J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 10 Witness In Death v1.1
Witness 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.]

WITNESS IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 2000

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

The play's
the thing.

-- WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE

This
reasonable moderator, and equal piece of justice, Death.

-- SIR
THOMAS BROWNE

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

CHAPTER ONE

There was
always an audience for murder.

Whether it
took its form in horror or glee, in dark humor or quiet grief, mankind's
fascination with the ultimate crime made it a ripe subject for exploration in
fact and in fiction.

At its bottom
line, murder sold tickets and had packed theaters throughout history. Romans
had pushed and shoved their way into the Coliseum to watch gladiators hack each
other to bloody bits. Or, to alleviate the boredom of the day, by catching a
matinee where a few hapless Christians were pitted against happy-to-oblige
lions for the amusement of a cheering audience.

Since the
outcome of these uneven matches was pretty much a sure bet, the crowd hadn't
packed the stands to see if maybe this time the Christians would win the day.
They wanted the results and all the blood and gore they offered.

People could
go home pleased that they'd gotten their money's worth -- and more, that they
themselves were alive and whole. Vicarious murder was a simple way of
reassuring yourself that your personal problems weren't really so bad after
all.

Human nature,
and the need for such entertainment, hadn't changed very much in a millennium or
two. Lions and Christians might have been passe, but in the last gasp of winter
in the year 2059, murder still sold strong and bumped the ratings in the media.

In a more
civilized way, of course.

Families,
wooing couples, the sophisticated, and their country cousins continued to queue
up and plunk down hard-earned credits to be entertained by the idea of
murder.

Crime and
punishment was Lieutenant Eve Dallas's business, and murder was her specialty.
But tonight she sat in a comfortable seat in a packed house and watched the
canny business of murder play out onstage.

“He did it.”

“Hmm?” Roarke
was every bit as interested in his wife's reaction to the play as he was the
play itself. She leaned forward in her chair, her arms crossed on the gleaming
rail of the owner's box. Her brandy-colored eyes scanned the stage, the
players, even as the curtain came down for intermission.

“The Vole guy.
He killed the woman. Bashed her head in for her money. Right?”

Roarke took
the time to pour them each a glass of the champagne he had chilling. He hadn't
been certain how she'd react to an evening with murder as the entertainment and
was pleased she'd gotten into the spirit. “Perhaps.”

“You don't
have to tell me. I know.” Eve took the flute glass, studied his face.

And a hell of
a face it was, she thought. It seemed to have been carved by magic into a
staggering male beauty that made a woman's glands hum a happy tune. The dark
mane of hair framed it, those long, sculpted bones; the firm, full mouth that
was curved now in the faintest of smiles as he watched her. He reached out,
ever so casually, to skim those long fingers over the ends of her hair.

And those
eyes, that brilliant, almost burning blue, could still make her heart stumble.

It was
mortifying the way the man could turn her inside out with no more than a look.

“What are you
staring at?”

“I like
looking at you.” The simple phrase, delivered with that musical hint of
Ireland, was a power all its own.

“Yeah?” She
angled her head. Relaxed by the idea of having the entire evening to do nothing
but be with him, enjoy him, she let him nibble on her knuckles. “So, you want
to fool around?”

Amused, he set
his glass down and, watching her, ran his hand up the long line of her leg to
where the slit in her narrow skirt ended at the hip.

“Pervert. Cut
it out.”

“You asked.”

“You have no
shame.” But she laughed and handed him back his glass. “Half the people in this
fancy joint of yours have their spyglasses on this box. Everybody wants a look
at Roarke.”

“They're
looking at my very nifty wife, the homicide cop who brought me down.”

She sneered at
that, as he knew she would. It gave him the opening to lean over and sink his
teeth lightly into her soft bottom lip. “Keep it up,” she warned. “We'll have
to sell tickets.”

“We're still
basically newlyweds. It's perfectly acceptable for newlyweds to neck in public
places.”

“Like you care
about what's acceptable.” She put a hand on his chest, nudged him back to a
safe distance. “So, you've packed them in tonight. I guess you figured you
would.” She turned back to look out on the audience again.

She didn't
know much about architecture or design, but the place dripped with class. She
imagined Roarke had employed the best minds and talents available to rehab the
old building into its former glory.

People
wandered in and out of the enormous, multilevel theater during the break, and
the sound of their voices rose in a low roar of humanity. Some were dressed to
kill, so to speak. Others were decked out in the casual wear of airboots and
oversized, retro flak jackets that were all the rage that winter.

With its
soaring, muraled ceilings, its miles of red carpet and acres of gilt, the
theater itself had been redone to Roarke's exacting specifications. Everything
he owned was done to his specifications -- and, Eve thought, he owned damn near
everything that could be owned in the known universe.

It was
something she still wasn't used to, something she doubted she'd ever be fully
comfortable with. But that was Roarke, and they'd taken each other for better
or worse.

In the year
since they'd met, they'd had more than their share of both.

“It's a hell
of a place you've got here, pal. I didn't get the full punch of it from the
holo-models.”

“Models only
provide the structure and elements of ambiance. A theater needs people, the
smell and sound of them, to have impact.”

“I'll take
your word for it. What made you pick this play for the opening?”

“It's a
compelling story, and, I think, has timeless themes as the best stories do.
Love, betrayal, murder, all in a layered and untidy package. And it's a stellar
cast.”

“And it all
has your stamp on it. Still, Leonard Vole's guilty.” She narrowed her eyes at
the shimmering red-and-gold drawn curtain as if she could see through it to
measure and judge. “His wife's a very cool customer, with some trick up her
sleeve. The lawyer guy's good.”

“Barrister,”
Roarke corrected. “The play takes place in London, mid-twentieth century.
Barristers plead criminal cases in that particular system.”

“Whatever. The
costumes are cool.”

“And
authentic, circa 1952. When Witness for the Prosecution came out on
film, it was a huge hit, and it's proven an enduring one. They had a stellar
cast then, too.” He had it on disc, of course. Roarke had a particular fondness
for the black-and-white films of the early -- and mid-twentieth century.

Some saw
black-and-white as simple and clear cut. He saw shadows. That, he thought, his
wife would understand very well.

“They've done
a good job casting actors who reflect the original players while maintaining
their own style,” he told her. “We'll have to watch the movie sometime, so you
can judge for yourself.”

He, too,
scanned the theater. However much he enjoyed an evening out with his wife, he
was a businessman. The play was an investment. “I think we're in for a good,
long run with this.”

“Hey, there's
Mira.” Eve leaned forward as she spotted the police psychologist, elegant as
always, in a winter-white sheath. “She's with her husband, and it looks like a
couple of other people.”

“Would you
like me to get a message down to her? We could invite them for a drink after
curtain.”

Eve opened her
mouth, then slid her gaze to Roarke's profile. “No, not tonight. I've got other
plans.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Got a
problem with that?”

“None
whatsoever.” He topped off their wine. “Now, we have a few minutes before the
next act. Why don't you tell me why you're so sure Leonard Vole is guilty.”

“Too slick not
to be. Not slick like you,” she added and made Roarke grin. “His is a -- what
do you call it -- a veneer. Your slick goes down to the bone.”

“Darling, you
flatter me.”

“Anyway, this
guy's an operator, and he does a good job with the honest, innocent act of a
hopeful, trusting man who's down on his luck. But great-looking guys with
beautiful wives don't piddle time away with older, much less attractive women
unless they have an agenda. And his goes a lot deeper than selling some goofy
kitchen tool he invented.”

She sipped her
champagne, settling back as the house-lights flickered to signal the end of
intermission. “The wife knows he did it. She's the key, not him. She's the
study. If I were investigating, she's the one I'd be looking into. Yeah, I'd
have myself a nice long talk with Christine Vole.”

“Then the
play's working for you.”

“It's pretty
clever.”

When the
curtain rose, Roarke watched Eve instead of the courtroom drama.

She was, he
thought, the most fascinating of women. A few hours before, she'd come home
with blood on her shirt. Fortunately, not her own. The case that caused it had
opened and closed almost immediately with the dead she stood for and a
confession she'd drawn out within an hour of the crime itself.

It wasn't
always that simplistic. He supposed that was the word. He'd seen her
drive herself to exhaustion, risk her life, to bring justice to the dead.

It was only
one of the myriad facets of her he admired.

Now she was
here, for him, dressed in sleek and elegant black, her only jewelry the diamond
he'd once given her, dripping like a tear between her breasts, and her wedding
ring. Her hair was short, a careless cap of dozens of shades of brown.

She watched
the play with those cool cop's eyes, dissecting, he imagined, evidence, motive,
and character, just as she would a case that landed in her lap. Her mouth was
unpainted -- she rarely remembered or thought of lip dye. Her strong face with
its take-me-on chin and its shallow cleft didn't need it.

He watched
that mouth thin and those eyes narrow and gleam as the character of Christine
Vole took the stand and betrayed the man she'd called her husband.

“She's up to
something. I told you she was up to something.”

Roarke danced
his fingers over the back of Eve's neck. “So you did.”

“She's lying,”
Eve murmured. “Not all the way. Pieces of lies. Where does the knife come into
it? So he cut himself with it. It's not a vital point. The knife's a red
herring. Not the murder weapon, which, by the way, they haven't introduced into
evidence. That's a flaw. But if he cut himself slicing bread with the knife --
and everyone agrees he did -- why do they need it?”

“He either cut
himself on purpose to explain the blood on his sleeves or by accident as he
claims.”

“Doesn't
matter. It's smoke.” Her brow furrowed. “Oh, he's good.” Her voice lowered,
vibrated with the intense dislike she'd developed for Leonard Vole. “Look at
him standing in the ... what is it?”

“The dock.”

“Yeah,
standing in the dock looking all shocked and devastated by her testimony.”

“Isn't he?”

“Something's
off. I'll figure it out.”

She liked
putting her mind to it, looking for the angles and the twists. Before her
involvement with Roarke, she'd never seen an actual live play. She'd passed
some time in front of the screen, had let her friend Mavis drag her to a couple
of holograph acts over the years. But she had to admit watching live performers
act out the scenes, deliver the lines, and make the moves took the whole
entertainment aspect to a higher level.

There was
something about sitting in the dark, looking down on the action that made you a
part of it, while separating you just enough that you didn't have a real stake
in the outcome.

It removed
responsibility, Eve thought. The foolish and wealthy widow who'd gotten her
skull bashed in wasn't looking to Lieutenant Eve Dallas to find the answers.
That made looking for those answers an interesting game.

If Roarke had
his way -- and it was rarely otherwise -- that rich widow would die six nights
a week, and during two matinees, for a very, very long time for the amusement
and entertainment of an audience of armchair detectives.

“He's not
worth it,” she muttered, drawn in by the action enough to be annoyed by the
characters. “She's sacrificing herself, performing for the jury so they look at
her as an opportunist, a user, a cold-hearted bitch. Because she loves him. And
he's not worth a damn.”

“One would
assume,” Roarke commented, “that she's just betrayed him and hung him out to
dry.”

“Uh-uh. She's
turned the case on its ear, shifted it so that she's the villain. Who's the
jury looking at now? She's the center, and he's just a sap. Damn smart
thinking, if he was worth it, but he's not. Does she figure that out?”

“Watch and
see.”

“Just tell me
if I'm right.”

He leaned
over, kissed her cheek. “No.”

“No, I'm not
right?”

“No, I'm not
telling, and if you keep talking, you'll miss the subtleties and the dialogue.”

She scowled at
him but fell silent to watch the rest of the drama unfold. She rolled her eyes
when the not guilty verdict was read. Juries, she thought. You couldn't depend
on them in fiction or in real life. A panel of twelve decent cops would have
convicted the bastard. She started to say so, then watched Christine Vole fight
her way through a crowd of spectators, who wanted her blood, into the nearly
empty courtroom.

Eve nodded,
pleased when the character confessed her lies and deceptions to Vole's
barrister. “She knew he was guilty. She knew it, and she lied to save
him. Idiot. He'll brush himself off and dump her now. You watch.”

Eve turned her
head at Roarke's laugh. “What's so funny?”

“I have a
feeling Dame Christie would have liked you.”

“Who the hell
is that? Ssh! Here he comes. Watch him gloat.”

Leonard Vole
crossed the courtroom set, flaunting his acquittal and the slinky brunette on
his arm. Another woman, Eve thought. Big surprise. She felt both
pity and frustration for Christine as she threw herself into Vole's arms, tried
to cling.

She watched
his arrogance, Christine's shock and disbelief, Sir Wilfred's anger. It was no
less, no more than she expected, however well played. And then, she came
straight up out of her chair.

“Son of a
bitch!”

“Down girl.”
Delighted, Roarke dragged Eve back into her seat while onstage, Christine Vole
plunged the knife she'd snatched from the evidence table into her husband's
black heart.

“Son of a
bitch,” Eve said again. “I didn't see it coming. She executed him.”

Yes, Roarke
thought Agatha Christie would have enjoyed his Eve. Sir Wilfred echoed those
precise words as people rushed out onstage to huddle over the body, to draw
Christine Vole away.

“Something's
wrong.” Again, Eve pushed to her feet, and now her blood was humming to a
different beat. This time she gripped the rail tight in both hands, her eyes
riveted to the stage. “Something's wrong. How do we get down there?”

“Eve, it's a
performance.”

“Somebody's
not acting.” She shoved the chair out of her way and strode out of the box just
as Roarke noted one of the kneeling extras scramble to his feet and stare at
the blood on his hand.

He caught up
with Eve, grabbed her arm. “This way. There's an elevator. It'll take us
straight down to backstage.” He keyed in a code. From somewhere, down below, a
woman began to scream.

“Is that part
of the script?” Eve demanded as they stepped into the elevator.

“No.”

“Okay.” She
dug her communicator out of her evening bag. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I
need a medivac unit. New Globe Theater, Broadway and Thirty-eighth. Condition
and injury as yet unknown.”

She tossed the
communicator back in her bag as the elevator opened onto chaos. “Get these
people back and under control. I don't want any of the cast or crew to leave
the building. Can you get me a head count?”

“I'll take
care of it.”

They
separated, with Eve shoving her way through to the stage. Someone had had the
presence of mind to drop the curtain, but behind it were a dozen people in
various stages of hysteria.

“Step back.”
She snapped out the order.

“We need a
doctor.” The cool-eyed blonde who'd played Vole's wife stood with both hands
clutched between her breasts. There was blood staining her costume, her hands.
“Oh my God. Somebody get a doctor.”

But Eve
crouched beside the man sprawled facedown on the floor and knew it was too late
for doctors. She straightened, dug out her badge. “I'm Lieutenant Dallas, New
York Police and Security. I want everyone to step back. Don't touch anything,
don't remove anything from the stage area.”

“There's been
an accident.” The actor who played Sir Wilfred had pulled off his barrister's
wig. His stage makeup ran with sweat. “A terrible accident.”

Eve looked
down at the pool of blood, the gored-to-the-hilt bread knife. “This is a crime
scene. I want you people to step back. Where the hell is security?”

She tossed out
a hand, slapped it on the shoulder of the woman she still thought of as
Christine Vole. “I said back.” When she spotted Roarke come out of the wings
with three men in uniform, she signaled.

“Get these
people offstage. I want them sequestered. You've got dressing rooms or
whatever. Get them stashed, and keep the guards on them. That goes for crew as
well.”

“He's dead?”

“That or he
wins best actor award for the century.”

“We need to
move the audience along to a safe area. Keep it controlled.”

“Go ahead and
make it happen. See if you can find out if Mira's still around. I could use
her.”

“I killed
him.” The blonde staggered back two steps, holding up her bloody hands, staring
at them. “I killed him,” she said again and fainted.

“Great.
Terrific. Roarke?”

“I'll take
care of it.”

“You.” She
jabbed a finger at one of the guards. “Start moving these people into dressing
rooms. Keep them there. You,” she ordered the second guard, “start rounding up
the crew, the techs. I want the doors secured. Nobody comes in, nobody goes
out.”

A woman began
to sob, several men began to argue in raised voices. Eve counted to five,
lifted her badge in the air, and shouted, “Now, listen up! This is a police
investigation. Anyone refusing to follow the directives will be interfering
with that investigation and will find themselves transported to the nearest
station house where they will be kept in holding. I want this stage cleared,
and cleared now!”

“Let's move.”
The brunette with the bit part as Vole's tootsie gracefully stepped over the
unconscious Christine. “A couple of you big strong men pick up our leading
lady, will you? I need a goddamn drink.” She glanced around, her eyes cool,
clear, and green. “Is that allowed, Lieutenant?”

“As long as
it's not on my crime scene.”

Satisfied, Eve
pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” Once more she crouched
beside the body. “I need a crime scene unit dispatched immediately.”

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

“Eve.” Doctor
Mira hurried across the stage. “Roarke told me ...” She trailed off, looked
down at the body. “Good lord.” She let out a long breath, shifted her gaze back
to Eve. “What can I do?”

“Right now,
you can stand by. I don't have a field kit. Peabody's on the way, and I've sent
for the crime scene team, and the ME. But until they get here, you're both the
doctor on-scene and a designated police and security official. Sorry to screw
up your evening.”

Mira shook her
head, started to kneel by the body.

“No, watch the
blood. You'll contaminate my scene and ruin your dress.”

“How did it
happen?”

“You tell me.
We all watched it. Using my acute powers of observation, I identify that knife
as the murder weapon.” Eve spread her hands. “I don't even have a damn can of
Seal-It. Where the hell is Peabody?”

Frustrated
that she couldn't begin a true examination or investigation without her tools,
she spun around and spotted Roarke. “Would you hold here for me, Dr. Mira?”

Without
waiting for an answer, Eve strode stage left. “Tell me, the bit with the knife
in the last scene. How does it work?” she asked Roarke.

“Dummy knife.
The blade retracts when it's pressed against a solid surface.”

“Not this
time,” Eve murmured. “The victim, what's his real name?”

“Richard
Draco. A very hot property. I suppose he's cooled off considerably now.”

“How well did
you know him?”

“Not well.
I've met him socially a few times, but primarily I knew his work.” Roarke
tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he studied Draco's
stunned and staring eyes. “He's a four-time Tony Award winner, garnered
excellent reviews in the films he's done. He's a top box office draw, stage and
screen, and has been so for a number of years. He has a rep,” Roarke continued,
“for being difficult, arrogant, and childish. Juggles women, enjoys a certain
amount of chemical enhancements that might not meet the police department's
code.”

“The woman who
killed him?”

“Areena
Mansfield. Brilliant actress. A rare untemperamental type, and dedicated to her
art. Very well respected in theater circles. She lives and works primarily in
London but was persuaded to relocate to New York for this role.”

“By who?”

“Partially by
me. We've known each other for a number of years. And no,” he added, dipping
his hands in his pockets again, “I've never slept with her.”

“I didn't ask
that.”

“Yes, you
did.”

“Okay, if I
did, we'll have the follow-up. Why haven't you slept with her?”

A faint smile
lifted his mouth. “Initially because she was married. Then, when she wasn't...”
He ran a fingertip along the dent in Eve's chin. “I was. My wife doesn't like
me to sleep with other women. She's very strict about it.”

“I'll make a
note of that.” She considered her options, juggled them. “You know a lot of
these people, or have impressions of them anyway. I'm going to want to talk to
you later.” She sighed. “On the record.”

“Of course. Is
it possible this was an accident?”

“Anything's
possible. I need to examine the knife, and I can't touch the fucker until
Peabody gets here. Why don't you go back there, do a pat and stroke on your
people? And keep your ears open.”

“Are you
asking me to assist in an official police investigation?”

“No, I am
not.” And despite the circumstances, her lips wanted to quiver. “I just said
keep your ears open.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “And stay out of my
way. I'm on duty.”

She turned
away as she heard the hard clop of what could only be police-issue shoes.

Peabody's were
shined to a painful gleam Eve could spot across the length of the stage. Her
winter-weight uniform coat was buttoned to the throat of a sturdy body. Her cap
sat precisely at the correct angle atop her dark, straight hair.

They crossed
the stage from opposite ends, met at the body. “Hi, Dr. Mira.” Peabody glanced
down at the body, pursed her lips. “Looks like a hell of an opening night.”

Eve held out a
hand for her field kit. “Record on, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.”
Because it was warm under the stage lights, Peabody shrugged out of her coat,
folded it, set it aside. She clipped her recorder to the collar of her uniform
jacket.

“Record on,”
she said as Eve coated her hands and evening shoes with Seal-It.

“Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve, on-scene, stage set of New Globe Theater. Also in attendance,
Peabody, Officer Delia, and Mira, Dr. Charlotte. Victim is Richard Draco, mixed
race male, late forties to early fifties.”

She tossed the
Seal-It to Peabody. “Cause of death, stabbing, single wound. Visual exam and
minimal amount of blood indicate a heart wound.”

She crouched,
and with her coated fingers picked up the knife. “Wound inflicted by what
appears to be a common kitchen knife, serrated blade approximately eight inches
in length.”

“I'll measure
and bag, Lieutenant.”

“Not yet,” Eve
murmured. She examined the knife, dug out microgoggles, examined it again from
hilt to tip. “Initial exam reveals no mechanism for retracting the blade on
impact. This is no prop knife.”

She shoved the
goggles up so they rested on the top of her head. “No prop knife, no accident.”
She passed the knife to Peabody's sealed hand. “It's homicide.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I could use
you,” Eve said to Mira while the sweepers worked over the crime scene. Draco's
body was already bagged, tagged, and on its way to the morgue.

“What can I do
for you?”

“We've got a
couple of dozen uniforms logging names and addresses of audience members.” She
didn't want to think about the man-hours, the mountains of paperwork that would
go into interviewing over two thousand witnesses. “But I want to start the
interview process on the main players before I kick them clear for the night. I
don't want anybody lawyering on me until I get a better handle on the setup.”

Right out
in the open, Eve thought as she
studied the stage, the set, the tiers after tiers of plush velvet seats that
had held a rapt audience.

Someone was
cool and cocky. And smart.

“People are
comfortable with you,” she went on. “I want Areena Mansfield comfortable.”

“I'll do what
I can.”

“Appreciate
it. Peabody, you're with me.”

Eve crossed
the stage, moved into the wings. There were uniforms scattered throughout the
backstage area. Civilians were either tucked behind closed doors or huddled in
miserable little groups.

“What do you
give our chances of keeping the media locked out of this until morning?”

Peabody
glanced over at Eve. “I'd say zero, but that's optimistic.”

“Yeah.
Officer.” Eve signaled a uniform. “I want guards posted at every entrance,
every exit.”

“Already done,
sir.”

“I want the
guards inside. Nobody leaves the building, not even a cop. Nobody comes in,
especially reporters. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A corridor
bent off the wing, narrowed. Eve scanned the door, vaguely amused by the gold
stars affixed to several of them. Name plaques were displayed as well. She
stopped by the door marked for Areena Mansfield, knocked briefly, then walked
in.

She only
lifted her eyebrows when she saw Roarke sitting on a royal blue daybed, holding
Areena's hand.

The actress
had yet to remove her stage makeup, and though tears had ravaged it, she was
still stunning. Her eyes darted to Eve and were instantly full of fear.

“Oh God. Oh my
God. Am I going to be arrested?”

“I need to ask
you some questions, Ms. Mansfield.”

“They wouldn't
let me change. They said I couldn't. His blood.” Her hands fluttered in front
of her costume, fisted. “I can't stand it.”

“I'm sorry.
Dr. Mira, would you help Miss Mansfield out of her costume? Peabody will bag
it.”

“Of course.”

“Roarke,
outside please.” Eve stepped back to the door, opened it.

“Don't worry,
Areena. The lieutenant will sort this out.” After giving Areena's hand a
comforting squeeze, he rose and walked by Eve.

“I asked you
to keep your ears open, not to cozy up with one of my suspects.”

“Trying to
keep a hysterical woman lucid isn't particularly cozy.” He blew out a breath.
“I could use a very large brandy.”

“Well, go home
and have one. I don't know how long I'll be.”

“I believe I
can find what I need here.”

“Just go
home,” she said again. “There's nothing for you to do here.”

“As I'm not
one of your suspects,” he added in a quiet voice, “and I own this theater, I
believe I can come and go as I please.”

He ran a
finger down her cheek and strolled off.

“You always
do,” she muttered, then went back into the dressing room.

It seemed to
Eve that dressing room was a lowly term for a space so large, so lush. A
long, cream-toned counter held a forest of pots, tubes, wands, bottles, all
arranged with soldierly precision. Over it all gleamed a wide triple mirror
ringed with slim white lights.

There was the
daybed, several cozy chairs, a full-sized AutoChef and friggie unit, a trim,
mini-communication system. Wardrobe hung in a long closet area, open now so
that Eve noted the costumes and street clothes were as precisely arranged as
the makeup.

On every
table, in groupings on the floor, were flowers. The over-fragranced air made
Eve think of weddings. And funerals.

“Thank you.
Thank you so much.” Areena shivered slightly as Mira helped her into a long
white robe. “I don't know how much longer I could have stood ... I'd like to
clean off my makeup.” Her hand reached for her throat. “I'd like to feel like
myself.”

“Go ahead.”
Eve made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. “This interview will be
recorded. Do you understand?”

“I don't
understand anything.” With a sigh, Areena sat on the padded stool in front of
her makeup mirror. “My mind seems numb, as if everything's happening one step
after it should be.”

“It's a very
normal reaction,” Mira assured her. “It often helps to talk about the event
that caused the shock, to go over the details of it so they can be dealt with.
Set aside.”

“Yes, I
suppose you're right.” Shifting her gaze in the mirror, she watched Eve. “You
have to ask me questions, and it has to be on the record. All right. I want to
get it done.”

“Record on,
Peabody. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Mansfield, Areena, in
subject's dressing room at the New Globe Theater. Also present are Peabody,
Officer Delia, and Dr. Charlotte Mira.”

While Areena
creamed off her stage makeup, Eve recited the revised Miranda. “Do you
understand your rights and responsibilities, Miss Mansfield?”

“Yes. It's
another part of the nightmare.” She closed her eyes, tried to envision a pure
white field, tranquil, serene. And could see only blood. “Is he really dead? Is
Richard really dead?”

“Yes.”

“I killed him.
I stabbed him.” The shudder ran from her shoulders down. “A dozen times,” she
said, opening her eyes again to meet Eve's in the center of the triple mirror.
“At least a dozen times, we rehearsed that scene. We choreographed it so
carefully, for the biggest impact. What went wrong? Why didn't the knife
retract?” The first hint of anger showed in her eyes. “How could this have happened?”

“Take me
through it. The scene. You're Christine. You've protected him, lied for him.
You've ruined yourself for him. Then, after all that, he blows you off, flaunts
another woman, a younger woman, in your face.”

“I loved him.
He was my obsession -- my lover, my husband, my child, all in one.” She lifted
her shoulders. “Above all else, Christine loved Leonard Vole. She knew what he
was, what he did. But it didn't matter. She would have died for him, so deep
and obsessive was her love.”

Calmer now,
Areena tossed the used tissues into her recycle chute, turned on the stool. Her
face was marble pale, her eyes red and swollen. And still, she radiated beauty.

“In that
moment, every woman in the audience understands her. If they haven't felt that
kind of love, in some part of themselves they wish they had. So when she
realizes that after all she's done, he can discard her so casually, when she
fully understands what he is, she grabs the knife.”

Areena lifted
a fisted hand, as if holding the hilt. “Despair? No, she is a creature of
action. She is never passive. It's an instant, an impulse, but a bone-deep one.
She plunges the knife into him, even as she embraces him. Love and hate, both
in their highest form, both inside her in that one instant.”

She stared at
the hand she'd flung out, and it began to tremble. “God. God!” In a frantic
move, she yanked open a drawer of her dressing table.

Eve was on her
feet, her hand clamped over Areena's wrist in a flash.

“I -- it -- a
cigarette,” she managed. “I know I'm not supposed to smoke in the building, but
I want a cigarette.” She pushed at Eve's hand. “I want a damn cigarette.”

Eve glanced in
the drawer, saw the pricey ten-pack of herbals. “We're on the record. You'll
get an automatic fine.” But she stepped back.

“My nerves.”
She fumbled with the lighter until Mira stepped over, gently pried it from her
fingers, and flicked it on. “Thanks. Okay.” Areena took a deep drag, blew it
out slowly. “I'm sorry. I'm not usually so ... fragile. The theater smashes the
fragile to bits, and quickly.”

“You're doing
very well.” Mira kept her voice low, calm. “Talking it through with Lieutenant
Dallas will help.”

“I don't know
what to say.” Areena stared back at Mira with the trust Eve had wanted to see
radiating in her eyes. “It just happened.”

“When you
picked up the knife,” Eve interrupted, “did you notice anything different?”

“Different?”
Areena blinked as she focused on Eve again. “No. It was exactly where it was
supposed to be, hilt toward me to make the movement fast and smooth. I swept it
up, to give the audience that one shocked instant to see the blade. The
lighting's designed to catch it, to glint off the edges. Then I charged. It's
only two steps from the table to Richard. I take his right arm, between the
elbow and the shoulder, with my left hand, holding him, draw back with the
right, then ... the impact,” she said after another long drag, “of the prop
knife against his chest releases the pack of stage blood. We hold there for an
instant, just two beats, intimately, before the others onstage rush forward to
pull me away.”

“What was your
relationship with Richard Draco?”

“What?”
Areena's eyes had glazed.

“Your
relationship with Draco. Tell me about it.”

“With
Richard?” Areena pressed her lips together, her hand running up between her
breasts to massage the base of her throat as if words were stuck there, like
burrs. “We've known each other several years, worked with each other before --
and well -- most recently in a London production of Twice Owned.”

“And
personally?”

There was a
hesitation, less than a half beat, but Eve noticed and filed it away.

“We were
friendly enough,” Areena told her. “As I said, we've known each other for
years. The media in London played up a romance between us during that last
work. The play was a romance. We enjoyed the benefit of the interest. It sold
tickets. I was married at the time, but that didn't discourage the public from
seeing us as a couple. We were amused by it.”

“But never
acted on it.”

“I was
married, and smart enough, Lieutenant, to know Richard wasn't the kind of man
to throw out a marriage for.”

“Because?”

“He's a fine
actor. Was,” she corrected, swallowed hard before she drew one last time on her
cigarette. “He wasn't a particularly fine human being. Oh, that sounds vicious,
horrible.” Her hand lifted to her throat again, fingers restless against flesh.
“I feel vicious and horrible saying it, but I -- I want to be as honest as I
can. I'm afraid. I'm terrified you'll think that I meant this to happen.”

“At the
moment, I don't think anything. I want you to tell me about Richard Draco.”

“All right.
All right.” She drew in a breath, sucked on the cigarette as if it were a
straw. “Others will say it in any case. Richard was very self-interested and
egocentric, as many ... most of us are in this business. I didn't hold it
against him. And I jumped at the chance to work with him in this play.”

“Are you aware
of anyone else who, believing him not a particularly fine human being, might
have held that against him?”

“I imagine
Richard insulted or offended everyone attached to this production at one time
or another.” She pressed a fingertip to the inside corner of her eye, as if to
relieve some pressure. “Certainly there were bruised feelings, complaints,
mutters, and grudges. That's theater.”

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

The theater,
as far as Eve was concerned, was a screwy business. People wept copiously, gave
rambling monologues when any half-wit lawyer would have advised them to say
yes, no, and shut the hell up. They expounded, they expanded, and a great many
of them managed to turn the death of an associate into a drama where they
themselves held a starring role. “Ninety percent bullshit, Peabody.”

“I guess.” Peabody
crossed the backstage area, trying to look everywhere at once. “But it's kind
of cool. All those lights, and the holoboard, and there're some really mag
costumes if you're into antique. Don't you think it'd be amazing to be standing
out front and having all those people watching you?”

“Creepy. We're
going to have to let some of these people go before they start whining about
their civil rights.”

“I hate when
that happens.”

Eve smirked,
scanned her memo pad. “So far, we're getting an interesting picture of the
victim. Nobody really wants to say so, but he was well disliked. Even when they
don't want to say so, they do anyway, while they dab tears from their eyes. I'm
going to look around back here. Go ahead and have the uniforms cut these people
loose. Make sure we have all pertinent data on them, that they're issued the
standard warning. Set up interviews for tomorrow.”

“At Central or
in the field?”

“Let's keep it
light and go to them. For now. After you've set them up, you're relieved. Meet
me at Central at oh eight hundred.”

Peabody
shifted her feet. “Are you going home?”

“Eventually.”

“I can hang
until you do.”

“No point in
it. We'll do better with a fresh start tomorrow. Just scramble the interviews
in. I want to talk to as many people as possible as soon as possible. And I
want a follow-up with Areena Mansfield.”

“Yes, sir.
Great dress,” she added as she tucked her memo log away. “You're going to have
to get the blood and sweeper gunk off the skirt before it sets in.”

Eve looked
down, scowled at the elegant black column. “Damn it. I hate not being dressed
for the job.” She turned, strode deeper backstage, where a uniform stood by a
huge, locked cabinet.

“Key.” She
held out a hand while the uniform took out a key in an evidence bag. “Anybody
try to get in this thing?”

“The prop
master came back -- old guy, pretty shaky. But he didn't give me any hassle.”

“Fine. Go out
front and tell the sweepers they'll be cleared to run this area in about ten
minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alone, Eve
unlocked the cabinet and pulled the double doors open. She frowned, noting the
box of cigars, the old-fashioned telephone, and a few other items neatly
arranged in an area marked Sir Wilfred's Office.

Another
section held props that had been used in the bar scene. The courtroom section
was empty. Apparently, the prop master was very careful about replacing and
arranging his props, and did so directly after the scene where they were needed
was wrapped.

Someone that
meticulous wouldn't have mistaken a kitchen knife for a dummy.

“Lieutenant
Dallas?”

Eve glanced
back and saw the young brunette from the last act moving from the shadows of
the wings into the lights of backstage. She'd changed from her costume and wore
a simple black jumpsuit. Her hair had been combed out of its tight waves and
fell straight and richly brown down the center of her back.

“I hope I'm
not disturbing your work.” She had the faintest accent, soft and southern, and
an easy smile on her face as she walked closer. “I was hoping to have a word
with you. Your aide told me I was free to go, for the moment.”

“That's
right.” Eve cast her mind back over the program she'd scanned after the murder.
“Miss Landsdowne.”

“Carly Landsdowne,
Diane in this tragic production.” She shifted her large blue eyes to the
cabinet. “I hope you don't think Pete had anything to do with what happened to
Richard. Old Pete wouldn't hurt a fly if it was buzzing in his ear.”

“Pete would be
the property master?”

“Yes. And as
harmless as they come. That can't be said for everyone in this little circus.”

“Obviously. Is
there something specific you want?”

“Only to say
what I doubt most of the others will, at least initially. Everyone hated
Richard.”

“Including
you?

“Oh,
absolutely.” She said it with a brilliant smile. “He'd step on your lines every
chance he got, cut off your mark, anything that would draw the attention onto
him and off anyone else. Offstage, he was a vicious little worm. His world
revolved around one thing, his own ego.”

She gave a
delicate shrug. “You'll hear it from someone eventually, so I thought it would
be best if you heard it from me. We were lovers for a brief period. It ended a
couple of weeks ago, in a nasty little scene. Richard was fond of nasty little
scenes and staged this one for the biggest impact. During our first full dress
rehearsal.”

“I take it he
broke things off.”

“He did.” She
said it carelessly, but the gleam in those green eyes told Eve the resentment
still simmered. “He went out of his way to charm me, and once I was charmed, he
went out of his way to humiliate me in front of the cast and crew. This was my
first Broadway production.”

She glanced
around, and though her lips were curved, the smile was sharp as broken glass.
“I was green, Lieutenant, but I ripen fast. I won't bother to say I'm sorry
he's dead, but I will say I don't think he was worth killing.”

“Were you in
love with him?”

“I don't have
room for love at this point in my career, but I was ... dazzled. Much, I think
as my character was dazzled by Leonard Vole. I doubt there's anyone involved in
this production who didn't have some grudge against Richard. I wanted to be up
front about mine.”

“I appreciate
that. You said he humiliated you. In what way?”

“In his last
scene, the one where I come down with him into the courtroom and he confronts
Christine, he broke off my lines to her, stormed around the stage, claiming my
delivery was flat.”

Her lips
compressed, her eyes slitted. “He compared its lack of passion and style to my
performance in bed. He called me a brainless rube who was trying to trade her
lack of talent on mildly attractive looks and a good pair of breasts.”

Carly brushed
back her hair, a lazy gesture in direct contrast with the bright fury in her
eyes. “He said I was boring, and while I'd amused him for a while, if I
couldn't pretend to act in my minor capacity, he'd see I was replaced with
someone who could.”

“And this came
as a complete surprise to you?”

“He was a
snake. Snakes strike quickly, because they're cowards. I gave back a few shots,
but they weren't my best. I wasn't prepared, and I was embarrassed. Richard
stalked offstage, locked himself in his dressing room. The assistant director
went off to try to placate him, and we ran the scene again with Richard's
stand-in.”

“Who's the
stand-in?”

“Michael
Proctor. He's very good, by the way.”

“And if the
play goes back into production, would he step into the part?”

“That's a
question for the producers, I imagine. But it wouldn't surprise me, at least in
the short term.”

“I appreciate
the information, Miss Landsdowne.” And that much information, unbidden, was
always suspect.

“I've got
nothing to hide.” She moved her shoulders again and kept those big green eyes
on Eve's face. “And if I did, I imagine you'd dig it out. I've heard quite a
bit about Roarke's cop wife over the last few months. It took a certain
arrogance, don't you think, to choose a night you'd be in the audience to do
murder?”

“Arrogance is
required to take another's life. I'll be in touch, Miss Landsdowne.”

“I don't doubt
it.”

Eve waited
until the woman was nearly to the wings. “One thing.”

“Yes?”

“You don't
care much for Areena Mansfield either.”

“I don't have
strong feelings about her one way or the other.” Carly tilted her head, lifted
one eyebrow in a high arch. “Why do you ask?”

“You weren't
very sympathetic when she fainted.”

The smile came
back, bright enough to play to the back rows. “A damn graceful faint, wasn't
it? Actors, Lieutenant Dallas, you can't trust them.”

With a casual
toss of her hair, she made her exit.

“So,” Eve
murmured, “who's performing?”

“Lieutenant.”
One of the sweepers, a young, fresh-faced woman, marched up to Eve. Her baggy
protective jumpsuit made little swishing noises with each step. “Got a little toy
here I think you'll want to take a look at.”

“Well, well.”
Eve took the evidence bag, pursed her lips as she studied the knife. Through
the clear plastic she fingered the tip of the blade, felt it retract. “Where'd
you find this, ah ...” She scanned the name stitched on the breast of the dull
gray jumpsuit. “Lombowsky.”

“In a vase
full of genuine long-stemmed red roses. Nice flowers. The room was packed with
them like it was a state funeral or something. Areena Mansfield's dressing
room.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks,
Lieutenant.”

“Do you know
where Mansfield is?”

“She's in the
cast lounge. Your man's with her.”

“Peabody?”

“No, sir. Your
husband.” Lombowsky waited until Eve scowled down at the prop knife before she
dared to raise her eyebrows. It had been her first up-close look at Roarke, and
she considered him worth two big eyesful.

“Finish the
sweep, Lombowsky.”

“On it,
Lieutenant.”

Eve strode offstage
and caught Peabody coming out of a dressing room. “I've got four of the
interviews scheduled.”

“Fine. Change
of plan for tonight.” Eve held up the dummy knife. “Sweepers found this in
Mansfield's dressing room, tucked in with some roses.”

“You going to
charge her?”

“Her lawyer'd
get her bounced before I got her into Central. It's awfully damn pat, isn't it,
Peabody? She kills him in front of a packed house and stashes the prop knife in
her own dressing room. Very neat or very stupid.” Eve turned the evidence bag
over in her hands. “Let's see what she has to say about it. Where's the cast
lounge?”

“Lower level.
We can take the stairs.”

“Fine. You
know anything about actors?”

“Sure.
Free-Agers are big on all the arts. My mother did some little theater when I
was coming up, and two of my cousins are actors. Live stage work and small
screen stuff. And my great-grandmother was a performance artist in San
Francisco before she retired. Then there's my -- “

“Okay, all
right.” Shaking her head, Eve clattered down the stairs. “How did you stand all
those people crowding into your life?”

“I like
people,” Peabody said cheerfully.

“Why?”

Since it
wasn't a question that required an answer, Peabody gestured to the left as they
came to the bottom of the steps. “You like them, too. You just pretend to be
snarly.”

“I am snarly.
If and when I cut Mansfield loose, or she lawyers, I want you to stick with
her. If she goes home, settles in, call for a couple of uniforms to watch her
place. We've got enough for a surveillance clearance. I want to know where she
goes and what she does.”

“Want me to
run the background check on her now?”

“No, I'll take
care of it.”

Eve pulled
open the door to the lounge. As with anything Roarke had his fingers in, it was
far from shabby. Obviously he wanted the talent comfortable and had spared no
expense to insure it.

There were two
separate seating areas with plush sofas flanked by serving droids. The room
bent into an ell, with the short leg offering an AutoChef she assumed was fully
stocked, a clear-fronted friggie holding a variety of cold drinks, and a small,
separate table with a slick little computer setup.

Roarke sat,
cozily to Eve's mind, beside Areena in the sitting area on the right, swirling
a snifter of brandy. His gaze; that lightning-strike blue, shifted to his
wife's face, gleamed there, and reminded her of the first time she'd seen him,
face-to-face.

He hadn't been
baby-sitting a murder suspect then. He'd been one.

His lips
curved in a lazy, confident smile. “Hello, Peabody,” he said, but his eyes
remained on Eve's face.

“I have a few
more questions for you, Miss Mansfield.”

Areena blinked
up at Eve, fluttered her hands. “Oh, but I thought we were finished for the
evening. Roarke's just arranged my transportation back to my penthouse.”

“The transpo
can wait. Record on, Peabody. Do you need me to refresh you on your rights and
obligations as pertains to this investigation, Miss Mansfield?”

“I -- “ The
fluttering hand landed on her throat, rested there. “No. I just don't know what
else I can tell you.”

“Recognize
this?” Eve tossed the sealed prop knife onto the table between them.

“It looks like
...” Her hand, still restless, reached out, then fisted, drew back. “It's the
dummy knife. It's the prop that should have been on the set when ... Oh, God.
Where did you find it?”

“In your
dressing room, buried in red roses.”

“No. No.” Very
slowly, Areena shook her head from side to side. She crossed her arms over her
breasts, fingers digging into her shoulders. “That's not possible.”

If it was an
act, Eve mused, it was damn good. The eyes were glazed, the lips and fingers
trembled. “It's not only possible, it's fact. How did it get there?”

“I don't know.
I tell you, I don't know.” In a sudden spurt of energy, Areena leaped to her
feet. Her eyes weren't glazed now, but wild and wheeling. “Someone put it
there. Whoever switched the knives put it there. They want me to be blamed for
Richard. They want me to suffer for it. Wasn't it enough, God, wasn't it enough
that I killed him?”

She held out
her hand, a Lady Macbeth, staring at blood already washed away.

“Why?” Eve's
voice was cold and flat. “Why not just toss the prop away, into a corner, a
recycling bin. Why would anyone hide it in your dressing room?”

“I can't
think... who would hate me so much. And Richard...” Tears shimmered, fell
gorgeously as she turned. “Roarke. You know me. Please, help me. Tell her I
couldn't do this terrible thing.”

“Whatever the
answers are, she'll find them.” He rose, letting her come into his arms to weep
as he watched his wife over her head. “You can be sure of it. Can't she,
Lieutenant?”

“Are you her
representative?” Eve snapped back and earned a lifted brow.

“Who, other
than yourself, has access to your dressing room, Miss Mansfield?”

“I don't know.
Anyone, really, in the cast and crew. I don't keep it locked. It's
inconvenient.” With her head still resting on Roarke's shoulder, she drew
steadying breaths.

“Who sent you
the red roses? And who brought them into the room?”

“I don't know.
There were so many flowers. My dresser took the cards. She would have marked
the type on each. One of the gofers brought some of the deliveries in. People
were in and out up till thirty minutes before curtain. That's when I cut off
visitors so I could prepare myself.”

“You were back
in your dressing room after your initial scene and again for costume changes
throughout the play.”

“That's
right.” Calmer, Areena drew back from Roarke, faced Eve. “I have five costume
changes. My dresser was with me. She was in the dressing room with me each
time.”

Eve drew out
her memo. “Your dresser's name?”

“Tricia.
Tricia Beets. She'll tell you I didn't hide the prop. She'll tell you. Ask
her.”

“I'll do that.
My aide will see you back to your penthouse.”

“I can go?”

“For the
moment. I'll be in touch. Record off, Peabody. See Miss Mansfield back to her
home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Areena grabbed
the coat she'd draped over the arm of the sofa, passed it to Roarke in a way
Eve had to appreciate. So female, so smoothly confident a man would be right
there to wrap her up warm.

“I want you to
catch who did this, Lieutenant Dallas. I want that very much. And even then,
even when whoever arranged for this to happen is punished, I'll always know it
was my hand that caused it. I'll always know that.”

She reached
back, touched the back of Roarke's hand with her fingers. “Thank you, Roarke. I
couldn't have gotten through tonight without you.”

“Get some
rest, Areena.”

“I hope I
can.” Head bowed, she walked out with Peabody trailing sturdily behind.

Frowning, Eve
picked up the evidence bag, put it in her field kit. “She'd like to rectify the
fact that you didn't sleep with her.”

“Do you think
so?”

The faint
trace of amusement in his voice was just enough to put her back up. “And you
just lap that up, don't you?”

“Men are
pigs.” He stepped forward, brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Jealous,
darling Eve?”

“If I was
jealous of every woman you've had sex with, compounded by every woman who
wishes you did or would, I'd spend my life green.”

She started to
turn, shoved at his hand when he grabbed her arm. “Hands off.”

“I don't think
so.” To prove it, he took her other arm, pulled her firmly against him. The
humor was in his face and so, damn him, was a tenderness she had no defense
against. “I love you, Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He laughed,
leaned down, and bit her bottom lip gently. “You romantic fool.”

“You know your
trouble, ace?”

“Why don't you
tell me?”

“You're a
walking orgasm.” She had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen.

“I don't
believe that's entirely flattering.”

“It wasn't
meant to be.” It was very rare to sneak under that slick polish and hit a
nerve, she thought. Which was why she enjoyed it so much. “I'm going to talk to
Mansfield's dresser, see if she confirms the story. Then I'm done here for
tonight. I can start some background runs on the way home.”

He retrieved
his coat and hers, and his equilibrium. “I believe you're going to be too busy
to do background runs on the way home.”

“Doing what?”

He held her
coat up before she could take it and shrug into it herself. Rolling her eyes,
she turned, stuck her arms in the sleeves. Then let out a choked sound when he
whispered a particularly imaginative suggestion in her ear.

“You can't do
that in the back of a limo.”

“Want to bet?”

“Twenty.”

He took her
hand to lead her out. “Done.”

She lost, but
it was money well spent.

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

“If it were
done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.”

Well, it is
done, done well and done quickly. And I dare quote from the Scottish play as I
sit alone. A murderer. Or, as Christine Vole was in our clever play, am I but
an executioner?

It's
foolish of me to record my thoughts. But those thoughts are so loud, so huge,
so brilliantly colored I wonder the world can't see them bursting out of my
head. I think this speaking aloud where no one can hear might quiet them. Those
thoughts must be silenced, must be buried. This is a precarious time. I must
steel my nerve.

The risks
were weighed before the deed was done, but how was I to know, how could I have
imagined what it would be like to see him dead and bleeding center stage? So
still. He lay so still in the white wash of lights.

It's best
not to think of it.

It's time
now to think of myself. To be cautious, to be clever. To be calm. There were no
mistakes made. There must be none now. I will keep my thoughts quiet, tucked
deep inside my heart.

Though they
want to scream out in jubilation.

Richard
Draco is dead.

CHAPTER THREE

Given the
state of the equipment at her disposal at Cop Central, Eve saved herself
considerable frustration and ran her initial background checks at home. Roarke
loved his toys, and the computer and communications systems in her home office
made the junk at Central look like something out of the second millennium.

Which it very
nearly was.

Pacing her
office with her second cup of coffee, she listened while her computer listed
the official details of Areena Mansfield's life.

Areena
Mansfield, born Jane Stoops, eight November, 2018, Wichita, Kansas. Parents,
Adalaide Munch and Joseph Stoops, cohabitation union dissolved 2027. One
sibling, male, Donald Stoops, bom twelve August, 2022.

She let it run
through education data for form -- all standard stuff as far as Eve could tell
right through her enrollment in New York's Institute of Dramatic Arts at the
age of fifteen.

Got the
hell out of Kansas first chance, Eve
mused, and couldn't blame her. What did people do out there with all that wheat
and corn, anyway?

Areena's
professional credits started young. Teen model, a scatter of plays, a brief
stint in Hollywood before a return to live theater.

“Yeah, yeah,
blah blah.” Eve wandered back to her machine. “Computer, search and list any
criminal record, all arrests.”

Working. .
.

The computer
hummed with quiet efficiency. Comparing it to the useless pile of chips she was
cursed with at Central made her sneer.

“Gotta marry a
billionaire to get a decent tool these days.”

Search
complete .. .

Possession
of illegals, New Los Angeles, 2040.

“Now we're
talking.” Intrigued, Eve sat behind the desk. “Keep going.”

Plea
bargain resulted in probation with standard obligatory rehabilitation.
Obligation satisfied at Keith Richards Memorial Rehabilitation Center, New Los
Angeles.

Consumption
of illegals with secondary charges of indecent exposure, New York City, 2044.
Second rehabilitation ordered and satisfied, New Life Clinic, New York City.

No further
criminal activities noted in subject file.

“That's good
enough. What was her drug of choice?”

Working ..
. File indicates Ecstasy / Zoner combination in both counts.

“That'll get
you off, won't it?”

Please
rephrase query.

“Never mind.
Search and list cohabitation and/or marriage data.”

Working...
Formal cohabitation license issued in New Los Angeles for Areena Mansfield and
Broderic Peters from June 2048 to April 2049, union mutually dissolved.
Marriage license issued in London, England, for Areena Mansfield and Lawrence
Baristol September 2053. Divorce petitioned, Mansfield v. Baristol January
2057, unopposed and granted. No children resulted from marriage or cohabitation
unions.

“Okay. Search
and list any professional credits in productions that involved Richard Draco.”

Working . .
. Off-Broadway production of drama Broken
Wings, from May through October 2038. Subject and Draco, Richard, in
secondary roles through run of play. Small-screen video production, Die for
Love, starring subject and Draco, Richard, taped New Los Angeles, 2040.
Video production, New York, Check Mate, starring subject and Draco,
February 2044. London Arts production of drama, Twice Owned, starring
subject and Draco, Richard, from February 2054 through June of that year.

“Interesting
timing,” Eve murmured, reaching over idly to scratch the ears of the plump cat
that leaped onto her desk. As Galahad made himself comfortable directly in
front of the computer screen, Eve watched Roarke stroll in through the door
connecting their personal offices.

“You didn't
mention Areena had an illegals habit.”

“Had being the operative word. Is it relevant?”

“Everything's
relevant. Are you sure her affection for illegals is past tense?”

“To my
knowledge, she's been clean more than a dozen years.” When he sat on the edge
of the desk, Galahad slithered over to bump his head against Roarke's
long-fingered hand. “Don't you believe in rehabilitation, Lieutenant?”

“I married
you, didn't I?”

Because it
made him grin, she angled her head. “You also didn't mention that she and Draco
were in some productions together over the years.”

“You didn't
ask.”

“The timing of
two of their acting connections coincide down the line with her illegals
convictions.”

“Ah. Hmmm.”
Roarke sent Galahad into feline ecstasy with one slim finger over fur.

“How tight
were they, Roarke?”

“They may have
been involved. Gossip ran that way during their last project together in
London. I didn't meet Areena until a few years ago when she was married and
living in London. And I never saw her and Richard together until we were
casting this play.” He lifted a shoulder, helped himself to what was left of
Eve's coffee.

“When I do my
run on the victim, am I going to find illegals charges?”

“Probably. If
Areena was still using, she was discreet and professional. No missed
rehearsals, no temperamental scenes. I wouldn't use the term discreet in
the same sentence with Draco, but he did his job. And if they were involved in
a romantic or sexual fashion, they kept it behind locked doors.”

“Nobody's ever
discreet enough. If they were banging each other, someone knew. And if they
were rolling around sweaty together or popping illegals, it adds some angles.”

“Do you want
me to find out?”

She got to her
feet, leaned forward until her nose bumped his. “No. Now, if there's any part
of that you didn't understand, let me repeat. No. Got it?”

“I believe I
do. I have a meeting in San Francisco in a few hours. Summerset knows how to
reach me if you need to.”

Her scowl at
the mention of Roarke's tight-assed aide de camp was instant and heartfelt. “I
won't need to.”

“I should be
home before nine.” He rose, sliding his hands up the sides of her body, then
down again to her hips. “I'll call if I'll be any later.”

She understood
he was reassuring her she wouldn't be alone at night -- alone where the
nightmares chased her. “You don't have to worry about me.”

“I like to.”

He bent his
head to give her a light kiss, but she changed the tone, the texture, by
pulling him close, her mouth hot and greedy. Her hands were fisted in his hair,
and her blood was up before she released him.

There was
satisfaction in seeing his eyes had darkened and his breath quickened. “Well.
What was that for?”

“I like to,”
she said and picked up her empty coffee cup. “See you.” She gave him a smile
over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen for a refill.

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

Eve screened
her calls on her home unit, her palm unit, her vehicle, and her equipment in
her office at Central. If her math held, she'd received twenty-three calls from
reporters, which ran the gamut from charm, pleas, vague threats, and minor
bribes, since midnight. Six of them, at varying locations and with increasing
levels of frustration and urgency, were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

They might
have been friends, which never failed to surprise Eve, but for both of them
business was business. Nadine wanted an exclusive one-on-one with the primary
investigator in the death of Richard Draco. Eve just wanted his killer.

She dumped
each and every one of the calls from the media, signaled Peabody to stand by,
and played the terse message from her commanding officer.

That one was
simple enough. His office. Now.

It was still
shy of eight A.M.

Commander
Whitney didn't keep her waiting. His aide gestured Eve straight into his office
where Whitney sat behind his desk, juggling his own communications.

His big hands
tapped the surface of his desk impatiently, one lifting to jab a finger at a
chair as she entered. He continued to man his tele-link, his broad, dark face
betraying nothing, his voice calm and brisk.

“We'll brief
the press at two. No, sir, it cannot be done any sooner. I'm well aware Richard
Draco was a prominent celebrity and the media is demanding details. We'll
accommodate them at two. The primary will be prepared. Her report is on my
desk,” he said, lifting a brow at Eve.

She rose
quickly, set a disc at his fingertips.

“I'll contact
you as soon as I've analyzed the situation.” For the first time since Eve
entered, irritation rippled over Whitney's face. “Mayor Bianci, whether or not
Draco was a luminary of the arts, he's dead. I have a homicide, and the
investigation will be pursued with all energy and dispatch. That is correct.
Two o'clock,” he repeated, then ended the transmission and pulled off his
privacy headphones.

“Politics.” It
was all he said.

He leaned
back, rubbed at a line of tension at the base of his neck. “I read the prelim
report you filed last night. We have a situation.”

“Yes, sir. The
situation should be in autopsy right about now.”

His lips
stretched in what was almost a smile. “You're not much of a theater buff, are
you, Dallas?”

“I get my
quota of entertainment on the street.”

“ 'All the
world's a stage,' “ Whitney murmured. “By now you're aware that the victim was
a celebrity of considerable note. His death in such a public, and shall we say,
dramatic venue, is news. Major news. The story's already hit on and off planet.
Draco to Mansfield to Roarke to you.”

“Roarke isn't
involved.” Even as she said it, a dozen curses ran through her head.

“He owns the
theater, he was the primary backer for the play, and from the information
that's come to me already, he was personally responsible for wooing both Draco
and Mansfield into the production. Is that accurate, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.
Commander Whitney, if every crime that took place in a property Roarke owns or
has interest in was connected to him, he'd be tied to every cop and perpetrator
on planet, and half of them off.”

This time
Whitney did smile. “That's quite a thought. However.” The smile vanished. “In
this case his connection and yours is considerably more tangible. You're among
the witnesses. I prefer to look at that as an advantage in this instance. The
fact that you were on-scene and were able to contain it quickly keeps this from
being more unwieldy than it is. The media's going to be a problem.”

“Respectfully,
sir, the media is always a problem.”

He said
nothing for a moment. “I take it you've seen some of the early headlines.”

She had.
Running right after the flash of “Draco Dies for Art” had been annoying little
tidbits such as: “Murder Most Foul! Renowned actor Richard Draco was brutally
stabbed and killed last night, the murder committed under the nose of top NYPSD
homicide detective, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”

So much, she
thought, for plugging media leaks.

“At least they
didn't refer to me as Roarke's wife until the third paragraph.”

“They'll use
him and you to keep the story hot.”

She knew it.
Detested it. “I've worked under media heat before, Commander.”

“True enough.”
As his 'link beeped, he pushed its All Hold button and silenced it. “Dallas,
this isn't an ordinary murder or even an extraordinary one. It's, as my
grandchildren say, got juice, and you're part of it. You'll need to prepare
carefully for the press conference at two. Believe me, the actors involved will
play to the cameras. They won't be able to help themselves, and as they do, the
story adds layers.”

He leaned
back, tapping his thigh. “I'm also aware you're not particularly interested in
the public and media end of this. You'll have to consider that end, in this
case, part of the job. Don't grant interviews or discuss any area of the case
with any reporter prior to the press conference.”

“No, sir.”

“I want this
to move fast. I've already requested the ME put a rush on the autopsy. The
lab's on alert. We go by the book here, but turn those pages quickly. Has
Areena Mansfield requested her lawyer or representative?”

“Not as yet.”

“Interesting.”

“I don't
expect that to last long. She was shaken, but my impression is she'll want a
rep once her mind clears. Her dresser confirms she was in the dressing room
with Areena at every costume change. I don't put complete faith in her
statement. The woman worships Mansfield. Meanwhile, I'm running background
checks on all members of cast and crew. It's going to take some time. There are
a lot of players here. Interviews are starting this morning.”

“Are the
estimates of three thousand witnesses in the ballpark?”

Just thinking
about it made Eve's head throb. “I'm afraid they are, Commander. Obviously, we
couldn't hold the audience members in the theater for long. We did a
person-by-person ID for name and residence as each was released. Some
statements were taken because, basically, some people couldn't shut up. Most of
those, which I've reviewed, were disjointed and essentially useless.”

“Divvy up the
audience witnesses in the squad. I'll pull in some detectives from other areas.
Let's run some eliminations to get those numbers down.”

“I'll start
that today, Commander.”

“Delegate it,”
he ordered. “You can't be spared for drone work. Tag Feeney for the backgrounds
on cast and theater personnel. I want this to close. He's to prioritize the
backgrounds over his current caseload.”

He'll moan
over that one, Eve thought, but she
was pleased to be able to pass that part of the load over to the e-detective.
“I'll communicate that to him, Commander, and send him the list.”

“Copies to my
attention. After the press conference, I'll need you to clear any and all media
interviews with me before confirmation. Dallas, you can expect to see yourself
and your husband on-screen, in print, and blasted out of the goddamn tourist
trams until this matter is satisfactorily closed. If you require a larger team,
let me know.”

“I'll start
with what I have. Thank you, Commander.”

“Be here, this
office, at thirteen-thirty, for pre-media briefing.”

It was
dismissal, and acknowledging it, Eve headed out of the office and down the
glide. Before she reached her level, she pulled out her communicator and
contacted Feeney in the Electronic Detective Division.

“Hey, Dallas.
Heard you caught a hell of a show last night.”

“The reviews
were a killer. Okay, got that out of my system. I've got direct orders from the
commander. I'll be shooting you a full list of cast and crew from the play, and
additional theater personnel. I need full backgrounds, with correlation runs.
Any and all connections of any and all individuals with Richard Draco and/or
Areena Mansfield.”

“Love to lend
a hand, Dallas, but I'm up to my nostrils here.”

“Direct from
the commander,” she repeated. “He tagged you, pal, not me.”

“Well, hell.”
Feeney's already hangdog face filled the screen with sorrow. She watched him
drag a hand through his wiry rust-colored hair. “How many backgrounds we
talking?”

“Including
non-speaking roles, walk-on, tech and talent crew, concessions, maintenance,
and so on? Four hundred, give or take.”

“Jesus,
Dallas.”

“I've done
Mansfield, but you could go deeper.” Instead of sympathy, she felt amusement
that lightened her step as she passed through the bullpen and gave Peabody the
come-ahead sign. “Whitney wants it prioritized and rushed. Media conference at
fourteen hundred. I need all I can get by then. You're authorized to put as
many hands on the team as you need.”

“Isn't that
just dandy?”

“Works for me.
I'll be in the field. Peabody'll get you the list ASAP. Look for sex, Feeney.”

“You get to be
my age, you slow down on that some.”

“Ha ha. Sex
and illegals. I've got a tie already. Let's see if it spreads out any. I'll be
in touch.”

She pocketed
her communicator, leading the way down to the lower level where her vehicle was
parked. “Shoot the witness and suspect lists to Feeney. We're dumping
backgrounds on EDD.”

“Good for us.”
Peabody drew out her palm unit and began the transfer. “So ... is he using
McNab?”

“I didn't
ask.” Eve slid her gaze toward Peabody, then shook her head and coded open the
locks on her vehicle.

“You want to
know, don't you?”

Eve strapped
in, started the car. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“About me and
McNab.”

“As far as I'm
concerned, there is no you and McNab. It does not exist in my world. My aide is
not having some weird-ass sexual fling with the fashion plate from EDD.”

“It is weird,”
Peabody admitted, then let out a long sigh.

“We're not
talking about it. Give me the first address.”

“Kenneth
Stiles, aka Sir Wilfred, 828 Park Avenue. And it's really good sex.”

“Peabody.”

“You were
wondering.”

“I was not.”
But she winced as a distressingly clear image of Peabody and McNab popped
gleefully into her head. “Keep your mind on the job.”

“I have lots
of compartments in my mind.” With a happy sigh, Peabody settled back. “Room for
everything.”

“Then make
room for Kenneth Stiles and give me a rundown.”

“Yes, sir.”
Obediently, Peabody took out her PPC. “Stiles, Kenneth, age fifty-six, a rare
New York City native. Born and bred in midtown. Parents were entertainers. No
criminal record. Educated by private tutor through secondary level with
additional classes in drama, stage design, costuming, and elocution.”

“Whoopee. So
we've got a serious thespian on our hands.”

“First
performance at age two. Guy's won a pot load of awards. Always live stage. No
video. An artist, is my guess. Probably temperamental and emotional.”

“Won't this be
fun. Has he worked with Draco before?”

“Several
times. A couple of times with Mansfield. Last time in London. He's unmarried at
the moment. Had two spouses and one formal cohabitation partner. All female.”

Eve scanned
for a parking place, rejected the idea, and pulled up to the front of the
post-Urban War building on Park. Before she'd climbed out, the uniformed
doorman was at her side.

“I'm sorry,
madam, this is a non-parking zone.”

“And this is a
badge.” She held up her shield. “Kenneth Stiles?”

“Mr. Stiles
occupies the apartment on the fiftieth floor. Five thousand. The deskman will
clear you. Madam -- “

“Does this say
madam?” Eve asked and waited for the doorman's eyes to skim down, read her
badge.

“I beg your
pardon, Lieutenant, might I arrange to have your vehicle garaged during your
visit? A valet will return it when you're ready to leave.”

“That's a nice
offer, but if I gave you the ignition code, I'd have to arrest myself. It stays
right here.”

Eve kept her
badge out and walked into the building, leaving the doorman staring sadly at
her pea-green police issue.

It was hard to
blame him. The lobby area was lush and elegant, with gleaming brass and
spearing white flowers. Huge squares of polished black tiles covered the floor.
Behind a long white counter, a tall, slim woman sat gracefully on a stool and
beamed welcoming smiles.

“Good morning.
How may I direct you?”

“Kenneth
Stiles.” Eve laid her badge on the counter beside a brass pot teeming with flowers.

“Is Mr. Stiles
expecting you, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“He'd better
be.”

“Just one
moment please.” She swiveled to a 'link, her smile never dimming, her voice
maintaining that same smooth and pleasant tone of an expensive and
well-programmed droid. “Good morning, Mr. Stiles. I have a Lieutenant Dallas
and companion at the lobby desk. May I clear them?” She waited a beat. “Thank
you. Have a lovely day.”

Turning from
the 'link, she gestured toward the east bank of elevators. “The far right car
is cleared for you, Lieutenant. Enjoy your day.”

“You bet. I
used to wonder why Roarke didn't use more droids,” she said to Peabody as they
crossed the black tiles. “Then I run into one like that, and I understand. That
much politeness is just fucking creepy.”

The ride up to
the fiftieth floor was rapid enough to have Eve's stomach jump and her ears
pop. She'd never understand why people equated height with luxury.

Another droid
was waiting for them when the doors slid open. One of Stiles's serving units,
Eve concluded, done up in such stark and formal attire he made the dreaded
Summerset look like a sidewalk sleeper. His steel gray hair was slicked back
and matched with a heavy mustache that dominated his thin, bony face. The black
of his slacks and long jacket was offset with snow-white gloves.

He bowed, then
spoke in a fruity voice with a rolling English accent. “Lieutenant Dallas and
Officer, Mr. Stiles is expecting you. This way, please.”

He led them
down the hall to double doors that opened into the corner apartment. The first
thing Eve saw when she entered was the sweeping window wall that opened onto
New York's bustling sky traffic. She wished Stiles had drawn the privacy
screen.

The room
itself was wild with color, rubies and emeralds and sapphires tangled together
in the pattern on the wide U-shaped conversation pit. Centered in it was a
white marble pool where fat goldfish swam in bored circles among lily pads.

A strong scent
of citrus spread out from the tidy forest of dwarf orange and lemon trees,
heavy with fruit. The floor was a violent geometric pattern of color that on
closer look shifted into an erotic orgy of naked bodies in inventive forms of
copulation.

Eve strode
across blue breasts and green cocks to where Stiles lounged -- posed, she
thought -- in a saffron ankle-duster.

“Some place.”

He smiled, a
surprisingly sweet expression on his craggy face. “Why live without drama? May
I offer you anything before we begin, Lieutenant?”

“No, thanks.”

“That will be
all, Walter.” He dismissed the droid with a wave of his hand, then gestured Eve
to sit. “I realize this is routine for you, Lieutenant Dallas, but it's new
and, I confess, exciting territory to me.”

“Having an
associate murdered in front of you is exciting?”

“After the
initial shock, yes. It's human nature to find murder exciting and fascinating,
don't you think? Else why does it play so well through the ages?” His eyes were
deep, dark brown, and very shrewd.

“I could have
taken any number of tacks with this interview. I'm a very skilled actor. I
could be prostrate, nervous, frightened, confused, sorrowful. I chose honesty.”

She thought of
Carly Landsdowne. “It seems to be going around. Record on, Peabody,” she said,
and sat.

And sank into
the clouds of cushions. Biting off an oath, Eve shoved herself up, sat on the
edge of the couch. Balanced, she read off the pertinent data and issued the
standard warning.

“Do you
understand your rights and obligations in this matter, Mr. Stiles?”

“I do indeed.”
That sweet smile spread over his face again. “Might I say you read your lines
with authority and panache, Lieutenant.”

“Gee, thanks.
Now, what was your relationship with Richard Draco?”

“Professional
associates. Over the years, we worked together from time to time, most recently
in the play that had its unusual opening night yesterday.”

Oh yeah, Eve thought. He's enjoying this. Milking this. “And
your personal relationship?”

“I don't know as
we had one, in the way I assume you mean. Actors often...” He made a vague
gesture with his hand and set the multicolored stone cuff bracelet on his wrist
to winking cheerfully. “Gravitate toward each other, you might say: 'Like
minds, like egos.' We marry each other with a kind of distressing regularity.
It rarely lasts, as do the temporary friendships and other intimacies between
players on the same stage.”

“Still, you
knew him for a number of years.”

“Knew him,
certainly, but we were never chums, let's say. In point of fact...” He paused
again, his eyes glittering as happily as his bracelet. “I despised him. Loathed
him. Found him a particularly vile form of life.”

“For any
particular reason?”

“For any
number of very particular reasons.” Stiles leaned forward, as if imparting
confidences. “He was selfish, egocentric, rude, arrogant. All of those traits I
could forgive, even appreciate as we who act require a certain sheen of vanity
to do what we do. But under Richard's sheen was a sheer nastiness of spirit. He
was a user, Lieutenant, one who not so quietly rejoiced at crushing hearts and
souls. I'm not the least bit sorry he's dead, though I regret the method of his
oh-so-timely demise.”

“Why?”

“The play was
brilliant, and my part one I relished. This incident will postpone if not
cancel the rest of the run. It's very inconvenient.”

“It's going to
get a lot of publicity. That won't hurt you.”

Stiles ran a
fingertip down his chin. “Naturally not.”

“And when the
play resumes, it'll pack the house, night after night.”

“There is
that.”

“So his death,
in so dramatic and public a way is, on some levels, an advantage.”

“Clever,” he
murmured, eyeing her more closely now. “That's cleverly thought out. We have a
play within a play here, Lieutenant, and you're writing it well.”

“You had
access to the prop knife. And enough time to make the switch.”

“I suppose I
did. What a thought.” He blinked several times as if processing new data. “I'm
a suspect. How entertaining! I had seen myself as a witness. Well, well. Yes, I
suppose I had opportunity, but no real motive.”

“You've
stated, on record, you hated Richard Draco.”

“Oh, my dear
Lieutenant, if I arranged the death of every person I disliked, the stage would
be littered with bodies. But the fact is, however much I detested Richard on a
personal level, I admired his talent. He was an exceptional artist, and that is
the only reason I agreed to work with him again. The world might have rid
itself of a nasty, small-minded man, but the theater has lost one of its
brightest lights.”

“And you, one
of your toughest competitors.”

Stiles's
eyebrows lifted. “No indeed. Richard and I were much different types. I don't
recall that we ever competed for the same role.”

Eve nodded. It
would be easy enough to check that data. She shifted tactics. “What's your
relationship with Areena Mansfield?”

“She's a
friend, one I admire as a woman and as an associate.” He lowered his eyes,
shook his head. “This business is very difficult for her. She's a delicate
creature under it all. I hope you'll consider that.”

His eyes,
darker now, with hints of anger in them, came back to Eve's. “Someone used her
horribly. I can tell you this, Lieutenant. If I had decided to kill Richard
Draco, I would have found a way to do so that wouldn't have involved a friend.
There were two victims on stage last night, and my heart breaks for her.”

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

“An operator,”
Eve murmured as they rode down to lobby level. “Slick, smart, and
self-satisfied. Of all the actors, he's the one with the most experience. He
knows the theater in and out.”

“If he's
really a friend of Mansfield's, would he have set it up so she killed Draco?
Planted the weapon in her dressing room?”

“Why not?” Eve
strode out of the building, flipped the doorman a sneer. “It's theatrical, and
if you wind it all around, the plant was so obvious it looks like a plant.
So...” She climbed behind the wheel, drummed her fingers on it, and frowned.
“Whoever planted it wanted us to find it, wanted us to know it was put there to
toss suspicion on Mansfield. Otherwise, it's just stupid, and whoever set the
murder up isn't. I want to know who worked backstage who wanted to be on it.
Let's see how many frustrated actors were doing tech duty on this thing.”

Eve pulled
away from the curb. “Toss that ball to Feeney,” she ordered Peabody, and used
her car 'link to contact the morgue.

Morse, the
chief medical examiner, came on-screen. His luxurious hair was slicked back to
show off a duo of gold and silver hoops in his right ear. “I was expecting you,
Dallas. You cops are damned demanding.”

“We get our
rocks off hassling dead doctors. What have you got on Draco?”

“He's most
sincerely dead.” Morse smiled thinly. “Single stab wound to the heart did the
job quickly and neatly. No other wounds or injuries. He's had some excellent
body sculpting work over the years, and a recent tummy toner. A superior
practitioner, in my opinion, as the laser marks are microscopic. His liver
shows some rehabilitation. I'd say your guy was a serious drinker and had at
least one treatment to revitalize. He did, however, have a lovely little mix of
illegals in his system at time of death. Exotica and Zing, with a soupcon of
Zeus. He chased that with a double shot of unblended scotch.”

“Hell of a
combo.”

“You bet. This
guy was a serious abuser, who continued to pay to have his body put back in
shape. This kind of cycle eventually takes its toll, but even at this rate, he
likely had another twenty good years in him.”

“Not anymore.
Thanks, Morse.”

“Any chance of
getting me seats when this play goes back on? You got the connections,” he
added with a wink.

She sighed a
little. “I'll see what I can do.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The trip from
Stiles's rarified uptown air to Alphabet City's aroma of overturned recyclers
and unwashed sidewalk sleepers was more than a matter of blocks. They left the
lofty buildings with their uniformed doormen, the pristine glide-carts and
serene air traffic for prefab, soot-scarred complexes, blatting maxibuses, and
sly-eyed street thieves.

Eve
immediately felt more at home.

Michael
Proctor lived on the fourth floor of one of the units tossed up haphazardly
after the devastation of the Urban Wars. At election time, city officials made
lofty speeches about revitalizing the area, made stirring promises to fight the
good fight against neglect, crime, and the general decay of that ailing sector
of the city.

After the
elections, the entire matter went back in the sewer to rot and ripen for
another term.

Still, people
had to live somewhere. Eve imagined a struggling actor who managed bit parts
and understudy roles couldn't afford to pay much for housing.

Eve's initial
background check revealed that Michael Proctor was currently six weeks behind
on his rent and had applied for Universal Housing Assistance.

Which meant desperation,
she mused. Most applicants to UHA became so strangled, so smothered in red tape
reeled out by the sticky fingers of bureaucrats, they stumbled off into the
night and were pitifully grateful to find a bed in one of the shelters.

She imagined
that stepping into Draco's bloody shoes would considerably up Proctor's salary.
Money was an old motive, as tried as it was true.

Eve considered
double-parking on Seventh, then, spotting a parking slot on the second level
street side, went into a fast vertical lift that had Peabody yelping, and shot
forward to squeeze in between a rusted sedan and a battered air bike.

“Nice job.”
Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.

Eve flipped on
the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to
street level. “This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco's death. He's
got a good shot at the starring role -- if only temporarily. That gives him an
ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his
record, but every criminal has to start somewhere.”

“I love your
optimistic view of humanity, sir.”

“Yeah, I'm a
people-lover all right.” She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed
his wide canvas shoulder bag. “Hey!” She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched
his shoulders and sulked. “You set up that game on this corner, I'm going to be
insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I'll pretend I didn't see your
ugly face.”

“I'm just
trying to make a living.”

“Make it two
blocks over.”

“Shit.” He
shifted his bag, then scooted off, heading west through the billowing steam
from a glide-cart.

Peabody
sniffed hopefully. “Those soy dogs smell fresh.”

“They haven't
been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold.”

“I can't. It
has a mind of its own.” Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody
followed Eve into the grimy building.

At one time
the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on the outer doors
had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough
for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color
of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful
red ink, was M. Proctor.

Eve glanced at
the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate.
She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.

Someone was
crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring
sounds of an arena football game and someone's foul cursing at a botched play.
She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.

On level three
there was classical music, something she'd heard Roarke play. Accompanying it
were rhythmic thumps.

“A dancer,”
Peabody said. “I've got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in
Denver. Somebody's doing jetes. I used to want to be one.”

“A dancer?”
Eve glanced back. Peabody's cheeks were pretty and pink from the climb.

“Yeah, well,
when I was a kid. But I don't have the build. Dancers are built more like you.
I went to the ballet with Charles a couple of weeks back. All the ballerinas
were tall and skinny. Makes me sick.”

“Hmmm.” It was
the safest response when Peabody mentioned her connection to the licensed
companion, Charles Monroe.

“I'm built
more like an opera singer. Sturdy,” Peabody added with a grimace.

“You into
opera now?”

“I've been a
few times. It's okay.” She blew out a relieved breath when they reached the
fourth floor and tried not to be irritated that Eve wasn't winded. “Charles
goes for that culture stuff.”

“Must keep you
busy, juggling him and McNab.”

Peabody
grinned. “I thought there was no me and McNab in your reality.”

“Shut up,
Peabody.” Annoyed, Eve rapped on Proctor's door. “Was that a snort?”

“No, sir.”
Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. “Absolutely not. I think my
stomach's growling.”

“Shut that up,
too.” She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and
the peephole. The building didn't run to soundproofing.

A series of
clicks and jangles followed. She counted five manual locks being disengaged
before the door opened.

The face that
poked into the crack was a study of God's generosity. Or a really good face
sculptor. Pale gold skin stretched taut and smooth over long cheekbones and a
heroic, square jaw that boasted a pinpoint dimple. The mouth was full and firm,
the nose narrow and straight, and the eyes the true green of organic emeralds.

Michael
Proctor framed this gift with a silky flow of rich brown hair worn with a few
tumbling, boyish curls. As his eyes darted from Eve to Peabody and back, he
streamed long fingers through the mass of it, slicking it back before he tried
out a hesitant smile.

“Um ...
Lieutenant Houston.”

“Dallas.”

“Right. I knew
it was somewhere in Texas.” Nerves had his voice jumping over the words, but he
stepped back, widening the opening. “I'm still pretty shaken up. I keep
thinking it's all some kind of mistake.”

“If it is,
it's a permanent one.” Eve scanned what there was of the apartment. The single
room held a ratty sleep chair Proctor hadn't bothered to make up for the day, a
skinny table that held a low-end tele-link/computer combo, a pole lamp with a
torn shade, and a three-drawer wall chest.

For some, she
supposed, acting wasn't lucrative.

“Um ... let me
get... um.” Coloring slightly, he opened the long closet, fumbled inside, and
eventually came out with a small folding chair. “Sorry. I don't do much more
than sleep here, so it's not company friendly.”

“Don't think
of us as company. Record on, Peabody. You can sit, Mr. Proctor, if you'd be
more comfortable.”

“I'm ...” His
fingers danced with each other, tips to tips. “I'm fine. I don't really know
how to do this. I never worked in any police dramas. I tend to be cast in
period pieces or romantic comedies.”

“Good thing
I've worked in a number of police dramas,” Eve said mildly. “You just answer
the questions, and we'll be fine.”

“Okay. All
right.” After glancing around the room as if he'd never seen it before, he
finally sat on the chair. Crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Smiled hopefully.

He looked, Eve
thought, like some schoolboy called down to the principal's office for a minor
infraction.

“Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Proctor, Michael, in subject's residence.
Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide.”

Watching
Proctor, she recited the revised Miranda. As he listened, he tapped his fingers
on his knees and succeeded in looking as guilty as a man with six ounces of
Zeus in each pocket.

“Do you
understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Yes, I think.
Do I need a lawyer?” He looked up at Eve like a puppy, one hoping not to be
whacked on the nose for spotting the carpet. “I've got a representative, a
theatrical rep. Maybe I should call her?”

“That's up to
you.” And would waste time and complicate matters. “You can request one at any
time during the interview. If you prefer, we can move the process down to
Central.”

“Well now.
Gosh.” He blew out a breath, glanced toward his link. “I don't guess I'll
bother her now. She's pretty busy.”

“Why don't you
start by telling me what happened last night.”

“You mean ...”
He shuddered visibly. “I was in the wings. Stage left. It was brilliant, just
brilliant. I remember thinking that if the play had a long run, I'd get a
chance to be Vole. Draco was bound to miss a performance or two along the way
...”

He trailed
off, looked stunned, then appalled. “I don't mean to say ... I never wished for
anything bad to happen to him. It was more thinking that he'd catch a cold or
something, or maybe just need a night off. Like that.”

“Sure. And
what did you see from the wings, stage left, in the last scene?”

“He was
perfect,” Proctor murmured, those deep green eyes going dreamy. “Arrogant,
careless, smooth. The way he celebrated his acquittal even as he cast Christine
off like a leftover bone. His pleasure in winning, in circumventing the system,
fooling everyone. Then the shock, the shock in his eyes, in his body, when she
turned on him with the knife. I watched, knowing I could never reach that high.
Never find so much in myself. I didn't realize, even after everyone broke
character, it didn't sink in.”

He lifted his
hands, let them fall. “I'm not sure it has yet.”

“When did you
realize that Draco wasn't acting?”

“I think -- I
think when Areena screamed. At least, I knew then that something was horribly
wrong. Then everything happened so quickly. People were running to him, and
shouting. They brought the curtain down, very fast,” he remembered. “And he was
still lying there.”

Hard to
jump up and take your bows with eight inches of steel in your heart. Eve thought. “What was your personal relationship with
Richard Draco?”

“I don't
suppose we had one.”

“You had no
personal conversations with him, no interactions?”

“Well, um...”
The fingers started dancing again. “Sure, we spoke a couple of times. I'm
afraid I irritated him.”

“In what way?”

“You see,
Lieutenant, I watch. People,” he added with another of those shaky smiles. “To
develop character types, to learn. I guess my watching him put Draco off, and
he told me to keep out of his sight or... or he'd, hmmm, he'd see to it that
the only acting job I got was in sex holograms. I apologized right away.”

“And?”

“He threw a
paperweight at me. The prop paperweight on Sir Wilfred's desk.” Proctor winced.
“He missed. I'm sure he meant to.”

“That must
have pissed you off.”

“No, not
really. I was embarrassed to have annoyed him during rehearsal. He had to take
the rest of the day off to calm down.”

“A guy
threatens your livelihood, throws a paperweight at you, and you don't get
pissed off?”

“It was
Draco.” Proctor's tone was reverent. “He's -- he was -- one of the finest
actors of the century. The pinnacle. His temperament is part -- was part -- of
making him what he was.”

“You admired
him.”

“Oh yes. I've
studied his work as long as I can remember. I have discs and recordings of
every one of his plays. When I had a chance to understudy Vole, I jumped at it.
I think it's the turning point in my career.” His eyes were shining now. “All
my life I dreamed of walking the same stage as Richard Draco, and there I was.”

“But you
wouldn't walk that stage unless something happened to him.”

“Not exactly.”
In his enthusiasm, Proctor leaned forward. The cheap chair creaked ominously.
“But I had to rehearse the same lines, the same blocking, know the same cues.
It was almost like being him. In a way. You know.”

“Now, you'll
have a shot at stepping onto his -- what do you call it -- his mark, won't
you?”

“Yes.” Proctor's
smile was brilliant, and quickly gone. “I know how awful, how selfish and cold
that must sound. I don't mean it that way.”

“You're having
some financial difficulties, Mr. Proctor.”

He flushed,
winced, tried that smile again. “Yes, ah, well... One doesn't go into the
theater for money but for love.”

“But money
comes in handy for things like eating and keeping a roof over your head. You're
behind on your rent.”

“A little.”

“The
understudy job pays enough to keep you current with your rent. You gamble, Mr. Proctor?”

“Oh, no. No, I
don't.”

“Just careless
with money?”

“I don't think
so. I invest, you see. In myself. Acting and voice lessons, body maintenance,
enhancement treatments. They don't come cheap, especially in the city. I
suppose all that seems frivolous to you, Lieutenant, but it's part of my craft.
Tools of the trade. I was considering a part-time job to help defray the
expenses.”

“No need to
consider that now, is there? With Draco out of the way.”

“I suppose
not.” He paused, considering it. “I wasn't sure how I was going to manage the
time. It'll be easier to -- “ He broke off, sucked in a breath. “I don't mean
that the way it sounds. It's just that following your line of thinking, it
takes some strain off my mind. I'm used to doing without money, Lieutenant.
Whatever else, the theater's lost one of its finest, and one of my personal
idols. But I guess I'd feel better if I said -- if I was honest and said --
that there's a part of me that's thrilled to think that I'll play Vole. Even
temporarily.”

He sighed,
long and loud, closed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I do feel better. I wish he'd just
caught a cold, though.”

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

Eve's head was
throbbing lightly as she walked back up the steps to her car. “Nobody's that
naive,” she muttered. “Nobody's that guileless.”

“He's from
Nebraska.” Peabody scanned her pocket unit.

“From where?”

“Nebraska.”
Peabody waved a hand, vaguely west. “Farm boy. Done a lot of regional theater,
some video, billboard ads, bit parts on-screen. He's only been in New York
three years.” She climbed into the car. “They still grow them pretty guileless
in Nebraska. I think it's all that soy and corn.”

“Whatever, he
stays on the short list. His fee for walking into the part of Vole is a big
step up from watching in the wings. He's living like a transient in that dump.
Money's a motivator, and so's ambition. He wanted to be Draco. What better way
than to eliminate Draco?”

“I've got this
idea.”

Eve glanced at
her wrist unit to check the time as she zipped down into traffic. Goddamn press
conference. “Which is?”

“Okay, it's
more of a theory.”

“Spill it.”

“If it's good,
can I get a soy dog?”

“Christ.
What's the theory?”

“So, they're
all actors in a play. A good actor slides into the character during the
performance. Stays there. It's all immediate, but another part of them is
distant -- gauging the performances, remembering the staging, picking up vibes
from the audience and stuff like that. My theory is whoever switched the knives
was performing.”

“Yeah,
performing murder.”

“Sure, but
this is like another level. They could be part of the play and watch it go down
without actually doing the crime. The objective's reached, and it's all still a
role. Even if it's a tech who did it, it's all part of the play. Vole's dead.
He's supposed to be. The fact that Draco's dead, too, just makes it all the
more satisfying.”

Eve mulled it
over, then pulled over at the next corner where a glide-cart smoked and sizzled.

“So it's a
good theory?”

“It's decent.
Get your soy dog.”

“You want
anything?”

“Coffee, but
not off that bug coach.”

Peabody
sighed. “Wow, that sure stirs my appetite.” But she got out, beelined through
the pedestrian traffic, and ordered the double wide soy dog and a mega tube of
Diet Coke to convince herself she was watching her weight.

“Happy now?”
Eve asked when Peabody dropped back into the passenger seat and stuffed the end
of the dog into her mouth.

“Ummm. Good.
Wanna bite?”

Peabody was
saved from a scathing response by the beep of the car 'link. Nadine Furst,
reporter for Channel 75, floated on-screen. “Dallas. I need to talk to you,
soon as you can manage.”

“Yeah, I bet.”
Eve ignored the transmission and whipped around the corner to head back to
Central. “Why she thinks I'll give her an exclusive one-on-one before a
scheduled press conference, I don't know.”

“Because
you're friends?” Peabody hazarded with her mouth full of soy dog and rehydrated
onion flakes.

“Nobody's that
friendly.”

“Dallas.” Nadine's
pretty, camera-ready face was strained, as Eve noted with mild curiosity, was
her perfectly pitched voice. “It's important, and it's ... personal. Please. If
you're screening transmissions, give me a break here. I'll meet you anywhere
you say, whenever you say.”

Cursing, Eve
engaged transmission. “The Blue Squirrel. Now.”

“Dallas -- “

“I can give
you ten minutes. Make it fast.”

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

It had been a
while since she'd swung through the doors into the Blue Squirrel. As joints
went, there were worse, but not by much. Still, the dingy club held some
sentimental attachment for Eve. At one time, her friend Mavis had performed
there, slithering, bouncing, and screaming out songs in costumes that defied
description.

And once,
during a difficult and confusing case, Eve had gone in with the sole purpose of
drinking her mind to mush.

There Roarke
had tracked her down, hauled her out before she could accomplish the mission.
That night, she'd ended up in his bed for the first time.

Sex with
Roarke, she'd discovered, did a much better job of turning the mind to mush
than a vatful of screamers.

So the
Squirrel, with its debatable menu and disinterested servers, held some fond
memories.

She slid into
a booth, considered ordering the hideous excuse for coffee for old times' sake,
then watched Nadine come in.

“Thanks.”
Nadine stood by the booth, slowly unwinding a brilliant multicolored scarf from
around her neck. Her fingers plucked at the long, dark fringe. “Peabody, would
you mind giving us a minute here?”

“No problem.”
Peabody pushed herself out of the booth, and because Nadine's eyes were
clouded, gave the reporter a quick, reassuring squeeze on the arm. “I'll just
go sit at the bar and watch the holo-games.”

“Thanks. Been
a while since we've been in here.”

“Never long
enough,” Eve commented when Nadine took her seat across the wobbly table. At a
server's approach, Eve merely took out her badge and set it in clear view on
the table. She didn't think she or Nadine were in the mood for a snack, much
less possible ptomaine. “What's the problem?”

“I'm not sure.
Maybe there isn't one.” Nadine closed her eyes, shook back her hair.

She'd added
some blonde streaky things in it, Eve noticed. She could never figure out why
people were always changing colors. All that maintenance baffled her.

“Richard
Draco,” Nadine said.

“I'm not going
to discuss the case with you.” Eve scooped up her badge with one impatient
swipe. “Press conference at fourteen hundred.”

“I slept with
him.”

Eve paused in
the act of getting out of the booth, settled back, and took a closer look at
Nadine's face. “When?”

“Not long
after I got the on-air job at 75. I wasn't doing the crime beat then. Mostly
fluff stories, social gigs, celebrity profiles. Anyway, he contacted me. Wanted
to tell me how good I was, how much he enjoyed watching my reports. Which were
pretty damn solid, considering I hated every fucking minute of it.”

She picked up
her scarf, wound it around her hand. Unwound it. Set it down again. “He asked
me to dinner. I was flattered, he was gorgeous. One thing led to another.”

“Okay. That
would have been, what, five years ago?”

“Six,
actually, six.” Nadine lifted a hand, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. It was
a gesture Eve had never seen her make before. On-air reporters didn't like
mussing their makeup.

“I said one
thing led to another,” she continued, “but it led there romantically. We didn't
just jump into bed. We dated for a couple of weeks. Quiet dinners, theater,
walks, parties. Then he asked me to go away with him for the weekend, to
Paris.”

This time
Nadine simply dropped her head in her hands. “Oh Jesus. Jesus, Dallas.”

“You fell for
him.”

“Oh yeah. I
fell for him. All the way. I mean I was gone, stupid in love with the son of a
bitch. We were together for three months, and I actually... Dallas, I was
thinking marriage, kids, the house in the country. The whole ball.”

Eve shifted in
her seat. Emotional declarations always made her feel clumsy. “So, I take it
things didn't work out.”

Nadine stared
for a moment, then let her head fall back with a long, shaky laugh. “Yeah, you
could say things didn't work out. I found out he was two-timing me. Hell,
three- and four-timing me. I caught a gossip report right before I went on air,
and there was Richard cuddled up with some big-breasted blonde at some swank
club uptown. When I confronted him about it, he just smiled and said he enjoyed
women. So what?

“So what,” she
murmured. “The fucker broke my heart and didn't have the decency to lie to me.
He even talked me back into bed. I'm ashamed of that. I let him talk me back
into bed, and when I was still wet from him, he takes a call from another
woman. Makes a date with her while I'm lying there naked.”

“How long was
he hospitalized?”

Nadine managed
a weak smile. “There's the pity. I cried. I sat there in his bed and cried like
a baby.”

“Okay, I'm
sorry. It was a raw deal. But it was six years ago.”

“I saw him the
night he was killed.”

“Oh hell,
Nadine.”

“He called
me.”

“Shut up. Just
shut up right now. Don't say another word to me. Get a lawyer.”

“Dallas.”
Nadine's hand shot out, and her fingers dug into Eve's wrist. “Please. I need
to tell you everything. Then I need you to tell me how much trouble I could be
in.”

“Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.” Eve jabbed at the menu, ordered coffee after all. “I haven't read you
your rights. I'm not going to. I can't use anything you say to me.”

“He called me.
Said he'd been thinking about me, about old times. He wondered if I'd like to
get together. I started to tell him to go to hell, but I realized, even after
all that time, I wanted some of my own back. I wanted to burn his ass in
person. So I agreed to drop by his hotel. They'll have me on the security
discs.”

“Yeah, they
will.”

“He'd ordered
up a dinner for two. The bastard remembered what we'd had on our first date.
Maybe he orders it on all his first dates. It would be just like him. May he
rot in hell.”

She blew out a
breath. “Well, I pulled out the stops myself. I'd really put myself together.
New dress. New hair. I let him pour me champagne, and we made small talk while
we drank. I knew his moves. I remembered every one of them. And when he ran his
fingertips down my cheek, gave me that long, soulful look, I threw my champagne
in his face and said everything I wish I'd said six years ago. We had a
terrible fight. Broken glass, vicious words, a couple of slaps on both sides.”

“He got
physical with you?”

“More the
other way around, I guess. I slapped him, he slapped me back. Then I punched
him in the gut. That took the air out of him. While he was wheezing, I walked
out, feeling really good.”

“Will the
security disc show you looking disheveled, emotional?”

“I don't
know.” She rubbed her fingers over her mouth again. “Maybe. I didn't think of
that. But no matter what, I'm glad I went. I'm glad I finally stood up for
myself. But then, Dallas, I made a really big mistake.”

The coffee
slid greasily through the serving slot. Eve simply pushed it toward Nadine,
waited until her friend gulped it down.

“I went to the
theater last night. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go, see him, and
feel nothing.” The coffee was barely lukewarm, but it managed to take the worst
chill out of her belly. “I did. I felt nothing. It was like a celebration to
finally have that bastard out of my system. I even, oh God, I even went
backstage -- used my press pass -- at intermission to tell him.”

“You talked to
him backstage last night?”

“No. When I
got back there, started toward his dressing room, it occurred to me that
confronting him again made him too important. It would only feed his ego. So I
left. I went out the stage door, and I took a long walk. I did some
window-shopping. I stopped off at a hotel bar and bought myself a glass of
wine. Then I went home. This morning, I heard... I panicked. Called in sick.
I've been sick all day, then I realized I had to talk to you. I had to tell
you. I don't know what to do.”

“When you went
back, you headed for the dressing rooms. Nowhere else?”

“No, I swear.”

“Did anyone
see you?”

“I don't know.
I imagine. I wasn't trying to be invisible.”

“I want to do
this formally, putting it on record that you came to me with this information.
That's the best for you. Meanwhile, I want you to get a lawyer, a good one. Do
it quietly and tell the rep everything you told me.”

“Okay.”

“Did you leave
anything out, Nadine? Anything?”

“No. That's
all. I only saw him that once in his hotel room, then again onstage. I might
have been a sap, Dallas, but I've come a long way. And I'm no coward. If I'd wanted
the son of a bitch dead, I'd have killed him myself, not pawned it off on
someone else.”

“Oh yeah.” Eve
picked up the coffee, finished it up. “I know it. Talk to the lawyer. We'll do
the interview tomorrow.” She rose, then after a slight hesitation, patted
Nadine's shoulder. “It'll be okay.”

“You know what
sucks here, Dallas? I was feeling so damn good about everything. Ever since --
you know I do the therapy thing with Mira.”

Eve shifted
her feet. “Yeah.”

“One of the
things we got down to is I haven't been open to love -- not the real thing --
since Richard. He really messed me up. Then last night, when I was in that
hotel bar, I realized that now I could be. I wanted to be. Lousy timing all
around. Thanks for listening.”

“Don't mention
it.” Eve signaled for Peabody. “Nadine, take that literally.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The calendar
claimed spring was just around the corner, but it was taking a slow walk. Eve
drove home in a thin, spitting sleet that was nearly as nasty as her mood.

Press
conferences annoyed her.

The only good
thing about it, as far as she was concerned, was that it was over. Between that
and a day spent in interviews that gave her no more than a murky picture of
people and events, she was edgy and dissatisfied.

The fact was,
she shouldn't be going home. There was more field work that could be, should be
done. But she'd cut Peabody loose, much to her aide's undisguised delight.

She'd take an
hour, she told herself. Maybe two. Do some pacing, juggle her thoughts into
some sort of order. She chugged and dodged through bad-tempered traffic and
tried to block out the irritatingly chirpy sky blimp shouting about the new
spring fashions on sale at Bloomingdale's.

She got caught
at a light, and in a stinking stream of smoke from a glide-cart currently on
fire and being sprayed with gel foam by its unhappy operator. Since the flames
seemed reasonably under control, she left him to it and tagged Feeney via her
car 'link.

“Progress?”

“Some. I got
you backgrounds and current locations, financial data, and criminal records on
cast and crew, including permanent theater personnel.”

Eve's voice
calmed. “All?”

“Yeah.” Feeney
rubbed his chin. “Well, I can't take full credit. Told you we were backed up
here. Roarke passed it on.”

Her agitation
returned. “Roarke?”

“He got in
touch early this afternoon, figured I'd be doing the search. He had all the
data anyway. Saved me some time here.”

“Always
helpful,” she muttered.

“I shot it to
your office unit.”

“Fine, great.”

Feeney kept
rubbing his chin. Eve began to suspect the gesture was to hide a grin. “I
started McNab on running patterns, probabilities, percentages. It's a long
list, so it's not going to be quick. But I figure we should have simple
eliminations by tomorrow, with a most-likely list to shuffle in with your
interview results. How's it going?”

“Slow.” She
inched her way across the intersection, spied a break in traffic, and went for
it. The chorus of horns exceeded noise pollution levels and made her smile
thinly. “We managed to make the murder weapon. Standard kitchen knife. It came
right out of the sub-level kitchen at the theater.”

“Open access?”

“To cast and
crew, not to the public. I had a uniform pick up the security discs. We'll see
what we see. Look, I'm going to run some probability scans myself, see if they
jibe with yours. I should have some profile from Mira tomorrow. Let's see if we
can whittle this down from a few thousand suspects. How far's McNab gotten?”

“He got a ways
before I sprang him for the day.”

“You let him
go?”

“He had a
date,” Feeney said and grinned.

Eve winced.
“Shut up, Feeney,” she ordered and broke transmission.

She brooded,
because it made her feel better, then shot through the gates of home. Even in
miserable weather, it was magnificent. Maybe more magnificent, she thought, in
that gloom and gray.

The sprawling
lawns were faded from winter, the naked trees shimmering with wet. Atmosphere,
she supposed Roarke would say. It was all about atmosphere, and it
showcased the glorious stone-and-glass structure with its towers, its turrets,
its sweep of terraces and balconies that he had claimed as his own.

It belonged on
a cliff somewhere, she mused, with the sea boiling and pounding below. The
city, with its crowds and noise and sneaky despair couldn't beat its way
through those tall iron gates to the oasis he'd built out of canniness,
ruthlessness, sheer will, and the driving need to bury the miseries of his
childhood.

Every time she
saw it, her mind was of two conflicting parts. One told her she didn't belong
there. The other told her she belonged nowhere else.

She left the
car at the base of the front steps, knowing Summerset would send it lumbering
into the garage on principle. The pea-green city issue offended his
sensibilities, she supposed, nearly as much as she did herself.

She jogged up
the steps in her scarred boots and walked inside to the warmth, the beauty, and
all the style money could buy and power could maintain.

Summerset was
waiting for her, his thin face dour, his mouth in a flattened line.
“Lieutenant. You surprise me. You've arrived home in a timely fashion.”

“Don't you
have anything better to do than to clock me in and out of here?” She stripped
off her jacket, tossed it on the newel post to annoy him. “You could be out
scaring small children.”

Summerset
sniffed and to annoy her, picked up her damp leather jacket with the delicate
tips of two fingers. He examined it with dark, disapproving eyes. “What? No
blood today?”

“That can
still be arranged. Roarke home yet?”

“Roarke is in
the lower-level recreation area.”

“A boy and his
toys.” She strode past him.

“You're
tracking wet on the floor.”

She glanced back,
glanced down. “Well, that'll give you something to do.”

Well satisfied
with their evening exchange, Summerset went off to dry her jacket.

She took the
steps, then wound her way through the pool house where wisps of steam danced
invitingly over water of deep, secret blue. She thought fleetingly about
stripping to the skin and diving in, but there was Roarke to deal with.

She bypassed
the gym, the dressing area, and a small greenhouse. When she opened the door of
the recreation area, the noise poured through.

It was, in
Eve's opinion, a twelve-year-old's wet dream. Though she herself had long since
ceased dreaming of toys by the age of twelve. Perhaps Roarke had, too, which
was why, she supposed, he indulged himself now.

There were two
pool tables, three multi-person VR tubes, a variety of screens designed for
transmissions or games, a small holodeck, and a forest of brightly colored,
noisy game stations.

Roarke stood
at one, long legs comfortably spread, elegant hands on either side of a long,
waist-height box with a glass top. His fingers were tapping rhythmically on
what seemed to be large buttons. The top of the box was a riot of lights.

Cops and
Robbers, she read and had to roll her eyes as a high-pitched siren began to
scream. There was an explosion of what she recognized as gunfire, the wild
squeal of tires on pavement, and blue and red lights crowned the vertical
length of the box as it began to spin.

Eve hooked her
thumbs in her front pockets and strolled over to him. “So this is what you do
with your downtime.”

“Hello,
darling.” He never took his eyes off the duo of silver balls that raced and
ricochetted under the glass. “You're home early.”

“Only
temporarily. I want to talk to you.”

“Mmm-hmm. One
minute.”

She opened her
mouth to object, then nearly jumped as bells began to clang and lights shot
like lasers. “What the hell is this thing?”

“Antique --
prime condition. Just -- fucker -- just got it in today.” He bumped the machine
lightly with his hip. “It's a pinball machine, late-twentieth century.”

“Cops and
Robbers?”

“How could I
resist?” The machine ordered him to “Freeze!” in menacing tones, and Roarke
responded by zipping his remaining ball up a chute where it banged and bumped
against a trio of diamond shapes, then slid into a hole.

“Free ball.”
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders. “But that can wait.” As he leaned down
to kiss her, she slapped a hand on his chest.

“Hold on, ace.
What do you mean by calling Feeney?”

“Offering my
assistance to New York's finest,” he said easily. “Doing my duty as a concerned
citizen. Give us a bite of this.” So saying, he drew her against him and nipped
at her lower lip. “Let's play a game.”

“I'm primary.”

“Darling, you
most certainly are.”

“On the case,
smart guy.”

“That, as
well. And as such, you'd have requested the data from the theater's files and
funneled it to Feeney. Now it's done. Your hair's damp,” he said and sniffed at
it.

“It's
sleeting.” She wanted to argue but didn't see the point when he was exactly
right. “Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved
with The Globe and this production?”

“Because,
Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me.”
He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he'd set beside the machine. “Had
an annoying day, have you?”

“Mostly.” When
he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a
small swig. “I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind.”

“Me, too. And
I've the perfect method. Strip pinball.”

She snorted.
“Get out.”

“Oh well, if
you're afraid you'll lose, I'll give you a handicap.” He smiled when he said
it, knowing his wife very well.

“I'm not
afraid I'll lose.” She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. “How much
of a handicap?”

Still smiling,
he toed off both his shoes. “That, and five hundred points a ball -- seems
fair, as you're a novice.”

She
considered, studying the machine. “You just got this in today, right?”

“Just a bit
ago, yes.”

“You go
first.”

“My pleasure.”

And as he
enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to
be. Within twenty minutes, she'd lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness,
and was currently losing her shirt.

“Damn it! This
thing is rigged.” Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine,
then hissed when her flippers froze. “Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to
me?”

“Perhaps
you're a bit too aggressive. Why don't I help you with this,” he offered and
began unbuttoning her shirt.

She slapped
his hands away. “I can do it. You're cheating.” While she tugged off her shirt,
she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers.
“I don't know how, but you're cheating.”

“It couldn't
be that I'm just the superior player.”

“No.”

He laughed,
then pulled her in front of him. “I'll give you another go here, and help you
out. Now.” He placed his fingers over hers on the control buttons. “You have to
learn to finesse it rather than attack it. The idea is to keep the ball lively,
and in play.”

“I got the
idea, Roarke. You want it to smash up against everything.”

Wisely, he
swallowed a chuckle. “More or less. All right, here it comes.”

He released
the ball, leaned into her, watching over her shoulder. “No, no, wait. You don't
just flip madly about. Wait for it.” His fingers pressed over hers and sent the
little silver ball dancing to the tune of automatic weapon fire.

“I want the
gold bars over there.”

“In time, all
in good time.” He leaned down to skim his lips over the back of her neck.
“There now, you've evaded the squad car and racked yourself up five thousand
points.”

“I want the
gold.”

“Why am I not
surprised? Let's see what we can do for you. Feel my hands?”

He was pressed
into her back, snug and cozy. Eve turned her head. “That's not your hands.”

His grin flashed.
“Right you are. These are.” Slowly, he skimmed those clever hands up her body,
over her breasts. Beneath the thin cotton, he felt her heart give one fast
leap. “You could forfeit.” His mouth went to the curve of her neck this time,
with the light scrape of teeth.

“In a pig's
eye.”

He caught the
lobe of her ear between his teeth, and the resulting jolt to her system had her
fingers jabbing into the buttons. Even as she moaned, the machine exploded
under her hands.

“What? What?”

“You got the
gold. Bonus points.” He tugged at the button of her trousers. “Extra ball. Nice
job.”

“Thanks.”
Bells were clanging. In the machine, in her head. She let him turn her so they
were face-to-face. “Game's not over.”

“Not nearly.”
His mouth came down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands had already snaked
under her shirt to cup her breasts. “I want you. I always want you.”

Breathless,
eager, she dragged at his shirt. “You should've lost a few times. You wouldn't
be wearing so many clothes.”

“I'll remember
that.” The need reared up so fast, so ripe, it burned. Her body was a treasure
to him, the long, clean lines of it, the sleekness of muscle, the surprising
delicacy of skin. Standing, wrapped tight, he sank into her.

She wanted to
give. No one else had ever made her so desperate to give. Whatever she had.
Whatever he would take. Through all the horrors of her life, through all the
miseries of her work, this -- what they brought to each other time and time
again -- was her personal miracle.

She found his
flesh with her hands -- firm, warm -- and sighed deeply. She found his mouth
with hers -- rough, hungry -- and she moaned.

When she would
have pulled him to the floor, he turned, stumbled with her until her back was
pressed against something cool and solid.

“Look at me.”

His name
caught in her throat as those skilled fingers slid over her, into her, and sent
her spinning as madly as the silver ball under glass.

He watched her
eyes cloud, then the rich brown of them go opaque as she came. “More. Again.”
While she shuddered, while her hands gripped his shoulders, he took her mouth,
swallowed her cry of release.

His breath was
as tattered as hers as he took her hips, lifted them, and plunged.

He pinned her,
pummeled her system with a pleasure too outrageous for reason. Energized her so
that she fought to give it back, beat for beat. When her hands slipped from his
shoulders, she lifted them to his hair, fisted her fingers in all that black
silk.

They drove
each other up, and over.

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

“I didn't
lose.”

Roarke glanced
over, smiled at the view of her pretty naked butt as she gathered up her
clothes. “I didn't say you did.”

“You're
thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. I just don't have time to finish
playing that stupid game.”

“It'll hold.”
He fastened his trousers. “I'm hungry. Let's have something to eat.”

“It'll have to
be quick. I've got work. I want to go over and take a look at Draco's hotel
room.”

“That's fine
then.” Roarke wandered to the AutoChef, considered, and decided a cool, sleety
night called for something homey. He ordered beef and barley stew for both of
them. “I'll go with you.”

“It's police
business.”

“Naturally.
Just doing my civic duty again, Lieutenant.” Because he knew that would
irritate her, he offered her a bowl and a smile. “It's my hotel, after all.”

“It would be.”
Because she knew he meant to irritate her, she scooped up a bite. And
scalded her tongue. It wasn't a crime scene, she thought as she blew some of
the heat from the second spoonful. And she could use Roarke's eyes, his mind,
not that she wanted to admit it.

“Fine.” She
shrugged. “But you stay out of my way.”

He nodded
agreeably. Not that he had any intention of doing what she asked. Where was the
fun in that? “Will we be picking up Peabody?”

“She's off.
She had a date.”

“Ah. With
McNab?”

Eve felt her
appetite take an abrupt nosedive. “She doesn't date McNab.” At Roarke's look of
surprise, she stubbornly stuffed more stew in her mouth. “Look, maybe, in some
alternate universe far, far away, they have sex. But they're not dating. That's
it.”

“Darling,
there comes a time, however sad for Mum, when the children must leave home.”

“Shut up.” She
jabbed her spoon at him. “I mean it. They are not dating,” she insisted,
and polished off her stew.

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

Some might
have called Ian McNab's ramshackle apartment on the Lower West Side an
alternate universe. It was a guy's space, badly decorated, heavy on the sports
memorabilia, and scattered with dirty dishes.

While he did,
occasionally, think to stuff some of the worst of the debris in some dusty
closet when female company was expected, it was a long way from the sumptuous
space of Roarke's home, and it smelled a great deal like overcooked veggie
hash. But it worked for him.

At the moment,
with his heart stuttering and his skin slick from sex, it worked just fine.

“Jesus,
Peabody.” He flopped over on his back, much like a landed trout. He didn't
bother to gasp for air. He had a lush, naked woman in his bed. He could die a
happy man. “We had to break a record that time. We ought to be writing this
down.”

She lay where
she was, stunned as she always was when she found herself in this situation
with Ian McNab. “I can't feel my feet.”

Obligingly he
propped himself on his elbow, but as they'd ended up crosswise on the bed, he
couldn't see past her knees. She had, he noted, really cute knees. “I don't
think I bit them off. I'd remember.” But with a grunt, he scooted down, just to
be sure. “They're there, all right, both of them.”

“Good. I'm
going to need them later.”

As the shock
wore off, she blinked, stared at McNab's pretty profile, and wondered, not for
the first time, when she'd lost her mind.

I'm naked
in bed with McNab. Naked. In bed. McNab.

Jesus.

Always
self-conscious about body flaws, she tugged at the knotted sheets. “Cold in here,”
she muttered.

“Bastard super
cut the main furnace back first of March. Like it's his money. First chance I
get, I'm rerouting the system.”

He yawned
hugely, dragged both hands through his long and tangled blond hair. His narrow
shoulders seemed weighed down by the mass of it. Peabody had to order her
fingers not to reach up to play with the long loops of reddish gold. He had
skinny hips, with the right one currently decorated with a temp tattoo of a
silver lightning bolt. It matched the four earrings winking in his left
earlobe.

His skin was
milk white, his eyes a cagey green. She still couldn't figure out why anything
about him attracted her on a physical level, much less how she'd ended up
having regular and outrageous sex with him when out of bed they spent most of
their time annoying each other.

She'd liked to
have said he wasn't her type, but she didn't think she actually had a type. Her
luck with men was usually, distressingly, piss-poor.

“I'd better
get going.”

“Why? It's
early.” When she sat up, he leaned over and nipped suggestively at her
shoulder. “I'm starving.”

“Christ,
McNab, we just finished having sex.”

“That, too,
but I was thinking more of pizza, loaded.” He knew her weaknesses. “Let's fuel
up.”

Her taste buds
stirred to attention. “I'm dieting.”

“What for?”

She rolled her
eyes, yanking the rumpled sheet around her as she climbed out of bed. “Because
I'm pudgy.”

“No, you're
not. You're built.” He caught the edge of the sheet, surprising her with his
quickness, and pulled it down to her waist. “Seriously built.”

As she fumbled
for the sheet, he sprang up, caught her around the waist with an affectionate
squeeze that both disarmed and worried her. “Come on, let's eat, then see what
happens next. I've got some wine around here.”

“If it's
anything like the wine you had last time, I'd as soon dip a cup in the sewer.”

“New bottle.”
He picked his bright orange jumpsuit off the floor, stepped into it. “You want
some pants?”

The fact that
he would offer her his pants made her want to pinch all four of his cheeks.
“McNab, I couldn't have squeezed into your pants when I was twelve. I actually
have an ass.”

“True. That's
okay; I love a woman in uniform.” He strolled off, struggling not to brood. He
always had to talk her into staying.

In the corner
of the living area that doubled for his kitchen, he pulled out the bottle of
wine he'd bought the day before when he'd been thinking of her. He thought
about her just often enough to be demoralized. If he could keep her in bed,
they'd be fine. He didn't have to think about his moves there, they just
happened.

He flipped on
his 'link. The pizza joint was keyed in on memory, in the primo position due to
frequency of transmissions. He ordered a mongo pie, loaded, then dug out a
corkscrew.

The damn wine
had cost him twice what he usually spent. But when a guy was competing with a
slick, experienced LC, he needed to hold his own. He didn't doubt Charles Monroe
knew all about fine wines. He and Peabody probably took baths in champagne.

Since the
image infuriated him, he glugged down half a glass of wine. Then he turned as
Peabody came out of the bedroom. She was wearing her uniform pants with her
shirt open at the throat. He wanted to lick her there, just there where the
stiff cotton gave way to soft flesh.

Goddamn it.

“What's the
matter?” She asked, noticing the scowl on his face. “They run out of
pepperoni?”

“No, it's
coming.” He held out her glass of wine. “I was thinking ... about work.”

“Mmm.” She
sipped the wine, pursed her lips at its smooth and subtle fruity taste. “This
is pretty good. You're running backgrounds on the Draco case, right?”

“Already done.
Dallas should have them by now.”

“Quick work.”

He answered
with a shrug. He didn't have to tell her Roarke had dropped the data in his
lap. “We in EDD aim to please. Even after eliminations and probability scans,
it's going to take days to shift the list down to a workable number. Guy gets
his heart jabbed in front of a couple thousand people, it's complicated.”

“Yeah.”
Peabody sipped again, then wandered off to drop into a chair. Without being
aware of it on a conscious level, she was as comfortable in McNab's mess of an
apartment as she was in her own tidy one. “Something's going on.”

“Something's
always going on.”

“No, not the
usual.” She struggled with herself, brooded into her wine. If she didn't talk
to someone, she'd explode. And hell, he was here. “Look, this is confidential.”

“Okay.” Since
the pizza wouldn't arrive for a good ten minutes more, McNab snagged an open
bag of soy chips. He settled on the arm of Peabody's chair. “What's the deal?”

“I don't know.
Nadine Furst tagged the lieutenant today, and she was razzed. Nadine, I
mean.” Absently, Peabody reached into the bag. “You don't see Nadine razzed
very often. She makes a meet with Dallas -- a personal meet. It was serious.
They stashed me across the room, but I could tell. And after, Dallas didn't say
a word about it.”

“Maybe it was
just personal shit.”

“No, Nadine's
not going to ask for a meet like that unless there's trouble.” Nadine was her
friend, too, and part of Peabody was bruised that she'd been brushed aside. “I
think it ties to the case. Dallas should've told me.” Peabody crunched on
chips. “She should trust me.”

“Want me to
poke around?”

“I can do my
own poking. I don't need an E Division hotshot running plays for me.”

“Suit
yourself, She-Body.”

“Just lay off.
I don't even know why I told you. It's just sitting in my gut. Nadine's a
friend. She's supposed to be a friend.”

“You're
jealous.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, you
are.” He was beginning to have an intimate relationship with the feeling.
“Dallas and Nadine are playing without you, so you're jealous. Girl Dynamics
one oh one.”

She shoved him
off the arm of the chair. “You're an asshole.”

“And there,”
he said as his security bell rang, “is the pizza.”

CHAPTER SIX

“Don't touch
anything, and stay out of the way.”

“Darling.”
Roarke watched Eve slip her master into the security lock on Penthouse A.
“You're repeating yourself.”

“That's
because you never listen.” Before she opened the door, she turned, met his
eyes. “Why does a man whose primary residence is New York, whose main source of
work is New York, opt to live in a hotel rather than a private residence?”

“First the
panache. 'Mr. Draco keeps the penthouse at The Palace when in the city.' Next,
the convenience. At the crook of a finger, whatever you need or want done for
you can be. Is. And lastly, perhaps most tellingly, the utter lack of
commitment. Everything around you is someone else's problem and responsibility.”

“From what
I've learned of Draco so far, that's the one I go for.” She opened the door,
stepped inside.

It belonged to
Roarke, she thought, therefore it was plush and lush and perfect. If you went
for that kind of thing.

The living
area was enormous and elegantly furnished with walls of silky rose. The ceiling
was arched and decorated with a complicated design of fruit and flowers around
a huge glass and gold chandelier.

Three sofas,
all in deep, cushy red were piled with pillows bright as jewels. Tables -- and
she suspected they were genuine wood and quite old -- were polished like
mirrors, as was the floor. The rug was an inch thick and matched the ceiling
pattern grape for grape.

One wall was
glass, the privacy screen drawn so that New York exploded with light and shape
outside but couldn't intrude. There was a stone terrace beyond, and as the
flowers decked in big stone pots were thriving, she assumed it was heated.

A glossy white
piano stood at one end of the room, and at the other, carved wood panels hid
what she assumed was a full entertainment unit. There were plants of thick and
glossy foliage, glass displays holding pretty dust catchers she concluded were
art, and no discernable sign of life.

“Housekeeping
would have come in after he left for the theater,” Roarke told her. “I can ask
the team on duty that evening to come up and let you know the condition of the
rooms at that time.”

“Yeah.” She
thought of Nadine. If she knew the reporter, the condition of the rooms had
been something approaching the wake of a tornado. She walked over to the
panels, opened them, and studied the entertainment unit. “Unit on,” she
commanded, and the screen flickered to soft blue. “Play back last program.”

With barely a
hiccup, the unit burst into color and sound. Eve watched two figures slide and
slither over a pool of black sheets. “Why do guys always get off watching other
people fuck?”

“We're sick,
disgusting, and weak. Pity us.”

She started to
laugh. Then the couple on the bed rolled. The woman's face, soft with pleasure,
turned toward the camera. “Goddamn it. That's Nadine. Nadine and Draco.”

In support,
Roarke laid a hand on Eve's shoulder. “It wasn't taped here. That's not the
bedroom. Her hair's different. I don't think it's recent.”

“I'm going to
have to take it in, prove it isn't. And I've got a damn sex tape of one of the
media's cream as evidence on a murder case.” She stopped the play, ejected the
disc, and sealed it in an evidence bag from her field kit.

“Damn it. Damn
it.”

She began to
pace, to struggle with herself. All this relationship stuff was so complicated
and still so foreign to her. Nadine had told her what she'd told her as a
friend. In confidence. The man currently, and patiently, watching her from
across the room was her husband.

Love, honor,
and all the rest of it.

If she told
him about Nadine and Draco, was she breaching a confidence and the trust of a
friend? Or was she just doing the marriage thing?

How the hell,
she wondered, did people get through life juggling all this stuff?

“Darling Eve.”
Sympathizing, Roarke waited until she'd stopped prowling the room and turned to
face him. “You're giving yourself a headache. I can make it easier on you.
Don't feel you have to tell me something that makes you uncomfortable.”

She frowned at
him, narrowed her eyes. “I hear a but at the end of that sentence.”

“You have very
sharp ears. But,” he continued, crossing to her, “I can deduce that Nadine and
Draco were involved at one time, and given your current concern, that something
happened between them a great deal more recently.”

“Oh hell.” In
the end she went with the gut and told him everything.

He listened,
then tucked Eve's hair behind her ear. “You're a good friend.”

“Don't say
that. It makes me nervous.”

“All right,
I'll say this: Nadine didn't have anything to do with Draco's murder.”

“I know that,
and there's no hard evidence indicating any different. But it's going to be
messy for her. Personally messy. Okay, what else is in this place?”

“Ah, if memory
serves. Kitchen through there.” He gestured. “Office, bath, bedroom, dressing
room, bath.”

“I'll start in
the office. I want to run his 'links and see if he had any conversations that
involved threats or arguments. Do me a favor.” She handed him her kit. “Bag the
rest of the video discs.”

“Yes, sir.
Lieutenant.”

She smirked
but let it ride.

She worked
systematically. He loved watching her at it: The focus, the concentration, the
absolute logic of her method.

Not so long
before in his life if anyone had suggested he could find a cop and her work
sexy, he'd have been both appalled and insulted.

“Stop staring
at me.”

He smiled.
“Was I?”

She decided to
let it pass. “Lots of communications in and out. If I were a shrink, I'd guess
this was a guy who couldn't stand being alone with himself. Needed contact on a
constant basis. Nothing out of the ordinary though, unless you count some
pretty heavy 'link shopping -- eight pairs of shoes, three snazzy suits,
antique wrist unit.” She straightened. “But you wouldn't count that.”

“On the
contrary, I'd never buy snazzy suits via 'link. Fit is everything.”

“Ha ha. He did
have a short, pithy kind of conversation with his agent. Seems our boy
discovered that his leading lady was pulling in the same salary for the run of
the play. He was pretty pissed off about it, wanted his rep to renegotiate and
get him more. One credit more per performance.”

“Yes, I knew
about that. No deal.”

Puzzled, she
turned away from the neat little desk. “You wouldn't give him a credit?”

“When dealing
with a child,” Roarke said mildly, “you set boundaries. The contract was a
boundary. The amount of the demand was inconsequential.”

“You're
tough.”

“Certainly.”

“Did he give
you trouble over it?”

“No. He may
have planned to push it, but we never had words over it. The fact is, his agent
went to my lawyers, they to me, me back to them, and so on. It hadn't
progressed beyond my refusal before opening night.”

“Okay, that
keeps you clean. I want to check out the bedroom.” She moved past him, across a
small, circular hallway and through the door.

The bed was
big, elaborate, with a high, padded wall behind and covered with sheer, smoky
gray. It looked like a bank of soft fog.

She moved
briefly into the adjoining dressing room, shook her head at the forest of
clothes and shoes. A built-in, mirrored counter held a chorus line of colored
bottles and tubes: enhancers, skin soothers, scents, powders.

“Okay, we've
got vain, selfish, egocentric, childish, and insecure.”

“I wouldn't
argue with your assessment. All those personality traits are motive for
dislike, but for murder?”

“Sometimes
having two feet's a motive for murder.” She moved back to the bedroom. “A man
that full of ego and insecurity wouldn't sleep alone very often. He dumped
Carly Landsdowne. I'd say he had someone else lined up to take her place.”
Idly, she pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. “Well, well, look at the
toys.”

The drawer was
fitted with compartments, and each was jammed with various erotic enhancers
suitable for partnership or solo bouts.

“Lieutenant, I
really think you should take these in for further examination.”

“No touching.”
She slapped Roarke's hand away as he reached in.

“Spoilsport.”

“Civilian.
What the hell does this do?” She held up a long, cone-shaped piece of rubber.
It made cheerful tinkling noises when she shook it.

Roarke tucked
his tongue in his cheek and sat on the bed. “Well, in the interest of your
investigation, I'd be happy to demonstrate.” Smiling, he patted the bed beside
him.

“No, I mean
it.”

“So do I.”

“Never mind.”
But she was still pondering when she put the cone back and opened the bottom
drawer. “Ah, here's a little gold mine. Looks like a month's supply of Exotica,
a bit of Zeus, and ...” She opened a small vial, sniffed cautiously, then shook
her head like a dog coming out of a pool of water. “Shit. Wild Rabbit.”

She fumbled
the stopper back in, grabbed for an evidence bag, and sealed the vial.

“Pure, too.”
She blew out a breath. “If he's using that on his dates, no wonder they all
think he's a sex god. One or two drops of Rabbit, and you'd screw a doorknob.
Did you know he was into this?”

“No.” All
humor fled, Roarke rose. “I don't have particularly strong feelings about most
of the illegals. But this one is the same as rape, as far as I'm concerned. Are
you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”
A little dizzy, she thought, and annoyingly horny. And that was only from a
quick whiff of the fumes. “Stuff this pure goes for ten thousand an ounce,
minimum, and it isn't easy to come by. It only works on the female system,” she
murmured. “Only takes a drop too many to overdose.”

Roarke cupped
a hand under her chin, lifted it to examine her eyes. Clear enough, he decided.
“There was never any talk about him using anything like this. If there had
been, and I'd discovered it was true, I'd have broken his contract. And very
likely, his arms.”

“Okay.” She
lifted a hand to his wrist, squeezed. “That's enough in here for now. I'm going
to need you to keep this room vacant another day or two. I want an Illegals
unit to run through it.”

“All right.”

She slipped
the vial into her kit, and hoped to lighten his mood. “So, how much is it
costing you?”

“Excuse me?”

“To keep this
place vacant? How much does it run a night?”

“Oh this
little place? I believe it's in the neighborhood of eighty-five hundred a
night, though I imagine we have weekly and monthly rates as well.”

“Chump change.
Mansfield has a unit in here, too, right?”

“Penthouse B,
the other tower.”

“Let's pay her
a visit. She and Draco had an illegals history in common,” Eve began as she
gathered her field kit and started out. “She may know his sources. It could all
come down to a bad drug deal.”

“I don't think
so.”

“Okay, I don't
think so either, but the majority of cop work is eliminating.” She locked the
door, started to reach for a police seal in her kit.

“Must you do
that?” He eyed the seal with dislike. “It's very off-putting to the other
guests.”

“Yes, I must.
Besides, it'll give them a secret thrill. Oooh, look, George, that's where the
dead actor lived. Get the vid cam.”

“Your attitude
toward society at large is sadly cynical.”

“And
accurate.” She stepped into the elevator ahead of him, waiting for the doors to
close. Then pounced. “Just give me a quick -- God -- “ Desperate for release,
she rubbed herself against him, bit his lip, moaning as her hands squeezed hard
on his butt.

“Whew.” On a
long breath, she pushed him away, circled her shoulders. “That's better.”

“For you
maybe.” He made a grab for her, but she slapped a hand on his chest.

“No games in
public elevators. Don't you know that's a violation of city code? Tower A,
penthouse level,” she ordered, and the car slid seamlessly into motion.

“You'll definitely
have to pay for that.”

She leaned
back against the wall as the elevator started its horizontal ride. “Please,
you're scaring me.”

He only smiled
and slipped his hands into his pocket. Toyed idly with the rubber cone he'd
palmed out of the drawer. “Be afraid,” he murmured, and made her laugh as the
car came to a stop.

“I had to
clear my head before talking to a witness, didn't I?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Listen, you
know Mansfield fairly well. I'd like your observations when this is done.”

“Ah, there I
am. Useful again.”

She stopped,
turned, and laid a hand on his cheek. Love for him reared up and bit her at the
oddest times. “You do come in handy.” When he turned his head and brushed his
lips over her palm, she felt the thrill of it right down to her toes. “No mushy
stuff,” she ordered and strode to Areena's door.

She pressed
the buzzer, waited.

Areena,
dressed in a white lounging robe, opened the door. She looked flushed,
obviously surprised, and not altogether pleased. “Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke.
I... I wasn't expecting -- “ Then those limpid eyes went wide, went bright. “Is
there news? Have you caught whoever -- “

“No. I'm sorry
to disturb you, but I have a few questions.”

“Oh. I
thought, I hoped, it might all be over. Well.” She lifted a hand, pressed
pink-tipped fingers under her eye as if to soothe an ache. Indeed, there were
faint bruises of fatigue under it. “I'm afraid this isn't really a good time.
Is this absolutely necessary?”

“I'm sorry
it's inconvenient, but it won't take long.”

“Of course.
This is awkward. You see, I'm not alone. I...” In surrender, Areena let her
hand fall, stepped back. “Please, come in.”

Eve stepped
inside. The penthouse was very like its opposite in setup, in size. The
furnishings were softer, more female somehow, and the colors a symphony of
blues and creams.

And seated on
one of the trio of sofas, looking sleek and gorgeous in black, was Charles
Monroe.

Terrific, Eve thought, and immediately wanted to kick his
expensive balls into his throat.

He grinned, a
quick snap of pleasure, then seeing the chill in her eyes, the look shifted
into lazy amusement as he got languorously to his feet. “Lieutenant. Always a
delight to see you.”

“Charles.
Night work still keeping you busy?”

“Fortunately.
Roarke, nice to see you again.”

“Charles.”

“Can I freshen
your drink, Areena?”

“What?” Her
eyes had whipped back and forth between faces, and her fingers twirled and
twisted the silver links at her throat. “No. No, thank you. Ah, you know each
other.”

The flush that
had pinked prettily on her face deepened. She lifted her hands again in that
feminine gesture of helplessness.

“The
lieutenant and I have met a number of times. We even have a mutual friend.”

“Watch your
step,” Eve said, very quietly. Temper had already stormed into her eyes and was
ready to snap. “Is this a social call, Charles, or are you on the clock?”

“You should
know a man in my position doesn't discuss such matters.”

“Please, this
is embarrassing.” Areena lifted her hand to toy restlessly with her necklace
again and didn't notice Charles's mouth twist in a thin, cynical line, but Eve
did. “Obviously, you're aware Charles is a professional. I didn't want to be
alone, and I needed . . . some simple companionship. Charles -- Mr. Monroe came
highly recommended.”

“Areena.”
Smooth as silk, Roarke stepped forward. “I'd love some coffee. Would you mind?”

“Oh, of
course. Forgive me. I can ...”

“Why don't I
see to it.” Charles brushed a hand over Areena's arm and started toward the
kitchen.

“I'll just give
him a hand.” With a last look at Eve, Roarke strolled away.

“I know how
this must look to you,” Areena began. “It must seem very cold and very
self-interested for me to have hired a sexual partner the night after ...”

“It seems odd
to me that a woman like you would have to hire anyone to be with her.”

With a light
laugh, Areena picked up a glass of wine and, sipping, began to pace. The silk
whispered around her legs. “A pretty compliment wrapped in barbed suspicion.
And well delivered.”

“I'm not here
to pay you compliments.”

“No.” Areena's
eyes lost their light of humor. “No, of course not. The simple answer to your
underlying question is that I keep to myself a great deal. It comes, I suppose,
from spending too much of my youth at parties, in groups. You'll have learned
about my indiscretions, my difficulties with illegals. That's behind me now.”

She turned
back, lifted her chin. “It wasn't easy to put it behind me, but I did. In doing
so, I lost a number of what I once considered friends. I ruined relationships
that mattered to me because of addictions, lost those that shouldn't have
mattered when I beat the addictions. And now I'm at a point in my life where my
career needs all my attention. It doesn't leave much time for socializing or
for romance.”

“Were you
romantically involved with Draco?”

“No. Never. We
had sex a lifetime ago, the sort hearts and minds have nothing to do with. For
some time, we've had nothing in common but the theater. I came back to New
York, Lieutenant, because I wanted this play, and I knew Richard would shine in
his part. I wanted that. There'll never be another like him onstage. God.”

She squeezed
her eyes shut, shivered. “It's horrible. Horrible. I'm more sorry to have lost
the actor than the man. I'm sorry to know that about myself. No, I can't be
alone.” She sank down on the sofa. “Can't bear it. I can't sleep. If I sleep, I
wake up, and my hands are covered in blood. Richard's blood. The nightmares.”

She lifted her
head, and her eyes swam as they met Eve's. “I have horrible nightmares every
time I lie down, they leap into my head, and I wake up sick, wake up screaming,
with his blood all over me. You can't imagine. You can't.”

But Eve could.
A small, freezing room, washed in the dirty red light from the sign across the
street. The pain, the sheer hideousness of the rape, of the bone he'd broken in
her arm when she'd fought him. The blood, his blood everywhere, slicked on her
hands, dripping from the blade of the knife as she crawled away.

She'd been
eight. In her nightmares, Eve was forever eight.

“I want you to
find who did this,” Areena whispered. “You have to find who did it. When you
do, the nightmares will stop. Won't they? Won't they stop?”

“I don't
know.” Eve forced herself to step forward, forced herself to step away from her
own memories and stay in the present. Stay in control. “Tell me what you know
about the illegals. Who were his contacts, who supplied him, who played with
him?”

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

In the
kitchen, Charles sipped his wine, and Roarke made do with the reasonably decent
faux coffee the AutoChef offered.

“Areena's
having a difficult time,” Charles began.

“I imagine she
is.”

“There's no
law against paying for comfort.”

“No.”

“My job is as
viable as hers.”

Roarke
inclined his head. “Monroe, Eve has no personal vendetta against licensed
companions.”

“Just against
me, in particular.”

“She's
protective of Peabody.” With his eyes clear and direct, Roarke sipped again.
“So am I.”

“I'm fond of
Delia. Very fond. I'd never hurt her. I've never deceived her.” On a sound of
disgust, Charles turned away to stare through the window at the lights. “I lost
my chance to have a relationship outside my job -- to have a life outside my
job -- because I deceived a woman. Then because I cared enough about her to be
honest. I've come to terms with that. I am what I am.”

He turned
back, and his lips curved. “And I'm good at what I do. Delia accepts that.”

“Perhaps. But
women are the oddest creatures, aren't they? A man never really knows. And
that, I think, is part of their continual appeal. A mystery's more interesting,
isn't it, before it's completely solved.”

With a half
laugh, Charles looked over his shoulder, and Eve walked through the door.

She couldn't
have said, precisely, why it annoyed her to see Charles and her husband sharing
a moment of what couldn't be mistaken for anything but male amusement. But
since it did, she scowled at Roarke.

“Sorry to
break up the boy talk, but could you keep Areena company for a moment while I
speak to Charles?”

“Of course.
The coffee's reasonably good.”

She waited
until he'd walked out, then moved to the AutoChef more to give herself a moment
to settle than out of a desire for hotel coffee. “When did Ms. Mansfield make
the appointment for your services?”

“This
afternoon. About two, I believe.”

“Isn't that
late notice for you?”

“Yes.”

Eve pulled the
coffee out, leaned back against the wall, with the steam rising from her cup.
“No bookings tonight?”

“I rearranged
my schedule.”

“Why? Areena
indicated you hadn't met before, socially or professionally. Why go to that
trouble for a stranger?”

“Because she
doubled my fee,” he said simply.

“What did she
buy? Straight sex? An overnighter?”

He paused,
stared down at his wine. When he lifted his gaze again, his eyes had gone cool.
“I don't have to answer that. And won't.”

“I'm
investigating a homicide. I can pull you in for an interview at Central.”

“Yes, you can.
Will you?”

“You're making
this sticky.” She set the coffee down, paced up and down the narrow space
between the wall and the counter. “I have to put you in my report as it is.
That's bad enough. But you make me take you in, formalize this, it's right up
Peabody's nose.”

“And neither
of us want that,” he murmured, then sighed. “Look, Dallas, I got a call. A
client of mine gave my name to Areena as someone who could give her a
comfortable evening. She was obviously upset. I'd heard about Draco, so I
didn't have to ask why. She wanted a companion for the night. Dinner in,
conversation, sex. To compensate for my inconvenience, she doubled my usual
overnight fee. It's simple.”

“Did you talk
about Draco?”

“No. We talked
about art, we talked about theater. She's had three glasses of wine and half a
pack of herbals. Her hands stopped shaking about twenty minutes before you got
here. She's an emotional wreck who's trying to hold on.”

“Okay. I
appreciate it.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Peabody's going to see
the report.”

He could feel
his own hackles rise. “Delia knows what I do.”

“Right.” It
stuck in her craw like barbed wire.

“She's a grown
woman, Dallas.”

“Grown, my
ass.” She gave up and kicked the wall. “She's out of her league with an
operator like you. Damn it, her family's Free-Agers. She grew up out in bumfuck
somewhere.” A vague gesture took care of the Midwest. “She's a good cop. She's
a solid cop, but she's still got blind sides. And she's going to get really
pissed off when she finds out I said anything to you about it. She'll jam that
stick up her ass and freeze me out, but damn it -- “

“She matters,”
he shot back. “She matters to you. Doesn't it occur to you that she could
matter to me?”

“Women are a
business to you.”

“When they pay
me to be my business. It isn't like that with Delia. For Christ's sake, we
don't even have sex.”

“What? She
can't meet your fee?” As soon as it was out, she hated herself. Hated herself
more when she saw those cool eyes register simple hurt. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
That was wrong. That was way off.”

“Yeah, it
was.”

Suddenly
tired, she scooted down and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. “I
don't want to know this stuff. I don't want to think about this stuff. I like
you.”

Intrigued, he
lowered to the floor, his back to the counter so their knees almost brushed.
“Really?”

“Yeah, mostly.
You've been seeing her since before Christmas, and you haven't... What's wrong
with her?”

He laughed,
and this time it was easy and rich. “Jesus, Dallas, which way do you want it? I
have sex with her, I'm a bastard. I don't, I'm a bastard. Roarke was right.”

“What do you
mean, Roarke was right?”

“You can't
figure women.” He took a drink of his wine. “She's a friend. It just happened
that way. I don't have many friends who aren't clients or in the business.”

“Watch
yourself. They start to multiply when you're not paying attention. It
complicates your whole damn life.”

“You're a good
friend. One more thing,” he said and gave her foot an easy pat. “I mostly like
you, too, Lieutenant Sugar.”

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

The nightmare
came. She should have expected it. Areena's talk of dreams and blood and terror
triggered it. But even knowing, she could never stop it once it slid into her
mind.

She saw him
come into the room. Her father. That nasty little room in Dallas, so cold, even
with the temperature gauge stuck on high. But seeing him, smelling him, knowing
he'd been drinking, but not drinking enough, had sweat popping out on her
chilled arms.

She dropped
the knife. She'd been so hungry, so hungry it had been worth the risk of
finding a snack. Just a little piece of cheese. The knife fell out of her hand,
took days, years, centuries to reach the floor. And in the dream, the clatter
of it was like thunder that echoed. Echoed. Echoed.

Across his
face as he walked to her, the red light from the sign washed red, then white,
then red.

Please
don't please don't please don't.

But it never
did any good to beg.

It would
happen again and again and again. The pain of his hand smashing almost casually
across her face. Hitting the floor so hard it rattled her bones. And then his
weight on top of her.

“Eve. There
now. Eve, come back to me. You're home.”

Her breath
burned in her throat, and she struggled, bucking, shoving against the arms that
held her. And Roarke's voice seeped into the dream, warm, calm, lovely. Safe.

“That's right.
Hold on to me.” He gathered her closer in the dark, rocking her as he would a
child until her shudders quieted. “You're all right now.”

“Don't let
go.”

“No.” He
pressed his lips to her temple. “I won't.”

When she woke
in the morning, the dream only a vague smear on her mind, his arms were still
around her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eve beat
Peabody into Central. It was deliberate, and it cost her a full hour's sleep
that morning. She hoped to file her updated report, then move on, before her
aide showed up. If she was lucky, there would be no discussion involving
Charles Monroe.

The
detective's bullpen was buzzing. It turned out that Detective Zeno's wife had
given birth to a baby girl the night before, and he'd celebrated by bringing in
two dozen donuts. Knowing detectives, Eve snagged one before the unit fell on
them like hyenas on scavenged meat.

“Who won the
pool?”

“I did.”
Baxter grinned around a cinnamon twist with raspberry jelly. “Six hundred and
thirty smackeroos.”

“Damn it. I
never win the baby pool.” Consoling herself, Eve snagged a cruller. Taking the
first bite, she grinned at him. Good old Baxter, she thought. He could
be a pain in the ass, but he was meticulous and sharp with details.

He was just
perfect. “Looks like this is your lucky day.”

“No shit. I've
had my eye on this new auto-entertainment system. The six bills plus is going
to go a long way toward putting that baby in my ride.”

“That's great,
Baxter, but I mean it's really your lucky day.” She pulled a clear file
of discs out of her bag, those gathered from the uniforms and detectives who'd
logged witness names the night of the Draco homicide. “You get the grand prize.
Run standard backgrounds and probabilities on these individuals, re Draco. We got
close to three thousand names here. Grab a couple of detectives, a few uniforms
if you need them, and get statements. Let's see if you can cut that number in
half by the end of the week.”

He snorted.
“Very funny, Dallas.”

“I have orders
from Whitney to tag somebody for this duty. Tag, Baxter. You're it.”

“This is
bullshit.” When she dropped the file on his desk, his eyes wheeled. “You can't
dump this nightmare on me, Dallas.”

“Can, have,
did. You're dropping crumbs, Baxter. You should remember to always keep your
area clean.”

Pleased with
the morning's work, she headed for her office with his curses following her.

The door was
open, and the sounds of riffling came clearly into the hall. Eve pressed her
back to the wall, danced her fingers over her weapon. The son of a bitch. She
had him this time. The sneaking candy thief's ass was hers at last.

She charged
into the room, leading with her fist, and caught the intruder by the scruff of
the neck. “Gotcha!”

“Hey, lady!”

She had six
inches and a good twenty pounds on him. Eve calculated she could squeeze him
through her skinny window without too much trouble. He'd make an interesting
smear on the pavement below.

“I'm not going
to read you your rights,” she said as she bounced him against the file
cabinets. “You won't need them where you're going.”

“Call
Lieutenant Dallas!” His voice piped out like a rusty flute. “Call Lieutenant
Dallas.”

She hauled him
around, stared into his jittery eyes, doubled in size behind microgoggles. “I am
Dallas, you candy-stealing putz.”

“Well, jeez.
Jeez. I'm Lewis. Tomjohn Lewis, from Maintenance. I got your new equipment.”

“What the hell
are you talking about? Let me smell your breath. You got candy breath, I'm
going to pull out your tongue and strangle you with it.”

With his feet
dangling an inch from the floor, he puffed out his cheeks and blew explosive
air in her face. “Cracked wheat waffles down to the Eatery, and -- and the
fruit cup. I ain't had candy. Swear to God.”

“No, but you
might want to consider a stronger mouthwash. What's this about new equipment?”

“There. Right
there. I was just finishing the transfer.”

Still holding
him off the floor, she turned her head. Her mouth fell open seconds before she
dropped Lewis in a heap and leaped on the industrial gray shell of the computer.
“Mine. It's mine.”

“Yes, sir,
Lieutenant sir. She's all yours.”

With her arms
possessively circled around the unit, she looked back at him. “Look,
maintenance boy, if you're toying with me, I'll bite your ears off and make
them into stew.”

“I got the order
right here.” Moving cautiously, he reached in his pocket for his logbook,
punched in the code. “See, here, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Homicide Division. You
got yourself a new XE-5000. You requisitioned it yourself.”

“I
requisitioned it two goddamn years ago.”

“Yeah. Well.”
He smiled hopefully. “Here she is. I was just hooking her to the mainframe. You
want I should finish?”

“Yeah, I want
you should finish.”

“Okay. Have it
done in a wink, then get right out of your way.” He all but dived under the
desk.

“What the hell
kind of name is Tomjohn?”

“It's my name,
Lieutenant. You got your complete owner's manual and user's guide in that box
over there.”

She looked
over, snorted at the foot-high box. “I know how it works. I have this model at
home.”

“It's a good
machine. Once you're linked to the main, all we gotta do is transfer your code
and data from your old equipment. Take about thirty minutes, tops.”

“I got time.”
She skimmed her eyes over her old unit, dented, battered, despised. Some of the
dents had been put into it by her own frustrated fist. “What happens to my old
equipment?”

“I can haul it
out for you, take it down to recycle.”

“Fine -- no.
No, I want it. I want to take it home.” She'd perform a ritual extermination,
she decided. She hoped it suffered.

“Okay by me.”
Since he figured his tongue and his ears were safe again, he began to whistle
with his work. “That thing's been obsolete for five years. Don't know how you
managed to get anything done with it.”

Her only
response to that was a low, throaty growl.

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

When Peabody
came in an hour later, Eve was sitting at her crowded desk, grinning. “Look,
Peabody. It's Christmas.”

“Whoa.”
Peabody came in, circled around. “Whoa squared. It's beautiful.”

“Yeah. It's
mine. Tomjohn Lewis, my new best friend, hooked it up for me. It listens to me,
Peabody. It does what I tell it to do.”

“That's great,
sir. I know you'll be very happy together.”

“Okay, fun's
over.” She picked up her coffee, jerking her thumb toward the AutoChef so
Peabody knew she was welcome to a cup of her own. “I did a run-through on
Draco's apartment last night.”

“I didn't know
you planned to do that. I would have adjusted my personal time.”

“It wasn't
necessary.” Eve had a nasty image of the scene in Areena's apartment if Peabody
had come along.

“Draco kept a
stash of illegals in his penthouse. A variety pack that included nearly an
ounce of pure Wild Rabbit.”

“Creep.”

“You bet. Also
a number of inventive sex toys, some of which were out of the scope of even my
wide range of experience. He had a collection of video discs, and a large
percentage of them are personal sexual encounters.”

“So we have a
dead sexual deviant.”

“The toys and
the discs are personal choice, but the Rabbit shuffles him over into SD
territory. It could go to motive, or motives, since they're piling up like
Free-Agers at a protest rally. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“We've got, as
potentials, ambition, personal gain, money, sex, illegals, woman or women
scorned, and all-around general dislike. He enjoyed preying on women, generally
pushing members of both sexes around. He had a regular illegals habit. He was
also an irritating son of a bitch, and had everyone who knew him wanting to
string him up by his intestines. It doesn't cut the list by much. But.”

She shifted in
her chair. “I started running probabilities last night. Made some headway. My
handy new XE-5000 will copy that data to you so you can continue to run scans.
I have a consult with Mira shortly. That may help shave the working list down.
Set up a conference with our pals in EDD for eleven.”

“And the
interviews this afternoon?”

“Go as
scheduled. I'll be back in an hour, two at most.” She pushed away from her
desk. “If I get held up, contact the lab and nag Dickhead into verifying the
illegals I sent down this morning.”

“A pleasure.
Bribe or threat?”

“How long have
you worked with me now, Peabody?”

“Almost a
year, sir.”

Eve nodded as
she strode out. “Long enough. Use your own judgment.”

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

Mira's area
was more civilized -- Eve imagined that was the word -- compared with the
warrens and hives of the majority of Cop Central. A bubble of calm, she
supposed, especially if you didn't know what went on behind the doors of
Testing.

Eve knew, and
she hoped eons passed before she was forced to step through them again.

But Mira's
individual space was a world away from the depersonalizing and demoralizing
cage of Testing. She favored shades of blues in her cozy scoop chairs, in the
soothing ocean waves she often set on her mood screen.

Today she was
dressed in one of her soft and snazzy pastel suits. A hopeful green, the color
of spring leaf buds. Her hair waved back from a face of composed beauty Eve
constantly admired. There were teardrop pearls at her ears that matched the
single dangle on a gold-linked chain at her throat.

She was, to
Eve's mind, the perfect example of gracious femininity.

“I appreciate
you fitting me in this morning.”

“I feel a
vested interest,” Mira began as she programmed her AutoChef for tea. “Being a
witness. In all my years attached to the NYPSD, I've never witnessed a murder.”
She turned with two cups of floral-scented tea in her hand and caught the dark
flicker in Eve's eyes. “Richard Draco was not a murder, Eve. It was an
execution. An entirely different matter.”

She took her
seat, handing Eve the tea they both knew she'd barely sip. “I study murder.
Murderers. I listen to them, and I analyze them. I profile them. And as a
doctor, I know, understand, and respect death. But, having a murder take place
right in front of my eyes, not to know it was real. Well, it's given me some
bad moments. It's difficult.”

“I was
thinking ingenious.”

“Well.” A
ghost of a smile curved Mira's lips. “Your viewpoint and mine come from
different angles, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” And
Eve's angle was often standing over the dead with blood on her boots. It
occurred to her now she hadn't taken Mira's state of mind into consideration
that night at the theater. She had simply drafted her onto the team and used
her as it seemed most efficient.

“I'm sorry. I
didn't think of it. I never gave you a choice.”

“You had no
reason to think of it. And at the time, neither did I.” She shook it off,
lifted her tea. “You were backstage and at work very quickly. How soon did you
realize the knife was real?”

“Not soon
enough to stop it. That's what counts. I've started my interviews,
concentrating on the actors first.”

“Yes, the
crime's steeped in theatrics. The method, the timing, the staging.” More
comfortable with the analytical distance, Mira ran the scene in her mind. “An
actor or someone who aspires or aspired to be one fits the profile. On the
other hand, the murder was clean, well produced, carefully executed. Your
killer is bold, Eve, but also cool-headed.”

“Would they
have needed to see it happen?”

“Yes, I think
so. To see it, under the lights, on the stage, with the audience gasping in
shock. That, in my opinion, was as important to this individual as Draco's
death. The thrill of it and the ensuing act. Their own shock and horror, well
rehearsed.”

She
considered. “It was too well staged not to have been rehearsed. Draco was
touted as one of the greatest actors of our time. Killing him was one step.
Replacing him, even if only in the killer's mind, was an essential second.”

“You're saying
it was professionally motivated.”

“Yes, on one
level. But it was also very personal. If we look at an actor, or an aspiring
one, professional and personal motives could be easily blended.”

“The only one
to tangibly benefit from Draco's death, professionally, is Michael Proctor. The
understudy.”

“Logically,
yes. Yet everyone onstage or attached to that performance benefits. The media
attention, the names fixed in the minds of the public, that indelible moment in
time. Isn't that what an actor aspires to? The indelible moment?”

“I don't know.
I don't understand people who spend their lives being other people.”

“The work, the
skill, is in making the viewing audience believe they are other people. The
theater is more than a job to those who do it well, who devote their life to
it. It is, just as your job is to you, a way of life. And on the night Draco
was murdered, the spotlight shone a little brighter for everyone in that play.”

“In the play,
or involved with the play. Not in the audience.”

“With current
data, I can't eliminate audience members, but am more inclined toward a person
or persons closer to the stage.” Mira set her cup aside, laid a hand over
Eve's. “You're concerned about Nadine.”

Eve opened her
mouth, shut it again.

“Nadine's a
patient, and she's very open with me. I'm fully aware of her history with the
victim, and I'm fully prepared, should it become necessary, to give my
professional opinion that she isn't capable of planning and executing a violent
crime. If she'd wanted to punish Draco, she would have found a way to do so
through the media. She's capable of that, very capable.”

“Okay, good.”

“I've spoken
with her,” Mira went on. “I know you're interviewing her formally today.”

“After I leave
here. Just me, Nadine, and her lawyer. I want it on record that she came to me
with the information. I can bury the statement for a few days, give her some
breathing room.”

“That will
help.” But Mira scanned Eve's face, saw more. “What else?”

“Off the
record?”

“Of course.”

Eve took a sip
of the tea, then told Mira about the video disc in Draco's penthouse.

“She doesn't
know,” Mira said immediately. “She would have told me. It would have troubled
and infuriated her. Embarrassed her. He must have taped it without her
knowledge.”

“Then the next
line would be: What if he showed it to her when she went to see him the day he
was murdered?”

“Housekeeping
would have reported considerable damage to the suite, and Draco would have been
forced to seek emergency medical care before his performance.” Mira sat back.
“It's good to see you smile. I'm sorry you've been worried about her.”

“She was shook
when we had our meet. Really shook.” Eve pushed out of the chair, wandered to
the mood screen, and watched the waves ebb and flow. “I've got too many people
buzzing in my ears. It's distracting.”

“Would you go
back to your life as it was a year ago, Eve? Two years ago?”

“Parts of it
were easier. I got up in the morning and did my job. Maybe hung out with Mavis
a couple of times a week.” She blew out a breath. “No, I wouldn't go back.
Doesn't matter anyway. I'm where I am. So ... back to Draco.”

Eve continued.
“He was a sexual predator.”

“Yes, I read
your updated report just before you arrived. I will agree that sex was one of
his favored weapons. But it wasn't the sex itself that fulfilled him. It was
the control, the package of his looks, his style, his talent, and sexuality
used to control women. Women whom he considered his playthings. And through
them, showing his superiority to other men. He was obsessed with being the
center.”

“And the
illegal? A guy uses Rabbit on a woman because he doesn't think he's going to
score with her. It takes away her right to choose.”

“Agreed, but
in this case, I would say it was just another prop to him. No different in his
mind than candlelight and romantic music. He believed himself a great lover,
just as he knew himself to be a great actor. His indulgences, in his mind, were
no more than his right as a star. I'm not saying that sex doesn't play a part
in the motive, Eve. I believe, in this case, you have layers and layers of
motives, and a very complex killer. Very likely every bit as egocentric as the
victim.”

“Two of a
kind,” Eve murmured.

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

He had it
figured. Actors, they thought they were so fucking brilliant, so special, so
important. Well, he could've been an actor if he'd really wanted. But it was
just like his father had always told him. You work backstage, you work forever.

Actors, they
came and they went, but a good stagehand never had to go looking for work.

Linus Quim had
been a stagehand for thirty years. For the last ten, he'd been top dog. That's
why he'd been offered the head job at the New Globe, that's why he pulled in
the highest wage the union could squeeze out of the stingy bastards of
management.

And even then,
his pay didn't come close to what the actors raked in.

And where
would they be without him?

That was going
to change now. Because he had it figured.

Pretty shortly
the New Globe was going to be looking for a new head stagehand. Linus Quim was going
to retire in style.

When he
worked, he kept his eyes and his ears open. He studied. Nobody knew what was
what and who was what to who in a theater company the way Linus Quim knew.

Above all, he
was an expert on timing. Cues were never missed when Linus was in charge.

He knew the
last time he'd seen the prop knife. Exactly when and where. And knowing that
left only one window of opportunity for the switch. And only one person, to
Linus's thinking, who could have managed it so slick. Could have had just
enough time to stick the dummy knife in Areena Mansfield's dressing room.

It had taken
guts, he'd give 'em that.

Linus stopped
by a corner glide-cart for a late-morning snack, loading down a pretzel with
bright yellow mustard.

“Hey!” The
operator snatched at the tube with a hand protected with ratty, fingerless
gloves. “You gonna use that much, you gonna pay extra.”

“Up yours,
wigwam.” Linus added another blob for the hell of it.

“You use twice
too much.” The operator, a battle-scarred Asian with less than three months on
the corner, danced in place on tiny feet. “You pay extra.”

Linus
considered squirting what was left in the tube in the man's pruney face, then
remembered his upcoming fortune. It made him feel generous. He dug a fifty-cent
credit out of his pocket, flipped it in the air.

“Now you can
retire,” he said as the operator snagged it on the downward arc.

He sucked at
the mustard-drowned pretzel as he strolled away.

He was a
little man, and skinny, too, but for the soccer ball-sized potbelly over his
belt. His arms were long for his height, and ropey with muscle. His face was
like a smashed dish badly glued back together, flat and round and cracked with
lines. His ex-wife had often urged him to spend a little of his hoarded savings
on some simple cosmetic repair.

Linus didn't
see the point. What did it matter how he looked when his job was, essentially,
not to be seen?

But he thought
he might spring for some work now. He was going to take himself off to Tahiti,
or Bali, or maybe even to one of the resort satellites. Bask in sun and sand
and women.

The half
million he'd be paid to keep his little observations to himself would pump up
his life's savings nicely.

He wondered if
he should have asked for more. He'd kept the payoff on the low end -- nothing an
actor couldn't scrape up, in Linus's opinion. He'd even be willing to take it
in installments. He could be reasonable. And the fact was, he had to admire the
guts and skill involved here, and the choice of target.

He'd never met
an actor he'd despised more than Draco, and Linus hated actors with almost
religious equality.

He stuffed the
rest of the pretzel in his mouth, wiped mustard from his chin. The letter he'd
sent would have been delivered first thing that morning. He'd paid the extra
freight for that. An investment.

The letter was
better than a 'link call or a personal visit. Those sorts of things could be
traced. Cops might have everybody's 'links bugged. He wouldn't put it past the
cops, who he distrusted nearly as much as actors.

He'd kept the
note simple and direct, he recalled.

I know what
you did and how you did it. good job. meet me at the theater, backstage, lower
level. eleven o'clock. I want $500,000. I won't go to the cops. He was a son of
a bitch anyway.

He hadn't
signed it. Everyone who worked with him knew his square block printing. He'd
had some bad moments worrying that the note would be passed to the cops, and
he'd be arrested for attempted blackmail. But he'd put that possibility away.

What was half
a million to an actor?

He used the
stage door, keying in his code. His palms were a little sweaty. Nerves and
excitement. The door closed behind him with a metallic, echoing clang. Then he
breathed in the scent of the theater, drew in the glorious silence of it. He
felt a tug at his heart, sharp and unexpected.

After today,
he'd be giving this up. The smells, the sounds, the lights, and lines. It was
all he'd really ever known, and the sudden realization of love for it rocked
him.

Didn't matter
a damn, he reminded himself, and turned to the stairs that led below the stage.
They had theaters on Tahiti if he wanted a busman's holiday. He could even
maybe open his own little regional place. A theater-casino palace.

That was a
thought.

The Linus Quim
Theater. Had a ring to it.

At the base of
the stairs, he turned right, down the twisty corridor. He was humming now,
happy in his own space, bubbling lightly with anticipation of what was to come.

An arm snaked
out, hooked around his neck. He yelped, more in surprise than fear, started to turn.

Fumes poured
into his mouth and nose. His vision blurred, his head rang. He couldn't feel
his extremities.

“What? What?”

“You need a
drink.” The voice whispered in his ear, friendly, comforting. “Come on, Linus,
you need a drink. I got the bottle out of your locker.”

His head
drooped down, weighing like a stone on his skinny neck. All he could see behind
his eyelids were bleeding colors. His feet shuffled over the floor as he was
gently led to a seat. He swallowed obediently when a glass was held to his
lips.

“There, that's
better, isn't it?”

“Dizzy.”

“That'll
pass.” The voice stayed soft and soothing. “You'll just feel very calm. The
tranq's mild. Hardly more than a kiss. You just sit there. I'll take care of
everything.”

“Okay.” He
smiled vaguely. “Thanks.”

“Oh, it's no
trouble.”

The noose had
already been prepared from a long length of rope culled from the fly floor.
Gloved hands slipped it smoothly around Linus's neck, snugged and straightened
it.

“How do you
feel now, Linus?”

“Pretty good.
Pretty damn good. I thought you'd be pissed.”

“No.” But
there was a sigh that might have been regret.

“I'm taking
the money and going to Tahiti.”

“Are you? I'm
sure you'll enjoy that. Linus, I want you to write something for me. Here's
your pen. That's the way. Here's the pad you always use to make your notes. You
never use an e-pad, do you?”

“Paper's good
enough for me, goddamn it.” He hiccupped, grinned.

“Of course.
Write this down, would you? 'I did it.' That's all you have to say. Just write
'I did it,' then sign your name. Perfect. That's just perfect.”

“I did it.” He
signed his name in a stingy little scrawl. “I figured it out.”

“Yes, you did.
That was very clever of you, Linus. Are you still dizzy?”

“Nope. I feel
okay. I feel fine. Did you bring money? I'm going to Tahiti. You did everybody
a favor by wasting that stupid bastard.”

“Thank you. I
thought so, too, Let's stand up now. Steady?”

“As a rock.”

“Good. Would
you do me a favor? Could you climb up the ladder here? I'd like you to loop
this end of the rope over that pole and tie it off. Nice and snug. Nobody ties
knots like a veteran stagehand.”

“Sure thing.”
He went up, humming.

On the ground,
his killer watched with heart-thrumming anticipation. There had been fear when
the note had arrived. Tidal waves of fear and panic and despair.

Those were
done now. Had to be done. Only mild irritation and the spur of challenge
remained.

How to deal
with it? The answer had come so smoothly, so clearly. Eliminate the threat,
give the police their killer. All in one stroke.

In moments,
only moments now, it would all be done.

“All tied
off!” Linus called. “She'll hold.”

“I'm sure. Oh
no, Linus, don't walk back down.”

Confused, he
shifted on the ladder, looked down at the smiling face below. “Don't walk
down?”

“No. Jump.
Jump off the ladder, Linus. Won't that be fun? Just like jumping into the
pretty blue water in Tahiti.”

“Like in
Tahiti? That's where I'm going once I'm flush.”

“Yes, like
Tahiti.” The laughter was delighted, encouraging. A careful ear might have heard
the strain beneath it, but Linus only laughed in return. “Come on, Linus. Dive
right in! The water's fine.”

He grinned,
held his nose. And jumped.

This time
death wasn't quiet. The panicked, kicking feet knocked the ladder down with a
thunderous clatter. It hit the bottle of brew in an explosion of glass. Choked
gasps forced their way through the tightened noose, became rattles. For
seconds, only seconds, but the air seemed to scream with them.

And then there
was only the faint creak of the rope swinging. Like the creak of a mast in high
seas, it was curiously romantic.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Weighing in
Mira's profile of the killer, the scales drop on the side of a performer. An
actor,” Eve continued. “Or someone who wants or wanted to be one.”

“Well, you got
your headliners.” Feeney stretched out his legs. “Your second string, your
extras. Add them all up, you still got more than thirty potentials. You add the
wanna-bes to that, and Christ knows.”

“We divvy them
up and cut them down. The same way Baxter should cut down audience members.”

Feeney spread
his lips in a grin. “We heard his whining all the way over in EDD.”

“Then my job
there is done. We factor in connections to the victim,” Eve went on, “placement
during the last act. We haul the most probables into Interview and start
sweating them.”

McNab shifted
in his chair, lifted a finger. “It's still possible that the killer was someone
in the audience. Somebody who knew Draco, had theater experience. Even working
Baxter and whoever he drags into it with him twenty-four/seven on probabilities
and backgrounds, it'll take weeks to eliminate.”

“We don't have
weeks,” Eve shot back. “This is high profile. Pressure's going to build on The
Tower,” she said, referring to the office of the commissioner. “That means it's
going to squeeze us, and squeeze us soon. We run the audience as Baxter passes
on potentials, and keep running them until we whittle it down. Meantime, we
focus on the stage.”

She moved to
the board where the stills of the murder scene, the body, the graphs and charts
from the probability scans and background checks run to date were already
tacked.

“This wasn't a
spree killing. It wasn't an impulse. It was planned, staged. It was performed.
And it was recorded. I've got copies of the discs for everyone. We're going to
watch the play, each of us, study it until we know the lines, the moves, so
well we could go on the road with it ourselves.

“It's about
twisting the law,” she murmured. “About playing with it. And in the end, it's
about a kind of justice. The murderer might see Draco's death that way. A kind
of justice.”

Feeney rattled
the sugared nuts in the bag in his pocket. “Nobody loved him.”

“Then we
figure out who hated him most.”

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

The boy's name
was Ralph, and he looked both terrified and excited. He wore a battered Yankees
jacket over his dull brown janitorial uniform. He either had a very bad haircut
or, Roarke supposed, was sporting some new fashion. Whichever, he was forced to
blow, sweep, or shake the ragged streams of dark hair out of his eyes on a
continual basis.

“I didn't
think you'd come yourself, sir.” Part of Ralph's panicked excitement came from
the idea of speaking face-to-face with the legendary Roarke. Everybody knew the
man was totally ice. “Orders are to report anything out of the ordinary to
control, so when I saw how the stage door wasn't locked and coded, I figured
how I should report it right off.”

“That's right.
Did you go inside?”

“Well, I...”
Ralph didn't see any point in admitting his over-active imagination hadn't let
him get two feet beyond the door. “I started to, you know. Then I saw how there
were lights on that aren't supposed to be on. I thought it was smarter to stay
out here and... be guarding the door, like.”

“Good
thinking.” Roarke crouched down, studied the locks, glanced up idly at the
security camera. Its indicator light was off, and it shouldn't have been. “Do
you usually work alone?”

“Oh no, sir.
But since, you know, the building's closed because of that guy getting dead and
stuff, my super asked one of the cleaning crew to volunteer for light
maintenance. With the whole deal on opening night, nobody ever got to cleaning
the bathrooms and stuff. The super, he said how the cops gave us clearance to
go back in since they got what they needed already.”

“Yes.” Roarke
had been informed only that morning that certain areas of the building were not
cleared.

“We're not
supposed to pass the police barriers onstage or back. Super said they'll give
you a bitch of a shock if you try to mess with them.”

“Super is
quite correct.”

“So, I'm just
supposed to deal with the bathrooms is all. I popped for it 'cause I can use
the money, you know?”

“Yes.” Roarke
straightened, smiled at the boy. “I know very well. Well then, Ralph is it?
We'll just go in and see what's what.”

“Sure.” There
was an audible gulp as Ralph stepped inside behind Roarke. “You know, they say
a murderer always returns, like, to the scene of his crime.”

“Do they?”
Roarke's voice was mild as he scanned the area. “You'll learn there's very
little always in the world, Ralph. But it's possible they could be right
this time around.”

The rooms
beyond the anteroom were dark, but there was a backwash of light shining up the
stairs from the lower level. Roarke started down, tucked a hand in his pocket
where he'd slipped a small, illegal-for-civilian-use stunner when he'd gotten
the call of a potential break-in.

He followed
the glow toward the under-stage area.

He smelled
home brew, the just-going-sour punch of it, and a nasty undertone he recognized
as death.

“Yes, I'm
afraid they're right this time,” he murmured, then turned the corner.

“Oh, shit. Oh,
man.” Ralph's voice jumped over the words, and his eyes goggled at the figure
dangling from a stout length of rope. “Is that a guy?”

“It was. If
you're going to be sick, there's no shame in it, but find another place.”

“Huh?”

Roarke glanced
back. The boy's face was sheet white, his eyes going glassy. To keep it simple,
Roarke simply pressed a hand on Ralph's shoulder and lowered him to the floor.
“Put your head down, take slow breaths. That's the way, son. You'll do fine.”

Turning from
the boy, Roarke walked to the hanged man. “Poor, stupid bastard,” he thought
aloud, and took out his palm 'link to call his wife.

“Dallas. What?
Roarke, I can't talk to you now. I'm up to my neck here.”

“Speaking of
necks. I'm looking at one now that's been considerably stretched. You'll need
to come to the theater, Lieutenant, lower level. I've found another body for
you.”

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

Death demanded
routine, even if the primary investigator's husband discovered the body.

“Can you
identify him?” she asked Roarke, and signaled for Peabody to record the scene.

“Quim. Linus
Quim. I checked the employment records after I called you. Head stagehand. He
was fiftysix. Divorced, no children. He lived on Seventh -- alone, according to
his file.”

“Did you know
him personally?”

“No.”

“Okay, stand
by. Peabody, get me a ladder. I don't want to use this one until we've done a
full sweep. Who's the kid?” she asked Roarke.

“Ralph Biden.
One of the janitorial team. He was going to work solo today, saw the stage door
was unlocked, and called it in.”

“Give me
times,” Eve demanded as she studied the angle of the fallen ladder, the pattern
of shattered glass from the broken brew bottle.

After one long
stare, Roarke took out his log. “He contacted maintenance control at eleven
twenty-three. I was alerted six minutes later and arrived on-scene at noon,
precisely. Is that exact enough to satisfy, Lieutenant?”

She knew the
tone and couldn't help it if he decided to be annoyed. Still, she scowled at
his back and he walked away to take a small stepladder from Peabody.

“Did you or
the kid touch anything?”

“I know the
routine.” Roarke set the ladder under the body. “Nearly as well as you by now.”

She merely
grunted, shouldered her field kit, and started up the ladder.

Hanging is an
unpleasant death, and the shell left behind reflects it. It bulges the eyes,
purples the face. He hadn't weighed more than one-twenty, Eve thought. Not
enough, not nearly enough for the weight to drop down fast and heavy and
mercifully snap his neck.

Instead, he'd
choked to death, slowly enough to be aware, to fight, to regret.

With hands
coated with Seal-It, she tugged the single sheet of cheap recycled paper out of
his belt. After a quick scan, she handed the paper down. “Bag it, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.
Self-termination?”

“Cops who jump
to conclusions trip over same and fall on their asses. Call for a Crime Scene
team, alert the ME we have an unattended death.”

Chastised,
Peabody pulled out her communicator.

Eve logged
time of death for the recorder and examined the very precise hangman's knot.
“Why self-termination, Officer Peabody?”

“Ah ...
subject is found hanged to death, a traditional method of self-termination, in
his place of employment. There is a signed suicide note, a broken bottle of
home brew with a single glass. There are no apparent signs of struggle or
violence.”

“First, people
have been hanged as an execution method for centuries. Second, we have no
evidence at this time the subject wrote the note found on-scene. Last, until a
full examination of the body is complete, we cannot determine if there are
other marks of violence. Even if there are not,” Eve continued, backing down
the ladder, “a man can be coerced into a noose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On. the
surface, it looks like self-termination. It's not our job to stop at the
surface and assume but to observe, record, gather evidence, and eventually
conclude.”

Eve stepped
away, studied the scene. “Why would a man come here to an empty theater; sit
and drink a glass of brew; write a brief note; fashion himself a nice, tidy
noose; secure it; walk up a ladder; then step off?”

Since she
understood she was expected to answer, Peabody gave it her best. “The theater
is his workplace. Self-terminators often take this step in their place of
employment.”

“I'm talking
about Quim, Linus. Specifics, Peabody, not generalities.”

“Yes, sir. If
he was responsible for Draco's death, which could be the meaning of the note,
he may have been overcome by guilt, and he returned here, to where Draco was
killed, balancing the scales by taking his own life under the stage.”

“Think of the
profile, Peabody. Think of the original crime and its method of execution. I
find calculation, ruthlessness, and daring. Tell me, where do you find guilt?”

With this, Eve
strode off to where Ralph was sitting, pale and silent in a corner.

“Screwed that
up,” Peabody muttered. “Big time.” She blew out a breath, trying not to be
embarrassed she'd had her wings pinned in front of Roarke. “She's pissed now.”

“She's angry.
Not at you, particularly,” Roarke added, “nor at me.” He looked back at the
corpse, the pathetic waste of it, and understood his wife perfectly. “Death
offends her. Each time. Every time she deals with it.”

“She'll tell
you that you can't take it personally.”

“Yes.” He
watched Eve sit beside Ralph, automatically shielding his view of death with
her body. “She'll tell you that.”

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

He could be
patient. Roarke knew how to wait, to choose his time and his place. Just as he
knew that Eve would seek him out, would find him, if for no other reason than
to assure herself he hadn't stuck his fingers too deeply into her work.

So he sat on
the stage, still dressed with the final courtroom set. An odd place for a man
with his background, he thought with some amusement, as he used his personal
palm computer to scan updated stock reports and revise a departmental memo.

He'd turned
the stage lights on, though that had simply been for convenience. When she
tracked him down, he sat in the dock under a cool blue spot, and he looked as
seductive as a condemned angel.

“They ever get
you that far?”

“Hmm?” He
glanced up. “You've seen my records. No arrests.”

“I've seen
what's left of your records after you played with them.”

“Lieutenant,
that's a serious accusation.” Still, a smile flirted with his mouth. “But no,
I've never had the pleasure of defending myself in a court of law on a criminal
matter. How's the boy?”

“Who? Oh.
Ralph. A little shaky.” She climbed the stairs to the dock. “I had a couple of
uniforms take him home. We shouldn't need to talk to him again. And after he
recovers, he'll have all his pals buying him a beer to hear the story.”

“Exactly so.
You're a fine judge of human nature. And how's our Peabody?”

“What do you
mean?”

“You're a good
teacher, Lieutenant, but a fierce one. I wondered if she'd recovered from the
bruising you gave her.”

“She wants to
make detective. She wants to work murders. First rule, you go on a scene, you don't
bring anything with you. No preconceptions, no conclusions. And you don't take
what you see at first glance on face value. You think Feeney didn't slap me
upside the head with that a few times when he was my trainer?”

“I imagine he
did and had plenty of bruises of his own when he hit the rock of it.”

“If that's a
fancy way of saying I'm hardheaded, it doesn't insult me. She'll learn, and
she'll think more carefully next time. She hates screwing up.”

He reached up
idly to brush his knuckles over her cheek. “I thought the same myself. Now, why
don't you think this is self-termination?”

“I didn't say
I didn't. There are a number of tests to be run. The ME will make the call.”

“I wasn't
asking for the medical examiner's opinion but yours.”

She started to
speak, then set her teeth and jammed her hands in her pockets. “You know what
that was down there? That was a fucking insult. That was a stage carefully set
for my benefit. Somebody thinks I'm stupid.”

Now he did
smile. “No. Someone knows you're smart -- very smart -- and took great care,
right down to the bottle of what will undoubtedly turn out to be Quim's own
home brew.”

“I've checked
his locker. You can still smell the stuff. He kept a bottle in there, all
right. What did he know?” she muttered. “Head stagehand? That means he'd have
to know where everything needs to be and when. People, props, the works.”

“Yes, I'd
assume so.”

“What did he
know?” she said again. “What did he see, what did he think? What did he die
for? He wrote down stuff in this little notebook. The handwriting on the death
note looks like a match. If the ME doesn't find something off, he's likely to
rule it self-termination.”

Roarke rose.
“You'll be working late.”

“Yeah. Looks
like.”

“See that you
eat something other than a candy bar.”

Her mouth went
grim. “Somebody stole my candy bars again.”

“The bastard.”
He leaned down, kissed her lightly. “I'll see you at home.”

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

If Eve's
preconception that theater people led richly bohemian lives had taken a dent
after a look at Michael Proctor's living quarters, it suffered a major blow
when she reached Linus Quim's excuse for an apartment.

“One step up
from street-sleeping.” She shook her head as she took her first scan of the
single, street-level room. The anti-burglar bars covering the two grimy,
arrow-slot windows were coated with muck and caged out whatever pitiful
sunlight might have struggled to fight its way into the gloom.

But bars and
muck weren't enough to keep out the constant clamor of street traffic or the uneasy
vibrations from the subway that ran directly under the ugly room.

“Lights on,”
she ordered and was rewarded with a flickering, hopeless yellow glow from the
dusty ceiling unit.

Absently, she
stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. It was colder inside than it was out in
the frisky, late-winter wind. The entire place, such as it was, smelled of old
sweat, older dust, and what she assumed was last night's dinner of hash and
beans.

“What did you
say this guy pulled down a year?” she asked Peabody.

Peabody pulled
out her PPC, scanned. “Union scale for his position is eight hundred and fifty
a show, with ascending hourly wage for put-ups, tear-downs, turnaround, and
overtime pay. Union takes a twenty-five percent bite for dues, retirement,
health plans, and blah-blah, but our guy still raked in about three hundred
thousand annually.”

“And chose to
live like this. Well, he was either spending it or stashing it somewhere.” She
strode across the bare floor to the computer unit. “This piece of crap's older
than the piece of crap I just got rid of. Computer on.”

It coughed,
wheezed, snorted, then emitted a sickly blue light. “Display financial records
for Quim, Linus.”

Password
required for data display...

“I'll give you
a password.” Halfheartedly, she rapped the unit with her fist and recited her
rank and badge number.

Privacy Act
protects requested data. Password required ...

“Peabody, deal
with this thing.” Eve turned her back on it and began riffling through the
drawers in a cabinet that had the consistency of cardboard. “Arena ball
programs,” she announced while Peabody tried to reason with the computer. “And
more notebooks. Our boy liked to bet on the games, which might explain where
his salary went. He's got it all written down here, wins and losses. Mostly losses.
Petty-ante stuff, though. Doesn't look like he was spine-cracker material.”

She moved on
to the next drawer. “Well, well, look at this. Brochures of tropical islands.
Forget the financials, Peabody. See if he went searching for data on Tahiti.”

She moved onto
the closet, pushed through a handful of shirts, feeling the pockets, checking
for hiding places in the two pairs of shoes.

As far as she
could see, the guy had kept nothing -- no mementos, no photographs, no personal
discs. Just his notebooks.

He had a
week's worth of clothes, obviously old, which included one wrinkled suit. His
cupboards turned up several dehydrated single packs of hash, several bottles of
brew, one jumbo bag of soy chips, as yet unopened.

She took the
bag out, frowned over it. “Why does a man so obviously tight with his money
spring for a jumbo bag of chips, then hang himself before he eats them?”

“Maybe he was
too depressed. Some people can't eat when they're depressed. Me, I head right
for the highest caloric content available.”

“Looks to me
like he ate last night and again this morning. Autopsy will confirm that, but
his recycler's overstaffed.” Wincing, she reached into the slot and pulled out
an empty bag. “Soy chips. My guess is he finished them off yesterday and had
his backup bag ready for his next nutritious meal. There's a half bottle of
brew chilling in his friggie box, and two backups in the cupboard.”

“Well, maybe .
.. Good call on Tahiti, Dallas.” Peabody straightened. “It was his last data
search. We've got pictures, tourist data, climate scans.” As she spoke, the
machine began to play exotic music, heavy on the drums. “And half-naked dancing
girls.”

“Why does our
urbanite do scans of faraway islands?” Eve walked back over, watched the native
women shake impressively in some tribal dance. “Computer, replay most recent
search for transpo choices and costs from New York City to Tahiti.”

Working . .
. Last search for transpo data initiated oh three thirty-five, twenty-eight
March, 2059, by Quim, Linus. Data as follows: Roarke Airlines offers the most
direct flights daily...

“Naturally,”
Eve said dryly. “Computer hold. Quim spent time just this morning researching
flights to Tahiti. Doesn't sound like a guy suffering from guilt and
depression. Computer, list Quim, Linus, passport and/or visa data.”

Working .
.. Quim, Linus: Request for passport initiated fourteen hundred hours,
twenty-six March, 2059.

“Going on a
trip, weren't you, Linus?” She stepped back. “What did you see, what did you
know?” she murmured. “And who were you going to tap for the money to pay for
your island vacation? Let's take this unit in to Feeney, Peabody.”

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

Eliza
Rothchild had made her debut on stage at the age of six months as a fretful
baby causing her parents distress in a drawing room comedy. The play had
flopped, but Eliza had been the critic's darling.

Her own mother
had pushed her, pulled her, from audition to audition. By the age of ten, Eliza
was a veteran of stage and screen. By twenty, she'd been a respected character
actress, with a room full of awards, homes on three continents, and her first
-- and last -- unhappy marriage behind her.

At forty,
she'd been around so long no one wanted to see her, including producers. She
claimed to be retired rather than used up, and had spent the next decade of her
life traveling, throwing lavish parties, and fighting excruciating boredom.

When the
opportunity arose to play the nagging nurse Miss Plimsoll in the stage
production of Witness, she'd pretended reluctance, allowed herself to be
wooed, and had privately wept copious tears of relief and gratitude.

She loved the
theater more than she had ever loved any man or any woman.

Now, as her
security screen announced the arrival of the police, she prepared to play her
role with dignity and discretion.

She answered
the door herself, a sternly attractive woman who didn't bother to disguise her
age. Her hair was a rich auburn threaded with silver. The lines around her
hazel eyes fanned out without apology. She wore a hip-skimming tunic and
sweeping trousers over a short, sturdy body. She offered Eve a hand glittering
with rings, smiled coolly, and stepped back.

“Good
afternoon,” she said in her smooth voice that held the granite of New England.
“It's comforting to see the police are prompt.”

“I appreciate
your time, Ms. Rothchild.”

“Well, I don't
really have a choice, do I, but to give it to you.”

“You're free
to speak through or with a lawyer or representative.”

“Of course. My
lawyer is standing by, should I decide to do so.” She gestured toward the living
area. “I know your husband, Lieutenant. Quite the most fatally attractive man
I've ever encountered. He may have told you I was reluctant to come out of
retirement and accept the role of Miss Plimsoll. But quite frankly, I couldn't
resist him.”

She smiled
again, sat in an elegant high-backed chair with a tapestry seat, rested her
elbows on the wide arms, folded her hands. “Who could?”

“Roarke
persuaded you to come out of retirement.”

“Lieutenant,
I'm sure you're aware there's nothing Roarke couldn't talk a woman into. Or out
of.”

Her eyes
measured and judged Eve, then shifted idly to Peabody. “Still, you're not here
to discuss Roarke but another fatally attractive man. Though, in my opinion,
Richard lacked your husband's charm and underlying ... we'll say decency, for
lack of a better word.”

“Were you and
Richard Draco involved romantically?”

Eliza blinked
several times, then laughed. The sound was a steady, bubbling gurgle. “Oh, my
dear girl, should I be flattered or insulted? Oh me.”

With a sigh,
she patted her breast, as if the bout of humor had been a strain on the heart.
“Let me say that Richard would never have wasted that particular area of his
skills on me. Even when we were young, he considered me much too plain, too
physically ordinary. 'Too intellectual,' I believe was one of his terms. He
considered cultural intellect a flaw in a woman.”

She paused, as
if realizing she'd gone too far in the wrong direction, then opted to finish it
out. “Gallantry was not one of his talents. He often made snide little jokes
about my lack of appeal. I chose to be neither amused nor offended as what it
came down to was simple. We were of an age, you see. Which meant I was years
too old for his taste. And if I may say, several notches too self-reliant. He
preferred the young and the vulnerable.”

And that, Eve
thought, had come out in a flood, as if it had been dammed up quite some time.
“Then your relationship with him would have been strictly professional?”

“Yes. We
certainly socialized. Theater people tend to be an incestuous little group --
metaphorically, and literally as well, I suppose. We attended many of the same
parties, performances, and benefits over the years. Never as a couple. We were
civil enough, as we both knew he wasn't interested in me in a sexual manner, it
took away that tension.”

“Civil,” Eve
repeated. “But not friendly.”

“No, I can't
claim we were ever friendly.”

“Can you tell
me where you were on opening night, between the scenes that took place in the
bar and the courtroom? The scene where Christine Vole is called back as a
witness.”

“Yes, of
course, as it's as much a routine as what I do onstage. I went back to my
dressing room to check my makeup. I prefer doing my own makeup, as most of us
do. Then I was backstage for a time. My next scene has me in the balcony,
watching the courtroom -- and Sir Wilfred -- along with the character of Diana
and a number of extras.”

“Did you see
or speak with anyone between those scenes?”

“I'm sure I
did.” Eliza lifted her fingers, making a little steeple. Then collapsed them.
“A number of the technical crew would have been backstage, and I might have
exchanged a word or two. Carly and I passed each other.”

“Passed each
other?”

“Yes. As I was
coming out of my dressing room, she was going toward hers. Hurriedly, as our
cue was coming up shortly. Did we speak?”

She paused,
pursing her lips, searching the ceiling as if for the memory. “I believe we
did. She made some offhand complaint about Richard. I think she said he'd given
her ass a bit of a pinch or pat. It annoyed her, as well it should, given his
treatment of her.”

She continued
to sit, regally, her eyes bright and fixed on Eve's. “I find it hard to
sympathize, as she's smart enough to know better than to get involved with a
man of his nature. I believe I made just that sort of comment to Kenneth before
I started up to the second level of the set to take my mark.”

“You saw him
as well.”

“Yes, pacing
about, muttering to himself. He often does so before a scene. I couldn't tell
you if he heard me or noticed. Kenneth tries to stay in character and he works
very hard to ignore Nurse Plimsoll.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well, I...
Yes, I saw Michael Proctor. He was in the wings. I'm sure he was dreaming of
the night when he might have his chance to play Vole. Not that I believe for a
moment he arranged to do so. He has such a helpless air, doesn't he? I can see
this business devouring him whole in another year or so.”

“And Areena
Mansfield. Did you see her as well?”

“Certainly.
She made the dash to her dressing room. She had a full costume and makeup
change between those scenes. She raced right past me. But honestly, Lieutenant,
if you want the positions and activities of the cast between scenes, you don't
want to talk to one of us. You want Quim. He's head stagehand, a rumpled little
man with sneaky eyes that miss little to nothing. He's everywhere.”

“Not anymore,”
Eve said quietly. “Linus Quim was found hanged this morning in the theater.
Lower level.”

For the first
time, Eliza's polished veneer cracked. Her hand went to her heart, trembled
there. “Hanged?” The well-trained voice was husky on the single word. “Hanged?”
she repeated. “There must be a mistake. Who would kill a harmless little toad
like Quim?”

“It appeared
to be self-termination.”

“Nonsense.”
Eliza got to her feet. “Why, that's nonsense. It takes great bravery or great
cowardice to end your own life. He had neither. He was just an irritating
little man, one who did his job well and never seemed to enjoy it. If he's
dead, someone killed him. That's two,” she said almost to herself. “Two deaths
in the theater. Tragedies come in threes. Who's next?”

She shuddered,
lowered herself to her chair again. “Someone's killing us.” The avid interest
in her eyes was gone, the play of amusement around her mouth turned down to
worry. “There's another play, Lieutenant Dallas, by the late Dame Christie. And
Then There Were None. Ten people, subtly linked, who are murdered one at a
time. I don't intend to have a role in it. You have to stop this.”

“I intend to.
Is there a reason anyone would wish you harm, Ms. Rothchild?”

“No. No. I
have no enemies on the scope that leads to murder. But there will be at least
one more. It's theater, and we're a superstitious lot. If there's two, there
must be three. There will be three,” she said. “Unless you do something about
it.”

She jolted
when her security beeped. The lobby clerk's face came cheerfully on-screen.
“Ms. Landsdowne is here to see you, Ms. Rothchild. Shall I send her up?”

“I'm engaged
at the moment,” she began, but Eve held up a hand.

“Please, have
her come up.”

“I -- “ Eliza
lifted a hand to her hair, patted it. “Yes, yes, please send her up.”

“Does Carly
often drop by?” Eve asked.

“Not really.
She's been here, of course. I enjoy entertaining. I don't recall her simply popping
in this way. I'm really not up to chatting with her at the moment.”

“That's all
right. I am. I'll get the door,” Eve said when the buzzer sounded.

Eve took a
moment to study Carly's face on the security screen. Frantic would have been
her description. She watched it change to shock, then smooth out quickly to
careless curiosity after she opened the door.

“Lieutenant. I
didn't realize you were here. Apparently I've chosen a bad time to pay a call
on Eliza.”

“Saves me
tracking you down for a follow-up interview.”

“Too bad I
don't have my lawyer in my pocket.” She stepped inside. “I was just out
shopping and decided to drop by.” She caught Eve's speculative look at her
empty hands. “I had a few things sent on to my apartment. I do hate lugging
parcels. Eliza.”

Carly swept
in, arms spread, and met Eliza in the center of the living area. They exchanged
light hugs and double-cheeked air kisses. “I didn't realize you were
entertaining the NYPSD. Shall I leave you alone?”

“No.” Eliza
gripped her arm. “Carly, the lieutenant's just told me Quim's dead. Linus
Quim.”

“I know.”
Turning, she linked arms with Eliza. “I caught the news on-screen.”

“I thought you
were shopping.”

“I was.” Carly
nodded at Eve. “There was a young man entertaining himself with a palm unit while
his young woman tried on half the wardrobe in sportswear and separates. I heard
the name.”

She lifted a
hand, appeared to struggle with herself briefly. “It upset me -- panicked me,
frankly. I didn't know what to think when I heard the report. I was just a few
blocks away, and I came here. I wanted to tell someone who'd understand.”

“Understand
what?” Eve prompted.

“The report
said it's believed his death is linked to Richard's. I don't see how it could
be. Richard never took notice of techs or crew. As far as he was concerned, the
sets were dressed and changed by magic. Unless there was a problem. Then he'd
abuse them verbally or physically. Quim never missed a cue, so Richard wouldn't
have known he existed. How could there be a link?”

“But you
noticed him?”

“Of course.
Creepy little man.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Eliza, I hate to impose, but
I could really use a drink.”

“I could use
one myself,” she decided and rang for a serving droid.

“Did you
notice Quim on opening night?” Eve asked.

“Just that he
was doing what he did in his usual silent, scowling way.”

“Did you speak
to him?”

“I may have. I
don't recall. I'd like a vodka, rocks,” Carly added when the droid appeared. “A
double.”

“You didn't
appear this upset when Draco was killed, and in front of your eyes.”

“I can think
of a dozen reasons any number of people would want to kill Richard,” Carly
snapped back.

“Including
yourself.”

“Yes.” She
took the glass from the droid, took one quick sip. “Most definitely including
myself. But Quim changes everything. If their deaths are connected, I want to
know. Because the idea scares me.”

“Tragedies
happen in threes,” Eliza stated, her voice round and full and passionate.

“Oh, thanks,
darling. Just what I needed to hear.” Carly lifted her glass, drained the
contents.

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

“Weird. These
people are fucking weird.” Eve got in her vehicle and headed back to Central.
“One of their associates gets stuck in the heart basically at their feet, and
they're like -- my goodness, would you look at that. A tech is hanged, and they
fall apart.”

She flipped on
her car link and contacted Feeney.

“No home 'link
calls in or out in a forty-eight-hour period,” he reported. “No calls to anyone
on your list, period. He had biweekly contact with a bookie for bets on arena
ball, kept it under the legal limit.”

“Tell me
something interesting, I'm dozing off here.”

“He put a hold
on a royal-class ticket to Tahiti but didn't book it. One way, heading out a
week from Tuesday. Also put a hold on a VIP suite at the Island Pleasure
Resort. A full month's stay. Made some inquiries about real estate, looking
into some cliff-side house in the neighborhood of two mil. The guy's financials
add up to about a quarter of that. The ticket and the suite would have gobbled
most of that up.”

“So he was
looking to come into a nice pile.”

“Or he was a
hell of a dreamer. Can't find anything on his unit to indicate he did previous
scans, you know, like a hobby.”

“Blackmailing
a murderer might net you a nice pile.”

“Or a noose,”
Feeney added.

“Yeah. I'm
heading by the morgue to nag Morse.”

“Nobody does
it better,” Feeney said before Eve cut him off.

CHAPTER NINE

“Ah,
Lieutenant Dallas.” Chief Medical Examiner Morse's dark eyes glittered behind
his microgoggles. Above the serviceable lenses, his eyebrows arched in two
long, slim triangles. At the peak of the left was a small, shiny silver hoop.

He snapped his
fingers, held out his sealed hand, palm up. A grumbling assistant flipped a
twenty-dollar credit into it. “Dallas, you never disappoint me. You see,
Rochinsky, never bet against the house.”

The credit
disappeared into one of the pockets of his puke-green protective jumpsuit.

“Win a bet?”
Eve asked.

“Oh, yes
indeed. A small wager with my associate that you would show up in our happy
home before five P.M.”

“It's nice to
be predictable.” She looked down at the middle-aged, mixed-race woman currently
stretched out under Morse's laser scalpel. The Y cut had already been made.

“That's not my
dead guy.”

“Very
observant. Meet Allyanne Preen, Detective Harrison's dead gal, who was several
slots ahead of yours. Licensed companion, street level. She was found stretched
out in an abandoned '49 Lexus coupe, in the great automotive morgue we call
long-term parking, La Guardia.”

“Trouble with
a John?”

“No outward
signs of violence, no recent sexual encounters.” He scooped out her liver,
weighed and logged it.

“She's got a
faint blue tinge to her skin.” Eve bent down to examine the hands. “Most
noticeable under the nails. Looks like an OD, probably Exotica and Jumper.”

“Very good.
Any time you want to switch to my side of the slab, just let me know. I can
promise, we have a lot more fun around here.”

“Yeah, word's
out on you party animals.”

“The reports
of the Saint Patrick's Day celebration in the ice room were ...” His eyes
laughed behind his goggles. “Accurate.”

“Sorry I
missed it. Where's my guy? I need his tox report.”

“Mmm-hmm.”
Morse poked at a kidney before removing it. His hands were quick and skilled
and seemed to keep time to the beat of the rebel rock music playing over the
speakers. “I assumed you'd be in a hurry. I gave your guy to young Finestein.
He just started here last month. Has potential.”

“You gave mine
to some rookie?”

“We were all
rookies once, Dallas. Speaking of which, where's the stalwart Peabody?”

“She's
outside, doing some runs. Listen, Morse, this is a tricky one.”

“So they say,
all the time, every time.”

“I'm betting
on homicide, but it was set up to look like self-termination. I need good hands
and eyes on my guy.”

“I don't take
on anyone without them. Relax, Dallas. Stress can kill you.” Unruffled, he
strolled over to a 'link, put out a call for Herbert Finestein. “He'll be right
along. Rochinsky, run this young lady's internals to the lab. Start the blood
work.”

“Morse, I've
got two bodies, and the probability is that they're linked.”

“Yes, yes, but
that's your area.” He wandered to a detox bowl, washed the soiled sealant from
his hands, ran them under the radiant heat in the drying hood. “I'll look over
the boy's work, Dallas, but give him a chance.”

“Yeah, yeah,
fine.”

Morse pulled
off his goggles and mask, smiled. His black hair was intricately braided to
hang down to the middle of his back. He disposed of his protective suit to
reveal the stunning pink of his shirt and electric blue of his trousers.

“Nice
threads,” Eve said dryly. “Going to another party?”

“I'm telling
you, every day's a party around here.”

She imagined
he habitually chose snazzy clothes to distance himself from the starkness of
his job, the brutality of it. Whatever works, Eve thought. Wading
through blood and gore and the misery human beings inflicted on each other on a
daily basis wore on you. Without an escape valve, you'd explode.

And what was
hers?

“And how's
Roarke?” Morse asked.

“Good. Fine.”
Roarke. Yes, he was hers. Before him there had just been work. Only been work.
And would she have, one day, reached the limit, felt her own soul shatter?

Hell of a
thought.

“Ah, here's
Finestein. Be nice,” Morse murmured to Eve.

“What am I?”

“An
ass-kicker,” Morse said pleasantly and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder.
“Herbert, Lieutenant Dallas would like an update on the DOS I assigned to you
this afternoon.”

“Yes, the Dead
on-Scene. Quim, Linus, white male, fifty-six years. Cause of death
strangulation by hanging.” Finestein, a skinny mixed race with black skin and
pale eyes, spoke in quick, piping tones and fiddled nervously with a small
forest of pencils tucked in a breast pocket protector.

Not only a
rookie, Eve thought with frustration,
a nerd rookie.

“Did you want
to review the body?”

“I'm standing
here, aren't I?” Eve began, then relented with a quick gnashing of teeth when
Morse's long fingers squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, thank you, I'd like to review
the body and your report. Please.”

“Just this
way.”

Eve rolled her
eyes at Morse as Finestein hurried across the room. “He's fucking twelve years
old.”

“He's
twenty-six. Patience, Dallas.”

“I hate
patience. Slows everything down.” But she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling
line of drawers, waited while Finestein uncoded one, pulled it open with a
frigid puff of cold gas.

“As you can
see...” Finestein cleared his throat. “There are no marks of violence on the body
other than those caused by the strangulation. No offensive or defensive wounds.
There were microscopic fibers of the rope found under the subject's nails,
indicating he secured the rope personally. By all appearances, the subject
willingly hanged himself.”

“You're
handing me self-termination?” Eve demanded. “Just like that? Where's the tox
report, the blood work?”

“I'm -- I'm
getting to that, Lieutenant. There were traces of ageloxite and -- “

“Give her the
street names, Herbert,” Morse said mildly. “She's a cop, not a scientist.”

“Oh, yes, sir.
Sorry. Traces of um . . . Ease-Up were found in the victim's system, along with
a small amount of home brew. This mix is quite commonly ingested by
self-terminators to calm any nerves.”

“This guy
didn't pull his own plug, damn it.”

“Yes, sir, I
agree.” Finestein's quiet agreement cut off Eve's tirade before it could begin.

“You agree?”

“Yes. The
victim also ingested a large pretzel with considerable mustard less than an
hour before death. Prior to this, he enjoyed a breakfast of wheat wafers,
powdered eggs, and the equivalent of three cups of coffee.”

“So?”

“If the
subject knew enough to mix a cocktail of Ease-Up and alcohol before
termination, he would have known that coffee can potentially counteract and
cause anxiety. This, and the fact that the alcohol consumed was in very small
proportion to the drug casts some doubt on self-termination.”

“So, you're
ruling homicide.”

“I'm ruling
suspicious death -- undetermined.” He swallowed as Eve's eyes bored into him.
“Until more evidence weighs in on either side, I feel it's impossible to make
the call.”

“Just so. Well
done, Herbert.” Morse nodded. “The lieutenant will feed you details as she
finds them.”

Finestein
looked relieved, and lie fled.

“You give me
nothing,” Eve complained.

“On the
contrary. Herbert's given you a window. Most MEs would have slammed it shut,
ruling ST. Instead, he's cautious, exacting, and thorough, and he considers the
attitude of the victim rather than only the cold facts. Medically, undetermined
was the best you were going to get.”

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

“Undetermined,”
Eve muttered as she slid behind the wheel.

“Well, it
gives us a window.” Peabody glanced up from her palm unit, caught the coldly
narrowed stare Eve aimed at her. “What? What did I say?”

“Next person
says that, I'm throwing them out the goddamn window.” She started the
car. “Peabody, am I an ass-kicker?”

“Are you
asking to see my scars, or is that a trick question?”

“Shut up,
Peabody,” Eve suggested, and headed back to Central.

“Quim had a
hundred on tonight's arena ball game.” Peabody's smile was thin and
self-satisfied. “McNab just relayed the data. A hundred's his top bet. Odd he'd
place a bet a few hours before offing himself, then not even wait around to see
if he won. I've got the name and address of his bookie here. Oh, but I'm
supposed to shut up. Sorry, sir.”

“You want more
scars?”

“I really
don't. Now that I have a sex life, they're embarrassing. Maylou Jorgensen.
She's got a hole in the West Village.”

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

Peabody loved
the West Village. She loved the way it ran from bohemian chic to pinstriped
drones who wanted to be bohemian chic. She liked to watch the street traffic
stroll by in ankle dusters or buttoned-up jumpsuits. The shaved heads, the wild
tangles of multicolored curls. She liked watching the sidewalk artists pretend
they were too cool to worry about selling their work.

Even the
street thieves had a veneer of polish.

The glide-cart
operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.

She thought
longingly of dinner.

Eve pulled up
in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On
Duty sign.

“One of these
days, I'd like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the
street.” Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. “Look, there's a
nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other.”

“You look for
living quarters due to the proximity of food?”

“It's a
consideration.”

Eve flashed
her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The
tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.

“Four units in
a building this size.” Peabody heaved a sigh. “Imagine.”

“I'm imagining
a bookie shouldn't be able to afford a place in here.” On a hunch, Eve bypassed
the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. “We'll go up
this way, surprise Maylou.”

The building
was utterly silent, telling her the soundproofing was first-rate. She thought
of Quim's miserable flop a few telling blocks away. Bookies apparently did a
lot better than the majority of their clients.

“Never bet
against the house,” Morse had said.

Truer words.

She pressed
the buzzer on 2-A, waited. Moments later, the door swung open in front of an
enormous redhead and a small, white, yapping dog.

“About time
you -- “ The woman blinked hard gold eyes, narrowed them in a wild and striking
face the tone and texture of alabaster. “I thought you were the dog walker.
He's late. If you're selling, I'm not buying.”

“Maylou Jorgensen?”

“So what?”

“NYPSD.” Eve
held up her badge then found her arms full of barking fur.

“Well, hell.”
Eve tossed the yelping dog at Peabody, then charged into the loft. Leaping, she
tackled the redhead as the woman scrambled for a wide console, studded with
controls and facing a wall of busy screens.

They went down
like felled trees.

Before Eve
could catch her breath, she was flipped to her back, pinned under a hundred
eighty-five pounds of panicked female. She took a knee to the groin, spit in
the eye, and only through lightning reflexes managed to avoid the rake of
inch-long blue nails down her face.

Instead, they
dug rivers in the side of her neck.

The smell of
her own blood irritated her.

She bucked
once, swore, then swung up, elbow in the lead. It slammed satisfactorily into
Maylou's white face. Her nose erupted with blood.

She said,
quite clearly: “Eek!”

Her gold eyes
rolled up white, and her considerable weight flopped lifelessly on Eve.

“Get her off
of me, for Christ's sake. There's a ton of her, and all of it's smothering me.”

“Give me a
hand. Dallas, she's like a slab of granite. Must be six-three. Push!”

Sweating,
liberally sprayed with blood, Eve shoved. Peabody pulled. Eventually, Maylou
was rolled onto her back, and Eve came up, gasping for air. “It was like being
buried under a mountain. Jesus, shut that dog up.”

“I can't. He's
terrified.” Peabody glanced over, with some sympathy, as the little dog backed
his white butt into a corner and sent out high, ear-piercing barks.

“Stun it.”

“Oh, Dallas.”
Peabody's tone was a whisper of utter horror.

“Never mind.”
Eve looked down at the blood spray on her shirt and jacket, gingerly lifted a
hand to her raw neck. “Is much of this mine?”

“She made some
mag grooves,” Peabody announced after a quick exam. “I'll get the first aid
kit.”

“Later.” Eve
crouched down, frowned at the unconscious woman. “Let's roll her over and get
the restraints on her before she wakes up.”

It took some
time, brought on more sweat, but they managed to secure her wrists behind her
back. Eve straightened, studied the console.

“She's got
something going on here. Thought we were a bust. Let's see what I remember
about Vice and Bunko.”

“Do you want
me to call for a warrant?”

“Here's my
warrant.” Eve rubbed her fingers over her throbbing neck as she sat at the
console. “Lots of numbers, lots of games. So what? Names, accounts, bets
wagered, money owed. Looks clean enough on the surface.” She glanced back. “Is
she coming around yet?”

“Dead out,
sir. You knocked her cold.”

“Go find
something to stuff in that dog's mouth before I use my foot.”

“He's just a
little dog,” Peabody murmured and went to search out the kitchen.

“Too many
numbers,” Eve said to herself. “The pool's too damn deep for a nice little
betting parlor. Loan-sharking. Yeah, I bet we got some loan-sharking here, and
where you got sharks, you've got spine crackers. What else, what else?”

She turned,
saw Peabody cooing to the dog and holding out a biscuit of some kind. Eve
slipped out her pocket-link and called the one person she knew who could cut
through the ocean of numbers and ride the right wave.

“I need Roarke
a minute.” She hissed it to his assistant when she came on-screen. “Just one
quick minute.”

“Of course,
Lieutenant. Hold please.”

“There's a
sweet little dog, there's a nice little doggie. Aren't you pretty?”

Instead of
razzing Peabody over the baby talk, Eve left her at it.

“Lieutenant.”
Roarke's face filled the screen. “What can I -- “ Instantly his easy smile
vanished, and his eyes were bright and hard. “What happened, how badly are you
hurt?”

“Not much. Mostly
it's somebody else's blood. Look, I'm in a private betting parlor, and
something's off. I've got some ideas, but take a quick look, give me your
take.”

“All right, if
your next stop is a health center.”

“I haven't got
time for a health center.”

“Then I
haven't time for a consult.”

“Goddamn it.”
She was tempted just to cut transmission, but took a steadying breath instead.
“Peabody's going to get the first aid kit. I got a couple of scratches, that's
all. I swear.”

“Turn your
head to the left.”

She rolled her
eyes but complied.

“Get them seen
to.” He snapped it out, then shrugged as if in acceptance. “Let me see what
you're looking at.”

“Lots of
numbers. Different games,” she began as she turned her unit so that he'd have
her view. “Arena ball, baseball, the horses, the droid rats. I think the third
screen from the right is -- “

“Overdue loans
on bets. Interest compounded well above legal limits. The screen directly below
is outlay, for loan collection. On the screen beside that, you have what looks
like private games -- casino style. Look on your console, see if you find a
control that's linked to that screen. If it's simple, it'll be something like
3-C, for the placement of the screen in the grid.”

“Yeah, here.”

“Give it a
flip. Ah,” he said as the screen switched to monitor and played a busy casino,
full of smoke and tables and glassy-eyed patrons. “What kind of building are
you in?”

“Loft, West
Village, two levels, four units.”

“I wouldn't be
surprised if the other level isn't very busy at this moment.”

“This area
isn't zoned for gambling.”

“Well then.”
He grinned at her. “Shame on them.”

“Thanks for
the tip.”

“My pleasure,
Lieutenant. See to that injury, Darling Eve, or I'll be seeing to it myself
first chance. I won't be happy with you.”

He cut her off
before she could make some snippy remark, which she figured was just as well.
She turned and caught Peabody, the little white dog nestled in her arms,
watching her with speculation.

“He knows a
lot about illegal gambling runs.”

“He knows a
lot about legal ones, too. He gave us a lever with Maylou here. Do you care how
or why?”

“No.” Peabody
rubbed her cheek on the dog's fur, smiled. “It's just interesting. You going to
bust the operation?”

“That's going
to depend on Maylou here.” Eve rose as the woman began to moan and stir. She
made bubbling sounds, coughed, then began to buck, her enormous butt humping
up, her surprisingly small feet kicking.

Eve simply
crouched down. “Assaulting an officer,” she began in an easy voice. “Resisting
arrest, loan-sharking, spine cracking, running an illegal gambling facility.
How's that for starters, Maylou?”

“You broke my
nose.”

At least
that's what Eve assumed she said as the words were muffled and slurred. “Yep,
looks like.”

“You have to
call the MTs. It's the law.”

“Interesting,
you refreshing me on the law. I think we can hold off on the broken nose a
little while. Of course, the broken arm's going to need attention.”

“I don't have
a broken arm.”

“Yet.” Eve
bared her teeth. “Now, Maylou, if you want medical attention and want me to
consider looking the other way as regards your enterprise downstairs, tell me
all there is to tell about Linus Quim.”

“You're not
here to bust me?”

“That's up to
you. Quim.”

“Penny-ante.
Not a gambler, he just plays at it. Like a hobby. He's lousy at it. Costs him
an average of a hundred K a year. Never bets more than a hundred bills
straight, and usually half that, but he's regular. Jesus, my face is killing
me. Can't I have some Go-Numb?”

“When did you
talk to him last?”

“Last night.
He likes to do the e-betting deal rather than over the 'link. Transmits twice a
week, minimum. Last night, he laid a hundred on the Brawlers on tonight's arena
ball -- and that's rich, for him. Said he was feeling lucky.”

“Did he?” Eve
leaned closer. “Did he say that, exactly?”

“Yeah. He
says, put me down a hundred on the Brawlers for tomorrow night. I'm feeling
lucky. He even smiled, sort of. Said he was going to double it and let it ride
on the next night once he won.”

“In a good
mood, was he?”

“For Quim, he
was doing a happy dance. Guy's mostly a pain in the ass, a whiner. But he pays
up, and he's regular, so I got no beef with him.”

“Good thing.
Now, that wasn't so bad, was it, Maylou?”

“You're not
going to bust me?”

“I don't work
Vice or Bunko. You're not my problem.” She released the restraints, hooked them
in her back pocket. “If I were you, I'd call the MTs and tell them I walked
into a wall -- tripped over your little dog.”

“Squeakie!”
Maylou rolled over to her ample butt, threw open her arms. The dog leaped out
of Peabody's hold and into Maylou's lap. “Did the nasty cop hurt Mama's baby
girl?”

With a shake
of her head, Eve headed out. “Give it two weeks,” she told Peabody, “then call
Hanson in Vice and give him this address.”

“You said you
weren't going to bust her.”

“No, I said
she wasn't my problem. She's going to be Hanson's.”

Peabody
glanced back. “What's going to happen to the dog? Hey, and the apartment. Maybe
the bust will drive down the rent. You should see the kitchen, Dallas. It's
mag.”

“Keep dreaming.”
She got in the car, then scowled when Peabody popped the dash compartment.
“What are you doing?”

“First aid
kit.”

“Stay away
from me.”

“It's either
me or the health center.”

“I don't need
a health center. Don't touch me.”

“Stop being a
baby.” Enjoying the role of nurse, Peabody chose her tools. “Ass-kickers aren't
afraid of a little first aid kit. Close your eyes if you don't want to see.”

Trapped, Eve
gripped the wheel, closed her eyes. She felt the quick, biting sting of the
antiseptic before the numbing properties took hold. The smell of it spun in her
head, rolled into her belly.

She heard the
low hum of the suture wand.

She started to
make some sarcastic comment to take her mind off the annoyance of the
procedure. Then suddenly, she was sucked back.

The dim and
dingy health center ward. The hundreds of stings as hundreds of cuts were
treated. The vile buzz of the machines as her broken arm was examined.

“What's
your name? You have to give us your name. Tell us who hurt you? What's your
name? What happened to you?”

I don't
know. In her mind she screamed it,
again and again. But she lay still, she lay silent, trapped in terror as
strangers poked and prodded, as they stared and they questioned.

“What's
your name?”

“I don't
know!”

“Sir. Dallas. Hey.”

Eve opened her
eyes, stared into Peabody's wide ones. “What? What is it?”

“You're really
pale. Dallas, you look a little sick. Maybe we should swing by a health center
after all.”

“I'm all
right.” Her hands fisted hard until she felt herself steady again. “I'm okay.
Just need some air.” She ordered the window down, started the car.

And pushed the
helpless young girl back into the darkest corner of her mind.

CHAPTER TEN

Needs must
when the devil drives. I can't remember who said that, but I don't suppose it's
important. Whoever it was is long dead now. As Linus Quint is dead now.

Needs must.
My needs must. But who was the devil in this coupling? Foolish, greedy Quim or
myself?

Perhaps
that's not important either, for it's done. There can be no going back, no
staging events to another outcome. I can only hope events were staged
convincingly enough to satisfy those sharp eyes of Lieutenant Dallas.

She is an
exacting audience and, I fear, the most severe of critics.

Yes, with
her in the house, I fear. My performance must be perfection in every way. Every
line, every gesture, every nuance. Or her view will no doubt ruin me.

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

Motive and
opportunity, Eve thought as she
walked to her own front door. Too many people had both. Richard Draco would be
memorialized the next day, and she had no doubt there would be a lavish display
of grief, passionate and emotional eulogies, copious tears.

And it would
all be just another show.

He'd helped
seduce Areena Mansfield into drugs and put a smear on her rise to stardom.

He'd stood in
the spotlight Michael Proctor desperately wanted for his own.

He'd
humiliated and used Carly Landsdowne in a very public fashion.

He'd been a
splinter under the well-manicured fingernail of Kenneth Stiles.

He'd
considered Eliza Rothchild too old and unattractive to bother with.

There had been
others, so many others it was impossible to count, who had reason to wish
Richard Draco ill.

But whoever
had acted on it, planned and executed the murder, had enough cool, enough will
to have lured a greedy theater tech into a hangman's noose.

She wasn't
looking for brutality or rage but for cold blood and a clear mind. Those
qualities in a killer were much more difficult to root out.

She wasn't
moving forward, she thought with frustration. Every step she took simply pushed
her further into the artifice of a world she found mildly annoying.

What kind of
people spent their lives dressing up and playing make-believe?

Children. It
struck her as she closed her hand around the doorknob. On some level, wasn't
she looking for a very clever, very angry child?

She gave a
half laugh. Great. What she knew about children wouldn't fill the pinhole made
by a laser drill.

She flung open
the front door, intending to throw herself into a blisteringly hot shower, then
back into work.

The music
pierced her ears, rattled her teeth. She all but felt her eyes jiggle in her
head. It was a screech of sound, punctuated by a blast of noise, layered with
braying waves of chaos.

It was Mavis.

The irritable
mood that had come through the door with Eve didn't have a chance. It exploded
in the sheer volume and exuberance of Mavis Freestone's unique musical style.
Eve found herself grinning as she stepped up to the doorway of what Roarke
referred to as the parlor.

There in all
the splendor, the elegance, the antiquity, Mavis danced -- Eve supposed that
was the closest word for it -- bouncing and jiggling atop graduated stacked
heels that lifted her tiny frame a full six inches from the floor. Their
swirling pink and green pattern matched the hair that flew in yard-long braids
around her flushed, delighted face and fairy body.

Her slim legs
were green, with little pink butterflies fluttering up in a spiral pattern,
then disappearing under the tiny, flippy skirt of fuschia that barely covered
her crotch. Her torso was decorated in a crisscross of the two colors with one
pretty breast in pink, another in green.

Eve could only
be relieved that Mavis had chosen to go with the green for both eyes. You just
never knew.

Roarke sat in
one of his lovely antique chairs, a glass of straw-colored wine in one hand. He
was either relaxing into the show, Eve thought, or he'd lapsed into a
protective coma.

The music,
such as it was, crescendoed, led by a long, plaintive wail from the singer.
Blessed silence fell like a cargo ship of bricks.

“What do you
think?” Mavis tossed back the mop of bicolored braids. “It's a good follow-up
number for the new video. Not too tame, is it?”

“Ah.” Roarke
took a moment to sip his wine. There'd been a moment when he'd been mildly
concerned that the decibel level would shatter the crystal. “No. No indeed.
Tame isn't the word that comes to mind.”

“Mag!” She
bounced over, and her little butt wriggled with energy as she bent down to kiss
him. “I wanted you to see it first since you're, like, the money man.”

“Money always
bows to talent.”

If Eve hadn't
already loved him, she'd have fallen face first then and there, seeing the
absolute joy his words put in Mavis's eyes.

“It's so much fun!
The recordings, the concerts, the way iced costumes Leonardo gets to design
for me. It's hardly even like work. If it weren't for you and Dallas, I'd still
be scraping gigs at joints like the Blue Squirrel.”

She did a
quick spin as she spoke, spotted Eve, and beamed like sunshine. “Hey! I've got
a new number.”

“I heard.
Totally mag.”

“Roarke said
you'd be late, and you -- Oh wow, is that blood?”

“What? Where?”
Because her mind had switched channels, Eve whipped her gaze around the room
before Mavis leaped toward her.

“It's all over
you.” Mavis's panicked hands patted Eve's breasts, shoulders. “We should call a
doctor, a medi-unit. Roarke, make her lie down.”

“And there is
my constant goal in life.”

“Har har. It's
not my blood, Mavis.”

“Oh.”
Instantly, Mavis's hands jumped back. “Ick.”

“Don't worry,
it's dry. I was going to shower and change at Central, but I weighed the
potential of a piss stream of chilly water against a flood of hot and came home
instead. Got another of those around?” she asked Roarke with a nod toward his
wine.

“Absolutely.
Turn your head.”

She made a
sound of annoyance, but tilted her head to show the treated scratches already
healing.

“Man-o,” Mavis
said with admiration in her voice. “Somebody swiped you good. Musta had mag
nails.”

“But bad aim.
She missed the eyes.” She took the wine Roarke brought her. “Thanks for the tip
before,” she told him. “It panned out.”

“Happy to
oblige. Tilt your head up.”

“Why? I showed
you the nail rakes.”

“Up,” he
repeated, nudging it back himself with the tip of his finger, then closing his
mouth warm and firmly over hers. “As you can see, I have excellent aim.”

“Awwww. You
guys are so cute.” With her hands folded at breast level, Mavis beamed at them.

“Yeah, we're
just like a couple of puppies.” Amused, Eve sat on the arm of a sofa, sipped at
her wine. “It's a great new number, Mavis. All you.”

“You think? I
ran it for Leonardo, and now you two, but nobody else's seen it.”

“It's ...” Eve
remembered Whitney's comment. “Got juice.”

“That's what I
thought. Roarke, can I tell her?”

“Tell me
what?”

Mavis bit her
lip, looked to Roarke for agreement, then, at his nod, drew two deep breaths.
“Okay. My last disc cut, Curl Your Hair, Roarke got early word that it's
hitting in the top five of next week's Vid-Tracks. Dallas, I'm fucking
number three, right behind the Butt-Busters and Indigo.”

She might not
have had a clue who Butt-Busters or Indigo might be, but Eve knew Vid-Tracks
was Mavis's bible. “That's fabulous.” Eve rose quickly, gave Mavis a hard
hug. “You kick ass.”

“Thanks.”
Mavis sniffed, wiped a tear off silver-tipped lashes. “You're the first person
I've told. I started to call Leonardo, but I want to tell him up-face, you
know. And I'm glad I got to tell you first, anyhow. He'll understand.”

“He'll go
nuts.”

“Yeah. We've got
some serious celebrating to do. I'm really glad you weren't late after all, so
I could tell you and so you didn't miss the girl deal.”

Instantly,
warning flags sprang up in Eve's gut, fluttered nervously. “Girl deal?”

“Yeah, you
know. Trina's already down in the pool house setting up. Figured we could use a
swim and a spin in the relaxation tank. We're up for the full treatment.”

“Full
treatment?” No, was all Eve could think. Not the full treatment.
Anything but that. “Look, Mavis, I just came home to work. I've got this
case -- “

“You've always
got a case.” Undeterred, Mavis poured herself a glass of wine, then brought the
bottle to top Eve's off as Roarke lazily lighted a cigarette and smiled.
“You've got to take time for you, or your internal organs get all shriveled and
your skin goes saggy. I read all about it. Anyway, Trina's got some outrageous
new body paint.”

“No.
Absolutely. I don't do body paint.”

Mavis rolled
her eyes. “For me, Dallas. We know you. But I think you should give it a try
one of these days. I bet Roarke would really go for the Gold-Dust. It does
amazing things for the boobs. Makes them sparkle.”

“I don't want
sparkling boobs.”

“It's
flavored, too. Frangipani.”

“Really?”
Roarke blew out a stream of smoke. “I'm very fond of tropical flavors.”

“See? Anyway,
you can think about that after you're all relaxed and your hair's gooped up.
Summerset made snacks.”

“Goodie. But
really, I -- oops, there's the door. I'll get it.”

She escaped,
forcing herself not to simply break into a run, bowl over whoever was at the
door, and just keep running until she reached the sanctuary of Cop Central. She
beat Summerset there by half a step.

“I'm getting
it.”

“Greeting and
escorting guests falls into my job requirements,” he reminded her. “Miss Furst
is here to see you.” So saying, he bumped Eve aside and opened the door.

“I should have
called.” Nadine knew just how Eve felt about reporters in her home. “I'm not
here for 75,” she continued quickly. “It's personal.”

“Good. Fine.
Come in.” To Nadine's surprise, Eve clamped a hand on hers and all but dragged
her toward the parlor.

“I've taken a
couple of days off,” Nadine began.

“I noticed. I
didn't much care for your on-air substitute.”

“He's a putz.
But anyway, I wanted to come by and tell you ...” She paused, pulled herself
back. “Oh, hi, Mavis.”

“Nadine, hi!
Hey, it's practically a party.” However flighty Mavis seemed on the surface,
she had a solid core of sense, with compassion and loyalty wrapped tightly
around it. It took less than two seconds for her to see the strain in Nadine's
eyes.

“Listen, I'm
just going to run down and see how Trina's doing. Back in a flash.” She went
out in one, dashing through the door in a blur of color.

“Sit down,
Nadine.” Roarke was already up, leading her to a chair. “Would you like some
wine?”

“I would,
thanks, I would. But I'd really like one of those cigarettes.”

“I thought you
were quitting,” Eve said as Roarke offered one.

“I am.” Nadine
sent Roarke a look of gratitude as he flicked on his lighter. “I quit
regularly. Listen, I'm sorry to bust in on you both this way.”

“Friends are
always welcome.” He poured the wine, gave it to her. “I assume you want to talk
to Eve. I'll leave you alone.”

“No, don't
feel you have to go.” Nadine took another long drag of the pricey tobacco.
“Jesus, I forget you have the real thing. A bigger kick than herbals. No, don't
go,” she said again. “Dallas tells you everything anyway.”

Roarke's face
showed surprise. “Does she?”

“No,” Eve said
definitely but lowered to the arm of a chair. “I did tell him about your
problem because of his connection to Draco. And his connection to you.”

“It's all
right.” Nadine managed a weak smile. “Mortification builds character.”

“You have nothing
to be embarrassed about. Life would be awfully dull if we could look back
without regretting at least one affair.”

Her smile
relaxed. “You plucked a winner here, Dallas. Nothing like a man who says the
right thing at the right time. Well, Richard Draco is my regret. Dallas.” She
shifted her gaze to Eve's. “I know you don't have to tell me, couldn't
obviously during the interview earlier. Maybe you can't tell me at all, but I
have to ask. Am I in trouble?”

“What did your
lawyer say?”

“Not to worry
and not to talk to you without him present.” She smiled grimly. “I'm having a
hard time following his advice.”

“I can't
scratch you off the list, Nadine. But,” she added as Nadine closed her eyes and
nodded. “Since you're coming in dead last, I'd give taking the first part of
your lawyer's advice another try.”

Nadine huffed
out a breath, sipped her wine. “First time I've ever been happy to be a loser.”

“Mira's
opinion weighs heavily, and she doesn't believe you're capable of calculated
murder. Neither does the primary on a personal level or, considering the
current evidence, on a professional one.”

“Thank you.
Thanks.” Nadine lifted a hand to her head, pressed her fingers to the center of
her brow. “I keep telling myself this is going to go away soon. That you'll
wrap it up. But the stress is like a spike through my brain.”

“I'm going to
have to give you just a little more. Were you aware Draco had a video of you?”

“Video?”
Nadine dropped her hand, frowned. “You mean of my work?”

“Well, some
people consider sex work.”

Nadine stared,
eyes blank with confusion. Then they cleared, and Eve saw exactly what she
wanted to see: shock, fury, embarrassment. “He had a video of... He took -- he
had a camera when we -- “ She slammed down the wine, surged to her feet. “That
slimy son of a bitch. That perverted bastard.”

“I'd say the
answer's no,” Roarke murmured, and Nadine whirled on him.

“What kind of
man takes videos of a woman in his bed when she doesn't consent? What kind of
sick thrill does he get from raping her that way? Because that's just what it
is.”

She jabbed a
finger in his chest, for no other reason than he was a man. “Would you do that
to Dallas? She'd kick your butt from here to Tarus III if you did. That's just
what I'd like to do to Draco. No, no, I'd like to take his puny dick in my
hands and twist it until it popped right off.”

“Under the
circumstances, I'd prefer not to be his stand-in.”

She hissed out
a breath, sucked one in, then held up her hands, palms out. “Sorry. It's not
your fault.” To find control again, she paced, then turned to face Eve.

“I guess that
little display of temper moved me up the list a few notches.”

“Just the
opposite. If you'd known about the disc, you'd have attempted a quick
castration. You wouldn't have let someone else stick him. You just verified
your own profile.”

“Well, good
for me. Yippee.” Nadine dropped into the chair again. “I guess the disc's in
evidence.”

“Has to be. No
one's going to view it for thrills, Nadine. If it helps, you don't show up that
much. He angled things so he's in the spotlight, so to speak.”

“Yes, he
would. Dallas, if the media gets hold of that -- “

“They won't.
If you want my advice, go back to work. Keep your mind busy, and let me do my
job. I'm good at it.”

“If I didn't
know that, I'd be on tranqs.”

Inspiration
struck. “How about a girl night instead?”

“Huh?”

“Mavis and
Trina are all set. I don't have time for it, and there's no point in Trina
dragging her whole bag of tricks over here and not putting it to full use. Take
my place. Go have the works.”

“I could use
some relaxation therapy.”

“There you
go.” Eve hauled her out of the chair. “You'll feel like a new woman in no time.
Go for the body paint,” she suggested as she pulled Nadine out of the room.
“It'll give you a fresh outlook and sparkling boobs.”

Moments later,
Eve came back into the parlor, dusting her hands.

“Well done.
Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, that
was pretty slick. They're all down there cooing like ... what coos?”

“Doves?” he
suggested.

“Yeah, like
doves. Now everybody's happy, and I can go back to work. So, you up for a
video?”

“Nadine's? Can
we have popcorn?”

“Men are
perverts. No, not Nadine's, funny guy. But the popcorn's a good idea.”

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

She'd intended
to set up in her office, to keep it official. She should have known better. She
ended up in one of the second-level lounging rooms, snuggled into the sinfully
soft cushions of the mile-long sofa, watching the taped play on a huge wall
screen, and with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

The size of
the screen had been Roarke's selling point. It was impossible to miss even the
smallest detail when every feature was larger than life.

It was, she
realized, almost like being onstage herself. She had to give Roarke points for
that one.

Eliza, she
noted, had embraced her role of the fussy, irritating nurse assigned to monitor
Sir Wilfred. Her period costume was anything but flattering. Her hair was
scraped back, her mouth a constant purse. She affected an annoyingly lilting
voice like the ones Eve had heard some parents use on recalcitrant offspring.

Kenneth hadn't
stinted on his portrayal of the pompous, cranky barrister. His movements were
jerky, restless. His eyes sly. His voice would, by turns boom loud enough to
shake the rafters, then drop into a crafty murmur.

But it was
Draco who owned the play during the first scenes. He was undeniably handsome,
outrageously charming, carelessly amused. Yes, she could see how a vulnerable
woman would fall for him -- as Vole or as himself.

“Freeze screen.”
She pushed the bowl at Roarke and rose to move closer to the image of Draco.
“Here's what I see. The others are acting. They're good, they're skilled,
they're enjoying the roles. He is the role. He doesn't have to act. He's
an egocentric, as arrogant and as smooth as Vole. It's a part tailored for
him.”

“So I thought,
when I put his name forward for the play. What does that tell you?”

“That whoever
planned his murder probably thought the same thing. And saw the irony of it.
Vole dies in the last act. Draco dies in the last act. A dramatic bit of
justice. Executed, before witnesses.”

She walked
back to sit. “It doesn't tell me anything new, really. But it solidifies the
angles. Resume play.”

She waited,
watched. Areena's entrance, she saw now, was brilliant in its timing. That was
the writer, of course, the director, but the style of it had to come
from the actor.

Beautiful,
classy, mysterious, and coolly sexy. That was the role. But that wasn't the
true character, Eve remembered. The real Christine Vole revealed herself to be
a woman consumed by love. One who would lie for the man she knew to be a
murderer, who would sacrifice her dignity, her reputation to save him from the
law. And who, in the end, executed him for dismissing that love.

“It's acting
on two levels,” Eve murmured. “Just as Draco is. Neither of them show the face
of their character until the last scene.”

“They're both
very skilled.”

“No, they're
all skilled. All used to manipulating words and actions to present an image. I
haven't chipped through the image yet. Sir Wilfred believes he's defending an
innocent man, and in the end learns he was duped. That's enough to piss you
off. If we're correlating life and make-believe. It's enough to kill for.”

He'd thought
the same himself, and nodded. “Go on.”

“The character
of Diana believed every bullshit line Vole fed her. That his wife was a cold
bitch, that he was innocent, that he was going to leave her.”

“The other
woman,” Roarke put in. “The younger one. A little naive, a little grasping.”

“In the end,
won't she figure out she was duped and used and be mortified? Just as Carly
learned she was duped and used and mortified. As Christine learned. And there's
Michael Proctor standing in the wings, hungry to take it all on.”

She studied
the faces, listened to the voices, measured the connections. “It's one of them,
one of the players. I know it. It's not some tech with a grudge, or with dreams
of being in the lights. It's someone who's been in the lights and knows how to
wear the right face at the right time.”

She fell
silent again, watching the play progress, searching for some chink, some
instant when a glance, a gesture indicated the feelings and plans beneath the
facade.

But no, they
were good, she mused. Every one of them.

“That's the
dummy knife, first courtroom scene. Freeze screen, enhance sector P-Q,
twenty-five percent.”

The screen
shifted smoothly, with the evidence table enlarging. The knife on it was in
clear view from this angle, and enlarged, Eve could see the subtle differences
between it and the murder weapon.

“The blade's
nearly the same size and shape, but the handle's a bit wider, thicker. It's the
same color, but it's not the same material.” She let out a breath. “But you
wouldn't notice it unless you were looking for it. You expect to see the prop,
so you see it. Draco could have looked right at it, hell, he might have picked
it up himself, and he wouldn't have noticed. Resume normal play.”

Her head was
beginning to throb lightly. She barely noticed when Roarke began to rub her
shoulders. She watched the change of scenes, the curtain drop, the soundless
circling of one set for another. A few techs slipped across behind the curtain,
nearly indistinguishable in their traditional black.

But she
spotted Quim. He was clearly in charge now, in his element. He gestured, a kind
of theater sign language that meant little to her. She saw him consult briefly
with the prop master, nod, then glance downstage left.

“There.” Eve
leaped to her feet again. “He sees something, something that doesn't fit. He's
hesitating, yeah, just for a second, studying. And now he's moving off in the
same direction. What did you see? Who did you see? Damn it.”

She turned
back to Roarke. “That was the switch. The real knife's on the courtroom set now.
Waiting.”

She ordered
the disc to reverse, then set her wrist unit to time, and replayed. “Okay, now
he spots it.”

Behind her,
Roarke rose, moved to the AutoChef and ordered her coffee. When he stepped
beside her, she took the cup without realizing it, drank.

On-screen,
extras moved out to their marks. The bartender took his position, techs
vanished. Areena, dressed in the cheap and gaudy costume that suited a
mid-twentieth-century barfly, took her seat on a stool at the end of a bar. She
angled herself away from the audience.

A train
whistle blew. Curtain up.

“Two minutes,
twelve seconds. Time enough to stash the knife. Right in the roses, or
somewhere no one would notice until it could be moved. But it's close. Very
close. And very ballsy.”

“Sex and ambition,”
Roarke murmured.

“What?”

“Sex and
ambition, That's what killed Leonard Vole, and that's what killed Richard
Draco. Life imitates art.”

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

Peabody
wouldn't have said so, at least not if she used the animated painting she was
currently trying to study. And pretend she understood. She sipped the champagne
Charles had given her and struggled to look as sophisticated as the rest of the
guests at the art show.

She was
dressed for it, at least, she thought with some relief. Eve's Christmas present
to her had been her gorgeous undercover wardrobe designed by Mavis's wonderful
lover, Leonardo. But the shimmering sweep of blue silk couldn't transform the
Midwestern sensibility.

She couldn't
make head nor tail of the creeping movement of shape and color.

“Well, it's
really . .. something.” Since that was the best she could come up with, she
drank more champagne.

Charles
chuckled and gave her shoulder an affectionate rub. “You're a sweetheart for
putting up with me, Delia. You must be bored to death.”

“No, I'm not.”
She glanced up at his marvelous face, smiled. “I'm just art-stupid.”

“There's
nothing stupid about you.” He bent down, gave her a light kiss.

She wanted to
sigh. It was still next to impossible to believe she could be in a place like
this, dressed like this, with a gorgeous man on her arm. And it galled, galled
to think that she was much more suited to takeout Chinese in McNab's
pitiful apartment.

Well, she was
just going to keep going to art shows, operas, and ballets until some of it
rubbed off on her, even if it all made her feel as if she was acting in some
classy play and didn't quite have her lines down.

“Ready for
supper?”

“I'm always
ready for supper.” That line, she realized, came straight from the heart. Or
the gut.

He'd reserved
an intimate private room at some swank restaurant with candlelight and flowers.
He was always doing something like that, Peabody mused as he pulled out her
chair at a pretty table with pink roses and white candles. She let him order
for both of them because he'd know just the right thing.

He seemed to
know all the right things. And all the right people. She wondered if Eve ever
felt so clunky and out of place when she found herself with Roarke in posh
surroundings.

She couldn't
imagine her lieutenant ever feeling clunky.

Besides,
Roarke loved her. No, the man adored her. Everything had to be different when
you were sitting across candlelight with a man who thought you were the most
vital woman in the world. The only woman in the world.

“Where have
you gone?” Charles asked quietly.

She jerked
herself back. “Sorry. I guess there's a lot on my mind.” She picked up her fork
to sample the saucy seafood appetizer. The perfection of it on the tongue
nearly had her eyes crossing in ecstasy.

“Your work.”
He reached across the table to pat her hand. “I'm glad you were able to take a
break from it after all and come out tonight.”

“We didn't
work as late as I thought we would.”

“The Draco
matter. Do you want to talk about it?”

It was just
one more perfect thing about him. He would ask and listen if she chose to
unburden herself. “No, not really. Can't anyway at this stage. Except to say
Dallas is frustrated. So many levels and angles make it slow going.”

“I'm sure it
does. Still, she seemed her usual competent self when she spoke to me.”

Peabody's hand
froze as she reached for her wineglass. “She spoke to you? About the case?”

Caught off
guard, Charles set his fork down. “She didn't mention it to you?”

“No. Did you
know Draco?”

Charles cursed
himself, briefly considered dancing around the truth, then shrugged. He'd never
been anything but honest with Peabody and didn't want that to change. “No, not
really. I happened to be with Areena Mansfield the other night when Dallas and
Roarke dropped by to speak with her. I was working.”

“Oh.”
Charles's profession didn't bother Peabody. He did what he did, just as she did
what she did. Maybe if they'd been lovers, she'd have a different attitude, but
they weren't.

Damn it.

“Oh.” She said
again, because his profession did a lot more than bother her lieutenant.
“Shit.”

“Put simply,
yeah. It was awkward, but Dallas and I came to terms.”

“What kind of
terms?”

“We talked.
Delia, I've tried not to say too much because it puts you in the middle. I
never wanted that.”

“You never put
me there,” she said immediately. “Dallas did.”

“Because you
matter very much to her.”

“My personal
life is -- “

“A concern to
her, as a friend, Delia.”

The quiet
censure in his tone made her wince, then give up. “Okay, I know it. I don't
have to like it.”

“I think
things should be smoother now. She had her say, I had mine, and we both felt
better for it. And when I explained to her that we weren't having sex, she -- “

“What?” The
word squeaked out as Peabody jumped to her feet. Sparkling silver, glittering
crystal danced on the white linen cloth. “You told her that? That? Good
God. Why don't you just strip me naked and push me into the squad room?”

“I wanted her
to know we had a friendship, not a professional agreement. I'm sorry.”
Recognizing his misstep too late, Charles rose, lifted his hands. “I didn't
mean to embarrass you.”

“You tell my
immediate superior that I've been seeing a professional for what, nearly three
months, and haven't done the mattress dance. No, no, jeez, what could be
embarrassing about that?”

“I didn't
realize you'd wanted sex to be part of our relationship.” He spoke stiffly now.
“If you had, you had only to ask.”

“Oh yeah,
right. I say, how about it, Charles, and I'm a client.”

The muscles in
his belly went taunt as wire. “Is that what you think?”

“I don't know
what to think.” She dropped into her chair again, briefly held her head in her
hand. “Why did you have to tell her that?”

“I suppose I
was defending myself.” It was a tough admission to swallow. “I didn't think
beyond it. I'm very sorry.” He moved his chair over so that he could sit close
and take her hand. “Delia, I didn't want to spoil our friendship, and for the
first stages of it, I was hung up on someone who couldn't, who wouldn't be with
me because of what I am. You helped me through that. I care very much about
you. If you want more ...”

He lifted her
hand, brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist.

Her pulse gave
a little dance. It was only natural, she supposed. Just as it was natural for
her blood to go warm, very warm, when he shifted that skilled mouth from her
wrist to her lips.

But doubts
churned inside of her, side by side with simple lust. It was infuriating to
realize not all the doubts were directed at Charles.

“Sorry.” She
broke the kiss, eased back, and wondered when she'd lost her mind. There was a
gorgeous man she liked very much, and who knew all there was to know about
sexual pleasures, ready to show her just what could be done to the human body,
and she was playing coy.

“I've hurt
your feelings.”

“No. Well,
maybe a little.” She drummed up a smile. “Fact is, this is a first for me. I've
completely lost my appetite. All across the board.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Working out of
her home office could be an advantage. The equipment, even counting her new
computer system at Central, was far superior. There were fewer distractions.
And it was next to impossible to run out of coffee.

Eve chose to
do so from time to time, even if only to have a fresh view to clear her mind.

Her plan today
was to start the morning with something fulfilling. She stood in the center of
her home office, smirking down at her old, despised, computer.

“Today,” she
told it, “death comes to all your circuits. Will it be slow and systematic or
fast and brutal?” Considering, she circled it. “Tough decision. I've waited so
long for this moment. Dreamed of it.”

Showing her
teeth, she began to roll up her sleeves.

“What,” Roarke
asked from the doorway that connected their work areas, “is that?”

“The former
bane of my existence. The Antichrist of technology. Do we have a hammer?”

Studying the
pile on the floor, he walked in. “Several, I imagine, of various types.”

“I want all of
them. Tiny little hammers, big, wall-bangers, and everything in between.”

“Might one ask
why?”

“I'm going to
beat this thing apart, byte by byte, until there's nothing left but dust from
the last trembling chip.”

“Hmmm.” Roarke
crouched down, examined the pitifully out-of-date system. “When did you haul
this mess in here?”

“Just now. I
had it in the car. Maybe I should use acid, just stand here and watch it hiss
and dissolve. That could be good.”

Saying
nothing, Roarke took a small case out of his pocket, opened it, and chose a
slim tool. With a few deft moves, he had the housing open.

“Hey! Hey!
What're you doing?”

“I haven't
seen anything like this in a decade. Fascinating. Look at this corrosion.
Christ, this is a SOC chip system. And it's cross-wired.”

When he began
to fiddle, she rushed over and slapped at his hands. “Mine. I get to kill it.”

“Get a grip on
yourself,” he said absently and delved deeper into the guts. “I'll take this
into research.”

“No. Uh-uh. I
have to bust it apart. What if it breeds?”

He grinned and
quickly replaced the housing. “This is an excellent learning tool. I'd like to
give it to Jamie.”

“What're you
talking about? Jamie Lingstrom, the e-prodigy?”

“Mmm. He does
a little work for me now and then.”

“He's a kid.”

“A very bright
one. Bright enough that I prefer having him on my team rather than competing
with him. It'll be interesting to see what he can do with an old, defective
system like this.”

“But I want it
dead.”

He had to
smother a chuckle. It was as close to a whine as he'd ever heard from her.
“There, there, darling. I'll find you something else to beat up. Or better,” he
said, wrapping his arms around her, “another outlet entirely for all that
delightful natural aggression.”

“Sex wouldn't
give me the same rush.”

“Ah. A dare.”
He accepted it by leaning down and biting her jaw. When she swore at him, he
took her mouth in a hot, hungry, brain-sucking kiss.

“Okay, that
was pretty good, but just what are you doing with your hands back there?”

“Hardly
anything until I lock the door, and then -- “

“Okay, okay, you
can have the damn thing.” She shoved away from him, tried to catch her breath.
Her system was vibrating. “Just get it out of my sight.”

“Thank you.”
He caught her hand, lifted it, nibbled on her fingers as he watched her. One
taste of her always made him crave another. And another. He tugged her forward,
intending to nudge her into his office.

Peabody walked
in.

“Sorry.” She
averted her eyes, tilting her head to study the ceiling. “Summerset said I
should come right up.”

“Good morning,
Peabody.” Roarke gave his wife's furrowed brow a quick brush of his lips. “Can
we get you some coffee?”

“I'll get it.
Don't mind me. Just a lowly aide.” She muttered it as she crossed the room,
giving Eve a wide berth as she aimed for the kitchen.

“She's upset
about something.” Roarke frowned toward the kitchen area as he listened to
Peabody muttering as she programmed the AutoChef.

“She just
hasn't had her morning fix yet. Take that heap of junk out of here if you want
it so much. I have to get to work.”

He hefted the
system, discovered he had to put his back into it. “They made them a lot
heavier back then. I'll be working from home until noon,” he called over his
shoulder, then his door closed behind him.

It was
probably shallow, it was definitely girlie to have gotten such a rise
out of watching that ripple of muscle. Eve told herself she wouldn't have
noticed if he hadn't stirred her up in the first place.

“Peabody,
bring me a cup of that.”

She went
behind her desk, called up the Draco file, and separating it into suspects,
witnesses, evidence gathered, and lab reports, ordered all data on the screens.

“I reviewed
the disc of the play last night,” she began when she heard the sturdy clop of
Peabody's hard-soled cop shoes cross the room. “I have a theory.”

“Your coffee,
Lieutenant. Shall I record, sir?”

“Huh?” Eve was
studying the screens, trying to shift and rearrange data in her mind. But
Peabody's stiff tone distracted her. “No, I'm just running it by you.”

She turned
back and saw that once again Roarke was right. Something was up with her aide.
She ordered herself not to poke into the personal, and sat. “We've pretty well
nailed down the time of the switch. The prop knife is clearly visible here.
Computer, Visual Evidence 6-B, on screen five.”

“You've marked
and recorded this VE?” Peabody asked, her voice cold as February.

“Last night,
after my review.” Eve moved her shoulders. The snipe was like a hot itch
between her shoulder blades. “So?”

“Just updating
my own records, Lieutenant. It is my job.”

Fuck it. “Nobody's telling you not to do your job. I'm briefing
you, aren't I?”

“Selectively,
it appears.”

“Okay, what
the hell does that mean?”

“I had
occasion to return to Central last night.” That just added to her slow burn.
“In the process of reviewing the file, assimilating evidence and the time line,
certain pieces of that evidence, marked and sealed for Level Five, came to my
attention. I was unaware, until that point, that there were areas of this
investigation considered off limits to your aide and your team. Respectfully,
sir, this policy can and will hamper the efficiency of said aide and said
team.”

“Don't use
that snotty tone on me, pal. I marked Level Five what, in my judgment, required
Level Five. You don't need to know every goddamn thing.”

Little spots
of heat bloomed on Peabody's cheeks, but her voice was frosty. “So I am now
aware, Lieutenant.”

“I said knock
it off.”

“It's always
your way, isn't it?”

“Yeah, damn
right. I'm your superior, and I'm the primary on this investigation, so you bet
your tight ass it's my way.”

“Then you
should have advised subject Monroe, Charles, to keep his mouth shut. Shouldn't
you? Sir.”

Eve set her
teeth, ground them. Try to spare feelings, she thought, and you get
kicked in the face. “Subject Monroe, Charles, has, in my opinion, no
connection to this investigation. Therefore any communication I've had with him
is none of your goddamn business.”

“It's my
goddamn business when you interrogate him over my goddamn personal relationship
with him.”

“I didn't
interrogate him.” Her voice spiked with frustrated fury. “He spilled it all
over me.”

They were both
standing now, leaning over the desk nearly nose-to-nose. Eve's face was pale
with temper, Peabody's flushed with it.

When McNab
walked in, the scene had him letting out a low, nervous whistle. “Um, hey,
guys.”

Neither of
them bothered to so much as glance in his direction, and said, in unison, at a
roar: “Out!”

“You bet. I'm
gone.”

To insure it,
Eve marched over and slammed the door in his fearful and fascinated face.

“Sit down,”
she ordered Peabody.

“I prefer to
stand.”

“And I prefer
to give you a good boot in the ass, but I'm restraining myself.” Eve reached
up, fisted her hands in her own hair and yanked until the pain cleared most of
the rage.

“Okay, stand.
You couldn't sit with that stick up your butt, anyway. One you shove up it
every time Subject Monroe, Charles, is mentioned. You want to be filled in, you
want to be briefed? Fine. Here it is.”

She had to
take another deep breath to insure her tone was professional. “On the evening
of March twenty-six, at or about nineteen-thirty, I, accompanied by Roarke, had
occasion to visit Areena Mansfield's penthouse suite at The Palace Hotel, this
city. Upon entering said premises, investigation officer found subject Mansfield
in the company of one Charles Monroe, licensed companion. It was ascertained
and confirmed that LC Monroe was there in a professional capacity and had no
links to the deceased or the current investigation. His presence, and the
salient details pertaining to it, were noted in the report of the interview and
marked Level Five in a stupid, ill-conceived attempt by the investigating
officer to spare her fat-headed aide any unnecessary embarrassment.”

Eve stomped
back to her desk, snatched up her coffee, gulped some down. “Record that,” she
snapped.

Peabody's lip
trembled. She sat. She sniffled.

“Oh, no.” In
genuine panic, Eve stabbed out a finger. “No, you don't. No crying. We're on
duty. There is no crying on duty.”

“I'm sorry.”
Knowing she was close to blubbering, Peabody fumbled for her handkerchief and
blew her nose lavishly. “I'm just so mad, so embarrassed. He told you we've
never had sex.”

“Jesus,
Peabody, do you think I put that in the report?”

“No. I don't
know. No.” She sniffled again. “But you know. I've been seeing him for weeks
and weeks, and we've never... We never even got close to it.”

“Well, he
explained that when -- “ At Peabody's howl of horror, Eve winced. Wrong thing
to say. Very wrong. But what the hell was the right thing? “Look, he's a nice
guy. I didn't give him enough credit. He likes you.”

“Then why
hasn't he ever jumped me?” Peabody lifted drenched eyes.

“Um ... sex
isn't everything?” Eve hazarded.

“Oh sure, easy
for you to say. You're married to the mongo sex god of the century.”

“Jesus,
Peabody.”

“You are. He's
gorgeous, he's built, he's smart and sexy and . .. and dangerous. And he loves
you. No, he adores you. He'd jump in front of a speeding maxibus for you.”

“They don't go
very fast,” Eve murmured and was relieved when Peabody gave a watery laugh.

“You know what
I mean.”

“Yeah.” Eve
glanced toward the connecting doors, felt a hard, almost painful tug. “Yeah, I
know. It's, ah, it's not that Charles isn't attracted to you. It's that...”
Where the hell was Mira when she needed her? “That he respects you. That's it.”

Peabody
crumpled her handkerchief and moped. “I've had too much respect, if you ask me.
I know I'm not beautiful or anything.”

“You look
good.”

“I'm not
really sexy.”

“Sure you
are.” At her wit's end, Eve came around the desk, patted Peabody's head.

“If you were a
guy, or into same-sex relationships, would you want to have sex with me?”

“Absolutely.
I'd jump you in a heartbeat.”

“Really?”
Brightening at the idea, Peabody wiped her eyes. “Well, McNab can't keep his
hands off me.”

“Oh man.
Peabody, please.”

“I don't want
him to know. I don't want McNab to know that Charles and I haven't been hitting
the sheets.”

“He'll never
hear it from me. I can guarantee it.”

“Okay. Sorry,
Dallas. After Charles told me, and I went back to work to take my mind off it,
and found those sealed files ... It kept me up most of the night. I mean, if he
didn't say anything relevant, I couldn't figure out why you had two reports and
a video disc sealed.”

Eve blew out a
breath. Interpersonal relationships were tough, she thought. And tricky. “One
of the reports and the disc don't involve Charles.” Damn it, Peabody was right
about one thing, covering them up hampered the investigation. “They involve
Nadine.”

“Oh. I thought
something was up there.”

“Look, she had
a thing with Draco years ago. She came to me about it. He used her, dumped her,
in his usual pattern. When Roarke and I went through his penthouse, we found
those personal discs. The one I sealed -- “

“Oh. He
recorded sex with Nadine. Scum.” Peabody sighed. “She's not a suspect, at least
not one we're looking at, so you wanted to spare her the embarrassment. Dallas,
I'm sorry. All around sorry.”

“Okay, let's
forget it. Go wash your face or something so McNab doesn't think I've been
slapping you around.”

“Right. Boy, I
feel like an idiot.”

“Good, that
bucks me right up. Now, go pull yourself together so I can pry McNab out of
whatever corner he's hiding in, and we can get to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

By the time
they were assembled in her office, Feeney had arrived. He'd reviewed the video
of the play himself, had enlarged, re-focused, enhanced, and worked his e-magic
so that the team was able to confirm the time frame of the switch.

The two
courtroom scenes were side by side on a split screen, with Feeney in front,
showing the minute difference in the shape of the knife, its angle of placement
from one to the other.

“Whoever did
the switch copped a knife that so closely resembled the dummy nobody would have
noticed it without picking it up and giving it a good looking over.”

“The prop
master?” McNab asked.

“He'd have no
reason to do more than check to see that the knife was still on its mark. The
courtroom set stayed -- what do you call it -- dressed throughout the
performance. He'd have noticed if the knife was missing,” Feeney added.
“According to his statement, he checked the set immediately after the scene
change and immediately before it changed again. He had no reason to check
otherwise.”

“That gives
the perpetrator approximately five minutes.” Eve tapped her fingers on her mug.
“However, we narrow that if we follow the line that Quim saw something or
someone suspicious, as it appears he did during the scene break. Under three minutes
to get the dummy knife hidden and be back wherever he needed to be. Onstage or
in the wings.”

“Then the perp
had to wait.” Peabody narrowed her eyes. “Wait, and count on no one making the
switch through the next courtroom scene, through the dialogue and action. Wait
out the play until Christine Vole grabs it up and uses it. That's about thirty
minutes. A long time to wait.”

“Our killer's
patient, systematic. I think he or she enjoyed the wait, watching Draco prance
around, emoting, drawing applause, all the while knowing it was his last act. I
think the killer reveled in it.”

Eve set down
her coffee, sat on the edge of her desk. “Roarke said something last night.
Life imitates art.”

Peabody
scratched her nose. “I thought it was the opposite.”

“Not this
time. Why this play? Why this time? There were easier, less risky, more subtle
ways to off Draco. I'm thinking the play itself meant something to the killer.
The theme of love and betrayal, of false faces. Sacrifice and revenge. The
characters of Leonard and Christine Vole have a history. Maybe Draco had a
history with his killer. Something that goes back into the past that twisted
their relationship.”

Feeney nodded,
munched on a handful of nuts. “A lot of the players and techs had worked with
him before. Theater's like a little world, and the people in it bump into each
other over and over.”

“Not a
professional connection. A personal one. Look, Vole comes off charming,
handsome, even a little naive, until you find out he's a heartless, ruthless
opportunist. From what we've uncovered, this mirrors Draco. So who did he
betray? Whose life did he ruin?”

“From the
interviews, he fucked over everybody.” McNab lifted his hands. “Nobody's
pretending they loved the guy.”

“So we go
deeper. We go back. I want you to run the players. Look for the history.
Something that pops out. Vole destroyed a marriage or relationship, ruined
someone financially. Seduced someone's sister. Setback their career. You look
for the data,” she told McNab and Feeney. “Peabody and I will chip away at the
players.”

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

Eve decided to
start with Carly Landsdowne. Something about the woman had set off alarms in
her head since their first conversation.

The actress
lived in a glossy building with full security, glitzy shops, and circling
people glides. The expansive lobby area was elegantly spare, with water-toned
tile floors, modest indoor shrubbery, and a discreet security panel worked into
an arty geometric design in the wall.

“Good
morning,” the panel announced in a pleasant male voice when Eve approached.
“Please state your business in The Broadway View.”

“My business
is with Carly Landsdowne.”

“One moment,
please.” There was a quiet tinkle of music to fill the silence. “Thank you for
waiting. According to our logs, Ms. Landsdowne has not informed us of any
expected visitors. I'll be happy to contact her for you and ask if she is able
to receive guests at this time. Please state your name and produce a photo ID.”

“You want ID?
Here's some ID.” Eve shoved her badge up to the needle-sized lens of the
camera. “Tell Ms. Landsdowne Lieutenant Dallas doesn't like waiting in
lobbies.”

“Of course,
Lieutenant. One moment, please.”

The music
picked up where it had left off, and it had Eve gritting her teeth. “I hate
this shit. Why do they think recorded strings do anything but cause annoyance
and an urgent desire to find the speakers and rip them out?”

“I think it's
kind of nice,” Peabody said. “I like violins. Reminds me of my mother. She
plays,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her.

“Thank you for
waiting. Ms. Landsdowne will be happy to see you, Lieutenant Dallas. If you
would proceed to elevator number two. You have been cleared. Have a safe and
happy day.”

“I hate when
they say that.” Eve strode to the proper elevator. The doors opened, and the
same violin music seeped out. It made her snarl.

“Welcome to
The Broadway View.” A voice oozed over the strings. “We are a fully
self-contained, fully secured building. You are welcome to apply for a day pass
in order to tour our facilities, including our state-of-the-art fitness and spa
center, which offers complete cosmetic, physical, and mental therapies and
treatments. Our shopping area can be reached through public or private access
and welcomes all major debit cards. The View also offers its patrons and, with
proper reservations, the public, three five-star restaurants as well as the
popular Times Square Cafe for those casual dining needs.”

“When is it
going to shut up?”

“I wonder if
they have a swimming pool.”

“If you are
interested in joining our exclusive community, just press extension ninety-four
on any house-link and request an appointment with one of our friendly
concierges for a tour of our three model units.”

“I'd rather
have all the skin peeled from my bones,” Eve decided.

“I wonder if
they have efficiencies.”

“Please exit
to the left and proceed to apartment number two thousand eight. We at The View
wish you a pleasant visit.”

Eve stepped
out of the car and headed left. The apartment doors were widely spaced down a
generously sized hallway. Whoever'd designed the place hadn't worried about
wasted space, she decided. Then she had the uncomfortable feeling she was going
to discover her husband owned the building.

Carly opened
the door before Eve could buzz. The actress wore a deep blue lounging robe, her
feet bare and tipped with ripe pink. But her hair and face were done and done
well, Eve noted.

“Good morning,
Lieutenant.” Carly leaned against the door for a moment, a deliberately cocky
pose. “How nice of you to drop by.”

“You're up
early,” Eve commented. “And here I thought theater people weren't morning
people.”

Carly's smirk
wavered a bit, but she firmed it again as she stepped back. “I have a performance
today. Richard's memorial service.”

“You consider
that a performance?”

“Of course. I
have to be sober and sad and spout all the platitudes. It's going to be a hell
of an act for the media.” Carly gestured toward an attractive curved sofa of
soft green in the living area. “I could have put on the same act for you, and
quite convincingly. But it seemed such a waste of your time and my talent. Can
I offer you coffee?”

“No. It
doesn't worry you to be a suspect in a murder investigation?”

“No, because I
didn't do it and because it's good research. I may be called on to play one
eventually.”

Eve wandered
to the window wall, privacy screened, and lifted her brows at the killer view
of Times Square. The animated billboards were alive with color and promises,
the air traffic thick as fleas on a big, sloppy dog.

If she looked
over and down, and it was the down that always bothered her, she could see the
Gothic spires of Roarke's New Globe Theater.

“What's your
motivation?”

“For murder?”
Carly sat, obviously enjoying the morning duel. “It would, of course, depend on
the victim. But parallelling life, let's call him a former lover who done me
wrong. The motivation would be a combination of pride, scorn, and glee.”

“And hurt?”
Eve turned back, pinned her before Carly could mask the shadow of distress.

“Perhaps. You
want to know if Richard hurt me. Yes, he did. But I know how to bind my wounds,
Lieutenant. A man isn't worth bleeding over, not for long.”

“Did you love
him?”

“I thought I
did at the time. But it was astonishingly easy to switch that emotion to hate.
If I'd wanted to kill him, well, I couldn't have done it better than it was
done. Except I would never have sacrificed the satisfaction of delivering the
killing blow personally. Using a proxy takes all the fun out of it.”

“Is this a
joke to you? The end of a life by violent means?”

“Do you want
me to pretend to grieve? Believe me, Lieutenant, I could call up huge, choking
and rather gorgeous tears for you.” Though her mouth continued to smile, little
darts of angry lights played in her eyes. “But I won't. I have too much respect
for myself and, as it happens, for you, to do something so pitifully obvious.
I'm not sorry he's dead. I just didn't kill him.”

“And Linus
Quim.”

Carly's
defiant face softened. “I didn't know him very well. But I am sorry he died.
You don't believe he killed Richard, then hanged himself, or you wouldn't be
here. I suppose I don't, either, however convenient it would be. He was a
little, sour-faced man, and in my opinion didn't think of Richard any more than
he thought of the rest of us actors. We were part of his scenery. Hanging, it
takes time, doesn't it? Not like with Richard.”

“Yes. It takes
time.”

“I don't like
suffering.”

It was, Eve
thought, the first simple statement the woman had made. “I doubt whoever helped
him into the noose thought about it. Are you worried, Ms. Landsdowne, that
tragedies come in threes?”

Carly started
to make some careless remark, then looking into Eve's eyes changed her mind.
“Yes. Yes, I am. Theater people are a superstitious lot, and I'm no exception.
I don't speak the name of the Scottish play, I don't whistle in a dressing room
or wish another performer good luck. But superstitious won't stop me from going
back on that stage the moment we're allowed to do so. I won't let it change how
I live my life. I've wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember. Not
just an actor,” she added with a slow smile. “A star. I'm on my way, and I
won't take a detour from the goal.”

“The publicity
from Draco's murder may just give you a boost toward that goal.”

“That's right.
If you think I won't exploit it, you haven't taken a good look at me.”

“I've taken a
look at you. A good look.” Eve glanced around the lovely room, toward the
staggering view from the window. “For someone who hasn't yet achieved that
goal, you live very well.”

“I like living
well.” Carly shrugged. “I'm lucky to have generous and financially responsible
parents. I have a trust fund, and I make use of it. As I said, I don't like
suffering. I'm not the starving-for-art type. It doesn't mean I don't work at
my craft and work hard. I simply enjoy comfortable surroundings.”

“Did Draco
come here?”

“Once or
twice. He preferred using his place. In hindsight, I see it gave him more
control.”

“And were you
aware he recorded your sexual activities?”

It was a
bombshell. Eve had her rhythm now, and recognized simple and utter shock in the
eyes, in the sudden draining of color. “That's a lie.”

“Draco had a
recording unit installed in his bedroom. He had a collection of personal discs
detailing certain sexual partners. There's one of you, recorded in February. It
included the use of a certain apparatus fashioned of black leather and -- “

Carly leaped
off the sofa. “Stop. You enjoy this, don't you?”

“No. No, I
don't. You were unaware of the recording.”

“Yes, I was
unaware,” Carly snapped back. “I might very well have agreed to one, have been intrigued
by the idea if he'd suggested it. But I detest knowing it was done without my
consent. That a bunch of snickering cops can view it and get their kicks.”

“I'm the only
cop who's viewed it so far, and I didn't get any kick out of it. You weren't the
only woman he recorded, Ms. Landsdowne, without her consent.”

“Pardon me if
I don't give a fuck.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes until she could find
a thread of control. “All right, what do I have to do to get it?”

“It's in
evidence, and I've had it sealed. It won't be used unless it has to be used.
When the case is closed, and you prove to be cleared, I'll see that the disc is
given to you.”

“I guess
that's the best I can expect.” She took a long breath. “Thank you.”

“Ms.
Landsdowne, did you employ illegals in the company of Richard Draco, for sexual
stimulation or any reason?”

“I don't do
illegals. I prefer using my own mind, my own imagination, not chemicals.”

You used
them, Eve thought. But maybe you
didn't know what he was slipping into that pretty glass of champagne.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Roarke had two
holo-conferences, an interspace transmission, and a head-of-departments
meeting, all scheduled for the afternoon and all dealing with his Olympus
Resort project. It was over a year in the works, and he intended for it to be
open for business by summer.

Not all of the
enormous planetwide pleasure resort would be complete, but the main core, with
its luxury hotels and villas, its plush gambling and entertainment complexes,
was good to go. He had taken Eve there on part of their honeymoon. It had been
her first off-planet trip.

He intended to
take her back, kicking and screaming no doubt, as interplanetary travel was not
on her list of favorite delights.

He wanted time
away with her, away from work. His and hers. Not just one of the quick
forty-eight-hour jaunts he managed to push her into, but real time, intimate
time.

As he pushed
away from his in-home control center, he rotated his shoulder. It was nearly
healed and didn't trouble him overmuch. But now and again, a faint twinge
reminded him of how close both of them had come to dying. Only weeks before,
he'd looked at death, then into Eve's eyes.

They'd both
faced bloody and violent ends before. But there was more at stake now. That
moment of connection, the sheer will in her eyes, the grip of her hand on his,
had pulled him back.

They needed
each other.

Two lost
souls, he thought, taking a moment to
walk to the tall windows that looked out on part of the world he'd built for
himself out of will, desire, sweat, and dubiously accumulated funds. Two lost
souls whose miserable beginnings had forged them into what appeared to be polar
opposites.

Love had
narrowed the distance, then had all but eradicated it.

She'd saved
him. The night his life had hung in her furious and unbreakable grip. She'd
saved him, he mused, the first moment he'd locked eyes with her. As impossible
as it should have been, she was his answer. He was hers.

He had a need
to give her things. The tangible things wealth could command. Though he knew
the gifts most often puzzled and flustered her. Maybe because they did, he
corrected with a grin. But underlying that overt giving was the fierce
foundation to give her comfort, security, trust, love. All the things they'd
both lived without most of their lives.

He wondered
that a woman who was so skilled in observation, in studying the human
condition, couldn't see that what he felt for her was often as baffling and as
frightening to him as it was to her.

Nothing had
been the same for him since she'd walked into his life wearing an ugly suit and
cool-eyed suspicion. He thanked God for it.

Feeling
sentimental, he realized. He supposed it was the Irish that popped out of him
at unexpected moments. More, he kept replaying the nightmare she'd suffered
through a few nights before.

They came more
rarely now, but still they came, torturing her sleep, sucking her back into a
past she couldn't quite remember. He wanted to erase them from her mind,
eradicate them. And knew he never would. Never could.

For months, he'd
been tempted to do a full search and scan, to dig out the data on that tragic
child found broken and battered in a Dallas alley. He had the skill, and he had
the technology to find everything there was to find: details the social
workers, the police, the child authorities couldn't.

He could fill
in the blanks for her, and, he admitted, for himself.

But it wasn't
the way. He understood her well enough to know that if he took on the task,
gave her the answers to questions she wasn't ready to ask, it would hurt more
than heal.

Wasn't it the
same for him? When he'd returned to Dublin after so many years, he'd needed to
study some of the shattered pieces of his childhood. Alone. Even then, he'd
only glanced at the surface of them. What was left of them were buried. At
least for now, he intended to leave them buried.

The now was
what required his attention, he reminded himself. And brooding over the past --
there was the Irish again -- solved nothing. Whether the past was his or Eve's,
it solved nothing.

He gathered up
the discs and hard copies he'd need for his afternoon meetings. Then hesitated.
He wanted another look at her before he left for the day.

But when he
opened the connecting doors, he saw only McNab, stuffing what appeared to be an
entire burger in his mouth while the computer droned through a background
search.

“Solo today,
Ian?”

McNab jerked
from a lounging to a sitting position, swallowed too fast, choked. Amused,
Roarke strolled over and slapped him smartly on the back.

“It helps to
chew first.”

“Yeah. Thanks.
Ah ... I didn't have much breakfast, so I thought it'd be okay if I.. .”

“My AutoChef
is your AutoChef. The lieutenant's in the field, I take it.”

“Yeah. She
hauled Peabody out about an hour ago. Feeney headed into Central to tie up some
threads. I'm working here.” He smiled then, a quick flash of strong white
teeth. “I got the best gig.”

“Lucky you.”
Roarke managed to find a French fry on McNab's plate that hadn't been drowned
in ketchup. He sampled it while he studied the screen. “Running backgrounds?
Again?”

“Yeah, well.”
McNab rolled his eyes, shifting so his silver ear loops clanged cheerfully
together. “Dallas has some wild hair about there might be some way-back
connection, some business between Draco and one of the players that simmered
all these years. Me, I figure we already scanned all the data and found zippo,
but she wants another run, below the surface. I'm here to serve. Especially
when real cow meat's on the menu.”

“Well now, if
there is some bit of business, you're unlikely to find it this way, aren't
you?”

“I'm not?”

“Something old
and simmering, you say.” Considering the possibility, Roarke hooked another
fry. “If I wanted to find something long buried, so to speak, I'd figure on
getting a bit of dirt under my nails.”

“I don't
follow you.”

“Sealed
records.”

“I don't have
the authority to open sealeds. You gotta have probable cause, and a warrant,
and all that happy shit.” When Roarke merely smiled, McNab straightened,
glanced at the entrance door. “Of course, if there was a way around all that
off the record -- “

“There are
ways, Ian. And there are ways.”

“Yeah, but
there's also the CYA factor.”

“Well then,
we'll just have to make sure your ass is covered. Won't we?”

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

“Dallas is
going to know, isn't she?” McNab said a few minutes later, when their positions
were reversed and Roarke sat at the computer.

“Of course.
But you'll find that knowing and proving are far different matters, even to the
redoubtable lieutenant.”

In any case,
Roarke enjoyed his little forays into police work. And he was a man who rarely
saw a need to limit his enjoyments.

“Now you see
here, Ian, we've accessed the on-record fingerprints and DNA pattern of your
primary suspects. Perfectly legitimate.”

“Yeah, if I
was doing the accessing.”

“Only a
technicality. Computer, match current identification codes with any and all
criminal records, civil actions and suits, including all juvenile and sealed
data. A good place to start,” he said to McNab.

Working . .
. Access to sealed data is denied without proper authority or judicial code.
Open records are available. Shall I continue?

“Hold.” Roarke
sat back, examined his nails. Clean as a whistle, he thought. For the moment.
“McNab, be a pal, would you, and fetch me some coffee?”

McNab stuck
his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, did a quick mental dance over the
thin line between procedure and progress. “Um. Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He ducked into
the kitchen area, ordered up the coffee. He dawdled. McNab didn't have a clue
how long it would take to bypass the red tape and access what was not supposed
to be accessed. To calm himself, he decided to see if there was any pie
available.

He discovered
to his great delight that he had a choice of six types and agonized over which
to go for.

“Ian, are you
growing the coffee beans in there?”

“Huh?” He
poked his head back in. “I was just... figured you'd need some time.”

He was a sharp
tech, Roarke thought, and a delightfully naive young man. “I think this might
interest you.”

“You got in?
Already? But how -- “ McNab cut himself off as he hurried back to the desk.
“No, I'd better not know how. That way, when I'm being charged and booked, I
can claim ignorance.”

“Charged and
booked for what?” Roarke tapped a finger on a sheet of paper. “Here's your
warrant for the sealeds.”

“My -- “ Eyes
goggling, McNab snatched up the sheet. “It looks real. It's signed by Judge
Nettles.”

“So it
appears.”

“Wow. You're
not just ice,” McNab said reverently. “You're fucking Antarctica.”

“Ian, please.
You're embarrassing me.”

“Right. Um.
Why did I ask for Judge Nettles for the warrant again?”

With a laugh,
Roarke got to his feet. “I'm sure you can come up with some appropriately
convoluted cop speak to justify the request if and when you're asked. My
suggestion would be a variation on a shot in the dark.”

“Yeah. That's
a good one.”

“Then I'll
leave you to it.”

“Okay. Thanks.
Ah, hey, Roarke?”

“Yes?”

“There's this
other thing.” McNab shifted from foot to foot on his purple airboots. “It's
kind of personal. I was going to work around to talking to the lieutenant about
it, but, well, you know how she is.”

“I know
precisely.” He studied McNab's face, felt a stir of pity wrapped around
amusement. “Women, Ian?”

“Oh yeah.
Well, woman, I guess. I gotta figure a guy like you knows how to handle them as
well as you handle electronics. I just don't get women. I mean I get them,” he
rushed on. “I don't have any problem with sex. I just don't get them, in
an intellectual sense. I guess.”

“I see. Ian,
if you want me to discuss the intricacies and capriciousness of the female
mind, we'll need several days and a great deal of liquor.”

“Yeah. Ha. I
guess you're in a hurry right now.”

Actually, time
was short. There were a few billion dollars waiting to be shifted, juggled, and
consumed. But Roarke eased a hip on the corner of the desk. The money would
wait. “I imagine this involves Peabody.”

“We're, you
know, doing it.”

“Ian, I had no
idea you were such a wild romantic. A virtual poet.”

Roarke's dry
tone had McNab flushing, then grinning. “We have really amazing sex.”

“That's lovely
for both of you, and congratulations. But I'm not sure Peabody would appreciate
you sharing that piece of information with me.”

“It's not
really about sex,” McNab said quickly, afraid he'd lose his sounding board
before he'd sounded off. “I mean, it is, because we have it. A lot of it. And
it rocks, so that's mag and all. That's how I figured it would be if I could
ever get her out of that uniform for five damn minutes. But that's like it,
that's all. Every time we finish, you know, the naked pretzel, I have to bribe
her with food or get her going about a case or she's out the door. Or booting
me out, if we landed at her place.”

Roarke
understood the frustration. He'd only had one woman ever try to shake him off.
The only woman who mattered. “And you're looking for more.”

“Weird, huh?”
With a half laugh, McNab began to pace. “I really like women. All sorts of
women. I especially like them naked.”

“Who could
blame you?”

“Exactly. So I
finally get a chance to bounce on the naked She-Body, and it's making me crazy.
I'm all tied up inside and she's cruising right along. I always figured women,
you know, mostly they were supposed to want the whole relationship thing.
Talking about stuff so you come up with all those nice lies. I mean, they know
you're lying, but they go along with it because maybe you won't be later on. Or
something.”

“That's a
fascinating view on the male/female dynamic.” One, Roarke was certain, would
earn the boy a female knee to the balls if ever voiced in mixed company. “I
take it Peabody isn't interested in pleasant lies.”

“I don't know
what she's interested in; that's the whole deal.” Wound up now, he waved his
arms. “I mean, she likes sex, she's into her work, she looks at Dallas like the
lieutenant has the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Then she goes off
with that goddamn Monroe son of a bitch to the opera.”

It was the
last, delivered with vitriol, that had Roarke nodding. “It's perfectly natural
to be jealous of a rival.”

“Rival, my
ass. What the hell's wrong with her, going around with that slick LC? Fancy
dinners and art shows. Listening to music you can't even dance to. I ought to
smash his face in.”

Roarke thought
about it a moment and decided, under similar circumstances, he'd be tempted to
do just that. “It would be satisfying, no doubt, but bound to annoy the woman
in question. Have you tried romance?”

“What do you
mean? Like goofy stuff?”

Roarke sighed.
“Let's try this. Have you ever asked her out?”

“Sure. We see
each other a couple, three nights a week.”

“Out, Ian. In
public. In places where you're both required, by law, to wear clothes of some
kind.”

“Oh. Not
really.”

“It might be a
place to start. A date, where you'd pick her up at her apartment at a time
agreed upon, then take her to a place where food and entertainment are offered.
While enjoying that food and/or entertainment, you might try having a
conversation with her, one that doesn't directly involve sex or work.”

“I know what a
date is,” McNab grumbled, and felt put upon. “I haven't got the credit base to
take her places like that bastard Monroe.”

“Ah, therein
lies one of the wonders of the female mind and heart. Go with your strengths,
take her places that appeal to her sense of adventure, romance, humor. Don't
compete with Monroe, Ian. Contrast with him. He gives her orchids grown in
greenhouses on Flora I, you give her daisies you picked from the public field
in Greenpeace Park.”

As the
information, the idea of it, processed, McNab's eyes cleared. Brightened. “Hey,
that's good. That could work. I guess I could try it. You're really into this
shit. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”
Roarke picked up his briefcase. “I've always been a gambling man, Ian, and one
who likes to win. If I were to wager on your little triangle, I'd put my money
on you.”

The idea
pumped up McNab's mood so high he forgot about the pie in the kitchen and got
straight to work. He was having such a good time planning out his first date
with Peabody, he nearly missed the data that scrolled on-screen.

“Holy shit!” He
jumped back up on his boots, did a little dance, and grabbed his communicator.

“Dallas.”

“Hey,
Lieutenant, hey. I think I've got something. Criminal charges, assault and a
civil suit -- bodily harm, property damage and blah blah, both filed by Richard
Draco, June 2035. Charges were dropped, then sealed. Civil action settled to
the tune of five million smackeroonies and sealed. Defendant in both cases was
-- “

“How did you
access sealeds, McNab?”

He blinked,
and his mind went blank. “How did I what?”

“Detective,
how did you access sealed records without the proper authority or the orders of
the primary investigation to obtain said authority?”

“I...”

“Where's
Roarke?”

Even on the
small communicator screen he could see flames leap into her eyes. “Roarke?”
Though he had a bad feeling it was already too late, McNab tried to shift his
expression into innocence, confusion, and righteousness all at once. “I don't
know. I guess he's working somewhere. Um ... did you want him for something?”

“Has he been
playing with you?”

“No, sir!
Absolutely not. I'm on duty.”

Her eyes
stared out from the communicator screen for a very long twenty seconds. He felt
sweat begin to slip greasily down the center of his back.

“I... as to
how I accessed data, Lieutenant, it occurred to me that, well, previous
backgrounds had been negative, and your instincts, which I respect and admire
and trust absolutely, indicated there should be something. So I took
what you could call a shot in the dark. That's it, a shot in the dark, and
communicated our position to Judge Nettles, who agreed to issue the proper
authority. I have the warrant.”

He picked it
up, waved it. “It's signed and everything.”

“I just bet it
is. Is this going to spring back and bite my ass, McNab? Think carefully before
you answer, because I promise you, if it bites mine, it's going to have a chew
fest on yours.”

“No, sir.” He
hoped. “Everything's in proper order.”

“I'm ten
minutes away. Hold everything ... in proper order. And McNab, if I see Roarke's
fingerprints anywhere, I'm going to wring your skinny neck.”

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

The first
thing Eve did when she walked back into the house was hit the house scanner.
“Where is Roarke?” she demanded.

Roarke is
not currently on the premises. He is logged, at this time, at his midtown offices.
Shall I direct a transmission for you, Darling Eve ?

“No. Sneaky
bastard.”

“It called you
darling, sir. That's so sweet.”

“One of
Roarke's little jokes. And if I hear it repeated, I'll have to kill you.”

She headed up
the stairs out of habit. Peabody sighed again, knowing there were numerous
elevators that would be delighted to save them the climb.

When they
walked into the office, she smirked at McNab on principle, but she did offer up
a quick little prayer for his skinny neck. She'd grown, however reluctantly,
fond of it.

He sprang to
his feet, leading with the warrant. “All proper and official, sir.”

Eve snatched
it away, took a good, hard look. The tension in her shoulders unknotted muscle
by muscle. She was dead sure Roarke was behind this sudden bounty of data, but
the warrant would pass muster.

“Okay, McNab.
You can live for the time being. Contact Feeney, put him on a conference-link
and let's see what we've got.”

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

What they had
was twenty-four years old, but it was violent, petty, mean-spirited, and
provocative.

“So the
sophisticated Kenneth whopped big time on one Richard Draco.”

“Really big
time,” Peabody put in. “He knocked out two teeth, busted his nose, bruised his
ribs, and managed to break several articles of furniture before security got
through the door and pulled him off.”

“It says in
the civil action that Draco was unable to work for three weeks, suffered emotional
damage, extreme embarrassment, physical trauma, and, this is my personal
favorite, loss of consortium. Both the criminal charges and the civil action
were taken against Stiles in his birth name, Stipple, which he legally changed
to his current stage name immediately after the suit was settled.”

Eve turned the
new data over in her mind. “He made a deal with Draco to take the payment and
I'm banking it was more than the aforesaid five million smackeroonies to agree
to having all of it sealed. The media didn't get hold of it, and that had to
cost, too.”

“Twenty-four
years ago,” Peabody pointed out. “Neither of them were major names. But from
what we know of Draco, he'd have whined to the press unless it was worth his
while not to.”

“He could have
spewed it out any time. Could have continued to hold it over Stiles's head. Bad
for the image developed.” Still she shook her head. “I can't see Stiles being
overly worried about this coming out now. He's an established celebrity. He
could spin it into a positive. 'Ah, my wild youth' or some such thing. It's why
he broke Draco's balls that's the key.”

She checked
her wrist unit, figured angles. “McNab, continue search and scan. If you turn
up anything else interesting, relay it to me or Feeney. I'll be at Central.
Feeney? Reserve us an interview room, first available.”

“You hauling
him in?” Feeney asked.

“Yeah. Let's
see how he does on my stage. Peabody, have Dispatch send some uniforms to
Kenneth Stiles's address. I want him to have a ride in a black and white.”

She started
out while Peabody dug for her communicator.

“Hey, Peabody,
just a minute.”

She hesitated,
glanced over her shoulder. “I'm busy, McNab.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
He grabbed her hand, gave her a tug.

“Cut it out.”
But her own hand reached back and gave his butt a quick squeeze. “I've got real
cop work to do.”

“You uniforms
only wish you could dance the cop dance like us EDDs. Listen, you want to go
out tonight?”

Being pressed
against him always managed to get her lust quotient hopping. “I guess I could
come by after shift.”

He nearly let
it go at that as an image of her out of that uniform swirled into his mind.
Still, Roarke hadn't said they couldn't have sex after the date. “No, I
was thinking we could go out.”

“It's too cold
to have sex outdoors.”

He opened his
mouth, closed it again as the image in his mind switched to rolling naked with
Peabody in the shadows of Central Park. If they didn't get mugged, knifed, or
murdered, it would be incredible.

“Is sex all
you think about? Not that I'm against it, but how about we go to the Nexus
Club, catch some music. I'll pick you up at eight.”

“Pick me up?
You'll pick me up?”

“That'll give
you time to change.” It was interesting, he thought, seeing her look at him as
if he'd grown a third ear in the center of his forehead.

“Peabody! Move
your ass!”

“You better
go.” He smiled as Eve's irritated voice boomed up the stairs. “I'll catch you
later.”

And because he
was feeling lucky, he crushed his mouth down on hers, sucking until the kiss
broke with a wet, sexy sound.

Peabody
stumbled back and staggered out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Eve grabbed a
cup of coffee and was forced to settle for an energy bar as the candy thief had
hit her again. The first chance she got, she was setting a trap for the sneaky
bastard. But at the moment, she had other priorities.

She caught the
glide to the interview area and picked up Feeney on the way.

“This guy
likes to role play,” Eve began. “I don't want to give him the chance to latch
onto a character type. Let's mess with his rhythm.”

“I want to be
bad cop this time.”

“Feeney,
you're -- “ She stopped, sniffed the air. “What's that smell?”

Feeney hunched
his shoulder. “I don't smell anything. I'm taking bad cop.” He said it so
decisively, Eve rolled her eyes, then shrugged.

“Okay, fine. I'll
start off being pleasant and reasonable, then we'll jam him. If he's
lawyered...” She sniffed again, scenting the air like a bloodhound as other
cops and Central personnel streamed by. “It smells, I don't know, green,” she
decided. “Like a salad.”

“I don't know
what you're talking about. Let's keep focused, okay? A guy whips hell out of
somebody like this one did, he's got a temper. Let's see if we can heat it up.”

“Fine.” As
they stepped off the glide, she leaned in, sniffed at Feeney. “Hey, it's you.”

“Shut up,
Dallas.”

She grinned
now, as the back of the neck she'd just sniffed turned cherry red. “How come
you smell like a fancy green salad, Feeney?”

“Quiet down,
will you? Christ.” He darted looks right and left until he was sure no one was
close enough to hear. Then he lowered his voice to a mutter, just in case.
“Look, my wife gave me this stuff for our anniversary.”

“You're
supposed to put salad dressing on lettuce and stuff, Feeney.”

“It's not
salad dressing, it's cologne.”

“You smell
good enough to eat.”

His mouth
found a spot between a snarl and a sneer. “Yeah, that's what she says. Keep it
down, will you? I couldn't get out of the house this morning without putting it
on, or I'd've hurt her feelings. You have to get pretty close to catch it, but the
damn stuff lasts hours. I've been taking stairs and glides all day. I can't
risk an elevator.”

“Gee, that's
really sweet, Feeney. Maybe you could tell her you want to save it for special
occasions.”

“You think
she'd tumble for that? Dallas, you don't understand women.”

“Got me
there.” They turned the corner and saw Peabody outside Interview Three talking
to another uniform. Eve recognized the tall young cop, sent him a nod when he
turned, saw her, flushed.

“Well, it's
Officer Trueheart. How's it going?”

“It's going
good, Lieutenant. The suspect's inside.”

“Subject,” Eve
corrected. “We're not calling him suspect at this point.” She watched him
process the difference in procedure. She could smell rookie on him as clearly
as she could smell Feeney's cologne. “Did the subject request a lawyer or
representative?”

“No, sir. I
think -- “ He cut himself off, stiffened his already soldierly back. “I beg
your pardon, Lieutenant.”

“You're
allowed to think, Trueheart. In fact, we encourage thinking around here.” She remembered,
with some bitterness, his first trainer who'd not only discouraged thinking,
but humanity. “Give me your take.”

“Yes, sir.
Well, sir, I think he's too mad to ask for representation at this time. Mad,
Lieutenant, plus he wants to go a few rounds with you. In my opinion. The
subject referred to you in ... inflammatory terms during transport.”

“And here I
was planning to be nice to him. Stand by, Trueheart. You can go to Observation
if you want. We'll need you to transport the subject, one way or the other,
after interview.”

“Yes, sir,
thank you, sir. And I'd like to express my appreciation for your assistance in
having me transferred from stiff-scooping detail to Central.”

“The transfer
was easy, Trueheart. Staying here will be up to you. Are we set?” she asked
Peabody and Feeney.

She opened the
door, strolled inside.

Stiles sat at
the small table, his arms crossed, his face mutinous. He sent Eve one steely
glare. “And what is the meaning of this outrage, Lieutenant Dallas? I want an
explanation as to why I was removed from my home by two uniformed officers and
shoved into the backseat of a police car.”

“Peabody, make
a note to speak with said uniformed officers. No shoving.”

“So noted,
sir.”

“Record on,”
she said meandering to the table. “Interview with subject Kenneth Stiles,
regarding case number HS46178-C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, as primary. Also in
attendance Feeney, Captain Ryan, and Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Stiles, have
you been informed of your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“The cop with
peach fuzz on his chin recited the standard. I want to know -- “

“And do you
understand these rights and obligations, Mr. Stiles?”

He showed his
teeth. “I'm not a nitwit; of course I understand them. I insist -- “

“I apologize
for the inconvenience.” She settled back, tried out a smile. There was no need
to repeat the revised Miranda and remind him he could holler lawyer. “I realize
this is unpleasant for you, again apologize for the inconvenience, and will try
to expedite this interview.”

Feeney gave a
sharp snort so that Eve sent him a quick, worried look that had Stiles shifting
in his seat.

“What is this
about?” Stiles demanded. “I have a right to know why I've been dragged down
here like a common criminal.”

“You've been
read your rights, Stiles.” Feeney's voice was clipped and harsh. “Now we're the
ones who ask the questions.”

“I've already
answered questions. I don't know anything other than what I've already told
Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I guess you
don't know anything about that poor slob who ended up dangling by his neck a
couple feet off the floor, either.”

“Feeney.” Eve
held up her hands for peace. “Easy.”

Feeney folded
his arms over his chest and tried to look burly. “He keeps pulling my chain,
I'm pulling his back.”

“Let's take a
minute. Want some water?”

Stiles blinked
at her, baffled. He'd been ready to rip into Eve, and now she was giving him
sympathetic looks and offering him water. “Yes, yes, I would.”

“Why don't you
offer him a snack while you're at it?”

Ignoring
Feeney, Eve rose to fill a small cup with lukewarm water. “Mr. Stiles, some new
information has come to light regarding your relationship with Richard Draco.”

“What new
information? I told you -- “

“I said we ask
the questions.” Feeney came half out of his chair. “You didn't tell us squat.
You didn't tell us you kicked Draco's face in, did you? A guy puts another guy
in the hospital, maybe he finds a way to come back around and put him in the
ground.”

“I don't know
what you're talking about.” Stiles's voice was smooth, even, but his hand
trembled lightly as he took the cup of water.

“Mr. Stiles,
I'm going to warn you that there's a very stiff penalty for lying in
interview.” Eve leaned forward so that Stiles would focus on her face. “You
don't want that kind of trouble; take my word for it. You cooperate with me,
and I'm going to do what I can to straighten this out. If you're not straight
with me, I can't help you. And it's going to be tough for you to help
yourself.”

“Guy's a
coward,” Feeney said in disgust. “Takes Draco out, but hides behind some poor
woman to do it.”

“I never -- “
The mutiny in Stiles's eyes turned to horrified shock. “My God, you can't
believe I actually arranged Richard's death. That's absurd.”

“At least he
used to have some guts,” Feeney went on, and deliberately cracked his knuckles
in three nasty little pops. “Used his own hands to pound Draco's face in.
Must've really ticked him off, huh, Stiles. You actor guys are fussy about your
pretty faces.”

Stiles
moistened his lips. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Richard's death. I've
told you everything I know about it.”

Eve put a hand
on Feeney's shoulder as if to restrain him, then with a sigh, rose. “The file,
Officer Peabody. Hard copy.”

“Yes, sir.”
Keeping her face blank, Peabody offered Eve a folder.

Eve sat with
it, opened it, gave Stiles a chance to read as much as he could manage upside
down. And watched his color drain. “I have documents here relating to both
criminal and civil actions, which involve you, as defendant.”

“Those matters
were resolved years ago. Years. And sealed. I was assured they were sealed.”

“This is
murder, pal.” Feeney's mouth twisted into a sneer. “Seal's broken.”

“Let's give
the guy a chance to settle into this, Feeney. Mr. Stiles, we were authorized to
break the seal due to the course of this investigation.”

“You don't owe
him explanations.”

“Let's just
keep it smooth,” Eve murmured to Feeney. “You were charged with assaulting
Richard Draco, causing extensive bodily harm, mental and emotional trauma.”

“It was
twenty-four years ago. For God's sake.”

“I know. I
understand that. But... you indicated to me in your previous statement, on
record, that you and the deceased had no overt difficulties. And yet...” Eve
said, letting the silence hang a moment. “At one time you were driven to
assault him seriously enough to result in his hospitalization, in your arrest,
in a seven-figure civil suit.”

The paper cup crumpled
in Stiles's hand. Little drops of water flew. “It was all resolved.”

“Look,
Kenneth.” She used his first name now, establishing intimacy. “The fact is,
everything I've come up with on Draco points to him being a sorry son of a
bitch. I have to figure you had cause to lay into him. Good cause. You were
seriously provoked. You don't strike me as a violent man.”

“I'm not.” The
sheen of sophistication had turned into a sheen of sweat. It gleamed on his
face as he nodded at Eve. “No, I'm not. Of course, I'm not.”

Feeney snorted
again. “I'll buy that one. Didn't even have the nerve to stick Draco himself.”

“I didn't kill
Richard!” Stiles's voice rose, boomed as he looked at Feeney. “I had nothing to
do with it. What happened before, good Lord, I was hardly more than a boy.”

“I understand
that, Mr. Stiles. You were young, you were provoked.” Sympathy rang in Eve's
voice. She got up, filled another cup with water, brought it back to him. “Tell
me how it happened. Why it happened. All I want to do is clear this up so you
can go home.”

Stiles closed
his eyes, drew air in slowly, released it. “We'd both begun to make our marks
in theater, in small regional theaters. Not much of a mark, of course, but we
were beginning. We were both aiming for New York. Broadway was enjoying a rich
revival in those days.”

His voice
warmed a bit as he remembered his youth, that sense of anticipation,
invulnerability. Color came back to his cheeks. “It was a return to the lights,
the glamour, the brilliance after the destruction of the Urban Wars. People
were looking for entertainment, for escape and, I suppose, for heroes who
didn't carry weapons. We were a tight and perhaps an arrogant circle. It was a
heady time, Lieutenant, a renaissance. We were treated like royalty. Offstage,
we lived very large lives. Excessive lives. Sex, illegals, lavish parties.”

He picked up
his water again, drank deeply. “It ruined some of us. I would say it ruined
Richard. He reveled in the fame, in the excesses. It never affected his work,
that was his genius, but offstage, he indulged in every possible vice. There
was a cruelty to him, particularly toward women. He crushed more than one on
his way. He liked to brag about it, to make bets about which woman he'd have
next. I found it... unpleasant.”

He cleared his
throat, shoved his cup away. “There was a woman, a girl, really. We were seeing
each other. It wasn't serious, but we enjoyed each other's company. Then
Richard began the hunt. He stalked her, lured her, and in the end, ruined her.
When he cast her off, it broke her. I went to her apartment. I don't know what
instinct sent me there. When I found her, she ... she was on the point of
taking her own life. She had already slashed her wrists. I got her to a health
center. I...”

He trailed
off, hesitated, then continued with obvious difficulty. “They saved her, but
something inside me snapped when I looked at her lying there, so pale, so used.
I got drunk, then I went after Richard.”

Stiles ran his
hands over his face. “I might have killed him that night. I admit it. But
people from the neighboring apartments stopped me. Afterward, I realized what a
useless gesture it had been. It changed nothing and cost me a great deal.
Instead of damaging Richard, I could have destroyed my own career, my own life.
I put myself at his mercy, you see. He agreed to the settlements and the seals
to protect his own image. I had reason to be grateful he was just that
self-interested. It took me three years to pay off the suit, with merciless
interest. Then I put it behind me.”

“Seems to me
you had plenty of reason to hate the son of a bitch,” Feeney put in.

“Perhaps.”
Steadier now that the story was told, Stiles nodded. “But hate takes enormous
amounts of time and energy. I prefer employing mine in more positive channels.
I have everything I want; I enjoy my life. I would never risk it again on the
likes of Richard Draco.”

“Not such a
risk when you put the knife in the hands of a woman.”

Stiles's head
snapped up. His eyes burned. “I don't use women. I've had nearly twenty-five years
to learn a lesson, Lieutenant. Richard Draco stopped mattering to me a very
long time ago.”

“What happened
to the woman?”

“I don't
know.” He heaved a huge sigh, full of regret. “She ceased to be part of my
life. I believe the fact that I knew what had happened made it difficult for
her to be around me, to maintain our friendship.”

“Seems to me
she'd have been grateful.”

“She was,
Lieutenant. But like me, she had to put the incident, all of it, behind her. I
went to London very shortly after the incident, worked there, and then in
California, in Canada. We didn't keep in touch, and I never heard of her
again.”

Convenient,
Eve thought. Maybe just a little
too convenient. “What was her name?”

“Is that
necessary?”

“It's a sad
story you tell, Mr. Stiles. An effective one. But there's no one here to back
it up. What was her name?”

“Anja
Carvell.” He looked back into the past, then down at his hands. “Her name was
Anja. I've told you all I can.”

“One more
thing. Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of ten and eleven?”

“Yesterday?
It's the hour I take my daily exercise. A brisk walk in the park.”

“Can anyone
verify that?”

“I was alone.”
His voice was cold again. The temper was coming back, but it was more
controlled. “Am I to be detained any longer? I have a memorial service to
attend.”

“You're
advised not to leave the city.” Eve studied his face. There was something off,
but she couldn't put her finger on it. “Any attempt to do so will result in an
immediate warrant for your detention.”

She rose,
signaled toward Observation and Trueheart.

“An officer
will take you back to your apartment. Oh, Mr. Stiles, one last thing. Did you
ever have occasion to converse with Linus Quim?”

“Quim?” Stiles
got to his feet, brushed the back of his fingertips down his lapel. “No. One
didn't converse with Quim. He had a disdain for people in my profession. An odd
little man. I wouldn't be surprised if you discovered he'd switched the knives.
He really couldn't stand actors.”

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

“Peabody,
start tracking down Anja Carvell.”

“I don't like
the way it plays,” Feeney commented. “Too slick.”

“Yeah, I was
waiting for the lights to come up and the music to start. Still, it could've
gone down pretty much like he said.”

“Even if it
did, it doesn't change anything. He had a hard-on for Draco, a big, fat one. He
strikes me as the type who'd chew on it for at least two decades.”

“I like him
for a long-term planner,” Eve agreed. “Somebody who keeps slights and
annoyances tucked in little boxes. And as someone who wouldn't want to get his
hands dirty, not a second time.”

But something
was out of step. Details left out, or details added in. “We'll see how the
Carvell connection shakes out,” she decided. “He was leaving holes, picking
what he wanted to tell us, how he wanted it told. Ad-libbing,” she mused.
“Isn't that what they call it? He did a good job of it.”

“I think he
was in love with Anja.” Peabody had her palm unit out but hadn't yet started
the scan. “It makes a difference if he was.”

Eve shuffled
back her own thoughts, turned to her aide. “Where do you get that from?”

“It was the
way he talked about her before he started to think it through, before he
started picking his way. He got this look in his eyes. Wistful.”

Eve hooked her
thumbs in her front pockets. “He got a wistful look in his eye?”

“Yeah, just
for a minute, he was really thinking about her, about the way it was, or the
way he'd wanted it to be. I think she was the love of his life. When you've got
one of those, it does stuff to you.”

“Define stuff”

“It makes you
think about them even when you're doing routine things. It makes you want to
protect them, to make them happy and safe. You know,” Peabody said with some
frustration. “You've got one.”

“One what?”

“Love of your
life, jeez, Dallas. But see, you're the love of his right back. This wasn't the
same way, because she threw him over for Draco. If you were to go insane and
throw Roarke over for somebody, what do you think he'd do?”

“Before or
after this somebody was no more than a smudge on the bottom of Roarke's shoe?”

“See?”
Pleased, Peabody grinned. “If you've got a love of your life, you know.” She
paused, sniffed. “Something smells really good.”

“Just keep
going,” Feeney ordered quickly. “If the theory is that Stiles was stuck on this
Carvell woman, how does that change the picture?”

“Because you
never get over the love of your life. That's the whole definition, isn't it?
You only get one. So that bit about him losing touch with her was bull.”

“I like it. If
we find that Stiles had some contact with the woman, we've got a motive that
spans a quarter century. The setup suits him in both murders. He had
opportunity.”

“It's all
circumstantial,” Feeney reminded her.

“Yeah, but we
pile on enough, we might finesse a confession out of him. Find the woman,
Peabody. If you run into snags, hook up with McNab on it. Feeney, how do you
feel about going to a splashy memorial service?”

“My wife loves
it when I rub elbows with celebrities.”

“Peabody,
we're in the field.”

“Yes, sir.”
She watched them head off, and had a sudden craving for a big, chunky salad.

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

Feeney's wife
was going to be delirious. Performers from every medium were in attendance. The
service was held at Radio City. Though Draco had never performed there, its Art
Deco glamour had just the right ambiance. Word was Draco's agent had hired the
top Mourner's Association company to arrange the affair.

And as it was,
technically, Draco's last performance, he'd skimmed off 15 percent of the
gross.

Enormous
screens flickered with Draco in dozens of images. There was a holo-performance
running on a side stage, with Draco in full costume, defending country and
womankind with sword and fancy footwork.

For two
hundred and fifty dollars a pop, a thousand lucky fans could attend. The rest
were invited guests.

There were
seas of flowers, islands of people in sophisticated black, streams of gawkers
who, despite the posted request, were busy immortalizing the event on disc.

On the main
stage, atop a white pedestal, was Draco himself, resting in a coffin of pale
blue glass.

“Hell of a
show.”

Eve just shook
her head. “They're selling souvenirs. Did you see? Little Draco dolls,
T-shirts.”

“There's
nothing like free enterprise,” Roarke said from behind her. She turned, eyed
him up and down.

“Why are you
here?”

“Lieutenant,
have you forgotten? The deceased met his end while starring in a play in my
theater. How could I stay away? Besides...” He patted the pocket of his elegant
suit. “I got an invitation.”

“I thought you
had meetings all day.”

“The advantage
of being in charge ... is being in charge. I took an hour.” With his hand
lightly on her shoulder, he scanned the crowd, the lights, the screens.
“Appalling, isn't it?”

“And then
some. Feeney, let's split up, see what we see. I'll meet you at the main
entrance, one hour.”

“You got it.”
He spotted several faces he knew from on-screen and a banquet table. No reason
he couldn't see what he saw with his mouth full.

“Roarke, if I
ditched you twenty-five years ago, would you still be hung up about it?”

He smiled,
caressed her hair. “Difficult to say, as I'd have spent that time hounding you
and making your life a living hell.”

“No,
seriously.”

“Who said I
wasn't?” He took her arm, led her through the crowd.

“Let's pretend
you're someone less annoying.”

“Ah. All
right. If you'd broken my heart, I'd attempt to pick up the shattered pieces
and rebuild my life. But I'd never forget you. What have you got?”

“Peabody's got
a theory about love, the love of your life. I'm playing with it.”

“I can tell
you, you're mine.”

“No kissing,”
she hissed, seeing the intent in his eyes. “I'm on duty here. There's Michael
Proctor. Smiling. I went over his financials, and he paid over ten K for that
dental work, while he lives in a sty. He's chatting with that slick-looking
woman over there. He doesn't look so shook up or bumbling now.”

“He's talking
with Marcina, one of the top screen producers in the business. Could be your
boy is hoping for a career shift.”

“Less than a
week ago, the stage was his life. Interesting. Let's see how he holds up.”

She worked her
way over, noted the instant Proctor saw her. His eyes widened, his head
drooped, and his shoulders hunched in. Presto-chango, Eve thought, from
debonair leading man to fumbling second lead in a blink. The magic of theater.

“Proctor.”

“Ah, ah,
Lieutenant Dallas. I didn't realize you'd be attending.”

“I get
around.” Deliberately, she scanned the theater. “I guess Quim can't expect this
kind of send-off.”

“Quim? Oh.” He
had the grace, or the skill, to flush. “No, no, I suppose not. Richard was...
he was known and respected by so many people.”

“A lot of them
sure are toasting him.” She leaned over, studied the pretty bubbles in the
glass he held. “With premium champagne.”

“He would have
expected no less.” This from the woman Roarke had identified as Marcina. “This
event suits him perfectly.” She shifted her gaze over Eve's shoulder, then
beamed. “Roarke! I wondered if I'd see you here.”

“Marcina.” He
stepped up, lightly kissed her cheek. “You're looking well.”

“I'm very
well. Dallas,” she said after a moment, and pinned Eve with her sharp gaze. “Of
course. This must be your wife. I've heard a great deal about you, Lieutenant.”

“If you'll
excuse me,” Proctor said.

“Don't run off
on my account,” Eve told Proctor, but he was already edging away.

“I see a
friend.” He dived into the crowd like a man leaping overboard.

“I assume
you're on duty?” Marcina skimmed a glance over Eve's trousers and serviceable
jacket. “You're investigating Richard's death.”

“That's right.
Would you mind telling me what you and Proctor were talking about?”

“Is he a
suspect?” Lips pursed, Marcina looked over to where Proctor had disappeared.
“Fascinating. Actually, it was shop talk. Michael has the right look for a
screen project I'm putting together. We were discussing the possibility of him
coming out to New L.A. for a few days.”

“And is he?”

“Perhaps. But
he's committed to his current play. He's quite looking forward to taking
Richard's place onstage. Not that he put it quite so tactlessly. My people will
be talking to his people, as it were, over the next week or two to see if we
can work something out. He hoped that the theater will reopen very soon.”

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

The minute Eve
stepped outside, she took a deep gulp of air thick with the stink of smoke from
glide-carts, screaming with the noise of street and air traffic. She preferred
it over the sweetly perfumed air inside.

“Proctor isn't
letting Draco get cold before he steps into his shoes.”

“He sees an
opportunity,” Roarke commented.

“Yeah. So did
the killer.”

“Point taken.”
He traced a fingertip over the dent in her chin. “I might be a little late
tonight. I should be home by eight.”

“Okay.”

“I have
something for you.”

“Oh, come on.”
When he reached in his pocket, she stuffed her hands in hers. “This isn't the
time or place for presents.”

“I see. Then I
guess I'll just keep this for myself.”

Instead of the
jewelry case she'd expected, he pulled out a jumbo chocolate bar. Her hand
whipped out of her pocket, snatched it.

“Then again,”
Roarke murmured.

“You bought me
a candy bar.”

“I know the
way to your heart, Lieutenant.”

She tore off
the wrapping, bit in. “I guess you do. Thanks.”

“It's not
dinner,” he said with a narrowed eye. “But if you can hold off, we'll have some
together when I get home.”

“Sure. You got
transpo?”

“I'll walk.
It's a nice day.” He caught her face, kissed her before she could tell him not
to.

Chewing her
candy, she watched him walk away. And thought she understood exactly what
Peabody meant by the love of a lifetime.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mira studied
the record of the interview with Kenneth Stiles. She sipped her tea while Eve
paced. In another five minutes, she would have been on her way home. Eve had
caught her as she'd been locking up.

Now she would
be late. That thought shifted through the back of her mind as she focused on
the interview. Her husband would understand, particularly if she made a quick
detour on the way and picked up a carton of his favorite ice cream.

She'd learned
long ago the tricks and balances of blending a demanding career and a
successful marriage.

“You and
Feeney are an excellent interview team,” she commented. “You read each other
well.”

“We've been
doing it awhile.” Eve wanted to hurry Mira along but knew better. “I think he's
been practicing that hard-ass look in the mirror.”

That brought
out a smile. “I imagine so. Given his comfortable face, it's surprisingly
effective. Am I correct in assuming you don't believe Stiles told the whole
truth?”

“Are you ever
wrong?”

“Now and
again. You're looking for this Anja Carvell?”

“Peabody's
tracking her.”

“He had, and
has, strong feelings for her. I'd say she was a turning point for him. If it
had been a storybook, the woman would have come to him after he defended her.
Happily ever after. But -- “

“She didn't
want him.”

“Or didn't
love him enough, felt unworthy, humiliated, scarred.” Mira lifted a hand.
“There are countless reasons why she and Stiles didn't match. Without observing
her, I couldn't say. Still, it's Stiles's emotional and mental state that
interests you.”

“Peabody's
idea is that this woman was the love of his life, and because of that, he'd
never have completely lost touch with her.”

“I think
Peabody has good instincts. He protected her, defended her. A man with his
sense of theater or drama would tend to put himself in the role of hero, and
she his damsel in distress. He may very well still be doing so.”

“She's key,”
Eve murmured. “Maybe not the key, but a key.” With her hands in her
pockets, she wandered to Mira's window. She was feeling closed in today and
couldn't say why. “I don't get it,” she said at length. “The woman shrugs him
off, sleeps with another guy, folds herself into this other guy so completely
that when he tosses her away, she tries to self-terminate. And still
Stiles is hung up on her. He beats hell out of Draco, gets himself arrested,
gets skinned in a civil suit. And when he talks about her twenty-five years
later, he goes soft. Why isn't he bitter? Why isn't he pissed? Is he jamming me
here?”

“I can't say
with absolute certainty. He's a talented actor. But my evaluation at this point
is no, as far as his feelings for the woman, he's not jamming you. Eve, the
human heart is a mystery we'll never completely solve. You're putting yourself
in this man's place. That's one of the skills you have, what makes you so good
at what you do. But you can't quite get into his heart. You would look at this
woman and see weakness.”

Mira sipped
more tea as Eve turned. “She was weak. Weak and careless.”

“And quite
young, I imagine, but that's beside the point. You look at love differently
because you're strong and because of where and in whom you found it. The love
of your life, Eve, would never betray you or hurt you or, where it matters
most, ever let you down. He accepts who you are, absolutely. As much as you
love him, I don't think you fully understand how rare and how precious that is.
Stiles loved, and perhaps still loves, a fantasy. You have the reality.”

“People kill
for both.”

“Yes.” Mira
ejected the disc, held it out to Eve. “They do.”

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

All the talk
about love and lifetimes got under Eve's skin and made her feel uncomfortably
guilty. She played back what others had said and realized everyone who had
mentioned her relationship with Roarke as an example had spoken of what he
would do for her or wouldn't do to her.

It wasn't, she
decided, a very pretty picture of her participation in the whole love and
marriage deal.

She never
really did anything, she thought. She still had a miserable time finding
the right words, the right gesture, the right moment. Roarke seemed to pluck
them out of the air as easily, as smoothly, as he plucked his fortune.

So she'd make
an effort. She'd push the case onto the back burner, okay, the side burner, she
admitted, and do something, Jesus, romantic.

In her current
state of mind, she wanted to avoid Summerset at all costs, so she actually put
her car in the garage. Then, like a thief, she snuck in the house through one
of the side doors.

She was about
to plan her first intimate dinner.

How hard
could it be? she asked herself as she
jumped into the shower. She'd led tactical teams in hostage situations, tracked
psychopaths, outwitted the deranged.

She was smart
enough to put a fancy meal on a fancy table. Probably.

She zipped out
of the shower and into the drying tube. Not in the bedroom, she decided,
because that was, well, obvious, and she thought, most likely, romance should
be subtle.

She'd use one
of the lounging rooms.

As the hot air
whirled around her, she began to plot.

Thirty minutes
later, she was feeling both satisfied and frazzled. There were so many damn
rooms in the house, she still didn't believe she'd been in all of them. And all
the damn rooms had stuff, enormous amounts of stuff. How was she supposed to
figure out what was needed?

Candles, she
got that, but when she ran an inventory scan, she discovered a veritable forest
of candles in several areas. Still, the satisfaction came from skulking through
the house, evading the ever-watchful Summerset.

She decided on
white, because color meant she'd most likely have to match it with more colors,
and that was just more than she could handle. She spent another twenty minutes
dealing with the menu, then had to face the frightening ordeal of selecting
plates, flatware, crystal.

It had been a
shock to run an inventory on something as basic as dinner plates and find her
husband had over fifty types of varying material and patterns.

What kind of
maniac needed over five thousand plates?

Her maniac,
she reminded herself, then nearly choked when she ran the crystal.

“Okay, that's
got to be wrong.” She was at the point of choosing at random because her time
was running short.

“Might I ask
precisely what you're doing?”

A lesser woman
would have yelped. Eve managed, just barely, to bite it back. “Get lost. I'm
busy.”

Summerset
simply strode over, the cat at his heels. “So I observe. If you wish to know
the contents of the house, I suggest you discuss it with Roarke.”

“I can't
because I've killed him, disposed of his body, and now I'm going to hold the
biggest auction, on or off planet, in the history of civilization.”

She jabbed a
finger against something called Waterford, Dublin pattern, only because
she recognized it as the city where Roarke had been born. Then she looked up
with a scowl toward the hovering Summerset. “Go away.”

But his
attention had shifted from her to the table under the glass dome of the
observation balcony. She'd used the Irish linen, he noted. An excellent choice,
which was probably blind luck. The Georgian candlesticks, white tapers. There
were dozens of other candles, all white, scattered around the lounging room, as
yet unlighted.

Galahad the
cat pranced over and leaped onto the satin pillows on the love seat.

“Jesus Christ,
they're just forks and knives!”

The combination
of horror and frustration in her tone had Summerset's lips twitching. “Which
china pattern have you selected?”

“I don't know.
Will you get out of here? This is a private party.”

He tapped her
hand aside before she could select, scanned her other choices, and ordered the
proper flatware. “You've neglected to order napkins.”

“I was getting
to them.”

He turned a
pitying eye on her. She was wearing a cotton robe, had yet to enhance her face.
Her hair was standing in spikes from the constant swipe of her fingers.

But he gave
her points for the attempt. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by her taste.
Though some of her selections were unconventional in combinations, they managed
to blend into a rather charming ambiance.

“When one
plans a special meal,” he said, taking care to look down the long line of his
nose at her, “One requires the proper accompaniments.”

“What am I
doing here? Playing Space Attack? Now, if you'd just go slither under the door
again, I could finish up.”

“Flowers are
necessary.”

“Flowers?” Her
stomach pitched to her feet. “I knew that.” She wasn't going to ask. She'd saw
her tongue off with her teeth before she asked.

For a humming
ten seconds they simply stared at each other. He took pity on her, though he
told himself he was simply maintaining his authority as majordomo. “I would
suggest roses, the Royal Silver.”

“I guess we've
got those.”

“Yes, they can
be accessed. You'll also require music.”

Her palms
started to sweat. Annoyed, she rubbed them on the robe. “I was going to program
something.” Or other.

“I assume you
intend to dress for the evening.”

“Shit.” She
heaved out a breath, stared hard at the cat who was staring hard back at her.
She suspected he was grinning.

“It's part of
my duties to organize matters such as this. If you'll go put on something .. .
more, I'll arrange the rest.”

She opened her
mouth to agree. Already the knots in her stomach loosened. Then she shook her
head and felt them tighten right back up again. “No, I have to do it myself.
That's the point.” She massaged her forehead. She was getting a headache.
Perfect.

His face
remained stern, cold, but inside, he softened like jelly. “Then you'd better
hurry. Roarke will be home within the hour.”

She would, Summerset concluded as he left her alone, need
every minute of it.

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

His mind was
on business when he got home. His last meeting of the day had involved a
textile conglomerate looking for a buyout. He had to decide if he was looking
to buy.

The company,
and most of its subsidiaries, had been sloppily run. Roarke had no sympathy for
sloppy business practices. As a result, his initial offer had been insultingly
low.

The fact that
their negotiator hadn't been nearly as insulted as he should have been sent up
red flags. He would have to do more research before he took the next step.

The problem
would be on one of their two off-planet sites, he calculated. It might be worth
a trip to study them firsthand.

There had been
a time he would have simply arranged his schedule and done so. But in the past
year it had become increasingly less appealing to leave home, even for the
short term.

He had, he
thought with some amusement at himself, become rooted.

He stopped by
Eve's office on the way to his own, was mildly surprised not to find her there,
neck deep in her current case. Curiosity had him setting his own work aside and
moving to the house scanner.

“Where is
Eve?”

Eve is
currently in Lounging Room Four, third level, south wing.

“What the hell
is she doing in there?”

Would you
like to engage monitor?

“No, I'll go
see for myself.”

He'd never
known her to loiter in that area of the house. The fact was, he'd never known
her to lounge unless he nagged, seduced, or conned her into it.

It occurred to
him it might be pleasant to have their meal there, relax together with a bottle
of wine, and shake their respective days from their minds.

He'd have to
talk her into it.

Thinking this,
he walked into the room. If she'd been looking in his direction, she would have
caught one of the rare moments when her husband was completely flabbergasted.

The room was
lit with dozens of white candles, and the fragrance of them waltzed with the
tender perfume of dozens of silver roses. Crystal glinted, silver gleamed, and
the romance of harp strings wept in the air.

In the midst
of it, Eve stood in an alarm-red dress that left her arms and shoulders bare as
it skimmed down her long, slim body like an avid lover's hungry hands.

Her face was
flushed, her eyes bright with concentration, as she twisted the wire on a
bottle of champagne.

“Excuse me.”
He saw her lovely shoulders jerk, her only sign of surprise. “I'm looking for
my wife.”

Her stomach
jittered a little, but she turned, smiled. He had a face made for candlelight,
she thought. For slow and simmering fires. Looking at it never failed to start
one in her blood. “Hi.”

“Hello.”
Glancing around the room, he walked toward her. “What's all this?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner,” he
repeated, and his eyes narrowed. “What have you done? You're not hurt?”

“No. I'm
fine.” Still smiling, she popped the cork, relieved when champagne didn't come
spraying out.

He frowned as
she poured champagne into crystal flutes. “All right, what do you want?”

“What do you
mean?”

“I mean I know
a setup when I see one. What do you want?”

Her smile
wavered. It took a great deal of effort to keep it from turning into a snarl.
Sticking to the steps she'd carefully outlined, she handed him his wine, gently
tapped her glass to his. “What, I can't put together a nice dinner without
ulterior motives?”

He thought
about it. “No.”

She set the
bottle on the table with an ominous crack. “Look, it's dinner, okay? You don't
want to eat, fine.”

“I didn't say
I didn't want to eat.” She was wearing perfume, he noted. And lip dye. She'd
fussed with her eyes. He reached out to toy with the tear-shaped diamond
pendant he'd given her. “What are you up to, Eve?”

That tore it.
“Nothing. Forget it. I don't know what came over me. Obviously, I lost my mind
for a minute. No, for two sweaty, stupid hours. That's what it took to put this
fiasco together. I'm going to work.”

He caught her
arm before she could march past him and wasn't the least surprised to see the
quick flare of violence in her eyes. But he was surprised to see hurt.

“I don't think
so.”

“You want to
keep that hand, pal, you'll move it.”

“Ah, there she
is. For a moment, I thought you'd been replaced by a droid. It gave me a bad
start.”

“I bet you
think that's funny.”

“I think I've
hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry.” He brushed his lips over her forehead even
as he flipped desperately through his mental calendar. “Have I forgotten an
occasion?”

“No. No.” She
stepped back. “No,” she said again, and felt ridiculous. “I just wanted to do something
for you. To give you something. And you can just stop looking at me like I've
fried a few circuits. You think you're the only one who can put this kind of
deal together? Well, you're right. You are. I nearly stunned myself with my own
weapon a half a dozen times tonight just to put myself out of my misery. Oh
fuck it.”

She picked up
her glass again, stalked to the wide, curved window.

Roarke winced
and began the delicate task of extracting his feet from his mouth. “It's
lovely, Eve. And so are you.”

“Oh, don't
start with me.”

“Eve -- “

“Just because
I don't do this kind of thing, because I don't take the time -- hell because I
don't think of it, doesn't mean I don't love you. I do.” She spun around, and
he wouldn't have described the look on her face as particularly loving. She'd
gone back to fury. “You're the one who's always doing the things, saying the
words. Giving...” She fumbled a moment. “Just giving. I wanted to give
something back.”

She was
beautiful. Hurt and angry, passionate and pissed, she was the most beautiful
creature he'd ever seen. “You steal my breath,” he murmured.

“I've got this
whole love of a lifetime thing in my head. Murder, betrayal, rage.”

“I beg your
pardon?”

“Never mind.”
She paused, took a deep breath. “The last couple of days people have said
things that keep sticking in my brain. Would you jump in front of a maxibus for
me?”

“Absolutely.
They don't go very fast.”

She laughed,
relieving him considerably. “That's what I said. Oh hell, I messed this up. I knew
I would.”

“No, I took
care of that.” He moved to her, took her hand. “Do you love me enough to give
me another chance at this?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling Eve.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “What you've done here means a great deal to
me. You, you mean everything to me.”

“See how you
do that. Slick as spit.”

He trailed his
fingers over the curve of her shoulder. “I like the dress.”

It was a good
thing, she thought, he hadn't seen her frozen panic when she'd opened her
closet. “I thought it would work.”

“It does. Very
well.” He picked up her glass, then his own. “Let's try this again. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,
I'd say it was nothing, but that would be a big, fat lie. Just tell me this one
thing. Why do you have a million plates?”

“I'm sure
that's an exaggeration.”

“Not by much.”

“Well, you
never know who might be coming to dinner, do you?”

“Including the
entire population of New Zealand.” She sipped champagne. “Now, I'm behind
schedule.”

“Have we a
schedule?”

“Yeah. You
know, drinks, dinner, conversation. Blah blah. It all ends up with me getting
you drunk and seducing you.”

“I like the
end goal. Since I came close to spoiling things, the least I can do now is
cooperate.” He started to pick up the bottle, but she laid a hand on his arm.

“Dance with
me.” She slid her hands up his chest, linked them behind his neck. “Close. And
slow.”

His arms came
around her. His body swayed with hers. And his blood leapt with love, with
lust, as her mouth brushed silkily over his.

“I love the
taste of you.” Her voice was husky now, soft. “It always makes me want more.”

“Have more.”

But when he
attempted to deepen the kiss, she turned her head, skimmed those heated lips
along his jaw. “Slow,” she said again. “The way I'm going to make love with
you.” She nibbled her way to his ear. “So that it's almost torture.”

She threaded
her fingers through his hair, all that gorgeous black, fisted them, drew his
head back until their eyes met. His were deep and blue and already hot.

“I want you to
say my name when I take you.” She teased his mouth with hers again, retreated,
felt his body tighten like a bow against hers. “Say it so that I know nothing
exists for you but me at that moment. Nothing exists for me but you. You're all
there is.”

Her mouth took
his now, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues. She felt his moan start low,
start deep, then merge with her own. She let herself tremble, let herself ache,
then pulled back, pulled away a breath before surrender.

“Eve.”

She heard the
strain in his voice, enjoyed it as she picked up their glasses again.
“Thirsty?”

“No.” He
started to reach for her, but she shifted away, thrust out his glass. “I am.
Have a drink. I want to go to your head.”

“You do. Let
me have you.”

“I will. After
I've had you.” She picked up a small remote, pressed a series of buttons. On
the side wall, panels opened. The bed that had been tucked behind them was
heaped with pillows. “That's where I want you. Eventually.”

She took a
long sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “You're not drinking.”

“You're
killing me.”

Delighted, she
laughed, and the sound was like smoke. “It's going to get worse.”

Now he did
drink, then set his glass aside. “Praise God.”

She walked
back to him, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. “I love your body,” she
murmured, slowly working open the buttons of his shirt. “I'm going to spend a
lot of time enjoying it tonight.”

It was a
powerful rush, she thought, to make a strong man quiver. She felt that dance of
muscles as she traced a fingertip down his chest to the hook of his trousers.

Instead of
releasing them, she smiled. “You'd better sit down.”

There was a
throbbing in his blood, primal, edging toward violent. It took a great deal of
effort not to yield to it, to drag her to the floor and answer that urgent
beat.

“No, not
here,” she said, and lifting his hand, nipped lightly at his knuckles. “I don't
think you'll be able to manage to cross the room when I'm done.”

It wasn't the
wine making his head swim. She guided him across the room, a kind of lazy,
circling dance with her in the lead. When she eased him down to sit on the side
of the bed, she knelt at his feet, brushed her hands slowly, intimately down
his legs. And took off his shoes.

She rose.
“I'll just go get the wine.”

“I'm not
interested in wine.”

She walked
away, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You will be. When I start licking it
off you.”

She topped off
the glasses, brought them back to set them on the small, carved table by the
bed. Then, watching him, her eyes gold and full of the light from the candles,
she began to peel the dress down her body.

He wondered
that his system didn't simply implode.

“Christ.
Christ Jesus.”

The Irish had
leaped back into his voice, as she knew it did when he was distracted, angry,
aroused. The simple sign made her glad she'd taken the time and trouble to,
well, dress for the evening.

The siren-red
lingerie was an erotic contrast against her skin. The silk and lace body
skimmer rode low over her breasts so they all but spilled out of the top. Then
it cinched in, sheer and seductive, slicked over her hips. Her hose was sheer
and shimmering, and braked to a teasing halt at mid-thigh.

She stepped
out of the dress, kicked it aside with the toe of one spiked heel.

“I thought
we'd have dinner first.”

He managed to
lift his gaze to her face even as his mouth fell open.

“But... I
guess it'll keep.” She stepped forward, planted herself between his legs. “I
want you to touch me.”

His hands
burned to take, but he skimmed them lightly over her, following angle, curve.
“I'm lost in you already.”

“Stay there.”
She bent down, took his mouth.

She knew he
held back, let her hold the reins. And because she knew it, she gave him
everything she had.

The
candlelight glimmered, warming the scent of the roses as she slid onto the bed
with him. As she took her hands, her mouth over him. Erotic and tender,
passionate and loving. She wanted to show him all, everything.

And as she
did, he gave back. Long drugging kisses that weighed the limbs, lazy, lingering
caresses that thrilled the blood.

The bed, with
its thick mattress of gel, undulated beneath them.

She rolled,
leaned away, so he contented himself with the flavor just above the silk hose
on the back of her thigh.

Then she
straddled him, drank from the glass of champagne. Upending it, she began to
drink him.

His vision
blurred, the breath clogging in his lungs to burning. She tormented him.
Pleasured him. Her agile body slid and slithered over his while her mouth drove
him to the verge of madness.

His control
snapped, steel rending steel. The sound of silk tearing inflamed him as he
ripped at it. And with a sound of greed, he filled his hands, his mouth with
her.

She came, a
wild, shock slap to her system. Her head fell back as she gulped for air. Her
body shuddered as he feasted on it.

He said
something she couldn't understand, in the language of his homeland that so
rarely passed his lips. Then his face was pressed against her, his breath hot
on her skin.

“I need you.
Eve. I need you.”

“I know.”
Tenderness washed into her, balm over a burn. She cupped his face, lifted it.
Her lips met his, soft as a whisper. “Don't ever stop.”

There were
tears in her eyes. The shifting light caught the glint of them. He drew her
closer, kissed them away. “Eve -- “

“No, let me
say it first. This time let me remember to say it first. I love you. I always
will. Be with me,” she murmured as she took him inside her. “Oh. Stay with me.”

She wrapped
herself around him, rose to him, matching stroke to stroke, beat to beat. Then
his hands clasped hers, locked tight. Their eyes held in a bond just as fierce.

When she saw
his, that wild blue, go blind, when she heard him say her name, her lips curved
into a smile. And she surrendered.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She was
sprawled across the bed, facedown, in a position Roarke knew she assumed when
her system had, finally, shut down. He stretched out beside her, sipping what
champagne was left and trailing a fingertip absently up and down her spine.

“I'll give you
an hour and a half to stop that.”

“Ah, she
lives.”

She stirred
herself enough to turn her head and look at him. “You look pretty smug.”

“As it
happens, darling Eve, I'm feeling pretty smug.”

“It was all my
idea.”

“And a fine
one it was, too. Would I be risking my skin if I asked just what inspired you?”

“Well...” She
curved her back into the brush of his finger. “You bought me a candy bar.”

“Remind me to
arrange for a truckload tomorrow.”

“A truckload
would kill us.” She pushed to her knees, shoved back her hair. She looked soft
and used and content.

“I'll risk
it.”

With a laugh,
she leaned over to rest her forehead to his. “One last mushy thing before it
becomes a habit. You make me happy. I'm starting to get used to it.”

“That's a very
nice way to end the mush.”

“I guess we
should eat.”

“I'd hate to
think of you slaving over a hot stove and not have the results appreciated.”

Her eyes
slitted. “Is that a dig?”

“No, indeed.
What's for dinner?”

“Lots of stuff
with weird, fancy names.”

“Yum.”

“I figured if
you didn't like it, it wouldn't be programmed.” She scooted off the bed, stood
naked, glancing around. “I don't guess there's a robe in here.”

“Afraid not.”
He dug through the tangle of sheets and pillows and came up with the now
tattered body skimmer. “You could wear what's left of this.”

“Never mind.”
She picked up her discarded dress, shimmied into it.

“Well now,
that stirs the appetite considerably.”

“Even you
couldn't go another round after that last one.” When he grinned, she thought it
wise to move out of reach.

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

She couldn't
pronounce half the food she put in her mouth, but it was damn tasty. “What is
this called again?”

“Fruit de le
mer a la parisienne.”

“I guess if
they called it a bunch of fish in a fancy sauce, it wouldn't have the same
ring.”

“A rose by any
other name.” He refilled her water glass. “Lieutenant?”

“Huh?”

“You're trying
not to think about your day. Why don't you just tell me about it instead?”

She stabbed
another scallop. “I've got a lead on -- “ She cut herself off, sucked it in.
“No, you tell me about your day.”

“My day?” he
asked in surprise.

“Yeah, what
did you do today, how'd it go, that sort of thing.”

“You're in a
mood,” he murmured, then shrugged. “I dealt with some financial reorganization.”

“What does
that mean?”

“I bought some
stock on its way down, sold some that I believe had topped off, studied the
daily analysis of several companies and adjusted accordingly.”

“I guess that
kept you busy.”

“Enough, until
about noon when I went into the office.” He wondered how long it would take
until her eyes glazed over. “I had a holo-conference regarding the Olympus
Resort. Cost overruns remain under the acceptable five percent. However, on a
point-by-point project analysis, I find indications of a downturn in resource
productivity that warrants closer study and a correction.”

Ninety
seconds, he calculated, watching her eyes. He'd figured she'd drop off at
sixty. “Then, I bought you a candy bar.”

“I liked that
part.”

He broke off a
chunk of his roll, buttered it. “Eve, did you marry me for my money?”

“You bet your
ass. And you'd better hold on to it, or I'm history.”

“It's very
sweet of you to say so.”

That made her
grin. “I guess we're finished talking about your day.”

“I thought we
were. What's your lead?”

“Love. At
least that's where all the arrows are pointing right now.” She filled him in
while she polished off her meal.

“Kenneth
Stiles attacked Draco and beat him badly enough for medical intervention.” Roarke
cocked his head. “Interesting, isn't it, when you compare the two men. Draco
was taller, considerably heftier, and certainly, on the surface, a great deal
tougher. No indication that Stiles was injured?”

“None. I
thought about that, too. It comes down to the pussy and the pissed. Draco being
the pussy, Stiles the pissed.”

“And being the
pissed cost Stiles several million dollars.”

“And he didn't
even end up with the girl.”

“Anja.”

“Peabody found
a handful of Carvells in the city. Wrong age span, so we're widening the scan.
My gut tells me she has some of the answers.”

“Cherchez
la femme.”

“What?”

“Find the
woman,” he translated.

She lifted her
glass in a quick toast. “You can count on it.”

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

“Anja.” He
said the name softly, a bare whisper of sound. And heard the gasp of surprise
and recognition that followed it. “Don't say anything. Please. Just listen. I
have to speak with you. It's important. Not over the 'link. Will you meet me?”

“This is about
Richard.”

“It's about
everything.”

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

It took time.
He was certain he was being watched and feared his own shadow. Stiles sat at
the mirror in his dressing area and skillfully, painstakingly altered his
appearance. He changed the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw,
the color of his skin. He covered his hair with a wig, a thick mane of deep
brown. He supposed it was vanity that prevented him from using the more
ordinary gray one.

He couldn't
bear to look old in her eyes.

He added a
slim mustache, a slender brush of beard in the center of his chin.

All of this
came naturally, despite the anxiety. He had donned a hundred characters in his
life, sliding into them as smoothly as a man slips into favorite slippers after
a long day.

He added girth
to his small frame -- shoulders, chest, then covered the padding with a simple
dark suit. The lifts in his shoes would give him another inch of height.

He took his
time, studying the results in the long triple mirror, searching for any sign of
Kenneth Stiles. For the first time in over an hour he allowed himself a small
smile.

He could walk
right up to Lieutenant Eve Dallas and kiss her on the mouth. He'd be damned if
she'd recognize him.

Empowered, as
he always was by a new role, Stiles swirled on a cape and went out to meet the
woman he'd loved all his life.

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

She kept him
waiting. She always had. He'd chosen a small nostalgia club that had fallen out
of fashion. But the music was low and bluesy, the patrons minded their own, and
the drinks came quickly.

He sipped at
gin and paged through the battered volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. It was
their signal.

She had given
him the book all those years ago. He had taken it for a token of love instead
of the friendship she'd intended. Even when he'd realized his mistake, he'd
treasured it. As much as he'd treasured her.

He'd lied to
the police, of course. He'd never broken contact with her, had known where she
was, what she was doing. He had simply assumed another role with her, that of
confidant and friend.

And after a
time, living the part for so many years, he grew comfortable with it.

Yet, when she
slid into the booth across from him, held out a hand for his, his heart leapt.

She'd changed
her hair. It was a glorious tangle of smoky red. Her skin was a pale, pale
gold. He knew it was soft to the touch. Her eyes were deep, tawny, and
concerned. But she smiled at him, a hesitant curve of a lush mouth.

“So, you still
read it?” Her voice was soft and lightly French.

“Yes, often.
Anja.” His fingers flexed on hers, then deliberately relaxed. “Let me order you
a drink.”

She sat back,
watching him, waiting, as he signaled a waiter and ordered her a glass of
sauvignon blanc.

“You never
forget.”

“Why would I?”

“Oh, Kenneth.”
She closed her eyes a moment. “I wish things had been different. Could have
been.”

“Don't.” He
spoke more sharply than he'd intended. It could still sting. “We're beyond
regrets.”

“I don't think
we ever get beyond them.” She let out a small sigh. “I've spent more than half
my life regretting Richard.”

He said
nothing until her drink was served and she'd taken the first sip. “The police
think I killed him.”

Her eyes went
wide, and wine sloshed toward the rim of her glass as her hand jerked. “But no!
No, that's impossible. Ridiculous.”

“They know
what happened twenty-four years ago.”

“What do you
mean?” Her hand darted out for his, squeezed like a vise. “What do they know?”

“Steady now.
They know about the assault, my arrest, the suit.”

“But how is
that possible? It was so long ago, and all the details were put away.”

“Eve Dallas.
Lieutenant Dallas,” he said with some bitterness as he lifted his own drink.
“She's relentless. She managed to break the seal. They took me in, put me in a
room, hammered at me.”

“Oh, Kenneth.
Kenneth, man cher, I'm so sorry. It must have been hideous.”

“They think
I've harbored a grudge against Richard all this time.” He laughed a little,
drank. “I suppose they're right.”

“But you
didn't kill him.”

“No, but they'll
continue to dig into the past. You need to be prepared. I had to tell them why
I attacked Richard. I had to give them your name.” When the blood drained from
her face, he leaned over, clasped both of her hands. “Anja,” he said
deliberately, “I told them I'd lost track of you, that we've had no contact in
all these years. That I didn't know how to find you. I told them Richard had
seduced you, then when he was certain you were in love with him, he cast you
off. I told them about the attempt to take your own life. That's all I told
them.”

She made a
small sound of despair and lowered her head. “It still shames me.”

“You were
young, brokenhearted. You survived. Anja, I'm sorry. I panicked. But the fact
is, I had to give them something. I thought it would be enough, but I realize
now, she won't stop. Dallas will keep searching, keep digging until she finds
you. Finds the rest.”

She steadied,
nodded. “Anja Carvell has disappeared before. I could make it impossible for
her to find me. But that won't do. I'll go to see her.”

“You can't.
For God's sake.”

“I can. I
must. Would you still protect me?” she said quietly. “Kenneth, I don't deserve
you. I never did. I'll speak with her, explain how it was, how you are,” she
added.

“I don't want
you involved.”

“My dearest,
you can't stop what Richard started a lifetime ago. You're my friend, and I
intend to protect what's mine. Whatever the risk,” she added, and her eyes
hardened. “Whatever the consequences.”

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

“There has to
be more.”

Roarke ran his
hand over Eve's naked ass. “Well. If you insist.”

She lifted her
head. “I wasn't talking about sex.”

“Oh. Pity.”

He'd managed
to peel the red dress off her again, and then it had been a simple matter of
one thing leading to another. Now she was sprawled over him, all warm and
loose.

But
apparently, she didn't intend to stay that way.

“They all
hated him.” She scooted up to straddle him and gave Roarke a very pleasant view
of slender torso and firm breasts. “Or at least actively disliked him. Maybe
feared him,” she considered. “Nobody in that cast is particularly sorry to see
him dead. Several of the actors had worked with each other before. Had
histories, links, connections. To Draco, to each other. Maybe it was more than
one of them.”

“Murder on
the Orient Express. “

“What's that?
An Asian transpo system?”

“No, darling,
it's yet another play by Dame Christie. She seems to be popping up. A man is
murdered in his bed, in the sleeping car of a train. Stabbed. Repeatedly. Among
the passengers is a very clever detective, not nearly as attractive as my cop,”
he added.

“What does a
make-believe dead guy on a train have to do with my case?”

“Just
enhancing your theory. In this fictional murder, there were a number of varied
and seemingly unconnected passengers. However, our dogged detective refused to
take such matters at face value, poked around, and discovered links,
connections, histories. Disguises and deceptions,” he added. “When he did, he
discovered they all had motives for murder.”

“Interesting.
Who did it?”

“All of them.”
When her eyes narrowed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her. “Each of them
took a turn with the knife, plunging it into his unconscious body in return for
the wrong he'd done to them.”

“Pretty
gruesome. And pretty cagey. No one could betray anyone else without betraying
themselves. They back up each other's alibis. Play the role,” she murmured.

“Very nearly a
perfect murder.”

“There are no
perfect murders. There are always mistakes, with the murder itself the biggest
of them.”

“Spoken like a
cop.”

“I am a cop.
And I'm going back to work.”

She wiggled
away, slid off the bed, and once again reached down for the dress.

“You put that
red number back on, baby, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“Simmer down.
I'm not strolling around naked. You never know where Summerset's skulking.” She
began pulling the dress up and glanced around the room. “I guess we should
clean up some.”

“Why?”

“Because it
looks like we've -- “

“Had a very
enjoyable evening,” Roarke finished. “This may shock you, but Summerset knows
we have sex.”

“Don't mention
his name and sex in the same sentence. Gives me the creeps. I'm going to grab a
shower, then work awhile.”

“All right.
I'll join you.”

“Uh-uh. I'm
not showering with you, ace. I know your games.”

“I won't lay a
hand on you.”

He didn't say
anything about his mouth.

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

“What do you
do? Take a pill?”

Limber,
refreshed, and utterly satisfied, Roarke buttoned his shirt. “You're
stimulation enough.”

“Apparently.”

He took her
hand, led her to the elevator, requested her office.

The cat was
stretched across her sleep chair and gave a twitch of his tail when they walked
in.

“Coffee?”
Roarke asked.

“Yeah,
thanks.”

The minute he
turned toward the kitchen, Galahad leaped down and bolted into the room ahead
of him. Eve heard the single demanding meow.

She sat at her
desk, stared at her computer, tapped her fingers.

“Computer,
Draco case file. Cross-reference task. Find and list any and all connections,
professional, personal, medical, financial, criminal, civil, between cast
members.”

Working. .
.

“I assumed you
ran that already.”

She glanced
over as Roarke came back with coffee. “I'm running it again, with a few added
details.

“Computer,
highlight any name with sealed files, all areas.”

That
information requires authorization. Please submit same . . .

“Would you
like me to get around that little hitch for you?”

She made a low
sound, a definite warning. Roarke merely shrugged and sipped his coffee.

“Authorization
Code Yellow, slash Dallas, slash five-oh-six. Request from Dallas, Lieutenant
Eve, regarding double homicide. You are authorized to flag sealeds.”

Authorization
correct. Sealeds will be flagged. Data contained in sealed files requires
warrant, signed and dated, for access . . .

“Did I ask you
to access the data? Just flag the damned sealeds.”

Working. .
. Multitask process will require approximately eight minutes, thirty seconds .
. .

“Then get
started. And no,” she said to Roarke. “We're not opening the sealeds.”

“My goodness,
Lieutenant, I don't believe I suggested anything of the kind.”

“You think you
and McNab scammed me on that warrant today?”

“I have no idea
what you're talking about.” He eased a hip onto the desk. “I did give Ian some
advice, but it was of a personal nature. Man talk.”

“Yeah, right.”
She tipped back in her chair, eyed him over her coffee cup. “You and McNab sat
around talking about women and sports.”

“I don't
believe we got to sports. He had a woman on his mind.”

Eve's sneer
vanished. “You talked to him about Peabody? Damn it, Roarke.”

“I could
hardly slap him back. He's so pitifully smitten.”

“Oh.” She
winced. “Don't use that word.”

“It fits. In
fact, if he took my advice ...” He turned his wrist, glanced at the unit
fastened there. “They should be well into their first date by now.”

“Date? Date?
Why did you do that? Why did you go and do something like that? Couldn't you
leave it alone? They'd have had sex until they burned out on it, and everything
would go back to normal.”

He angled his
head. “That didn't work for us, did it?”

“We don't work
together.” Then, when his eyes brightened with pure amusement, she showed her
teeth. “Officially. You start mixing cops and romance and case files and gooey
looks at briefings, you've got nothing but a mess. Next thing you know, Peabody
will be wearing lip dye and smelly girl stuff and dragging body skimmers under
her uniform.”

She dropped
her head in her hands. “Then they'll have tiffs and misunderstandings that have
nothing whatsoever to do with the job. They'll come at me from both sides, and
before you know it, they'll be telling me things I absolutely do not want
to know. And when they break it off and decide they hate each other down to the
guts, I'll have to hear about that, too, and why they can't possibly work
together, or breathe the same air, until I have no choice, absolutely no
choice, but to kick both of their asses.”

“Eve, your
sunny view on life never fails to lift my spirits.”

“And -- “ She
poked him in the chest. “It's all your fault.”

He grabbed her
finger, nipped it, not so gently. “If that's the case, I'm going to insist they
name their first child after me.”

“Are you
trying to make me crazy?”

“Well,
darling, it's so easy, I find it difficult to resist. Why don't you put the
entire matter out of your mind before it gives you a headache? Your data's
coming up.”

She shot him
one fierce look, then turned to the screen.

Connections
within connections, she thought as she scanned. Lives bumping up against lives.
And every time they did, they left a little mark. Sometimes the mark was a
bruise that never fully healed.

“Well, well,
this didn't come up before. Michael Proctor's mother was an actress. She had a
small part in a play. Twenty-four years ago.” Eve sat back. “And just look who
was onstage with her. Draco, Stiles, Mansfield, Rothchild. That correlates to
the trouble between Draco and Stiles. Where's Anja Carvell?” she murmured.

“Perhaps she
had, or has, a stage name.”

“Maybe. No
sealeds on Proctor's mother.” She ordered the computer to do a run on one
Natalie Brooks.

“Interesting.
This was her last performance. Retired, returned to place of birth. Omaha,
Nebraska. Married the following year. Looks squeaky clean. Attractive,” she
added when she ordered the computer to show her ID picture from twenty-four
years before. “Young, got a fresh sort of look. Right up Draco's alley.”

“You think she
might be Anja?”

“Maybe. Either
way, I can't see Draco passing her up. That adds another layer to Michael
Proctor. He didn't mention his mother knew Draco.”

“He might not
have been aware of it.”

“Unlikely.
Let's take a look at the flags. Hmm, Draco's got a few sealeds of his own.”

“Money,
prominence, connections,” Roarke said. “It buys silence.”

“You ought to
know.” She said it with a smirk, then jerked up in her chair. “Wait a minute,
wait a minute. What's this? Carly Landsdowne's got a sealed.”

“More secrets?
More silence?”

“Not this
time. I know this code. It's an old one. It was in use when I went into the
system. A lot of the kids in state homes wanted that code more than they wanted
to eat their next meal. It's the code for adoption. Sealed,” she added. “With
the birth mother's data inside. Look at the date.”

“Eight months
after Stiles's assault on Draco. It won't be a coincidence.”

“This plays
for me. Draco got Anja Carvell pregnant. She tells him, he dumps her. Dumps her
hard. She falls apart, tries self-termination, but Stiles gets to her before
she's finished. She has a change of heart and decides to complete the
pregnancy. Gives the kid away, and pays a hefty fee for a seal.”

“It wouldn't
have been easy.”

Eve's eyes
went flat. “It's plenty easy for some. Kids are tossed aside every day.”

To comfort
her, he put his hands on her shoulders, rubbed. “By Stiles's account, she was
in love with the baby's father and nearly destroyed by him. Yet she didn't
terminate the pregnancy. She gave the child up, which is different, Eve, than giving
the child away. She paid for the seal to protect the child.”

“It protects
her, too.”

“Yes, but
there are other ways. She could have sold the baby on the black market. No
questions asked. She chose legal channels.”

“Stiles knew.
She'd have spilled it. We're going to have to have another chat. Now, let's
see. Which judge should I wake up for the warrant and authorization to crack
the seal?” She looked up at Roarke. “Any suggestions?”

“Lieutenant,
I'm sure you know best.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Before she
roused a judge out of bed and risked irritating him, she tried to tag Peabody
through her communicator.

“Off duty?”
Sheer shock glazed Eve's eyes at the blinking red light on her pocket unit.
“What the hell does that mean?”

“Why, the
nerve!” Roarke clucked his tongue. “I bet she's got some insane idea that she's
entitled to a life.”

“It's your
fault, it's your fault, it's your fault,” Eve chanted under her breath while
she sent the transmission to Peabody's palm 'link.

After six
beeps, Eve was up and pacing. “If she doesn't answer, I'm going to -- “
Abruptly, Eve's desk 'link exploded with noise. Her angry yelp had the cat
racing back into the kitchen.

“Peabody! For
God's sake, where are you?”

“Sir? Sir, is
that you? I can't really hear over the music.”

The audio
might have been chaos, but the video shimmered clear and gave Eve a close-up
view of her aide, complete with fussy hair, lip dye, and slumberous eyes.

I knew it, was all Eve could think. I just knew it.

“You've been
drinking.”

“I have?” The
vague eyes blinked at the information, then Eve heard what could only be
described as a giggle. “Well, maybe. A couple. I'm in a club, and they have
drinking here. Really rocking screamers. Is it morning already?”

“Hey, Dallas!”
McNab's face pushed against Peabody's so the two of them, equally plowed by the
look of things, shared the screen. “This band is ice. Why don't you get your
main squeeze and come on down.”

“Peabody,
where are you?”

“I'm in New
York City. I live here.”

Drunk, Eve thought in frustration. Drunk as a Station
Caspian colonist. “Never mind. Take this outside before I go deaf.”

“What? I can't
hear you!”

Ignoring
Roarke's amused chuckle, Eve leaned into her 'link. “Officer Peabody, go
outside, keep the transmission open. I need to talk to you.”

“You're
outside? Well, hell, come on in.”

Eve sucked in
a breath. “Go. Out. Side.”

“Oh, okay,
sure thing.”

There was a
great deal of fumbling, more giggling, bumpy views of a crowd of what Eve
decided were maniacs leaping and spinning as the band crashed out noise. To her
great pain, she heard, very clearly, McNab's hissed suggestion of what would be
fun to do in one of the club's privacy rooms.

“You have to
give him points for imagination,” Roarke pointed out.

“I hate you
for this.” Patience straining, Eve held the transmission while Peabody and
McNab stumbled out of the club. The noise level dropped, but not by much.
Apparently McNab's choice of club was in the core of Broadway's never-ending
party district.

“Dallas?
Dallas? Where are you?”

“Your 'link,
Peabody. I'm on your 'link.”

“Oh.” She
lifted it again, peered at the screen. “What are you doing in there?”

“Have you got
any Sober-Up in your bag?”

“Betcha. You
gotta be prepared, right?”

“Take some.
Now.”

“Aw.”
Peabody's cheerfully colored lips moved into a pout. “I don't wanna. Hey,
that's Roarke. I heard Roarke. Hi, Roarke.”

He couldn't
resist and moved into view. “Hello, Peabody. You're looking particularly
delicious tonight.”

“Golly, you're
pretty. I could just look at you and look at you and -- “

“Sober-Up,
Peabody. Now. That's an order.”

“Damn.”
Peabody rummaged through her bag, came up with the little tin. “If I gotta, you
gotta,” she said, plucking out two pills before shoving the tin at McNab.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Oh.”

“Peabody, I
need all current data on Anja Carvell, all search and scan results.”

“ 'Kay.”

“Shoot them to
my car unit. Then I want you to meet me, in uniform, at Kenneth Stiles's
address. Thirty minutes. Understood?”

“Yeah, sort
of... Could you repeat the question?”

“It's not a
question. It's an order,” Eve corrected and repeated it. “Got that now?”

“Yeah. Um,
yes, sir.”

“And leave
your trained monkey at home.”

“Sir?”

“McNab,” Eve
snapped, and cut transmission.

“Party
pooper,” Roarke murmured.

“Don't give me
any lip.” She rose, pulled her shoulder harness out of the desk drawer,
strapped it on. “Go do some financial adjustments and point by point analyses.”

“Darling, you
were listening.”

“I'm not
laughing,” she told him, and was annoyed because she wanted to. “Stay out of
trouble.”

He only
smiled, waiting until he heard her jog down the stairs.

She was going
to ease her way around the seal instead of breaking through it, he thought.
There was no reason he should have the same limitations.

He strolled
down the corridor to a private room. His voice and palm prints were checked and
verified. The locks disengaged.

“Lights on,”
he ordered. “Full.”

The room
streamed with light, blocked from the outside by the secured privacy screens on
the bank of windows. He crossed the wide squares of tile while the door behind
him closed, re-secured.

Only three
people had entry to this room. Three people he trusted without reservation.
Eve, Summerset, and himself.

The slick
black control panel formed a wide U. The equipment, unregistered and illegal,
hummed softly in sleep mode. The wide eye of CompuGuard couldn't restrict what
it couldn't see.

He'd
restructured most of his questionable holdings over the years. After Eve, he'd
disposed of or legitimized the rest. But, he thought as he helped himself to a
brandy, a man had to have some small reminders of the past that made him.

And in his
rebel's heart, the idea of a system like CompuGuard that monitored all computer
business was an annoying pebble in his shoe. He was honor bound to shake it
out.

He stepped to
the control, swirled his brandy. “System up,” he ordered, and a rainbow of
lights bloomed over black. “Now, let's have a look.”

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

Eve left her
vehicle in a second-level parking slot a half a block from Stiles's apartment.
She'd walked half that distance when she spotted the figure trying to blend
with the trees at the edge of the facing park. “Trueheart.”

“Sir!” She
heard the squeak of surprise in his voice, but he'd schooled his face into calm
lines by the time he stepped out of the shadows. “Lieutenant.”

“Report.”

“Sir, I've had
the subject's building under surveillance since his return at
eighteen-twenty-three. My counterpart is surveilling the rear exit. We have
maintained regular communications at intervals of thirty minutes.”

When she made
no comment, he cleared his throat. “Subject lowered privacy screens on all
windows at eighteen-thirty-eight. They have remained engaged since that time.”

“That's good,
Trueheart, gives me a really clear picture. Now, tell me if he's in there.”

“Lieutenant,
subject has not left the surveilled premises.”

“Fine.” She
watched a Rapid Cab swing toward the opposing curb. Peabody, looking
considerably more official in full uniform with her hair straight under her
cap, climbed out. “Stand by, Officer Trueheart.”

“Yes, sir.
Sir? I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for this assignment.”

Eve looked up
into his very young, very earnest face. “You want to thank me for duty that has
you standing out in the dark, in the cold, for...” She glanced at her wrist
unit. “For approximately five and a half hours?”

“It's a
homicide investigation,” he said with such reverence she nearly patted his
cheek.

“Glad you're
enjoying it.” She headed across the street, where Peabody waited. “Look me in
the eye,” Eve demanded.

“I'm sober,
sir.”

“Stick out
your tongue.”

“Why?”

“Because you
want to. Now, stop sulking.” With this, Eve walked toward the building. “And no
rolling your eyes at the back of my head.”

Peabody's eyes
stopped in mid-roll. “Am I to be informed of the reason I've been called back
on duty?”

“You'll be
informed. If all your surviving brain cells are in working order, you'll get
the drift when I corner Stiles. I'll fill in the blanks when we're done.”

She gave her
badge and palm print to the night guard for verification, got clearance. Eve
ran it through quickly on the way up.

“Wow, it's
like one of those daytime serials. Not that I watch them,” Peabody said quickly
when Eve's eyes slid coolly in her direction. “One of my sisters is addicted
though. She's totally hooked on The Heart of Desire. See, Desire's this
small and charming seaside town, but under the surface, there's all this
intrigue and -- “

“Don't.
Really.”

She hurried
out of the elevator to prevent any possibility of a rundown of anything called The
Heart of Desire. She pressed the buzzer at Stiles's apartment, held her
badge up toward the security peep.

“Maybe he's
asleep,” Peabody said a few moments later.

“He's got a
house droid.” Eve pressed the buzzer again and felt the ache of tension squeeze
in her gut.

She'd assigned
a rookie, a rookie for Christ's sake, to surveillance on a lead suspect in two
homicides. Because she'd wanted to give the kid a break.

If Stiles had
slipped past him, she had no one to blame but herself.

“We're going
in.” She reached for her master code.

“A warrant --
“

“We don't need
one. Subject is suspect, dual homicide, also potential victim. There's reason
to believe subject has fled or is inside, unable to respond.”

She bypassed
the locks with her master. “Draw your weapon, Peabody,” she ordered as she
reached for her own. “Go in high, to the right. Ready?”

Peabody
nodded. Her mouth might have been brightly painted, but it was firm.

At Eve's
signal, they went through the door, sweeping opposite directions. Eve ordered
lights, narrowed her eyes against the sudden flash of them, scanned, sweeping
as she angled herself to guard Peabody's back.

“Police!
Kenneth Stiles, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I am armed. You're ordered to
step out into the living area immediately.”

She moved
toward the bedroom as she spoke, ears cocked for any sound. “He's not here.”
Every instinct told her the place was empty, but she gestured Peabody to the
far side of the room. “Check that area. Watch your back.”

She booted
open the door, led with her weapon.

She saw a
neatly made bed, a tidy sitting area, and the dark pool of the suit Stiles had
worn to the memorial service on the floor.

“The droid's
here, Dallas,” Peabody called out. “Deactivated. No sign of Stiles.”

“He's gone
rabbit. Goddamn it.” Still, she kept her weapon out and ready as she moved into
the bath, through the adjoining door.

One look at
the dressing room had her bolstering it again. “I guess that lets Trueheart off
the hook,” she said to Peabody when her aide joined her. Eve fingered a pot of
skin toner, then lifted a wig. “Stiles is probably damn good with this stuff.
Call it in, Peabody. Suspect in flight.”

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

“Sir.”
Trueheart stood stiff as a petrified redwood in the entry to Stiles's dressing
room. His face was white but for the high color skimming along his cheekbones.
“I take full responsibility for the failure of the assignment given to me. I
will accept, without qualification, any reprimand you deem appropriate.”

“First, stop
talking like that droid Peabody's reactivating. Second, you're not responsible
for the flight of this suspect. That's on me.”

“Lieutenant, I
appreciate you taking my inexperience into consideration in my failure to
perform my duty and complete this assignment in a satisfactory manner -- “

“Shut up,
Trueheart.” Jesus God, spare her from rookies. “Peabody! Come in here.”

“I've nearly
got the droid up and running, Dallas.”

“Peabody, tell
Officer Trueheart here how I deal with cops who botch assignments or fail to
complete same in what I deem a satisfactory manner.”

“Sir, you bust
their balls, mercilessly. It can be very entertaining to watch. From a discreet
and safe distance.”

“Thank you,
Peabody. You make me proud. Trueheart, am I busting your balls?”

His flush
spread. “Ah, no, sir. Lieutenant.”

“Then it
follows that in my opinion, you didn't botch this assignment. If my opinion was
otherwise, you'd be curled on the floor, clutching said balls and begging for
mercy, which Officer Peabody has succinctly pointed out I do not have. Are we
clear?”

He hesitated.
“Yes, sir?”

“That's the
right answer.” She turned away from him, studied the dressing area. The forest
of clothes in different styles and sizes; the long, wide counter covered with
bottles and tubes and sprays. Cubbyholes loaded with hairpieces, wigs. Drawers
ruthlessly organized with other tools of the trade.

“He can make
himself into anyone. I should've factored that in. Tell me who you did see
leaving the building between eighteen-thirty and when I arrived on-scene. We'll
verify with the security discs from the exits, but be thorough.”

He nodded, and
his eyes unfocused with concentration. “A couple, man and woman, white and
white, thirty-five to forty. They hailed a Rapid and headed east. A single
woman, mixed race, late twenties. She left on foot, in a westerly direction.
Two men, black and white, early thirties. They returned within thirty minutes,
carrying what appeared to be a twelve-pack of beer and a large pizza. A single
man, mixed race, late forties, some facial hair.”

He stopped
when Eve held up a hand. She lifted a small bag to show him a few strands of
hair she'd already sealed for evidence. “Is this a color match?”

He opened his
mouth, then closed it again to press his lips together. “It's difficult to say
with certainty, Lieutenant, as the light was going. But the subject in question
appeared to have dark hair very similar in shade to the bagged evidence.”

“Give me
details. Height, weight, style of dress, appearance.”

She listened,
trying to paint a picture of the transformation from Trueheart's report.

“Okay, anyone
else?”

He ran through
the few people who'd left the building, but no one rang bells like the single
mixed-race male.

“Was he
carrying anything? A bag, a box, a parcel?”

“No, sir. He
didn't have anything with him.”

“Okay, then
he's likely still running with the same look. Call it in.”

“Sir?”

“Call in your
description, Trueheart. Add it to the all-points.”

His face lit
up like a birthday candle. “Yes, sir!”

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

It was blind
luck that he was spotted. Eve would think about that later, and for a long time
after. Blind luck.

It was a twist
of fate that the express running to and from Toronto experienced a malfunction
on its way into Grand Central. The delay would make all the difference.

But when the
break came, Eve jammed her communicator back in her pocket. “Grand Central.
Let's move.”

She was
halfway to the apartment door when she shot a glance over her shoulder.
“Trueheart, is there a reason you're not one step behind me?”

“Sir?”

“When the
officer in command says to move, you get your bony butt in gear and move.”

He blinked
rapidly, then appeared to process the information that she wanted him on the
team. A goofy smile spread over his face as he rushed to the door. “Yes, sir.”

“Transit cops
are blocking exits, spreading to all gates. Backup's on the way.” Eve relayed
the information as they headed down to street level. “Suspect's bought a
one-way express to Toronto.”

“It's cold up
there.” Peabody flipped up the collar of her coat as they ran down the block to
Eve's vehicle. “If I were fleeing the country, I'd head south. I've never been
to the Caribbean.”

“You can point
that out to him when he's in lockup. Strap in,” she suggested when they dived
inside. She shot down the parking ramp like a rocket, hit the sirens, and did a
screaming two-wheel around the corner.

Flopping in
the backseat, stomach at knee level, Trueheart was in heaven.

He was in
pursuit, not of a scrounging street thief, not of a whiny traffic violation,
but of a murder suspect. He gripped the chicken stick to keep his balance as
Eve wove fast and nervelessly through traffic. He wanted to imprint every
detail on his mind. The wild speed, the flash of lights, the sudden jolt and
jerk as his lieutenant -- God, wasn't she amazing? -- shot the vehicle into a
fast vertical lift to bypass a jam on Lexington.

He listened to
Peabody's clear, practical voice as she coordinated with the backup on her
communicator. To Eve's low, careless cursing as she was forced to swerve
sharply to avoid a pair of “fucking brain-dead morons” on a scooter.

She squealed
to a halt on the west side of the transpo center. “Peabody, Trueheart, with me.
Let's see what the transit boys have for us.”

There were two
transit cops sealing the exit. Both came to attention when Eve held up her
badge. “Status?”

“Your
suspect's inside, Lieutenant. Level Two, Area C. There are a number of
passengers in that area. The express for Toronto was sold out. There are
several shops, eateries, and rest room facilities. Men are posted at all lifts,
glides, and walkways leading in or out of the area. He's in there.”

“Stand by.”

She walked
into the great sea of noise and movement.

“Lieutenant,
Feeney and McNab approaching south side of the building.”

“Give them the
target location. We don't have data on weapons, but we go in assuming he's
armed.” She crossed the wide expanse of floor while people rushing home or away
streamed past her. “Alert the commanding officer we're heading down.”

“Captain
Stuart, sir. Channel B on your communicator. She's standing by.”

“Captain
Stuart, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Lieutenant,
we have our net in place. Traffic Control Center will continue to announce
delays for the twelve-oh-five to Toronto.”

“Where's my
suspect?”

Stuart's face
stayed blank and hard, but her voice tightened. “We've lost direct visual of
the subject. He has not, I repeat, has not exited the patrolled area. Our
security cameras are executing a full sweep. We'll pick him up.”

“Contact me,
this channel, when you spot him,” Eve said briefly. “Inform your men that NYPSD
is now on-scene and taking charge. Their full cooperation and assistance is
appreciated.”

“This is my
turf, Lieutenant. My command.”

“Target is
suspected of two homicides on my turf, Captain. That's an override, and
we both know it. Let's get the job done. We can have a pissing contest later.”
Eve waited a beat. “We're approaching Level Two. Please inform your men.
Weapons are to be programmed to lowest setting and to be deployed only in
extreme circumstances and for the protection of bystanders. I want a clean
snatch.”

“I'm fully
aware how to perform an operation of this nature. I was informed the target may
be armed.”

“We can't
confirm. Use caution and minimal force. Minimal force, Captain; that's
priority. The area is packed with civilians. I'll maintain this channel for
further communications.”

Eve tucked the
communicator back in her pocket. “Hear that, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir. She
wants the collar. 'This evening, the New York City Transit Authority, led by
Captain Stuart, captured the primary suspect in Richard Draco's murder, in
flight. Pictures at eleven.'“

“And what is
our objective?”

“To identify,
restrain, and incarcerate target. In one piece, and with no civilian injuries.”

“You following
that, Trueheart?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eve noted the
transit officers holding the perimeter of Area C. And the flood of people who
milled, loitered, or rushed over the wide platform and through the snaking
corridors that opened into shops and eateries.

She smelled
the greasy aroma of fast food, the hot scent of humanity. Babies were crying.
The latest urban rock was pumping out of someone's tune box in direct violation
of the noise pollution code. A small band of sidewalk singers was struggling to
compete.

She saw
weariness, excitement, boredom on the sea of faces. And with mild annoyance,
she saw a strolling pocket-dipper snag a wallet.

“Trueheart,
you're the only one who got a look at him. Keep your eyes open. We want to take
this down smooth, but we don't want to waste time. The longer that express is
delayed, the more nervous Stiles is going to get.”

“Dallas,
Feeney and McNab at nine o'clock.”

“Yeah, I see
them.” She saw them, the surging tide of civilians, the dozens of byways. “This
place is like an insect hive. We're going to spread out. Peabody, troll the
right. Trueheart, take the left. Maintain visual contact.”

She took the
center, cutting through the crowd, eyes scanning. Across the tracks, a
southbound train shot down the tunnel with a hot whoosh of air. A panhandler,
his beggar's license smeared with something indefinable, worked the passengers
waiting for the delayed Toronto express.

She was about
to overlap with Feeney, shifted her gaze to lock Peabody's position, turned her
head to lock Trueheart's.

She heard the
shout, a series of screams, an explosion of glass as the panel on one of the
busy storefronts shattered. Even as she spun, she saw Stiles shove his way
through the panicked crowd, pursued by a transit cop.

“Hold your
fire!” She shouted it, grabbing both weapon and communicator. “Stuart, order
your man to cease fire! Target is cornered. Do not deploy weapons.”

She was using
elbows, boots, knees, to fight her way through the surge of people fleeing the
area. Someone fell against her, all wild eyes and grabbing hands. Gritting her
teeth, she shoved him away, bulled through an opening.

The next wave
of people swarmed like bees, screaming as windows on the storefronts spat
glass. She felt heat on her face, something wet ran down her neck.

She saw Stiles
leap over the fallen and the cowering. Then she saw Trueheart.

He had long
legs, and they moved fast. Eve used her own, burst free. Out of the corner of
her eye, she saw a jerk of movement.

“No! Hold your
fire!” Her shouted order was drowned out in the chaos. Even as she jumped
toward the transit cop, he shifted to shooting position and took aim. At the
same instant, Trueheart bunched for a leap and tackle.

The shock of
the beam hit him midair, turned his body into a missile that rammed hard against
Stiles's retreating back. The forward force sent them both tumbling off the
platform, onto the tracks below.

“No. Goddamn
it. No!” She shoved the transit cop, spun to the side, and rushed to the edge
of the platform. “Hold all northbound trains! There are injured on the track.
Hold all trains! Oh Jesus. Oh Christ.”

A tangle of
bodies, a splatter of blood. She jumped down to the tracks, feeling the shock
sing up her legs. Her breath panted out as she searched for the pulse in
Trueheart's throat.

“Goddamn it.
Goddamn it. Officer down!” Her voice cracked out of a dry throat and into her
communicator. “Officer down! Require immediate medical assistance, Grand
Central, Level Two, Area C as in Charlie. Deploy medi-vac units. Officer and
suspect down. Hold on, Trueheart.”

She yanked off
her jacket, spread it over his chest, then used her hands to press down on the
long gash running down his thigh.

Feeney, out of
breath and sweating, landed beside her. “Ah, Christ. How bad?”

“Bad. He took
a hit, jumped right into the fucking beam.” She'd been a step too late. One
step too late. “Then the fall. We can't risk moving him without stabilizers.
Where are the MTs? Where are the fucking MTs?”

“On the way.
Here.” He unfastened his belt, nudged her to the side, and fastened a
tourniquet. “Stiles?”

She ordered
herself to maintain, crab-walked to where Stiles lay facedown, checked for a
pulse. “Alive. He didn't catch the hit, and the way they went down, it looked
like the kid broke the worst of his fall.”

“Your face is
bleeding, Dallas.”

“I caught some
glass, that's all.” She swiped at the trickle with the back of her hand, mixing
her blood with Trueheart's. “When I get done with Stuart and her hot-shots -- “

She broke off,
looked back down at Trueheart's young, pale face. “Jesus, Feeney. He's just a
kid.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eve burst
through the emergency room doors in the wake of the gurney and fast-talking
MTs. The words were like slaps, hard and ringing. Under the barrage of them she
heard something about spinal injuries, internal bleeding.

When they hit
the doors of an examining room, an enormous nurse, her skin a gleaming ebony
against the pale blue of her tunic, blocked Eve's path.

“Step aside,
sister. That's my man down in there.”

“No, you step
aside, sister.” The nurse laid a boulder-sized hand on Eve's shoulder. “Medical
personnel only beyond this point. You've got some pretty good facial
lacerations there. Take Exam Four. Someone will be along to clean you up.”

“I can clean
myself up. That boy in there belongs to me. I'm his lieutenant.”

“Well,
Lieutenant, you're just going to have to let the doctors do what they do.” She
pulled out a memo board. “You want to help, give me his personal data.”

Eve elbowed
the nurse aside, moved to the observation glass, but didn't attempt to push
through again. God, she hated hospitals. Hated them. All she could see was a
flurry of movement, green scrubs for the doctors, blue for the nursing staff.

And Trueheart
unconscious on the table under harsh lights while they worked on him.

“Lieutenant.”
The nurse's voice softened. “Let's help each other out here. We both want the
same thing. Give me what you can on the patient.”

“Trueheart.
Christ, what's his first name. Peabody?”

“Troy,”
Peabody said from behind her. “It's Troy. He's twenty-two.”

Eve simply
laid her brow against the glass, shut her eyes and relayed the cause of
injuries.

“We'll take care
of him,” the nurse told her. “Now get yourself into Four.” She swung through
the doors, became part of the blue and green wall.

“Peabody, find
his family. Have a couple of counselors contact them.”

“Yes, sir.
Feeney and McNab are monitoring Stiles. He's in the next room.”

More gurneys
were streaming in. The injured at Grand Central were going to keep the ER busy
for the rest of the night with cuts, bruises, and broken bones. “I'll inform
the commander of the current status.” She stepped back from the glass so that
she could give her report without wavering.

When she was
done, she took her position by the doors and called home.

“Roarke.”

“You're
bleeding.”

“I -- I'm at
the hospital.”

“Where? Which
one?”

“Roosevelt.
Listen -- “

“I'm on my
way.”

“No, wait. I'm
okay. I've got a man down. A boy,” she said and nearly broke. “He's a goddamn
boy. They're working on him. I need to stay until... I need to stay.”

“I'm on my
way,” he said again.

She started to
protest, then simply nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The nurse pushed
back through the doors, sent Eve one smoking look. “Why aren't you in Room
Four?”

“What's
Trueheart's condition?”

“They're
stabilizing him. He'll be heading up to surgery shortly. Op-Six. I'll get you
to a waiting area after you're treated.”

“I want a full
report on his condition.”

“You want it,
you'll get it. After you're treated.”

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

The waiting
was the worst. It gave her too much time to think, to replay, to second-guess.
To spot every small misstep.

She couldn't
sit. She paced, drank vile coffee, and stared out the window at the wall of the
next wing.

“He's young.
Healthy,” Peabody said because she could no longer stand saying nothing. “That
weighs on his side.”

“I should've
sent him home. I should've relieved him. I had no business taking a rookie on
this kind of operation.”

“You wanted to
give him a break.”

“A break?” She
spun around, and her eyes were fierce, brilliant with emotion. “I put his life
on the line, into a situation he wasn't prepared for. He went down. I'm
responsible for that.”

“The hell you
are.” Peabody's chin lifted mutinously. “He's a cop. When you put on the
uniform, you take on the risk. He's on the job, and that means facing the
potential of taking a hit in the line of duty every day. If I'd taken the left
instead of the right, I'd have done exactly what Trueheart did, and I'd be in
surgery. And it would seriously piss me off to know you're standing out here
taking away from actions I took to do my job.”

“Peabody -- “
Eve broke off, shook her head, and walked back to the overburdened coffee
machine.

“Well done.”
Roarke moved over, rubbed a hand on Peabody's shoulder. “You're a jewel,
Peabody.”

“It wasn't her
fault. I can't stand seeing her take it on.”

“If she
didn't, she wouldn't be who she is.”

“Yeah, I guess.
I'm going to see if I can tag McNab and get an update on Stiles's condition.
Maybe you can talk her into taking a walk, getting some air.”

“I'll see what
I can do.”

He crossed to
Eve. “You keep drinking that coffee, you'll have holes in your stomach lining I
could put my fist through. You're tired, Lieutenant. Sit down.”

“I can't.” She
turned, saw the room was momentarily empty. Let herself crumple. “Oh God,” she
murmured with her face pressed to his shoulder. “He got this stupid grin on his
face when I told him I was pulling him with me. I thought I had him covered,
then everything went wrong. People trampling people, screaming. I couldn't get
through fast enough. I didn't get to him in time.”

He knew her
well enough to say nothing, just to hold on until she steadied herself. “I need
to know something. You've got strings here,” she said, easing back. “Pull a
few, would you, and find out what's happening in surgery?”

“All right.”
He took the recycled cup out of her hand, set it aside. “Sit down for a few minutes.
I'll go pull those strings.”

She tried to
sit, managed to for nearly a full minute before she was up and after the coffee
again. As she drew another cup, a woman stepped into the room.

She was tall,
slim, and had Trueheart's guileless eyes. “Excuse me.” She looked around the
room, back at Eve. “I'm looking for a Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I'm Dallas.”

“Oh yes, I
should have known. Troy's told me so much about you. I'm Pauline Trueheart,
Troy's mother.”

Eve expected
panic, grief, anger, demands, and instead stared blankly as Pauline walked to
her, held out a hand. “Ms. Trueheart, I very much regret that your son was
injured in the line of duty. I'd like you to know that he performed that duty
in an exemplary fashion.”

“He'd be so
pleased to hear you say so. He admires you a great deal. In fact, I hope it
won't embarrass you, but I think Troy has a little crush on you.”

Instead of
drinking the coffee, Eve set it down. “Ms. Trueheart, your son was under my
hand when he was injured.”

“Yes, I know.
The counselors explained what happened. I've already spoken with the patient
liaison. They're doing everything they can to help him. He'll be fine.”

She smiled,
and still holding Eve's hand, drew her toward the seats. “In my heart I'd know
if it was otherwise. He's all I have, you see.”

Eve sat on the
table, facing Pauline as the woman lowered into a chair. “He's young and
strong.”

“Oh yes, and a
fighter. He's wanted to be a policeman as long as I can remember. It means so
much to him, that uniform. He's a wonderful young man, Lieutenant, has never
been anything but a joy to me.” She glanced toward the doorway. “I hate
thinking about him in pain.”

“Ms. Trueheart
...” Eve fumbled, tried again. “I don't believe he was in pain. At least, he
was unconscious when I reached him.”

“That's good,
that helps. Thank you.”

“How can you
thank me? I put him in this position.”

“Of course you
didn't.” She took Eve's hand again. “You must be an excellent commanding
officer, to care so much. My son wants to serve. Serve and protect, isn't that
right?”

“Yes.”

“I worry. It's
very difficult for those of us who love the ones who serve and protect. But I
believe in Troy. Absolutely. I'm sure your mother would say the same about
you.”

Eve jerked
back, bore down on the ache that centered in her gut. “I don't have a mother.”

“Oh, I'm
sorry. Well.” She touched Eve's wedding ring. “Someone who loves you, then. He
believes in you.”

“Yeah.” Eve
looked over, met Roarke's eyes as he came in. “I guess he does.”

“Ms. Trueheart.”
Roarke crossed to her. “I've just been informed that your son will be out of
surgery shortly.”

Eve felt the
quick, light tremble of Pauline's fingers. “Are you a doctor?”

“No. I'm
Lieutenant Dallas's husband.”

“Oh. Did they
tell you how -- what Troy's condition is?”

“He's
stabilized. They're very hopeful. One of the surgical team will speak with you
in a little while.”

“Thank you.
They said there was a chapel on this floor. I think I'll sit there until
they're ready for me. You look so tired, Lieutenant. Troy wouldn't mind if you
went home and got some rest.”

When she was
alone with Roarke again, Eve simply braced her elbows on her thighs and pressed
the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Tell me what you didn't tell her. Give it
to me straight.”

“The spinal
injury is giving them some concern.”

“Is he
paralyzed?”

“They're
hopeful it's temporary, due to swelling. If it proves to be more serious, there
are treatments with high success rates.”

“He needs to
be a cop. Can you get a specialist?”

“I've taken
care of it.”

She stayed in
the same position, rocked a little. “I owe you.”

“Don't insult
me, Eve.”

“Did you see
his mother? See how she was? How can anyone be that strong, that brave?”

Roarke cuffed
her wrists, drew her hands down. “Look in the mirror.”

She shook her
head. “It's love with her. She'll will him to be safe and whole and happy
because she loves him. I think she'll pull it off, too.”

“Mother love
is a fierce and powerful force.”

Steadier, she
rolled her aching shoulders. “Do you ever think of yours? Your mother?”

He didn't
answer immediately, and the hesitation had her frowning at him. “I was going to
say no,” he explained. “But that was knee-jerk. Yes, I suppose I do,
occasionally. I wonder now and then what became of her.”

“And why she
left you?”

“I know why
she left me.” The steel was back in his voice, in his eyes. Cold steel. “I held
no particular interest for her.”

“I don't know
why mine left me. That's the worst of it, I think. The not knowing why. The not
remembering.” She hissed out a breath, annoyed with herself. “And that's
useless speculation.

“I guess I've
got mothers on the brain. I need to talk to Carly about hers.”

She got to her
feet, shoved back the fatigue. “I want to check on Stiles's condition,
interview him if he's conscious. I'm going to have to go into Central, file my
report. I have a meet with the commander first thing in the morning.”

He rose as
well. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised. The nicks and scratches on her face
stood out like badges of honor. “You need to sleep.”

“I'll catch
some at Central. Anyway, as things stand, it should be wrapped up in a few
hours. I'll take some personal time when it is.”

“When it is,
let's take a few days. You could use some sun.”

“I'll think
about it.” Because they were alone, she leaned forward to kiss him.

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

At oh seven
ten, Eve stood in Whitney's office. He had her written report on disc and hard
copy, was listening to her oral follow-up.

“The doctor
over Stiles estimates midday before he can be questioned. At this point, he's
sedated. His condition is stable. Officer Trueheart remains in serious
condition. His lower extremities are not yet responding to stimuli, and he has
not, at this point, regained full consciousness. I would like to recommend
Officer Trueheart for a citation for his conduct. His quick actions and
disregard for personal safety were directly responsible for the apprehension of
the suspect. The injuries sustained by him during the operation were not due to
any negligence on his part but on mine.”

“So you state
in your written report. I disagree with your analysis.”

“Sir, Officer
Trueheart displayed courage and clear thinking under difficult and dangerous
circumstances.”

“I don't doubt
that, Lieutenant.” He leaned back. “You're admirably controlled in both your
written and oral reports. Are you considering discussing the problems with the
operation personally with Captain Stuart? Because if you are, I will have to
issue a direct order that you make no contact with Captain Stuart. She is, at
this moment, being reprimanded by her superiors. You don't think that's
enough?” he asked after a moment of thrumming silence.

“It's not for
me to say.”

“Admirably
controlled,” he repeated. “She fucked it up. Through her disregard for your
authority, your orders, the chain of command, and all reasonable common sense,
she botched the entire situation, is responsible for dozens of civilian
injuries, thousands in property damage, offered the suspect the opportunity to
flee, and put one of my men in the hospital.”

He leaned forward,
spoke through his teeth. “Do you think I am not pissed?”

“You are
admirably controlled, sir.”

He let out a
short blast of sound that might have been a laugh. “Did you advise Captain
Stuart that you were in command, that you were on the scene, and had said scene
under control, that all weapons were to be set to low stun and there was to be
no discharging of same without extreme circumstance?”

“Yes, sir, I
did.”

“Captain
Stuart will be dealt with, I promise you. She'll be lucky to work System
Control when the internal investigation is complete. Be satisfied with that.”

“Trueheart's
twenty-two years old.” And it weighed on her, like a stone on the heart.

“I'm aware of
that. I'm aware of how it feels to have a man go down under your hand. Suck it
in, Lieutenant, and do the job. Sit down.”

When she
obeyed, he set her written report aside. “When's the last time you got any
sleep?”

“I'm all
right.”

“When we're
done here, you'll take two hours. That's an order. Anja Carvell,” he began. “Do
you consider her an essential element in this case?”

“She's a loose
thread. Any thread that isn't knotted off is an essential element.”

“And her
alleged relationships to Kenneth Stiles and Richard Draco?”

“The number of
connections crossed in this case result in too many triangles to be ignored. It
appears that Stiles arranged for Draco's murder, and as a result, Linus Quim's.
However, there are a number of others with motive and opportunity. It isn't
absolute that Stiles acted, more, that he acted alone. Before I moved on him, I
was on the point of requesting a warrant to break the seal on Carly
Landsdowne's adoption.”

“Take your two
hours, then try Judge Levinsky. Most judges are reluctant to open seals on
private adoptions. He may be your best bet, particularly if you catch him after
he's had breakfast.”

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

She intended
to follow orders. Finding a flat surface and sprawling over it would help clear
her mind.

She closed the
door to her office, locked it, then simply stretched out on the floor. Before
she could close her eyes, her palm 'link beeped.

“Yeah, what?”

“Good morning,
Lieutenant.”

“No nagging,”
she muttered and pillowed her cheek on her hand. “I'm lying down right now.”

“Good.” Roarke
studied her face. “Though you'd be better off in a bed than on your office
floor.”

“Do you know
everything?”

“I know you.
Which is why I decided to contact you. I neglected to pass on some information
last night. The name of the birth mother in Carly Landsdowne's file.”

“What're you
talking about? I told you to leave that alone.”

“I disobeyed.
I'll look forward to you punishing me later. It's listed as Anja Carvell. She
gave birth at a private woman's clinic in Switzerland. The adoption was preset
and legal. She was given the mandatory twenty-four-hour period to withdraw her
decision, stuck with it, and signed the final papers. She listed the father as
Richard Draco, and included, per law, a sworn document that he had been
informed of the pregnancy, her decision to complete it, and the adoption. The
document was verified by voluntary truth testing.”

“Was he
notified of the live birth?”

“Yes. The
file's complete, and as efficient as one expects from the Swiss. He was aware
he had a child, a daughter. Mandatory DNA testing verified he was the father.
He made no objections to the adoption.”

She shifted to
her back, let the information slide into her brain. “The adoptive parents are
entitled to all this information except for the names. They're given medical
histories of the birth parents, their cultural and ethnic backgrounds,
intellectual, artistic, technical skills. All that can paint a pretty clear
picture. The adoptee is also entitled to all this data upon request, including
the legal names of the birth parents.”

“I didn't find
any request for that data from the adoptee,” Roarke told her.

“There are
ways around it. Carly could have known. She could have put it together and
suspected Draco was her father. There's physical resemblance if you know to
look for it. How much did she know?”

“You'll find
out. Get some sleep.”

“Right. Remind
me to slap you around later for electronic trespass.”

“I'm excited
already.”

She drifted
off, thinking of fathers and daughters, of deceit and murder.

And woke with
the old nightmare screaming in her throat, her skin bathed with the sweat of it
and a violent pounding in her head.

She rolled
over, pushed up to her hands and knees to struggle against the nausea. It took
her several trembling seconds to realize not all the pounding was in her head.
Some of it was at her door.

“Yeah. Hold
on. Damn it.” She rocked back to her heels, forced herself to breathe. She
pushed to her feet, braced a hand on the desk until her legs were steady again.

After flipping
the locks, she yanked open the door. “What?”

“You didn't
answer the 'link,” Peabody said in a rush. Her face was still flushed from the
morning chill. “I was -- are you all right? You look -- “ Haunted, she
thought, but followed instinct and amended the word. “Out of it.”

“I was
sleeping.”

“Oh, sorry.”
Peabody unbuttoned her coat. In her latest attempt to lose weight, she'd taken
to getting off the subway five blocks from Central. Winter had decided to come
back for another kick that morning. “I just got in, and ran into the commander
on his way out. He's heading to the hospital.”

“Trueheart?”
She gripped Peabody's arm. “Did we lose him?”

“No. He's
conscious. The commander said he surfaced about twenty minutes ago, and here's
the best part, he's responding to stimuli. There's no paralysis, and they've
upgraded him to guarded condition.”

“Okay.” The
relief shuddered through her on bat wings. “Okay, good. We'll stop by and see
him when we go in to interview Stiles.”

“The squad's
chipping in for a flower arrangement. Everybody likes Trueheart.”

“All right,
put me down.” She sat behind her desk. “Get me some coffee, will you? I'm
punchy.”

“You didn't go
home at all, did you? You said when you sent me off that you were going home.”

“I lied.
Coffee. I've got some information from an anonymous source. We're going over to
re-interview Carly Landsdowne.”

Peabody
sniffed and stalked over to the AutoChef. “I guess your aide's not supposed to
ask the name of the source?”

“My aide's
supposed to get me coffee before I bite her throat.”

“I'm getting
it,” Peabody muttered. “Why Carly, at this stage of the investigation?”

“I've just
verified Richard Draco was her father.”

“But they
were...” A dozen emotions flew across Peabody's face. “Oh, yuck.”

“In words of
one syllable.” Eve grabbed the coffee. “I want a formal request put in to Judge
Levinsky to break adoption seal. We have to make it official. Meanwhile -- “
She broke off when her desk 'link signaled an incoming.

“Homicide.
Dallas.”

“Lieutenant
Eve Dallas?”

Eve studied
the woman. “That's right.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, my name is Anja Carvell. I'd like to speak with you on a very
important matter, as soon as possible.”

“I've been
looking for you, Ms. Carvell.”

“I thought you
might be. Would it be possible for you to meet me at my hotel? I'm staying at
The Palace.”

“Popular spot.
I'll be there. Twenty minutes.”

“Thank you. I
think I can help you clear up a number of matters.”

“Jeez.”
Peabody snagged her own coffee when Eve broke transmission. “We look for her
all over hell and back, and here she just drops into our laps.”

“Yeah, nice
coincidence.” Eve shoved away from the desk. “I don't like coincidence.”

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

TO BE
OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH

Yes, that
had a nice ring, a dramatic touch. One never wants to lose one's sense of
style, even under pressure. Particularly under pressure. The pills are where
they can be easily reached, should they be needed. A last resort, of course,
but they'll be quick. They 'll be gentle.

“Do not go
gentle into that good night.” Well, what the hell did he know? If it comes down
to death or prison, death is preferable.

Life is a
series of choices. One twists into the next, and the path shifts. It never
really rides straight, unless there are no joys, no sorrows. I would always
prefer the road that wanders. I made my choices, for better or worse, they were
mine to make. I take full responsibility for the results of those choices.

Even
Richard Draco. No, especially Richard Draco. His life was not a series of
choices, but a compilation of cruel acts, small and large. Everyone he touched
was damaged somehow. His death does not weigh on my conscience. What he did,
knowingly, deliberately, viciously, deserved extermination.

I only wish
there had been pain, great waves of pain, huge sweeps of knowledge, of fear, of
grief in that instant before the knife pierced his heart.

But in
planning his execution, I had self-preservation in mind as well. I suppose I
still do.

Should I be
given the opportunity to do it over again, I would change nothing. I will not
feign remorse for disposing of a leech.

I have some
regret for luring Linus Quim to his death. It was necessary, and God knows he
was an ugly, cold-hearted little man. My choice could have been to pay him off,
but blackmail is a kind of disease, isn't it? Once the body is infected by it,
it spreads and returns at inopportune moments. Why risk it?

Still, it
brought me no pleasure to arrange his death. In fact, it was necessary to
sedate my nerves and anxiety. I made certain he felt no pain, no fear, but died
with the illusion of pleasure.

But that, I
suppose, doesn't negate the act of ending yet another life.

I thought I
was so clever, staging Richard's murder in front of so many, knowing that all
those surrounding him had reason to wish him harm. There was such a whippy
thrill at the idea of having the knife Christine Vole would plunge into the
black, miserable heart of Leonard Vole be a real one. It was so beautifully
apt.

I regret
and apologize for causing my friends and associates any distress, putting them,
even for the short term, under any suspicion. Foolish of me, foolish to have
believed it would never go this far.

No one, I
told myself, cared about Richard. His death would be mourned by no one who knew
him except with crocodile tears turned to glimmer on pale cheeks for the
audience.

But I
miscalculated. Lieutenant Dallas cares. Oh, not about Richard perhaps. She has
certainly unearthed enough truth about him by this time to stir her disgust.
But she cares about the law. I believe it's her religion, this standing for the
murdered dead.

I realized
that very soon after looking into her eyes. After all, I've spent my life
studying people, measuring them, mimicking them.

In the end,
I've done what I set out to do, what I believe with all my heart and soul I had
to do. I have, ruthlessly perhaps, righted incalculable wrongs.

Isn't that
justice?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Anja Carvell
was beautiful, with the curvy body style women sweat or pay for. And men fall
for. Her mouth was full, sensuous, and painted with the gleam of polished
copper. Her skin had the delicate sheen of gold dust so that with the smoked
red of her hair, the tawny eyes, she resembled a flame barely banked to simmer.

She sent Eve a
long, level look, shifted her gaze briefly to Peabody, then stepped back,
widening the door into her modest suite.

“Thank you for
coming so quickly. I realized after we spoke that I should have offered to come
to you.”

“It's no
problem.”

“Well, you'll
forgive me, I trust, for not knowing the proper procedure in such matters as
this. My experience with people in your profession is severely limited. I've
ordered a pot of chocolate.”

She gestured
to the living area where a white pot and two matching cups sat on a low table.
“Would you care to join me? It's so cold and gloomy out. I'll just get another
cup for your assistant.”

“Don't
bother.” Eve heard, and ignored, Peabody's soft, windy sigh at her back. “You
go ahead.”

“In that case,
shall we sit down?”

Anja led the
way to the sofa, smoothed her long bronze colored skirts, then lifted the pot.
There was quiet music playing, something with a bird trill of piano. A squat
vase of cabbage roses stood beside the lamp. Their fragrance, and the woman's,
perfumed the room.

It was, Eve
thought, a pretty and civilized scene.

“I came to New
York only last night,” Anja began. “I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the city.
The rush and energy of it. The heat of it, even in this endless winter. You
Americans fill all the spaces and still find more.”

“Where did you
come in from?”

“Montreal.”
She sipped her chocolate, balanced the cup with the same female delicacy Eve
had often admired in Mira. “Lieutenant, I'm afraid Kenneth wasn't completely
truthful with you during your discussion with him. I hope you won't blame him
for it. He was thinking of me.”

“Ms. Carvell,
I need your permission to record this conversation.”

“Oh.” After
one disconcerted blink, Anja nodded. “Yes, of course. I suppose it must be done
officially.”

“Record on,
Peabody.” As Eve recited the standard rights and obligations, Anja's eyes
widened with surprise, then warmed again with what might have been amusement.

“Am I a
suspect then?”

“It's
procedure. For your protection. Do you understand the rights and obligations
I've outlined for you?”

“Yes, you were
quite clear.”

“Ms. Carvell,
why did you come to New York from Montreal yesterday?”

“Kenneth .. .
Kenneth Stiles contacted me. He needed to see me. He was quite distraught and
anxious. He believes you think he killed Richard Draco. Lieutenant Dallas, such
a thing is not possible.”

“And why is
that?”

“Kenneth is a
kind and gentle man.”

“The kind and
gentle man put Richard Draco in the hospital twenty-four years ago after a
violent assault.”

Anja made an
impatient sound, and her cup clicked into her saucer. “The rashness of youth.
Must a man be hounded by a single foolish act committed so long ago? An act
committed out of love and concern?”

“Whatever we
do follows us, Ms. Carvell.”

“I don't
believe that. I'm proof a life can be changed through will.” Her hand curled
tight a moment, as if making a fist of that will. “Lieutenant Dallas, when I
saw Kenneth last night, he was frightened and upset. I can swear to you, he
would never have called me if he had indeed done what you suspect he has done.”

“When did you
see him last?”

“About eight
o'clock. We met in a little club. I believe it was called Alley Cat.”

“Yes, I know
it.”

“We spoke over
drinks. It was then he told me he's given you my name, that you would look for
me in regard to my one-time relationship with Richard.”

Her smile
bloomed as beautifully as the roses beside her. “He wanted to warn me, you see,
so that I could hide myself, spare myself the discomfort of a meeting such as
this. I calmed him as best I could and told him I would speak with you.”

“He hasn't
contacted you again?”

“No. I hope to
speak with him after we're done here, hope to be able to reassure him that you
no longer believe he could have done this thing.”

“Kenneth
Stiles attempted to leave the city last night.” Eve watched Anja carefully as
she spoke. “When an attempt was made to detain him, he fled and was injured
during apprehension.”

“No. No, no.”
Anja's hand shot out, gripped Eve by the wrist. “Injured? How badly? Where have
you taken him?”

“He's in the
hospital. His condition is stable. His doctors expect a full recovery. Why, Ms.
Carvell, does an innocent man attempt to flee?”

She released
Eve's wrist, rose to walk to the shielded window. Her hand pressed against her
lips, as if to hold words back, then dropped to twist around the top button of
her dress. When she spoke again, her voice wasn't so cool, wasn't so steady.

“Oh, Kenneth.
Perhaps you're right, Lieutenant. Perhaps what we do echoes back to us the
whole of our lives. He did it for me, you see. Just as before.” She turned
back, stood framed by the gray sky. There were tears glimmering in her eyes,
but they did not spill onto her cheeks. “Will I be allowed to see him?”

“Possibly. Ms.
Carvell, was Kenneth Stiles aware that you carried and gave birth to Richard
Draco's child?”

Anja's head
snapped back, as if struck by Eve's fist rather than her words. She gave a
shaky laugh. Then, composing herself, she walked back to sit. “I see you're
very thorough. Yes, Kenneth knew. He helped me through a very difficult
situation.”

“Is he aware
Carly Landsdowne is that child?”

“He would not
have the name the child's parents gave her. The files were sealed. I told no
one but the attorney who drew up the documents where the child was placed and
with whom. That is the point of sealed files, Lieutenant. What does this child
-- no, she would be a young woman now -- have to do with this matter?”

“You've had no
contact with Carly Landsdowne?”

“Why would I?
Ah, you think I'm a liar or coldblooded.”

Anja topped
off her cup of chocolate. But she didn't drink. Her only outward sign of
distress was the restless fingers at her throat.

“I think I'm
neither,” she said after a moment. “I discovered myself pregnant. I was very
young, very much in love, or what I perceived as love. I gave myself to Richard
Draco. He was my first. He enjoyed being the first. I was not as careful with
conception control as I should have been.”

She gave a
little shrug of the shoulder, settled back. “Being young and in love, when I
learned I carried Richard's child, I was thrilled, swept away with the romantic
notion that we would marry. He soon turned that thrill into despair. There was
no anger, no passionate quarrel, and certainly there were none of the tender
words and promises I had so happily scripted for him to say to me. Instead, he
looked at me with disinterest, a faint annoyance.”

Her eyes
hardened, her hand dropped once more into her lap. “I will never forget how he
looked at me. He told me it was my problem, and that if I expected him to pay
for a termination of the pregnancy, I should think again. I wept, of course,
and pleaded. He called me a few vile names, claimed that my sexual skills had
been mediocre at best, and that he was bored with me. He left me where I was,
on my knees. Weeping.”

She sipped her
chocolate again with no apparent distress. “You can understand, I hope, why I
don't mourn his death. He was quite the most detestable man I've ever known.
Unfortunately, at that point in my life, I didn't see that so clearly. I knew
he was flawed,” she continued. “But with that blind and beautiful optimism of
youth, I'd believed, until that moment when he turned from me, that I could
change him.”

“Then you
stopped believing it.”

“Oh yes. I
stopped believing I could change Richard Draco. But I thought I couldn't
possibly live without him. I was also very frightened. Barely eighteen,
pregnant, alone. I had dreams of becoming a great actress, and these were
dashed. How could I go on?”

She paused for
a moment, as if looking back. “We're so dramatic at eighteen. Do you remember
when you were eighteen, Lieutenant Dallas, how you believed, somehow,
everything was acute, vital, and the world, of course, revolved around you? Ah
well.”

She shrugged
again. “I tried to end my life. I fumbled that, thank God, though I might have
gotten it right if Kenneth hadn't come. If he hadn't stopped me, gotten me
help.”

“Yet you
didn't terminate the pregnancy.”

“No. I had
time to think, to calm. I hadn't thought of the child when I took the razor to
my wrists. Only of myself. It seemed to me that I'd been given another chance,
and the only way to survive now was to do what was right for the life I'd
started inside me. I might not have gotten through that without Kenneth.”

She shifted
her eyes, eloquent eyes, to Eve's. “He saved my life and the life of the child.
He helped me find the clinic in Switzerland and the child placement attorney.
He lent me money and a supporting arm.”

“He's in love
with you.”

“Yes.” Her
agreement was simple, and sad. “My deepest regret is that I couldn't, and can't
love him back, in the way he deserves. His attack on Richard all those years
ago was an aberration, and one that cost Kenneth dearly.”

“And after you
placed the child?”

“I got back to
my life. I never picked up that dream of becoming an actress again. I didn't
have the heart for it any longer.”

“As birth
mother, you have the right to make regular inquiries about the child you placed.”

“I never
executed them. I had done what was best for her, best for myself. She was no
longer mine. What interest could we have in each other?”

“She had an
interest in Richard Draco. Carly Landsdowne was onstage the night he was
killed.”

“Yes?” Surprise,
consideration flashed over her face. “She is an actress? Here in New York?
Well, how many circles run within the circle of one life? And she was in the
play with Richard and Kenneth. How strange, and how apt.”

Eve waited.
Watched. “You don't ask any questions about her.”

“Lieutenant,
you want me to pretend some connection, some spiritual bond? Your Carly
Landsdowne is a stranger to me. I wish her well, of course. But the link
between us, a tenuous and temporary one, was broken years ago. My only connection
with those days is Kenneth.”

“Were you
acquainted with Areena Mansfield?”

“Slightly,
yes. She was very promising, even so long ago. She's done quite well for
herself, hasn't she? I believe Richard toyed with her as well at some point.
Why do you ask?”

“She was also
in the cast. Natalie Brooks?”

“Natalie
Brooks?” A little smile curved her mouth. “There is a name I haven't heard in
many years. Yes, I remember she had a small part in the play Richard was in
when he and I were lovers. She was very young, too. Pretty, fresh in a country
girl sort of way. And, of course, easy prey. He seduced her when he turned from
me. Perhaps even before. It's difficult to know. Was she, too, in this play?”

“No, but her
son was Draco's understudy.”

“Fascinating.”
Her eyes danced with amusement. “Please, you must tell me who else.”

“Eliza
Rothchild.”

“But yes! A
delightful woman. So dignified and acerbic. She had no tolerance for Richard.
Of course, she was hardly his type and he took no pains to disguise that. Yes,
this is fascinating. So many ghosts of the past moving like shadows on the
stage. And Richard in the center, where he liked it best.

“I no longer
follow theater, but if I'd known, I might have bought a ticket. Yes, I might
very well have paid to see that final performance.”

“You've had no
contact with any of these people in the last twenty-four years?”

“But for
Kenneth, no, as I've already said. I realize Kenneth told you that he hadn't
seen or spoken to me over the years, didn't know where I was. The lie was not
for himself, but for me. And now that you've told me all who are involved, it
comes even more clear why he did so. He would have worried that these ghosts
would haunt me. I assure you, and will assure him, they don't.”

“Did he tell
you that Richard Draco and Carly Landsdowne had been lovers?”

The cup jerked
to a halt before it reached her lips. With her eyes on Eve's, she lowered it
slowly to the table. “What are you saying?”

“That your
former lover and the child you made together were intimate. They had a sexual
affair that ended shortly before his death.”

“Mother of
God.” Anja squeezed her eyes shut. “Is this the payment for a small sin
committed so many years ago? You've disturbed me, Lieutenant.” She opened her
eyes again, and they were hard, glinting. “If that was your purpose, you've
succeeded. Surely neither of them knew.”

She rose,
prowled the room. “She's young. Attractive?” she asked with a glance back at
Eve.

“Yes. Very
attractive.”

“He would find
her hard to resist. Would see no reason to resist. And he has always been able
to lure women into bed.”

“She might
have lured him, knowing.”

“What woman
chooses to sleep with her own father?” Anja shot back. Her hands fisted, her
body trembled once as she spun around. “Why would she have known? The files
were sealed.”

“Seals crack,”
Eve said mildly. “Any and all of the parties involved can request the file.
Perhaps she was curious about who made her.”

“I would have
been informed if a request was made and granted. It is the law.”

“Laws are
broken. That's why I have a job. Draco might have opened the file himself.”

At this, Anja
merely laughed, a cold and brittle sound. “For what purpose? He had no interest
whatsoever at the time. It's unlikely he remembered a child existed after all
these years.”

“There was a
resemblance, Ms. Carvell. She has his coloring, the shape of his eyes, his
jaw.”

“So.” She drew
a breath, nodded, ordered herself to sit again. “He might have looked at her
and seen himself. Might have,” she murmured, toying with her button again.
“Might have. Then taken her to his bed for some narcissistic thrill. I can't
say. I can't tell you. Richard has become as much of a stranger to me as the
young woman you speak of. I don't know them.”

“Kenneth
Stiles did.”

Eve watched
the realization and the horror bloom on Anja's face. Color rushed into her
cheeks and just as quickly drained away again. “No. Whatever he knew or
suspected, he wouldn't have turned to murder. I tell you, the violence of
twenty-four years ago was an impulse, a rage of the moment. You said that the
affair had ended. Before Richard was killed. Kenneth wouldn't have harbored
violence. He couldn't have maintained it.”

“Maybe not.
Maybe not without help. Where were you on the night of March twenty-fifth?”

“Ah. I see. I
see,” she repeated softly, and folded her hands. “I would have been at home.
And quite alone.”

“You saw no
one, spoke to no one, during that evening?”

“Not that I
recall. I have no proof that comes to mind that I was where I say I was.”

“Your family,
Ms. Carvell?”

“I have no
one. I can only swear to you that I did not travel from Montreal to New York
and conspire to cause Richard Draco's death.” She rose. “Lieutenant, I believe
at this point, I would like to consult an attorney. I have nothing more to say
on any of these matters until I have done so.”

“That's your
right. Thank you for your cooperation. Record off, Peabody.”

“Would you be
so kind as to tell me which hospital is caring for Kenneth? I'd like to contact
them and inquire about his condition.”

“He's at
Roosevelt.” Eve got to her feet. “Your attorney, when you engage one, can reach
me at Cop Central.”

“Very well.”
Anja walked to the door, opened it. “Good day, Lieutenant.” She said it
quietly, closed the door, engaged the locks.

Then, covering
her face with her hands, she let herself weep.

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

“Impressions,
Peabody.”

“She's cool,
sophisticated, sure of herself. She either believes Stiles is innocent or is
determined to protect him. Her concern about him came off as genuine to me. She
doesn't have a lot of concern left over to spare for Carly.”

Eve frowned
through the windscreen as she slipped behind the wheel of her vehicle. “Should
she?”

“Well, it just
seems to me there should be some, you know, emotional connection.”

“Why? She
conceived, gestated, delivered. That's nine months out of her life. Where's the
emotional connection in that?”

“Because the
baby grew inside her. She felt it kick and move around, and ... I don't know,
Dallas. I've never conceived, gestated, and delivered. I'm giving you my take,
that's all.”

Peabody
shifted uneasily, feeling out of her depth. There was a darkness in the air,
swirling around Eve. She didn't know what to make of it. She cut her eyes
toward Eve, then away again. Eve was still staring out of the glass, brooding.
“If she's giving it to us straight,” Peabody ventured. “She placed the baby,
then walked away. I just don't buy it could be as cut and dried, as easy as
that. I thought you were leading toward her being in on the murder.”

“I haven't
discounted it.” But she'd let something slip because her own emotions had been
rattled. “Go back in, find out when Carvell registered, if she pre-booked, and
when she's scheduled to leave.”

“Right.” With
some relief, Peabody scurried out into the fresh air.

What sort
of woman chooses to sleep with her own father?

Eve's stomach
had been in knots since that question had been tossed at her. What if there
is no choice? What then? She let her head fall back. There was another
question: What sort of man chooses to sleep with his own daughter?

That was one
she had the answer to. She knew that kind of man, and he still whispered his
candy breath in her ear.

“What are
you doing, little girl?”

The breath
exploded out of her lungs. She sucked it greedily back in.

What about the
mother? she asked herself and wiped her damp palms on the thighs of her
trousers. What made a mother? She didn't believe it was the bulk of life
stirring in the belly. Eve angled her head, looked up toward the windows where
Anja Carvell sat with her pot of chocolate and her ghosts. No, she didn't
believe it was as simple as that.

There was
more. There had to be more.

Most rational,
decent human beings would instinctively protect an infant, a helpless child.
But the need to protect another adult stemmed from duty. Or love.

She
straightened in her seat as Peabody climbed back in. “She checks out. Called in
yesterday, after six, requested a reservation. She got into the hotel some time
just before eight. She's scheduled to leave tomorrow, but arranged for an
option to extend.”

“Mother,
father, devoted friend,” Eve murmured. “Let's move on to child.”

“Carly. We're
going to go right by a couple 24/7s crossing town. Maybe we could stop and get
some hot chocolate.”

“That stuff
they sell in those places is swill.”

“Yeah, but
it's chocolate swill.” Peabody tried a pitiful, pleading look. “You wouldn't
let her give us any of the good stuff.”

“Maybe you'd
like some cookies, too. Or little frosted cakes.”

“That would be
nice. Thanks for asking.”

“That was
sarcasm, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. I
know. Responded in kind.”

The easy laugh
had the black cloud lifting. Because it did, Eve pulled over at a cross-street
24/7 and waited while Peabody ran in and loaded up.

“You know, I'm
really trying to cut down on this stuff. But...” Peabody ripped into the pack
of cookies. “Thing is, weird, McNab doesn't think I'm chubby. And when a guy
sees you naked, he knows where the extra layers are.”

“Peabody, do
you have some delusion that I want to hear how McNab sees you naked?”

She crunched
into a cookie. “I'm just saying. Anyway, you know we have sex, so you've
probably reached the conclusion we're naked when we're having it. You being an
ace detective and all.”

“Peabody, in
the chain of command, you may, on rare occasions and due to my astonishing good
nature, respond to sarcasm with sarcasm. You are not permitted to lead with it.
Give me a damn cookie.”

“They're
coconut crunchies. You hate coconut.”

“Then why did
you buy coconut?”

“To piss you
off.” Grinning now, Peabody pulled another pack of cookies from her bag. “Then
I bought chocolate chip, just for you.”

“Well, hand
them over then.”

“Okay, so ...”
Peabody ripped open the second pack, offered Eve a cookie. “Anyway, McNab's got
a little, bitty butt, and hardly any shoulders. Still -- “

“Stop. Stop
right there. If I get an image of a naked McNab in my head, you're going back
to traffic detail.”

Peabody
munched, hummed, waited.

“Damn it!
There he is.”

Hooting with
laughter, Peabody polished off the last cookie. “Sorry. Dallas, I'm sorry. I
couldn't help it. Kinda cute, isn't he?”

And, she
thought, it had bumped whatever had been troubling her lieutenant out of the
way.

“Button it
up,” Eve warned, but she had to swallow a chuckle along with her cookie. “Brush
the crumbs off your shirt and try to find your dignity somewhere.” She pulled
to the curb in front of Carly's building.

The high-end
neighborhood, the exclusive building, the plush lobby sent a different signal
to Eve now. Anja Carvell had selected wealthy parents for the child. The kind
of parents who could assure the child would grow up with privilege, security,
luxuries.

Had she taken
as much care in researching the kind of people they were? Stable, loving, wise,
supporting?

“Peabody, we
did the run on Carly Landsdowne's educational history? It was private schools,
right?”

“Yes, sir, I
believe so.” To verify, Peabody pulled out her PPC as they entered the lobby
elevator. “Private and top rated, preschool through college. They sprang for a
bunch of extras including drama, dance, music, voice. All private tutors.”

“What do the
parents do?”

“Father's a
doctor, micro-surgeon. Mother's a travel agent, her own company. But she filed
as professional mother from 2036 until 2056, the full twenty years allotted per
child.”

“No siblings?”

“None.”

“She picked
winners. She was careful. It mattered,” she said to herself as she stepped out
and walked to Carly's door.

It took two
long buzzes before the door opened. Heavy-eyed, her hair sleep-tumbled, Carly
gave a careless yawn. “What now?”

“A moment of
your time.”

“At dawn?”

“It's after
nine.”

“I repeat, at
dawn?” Then she shrugged, stepped back. “Don't ask me anything until I get a
cup of coffee. That should be added to those rights and obligations you're so
fond of spouting.”

“Cranky,”
Peabody whispered as Carly strode away.

Eve scanned
the room, listened to the beep of the AutoChef, then tried not to let her mouth
water when she caught the scent of rich and real coffee.

“I saw you at
Richard's memorial yesterday,” Carly said as she breezed back in. Her robe
slipped silkily off one shoulder as she sat, crossed long, bare legs. “You do
get around.”

“Some of the
matters I'm here to discuss with you are of a personal nature. You might want
to ask your companion to leave.”

“My
companion?”

“Two
wineglasses,” Eve pointed out, with a nod at the low table. “Crushed pillows on
the end of the sofa.” She reached under one, tugged out one sheer leg of black
hose. “Undergarments in unusual places.”

“So your
clever deductive powers lead you to the correct conclusion that I had sex last
night.” She shrugged and her robe slid down a little lower. “Why do you think
he's still here?”

“Because you
were having sex this morning before I so rudely interrupted. That little mating
bite on your neck's very fresh.”

“Ah.” She
sighed with a sound of amusement. “I suppose he was feeling a little frisky.
Why don't you come on out, sweetheart?” She lifted her voice and kept her eyes
on Eve. “Lieutenant Dallas has spoiled the moment anyway.”

A door creaked
open. There was the hesitant pad of bare feet on the floor. Rumpled and
flushing, Michael Proctor stepped into the room.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Ah...” He
cleared his throat, tried to find something to do with his hands, and ended up
letting them dangle from his arms at his sides. He was rumpled, wrinkled, and
had mis-buttoned his shirt. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Carly's long,
delighted roll of laughter filled the room. “Oh, Michael, do better. At least
try to look satisfied and defiant instead of embarrassed and guilty. She's not
the morals police.”

“Carly.” Her
name was a vocal wince.

She waved a
hand. “Go get yourself some coffee, you'll feel better.”

“Um ... Can I
get anyone ... anything?”

“Isn't he
sweet?” Carly beamed, like a proud mother over a well-mannered child. “Go on,
darling.”

She turned
back to Eve as Michael shuffled from the room. Her expression transformed, like
a mask removed, from silk to steel. “I believe sex between consenting adults is
legal in this state, so shall we move on?”

“How long have
you and Michael been lovers?”

Carly examined
her nails, picked idly at a minute chip in the polish. “Since you tell me it's
after nine, for about twelve hours. I'm afraid I can't give you the exact time
the act was consummated. I wasn't wearing my wrist unit.”

“You want
points for attitude?” Eve said evenly. “Fine with me. We can take this down to
Central and see who's the biggest hard-ass. Or you can give me straight answers
on how Michael Proctor ended up sharing your bed this morning.”

Carly's lips
twisted, but the idea of a session at Cop Central had her reaching for control.
“We ran into each other at the memorial, ended up going out for a drink, came
back here. One thing led very enjoyably to another. Is there a problem with
that?”

“Bury one
lover, pick up a fresh one? That might be a problem for some people.”

Temper flashed
into Carly's eyes, but she kept her voice level. “Save your narrow-minded view
for someone who's interested. It happens that Michael and I have a great deal
in common, some chemistry stirred, and we acted on it. Above that, I like him
very much.”

“One of the
things you have in common is Richard Draco.”

“True enough.
But Richard's dead. We're not.”

Michael walked
slowly back in. “Carly, would you like me to go?”

“Not on my
account.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down.” It was as much a
challenge as a request. When he sat, she gave a pleased smile, hooked her arm
through his. “So, Lieutenant, you were saying?”

“Michael, you
didn't mention your mother knew Richard Draco.”

The cup jumped
in his hand, sloshed coffee on his slacks. “My mother? What does she have to do
with it?”

“She worked in
a play with Draco.”

“Your mother's
an actress?” Carly angled her head.

“She was. She
retired years ago. Before I was born.” He set his cup down, rubbed
ineffectually at his slacks. “Leave my mother alone. She hasn't done anything.”

“Did I say she
had?” Nerves, Eve thought. He couldn't keep his hands still for them. “You know
then, that she had been intimate with Draco at one time.”

“It was
nothing. It was years ago.”

“Your mother
and Richard?” Carly drew back to study his face. “Oh. Sticky.” And there was
sympathy in her eyes. “Don't let it rattle you, sweetie.”

But it had,
obviously. “Look, she had a bit part, that's all. She wasn't a serious actress.
She told me. She and my father have been together ever since... She wouldn't
have told me except she knew I admired him, that I was going to audition for
his stand-in. He used her. He liked using women.”

He looked
steadily at Carly now. “She got over him. Smart women do.”

His mother,
Eve decided, or maybe women in general, was his weak spot. “Yeah, he liked
using women. Young, pretty women. They were toys to him, and he got bored with
his toys fairly quickly. Your mother gave up her career, her hopes for it,
because of him.”

“Maybe.”
Michael blew out a breath. “Maybe that was part of it. But she made a new life,
she's happy in it.”

“He hurt her.”

“Yeah.” His
gaze flashed up, ripe with bitterness. “Yeah, he hurt her. You want me to say I
hated him for it? Maybe I did, on some level.”

“Michael,
don't say any more,” Carly warned.

“The hell with
that.” His voice took on conviction as well as anger. “She's talking about my
mother. She wasn't some cheap tramp, some toy he picked up then tossed aside.
She was a nice, naive girl. He took advantage of that, of her.”

“Did he give
her illegals, Michael?” Eve asked. “Did he give her a taste for them?”

“No. He tried.
The son of a bitch.”

“Michael, you
don't have to answer her questions.”

“I'm going to
straighten this out, right now.” Heat rolled off him in violent waves. “She
told me that she came into the room and he was putting drops of something in
her drink. She asked him what it was, and he just laughed. He said ... my
mother doesn't use hard language, but she told me exactly what he said. It
would make her fuck like a rabbit.”

Muscles
quivered in his jaw as he stared at Eve. “She didn't even know what it meant.
But I knew, when she told me, I knew. The bastard tried to slip her Wild
Rabbit.”

“But she
didn't drink it?”

“No, it scared
her. She told him she didn't want anything to drink, and that's when he got mad.
He called her names, tried to make her drink it. She realized then what kind of
man he was and she ran. She was crushed, disillusioned. She went back home. She
told me that was the best thing that ever happened to her, going home.

“He didn't
even remember her,” Michael added. “He didn't even have the decency to remember
her name.”

“You spoke to
him about her?”

“I wanted to
see how he'd react. He didn't even pretend to remember. She meant nothing to
him. No one did.”

“Did you tell
him? Remind him?”

“No.” He
deflated, the heat evaporating. “No, I didn't see the point. And if I'd pushed
it, I'd have lost the job.”

“Don't. Don't
let it hurt you.”

Eve's eyes
narrowed in speculation as Carly slipped her arms around him, soothed. They
stayed narrowed and cool when Carly shot her a burning glare. “Leave him alone.
Do you get your kicks picking on people weaker than you?”

“It's what
gets me through the day.” You're not weak, Eve thought. Did the
people who made you form you, she wondered. Or the people who raised you
?

“It must have
been hard on you, Michael, knowing all that and seeing Draco day after day.”

“I had to put
it out of my mind. I couldn't change what had happened, could I?” He gave a
shrug that tried to be defiant. “And nothing I could do would make any
difference. And one day, I'd step out onstage in his place, and I'd be better.
That would be enough.”

“You've got
that chance now, don't you? A chance to stand in his light. A chance to be with
one of his lovers.”

His tightly
compressed lips trembled apart. “Carly. It wasn't like that. I don't want you
to think -- “

“Of course it
wasn't.” She put a hand over his. “The lieutenant has a foul mind.”

“Ms.
Landsdowne.”

Carly ignored
Eve for a moment and laid gentle kisses on both of Michael's cheeks. “You've
spilled your coffee. Why don't you go back and get us both a fresh cup?”

“Yeah. All
right.” He got to his feet. “My mother is a wonderful woman.”

“Of course she
is,” Carly replied.

When he went
back into the kitchen, she turned to face Eve fully. “I don't like seeing
Michael's vulnerabilities exploited, Lieutenant. The strong are supposed to
protect the weak, not kick them in the face.”

“Maybe you're
not giving him enough credit for spine.” Eve moved over, eased down on the arm
of a chair. “He defended his mother very well. For some, family ties are the
strongest. You didn't mention you were adopted, Ms. Landsdowne.”

“What?”
Confusion clouded her eyes. “For heaven's sakes, why should I have? I don't
remember it half the time. What business is that of yours?”

“It was a
private adoption, at birth.”

“Yes. My
parents never hid it from me. Neither was it made a particular issue in our
home.”

“Did they give
you the details of your heritage?”

“Details?
Medical history, ethnicity, of course. I was told my birth mother arranged for
my placement because she wanted the best for me, and so on and so forth.
Whether that was true or not never mattered. I had my mother.”

She paused,
then asked, “Are you speculating that my mother had a relationship with
Richard at one time?” She let out a rolling laugh and shook back her cloud of
tousled hair. “I can assure you she didn't. My mother never met Richard Draco.
She and my father have been happily married for nearly thirty years. Before I
was born she was a travel agent, not an actress.”

“You were
never curious about the woman who gave you up?”

“Not
particularly. I have wonderful parents whom I love, and who love me. Why should
I wonder about a woman who's nothing but a stranger to me?”

Like
mother, like daughter, Eve thought.

“Many adoptees
want contact, want answers, even a relationship with their birth parents.”

“I didn't.
Don't. There was no hole in my life to fill. I'm sure my parents would have
helped me find her if I'd asked. If I'd needed that. I didn't. And it would
have hurt them,” she said quietly. “I would never hurt them. How is this
relevant?”

“Do you
recognize the name Anja Carvell?”

“No.” She
stiffened slightly. “Are you telling me that's the name of the woman who placed
me? I didn't ask for a name. I didn't want a name.”

“You have no
knowledge, have had no contact with a woman by that name?”

“No, and I
don't want any.” Carly got to her feet. “You've no right to do this. To play
with my life this way.”

“You never
asked about your birth father.”

“Goddamn it,
if she's nothing to me, he's less than nothing. A lucky sperm. You wanted a
rise out of me, you got one. Now, what does this have to do with Richard
Draco's death?”

Eve said
nothing, and in the silence she watched denial, disbelief, then horror flash
into Carly's eyes. “No, that's a lie. A revolting, vicious lie. You hideous
bitch.”

She grabbed
the little pot of violets on the table, heaved them to shower glass and petals
down the wall. “It's not true.”

“It's
documented,” Eve said flatly. “Richard Draco was your birth father.”

“No. No.”
Carly sprang at Eve, shoved her roughly against a table and upended a lamp. The
china exploded like a bomb. Before Peabody could intervene, Eve signaled her
back, and took the hard slap to the face without attempting to block.

“Take it back!
Take it back!”

She shouted
it, tears spurting out of her eyes. Her beauty was stark now, white face, dark
eyes. She grabbed Eve's shirt, shook, then with a moan, collapsed on her.

“Oh God. Oh my
God.”

“Carly.”
Michael bolted in from the kitchen. One look at his face told Eve he'd
listened, he'd heard. When he rushed to Carly, tried to turn her into his own
arms, she shoved away, crossed her arms defensively over her breasts.

“Don't touch
me. Don't touch me.” Like a candle burned to wax, she slid to the floor in a
shuddering puddle.

“Peabody, take
Michael back into the kitchen.”

He stepped
back, stared at Eve. “It was cruel what you did. Cruel.” He walked toward the
kitchen with Peabody behind him.

Eve crouched.
She could still feel the heat from the crack of Carly's hand across her face.
But her gut was iced over. “I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Carly lifted
her face, and her eyes were ravaged. “I don't know who I loathe more at this
moment: myself or you.”

“If you were
unaware of your blood tie to him, you have nothing to loathe yourself for.”

“I had sex
with him. I put my hands on him. Allowed him to put his on me. Can you conceive
how that makes me feel? How dirty that makes me feel?”

Oh God,
yes. She was suddenly and brutally tired.
She fought off her own demons and stared into Carly's eyes. “He was a stranger
to you.”

Carly's breath
hitched. “He knew, didn't he? It all makes such horrible sense. The way he
pursued me, the way he looked at me. The things he said. We're two of a kind,
he told me, and he laughed.” She gripped Eve's shirt again. “Did he know?”

“I can't tell
you.”

“I'm glad he's
dead. I wish I'd killed him myself. I wish to God almighty it had been my hand
on the knife. I'll never stop wishing that.”

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

“No comments,
Peabody?”

“No, sir.”
They rode down in the elevator with Peabody looking straight ahead.

There was an
ache, churning, pulsing, swelling, in every part of her body. “You didn't like
the way I handled that.”

“It's not for
me to say, Lieutenant.”

“Fuck that.”

“All right. I
don't understand why you had to tell her.”

“It's
relevant,” Eve snapped. “Every connection matters.”

“You punched
her in the gut with it.”

“So now it's
my method that doesn't meet your standards.”

“You asked,”
Peabody shot back. “If she had to be told, I don't see why you shoved it in her
face the way you did. Why you couldn't have found a way to soften it.”

“Soften it?
Her father was fucking her. You tell me how you soften that. You tell me how
you put that in a pretty box with a bow on it.”

She turned on
Peabody, and like Carry's, Eve's eyes were ravaged. “What the hell do you know?
What do you know about it with your big, sprawling, happy, Free-Ager family
where everybody gathers around the dinner table with clean faces and chirpy
news of the day.”

She couldn't
breathe, couldn't draw in enough air. She was strangling. But she couldn't stop
the words.

“When Daddy
came in to kiss you good night, he didn't crawl into bed with you, did he, and
put his sweaty hands all over you. Fathers don't jam themselves into their
little girls in your tidy world.”

She strode off
the elevator, through the lobby, and out to the street, while Peabody stood
stiff with shock.

Eve paced the
sidewalk, barely restrained herself from kicking the duet of white poodles and
the droid that walked them. A headache was raging, a rocket blast that screamed
inside her skull. She could feel her hands tremble, even though they were
balled into tight fists in her pockets.

“Dallas.”

“Don't,” she
warned Peabody. “Keep back a minute.”

She could walk
it off, she promised herself. She could walk off the leading edge of the fury
that made her want to scream and pound and rip. And when she had, all that was
left was the headache and the sick misery deep in her gut.

Her face was
pale but composed when she walked up to Peabody. “My personal remarks were over
the line. I apologize for them.”

“It's not
necessary.”

“It is. In my
opinion, it was also necessary to be cruel up there. It doesn't make me feel
any better about it. But you're not here to be a punching bag for my foul
moods.”

“That's okay.
I'm kind of used to it.”

Peabody tried
a smile, then gaped with horror when Eve's eyes filled. “Oh, jeez. Dallas.”

“Don't. Shit.
I need some time.” She bore down, stared hard at the face of the building. “I'm
taking a couple of hours' personal time. Grab some public transpo back to
Central.” Her chest wanted to heave, to throw the tears up and out. “I'll meet
you at Roosevelt in two hours.”

“All right,
but -- “

“Two hours,”
Eve repeated and all but launched herself into the car.

She needed to
go home. She needed to hold on and to go home. Not trusting herself, she set
the car on auto and rode with her head back and her hands balled in her lap.

From the age
of eight, she'd built a wall or her subconscious had mercifully built one for
her to block out the ugliness that had happened to her. It left a blank, and on
that blank she'd created herself. Piece by painful piece.

She knew what
it was to feel that wall crumble, to have the cracks form so the ugliness oozed
in.

She knew what
Carly faced. And what she would go through to live with it.

The headache
kicked like a tornado inside her skull by the time she drove through the gates.
Her eyes were glazed with it, with the greasy churn of nausea in her belly. She
ordered herself to hold on, to hold it in, and staggered up the steps.

“Lieutenant,”
Summerset began when she stumbled inside.

“Don't mess
with me.” She tried to snap it out, but her voice wavered. Even as she bolted
upstairs, he moved to the house intercom.

She wanted to
lie down. She'd be all right if she could just lie down for an hour. But the
churning defeated her. She turned into the bathroom, went down on her knees,
and was vilely ill.

When she was
empty, too weak to stand, she simply curled on the tiles.

She felt a
hand on her brow, cool. Blessedly cool. And opened her eyes.

“Roarke. Leave
me alone.”

“Not in this
lifetime.”

She tried to
turn away from him, but he slipped his arms under her.

“Sick.”

“Yes, baby, I
know.” She felt fragile as glass when he lifted her, carried her to bed.

She began to
shiver as he drew off her boots, covered her with a blanket. “I wanted to come
home.”

He said nothing,
only got a damp cloth and bathed her face. She was too pale, the shadows under
her eyes too deep. When he held a glass to her lips, she turned her face away.

“No. No
soothers. No tranqs.”

“It's for the
nausea. Here now.” He brushed her damp hair back and hoped he wouldn't be
forced to pour it down her throat. “That's all. I promise.”

She drank
because her stomach was quivering again, and her throat felt as if it had been
raked by claws. “I didn't know you were here.” She opened her eyes again, and
the tears that burned in her chest flooded into her eyes. “Roarke. Oh God.”

She pressed
herself against him. Burrowed. As her body shook, he tightened his arms around
her. “Get rid of it,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, let it go.”

“I hate what I
did. I hate myself for doing it.”

“Ssh. Whatever
it was, you wouldn't have had a choice.”

“I should have
found one.” She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his shoulder,
and with her eyes closed, she told him everything.

“I know what
went through her.” She was better now, the worst of the sickness eased. “I know
what she felt. And I saw myself in her when she looked at me.”

“Eve. No one
knows better than you, or I, what vile-ness there is in the world. You did what
you had to do.”

“I could've --
“

“No.” He leaned
back, cupped her face so that their eyes met. There wasn't pity in his, which
she would have hated. There wasn't sympathy, which would have scraped her raw.

There was
simply understanding.

“You couldn't
have. Not you. You had to know, didn't you? You had to be sure if she'd known
who he was to her. Now you do.”

“Yeah, now I
do. No one's that good an actress. She'll see herself, again and again,
together with him. Over and over.”

“Stop. You
couldn't have changed that, no matter how she found out.”

“Maybe not.”
She closed her eyes again, sighed. “I swiped at Peabody.”

“She'll get
over it.”

“I came close
to losing it, right out on the street. I nearly -- “

“But you
didn't.” He gave her a little shake before she could speak again. “You irritate
me, Eve. Why must you beat yourself up like this? You haven't slept in over
thirty hours. You've entered into a phase of this investigation that hits so
close to a personal horror most people would run away or shatter. You've done
neither.”

“I broke.”

“No, Eve. You
chipped.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Then you came home. Lie down
for a bit. Close your eyes. Turn it off.”

“I shouldn't
have told you to leave me alone. I didn't mean it.”

“It hardly
matters.” The innate arrogance in his voice nearly made her smile. “I wouldn't
have. I won't.”

“I know. I
wanted you to be here.” She slid into him before he could nudge her back. “I
needed you to be. And you were.” Her mouth turned to his. Seeking. “Roarke.”

“You need to
sleep.”

“I'm empty, and
it hurts.” Her hands roamed up his back, kneading. “Fill me with something.
Please.”

Love filled
the voids and hollows, no matter how deep, no matter how wide. He would give it
to her, take it for himself. With patience, with tenderness.

His lips
brushed hers, settled, sank, until he felt hers warm and yield. Gathering her,
he trailed kisses over her face, her hair, her throat. First to comfort.

She turned
into him, offering more. But his hands were light as wings, floating over her,
slipping under her shirt to her flesh with long, slow strokes. Then to soothe.

And when she
sighed, when her body melted back against the pillows, he undressed her. His
lips followed the trace of his fingers, gently stirring pulses. Now to arouse.

She opened for
him, as she never had for anyone else. For him, she could lay herself bare.
Body, heart, and mind. And know, and trust, he would do the same.

Without heat
or demands or urgency, he nudged her up, let her linger on the crest, slide
over, until her system glowed with the pleasure of belonging.

Her heart
swelled, matched its beat to his, and her arms wrapped around him like ribbons
to draw him close.

“I love you.”
He watched her face as he slipped inside her. “Completely. Endlessly.”

Her breath
caught, sighed out again. She closed her eyes to hold on to the beauty of the
moment. And let him bring her home.

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

She held him
close, needing for just a bit longer to have his body pressed so intimately to
hers. “Thanks.”

“I hate to
state the obvious, but it was my pleasure. Better now?”

“A lot. Roarke
-- no, just stay like this a minute.” She kept her face turned into his
shoulder. “When we're together like this, it's not like it's ever been with
anyone else. It's like there never was anyone else.”

“For me
either.”

She laughed,
relieved that she could. “You've had a lot more anyones.”

“Who's
counting?” He shifted, rolling over so that she ranged over him. The fragility
was gone, he noted. There was the smooth and agile flow to her movements that
characterized her.

Her cheeks
were no longer pale, but her eyes were heavy, bruised, exhausted. It made him
regret not pouring a tranq into her after all.

“Cut it out.”
She scooped her hair back and nearly managed a scowl.

“Cut what
out?”

“Thinking
about fussing over me. You don't have to take care of me.” She didn't need the
amused glint in his eyes to tell her how ridiculous that sounded under the
circumstances. “All the time,” she amended.

“Let's take a
nap.”

“I can't. I
don't imagine you can, either. I've already messed up your day. You were
probably buying a solar system or something.”

“Only a small,
largely uninhabited planet. It's not going anywhere. I can use a break, and you
need to sleep.”

“Yeah, I do,
but I can't.”

“Eve -- “

“Look, I'll
catch some downtime soon. You're one to talk. You haven't had much more than me
lately.”

“Our engines
don't run at the same speed.”

That stopped
her from her slide off the bed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Just that.”

She frowned,
considered. “It sounds like something that ought to piss me off. But I can't
figure out exactly why. When I do, I might have to pop you one.”

“I'll look
forward to it. If you won't sleep, eat. You need something in your stomach. And
what are you grinning at?”

“You. You're
such a wife,” she said as she headed toward the shower.

He sat for a
minute, stunned. “Now I'm pissed off.”

“See, now you
know how it feels. Well, order me something to eat,” she called out. “Water on,
one hundred and two degrees.”

“Bite me,” he
muttered and ordered her some soup with a high-protein additive.

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

She ate every
drop, as much to please him as to kill the hunger. Her mind clear again, she
dressed, strapped on her weapon. “I have to go by the hospital, see what I can
get out of Stiles.”

“Why? You've
already figured it out.” When she just stared at him, he shrugged. “I know you,
Lieutenant. You let it churn around while you were eating, settle into place.
Now you're revving up to finish it.”

“I haven't
filled all the gaps yet. I want to cover a few more bases, and I need to run
something by Whitney. It sort of involves you.”

“And what
might that be?”

She shook her
head. “If he doesn't clear it, it won't matter. I'll be able to reach you,
right? If I need to talk to you before I get back.”

“I'll be
available. I thought I'd bake some cookies.”

The dry tone
had her snorting as she picked up her jacket. “You do that, honey.” She turned
to kiss him, then yelped when he twisted her earlobe. “Hey!”

“Don't work
too hard, darling.”

“Man.”
Pouting, she rubbed her ear as she walked to the door. “If I did that every
time you used the W word, you wouldn't have any ears left.”

She stopped at
the door, looked back. “But you're beautiful when you're angry,” she said, and
fled.

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

Peabody stood
outside the hospital's main doors, shoulders hunched against the brisk wind,
nose red from it.

“Why the hell
didn't you wait inside?” Eve demanded. “It's freezing out here.”

“I wanted to
catch you before you went in. Can we take a minute?”

Eve studied
Peabody's set and serious face. Personal business, she decided, not
official. Well, she deserved it. “All right. Let's walk, keep the blood
moving.” She headed away from the ramps and glides, as sirens announced another
unlucky resident of New York was about to enjoy the building's facilities.

“About
before,” Peabody began.

“Look, I was
out of line, and you were the closest target. I'm sorry about it.”

“No, that's
not what I mean. I figured it out. Took me a while,” she added. “What you did,
telling her cold like that was because you had to see how she'd react. If she
knew Draco was her father, well, it bumped up her motive. Either way, if she
knew it before they ... you know, or if she knew it after they got going, it
went to her frame of mind.”

Eve watched a
medi-van whip past. “She didn't know.”

“I don't think
so either. If you'd eased her into it, it would've given her time to think, to
figure out how best to react, what to say. I should've known that right off
instead of working around to it an hour later.”

“I could have
clued you in before we got there.” With a shake of her head, she turned around,
started back. “I hadn't settled myself into it yet.”

“It was a hard
thing to do. I don't think I'd've had the guts for it.”

“It has
nothing to do with guts.”

“Yeah, it
does.” Peabody stopped, waited for Eve to turn to face her. “If you didn't have
feelings, it wouldn't have been hard. But you do. Guts can be the same thing as
mean without compassion. It was hard, but you did it anyway. A better cop would
have realized that quicker.”

“I didn't give
you much of a chance since I was busy jumping down your throat. You worked it
out, came around to it on your own. I must be doing something right with you.
So, are we square now?”

“Yeah, all
four corners.”

“Good, let's
get inside. I'm freezing my ass off.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

They went by
to see Trueheart first. At Peabody's insistence, they stopped off in the
shopping mall for a get-well gift.

“It'll take
five minutes.”

“We've chipped
in on the flowers already.” The forest of goods, the wide and winding trails
that led to them, and the chirpy voices announcing the sales and specials
caused Eve's already abused stomach to execute a slow, anxious roll.

She'd rather
have gone hand-to-hand with a three-hundred-pound violent tendency than be
swallowed up in a consumer sea.

“That's from
everyone,” Peabody explained patiently. “This'll be from us.”

Despite
herself, Eve stopped at a display of dull green surgical scrubs brightly
emblazoned with the hospital's logo. For ten bucks extra, you could have one
splattered with what appeared to be arterial blood.

“It's a sick
world. Just sick.”

“We're not going
for the souvenirs.” Though she thought the oversized anal probes were kind of a
hoot. “When a guy's in the hospital, he wants toys.”

“When a guy
gets a splinter in his toe, he wants toys,” Eve complained but followed Peabody
into a game shop and resigned herself to having her senses battered by the
beeps, crashes, roars, and blasts.

Here,
according to the flashing signs, you could choose from over ten thousand
selections for your entertainment, leisure, or educational desires. From sports
to quantum physics programs and everything in between, you had only to key in
the topic of your interest and the animated map, or one of the fully trained
and friendly game partners, would direct you to the correct area.

The store menu
pumped out screaming yellow light. Eve felt her eyes cross.

The clear
tubes of the sample booths were all loaded with people trying out demos. Others
trolled the store proper, their faces bright with avarice or blank from sensory
overload.

“Don't these
people have jobs?” Eve wondered.

“We hit lunch
hour.”

“Well, lucky
us.”

Peabody made a
beeline for the combat section. “Hand-to-hand,” she decided. “It'll make him
feel in control. Wow, look! It's the new Super Street Fighter. It's supposed to
be majorly mag.” She flipped the anti-theft box over, winced a little at the
price, then noted the manufacturer.

“Roarke
Industries. We oughta get a discount or something. Oh well, it's not so bad
when you split it.” She headed toward the auto-express checkout, glanced back
at Eve. “I guess Roarke's got a whole factory full of these, huh?”

“Probably.”
Eve pulled out her credit card, swiped it through the scanner, pressed her
thumb to the identi-plate.

Thank you
for your purchase, Eve Dallas. One moment, please, while your credit is
verified.

“I'll give you
my half on payday, okay?”

“Yeah,
whatever. Why do these things take so long?”

Thank you
for waiting, Eve Dallas. The cost of your selection, Super Street Fighter, PPC
version, comes to one hundred and sixteen dollars and fifty-eight cents,
including all applicable taxes. Due to Authorization One, your account will not
be debited for this selection. Please enjoy your day.

“What the hell
are you talking about? What's Authorization One?”

Authorization
One, Roarke Industries. This level entitles you to select any items under this
manufacturer's brand at no cost.

“Wow. We can
clean house.” Peabody turned her dazzled eyes to the shelves crammed with
delights. “Can I get one of these?”

“Shut up,
Peabody. Look, I'm paying for this,” she told the machine. “So just bypass
Authorization One and debit my account.”

Unable to
comply. Would you care to make another selection ?

“Damn it.” She
shoved the game at Peabody. “He's not getting away with this.”

Peabody had
the wit to run the box through security release, then jogged to catch up with
Eve. “Listen, since we're here anyway, couldn't I just have one -- “

“No.”

“But -- “

“No.” Eve gave
the glide one quick, bad-tempered kick, then got on to ride to medical level.

“Most women
would be happy if their husbands gave them blank shopping credit.”

“I'm not most
women.”

Peabody rolled
her eyes. “You're telling me.”

Peabody might
have sulked over the loss of her own imaginary game collection, but Trueheart's
pleasure in the gift outweighed greed.

“This is
great. It just came out.”

He turned the
box over in his good hand. His other arm was cased in a plasti-cast to knit the
bone that had snapped in his fall.

There was a
collar of the same material around his neck, an IV drip in his wrist, and a
brutal bruise that crept over his shoulder and showed purple and black against
the sagging neck of his hospital shift. His left leg was slightly elevated, and
Eve remembered how his blood had pumped out of the gash there and onto her
hands.

Machines
hummed around him.

All Eve could
think was if she were in his place, she wouldn't be so damn cheerful.

She left the
small talk and conversation to Peabody. She never knew what to say to hospital
patients.

“I don't
remember much after I took the hit.” He shifted his eyes to Eve. “Commander
Whitney said we got him.”

“Yeah.” This,
at least, was her element. “You got him. He's down on the next patient
level. We'll be questioning him after we leave here. You did the job,
Trueheart. He might have gotten by us if you hadn't reacted fast and taken him
down.”

“The commander
said you put me up for a commendation.”

“Like I said,
you did the job.”

“I didn't do
much.” He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I would have
taken him down clean if that trigger-happy asshole transit jerk hadn't blasted
off.”

“That's the
spirit. The trigger-happy asshole and his moronic superior are going to get
kicked around plenty.”

“Wouldn't have
happened if they'd listened to you. You had it under control.”

“If I'd had it
under control, you wouldn't be here. You took a mean hit and a bad fall. If
you're feeling shaky over it, you should see the department counselor.”

“I'm feeling
okay about it. I want to get back in uniform, back on the job. I was hoping,
when you close the case, you'd let me know the details.”

“Sure.”

“Ah,
Lieutenant, I know you've got to get going, but I just wanted to say ... I know
you saw my mother the other night.”

“Yeah, we ran
into each other. She's a nice woman.”

“Isn't she
great?” His face lit up. “She's the best. My old man ditched us when I was a
kid, so we've always, you know, taken care of each other. Anyway, she told me
how you hung around, waited until I was out of surgery and all.”

“You went down
under my watch.” Your blood was on my hands, she thought.

“Well, it
meant a lot to her that you were here. I just wanted to tell you that. So
thanks.”

“Just stay out
of laser streams,” she advised.

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

Down on the
next level, Kenneth Stiles stirred in his bed, glanced toward the nurse who
checked his monitors. “I want to confess.”

She turned to
him, smile bright and professional. “So, you're awake, Mr. Stiles. You should
take some nutrition now.”

He'd been
awake for a considerable amount of time. And thinking. “I want to confess,” he
repeated.

She walked to
the side of the bed to pat his hand. “Do you want a priest?”

“No.” He
turned his hand over, gripped hers with a strength she wasn't expecting.
“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Tell her I confess.”

“You don't
want to get overexcited.”

“Find
Lieutenant Dallas, and tell her.”

“All right, don't
worry. But in the meantime, you should rest. You took a nasty fall.”

She smoothed
his sheets, satisfied when he settled, closed his eyes. “I'll go see about your
nutrition requirements.”

She notated
his chart and slipped out. She paused by the uniformed guard at the door. “He's
awake.”

From her
uniform pocket, she took out her memo pad and informed Nutrition that Patient
K. Stiles, Room 6503, required his midday meal. When the guard started to
speak, the nurse held up a hand.

“Just a
minute. I want to get this in so they get it up here before midnight.
Nutrition's been running behind all week.” Since the patient had neglected to
fill in his lunch choices from the authorized menu, she ordered him a grilled
chicken breast, mixed rice with steamed broccoli, a whole wheat roll with one
pat of butter substitute, skim milk, and blueberry Jell-O.

“That should
be up within the hour.”

“Whoever
brings it has to be cleared,” the guard told her.

She gave a
little huff of annoyance, took the memo out again, and made the necessary
notation. “Oh, Patient Stiles was asking for someone named Dallas. Does that
mean anything?”

The guard
nodded, pulled out his communicator.

“He's got cop
juice for blood,” Peabody commented as they walked down the corridor.

“The juice is
still green, but it'll ripen.” When her communicator beeped, she dug it out of
her pocket. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.
Officer Clark on guard duty, Kenneth Stiles. The suspect is awake and asking
for you.”

“I'm one level
up and on my way.”

“That's good
timing.” Peabody punched for the elevator, then sighed and followed Eve to the
exit door. “I guess we're walking.”

“It's one
patient level.”

“One level
equals three flights.”

“You'll work
off the cookies.”

“They're only
a fond memory. You figure Stiles is ready to give us some straight talk?”

“I figure he's
ready for something.” She pushed through the doors to the next level, headed
left. “He doesn't know we found Carvell or that we've identified Draco as
Carly's father. We'll see how he plays it before we clue him in.”

She stopped at
the door. “Clark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He have any
visitors?”

“Not a soul.
He was sleeping it off until a few minutes ago. The nurse reported he was awake
and asking for you.”

“Okay, take a
fifteen-minute break.”

“Thanks. I can
use it.”

Eve reached
for the door, pushed it open. Then, with a curse, leaped inside. She grabbed
Stiles's legs, hauled up and took his weight. “Get him down!”

Peabody was
already scrambling onto the bed, fighting with the knot. Clark pounded in
behind her.

“I've got him,
Lieutenant.” He moved in with his wide shoulders and took Stiles's dangling
body up another three inches.

He'd hanged
himself with a noose fashioned from his own bedsheets.

“He's not
breathing,” Clark announced when the body collapsed on him. “I don't think he's
breathing.”

“Get a
doctor.” Face fierce, Eve straddled Stiles, pressed the heels of her hands to
his heart and began to pump. “Come on, you son of a bitch. You will breathe.”
She lowered her mouth to his, forced in air. Pumped.

“Oh my God. Oh
my God. Kenneth!” At the doorway, Areena Mansfield scattered the armload of
flowers she carried at her feet.

“Keep back!
Come on, come on.” Sweat began to pour down Eve's face. She heard the sound of
running feet, of alarms shrilling.

“Move aside.
Move aside please.”

She slid away,
pushed to her feet, and watched the medical team work on him.

No pulse.
Flat line.

Come back, Eve ordered. Goddamn you, come back.

She watched
the slim pressure hypo of adrenaline jab against his chest.

No
response.

Small disks
were slicked with gel. There were orders to set, to clear, then Stiles's body
bucked when the discs shocked his system. The heart line on the monitor stayed
blue and blank.

For a second
time the disks slapped against him, a second time his body jerked, fell. And
now a low beep sounded, and the blue line wavered and went red.

Sinus
rhythm. We have a pulse.

At the door,
Areena covered her face with her hands.

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

“Give me his
condition.”

“He's alive.”
The doctor, a cool-eyed man with saffron skin, continued to make notes. “There
was oxygen deprivation, and some minimal brain damage as a result. If we keep
him alive, it's correctable.”

“Are you going
to keep him alive?”

“That's why
we're here.” He slipped his memo pad back into the pocket of his lab coat. “His
chances are good. Another few minutes dangling there, he wouldn't have had any
chance. We've come a long way in medical science, but bringing the dead back to
life still eludes us.”

“When can I
talk to him?”

“I can't say.”

“Hazard a
guess.”

“He may be
functional by tomorrow, but until we complete the tests, I can't gauge the
exact extent of the brain damage. It may be several days, or weeks, before he's
capable of answering any but the most basic of questions. The brain finds ways
to bypass damage, to reroute if you will, and we can help that process along.
But it takes time.”

“I want to
know the minute he can talk.”

“I'll make
sure you're informed. Now, I have patients to see.”

“Lieutenant.”
Clark stepped up. “This is the nurse you wanted to see.”

“Ormand,” Eve
said, reading the ID badge. “Talk to me.”

“I had no idea
he meant to try self-termination. I wouldn't have believed he was capable of
it, physically I mean. He was weak as a baby.”

“A man wants
to do himself, he finds a way. Nobody's blaming you.”

She nodded,
relaxed her defensive stance. “I was in there for a routine check of his
vitals. He was conscious, and he told me he wanted to confess. I thought he
meant to a priest. We get a lot of that, even from patients who aren't Catholic
or Egatarian. But he became agitated, and asked for you by name. Said I was to
tell you he wanted to confess.”

“To what?”

“He didn't
say. I thought he killed that other actor. Richard Draco.” When Eve didn't
respond, the nurse shrugged. “I calmed him down, promised to find you. Then I
told the guard after I arranged for the patient's afternoon nutrition. I don't
know anything else.”

“All right.”
She dismissed the nurse, turned back to Clark. “I need you to stand by up in
the ICU. I'll arrange for a relief in an hour. If there's any change in
Stiles's condition before that, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir. His
own sheets,” Clark murmured. “That takes balls.”

“It takes
something.” Eve turned on her heel and strode to the waiting area where Peabody
had taken Areena.

“Kenneth?”
Areena got shakily to her feet.

“They're
moving him to Intensive Care.”

“I thought he
was ... when I saw him, I thought...” She sank to her chair again. “Oh, how
much more can happen?”

“Eliza
Rothchild said tragedies happen in threes.”

“Superstition.
I've never been overly superstitious, but now ... He'll be all right?”

“The doctor
seemed optimistic. How did you know Kenneth Stiles was here?”

“How? Why, I
heard it on the news just this morning. They're saying he was injured while
trying to leave the city. That he's the prime suspect in Richard's death. I
don't believe that. Not for a moment. I wanted to see him, to tell him that.”

“Why don't you
believe it?”

“Because
Kenneth's not capable of murder. It's coldblooded and calculating. He's
neither.”

“Sometimes
murder's hot-blooded and impulsive.”

“You'd know
more about that than I. But I know Kenneth. He killed no one.”

“Do you know a
woman named Anja Carvell?”

“Carvell? I
don't think so. Should I? Will they let me see Kenneth?”

“I don't
know.”

“I should
try.”

Eve got to her
feet as Areena rose. “You realize, don't you, that if Kenneth Stiles did plan
the murder of Richard Draco, he's the one who put the knife in your hand.”

Areena
shivered, and the faint color in her cheeks faded. “That's only one more reason
I know it couldn't have been Kenneth.”

“Why is that?”

“He's too much
of a gentleman. May I go, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, you can
go.”

Areena paused
at the doorway. “You fought to save his life. I watched you. You believe he's a
murderer, yet you fought to save his life. Why?”

“Maybe I
didn't want him to escape justice.”

“I think it's
more than that. But I'm not sure what.”

“Hell of a day
so far,” Peabody said when they were alone.

“We're just
getting started. Up and at 'em, Peabody. We've got places to go.”

She turned out
of the room and nearly walked into Nadine.

“Ambulance
chasing?” Eve said mildly. “I thought you were too important for that routine.”

“You're never
too important for that routine. What's the status on Kenneth Stiles?”

“No comment.”

“Come on,
Dallas. I have a source in the hospital. I heard he tried to hang himself. Did
he kill Richard Draco?”

“Which part
didn't you get, the no or the comment?”

Nadine's
fashionable heels made the rapid stride down the corridor tricky, but she
managed to keep up with Eve. “Are you charging him with murder? Are there any
other suspects? Will you confirm Stiles was injured during flight?”

“The media's
already broadcasting that one.”

“Sure, with allegedly
and believed to be sprinkled all through the reports. I need
confirmation.”

“I need a
vacation. Neither of us look to be getting our wish anytime soon.”

“Dallas.”
Giving up, Nadine took Eve's arm, tugged her aside out of the way of Peabody
and her own long-suffering camera operator. “I have to know something. I can't
sleep. Give me something, make it off the record. I need to close this circle
before I can move on.”

“You shouldn't
be on this story.”

“I know it,
and if it comes out that Richard and I were involved, I'll take a lot of heat
for that, personally and professionally. But if I just sit around and wait,
I'll go crazy. With those options, I'll risk the heat.”

“How much did
he mean to you?”

“Entirely too
much. That's been dead a lot longer than he has. That doesn't mean I don't need
to close the circle.”

“Meet me at
Central, an hour. I'll give you what I can.”

“Thanks. If
you could just tell me if Kenneth -- “

“An hour,
Nadine.” Eve skirted around her. “Don't push your luck.”

In twenty
minutes, they were inside Anja Carvell's suite. There wasn't a trace of her.

“She jumped.”
Peabody hissed at the empty closet. Then she frowned and turned to stare at
Eve. “You knew she wouldn't be here.”

“I didn't
expect to find her. She's smart. Smart enough to know I'd be back.”

“She killed Draco?”

“She's part of
it.” Eve wandered into the bath. Anja's scent was still there, coolly female.

“Should I
contact the authorities in Montreal? Start arranging for extradition?”

“Don't bother.
She'd be expecting that. If she ever lived in Montreal, she wouldn't go back
there now. She's gone under,” Eve murmured, “but she won't go far. So we play
it out. Call for the sweepers.”

“No warrant?”

“My husband
owns the joint. Take care of it. I'm going down to security.”

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

By the time
Eve had finished at The Palace Hotel, returned to Central, and made her case to
Whitney, she was late for her appointment with Nadine.

It irritated
her, as it always did, to find Nadine already in her office.

“Why do they
let you in here?”

“Because I
bring donuts. Cops have been weak for them for generations.”

“Where's
mine?”

“Sorry, the
squad descended on them like rats. I think Baxter licked up the crumbs.”

“He would.”
She settled at her desk. “Where's your camera?”

“She's
outside.”

“Well, get her
in here. I haven't got all damn day.”

“But I thought
-- “

“Look, do you
want a one-on-one or not?”

“You bet I
do.” She grabbed her palm-link and called her camera. “You could use a few
layers of concealer on those tote bags under your eyes.” She dug into the hefty
and well-packed makeup kit in her purse. “Try this.”

“Keep that
crap away from me.”

“Suit
yourself, but you look like you haven't slept in days.” Nadine flipped open a
mirror, began to enhance her own face. “Still, it makes you look fierce and
dedicated.”

“I am fierce
and dedicated.”

“And it never
fails to look good on-screen. Great sweater, by the way. Cashmere?”

Baffled, Eve
looked down at her navy turtleneck. “I don't know. It's blue. Will this air
tonight?”

“Bet your
ass.”

“Good.”
Someone, Eve thought, wasn't going to get a good night's sleep. And this time,
it wouldn't be her.

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

Nadine fussed
with the camera angles, looked in the monitor, and ordered a light adjustment.

“It's not a
damn beauty contest, Nadine.”

“Shows what
you know about on-air reporting. There, that looks good. Can you cut out some
of that air traffic, Lucy? It's like sitting in a transpo center.”

“I'm filtering
out most of it.” The operator fiddled another moment, then nodded. “Ready when
you are.”

“We'll do the
bumper back at the shop. Start record. This is Nadine Furst for Channel 75,”
she began, her eyes on the pinpoint lens. “Reporting from Cop Central and the
office of Lieutenant Eve Dallas, the primary investigator in the murder of
actor Richard Draco. Lieutenant.” Nadine shifted, faced Eve. “Can you give us
an update on your investigation?”

“The
investigation is ongoing. The department is following a number of leads.”

“Mr. Draco was
killed onstage, in front of a packed house. You yourself were a witness.”

“That's
correct. The nature of the crime, its location, and execution have resulted in
literally thousands of interviews and witness statements.”

And because it
was always best to pay your debts, Eve tagged on an addendum. “Detective Baxter
of this division has reviewed the bulk of those statements and taken on the
arduous task of elimination and corroboration.”

“It's true,
isn't it, that people often see the same event, but see it differently?”

“It's often
true of civilians. Police officers are trained to see.”

“Does that
make you your own best witness?”

“In a manner
of speaking.”

“Is it true
that Kenneth Stiles, a colleague and acquaintance of Draco's who was in the
cast of the play, is your lead suspect?”

“That
individual has been questioned, as have all members of the cast. As I stated,
we are following a number of leads, and as the focus of the investigation has
narrowed, we expect to make an arrest within twenty-four hours.”

“An arrest.”
It threw Nadine off stride, but only for one beat. “Can you give us the name of
your primary suspect?”

“I'm not free
to give that information at this time. I can tell you that the person who
killed Richard Draco, who killed Linus Quim, will be in custody within
twenty-four hours.”

“Who -- “

“That's all
you get, Nadine. Shut it down.”

Nadine might
have argued, but Eve was already getting to her feet. “Shut it down, Lucy. That
was a hell of a bombshell, Dallas. If you'd given me a head's up, we could've
gone live.”

“Tonight's
soon enough. You got your story, Nadine. You'll hit with it first.”

“Can't argue
with that. Can you give me any more, just some filler for the follow-up?
Procedural details, some of the hard data. The exact number of interviews,
number of man-hours, that kind of thing.”

“You can get
that from media relations.” Eve glanced at the camera operator, pointed a
finger, then jerked a thumb at the door.

With a look at
Nadine for confirmation, Lucy hauled the equipment out.

“Off the
record, Dallas -- “

“You'll know
everything you need to know tomorrow. I have a question for you. You didn't
mention Roarke in your report, his connection to the theater, to the play, to
me. Why?”

“It's been
done. Overdone. I want the meat.”

“Doesn't fly,
Nadine. Roarke's name boosts ratings.”

“Okay, consider
it payback.” She shrugged and hauled up her purse. “For the girl night.”

“Okay.” Eve
reached into her back pocket, drew out a sealed disc. “Here.”

“What's this?”
But the minute it was in her hand, Nadine understood. Her fingers closed
tightly around it. “It's the recording Richard did. Of me.”

“It's been
removed from the evidence log. It's the only copy. I figure it should close
that circle.”

As her throat
filled with conflicting emotions, Nadine stared down at the disc. “Yes. Yes, it
does. Better, it breaks it.” Using both hands she snapped the disc in two.

Eve nodded
with approval. “Some women wouldn't have been able to resist watching it. I
figured you were smarter than that.”

“I am now.
Thanks, Dallas. I don't know how to -- “

Eve took a
deliberate step back. “Don't even think about kissing me.”

With a shaky
laugh, Nadine stuffed the broken disc in her bag. It would go into the first
recyler she came across. “Okay, no sloppy stuff. But I owe you, Dallas.”

“Damn right
you do. So next time, save me a donut.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

She slept for
ten hours, pretty much where she had fallen after giving Roarke the briefest of
updates. She woke, recharged, clearheaded, and alone.

Since he
wasn't around to nag her, she had an ice cream bar for breakfast, washed it
down with coffee while she watched the morning news reports on-screen. She
caught a replay of her one-on-one with Nadine and, satisfied with it,
considered herself set for the day.

She dressed,
dragging on dung brown trousers and a white shirt that had narrow brown
stripes. She had no idea how long the shirt had been there, but since Roarke
had started filling her closet, she'd stopped paying attention.

He bought her
a ridiculous amount of clothes, but it saved her from the torture of shopping.

Since it was
there, and the weather promised to remain cool, she buttoned on a waist-length
vest that appeared to go with the rest of the deal.

She strapped
on her weapon, then she set off to find Roarke.

He was already
in his office, the morning stock reports on one screen, off-planet trading on
another, and what seemed to be a serious math problem on the third.

“How can you
deal with numbers first thing in the morning?”

“I live for
numbers.” He tapped his keyboard, and the math problem shifted into tidy
columns he had no doubt added up to the smallest decimal point. “And as it
happens, I've been up for some time. You look rested,” he said after a moment's
study of her face. “And very well-tailored as well. You're a resilient
creature, Eve.”

“I slept like
a slug.” She came around the counter, leaned down, and kissed him. “You've been
putting in some long days yourself.” She patted his shoulder in a way that made
his antenna quiver. “Maybe we need a little vacation.”

He sent the
figures on-screen to his broker for immediate application, then swiveled around
in his chair. “What do you want?”

“Just some
quiet time somewhere. You and me. We could take a long weekend.”

“I repeat.” He
picked up his coffee, sipped. “What do you want?”

Irritation
gleamed in her eyes. “Didn't I just say? Don't pull that crap on me again. You
had to grovel the last time.”

“I won't this
time around. Do I look stupid?” he said in a conversational tone. “I'm not
above a bribe, Lieutenant, but I like to know the deal. Why am I being softened
up?”

“I couldn't
soften you up with a vat of skin regenerator. Anyway, it's not a bribe. I'm a
damn city official.”

“And they are,
as we know, complete strangers to bribes.”

“Watch it,
ace. Who says I can't want a break? If I want a favor, it doesn't have to
connect.”

“I see. Well
then, here's what I'll bring to the table. I'll give you your favor, whatever
it may be, in exchange for a week of your time anywhere I want to go.”

“A week's out.
I've got court dates, paperwork. Three days.”

Negotiations,
he thought, were his favorite hobby. “Five days now, five days next month.”

“That's ten
days, not a week. Even I can do the math on that. Three days now, two days next
month.”

“Four now,
three next month.”

“All right, all
right.” Her head was starting to spin. “I'll work it out.”

“Then we have
a deal.” He offered his hand, clasped hers.

“So, are we
going to the beach?”

“We can do
that. The Olympus Resort has a stunning man-made beach.”

“Olympus.” She
blanched. “Off planet? I'm not going off planet. That's got to be a deal
breaker.”

“Deal's done.
Buck up. Now, what's the favor?”

She sulked. It
was a rare attitude for her, but she was damn good at it. “It's not even a big
favor.”

“You should've
thought of that before you tried to scam me. You might have, if you'd had a
decent breakfast instead of ice cream.”

“How did you
-- “ She broke off, and the single word was a vicious hiss. “Summerset.”

“Now, when a
woman asks her husband for a favor, it's a lovely touch if she sits on his
lap.” He patted his knee.

“You won't
have much of a lap if I break both your legs.” Seriously annoyed, she sat on
the counter. “Look, it's police business, and you always want to stick your
nose in anyway. I'm giving you a chance.”

“Now, there
you are.” Enjoying himself, he lifted a hand, palm up. “If you'd presented it
that way initially, put me in the position of being given a favor rather than
giving one, you wouldn't have made what you consider a poor deal. And you
wouldn't be cross.”

“I'm not cross.
You know I hate when you say I'm cross. And before I forget, what's the deal
with this Authorization One shit?”

“Did you buy
something?” He handed her the rest of his coffee. “I must make a celebrational
note on my calendar. Eve Dallas went shopping. Strike up the band.”

She scowled
off into space. “I was in a pretty good mood before I came in here.”

“See, you're
cross. As to Authorization One, what sense does it make for you to pay for
products manufactured by one of my companies?”

“Next time I'm
going to a competitor. If I can find one.” She huffed out a breath, brought
herself back on track. “I'm going to close the case today. I've worked it how
to smoke out the killer, get a confession. It's roundabout,” she murmured. “I
have reasons not to take the straight line. I had to do a tap dance for Whitney
to clear it. If it doesn't work ...” She trailed off.

“What do you
need?”

“To start, I
need your theater. And I need you to help me script and produce a little
performance.”

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

An hour later.
Eve was on her way to Central, and Roarke was making the first phone call.

In her office,
Eve loaded the disc recording of the play in her computer. With her mind
elsewhere, she barely noted how smoothly the disc was accepted, how clear the
audio and video. When she ordered it to fast-forward to the final scene, it did
so without a single bump.

There they
were, she thought. Draco as Vole blithely confessing to a murder he could no
longer be charged with. His face handsome, smug, as he drew Carly's hand,
Diana's hand, through his arm.

And she stood
by him, pretty and charming, with a loving smile.

Kenneth
Stiles, the cantankerous and sly Sir Wilfred, stunned fury on his face, as the
realization struck that he'd been used, exploited, manipulated. Eliza's fussy
Miss Plimsoll standing beside him, outraged, her hands gripping the back of
Kenneth's chair, and white to the knuckles.

Areena, the
beautiful and multi-faceted Christine, who had sacrificed everything, risked
prison, to save the one she loved.

Michael
Proctor, merely a shadow, watching from the wings, wondering when he would step
into the spotlight and into the role of murderer.

And hovering
over all was the ghost of Anja Carvell.

Eve didn't
flinch as she watched murder done, as the knife that should have been harmless
plunged deep into the heart.

There, she thought and froze the screen. There it is.

Ten thousand
witnesses would have missed it.

Hadn't she?

The
performance of a lifetime, she realized. In death.

“End program,”
she ordered. “Eject disc.”

She bagged it,
gathered others. She engaged her office link for interdepartmental
transmission. “Peabody, alert Feeney and McNab. We're moving out.”

With a final
check of her weapon, she prepared to begin a performance of her own.

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

Eve's driving,
Mira observed from the backseat, was a mirror reflection of her personality.
Competent, direct, focused. And fierce. As the car whipped through traffic,
bulling into gaps, challenging other charging bumpers, Mira quietly checked the
tension on her safety harness.

“You're taking
a risk.”

Eve gave a
quick glance in the rearview, met Mira's eyes. “A calculated one.”

“I believe
...” Mira trailed off, found herself falling back into childhood prayers as Eve
shot into sharp vertical, swung hard to the right, and skimmed crossways over
jammed traffic.

“I believe,”
she continued when she had her breath back, “you've assessed the situation
correctly. Still, there's a wide margin for error, which you could eradicate by
adhering to strict procedure.”

“If I'm wrong,
it's on me. Either way, the person who killed Draco and Quim will be in custody
by the end of day.”

The car dove
into an underground parking tunnel, barely slacking speed. It winged like an
arrow from a bow toward a reserved slot. Mira's mouth came open, she made some
small sound, as they roared toward the security barricade. Eve flipped down her
visor to display her ID pass.

Mira would
have sworn the barricade emitted a terrified squeal as it leaped clear. They
nipped under it, tucked into the narrow slot.

“Well,” Mira
managed. “Well. That was exciting.”

“Huh?”

“It occurs to
me, Eve, I've never done a ride-along with you. I begin to see why.”

Peabody
snorted, shoved open her door. “Take my word, Dr. Mira, that was a leisurely
drive around the park.”

“Something
wrong with my driving?”

“Not that a
case of Zoner wouldn't cure,” Peabody said under her breath.

“In any case.”
Mira stepped out of the car, drew Eve's attention away from her aide. “I'm
pleased you asked me to be here. Not only because I might be useful, but it
gives me an opportunity to observe how you work in the field.”

“You're going
to have to stay out of the thick.” Eve left her car in the secured slot Roarke
had arranged, started out to the street and the theater.

“Yes, but I'll
be monitoring.”

“We've got a
little while before the show starts.” At the stage door, Eve punched in the
code she'd been given. “You'll likely get bored.”

“Oh, I
sincerely doubt that.”

They walked
out on the stage, where preparations were already under way.

“Hey,
Lieutenant! Heads up, She-Body!”

Twenty feet
overhead, McNab swung by in a safety harness. He gave a kick of his shiny green
boots and sailed in a very graceful arc.

“Stop that
horsing around.” Feeney squinted up, wincing when his detective pretended to
swim through the air.

“What's he
doing up there?” Eve demanded. “Besides making an ass of himself.”

“Overhead
cams. You gotta be young to enjoy that kind of duty. Most of the equipment was
already in place. Roarke didn't miss a trick. But he wasn't setting up for a
police op. We're adjusting. We'll be able to monitor the action from all
angles.”

“Is Roarke
on-scene yet?”

“Yeah, he's in
control, showing a couple of my techs more than they'd ever hoped to know. The
man's a genius with electronics. What I couldn't do with him in EDD.”

“Do me a favor
and don't mention it. He's hard enough to deal with. Auto-locks set on all
exits?”

“Yep. Once
everybody's in, nobody gets out. We've got three uniforms, two techs, you, me,
and Peabody. And flyboy up there. McNab, get the hell down from there now! You
sure you don't want a bigger team?”

Eve did a slow
turn, scanned the theater. “We won't need it.”

“Feeney.”
Roarke stepped from the shadows onto the stage. “Your control appears to be
set.”

“I'll go look
it over. McNab! Don't make me come up there. Christ, how many times did I say
that to my kids?” With a shake of his head, he walked offstage.

“He's going to
hurt himself.” Torn between amusement and concern, Peabody nudged Eve's
shoulder. “Tell him to come down, Dallas.”

“Why me?”

“Because he
fears you.”

Because the
idea of that was pleasing, Eve set her hands on her hips, scowled up, and
shouted. “McNab, stop screwing around and get your ass down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He came down
in a whoosh, cheeks flushed with the thrill. “Man, you gotta try that. What a
rush.”

“I'm happy we
could provide you with some entertainment, Detective. Why shouldn't we have a
little fun and frivolity during the course of an elaborate and expensive police
operation, particularly when we're employing multi-million dollar civilian
equipment and facilities.”

“Um,” was the
best he could do before he cleared his throat. The grin had already been wiped
off his face. “The overhead cams are set and operational, Lieutenant. Sir.”

“Then maybe
you can make yourself useful elsewhere. If it's not too much trouble.”

“No, sir. I'll
just... go.” Somewhere, he thought, and escaped.

“That ought to
keep him straight for the next five minutes.” She turned to Roarke.

“I don't fear
you,” he told her. “But I brought you a present.” He handed her a mini-remote.
“You can signal control,” he explained. “For lights, sound, set change. You can
direct from any location in the theater. The play's in your hands.”

“Opening act's
up to you.”

“It's already
in place.” He checked his wrist unit. “You have just over an hour before
curtain.”

“I need to
check all ops. Peabody, do a round. Confirm that all egresses leading below,
back, or above stage are secure, then take and maintain your assigned position
until further orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Roarke, would
you show Dr. Mira her observation area?”

“Of course.”

“Great.” She
flipped out her communicator. “Feeney, I want those -- what are they --
houselights on for a minute.”

When they flashed
on, illuminating the theater, she switched the communicator to blanket
transmission. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. In thirty minutes, I want all
operation personnel at their assigned stations. If I so much as smell a cop, he
or she is on report. Civilian protection is first priority. I repeat, that is
priority. Weapons are to remain harnessed, and on low stun. I will not have a
repeat of Grand Central.”

She pocketed
the communicator. “Roarke, contact me when Dr. Mira is settled.”

“Of course.
Break a leg, Lieutenant.”

“What? Oh.
Right.”

“She was born
for this,” Mira said as Eve strode off. “Not just for command, which fits her
like skin, but for balancing the wrongs with the rights. Someone else, perhaps
anyone else, would have finished this another way.”

“She
couldn't.”

“No. It's
already cost her. She'll need you when this is done.”

“We're going
away for a few days.”

Mira angled
her head. “How did you manage to persuade her?”

“The art of
the deal.” He offered his arm. “May I escort you to your seat, Doctor?”

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

“Lieutenant.
McNab, Position Four. First subject approaching theater, stage door entrance.”

“Copy.” Eve
turned from the backstage monitor to Roarke. “That's your cue. Try not to
deviate from the outline, okay? I believe physical risk is minimal, but -- “

“Trust me.”

“I just want
to go over -- “

“Lieutenant,
does it occur to you that I might know what I'm doing?”

“It occurs to
me that you always know what you're doing.”

“Well then, I
repeat. Trust me.” With that he left to take his mark.

On the monitor
she watched him walk out on the bare stage, stand under the lights. She
wondered if he'd ever considered acting. Of course he hadn't, she thought.
Deals, shady and otherwise, had been his passion. But he had the face for it
and the build, the presence, the grace.

And, she
mused, he had an innate skill with a believable lie.

Wasn't that
acting?

“Michael.”
Roarke offered a hand as Proctor entered. “You're prompt.”

“I didn't want
to keep everyone waiting.” With an easy laugh, Michael glanced around. “The
trouble with being prompt is you always wait for everyone else. I was really
glad to get your call. I wasn't sure the cops would ever let the theater open
again, at least not in time for you to put Witness back into production.”

“They appear
to have everything they need from the scene.”

“I want to
thank you for giving me the chance to play Vole. I realize you could call in
another name actor to fill the part.”

“No qualms?”
No, Roarke thought, he didn't see qualms. But ambition. “Considering what
happened to Draco, I wondered if you might be somewhat anxious about stepping
into the role.”

“No, I'm fine
with it. I don't mean fine,” he corrected and had the grace to flush. “It's
terrible what happened to Richard. Just terrible. But -- “

“The show must
go on,” Roarke said smoothly, then glanced over. “Ah, Eliza, and Areena.
Ladies, thank you for coming.”

“Your call
saved me from boredom and brooding.” Eliza stepped up, brushed her cheek to
Roarke's. “The boredom of being between acts. And brooding over Kenneth. I
still can't believe what I'm hearing on the news.”

“Don't,”
Areena said. “There's a mistake. There must be.” She rubbed her chilly arms.
“It's so odd to be here again. I haven't been back since ... since opening
night.”

“Will you be
all right with this?” Roarke took her hand, warmed it in his own.

“Yes. Yes, I
must be, mustn't I? None of us have any choice but to go on.”

“Why shouldn't
we?” Carly made an entrance. A deliberate one. She'd applied dramatic makeup to
go with an electric blue dress that scooped low at the breasts, stopped short
at the thighs.

For power,
she'd told herself. She was damn well going to be powerful.

“None of us
gave a damn about the late, unlamented Richard Draco.”

“Carly,”
Areena murmured it, a quiet censure.

“Oh, save the
fragile sensibilities for the audience. He fucked us all over at one time or
another. Some of us literally,” she added with a tight, fierce smile. “We're
not here to dedicate our next performance to his memory. We're here because we
want to get back to work.”

“He may have
been a bastard, dear,” Eliza said mildly, “but dead is dead. And now Kenneth's
in the hospital, and under guard.”

“Kenneth ought
to be given a medal for ridding the world of Richard Draco.”

“They haven't
charged him yet.” Areena twisted her fingers together. “Can't we just discuss
the play and get away from the ugliness for a little while? Is this a full cast
call, Roarke?” She brushed a hand over her hair, looked around. “I was sure the
director would be here by now.”

“Difficult to
arrange a full cast call at the moment.” Roarke let the implications of that
hang. “The part of Sir Wilfred will need to be recast.”

“Couldn't we
rehearse with a stand-in?” Michael asked. “I've never run through an entire act
with the first cast. It would be helpful for me to do that as soon as
possible.”

“There you go,
Michael.” Carly laughed. “No moss growing on you.”

“You just said
we were here to work,” he shot back. “There's no reason to snipe at me.”

“Maybe I'm
feeling snipey. You're just sulking because I kicked you out of my apartment
instead of crying on your shoulder.”

“I would've
helped,” he said quietly. “I would have tried.”

“I don't need
your help. I don't need anyone.” Her eyes glinted with an inner fury that
burned into her voice. “I slept with you. Big deal. Don't think you mean
anything to me. No man is ever going to mean anything to me.”

“Once more,
sex rears its ugly head,” Eliza muttered. “Must we forever have glands
interfering with art?”

“Eliza.”
Areena stepped forward, laid a hand on Carly's arm. “Carly, please. We need to
get along. We need to stick together.” She tried a bolstering smile. “What must
Roarke think of us, bickering this way?”

“I'd say
you're all under considerable strain.” He paused, skimming his eyes over the
faces turned toward him. “And that if any or all of you feel unable to continue
with the run of the play, I'd prefer to know sooner than later.”

Carly threw
back her head and laughed. “Oh please. Each and every one of us would claw
through broken glass for a chance to perform in this one. The publicity will
pack this house for weeks when we open again, and every one of us knows it.
Nothing as irksome as murder will get in our way.”

She tossed her
hair back, stretching out her arms as she crossed the stage. “So bring on a
stand-in for the inestimable Sir Wilfred, cast a goddamn droid in the role,
it'll still be standing room only.”

She whirled
back, arms still lifted. “Go ahead, Roarke, throw open the doors. Let the play
begin.”

As cues went,
Eve figured it was near to perfect. “It never stopped,” she said, and moved
from the wing's shadows to the lights.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” Carly lowered her arms slowly, let one hand rest on her cocked hip.
“What an irritating surprise to see you again.”

“Oh, Carly, do
stop playing the diva,” Eliza said irritably. “You're not nearly old enough to
pull it off. Lieutenant, I hope you're here to tell us you've made the arrest
you promised. You seemed very confident in your interview on Channel 75.”

“An arrest is
imminent.”

“Not Kenneth.”
Areena pressed a hand to her heart.

“If it was
Kenneth,” Eliza put in, “I hope we can all be counted on to behave decently and
stand behind him. I intend to.” She brought her shoulders back, spoke grandly.
“I don't desert my friends.”

“That's
admirable, Ms. Rothchild.” Eve slipped her hands in her pocket, fingered the
remote. “But Kenneth Stiles is no longer the primary suspect in this
investigation. Richard Draco's killer is on this stage.”

Even as she
spoke, the houselights dimmed, the stage lights glowed. And the courtroom set
slid into view. A long-bladed knife lay on the evidence table. Eve crossed to
it, picked it up to weigh it in her hand.

“The murder
took place on this stage. And so will the arrest.”

“Well, we'll
have to give you points for the dramatic twist, Lieutenant.” Carly breezed
forward, arranged herself languidly in the witness chair. “Please go on. We're
all riveted.”

“Cut it out,
Carly. It had to be Kenneth.” Michael sent Areena an apologetic look. “I'm
sorry, Areena, but it had to be. He tried to run, and then he tried to ...
well, escape permanently. If he wasn't guilty, why would he have done all
that?”

“To protect
someone,” Eve said. “It's a recurring theme here.” She touched the tip of the
knife with her finger, then set it down again. “Miss Plimsoll fussing over Sir
Wilfred to protect his health, no matter how many different ways he insults or
evades her.”

“Really,
Lieutenant, that's a character.” Eliza puffed up like a bird who'd just had its
tail feathers plucked. “Surely you're not suggesting that I had anything to do
with this.”

“It's all
about character.” Eve studied Eliza's outraged face. “Sir Wilfred, protecting
his client, risking his health, only to learn in the end he's freed a murderer.
Leonard Vole, pretending to defend his beloved wife, helping her to escape a
crumbling Germany years before, only to use her again and again to protect
himself. And Christine.” Eve shifted her gaze to Areena. “Risking her
reputation, sacrificing her freedom to cover for him. Out of love that was
thrown back in her face in the crudest and most careless of ways when she had
served her purpose.”

“We know the
play,” Carly said with a dainty yawn. “I suppose you'll say that while only the
understudy, Michael was ranged with Richard, that is, Vole.”

“That's right.
And with Draco out of the way, he becomes Vole. What better way to right an old
wrong, to avenge his mother's honor?”

“Just a
minute. That's enough. I've had enough of this. I don't have to take that sort
of thing from you.” Michael's fists bunched at his sides as he took one
threatening step toward Eve.

“Michael.”
Roarke's voice was quiet. He shifted so that he blocked Michael's reckless
advance, and the actor came face-to-face with iced violence. “I could hurt you
in ways you can't possibly imagine.”

“Roarke,” Eve
would have cursed him for the interference, but it would have changed the mood.

“Step back,
Michael,” Carly advised, and only the grip of her hand on the chair indicated
her concern. “You'll only embarrass yourself. You're running through our happy
troupe rather quickly, Lieutenant.”

Carly crossed
her legs, all but purring to shift the attention to herself. “But you haven't
touched on me or my character counterpart. I don't believe Diana was protecting
anyone.”

“She would
have.” Eve turned, walked slowly to the witness chair. “Wouldn't she have seen
that, after it all came tumbling down? That she would have followed after
Christine, being used, being exploited, then being cast off when he looked for
fresher prey? I think she would have hated him for that. Hated him,” Eve
repeated, resting her hands on the arms of the chair, leaning down. “For
spoiling her party, her pretty dreams, for making her see what a fool she'd
been to fall for something despicable, disgusting.”

The pulse
began to hammer in Carly's throat. “You're giving the character more depth than
she deserves.”

“I don't think
so. I think Vole underestimated her. People, particularly men, often underestimate
beautiful women. They don't look past the surface. He didn't know you, did he?
Didn't know what kind of strength and passion and purpose lives inside you.”

A spotlight
flashed on, bathed Carly in a cool, white glow.

“You don't
frighten me, Lieutenant.”

“No, you don't
scare easy. And when someone bruises you, you hit back. Harder. I have to
respect that. He thought he could toss you aside, like an LC after the hour's
up. He thought he could humiliate you in public, right here, on this stage, in
front of the cast and crew. So they'd look at you with scorn or pity. You
wouldn't, couldn't swallow that. He had to pay for that.”

“Stop hounding
her.” Michael gripped the edge of the evidence table. “Leave her alone. You
know what she's been through.”

“She's just
grasping at straws.” Her mouth was dust dry, but Carly managed to keep her
voice level.

“Men don't
toss you aside, do they, Carly?” Eve glanced back at Michael. “That's not
allowed. Not tolerated. It was easy to plan it, really. Just step by step. And
it was so beautifully tailored to suit. He would die right here, almost at your
feet.”

“I want a
lawyer.”

“You can have
a team of them.” Eve stepped back, wandered to the evidence table, tapped a
finger on the handle of the knife. “It was easy to get the knife out of the
kitchen. Who notices a missing knife where there are so many? You knew the pace
of the play, how much time between a change of sets. Even if someone saw you,
it wouldn't matter. You belonged here, like part of the scenery or an important
prop. Slip the dummy knife up your sleeve, set the murder weapon down, and walk
away.

“Was it hard
to wait?” She turned the knife in her hand so that it caught the lights, shot
glints. “To say your lines, to listen to others, while in your head you could
see that last scene play, the way the knife would drive into him, the shock on
his face, when he was finally punished for what he did to you.”

“It's
ridiculous, and you know it. You can't prove any of it because it's not true.
You're just going to end up looking like a fool.”

“I'll risk it.
Carly Landsdowne, you're under arrest for the murders of Richard Draco and
Linus Quim. You have the right to remain silent,” she continued as Peabody came
out, moving toward Carly. “You have the right to an attorney and/or the
representative of your choice. You have -- “

“Get away from
her!” The shout came as Peabody prepared to snap restraints over Carly's wrist.
“Don't you dare touch her. She's done nothing!”

Areena shoved
Michael aside, rushed to the evidence table. Her face was wild with fury as she
grabbed up the knife. “You won't touch her. You won't do this. Damn you to
hell.”

She whirled on
Eve. “She didn't kill Richard. I did. I only wish I'd done it years ago, before
he ever laid his filthy hands on her.”

“I know.” Eve
walked to her, eyes locked, and took the harmless knife out of Areena's hand.
“I know it. Anja.”

“Anja? Oh God.
My God.” Carly crossed her arms over her breasts, rocked.

“Peabody, move
these people out of here. Carly, sit down. There's a story you need to hear.”

“Let her go.”
Areena's voice was frantic as she ranged herself between Eve and Carly. “I'll
tell you everything. Haven't you put her through enough? I waive my rights. I
understand them and I waive them. Now let her go.”

“You.” Carly's
eyes seemed to burn in her face. “You and Richard.”

“I'm sorry. So
sorry.”

“You knew.”
Bracing herself, Carly got to her feet. “You knew all along. And did nothing
when he ...”

“No. Oh,
Carly, you can't think that I'd have stood aside. Yes, I knew. When I saw you,
when you were cast and I realized you were ... who you were, I went to him.
You're so much what he coveted. Young and beautiful and fresh. I told him who
you were so that he wouldn't touch you in that way. That was my mistake.”

She closed her
eyes, took the weight. “I'll never know if he would have looked elsewhere for
his pleasure. I thought I was protecting you, and instead ... Instead, he
seduced you, knowing it. Knowing it. You weren't to blame. You were never to
blame.”

“He knew.”
Carly pressed a hand to her midriff. “You both knew.”

“When I found
out what he'd done, what he was doing, I confronted him. We argued. Bitterly. I
threatened him, threatened to expose him, to go to the press with the story. I
couldn't have, of course, I couldn't have because of what it would do to you.
He believed me, at least initially, and broke it off with you. He was cruel to
you because he knew it would hurt me.”

“How did you
know me?”

“Carly, I...”
Areena trailed off, shook her head. “I never interfered with your life. I had
no right to. But I was kept informed.”

“Why did you
care?” Carly demanded. “I was nothing but your mistake.”

“No. No. You
were a gift, one I couldn't keep. I gave that gift to your parents because I
knew they would cherish you. They would protect you. As I tried to,” she said
wearily. “I would never have told you, Carly. Never. If there'd been a choice.
But I can't let them accuse you, can't let them blame you for what I did.”

She turned
back to Eve. “You had no right to put her through this.”

“We've all got
a job to do.”

“Is that what
you call this?” Carly gasped. “To find out which one of us exterminated a
roach, and why. Well, you've done it. I wonder how you sleep at night. I want
to go.” She began to weep. “I don't want to be here anymore. I want to go.”

“Dr. Mira?”

“Yes.” Mira
walked onto the set, slipped an arm around Carly. “Come now, Carly. Come with
me.”

“I'm dead
inside.”

“No, only
numb. You need to rest a little.” Mira sent Eve a long, quiet look, then guided
Carly away.

“Look what you've
done to her. You're no better than Richard. Abusing her, exploiting her. Do you
know the nightmares that will haunt her? Scream through her head?” Eyes grim,
Areena faced Eve. “I would have spared her from that. I could have spared her
from that.”

“You killed
him after he'd stopped abusing her. Why did you wait until it was over?”

“Because it
wasn't over.” Areena sighed, gave into her trembling legs, and sat. “He came to
see me a few days before we opened. He'd been using. He was always more vile
when he was using. He threatened to take her back. If I wanted him to keep his
distance, I'd have to take her place. So I did. It was only sex, it meant
nothing. Nothing.”

But her hand
shook as she dug into her purse, found a cigarette. “I should have pretended to
be hurt, outraged, terrified. Those emotions would have stimulated him,
satisfied him. I could have made him believe it. Instead, I showed disgust and
disinterest. He retaliated by suggesting a threesome, himself, me and Carly,
after opening night. He reveled in telling me everything he'd done to her, with
her. How he'd enjoyed it, how exciting it had been for him to pound himself
into her, knowing she was his blood, his daughter. He was a monster, and I
executed him.”

She got to her
feet. “I have no remorse, I have no regret. I could have killed him that night
when he stood in my rooms, bragging about being man enough to take on both
mother and daughter at once.”

There was a
skim of sickness coating Eve's throat. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted to
be sure. And I wanted, somehow, for it to be just. And ...” For the first time
she smiled. “I wanted to get away with it. I thought I would. I thought I had.”

When she began
to fight with her lighter, Roarke crossed to her, took it from her chilly
hands. Her eyes met his over the flame. “Thank you.”

He laid the
lighter back in her palm, gently closed her fingers around it. “You're
welcome.”

With her eyes
closed, Areena took her first deep drag. “Of all my addictions, this is the one
I've never been able to beat.” She let out a sigh. “I've done many unattractive
things in my life, Lieutenant. I've had my bouts of selfishness, of self-pity.
But, I don't use people I care about. I wouldn't have let Kenneth be arrested.
I would've found a way around that. But who would suspect quiet, obliging
Areena of cold-blooded murder? Such a public one.”

“That was your
cover, doing it right here, onstage.”

“Yes, surely I
wouldn't commit murder in front of thousands of witnesses. I saw myself being
eliminated as a suspect right away. And naively, I believed none of the others,
being innocent, would face more than the inconvenience of questioning.”

She managed a
little laugh. “And knowing them, I was certain they'd find the process
diverting. Frankly, Lieutenant, I didn't think any investigator looking into
Richard's life to solve his death would work overly hard on the case once they
discovered the kind of man he was. I underestimated you, even as Richard
underestimated me.”

“Until the
moment you put the knife in him. Then he stopped underestimating you.”

“That's right.
The look in his eyes, the dawning of understanding, was worth every moment of
planning. Of fear. It happened very much as you'd said before, only with me in
the role you'd cast Carly in.”

She could replay
it in her head, scene by scene, move by move. Her own intimate play. “I simply
took a knife from the kitchen one day when Eliza and I went down to ask for
sandwiches. I kept it in my dressing room until opening night. Until the change
of scene. There were several of us moving from point to point backstage, cast
and crew. I exchanged the knives and added the touch of planting the prop in my
own dressing room when my dresser's back was turned. I planted it right under
her very loyal nose. Another clever twist, I thought at the time.”

“It might have
worked. It nearly did.”

“Nearly. Why
nearly, Lieutenant?”

“Anja
Carvell.”

“Ah. A name
from the past. Do you know where it comes from?”

“No. I've
wondered.”

“A small,
insignificant role in a small insignificant play that opened and closed on the
same night in a backwater town in Canada. It was never put on my credits nor on
Kenneth's. But it's where we met. And I realized some years later, it was where
he fell in love with me. I only wish I'd been wise enough to love him back. He
would call me Anja from time to time, a kind of private connection between that
very young girl and that very young man who both wanted to be great actors.”

“You used it
when you placed her.”

“Yes, for
sentiment. And to protect her, I thought, should she ever try to find her birth
mother. I had given her to good people. The Landsdownes are very good people.
Kind, loving. I wanted what was best for her. I made certain she got it.”

Yes, Eve thought, you made certain. Dead certain. “You
could have let go then. Why didn't you let go?”

“Do you think
because I only saw her once, because I only held her once, that I don't love
her?” Areena's voice rose. Rang. “I'm not her mother. I'm fully aware of that.
But there hasn't been a day in twenty-four years that I haven't thought of
her.”

She stopped
herself, seemed to draw in. “But I'm circling the point. I was persuasive as
Anja. I know it.”

“Yes, very. I
didn't recognize you, not physically. Emotions, Areena. Who had the strongest
motive, not only to kill him, but to make him pay in front of an audience? To
end his life, just as Vole's was ended? Who had been the most betrayed, the
most used? Once I eliminated Carly, there was one answer: Anja Carvell.”

“If you'd
eliminated Carly, why did you put her through that horror?”

“Anja
Carvell,” Eve went on, ignoring the question. “She struck me as a strong,
self-possessed, and very direct woman. But how did she switch the knives? I
imagine she'd have found a way, and still it didn't quite work. For one simple
reason. She would have needed to hold the knife herself, to strike the blow for
the child she'd given up to protect.”

“Yes, you're
right. I would have left it to no one else.”

“When I
thought of you and her, I saw it. You changed your look, your voice, your
attitude. But there are things you didn't change, or couldn't. There,” Eve
said, gesturing. “You reach up as you're doing now, toying with a necklace --
or as Anja, with the top button of your dress -- when you're formulating what
you're going to say and how best to say it.”

“Such a small
thing.”

“There are
others. They add up. You can change the color, even the shape of your eyes, but
not the look in them when your temper spikes or grief grabs you. You couldn't
hide the purpose in them, for that one moment, when you locked eyes with
Richard onstage. That instant before you killed him. I only had to think of
Anja and you to realize you were one person.”

“So you
outwitted me.” Areena got to her feet. “You've solved the puzzle and upheld
what you see as justice. Brava, Lieutenant. I imagine you'll sleep the sleep of
the righteous tonight.”

Eve kept her
eyes locked on Areena's. “Peabody, escort Ms. Mansfield to the black-and-white
unit waiting outside.”

“Yes, sir. Ms.
Mansfield?”

“Eve.” Roarke
murmured it as their footsteps echoed offstage.

She shook her
head, knowing she had to hold him off, hold herself together. “Feeney, do we
have the full record?”

“Clear as a
bell, Dallas, and fully admissible. She waived her rights.”

“We're done
here. Close it up.”

“Will do. Meet
you at Central. Good job. Damn good job.”

“Yeah.” She
squeezed her eyes shut as Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for the
help. We got through it. No muss, no fuss.”

She resisted
when he tried to turn her to face him. He simply stepped around her. “Don't do
this.”

“I'm fine. I
have to go in, deal with this.”

“I'll go with
you.” He tightened his grip when she started to shake her head. “Eve, do you
think I would leave you alone at such a time?”

“I said I'm
fine.”

“Liar.”

She gave up,
gave in, let him hold her. “I looked at her, I looked in her eyes and I
wondered how I would have felt, what it would have been like to have someone
care so much about me, someone who'd have done anything to save me from him.
And then, looking at her, I trapped her using the thing she loved most.”

“No. You saved
the thing she loved most. We both know that.”

“Did I? No,
that's Mira's job.” She drew a deep breath. “I want to close this thing. I need
to make it over.”

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

Paperwork
could be a soothing routine. She used it, writing her report with the
dispassionate and brutal efficiency required. She filed it, adding all the
evidence gathered.

“Lieutenant?”

“Shift's
nearly over, Peabody. Go home.”

“I will. I
wanted you to know Mansfield's finished in booking. She's asked to see you.”

“All right.
Set it up, Interview One, if available. Then take off.”

“Happy to.”

Eve turned in
her chair to where Roarke stood, looking at her miserable view. “Sorry. I have
to do this. Why don't you go home?”

“I'll wait.”

She said
nothing, only rose and made her way down to Interview.

Areena was
already there, sitting quietly at the small table. She quirked her lips in a
sneer. “I can't say I think much of the wardrobe choices in this place.” She
fingered the collarless top of the dull gray state issue.

“We've got to
get a new designer. Record on -- “

“Is that
necessary?”

“Yes, I'm
required to put any conversations with you on record. For your protection and
mine. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in Interview One with Mansfield, Areena, at her
request. Ms. Mansfield, you've been given your rights, do you choose to
implement any or all of them at this time?”

“No, I have
something to say to you. You knew it was me,” she said, leaning forward. “You
were perfectly aware it was me, before we came into the theater today.”

“We've been
over this ground.”

“I'm asking
you if you had any proof before my confession?”

“What
difference does it make? I have your confession.”

“For my own
curiosity. The attorney I intend to hire will be entitled to that information,
which will be relayed to me. Save us the middleman.”

“All right.
Acting on my suppositions as regarded Anja Carvell, I ordered voice print
analyses between your statements and hers. Though you had altered your tone,
your rhythm, effectively disguising your voice to the naked ear, the voice
prints were an exact match. As fingerprints are. Several of yours were found in
the room registered to Carvell. Strands of hair, both from a synthetic wig
matching the shade worn by Carvell and those of your shade, and your DNA, were
found in the aforementioned suite. Both were also found, on a warranted sweep
of your penthouse in the same hotel.”

“I see. I
should have researched police procedure. I was careless.”

“No, you
weren't. You were human, which makes it impossible to think of everything.”

“You managed
it.” Areena leaned back now, a considering look in her eye as she studied Eve.
“You had enough evidence to bring me in here for questioning, to throw my
deception in my face, use my relationship with Richard, with Carly, to break
me. Instead, you chose to do so at the theater. In front of Carly.”

“You might not
have broken here. I banked on it working the other way.”

“No, you'd
have broken me. We both know it. I couldn't stand against you. You did it in
front of Carly for a very specific reason. You did it for her.”

“I don't know
what you're talking about, and I'm off shift.”

Before she
could rise, Areena gripped her hand. “You did it for her. She has to live with
knowing what the father who made her was capable of. What he did to her.
Knowing what he was, and that what he was runs inside her could twist her, scar
her.”

“She'll live
with it.” Every day, Eve thought. Every night.

“Yes, she
will. But you made sure she saw more than that. You showed her that the other
part who made her would protect her at all costs. Would sacrifice her own
freedom to insure hers. Could love her that much. You showed her that there's
decency, loyalty, and strength of purpose in her blood. One day, when she's
settled, when she heals, she'll realize that. She may think of me kindly. When
she realizes that, Lieutenant Dallas, I hope she has the courage to thank you
as I'm thanking you now.”

She closed her
eyes tightly, inhaled deeply. “Can I have some water, please?”

Eve walked
over, drew a cup. “You'll both pay for what he did. There's no way to stop
that.”

“I know.”
Areena sipped, cooled her throat. “But she's young and strong. She'll find a
way to beat it back.”

“She'll have
help. Dr. Mira will counsel her. She's the best.”

“I appreciate
knowing that. I was so proud of the way she faced you down today. She's tough.
And she's lovely, isn't she?”

“Yes, very.”

“I couldn't
bear what he did to her. Couldn't bear thinking he might do so again.” Tears
rose, were battled back.

Fragile? Eve thought. Not in this lifetime.

“With Quim,”
Areena continued, “it was difficult for me. I was afraid. But he was an ugly
little man, and I'd had my fill of ugly little men. Lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“Will you,
when I'm in prison, will it be possible to get an update on Carly's state of
mind, on how she is? Nothing intrusive. Just if there's a way I could be told
she's all right.”

“I'll see what
I can do.” Eve hesitated, swore. “Record off,” she ordered, and blanked out the
sound and visual to observation. “Get a lawyer who knows how to spin the media,
not just one who's tough in court. Better, get one of each. You want to sway
public opinion. You want people to hear the story, all of it, and feel sympathy
for you, disgust for Draco. Stop waiving your damn rights, and don't talk to me
again, or any other cop, without your attorney present.”

Amused, Areena
lifted her eyebrows. “Do you save everyone, Lieutenant?”

“Shut up and
listen. Go for diminished capacity and extreme emotional distress. Even with
the premeditation, it's not much of a stretch. You killed the man abusing your
daughter, and a blackmailer. If it's played that way, it's going to generate a
lot of media in your favor.” And she could tap Nadine to see that it swung that
way. “The DA's not going to want the mess of a long, public trial with mothers
picketing outside the courthouse and city hall. And they will. He'll offer you
a deal. You may spend time in a cage, but if you're lucky, you'll get a hefty
stretch of home incarceration with a bracelet, and another chunk of severe
parole.”

“Why are you
doing this for me?”

“Isn't there
some saying about looking gift horses in the mouth?”

“Yes. Very
true.” Areena got to her feet. “I wish, well obviously, I wish we'd met under
different circumstances.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

Eve clasped
her hand, let the grip hold.

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

When she
walked back into her office, Roarke was there. She picked up her jacket, her
bag. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

“I like the
idea.” But he caught her hand, ran his gaze over her face. “You look lighter,
Lieutenant.”

“I am.
Considerably.”

“And Areena?”

“She's a hell
of a woman. It's weird.” As she puzzled it, she sat on the edge of the desk.
“It's the first time in eleven years on the job I've ever come across a killer
I admire, and a victim I couldn't...”

“Care about,”
Roarke finished.

“I'm not
supposed to care one way or the other. I'm just supposed to do the job.”

“But you do
care, Lieutenant. Brutally, you care. And this time you ran up against someone
you were obliged to stand for who deserved exactly what he got.”

“Murder's
never deserved,” she said, then made a small sound of impatience. “Hell with
it. Justice was served in a courtroom. It might have been onstage, but it
wasn't make-believe. There was no pretense when Areena Mansfield picked up that
knife and rammed it into the heart Richard Draco didn't have. And when she took
that step, that stand, justice was served.”

“She'll have
the jury eating out of her hand. Before it's over, they'll canonize her rather
than convicting her. You know that.”

“Yeah. Hell,
I'm counting on that. You know what I figured out, pal?”

“Tell me.”

“You can't go
back. Can't fix what broke. But you can go forward. And every step matters.
Every one makes a difference.” She pushed away from the desk, cupped his face
in her hands. “From where I'm standing, you're the best step I ever took.”

“Then let's
take the next, and go home.”

She walked out
with him, and because it fit the mood, took his hand in hers. She would sleep
that night. She would sleep clean.

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 10 Witness In Death v1.1

Title:

Witness In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective