, but -- “

“Maybe she's
saying that to make you feel better.” Mavis turned her body toward him, nodded
with her eyes wide and guileless. “Maybe she's covering up for you. Oh, and I
know! She's blackmailing Dallas to go along with it so you get away with the
whole thing.”

The idea was
so absurd, he would have laughed. But he was too shocked to do more than
goggle. “Dee would never do that. She couldn't.”

“Oh.” Mavis
pursed her lips into a pout, then moved her shoulders. “Well, I guess she must
have told you straight then, huh? I guess it must be like they said, and you
knocked over a droid that looked like this Branson guy. Otherwise, Peabody'd be
lying and breaking the law.”

He hadn't put
one and one together in quite that way before. Now that Mavis had, he stared
down at his hands. Thoughts whirled inside his head. “But if it was a droid ...
Clarissa. Dallas thinks Clarissa did all this. She has to be wrong.”

“Maybe. She's
hardly ever wrong about this sort of thing though.” Mavis stretched
luxuriously, but her eyes stayed sharp on Zeke's. It was getting through, she
thought. Poor guy. “Let's say Clarissa didn't know it was a droid. She really
thought you'd offed her husband, and then... oh that won't work.” She furrowed her
brow. “I mean, gee, unless they ditched the body, the cops would've tagged it
as a droid right off. She's the one who got rid of the body, right?”

“Yes.” It was
indeed getting through, and his heart cracked like an egg. “She was ...
scared.”

“Yeah, well,
who wouldn't be, but if she hadn't lost the body, it would've been all over
that same night. Nobody would've thought Branson was dead. The cops wouldn't
have wasted all that time and given Branson the lead to get clear and stuff. I
guess, hmmm.” She tilted her head. “I guess if Dallas hadn't figured a droid,
they'd never have found the body anyway. Then everybody would think the guy was
fish food, and Clarissa had run off because she was so weirded by the whole
scene. Wow!”

She sat up as
if the idea had just occurred to her. “That means if Dallas hadn't clicked to
it and pushed until she had the proof, they'd have gotten away with it, and
you'd still believe you'd killed a guy.”

“Oh God.” It
didn't just get through now. It burst through, ripping out his guts. “What have
I done?”

“You didn't do
anything, honey.” Mavis swung her legs off the sofa, leaned forward to lay a
hand over his. “They did it all. Danced a number over you. All you did was be
who you are. A nice guy who believes the best of people.”

“I have to
think.” He got shakily to his feet.

“Sure you do.
You want to lie down? They've got amazing guest rooms in this place.”

“No, I... I
said I'd work on Dallas's car. That's what I'll do. I think better when I'm
using my hands.”

“Okay.”

She made him
put on his coat, bundled him up, and added a motherly peck on the cheek.
Closing the door behind him, she turned, and let out a squeak of surprise when
she saw Roarke on the steps.

“You're a good
friend, Mavis.”

“Roarke!” This
time she squealed and bounded up the steps. “I got something for you. Dallas
said I could.” With this, she threw her arms around him and gave him a hard,
noisy kiss.

For a little
thing, Roarke mused, she packed a punch. “Thank you.”

“I'm going to
tell you about the tour, every second of it. But not now, because Dallas said
you'd be busy.”

“Unfortunately,
I am.”

“So I thought
Leonardo and I could take you guys out to dinner -- maybe next week? Sort of
celebrate and fill you in and thank you. Thank you, Roarke. You gave me the
chance for everything I wanted.”

“You did the
job.” He tugged on one of her curls, watched it, with some fascination, spring
out and back. “I'd hoped to take Eve to your final show in Memphis. But things
got complicated.”

“So I hear.
She looked ragged out big time. I figure when she wraps this up, you can help
me kidnap her. We'll get Trina to give her the full treatment -- relaxation and
beauty session. The works.”

“It'll be a
pleasure.”

“You look a
little tired yourself.” And she couldn't remember ever seeing real fatigue in
his eyes before.

“It was a
filthy night.”

“Maybe Trina
should have a go at you, too.” His only answer was a vague “Hmmm,” and she
grinned. “I'll let you get back to what you're doing. Okay if I take a swim?”

“Enjoy
yourself.”

“Always do.”
She danced down the stairs, grabbed her oversized bag, and headed for the
elevator to the pool house. She was going to give Trina a call and make those
appointments -- including erotic therapy.

Since she'd
tried it out with Leonardo, she knew it was mag.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Eve scanned
every file and disk in Branson's office. He'd covered his tracks well. Even his
private 'link had been wiped clean. She'd send it to Feeney, but she doubted
he'd find any overlooked data on the logs.

She
pigeonholed his assistant, then his brother's assistant, but got nothing out of
them other than shock and confusion.

He'd kept his
area clean, she decided.

She did a run
through the labs, examined the droids in development. She nailed another piece
into place when the lab foreman, in the spirit of cooperation, told her they
had produced replica droids of both Branson brothers. As a surprise, he
explained, ordered by Clarissa Branson. A personal request, kept off the books
and logs.

They'd been
completed and delivered to the Branson townhouse only three weeks before.

Very slick
timing, Eve thought as she wandered
through production with its orderly shelves loaded with minidroids, tyke-bykes,
and space toys.

She picked up
an excellent reproduction of a police issue stunner, shook her head. “This sort
of thing should be outlawed. You know how many 24/7s are knocked over with
these every month?”

“I had one
when I was a kid.” Peabody grinned with nostalgia. “Bought it on the sly and
hid it from my parents. No toys of violence allowed in our house.”

“Free-Agers
got that one right.” Eve set it down, walked farther down the line and into the
maze of souveniers. Her energy was flagging. It felt as though she were walking
through a wall of water. “Shit, who buys this stuff?”

“Tourists love
them. Zeke's already loaded with key chains and globes and friggie magnets.”

The New York
section was filled with replicas -- the key chains, the pens, the dash figures,
the magnets and trinket boxes that crowded the stores and stands for eager
tourists.

The Empire
State Building, the Pleasure Dome, the UN building, the Statue of Liberty.
Madison Square, the Plaza Hotel, she noted, frowning at the detailed
reproduction of the hotel inside a water globe. Lift it, shake it, and glitter
rained like confetti on New Year's Eve.

Good
business, she wondered, or irony?

“I bet that
kind of thing is going to sell like crazy now.” Peabody scowled at the globe
when Eve replaced it. “Hot ticket item.”

“People are
sick,” Eve decided. “Let's do the house.” Her eyes were feeling gritty now from
lack of sleep. “Got any Alert-All in your bag?”

“Yeah, I've
got the official limit.”

“Give me one,
will you? I hate that stuff, makes me edgy. But I'm losing focus.”

She swallowed
the pill Peabody handed her, knowing the false energy would annoy her.

“When's the
last time you caught some shut-eye?”

“I forget. You
drive,” Eve ordered. God, she hated to give up the control, but it was Peabody
or auto. “Until this crap kicks in.”

She slid into
the passenger seat, let her head fall back, her body relax. Within five
minutes, her system was on the gallop. “Man.” Her eyes popped open. “I'm awake
now.”

“It'll give
you a good four hours -- maybe six -- then, if you don't get horizontal, you'll
crash hard. Go down like a tree after 'timber.'“

“If we don't
close up some of these holes in four to six, I might as well crash.” Revved
now, she contacted McNab at EDD. “Did you get the 'link from Maine?”

“Working on it
now. She had a class-A jammer on it, but we're getting there.”

“Bring
everything you get to my home office. Bring the whole 'link if you don't have
clear data by five. Save me a call and tell Feeney I've sent him Branson's
personal. It's been wiped, but he might jiggle something.”

“If there's
anything, we'll jiggle it.”

She put the
next call through to Whitney. “Commander, I've finished at Branson T and T and
am en route to his residence.”

“Progress?”

“Nothing solid
at this point. However, I suggest steps be taken to scan and secure the UN
building.” She thought of the pretty, pricey souveniers. “Apollo's next hit was
the Pentagon. If Cassandra continues to follow the theme, that location is the
logical choice. Time-wise there would be a lag of several weeks, but we can't
risk them sticking to the schedule set by Apollo.”

“Agreed. We'll
take all necessary steps.”

“Do you think
they'll make contact again?” Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.

“I'm not
counting on it.” She made one last call, to Mira.

“Question,”
she began as soon as Mira's face came on-screen. “Given the tone of the
demands, the fact that those demands have not been met. Adding on that the
targets were not destroyed and loss of life was kept minimal, will Cassandra
contact me again to play guess what's next?”

“Doubtful. You
haven't won the battles, but neither have you lost. Their goals have not been
accomplished, while yours have come closer to the mark in each instance.
According to your report, which I've just finished reading, you believe they
are now aware of your line of investigation. Aware that you know their
identities and their pattern.”

“And their
response to that would be ... ?”

“Anger, a need
to win. A desire to thumb a total victory under your nose. I don't believe
they'll feel compelled to issue any sort of warning or jeer the next time. The
rules of war, Eve, are, there are no rules.”

“Agreed. I
have a favor to ask.”

Mira tried to
hide her surprise. Eve rarely asked for anything. “Of course.”

“Zeke's been
informed of the setup, Clarissa's part in it.”

“I see. This
will be difficult for him.”

“Yeah, he's
not taking it well. I've got him at my place. Mavis is with him, but I think he
could use some counseling. If you've got time for a house call.”

“I'll make
time.”

“Thanks.”

“Are
unnecessary,” Mira said. “Good-bye, Eve.”

Satisfied, Eve
ended the call, and glanced over to see that they'd arrived at the Branson
townhouse. Peabody had already parked. “Let's get started.” Then she saw that
Peabody was clutching the wheel, and tears were swimming in her eyes. “Don't
even think about doing that,” Eve snapped. “Dry it up.”

“I don't know
how to thank you. For thinking of him. After he acted that way, with all that's
going on, for thinking of him.”

“I'm thinking
of me.” Eve shoved her door open. “I can't afford to have my aide's
concentration split because she's worried about a family member.”

“Right.”
Knowing better, Peabody sniffled as she got out of the car. But she'd blinked
her eyes clear. “You have my full attention, sir.”

“Let's keep it
that way.” Eve disarmed the police seal and entered the house. “The droids have
been deactivated and taken into holding.” But she hitched back her jacket so
her weapon was in easy reach. “The place should be empty, but we're dealing
with people with solid tech and electronic skills. They could have gotten
through the seal. I want you on alert while we're in here, Peabody.”

“Full alert,
sir.”

“We'll start
with the offices.”

Branson's was
masculine, distinguished, in burgundy and green with dark wood, leather chairs,
heavy crystal. Eve stopped in the doorway, shook her head.

“No, she's the
force, she's the one who's driving this train.” Her mind was clear again,
achingly so. “I shouldn't have wasted time at his plant. She's the button
here.”

She strode
across the hall and into the feminine grace of Clarissa's office. Sitting room,
Eve decided it would have been called, with its rose and ivory tones, its
dainty chairs with pastel cushions. There were pretty little vases lining the
marble mantel, each with tiny flowers tucked in. The flowers were faded and
dying and added a sick scent over the fragile fragrance of the air.

There was a
day bed with a white swan painted on the cushions, lamps with tinted shades,
curtains of lace.

Eve walked to
the small desk with long curved legs and studied the small-scale communication
and data unit.

The disc
collection proved to be filled with fashion and shopping programs, a smatter of
novels -- heavy on romance -- and a daily journal that spoke of household matters,
more shopping, lunch dates, and social events.

“Got to be
more.” Eve stepped back. “Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let's take this creepy
little room apart.”

“I think it's
kind of pretty.”

“Anybody who
lives with this much pink has to be insane.”

They went
through drawers, searched under and behind them. The small closet held more
office supplies and a filmy robe. Again pink.

They found
nothing behind the watercolor paintings of formal gardens, not even dust.

Then Peabody
struck gold. “A disc.” Triumphant, she held it up. “It was in this swan
cushion.”

“Let's run
it.” Eve slipped it into the slot, then looked less than pleased when it
immediately engaged. “She hides it, but doesn't bother to passcode it. Oh, I
don't think so.”

It was a
diary, written in the first person, and detailing beatings, rapes, abuse.

“I heard him
come in. I thought -- he'll think I'm asleep, he'll leave me alone. I've been
so careful to do everything right today. But when I heard him coming up the
stairs, I knew he was drunk. Then I could smell it as he came to the bed.

“It's worse
when he's drunk, when he's just drunk enough.

“I kept my
eyes closed. I think I stopped breathing. I prayed he was too drunk to hurt me.
But no one listens when you pray.”

“Playing
possum, little girl.” The words, the voice, the memory snapped out at Eve
like fangs. The smell of liquor and candy, the hands pulling, bruising.

“I begged him
to stop, but it was already too late. His hands were on my throat, squeezing so
I wouldn't scream, and he was pushing himself into me, hurting me, his breath
hot on my face.”

“Don't.
Please, don't.” It hadn't done Eve
any good to beg. Hands on her throat, yes. Squeezing until red dots danced in
front of her eyes, and the burning, tearing pain of another rape. With that sick-sweet
breath on her face.

“Lieutenant.
Dallas.” Peabody took her arm and shook. “You okay? You're really pale.”

“I'm all
right.” Damn it, goddamn it. She needed air. “It's a plant,” she managed. “She
knew someone would find it during the investigation. Scan through to the end,
Peabody. She wants us to finish it.”

Eve walked to
the window, unlocked it, threw it open. She leaned out, had to lean out and
breathe. The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits
of ice.

She wouldn't
go back there, she promised herself. Couldn't afford to go back there. She
would stay in the now. In control.

“She talks
about Zeke,” Peabody called out. “It goes on -- pretty flowery love language
here -- about meeting him, how she felt when she knew he was coming.”

She looked
over, relieved to see color in Eve's face again, though she suspected it was
mostly from the slap of cold wind. “She talks about going down to the workshop;
it runs with what they'd told us before. Then she's saying that she found her strength
because of him, and was leaving her husband at last. It stops with her writing
that she was packed and about to call Zeke and begin her real life.”

“She covered
her ass. If she decided not to run straight off, she'd have the disc, dated and
logged, as verification of the story. I guess she figured Testing was too big a
risk.”

“Doesn't help
us any. Everything here's just as you'd expect it to be if her story was on the
up.”

“But it's not,
so there's more. This is a front.” Eve closed the window, turned to wander the
room. “This is image -- what do you call it -- veneer. Under this we've got a
tough, determined, bloodthirsty woman who wants to be treated like a goddess.
With awe and fear. She's not pink.” Eve lifted a satin pillow, tossed it.
“She's red; rich, powerful red. She's no delicate flower. She's poison --
exotic, sensual, but poison. She wouldn't have spent any more time in this room
than it would have taken to set it up.”

Eve stopped,
waiting for her racing mind to slow. Damn chemicals, she thought. She
deliberately closed her eyes. “She'd come in here, probably sneer at all the
little trinkets. False front. Society's trappings. She hates it. Uses it. She
goes for the bold, but this is part of the stage. She's been acting for years.
This room is to show people how soft and female she is, but it isn't where she
works.”

“The rest of
the house is guest rooms, baths, living and kitchen area.” Peabody sat where
she was, watching Eve, watching her work. Watching her mind. “If she didn't
work here, then where?”

“Close.” Eve
opened her eyes, studied the little closet. “Master bedroom's on the other side
of that wall, right?”

“Yeah. Big he
and she walk-in closet takes up the facing wall.”

“All the
closets are big. Except this one. Why would she settle for this little corner
here?” She squeezed herself in, started running fingers over the wall. “Go
around the other side, into the closet. Knock on the wall. Give it three good
raps, and come back.”

While she
waited, Eve crouched, dug her mini-goggles out of her field kit.

“Why did I do
that?” Peabody asked when she came back.

“You knock
hard?”

“Yes, sir.
Rap, rap, rap. Stung my knuckles.”

“I didn't hear
a thing. There's got to be a mechanism, a control.”

“Hidden room?”
Peabody tried to angle it. “That's so iced.”

“Back up,
you're in my light. It's got to be here. Wait. Hell. Give me something to pry
with.”

“I've got
something.” Peabody dug in her bag for her Swiss Army knife, selected the slim
opener, and offered it.

“Were you a
Girl Scout?”

“All the way
to Eagle level, sir.”

Eve grunted,
slid the opener into the minute crack in the glossy ivory wall. It slipped out
twice before she got some leverage, and hissing out an oath, she shoved it
hard. The little door swung open to reveal a control panel.

“Okay, let's
bypass this sucker.” She worked for five cramped minutes, shifted her weight on
her knees, wiped sweat off her face, and started again.

“Why don't you
let me have a go at it, Dallas?”

“You don't
know any more about electronics than I do. Hell with it. Step back.” She rose,
her shoulder bumping solidly into Peabody's nose. Peabody had a minute to yelp,
check for blood, then Eve had her weapon out.

“Oh, sir, you
don't need to -- “

Eve blasted
the control lock. Circuits sizzled, chips flew, and the panel of ivory slid
smoothly apart.

“What's that
fairy tale code? Open sesame.” Eve stepped inside a small, pie-slice room, eyed
the sleek control panel, the snazzy equipment that reminded her, a bit
uncomfortably, of what Roarke had behind a locked door. “This,” Eve said, “is
where Cassandra worked.”

She ran her
fingers over controls, tried manual and verbal commands. The machines stayed
silent.

“They'll be
passcoded,” she murmured, “and unregistered, and likely have a couple of traps
laid in.”

“Should I send
for Captain Feeney?”

“No.” Eve
rubbed her cheek. “I've got an expert only minutes from this location.” She dug
out her 'link and called Roarke.

-=O=-***-=O=-

He took one
look at the fried control panel and shook his head. “You'd only to call.”

“I got in,
didn't I?”

“Yes, but
there's something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant.”

“There's
something to be said for speed. I don't mean to rush you -- “

“Then don't.”
He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. “Set up your
night flash until I can get the room controls working.”

He took a slim
penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his
teeth in a technique favored by burglars.

Eve saw
Peabody's eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them.
“Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We'll
send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert.”

“Yes, sir.”
But she craned her neck to see over Eve's shoulder. Roarke had removed his
jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous
definition in his arms. “Are you sure you don't want me to assist here?”

“Beat it.” Eve
bent to dig a light out of her field kit. “I still see your shoes,” she said
mildly. “Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders.”

Her shoes
pivoted smartly and marched away.

“Do you have
to look so sexy when you do that?” Eve demanded. “You distract my aide.”

“Just one of
life's little hurdles. Ah, I won't need that flash after all. Lights,” he
ordered and the room brightened.

“Good. See if
you can find the controls that open this paper file over here.” She turned to a
cabinet. “I'd blast it, but I might damage the data inside.”

“Try a little
patience. I'll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my
units. Locks, yes, here we are.” He keystroked and Eve heard the click.

“That was
easy.”

“The rest
won't be. Give me some quiet here.”

She pulled out
a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the
beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse
voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn't say, but it
was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.

Then she started
going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.

There were
letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter
-- the daughter he didn't call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.

They weren't
the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the
rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.

“The war must
be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the
good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our
leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my
place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will
be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is
too much his mother's son. You are mine.

“Remember
always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a
fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history.”

There were
others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He'd
molded her, one god to another, in his image.

In another
file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa's and her brother's, and
their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings,
stories on Apollo, and on her father.

There were
photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming
and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his
face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.

She'd looked
into them hundreds of times in her life.

Family
pictures, again private, of James Rowan and his daughter. The fairylike little
girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was
fierce, and her eyes were her father's.

She found all
the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.

Another
picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she
stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain's hat shading his eyes. Behind
them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.

She'd seen
that face before, she thought and dug out her magnifying goggles again to get a
better look.

“Henson,” she
murmured. “William Jenkins.” She pulled out her palm unit and requested data to
refresh her memory.

William
Jenkins Henson, date of birth August 12, 1998, Billings, Montana. Married
Jessica Deals, one child. Daughter Madia, born August 9, 2018. James Rowan's
campaign manager...

“Right. Stop.”
She rose, took a turn around the room. She remembered, she'd scanned the data
before. He'd had a daughter Clarissa's age. A daughter who hadn't been
accounted for, hadn't been mentioned since the bombing in Boston.

A female
child's body had been identified in the ruin of that Boston home. Henson's
daughter, Eve thought. Not Rowan's. And William Jenkins Henson had taken
Rowan's child as his own.

He'd finished
her training.

She sat again,
began to push through the papers looking for another letter, another photo,
another piece. She found another stack from Rowan to his daughter and began to
read.

“Eve, I'm in.
You'll want to see this.”

Taking the
letters with her, she went to Roarke. “He'd been training her since she was a
kid,” Eve told him. “Brought her up through the ranks. He called her Cassandra.
And when he died, Henson took over. I've got a photo of her and Henson taken a
good ten years after the bombing in Boston.”

“They trained
her well.” Damned if he hadn't admired her skill with the units and the codes
and mazes she'd planted within them. “I have transmissions from here to a
location in Montana. It may be to Henson. No names are used, but she's kept him
up to date on her progress.”

Eve glanced
down at the monitor. “Dear Comrade,” she read.

“I don't
understand politics,” she said after she'd read the first transmission. “What
are they trying to prove? What are they trying to be?”

“Communism,
Marxism, Socialism, Fascism.” Roarke jerked his shoulders. “Democracy,
republic, monarchy. One is the same as the other to them. It's power, it's
glory. It's revolution for the sake of it. Politics, religion, for some it
remains their own narrow and personal view.”

“Conquer and
rule?” Eve wondered.

“To feed. Have
a look. On-screen,” Roarke ordered, and the wall unit flashed on. “We have
schematics and blueprints, security codes and data. These are the Apollo
targets, starting with the Kennedy Center.”

“They kept
records,” she murmured. “Property damage and cost, number of dead. Jesus, they
list the names.”

“War records,”
Roarke said. “So many for them, so many for us. Tally the count. Without blood,
war's losing its sexuality. And here ... secondary data, split screen. This is
the data and images of Radio City. Note the red dots indicate the positioning
of the explosives.”

“Following in
daddy's footsteps.”

“I have names
and locations for members of the group.”

“Feed them to
my home unit, to Peabody. We'll start rounding up. Are all the targets listed?”

“I haven't
gone past the first two. I thought you'd want to see what we've got so far.”

“Right. Get
the data to Peabody first, then we'll go on.” She glanced down at the letter in
her hand as he started the transmission. And her blood froze.

“Jesus, the
Pentagon wasn't the next target. They had an abort between the arena and the
Pentagon. It doesn't say what it is here, just equipment problems, financial
difficulties. 'Money is a necessary evil. Line your coffers well.'“ She tossed
the letter aside. “What's after the arena? What was next on Apollo's list?”

Roarke called
it up and they both stared at the white spear on-screen. “The Washington
Monument, targeted for two days after the complex.”

She laid a
hand on his shoulder, squeezed. “They'll move tonight, tomorrow the latest.
They won't wait, they won't contact. They can't risk it. What's the target?”

He called it
up. Three images popped. “Take your choice.”

Eve yanked out
her communicator. “Peabody, get an E and B team to the Empire State Building,
another to the Twin Towers, one more to the Statue of Liberty. You and McNab
cover the Empire State, get Feeney down to the Towers. Have one of the
long-range scanners ready for me. I'm on my way home. I want everybody to move,
move fast. Riot gear and armed. Evacuation immediately, cordon off entire
sectors. No civilians within three city blocks of locations.”

She jammed the
communicator into her pocket. “How fast can that jet-copter of yours get us to
Liberty Island?”

“A lot faster
than those toys your department uses.”

“Then shoot
this data off, add your copter's computer to the spread. Let's go fire it up.”

She raced
through the door, out and down the steps. Roarke was behind the wheel of his
car and had the engine engaged before she could slam her door.

“The Statue's
your target.”

“I know it.
They'll go for the symbol. The biggest one we've got. She's female, she's
political.” He took the blocks home at a speed that had Eve pressed against the
seat. “And I'm damned if they're going to take her down.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Lieutenant!
Dallas! Sir!” Peabody scrambled out the front door as Eve leaped out of the
car.

“Go,” Eve told
Roarke. “I'm right behind you.”

“Your data's
still coming in.” Peabody slid over the frost on the lawn, grabbed her footing.
“I relayed to Central. Units are being mobilized.”

Eve took the
scanner. “Full protective gear. You scan before you go in. I'm not losing
anyone else.”

“Yes, sir. The
commander wants your destination and ETA.”

Eve whirled
around as the silky drone of the jet-copter blurred the air. She watched it
sweep out of the mini-hangar, purr. “God help me, I'm going up in that. Liberty
Island. You'll know my ETA when I do.”

She crouched
to avoid the blast of air, tossed the scanner to Roarke, then hooked a hand on
the door opening, propped a boot on the runner. She gave Roarke a brief glance.
“I hate this part.”

He grinned at
her. “Strap in, Lieutenant,” he advised as she boosted herself through the
door. “Secure the door. This won't take long.”

“I know.” She
hooked the strap across her body, braced. “That's the part I hate.”

He went into a
steep vertical lift that had her stomach flopping as she contacted Whitney.
“Sir. En route to Liberty Island. Data should be coming through to you now.”

“It is.
Mobilizing backup and E and B teams to each location. ETA to Liberty Island,
twelve minutes. Give me yours.”

“What's our
ETA, Roarke?”

They rose over
trees, buildings, engine purring. He sent her one quick look out of wickedly
blue eyes. “Three minutes.”

“But that's --
“ She managed not to scream when he punched in the jets. The purr turned to a
panther roar and the copter ripped through the sky like a pebble shot from a
sling. Eve gripped the seat with white-knuckled hands and thought, Shit,
shit, shit. But her voice was relatively controlled. “We'll be there inside
of three minutes, Commander.”

“Report in on
arrival.”

She clicked
off and struggled to breathe steadily through her teeth. “I want to get there
alive.”

“Trust me,
darling.”

He banked over
the city, adjusted course, and the copter tilted dramatically. Eve felt her
eyes roll back in her head. “We'll need to scan the site.” She picked up the
instrument, studied it. “I've never used one of these.”

Roarke reached
over, flipped a switch on the base of the scanner. It let out a mild hum.

“Jesus Christ!
Keep your hands on the controls!” she shouted at him.

“If I ever
want to blackmail you, I can threaten to tell your associates of your phobia of
heights and high rates of speed.”

“Remind me to
hurt you if we live.” She wiped a clammy hand on her thighs, then took out her
weapon. “You'll need my clinch piece. You can't go in unarmed.”

“I've got what
I need.” He sent her a grim smile as they flew out over the water.

She let that
go and called up the data on the in-dash. “Five locations, from base to crown,”
she said, studying the image. “If they follow these plans, how long would it
take you to deactivate them?”

“Depends. I
can't say until I see the devices.”

“Backup's nine
minutes behind us. If this is the target, it's going to be mostly up to you to
take the explosives down.”

“Activate
long-range sensor and screen,” he ordered. The in-dash monitor blipped on. Eve
saw lights, shadows, symbols. “That's your target. Two people, two droids, one
vehicle.”

“Have they
activated?”

“I can't read
explosives with this equipment.” He made a mental note to add that capability.
“But they're there.”

“Droids here,
and here?” She tapped a finger on the screen, indicated the black dots on the
screen.

“Guarding the
base. Ever been in the lady?”

“No.”

“Shame on
you,” he said mildly. “Museums in the base. She's on a pedestal, several
stories high. Added together, she's got to be twenty, twenty-two stories, easy.
There are elevators, but I wouldn't recommend them under the circumstances.
There'll be stairs. Narrow, winding metal. Up to the crown. Then a jag and they
follow up to the torch.”

Eve wiped a
hand over her mouth. “You don't, like, own her or anything?”

“No one owns
her.”

“Okay. Go in
low.” Gritting her teeth, she unstrapped. “I'll need you to get close to give
me a shot at taking the droids out.”

He pressed a
button under the dash. A compartment opened. In it was a long-range laser rifle
with night scope. “Try that instead.”

“Christ, you
could get five years in maximum lockup for transporting one of these.”

He only smiled
when she pulled it out, checked it for weight. “Or you could get two droids
before we land. My money's on you, Lieutenant.”

“Just keep
this thing steady.” She opened the door, gritted her teeth against the blast of
wind, then bellied down on the floor of the cockpit.

“We've got one
at three o'clock and one at nine. We'll take three o'clock first, then I'm
going to swing around. So brace yourself for it.”

“Just get me
in range,” she muttered and sighted in.

Out of the
dark, out of the delicate mist, the lady rose up. Torch held high, face serene
and somehow kind.

Lights glowed
in her, around her, charging her with brilliance, with purpose. And how many,
Eve thought, had seen that welcome, that promise, when they'd crossed an ocean
to a new world? A new life?

How many times
had she seen it herself and thought nothing more of it than that it was there?
Had always been there. And by God, she vowed, there it would stay.

She saw the
other copter first, the cargo unit cloaked in the shadows of the statue.
Through the scope it burned red through a green background.

“Coming into
range,” Roarke warned her. “Do you see it?”

“No, not --
Yeah. Yeah, I got the bastard. Little more, little more,” she murmured, then
engaged the target lock. She fired, took him clean, mid-body. She had a moment
to see the mechanical implode, a moment to register the shock of the rifle's
power sing up her arm to her shoulder, then Roarke was going into a hard turn.

“They'll have
made us now,” he told her. “So let's make it two for two. Droid's moving,
coming around to six o'clock. One of the marks inside is heading down, fast.”

“Then we'll be
faster. Come on, come on, come on.”

“He's got a
long-range himself,” Roarke said mildly as a blast of light skimmed inches from
the windscreen. “Evasive maneuvers. Take him out, Eve.”

She hooked a
boot around the base of her chair as the copter swung and danced. “I've got
him.” She fired, watched the light stream explode onto the ground as her target
swerved. “Fuck it. This time.”

She drew in
breath, held it, ignored the flash and flare of fire outside. She caught him in
the crosshairs, locked, and sheared him off neatly at the waist.

“Get this
thing on the ground!” she shouted, crawling up to grip the door. “If you get
the chance, take out their transpo.” She dropped the rifle onto her seat.
“They'll think twice about blowing up this site if they're stuck on it.”

She watched
the ground speed up toward her, began to breathe in fast pants to pump
adrenaline. “I'll keep them off you as long as I can.”

“Wait until I
land.” A spear of panic arrowed into his gut as he understood what she meant to
do. “Goddamn it, Eve, wait until I put down.”

She watched
the ground come, felt the speed slow. “Clock's ticking,” she told him and
jumped.

She kept her
knees loose, absorbing the shock. Still, she felt the bright pain careen from
her boots up her legs as she hit and rolled. She came up, weapon drawn, and ran
in a zigzag pattern for the statue's entrance.

A stream of
heat singed past her. Eve hit the ground, rolled again, and returned fire. Even
as she came up, she released the harness on her calf, pulled her clinch piece.
She hit the door with sweeping blasts from both weapons and dived through.

The return
fire came from above. Eve saw Clarissa in full combat gear, an assault laser in
her hands, two hand blasters strapped to her side.

“It's done!”
Eve called out. “It's over, Clarissa. We found your room, your data. Your
transmissions to Montana are going to lead us right to Henson and the rest.
There's a hundred cops on their way to this location.”

A huge blast
rocked the ground. Light exploded outside the door. Roarke, Eve thought with a
cold smile. He'd come through. “There goes your transpo. You can't get off the
island. Give it up.”

“We'll take it
out. We'll take it all out. There'll be nothing left but the ashes.” Clarissa
fired another round. “Just as my father planned.”

“But you won't
be there to take his place.” Eve plastered herself to the wall. Across the room
was the first device, set in a slim metal box. She could see the red lights
blinking. Time? she thought. How much time?

“It falls
apart, everything he wanted falls apart if you don't take his place.”

“I will take
his place. We are Cassandra.” She laid down a stream of heat and light as she
raced up the stairs.

Sucking in a
breath, Eve pounded after her. The heat burned her lungs, had tears streaming
from her eyes and blurring her vision.

She heard
Clarissa screaming for her husband, calling for death, for destruction. For
glory. The old metal stairs circled, circled up the body of the statue. She saw
the second device, hesitated for a heartbeat with some thought of deactivating
it herself.

And hesitating
saved herself a laser blast full in the face. The blast shrieked past her and
blew out three of the metal treads.

“He was a
great man! A god. And he was assassinated by the Fascist forces of a corrupt
government. He stood for the people. For the masses.”

“He killed the
people, killed the masses. Children, babies, old men.”

“Sacrifices of
a just war.”

“Just, my
ass.” Eve swung from cover, fired high and blind toward the shouts. She heard a
howl of rage or pain; she couldn't be sure which. She hoped it was both.

Then they were
racing up again.

She saw the
third device. Roarke had already dealt with the first, she told herself. Had
to. She could hear no sounds of fire or struggle from below. He was in the
clear, doing what needed to be done.

She took a
quick look at her wrist unit. Six minutes to backup.

Her calves
burned, her breath came short. For a moment, her vision wavered and the weapons
clutched in her hands grew weighty and awkward.

The crash was
coming on. She leaned back against the wall to catch her breath and her
bearings. Not now, not now. She could hold out against it, would hold
out against it.

Finally, she
heard movement behind her. “Roarke?”

“The first is
down.” He called up the stairs, his voice brisk and cool. “Moving on to two.
We're on timers with these. Set for eighteen hundred. Locked and loaded.”

“Okay. Okay.”
She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. It was seventeen-fifty.

She pushed
away from the wall, climbed. She didn't give the fourth device so much as a
glance. Her job was the Bransons.

She was
running on pure nerve when she reached the top. Her legs were jellied. As she
slid along the wall, she saw the dazzling view out of the observation windows.
The last device was set dead center of the lady's crown.

“Clarissa.”

“Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,”
Eve corrected, shifting slightly, trying to scan as much of the area as she
could manage. “Dying here isn't going to finish your father's work.”

“It will be a
great moment in history. The destruction of the city's most beloved symbols.
She'll crumble in his name, and the world will know.”

“How will they
know? If you're buried under tons of stone and steel, how will they know?”

“We are not
alone.”

“The rest of
your group is being searched out and picked up right now.” She looked at her
wrist unit again, felt sweat slipping down her spine. “Henson.” She tossed the
name out, hoping it would shake her quarry. “We know where he is.”

“You'll never
take him.” In fury, Clarissa fired. “He was my father's most trusted friend. He
raised me. He completed my training.”

“After your
father was killed. Your father and your brother.” Roarke was moving up, she
told herself. They'd take out the last device together. There was time. “You
weren't in the house.”

“I was with
Henson. Madia died for me. It was right that she did. We heard the explosion
from blocks away. I saw what those pigs had done.”

“So Henson
took you under. What about your mother?”

“Worthless
bitch. I wish I could have killed her myself, watched her die. I would've
enjoyed that, loved it, remembering all the times she berated me. My father
used her as a vessel, nothing more.”

“And when her
usefulness was over, he left her, and took you and your brother.”

“To teach us,
to train us. But I was his light. He knew I would be the one. Others saw me as
just a pretty little girl with a soft voice. But he knew. He knew I was a
soldier, his goddess of war. He knew, as Henson knew. As the man I chose to
marry knew.”

Branson. Eve
shook her head to clear it. Dear God, she'd forgotten about him. “He's been in
on it all along.”

“Of course. I
would never give myself to a man who wasn't worthy. I could make them think I
would -- like Zeke. What a pathetic boy, starry-eyed, gullible. He made those
last steps work. The Bransons dead, most of the money in closed accounts, me
running out of guilt and fear. B. D. and I would continue our mission from
another place, with other names. And all the wealth of this corrupt society to
back our cause.”

“But that's
over now.” She heard feet slapping the stairs beneath her. It was time to move.

“I'm not
afraid to die here.”

“Good.” Eve
dived across the opening, firing a sweeping blast. She saw the impact knock
Clarissa down, and the blood bloom on her thigh. She came in low, kicking the
weapon from Clarissa's still shuddering hand. “But I'd rather you live in a
cage for a long, long time.”

“You'll die
here, too.” Clarissa gasped for breath as Eve disarmed her.

“The hell I
will. I've got an ace in the hole.”

Roarke came
through the door. She started to grin at him, then saw the movement behind.
“Your back!” she shouted.

He pivoted,
swung out. The flash from Branson's weapon smoked his sleeve. Eve saw the line
of blood, sprang to her feet. They were already struggling, locked in close
hand-to-hand. With no way to get a clear shot, she prepared to leap.

Clarissa swung
her legs out, caught her behind the knees, and sent her sprawling. Eve was
cursing when the next blast shattered the glass. Wind poured in, and the roar
of copters, the scream of sirens.

“It's too
late!” Clarissa shrieked, and her lovely eyes were wide and wild. “Kill him, B.
D. Kill him for me while she watches.”

Roarke's hand
slipped off the weapon. Pain fired up his arm. The scent of his own blood had
his teeth bared. From somewhere behind him, he heard Eve shouting, the sound of
racing feet. But all he could see was the vicious thirst for death in Branson's
eyes.

The weapon
swung again, shot blasts into the ceiling. Debris rained down, whirled by the
wind into his face like tiny bullets. When a hand closed hard over his throat,
he saw small stars and spun his body into Branson's. The impact sent them both
over the rail and through the jagged glass.

Eve heard
screams, couldn't separate them. Hers, Clarissa's. She was halfway across the
room when she saw Roarke fall. Her heart froze, her mind went helplessly, hopelessly
blank. The lights from the incoming copters blinded her as she dashed to the
window.

Roarke. His name shrieked through her mind, but only a choked
sob pushed its way out of her throat. The dizzying height had her head reeling,
but her wavering vision could still make out the small, crumpled body on the
ground below.

She was
halfway out the window, with no idea what she would do when she saw him. Not
dead and broken on the ground, but clinging to a narrow fold of weathered
bronze with bloody hands.

“Hang on. For
God's sake, hang on.”

She started to
swing out when Clarissa rammed into her back. Her balance teetered, her breath
heaved. Almost as an afterthought, Eve spun into a back kick and planted her
boot in Clarissa's chest, a second in her face. “Stay away from me, you bitch.”

There was
wailing and sobbing behind her as Eve leaned into the teeth of the wind, braced
her midriff on the window ledge, and held out a hand to Roarke.

“Reach up.
Grab hold of me. Roarke!”

He knew he was
slipping. Blood was dripping down his arm, through his fingers. He'd faced
death before, was no stranger to the sensation of knowing this breath, this one
breath, could be the last you drew.

But he'd be
damned if it would. Not when his woman was watching him with terrified eyes,
calling to him, risking her life to save his. He set his teeth, gave his
injured arm his weight. Pain swam sickly into his head, into his gut as he
reached up to her.

And her hand
gripped his, firm and strong.

Eve rammed the
toes of her boots into the wall for purchase, and muscles screaming, held out
her other hand. “I'll pull you in. Give me your other hand. I'll pull you in.
Hurry.”

When her
fingers closed over his, slipped once as the blood slickened them, his vision
grayed. Then she was locking her hand over his wrist, hauling up. He bore down,
pulled his body up, an inch, then two. He saw the sweat run down her face, into
her eyes. Concentrated on her eyes.

Then his arm
was on the window ledge, braced there. With one last heave he was tumbling in on
top of her.

“God. Roarke.
God.”

“Time!” He
rolled free, all but fell on the last explosive. The readout showed forty-five
seconds. “Get out, Eve.” He said it coolly as he began to work.

“Get it down.”
She fought to get breath back in her body. “Get it down.”

“There won't
be time.” Battered, bloody, Clarissa dragged herself to her feet. “We die here.
All of us. Both men I loved, martyrs to the cause.”

“Fuck your
cause.” Eve yanked her communicator. “Keep this area clear. Keep it clear.
There's a hot one left. Working now.” She shut it down as shouts and orders
buzzed through. “Live or die,” she said, looking into Clarissa's eyes. “You
still lose.”

“Die,” she
said. “My way.”

Screaming her
father's name, she leaped through the window.

“Jesus
Christ.” Eve wanted to sag to her knees, but braced against the device. “Kill
this thing, will you?”

“I'm working
on it.” But his fingers were slippery, his system screaming to shut down from
loss of blood. The readout clicked down twenty-six seconds, twenty-five,
twenty-four.

“It's going to
be close.” He shut off the pain, as he'd learned to do as a child. Get through,
get by. Survive. “Start out. I'll be behind you.”

“Don't waste
your breath.” She moved to his side. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. Laid a hand
on his shoulder. Unified them. Lights from a circling copter speared through
the windows, lighted his face. Doomed angel, with a mouth of a poet, the eyes
of a warrior. She'd had a year with him, and it had changed everything.

“I love you,
Roarke.”

His answer was
a grunt, and it nearly made her smile. She took her gaze from his face, looked
down at the readout. Nine, eight, seven ...

The hand on
his shoulder tightened. She held her breath.

“Would you
mind repeating that, Lieutenant?”

She whooshed
out her breath, stared down at the readout. “You killed it.”

“With four
seconds to spare. Not bad.” He pulled her against him with his good arm. Those
wild warrior's eyes were brilliant on hers. “Kiss me, Eve.”

She let out a
whoop of laughter and ignoring the circling lights, the shouts from bull horns,
the incessant beep of her communicator, crushed his mouth with hers. “We're
alive.”

“And staying
that way.” He buried his face in her hair. “By the way, thanks for the lift.”

“Any time.” In
joy, she threw her arms around him, squeezed, then leaped back when he yelped.
“What? Oh God, your arm. Looks bad.”

“Bad enough.”
He wiped blood from his face, then hers. “But it'll hold.”

“Uh-uh.” She
tore his sleeve, frowned at the wound, and quickly bound it up. “This time I
get to drag your ass to a health center, pal.” She staggered, shaking her head
as he grabbed her.

“We'll get a
big bed. Are you hit?”

“No, crash
city.” Her mind went on float and she giggled. “I got my four to six out of the
goddamn chemicals though. I'm okay. I've just got to lie down really, really
soon.”

But she hooked
her arm around his waist, turned. Together they looked out over the water,
toward the city lights that flashed and blinked against the dark. “Some view,
huh?”

His arm came
around her. It was debatable who was holding whom upright. “Yeah, it's a
killer. Let's go home, Eve.”

“Okay.” She
pulled out her communicator as they hobbled toward the doorway. “This is
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. We're secure here.”

“Lieutenant.”
Whitney's voice came through as a mild buzzing as fatigue washed over her. Even
the echo of adrenaline had faded. “Report?”

“Ah ...” She
shook her head, but didn't quite clear it. “The explosives are down, E and B
teams can dispose. The Bransons took a leap. We'll need body removal to scrape
up what's left of them. Sir... Roarke's injured. I'm transporting him to a
health center.”

“Is his
condition serious?”

They teetered
on the stairs, shifted grips, and continued down. Eve had to swallow down a
chuckle. “Oh, we're pretty much a mess here, Commander, thanks, but we'll hold.
Do me a favor, will you?”

On the
miniscreen, Whitney's brows drew together in surprise. “Yes?”

“Will you tag
Peabody and McNab and Feeney? Tell them we're okay here. Mostly okay, anyhow.
They worry, and I'm feeling a little too flaked to triangulate our status. Oh,
and tell Peabody to go get Zeke and maybe get him drunk or something. He'll
handle what went down here better that way.”

“Excuse me?”

She swayed as
they came to the entrance level, shot Roarke a puzzled look as he shook with
laughter. “Um, sorry, Commander, I think we're running into some interference
on this channel.”

Obligingly,
Roarke took the communicator and shut it down. “There, before you ask your
superior to join the drunken revelry.”

“Jesus, I
can't believe I said that.” She stepped out into the teeth of the wind, winced
against the brilliant spin of lights from landing copters. She rubbed a hand
over her face as the teams began to leap out and race toward the statue. “Let's
get out of here before I say something else stupid.”

By the time
they dragged each other into the jet-copter, she wanted nothing more than to
curl up in a corner, any corner, and sleep for a week. Yawning, she turned her
head and looked at Roarke as he took the controls. He was bloody, torn, and
gorgeous. Through the fatigue, the worry, she grinned.

“Roarke? Nice
working with you.”

His eyes
glinted wild and blue and his grin flashed in return as the jets roared to
life. “My pleasure, Lieutenant. As always.”

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 09 Loyalty In Death v1.1

Title:

Loyalty In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective