J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 11 Judgement In Death v1.1
Judgement 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 formatting, read in detail and corrected typos.]

JUDGMENT IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 2000

The vices
of authority are chiefly four: delays, corruption, roughness and facility.

-- Francis
Bacon

More things
belong to marriage than four bare legs in a bed.

-- John
Heywood

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

CHAPTER ONE

She stood in
Purgatory and studied death. The blood and the gore of it, the ferocity of its
glee. It had come to this place with the willful temper of a child, full of
heat and passion and careless brutality.

Murder was
rarely a tidy business. Whether it was craftily calculated or wildly impulsive,
it tended to leave a mess for others to clean up.

It was her job
to wade through the debris of murder, to pick up the pieces, see where they
fit, and put together a picture of the life that had been stolen. And through
that picture to find the image of a killer.

Now, in the
early hours of morning, in the hesitant spring of 2059, her boots crunched over
a jagged sea of broken glass. Her eyes, brown and cool, scanned the scene:
shattered mirrors, broken bottles, splintered wood. Wall screens were smashed,
privacy booths scarred and dented. Pricey leather and cloth that had covered
stools or the plusher seating areas had been ripped to colorful shreds.

What had once
been an upscale strip club was now a jumbled pile of expensive garbage.

What had once
been a man lay behind the wide curve of the bar. Now a victim, sprawled in his
own blood.

Lieutenant Eve
Dallas crouched beside him. She was a cop, and that made him hers.

“Male. Black.
Late thirties. Massive trauma, head and body. Multiple broken bones.” She took
a gauge from her field kit to take the body and ambient temperatures. “Looks
like the fractured skull would have done the job, but it didn't stop there.”

“He was beaten
to pieces.”

Eve
acknowledged her aide's comment with a grunt. She was looking at what was left
of a well-built man in his prime, a good six-two and two hundred and thirty
pounds of what had been toned muscle.

“What do you
see, Peabody?”

Automatically,
Peabody shifted her stance, focused her vision. “The victim... well, it appears
the victim was struck from behind. The first blow probably took him down, or at
least dazed him. The killer followed through, with repeated strikes. From the
pattern of the blood splatter, and brain matter, he was taken out with head
shots, then beaten while down, likely unconscious. Some of the injuries were
certainly delivered postmortem. The metal bat is the probable murder weapon and
was used by someone of considerable strength, possibly chemically induced, as
the scene indicates excessive violence often demonstrated by users of Zeus.”

“Time of
death, oh four hundred,” Eve stated, then turned her head to look up at
Peabody.

Her aide was
starched and pressed and as official as they came, with her uniform cap set
precisely on her dark chin-length hair. She had good eyes, Eve thought, clear
and dark. And though the sheer vileness of the scene had leached some of the
color from her cheeks, she was holding.

“Motive?” Eve
asked.

“It appears to
be robbery, Lieutenant.”

“Why?”

“The cash
drawer's open and empty. The credit machine's broken.”

“Mmm-hmm.
Snazzy place like this would be heavier in credits, but they'd do some cash
business.”

“Zeus addicts
kill for spare change.”

“True enough.
But what would our victim have been doing alone, in a closed club, with an
addict? Why would he let anyone hopped on Zeus behind the bar? And ...” With
her sealed fingers she picked up a small silver credit chip from the river of
blood. “Why would our addict leave these behind? A number of them are scattered
here around the body.”

“He could have
dropped them.” But Peabody began to think she wasn't seeing something Eve did.

“Could have.”

She counted
the coins as she picked them up, thirty in all, sealed them in an evidence bag,
and handed it to Peabody. Then she picked up the bat. It was fouled with blood
and brain. About two feet in length, she judged, and weighted to mean business.

Mean
business.

“It's good,
solid metal, not something an addict would pick up in some abandoned building.
We're going to find this belonged here, behind the bar. We're going to find,
Peabody, that our victim knew his killer. Maybe they were having an after-hours
drink.”

Her eyes
narrowed as she pictured it. “Maybe they had words, and the words escalated.
More likely, our killer already had an edge on. He knew where the bat was. Came
behind the bar. Something he'd done before, so our friend here doesn't think
anything of it. He's not concerned, doesn't worry about turning his back.”

She did so
herself, measuring the position of the body, of the splatter. “The first blow
rams him face first into the glass on the back wall. Look at the cuts on his
face. Those aren't nicks from flying glass. They're too long, too deep. He
manages to turn, and that's where the killer takes the next swing here, across
the jaw. That spins him around again. He grabs the shelves there, brings them
down. Bottles crashing. That's when he took the killing blow. This one that
cracked his skull like an egg.”

She crouched
again, sat back on her heels. “After that, the killer just beat the hell out of
him, then wrecked the place. Maybe in temper, maybe as cover. But he had enough
control to come back here, to look at his handiwork before he left. He dropped
the bat here when he was done.”

“He wanted it
to look like a robbery? Like an illegals overkill?”

“Yeah. Or our
victim was a moron and I'm giving him too much credit. You got the body and
immediate scene recorded? All angles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's turn
him over.”

The shattered
bones shifted like a sack of broken crockery as Eve turned the body. “Goddamn
it. Oh, goddamn it.”

She reached
down to lift the smeared ID from the cool, congealing pool of blood. With her
sealed thumb, she wiped at the photo and the shield. “He was on the job.”

“He was a
cop?” Peabody stepped forward. She heard the sudden silence. The crime scene
team and the sweepers working on the other side of the bar stopped talking.
Stopped moving.

A half dozen
faces turned. Waited.

“Kohli,
Detective Taj.” Eve's face was grim as she got to her feet. “He was one of us.”

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

Peabody
crossed the littered floor to where Eve stood watching the remains of Detective
Taj Kohli being bagged for transferal to the morgue. “I got his basics, Dallas.
He's out of the One twenty-eight, assigned to Illegals. Been on the job for
eight years. Came out of the military. He was thirty-seven. Married. Two kids.”

“Anything pop
on his record?”

“No, sir. It's
clean.”

“Let's find
out if he was working undercover here or just moonlighting. Elliott? I want those
security discs.”

“There aren't
any.” One of the crime scene team hurried over. His face was folded into angry
lines. “Cleaned out. Every one of them. The place had full scope, and this son
of a bitch snagged every one. We got nothing.”

“Covered his
tracks.” With her hands on her hips, Eve turned a circle. The club was
triple-leveled, with a stage on the main, dance floors on one and two. Privacy
rooms ringed the top. For full scope, she estimated it would need a dozen
cameras, probably more. To snag all the record discs would have taken time and
care.

“He knew the
place,” she decided. “Or he's a fucking security whiz. Window dressing,” she
muttered. “All this destruction's just window dressing. He knew what he was
doing. He had control. Peabody, find out who owns the place, who runs it. I
want to know everybody who works here. I want to know the setup.”

“Lieutenant?”
A harassed-looking sweeper trudged through the chaos. “There's a civilian
outside.”

“There are a
lot of civilians outside. Let's keep them there.”

“Yes, sir, but
this one insists on speaking to you. He says this is his place. And, ah ...”

“ 'And, ah'
what?”

“And that
you're his wife.”

“Roarke
Entertainment,” Peabody announced as she read off the data from her palm PC.
She sent Eve a cautious smile. “Guess who owns Purgatory?”

“I should've
figured it.” Resigned, Eve strode to the entrance door.

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

He looked very
much as he'd looked two hours before when they'd parted ways to go about their
individual business. Sleek and gorgeous. The light topcoat he wore over his
dark suit fluttered a bit in the breeze. The same breeze that tugged at the
mane of black hair that framed his poetically sinful face. The dark glasses he
wore against the glare of the sun only added to the look of slick elegance.

And when he
slipped them off as she stepped out, the brilliant blue of his eyes met hers.
He tucked the glasses in his pocket, lifted an eyebrow.

“Good morning,
Lieutenant.”

“I had a bad
feeling when I walked in here. It's just your kind of place, isn't it? Why do
you have to own every damn thing?”

“It was a
boyhood dream.” His voice cruised over Ireland, picked up the music of it. He
glanced past her to the police seal. “It appears we've both been
inconvenienced.”

“Did you have
to tell the sweeper I was your wife?”

“You are my
wife,” he said easily and shifted his gaze back to her face. “A fact which
pleases me daily.” He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her wedding ring
before she could tug it free again.

“No touching,”
she hissed at him, which made him smile.

“That's not
what you said a few hours ago. In fact -- “

“Shut up,
Roarke.” She glanced around, though none of the cops working the scene was
outside or close enough to hear. “This is a police investigation.”

“So I'm told.”

“And who told
you?”

“The head of
the maintenance team who found the body. He did call the police first,” he
pointed out. “But it's natural he'd report the incident to me. What happened?”

There was no
point in griping because his business had tangled around hers. Again. She tried
to console herself that he could and would help her cut through some of the
muck of paperwork.

“Do you have a
bartender by the name of Kohli? Taj Kohli?”

“I have no
idea. But I can find out.” He took a slim memo book out of his breast pocket,
keyed in a request for data. “Is he dead?”

“As dead
gets.”

“Yes, he was
mine,” Roarke confirmed, and the Irish in his voice had taken on a cold note.
“For the past three months. Part time. Four nights a week. He had a family.”

“Yes, I know.”
Such things mattered to him, and it always touched her heart. “He was a cop,”
Eve said. This time his brows lifted. “Didn't have that data in your little
scan, did you?”

“No. It seems
my personnel director was careless. That will be fixed. Am I allowed inside?”

“Yeah, in a
minute. How long have you owned the place?”

“Four years,
more or less.”

“How many
employees, full- and part-time?”

“I'll get you
all the data, Lieutenant, and answer all pertinent questions.” Annoyance
gleamed in his eyes as he reached for the door himself. “But now, I'd like to
see my place.”

He pushed
inside, scanned the destruction, then focused in on the thick black bag being
loaded on what the death attendants called a stroller.

“How was he
killed?”

“Thoroughly,”
Eve said, then sighed when Roarke simply turned and stared at her. “It was
ugly, okay? Metal bat.” She watched Roarke look toward the bar and the spray of
blood sparkling on glass like an incomprehensible painting. “After the first
few hits, he wouldn't have felt anything.”

“Ever had a
bat laid into you? I have,” he said before she could answer. “It's not
pleasant. It seems far-fetched to think it's robbery, even one that got well
out of hand.”

“Why?”

“There'd have
been enough prime liquor, easily fenced, to keep anyone cozily fixed for some
time. Why break the bottles when you could sell them? If you hit a place like
this, it's not for the bit of cash that might be copped, but for the inventory
and perhaps some of the equipment.”

“Is that the
voice of experience?”

She teased a
grin out of him. “Naturally. My experience, that is, as a property owner and a
law-abiding citizen.”

“Right.”

“Security
discs?”

“Gone. He got
all of them.”

“Then it
follows he'd cased the place carefully beforehand.”

“How many
cameras?”

Once again,
Roarke took out his pad, checked data. “Eighteen. Nine on this floor, six on
two, and the other two on the top level for full scope. Before you ask, closing
is at three, which would have staff out by half past. The last show, and we've
live ones here, ends at two. The musicians and the entertainers -- “

“Strippers.”

“As you like,”
he said mildly. “They clock off at that time. I'll have names and schedules for
you within the hour.”

“Appreciate
it. Why Purgatory?”

“The name?”
The ghost of a smile flirted with his mouth. “I liked it. The priests will tell
you Purgatory's a place for atonement, rehabilitation perhaps. A bit like
prison. I've always seen it as a last chance to be human,” he decided. “Before
you strap on your wings and halo or face the fire.”

“Which would
you rather?” she wondered. “The wings or the fire?”

“That's the
point, you see. I prefer being human.” As the stroller wheeled by, he ran a
hand over her short brown hair. “I'm sorry for this.”

“So am I. Any
reason a New York City detective would have been working undercover in
Purgatory?”

“I couldn't
say. It's certainly likely that some of the clientele might dabble in areas not
strictly approved by the NYPSD, but I've not been informed of anything overt.
Some illegals might change hands in privacy rooms or under tables, but there's
been no large transactions here. I would have known. The strippers don't turn
tricks unless they're licensed, which some are. No one under age is allowed
through the doors -- as client or staff. I have my own standards, Lieutenant,
such as they are.”

“I'm not
coming down on you. I need a picture.”

“You're pissed
that I'm here at all.”

She waited a
minute, her short, choppy hair disordered from its dance outside in the early
breeze. As the morgue techs opened the door to transfer Kohli, the sounds of
the day punched into the club.

Traffic was
already thickening. Cars crammed irritably on the street, air commuters swarmed
the skies. She heard the call of an early-bird glide-cart operator call to the
techs and ask: “What da fuck?”

“Okay, I'm
pissed that you're here at all. I'll get over it. When's the last time you were
in here?”

“Months. It
ran well and didn't need my direct attention.”

“Who manages
it for you?”

“Rue MacLean.
I'll get her information to you as well.”

“Sooner than
later. Do you want to go through the place now?”

“No point in
it until I've refreshed myself on how it was. I'll want to be let back in once
I've done that.”

“I'll take
care of it. Yes, Peabody?” she said, turning as her aide inched forward and
cleared her throat.

“Sorry, sir,
but I thought you'd want to know I reached the victim's squad captain. They're
sending a member of his unit and a counselor to inform next of kin. They need
to know if they should wait for you or see the wife alone.”

“Tell them to
wait. We'll head over now and meet them. I have to go,” she said to Roarke.

“I don't envy
you your job, Lieutenant.” Because he needed it, he took her hand, linked their
fingers firmly. “But I'll let you get back to it. I'll have the information you
wanted to you as soon as I can.”

“Roarke?” she
called as he started for the door. “I'm sorry about your place.”

“Wood and
glass. There's plenty more,” he replied as he looked at her over his shoulder.

“He doesn't
mean it,” Eve murmured when he'd shut the door behind him.

“Sir?”

“They messed
with him. He won't let it go.” Eve heaved out a breath. “Come on, Peabody,
let's go see the wife and get this particular hell over with.”

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

The Kohlis
lived in a decent, mid-level building on the East Side. The kind of place, Eve
mused, where you found young families and older retired couples. Not hip enough
for the single crowd, not cheap enough for the struggling.

It was a
simple multi-unit, pleasantly if not elegantly rehabbed post-Urban Wars.

Door security
was a basic code entry.

Eve spotted
the cops before she'd double-parked and flipped her On Duty light to active.

The woman was
well turned out, with gilt-edged hair that curved up to her cheeks in two
stiletto points. She wore sun shades and an inexpensive business suit in navy.
The shoes with their thin, two-inch heels told Eve she worked a desk.

Brass. Eve was
sure of it.

The man had
good shoulders and a bit of pudge at the middle. He'd let his hair go gray, and
there was a lot of it. Currently, it was dancing in the breeze around his
quiet, composed face. He wore cop shoes -- hard-soled and buffed to a gleam.
His suit jacket was a little small in the body and starting to fray at the cuffs.

A long-timer,
Eve judged, who'd moved from beat to street to desk.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” The woman stepped forward but didn't offer her hand for a polite
shake. “I recognized you. You get a lot of play in the media.” It wasn't said
with rebuke, but there was a hint of it in the air, nonetheless. “I'm Captain
Roth, from the One twenty-eight. This is Sergeant Clooney out of my house. He's
here as grief counselor.”

“Thanks for
waiting. Officer Peabody, my aide.”

“What is the
status of your investigation, Lieutenant?”

“Detective
Kohli's body is with the ME and will have priority. My report will be written
and filed subsequent to notification of next of kin.”

She paused to
avoid shouting over the sudden blast of a maxibus that pulled to the curb half
a block down.

“At this
point, Captain Roth, I have a dead police officer who was the apparent victim
of a particularly brutal beating in the early hours of this morning while he
was in a club, after hours. A club where he was employed as a part-time
bartender.”

“Robbery?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then what is
the motive, in your opinion?”

A little seed
of resentment planted itself in Eve's gut. It would, she knew, fester there if
she wasn't careful. “I've formed no opinion as to motive at this stage of my
investigation. Captain Roth, do you want to stand on the street and question
me, or would you prefer to read my report when it's filed?”

Roth opened
her mouth, then sucked in a breath. “Point taken, Lieutenant. Detective Kohli
worked under me for five years. I'll be straight with you. I want this
investigation handled out of my house.”

“I appreciate
your feelings in this matter, Captain Roth. I can only assure you that as long
as I'm primary, the investigation into the death of Detective Kohli will
receive my complete focus.”

Take off
the damn shades, Eve thought. I
want to see your eyes. “You can request the transfer of authority,” Eve
continued. “But I'll be straight with you. I won't give it up easy. I stood
over him this morning. I saw what was done to him. You couldn't want his killer
any more than I do.”

“Captain.”
Clooney stepped forward, laying a hand lightly on Roth's arm at the elbow.
There were lines fanning out from his pale blue eyes. They made him look tired
and somehow trustworthy. “Lieutenant. Emotions are running pretty high right
now. For all of us. But we've got a job to do here and now.”

He glanced up,
homing in on a window four stories above. “Whatever we're feeling doesn't come
close to what's going to be felt upstairs.”

“You're right.
You're right, Art. Let's get this done.”

Roth turned to
the entrance, bypassed the code with her master.

“Lieutenant?”
Clooney hung back. “I know you'll want to question Patsy, Taj's wife. I have to
ask if you could go a little easy just now. I know what she's about to go
through. I lost a son in the line of duty a few months back. It rips a hole in
you.”

“I'm not going
to kick her while she's down, Clooney.” Eve shoved through the doors, caught
herself, turned back. “I didn't know him,” she said more calmly, “but he was
murdered, and he was a cop. That's enough for me. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah,
okay.”

“Christ, I
hate this.” She followed Roth to the elevator. “How do you do it?” she asked
Clooney. “The counseling thing. How do you stand it?”

“To tell you
the truth, they tapped me for it because I have a way with keeping the peace.
Mediation,” he added with a quick smile. “I agreed to survivor counseling, to
give it a try, and found I could do some good. You know what they feel -- every
stage of it.”

He pressed his
lips together as they stepped onto the elevator. The smile was long gone. “You
stand it because maybe you can help.. . just a little. It makes a difference if
the counselor's a cop. And I've discovered in the last few months it makes a
bigger one if the counselor's a cop who experienced a loss. You ever lose a
family member, Lieutenant?”

Eve flashed on
a dingy room, the bloody husk of a man, and the child she'd been, huddled
broken in a corner. “I don't have any family.”

“Well...” was
all Clooney said as they stepped off on the fourth floor.

She would
know, and they were all aware of it. A cop's spouse would know the minute she
opened the door. How the words were spoken varied little, and it didn't matter
a damn. The minute the door opened, lives were irrevocably changed.

They didn't
have the chance to knock before it began.

Patsy Kohli
was a pretty woman with smooth, ebony skin and a closely cropped thatch of
black curls. She was dressed to go out, a baby sling strapped across her
breasts. The small boy at her side had his hand clasped in hers as he danced
frantically in place.

“Let's go
swing! Let's go swing!”

But his mother
had frozen in place, the laughter that had been in her eyes dying away. She
lifted one hand, pressing it to the baby, and the baby to her heart.

“Taj.”

Roth had taken
off her sunshades. Her eyes were coldly blue, rigidly blank. “Patsy. We need to
come in.”

“Taj.” Patsy
stood where she was, slowly shaking her head. “Taj.”

“Here now,
Patsy.” Clooney moved in, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Why don't we
sit down?”

“No. No. No.”

The little boy
began to cry, wailing yelps as he tugged on his mother's unresponsive hand. Both
Roth and Eve looked down at him with stares of sheer, hot panic.

Peabody eased
inside, crouched down to his level.

“Hi, pal.”

“Going swing,”
he said pitifully, while great tears spilled down his chubby cheeks.

“Yeah.
Lieutenant, why don't I take the boy out?”

“Good idea.
Good thinking.” Her stomach was busily tying itself into knots at the rising
sobs. “Mrs. Kohli, with your permission, my officer will take your son outside
for awhile. I think that would be best.”

“Chad.” Patsy
stared down as if coming out of a dream. “We're going to the park. Two blocks
over. The swings.”

“I'll take
him, Mrs. Kohli. We'll be fine.” With an ease that had Eve frowning, Peabody
lifted the boy, set him on her hip. “Hey, Chad, you like soy dogs?”

“Patsy, why
don't you give me your little girl there.” Gently, Clooney unhooked the sling,
slipped the baby free. Then, to Eve's shock, he passed the bundle to her.

“Oh listen, I
can't -- “

But Clooney
was already guiding Pasty to the sofa, and Eve was left holding the bag. Or so
she thought of it. Wincing, she looked down, and when big, black eyes stared
curiously up at her, her palms went damp.

And when the
baby said, “Coo,” she lost all the spit in her mouth.

She searched
the room for help. Clooney and Roth were already flanking Pasty, and Clooney's
voice was a quiet murmur. The room was small and lived-in, with a scatter of
toys on the rug and a scent -- one she didn't recognize -- that was talc and
crayons and sugar. The scent of children.

But she
spotted a basket of neatly folded laundry on the floor by a chair. Perfect, she
decided and, with the care of a woman handling a homemade boomer, laid the baby
on top.

“Stay,” she
whispered, awkwardly patting the dark, downy head.

And started to
breathe again.

She tuned back
into the room, saw the woman on the sofa gathered into herself, rocking,
rocking, with her hands gripped in Clooney's. She made no sound, and her tears
fell like rain.

Eve stayed out
of the way, watched Clooney work, watched the unity of support stand on either
side of the widow. This, she thought, was family. For what it was
worth. And in times like this, it was all there could be.

Grief settled
into the room like fog. It would, she knew, be a long time before it burned
away again.

“It's my
fault. It's my fault.” They were the first words Patsy spoke since she'd sat on
the sofa.

“No.” Clooney
squeezed her hands until she lifted her head. They needed to look in your eyes,
he knew. To believe you, to take comfort, they needed to see it all in your
eyes. “Of course it's not.”

“He'd never
have been working there if not for me. I didn't want to go back to work after
Jilly was born. I wanted to stay home. The money, the professional mother's
salary was so much less than -- “

“Patsy, Taj
was happy you were content to stay home with the children. He was so proud of
them and of you.”

“I can't --
Chad.” She pulled her hands free, pressed them to her face. “How can I tell
him? How can we live without Taj? Where is he?” She dropped her hands, looked
around blindly. “I have to go see him. Maybe there's a mistake.”

It was, Eve
knew, her time. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Kohli, there's no mistake. I'm Lieutenant
Dallas. I'm in charge of the investigation.”

“You saw Taj.”
Patsy got shakily to her feet.

“Yes. I'm
sorry, very sorry for your loss. Can you talk to me, Mrs. Kohli? Help me find
the person who did this?”

“Lieutenant
Dallas,” Roth began, but Patsy shook her head.

“No, no. I
want to talk. Taj would want me to. He'd want... Where's Jilly? Where's my
baby?”

“I, ah ...”
Feeling sticky again, Eve gestured to the hamper.

“Oh.” Patsy
wiped tears from her face, smiled. “She's so good. Such a love. She hardly ever
cries. I should put her in her crib.”

“I'll do that
for you, Patsy.” Clooney rose. “You talk to the lieutenant.” He gave Eve a
quiet look, full of sorrow and understanding. “That's what Taj would want. Do
you want us to call someone for you? Your sister?”

“Yes.” Patsy
drew in a breath. “Yes, please. If you'd call Carla for me.”

“Captain Roth
will do that for you, won't you, Captain? While I put the baby down.”

Roth
struggled, set her teeth. It didn't surprise Eve to see the annoyance. Clooney
had essentially taken over, gently. And this wasn't a woman who liked taking
orders from her sergeant.

“Yes, of
course.” With a final warning look at Eve, she walked into the next room.

“Are you with
Taj's squad?”

“No, I'm not.”

“No, no, of
course.” Patsy rubbed her temple. “You'd be with Homicide.” She started to
break, the sound coming through her lips like a whimper. And Eve watched with
admiration as she toughened up. “What do you want to know?”

“Your husband
didn't come home this morning. You weren't concerned?”

“No.” She
reached back, braced a hand on the arm of the couch, and lowered herself down.
“He'd told me he'd probably go into the station from the club. He sometimes did
that. And he said he was meeting someone after closing.”

“Who?”

“He didn't
say, just that he had someone to see after closing.”

“Do you know
of anyone who wished him harm, Mrs. Kohli?”

“He was a
cop,” she said simply. “Do you know anyone who wishes you harm, Lieutenant?”

Fair
enough, Eve thought and nodded.
“Anyone specific? Someone he mentioned to you.”

“No. Taj
didn't bring work home. It was a point of honor for him, I think. He didn't
want anything to touch his family. I don't even know what cases he was working
on. He didn't like to talk about it. But he was worried.”

She folded her
hands tightly in her lap, stared down at them. Stared, Eve noted, at the gold
band on her finger. “I could tell he was worried about something. I asked him
about it, but he brushed it off. That was Taj,” she managed with a trembling
smile. “He had, well some people would say it was a male dominant thing, but it
was just Taj. He was old-fashioned about some things. He was a good man. A
wonderful father. He loved his job.”

She pressed
her lips together. “He would have been proud to die in the line of duty. But
not like this. Not like this. Whoever did this to him took that away from him.
Took him away from me and from his babies. How can that be? Lieutenant, how can
that be?”

And as there
was no answer to it; all Eve could do was ask more questions.

CHAPTER TWO

“That was a
rough one.”

“Yeah.” Eve pulled
away from the curb and tried to shake the weight she'd carried out of the Kohli
apartment with her. “She'll hold it together for the kids. She's got spine.”

“Great kids.
The little boy's a real piece of work. Conned me into a soy dog, three chocolate
sticks, and a fudgy cone.”

“Bet he really
had to twist your arm.”

Peabody's
smile was sweet. “I've got a nephew about his age.”

“You have
nephews every possible age.”

“More or
less.”

“Tell me
something, through your vast experience with family. You got a husband and
wife, seem pretty tight, good, solid marriage, kids. Why would the wife, who
appears to have a backbone and a brain, know next to nothing about her
husband's job? His business, his day-to-day routine?”

“Maybe he
likes to check work at the door.”

“Doesn't play
for me,” Eve muttered. “You live with someone day after day, you have to know
what they do, what they think, what they're into. She said he was worried about
something but doesn't know what. Didn't press it.”

She shook her
head, frowning as she wove through crosstown traffic. “I don't get that.”

“You and
Roarke have a different couple dynamic.”

“What the hell
does that mean?”

“Well.”
Peabody slid her eyes over to Eve's profile. “That was a nice way of saying
neither one of you would let the other get away with holding back. Something's
going on with one of you, the other sniffs it out and hammers away until it's
all out there. You're both nosy, and just mean enough not to let the other one
slide by. Now, you take my aunt Miriam.”

“Do I have
to?”

“What I'm
saying is, she and Uncle Jim have been married for over forty years. He goes to
work every day, comes home every night. They have four kids, eight, no, nine
grandkids, and a very happy life. She doesn't even know how much he makes a
year. He just gives her an allowance -- “

Eve nearly
back-ended a Rapid Cab. “A what?”

“Yeah, well, I
said you have a different dynamic. Anyway, he gives her the house money and
stuff. She'll ask how his day was, he'll say it was fine, and that's the end of
the topic of work.” She shrugged. “That's how it goes for them. Now, my cousin
Freida -- “

“I get the
point, Peabody.” Eve engaged the car-link and called the ME.

She was
transferred directly to Morse, in autopsy.

“I'm still
working on him, Dallas.” Morse's face was uncharacteristically sober. “He's a
goddamn mess.”

“I know it.
You got the tox reports yet?”

“I tagged them
first. No illegals in his system. He'd had a couple ounces of beer, some
pretzels just prior to death. It appears he was having the beer when he was
hit. Last meal, some six hours before, was a chicken sandwich on whole wheat,
pasta salad. Coffee. At this point, I can tell you the victim was in excellent
health and good physical condition before some son of a bitch pounded him to
pieces.”

“Okay. The
skull fracture the killing blow?”

“Didn't I say
I was still working on him?” Morse's voice sliced out, laser sharp. Before Eve
could respond, he held up a hand, protectively sealed and bloody to the wrist.
“Sorry. Sorry. I can piece this much together. The assailant came at him from
behind. First blow to the back of the head. Facial lacerations indicate the
victim hit glass, face first. The second blow, jaw strike, took him down. Then
the bastard opened his head like a goddamn peanut. He'd have been dead before
he felt it. The other injuries are postmortem. I don't have a final count of
those injuries.”

“You gave me
what I needed. Sorry for the push.”

“No, it's on
me.” Morse puffed out his cheeks. “I knew him, so it's a little too personal.
He was a decent guy, liked to show off holo-shots of his kids. We don't get
many happy faces around here.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “I'm glad he's yours,
Dallas. It helps knowing he's yours. You'll have my report by end of shift.”

He broke
transmission and left her staring at a blank screen.

“Popular guy,”
Eve commented. “Who had it so in for a decent guy, proud daddy, loving husband?
Who's going to beat a cop to a bloody pulp, knowing the system bands together
to collar a cop killer? Somebody hated our popular guy in a big, nasty way.”

“Somebody he'd
busted?”

You couldn't
worry about the ones you busted, Eve mused. But you always kept them in mind.
“A cop has a drink with and turns his back on someone he's busted, he's asking
to have his head bashed in. Let's pump up the speed on getting all his records,
Peabody. I want to see what kind of cop Taj Kohli was.”

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

Eve stepped
into the squad room, had just turned toward her office, when a woman stood up
from a bench in the waiting area.

“Lieutenant Dallas?”

“That's
right.”

“I'm Rue
MacLean. I've just heard about Taj. I...” She lifted her hands. “Roarke
indicated you'd want to speak to me, so I thought I'd come in right away. I
want to help.”

“I appreciate
that. Just one moment. Peabody.” She stepped aside with her aide. “Give the
record drones a boost on Kohli, then run his financials.”

“Sir? His
financials?'

“That's right.
You run into any blocks on that, call Feeney in EDD. Do some digging. Find out
who he was tight with in his squad. He didn't talk to his wife about work,
maybe he talked to someone else. I want to know if he had any hobbies, side
interests. And I want to know what case files he was working on or was looking
into. I want his life in front of me by end of shift.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ms. MacLean?
I'd like to take you into an interview room. My office is a little cramped.”

“Whatever you
like. I can't believe this happened. I just can't understand how it could happen.”

“We'll talk
about it.” On the record. Eve thought, as she led Rue through the warren
of Central to the interview area. “I'd like to record this,” she said and
gestured Rue into the boxlike room with a single table and two chairs.

“Of course. I
only want to help.”

“Have a seat.”
Eve activated the recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with MacLean,
Rue. Subject has volunteered to cooperate, on record, in the matter of Kohli,
Taj. Homicide. I appreciate you coming in, Ms. MacLean.”

“I don't know
what I can tell you that might help.”

“You manage
the club where Taj Kohli worked as part-time bartender?”

She was just
the type Roarke would choose, Eve thought. Slick, sleek, lovely. Deep purple
eyes, full of concern now, that shone like jewels against creamy skin.

Delicate
features, close to elegant, with just a hint of steel in the line of the chin.
Curvy, petite, and perfectly groomed in a plum-colored skirt suit that skimmed
her body and showed off great legs.

Her hair was
the color of sunlight and was drawn severely back in a fashion that required
perfect confidence and good bones.

“Purgatory.
Yes, I've managed the club for four years now.”

“And before
that?”

“I was hostess
at a small club downtown. Prior to that, I was a dancer. A performer,” she
added with a thin smile. “I decided I wanted to move off the stage and into
management where I could keep my clothes on. Roarke gave me the opportunity to
do so, first at Trends as hostess, then as manager of Purgatory. Your husband
appreciates ambition, Lieutenant.”

That was an
avenue best not traveled on record. “Are part of your duties as manager of
Purgatory the hiring of employees?”

“Yes. I hired
Taj. He was looking for part-time work. His wife had just had a baby and was
opting for professional mother status. He needed some extra money, was willing
to work the late shift, and being happily married, wasn't likely to hit on the
talent.”

“Are those the
only requirements for employment at Purgatory?”

“No, but they
matter.” Rue lifted her fingers. She wore a single ring, a trio of stones
twisted together like snakes and studded with stones the same color as her
eyes. “He knew how to mix drinks, how to serve. He had a good eye for
troublemakers. I didn't know he was a cop. His application stated he worked in
security, and it checked out.”

“What company?”

“Lenux. I
contacted the office, spoke with his supervisor -- well, or so I assumed -- and
was given his employment record. I had no reason to question it, and his record
was solid. I hired him on a two-week probationary, he did the job, and we went
from there.”

“Do you have
the contact at Lenux in your files?”

“Yes.” Rue
blew out a breath. “I've already tried to call. All I got this time around was
that the code had been discontinued.”

“I'd like it
anyway. Just to follow up.”

“Of course.”
Rue reached into her bag, took out a day book. “I don't know why he didn't tell
me he was a cop,” she said as she keyed in the code number on an e-memo for
Eve. “Maybe he thought I wouldn't hire him. But when you figure the owner's a
cop -- “

“I don't own
the club.”

“No, well.”
She shrugged and handed Eve the memo.

“He was in the
club after closing. Is that standard?”

“No, but it
isn't unheard of. Routinely, the head bartender on duty and one of the security
team close up together. Taj was serving as head last night, and according to my
records, it was Nester Vine's turn to close with him. I haven't been able to
reach Nester as yet.”

“Are you in
the club every night?”

“Five nights a
week. Sundays and Mondays off. I was there last night until two-thirty. The
place was clearing out, and one of the girls was having a bad night. Boyfriend
trouble. I took her home, held her hand for awhile, then went home myself.”

“What time was
that?”

“When I went
home?” Rue blinked a moment. “About three-thirty, quarter to four, I guess.”

“The name of
the woman you were with until that time?”

“Mitzi.” Rue
drew in a breath. “Mitzi Treacher. Lieutenant, the last time I saw Taj, he was
alive and working the bar.”

“I'm just
putting the facts on record, Ms. MacLean. Do you have a take on Detective
Kohli's state of mind the last time you saw him?”

“He seemed
fine. We didn't talk much last night. I stopped by the bar for some mineral
water a couple of times. How's it going, busy night, that kind of thing. God.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “He was a nice man. Quiet, steady. Always called
his wife on his early break to see how she was doing.”

“He use the
bar phone?”

“No. We
discourage personal calls, barring emergencies, on the business line. He used
his palm-link.”

“Did he use it
last night?”

“I don't know.
He always did. I can't say I noticed. No, wait.” This time she closed her eyes
and seemed to drift. “He was eating a sandwich, back in the break room. I
remember walking by. The door was open. He was making cooing noises. Talking to
the baby,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I remember that because it was so
sweet and silly, hearing this big bruiser of a guy make baby noises into the
'link. Is it important?”

“Just trying
to get a picture.” There hadn't been a palm-link on or near the body, Eve recalled.
“Did you notice anyone who came in last night or any other night when he was
on? Somebody he knew, hung out at the bar with him?”

“No. We've got
some regulars, of course. People who come in several times a week. Taj got so
he'd know their usual drinks. Clients appreciate that.”

“Did he get
tight with anyone who worked there?”

“Not
particularly. Like I said, he was a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but he didn't
hang with anyone in particular. He did the bartender thing. Watched, listened.”

“Do you keep a
metal bat behind the bar?”

“It's legal,”
Rue said quickly, then paled. “Is that what -- “

“Did Taj ever
have occasion to use it or threaten to?”

“He never used
it.” She rubbed her upper chest with the flat of her hand in long, soothing
strokes. “He had it out once or twice, I guess. Tapped it on the bar as a
deterrent. That's mostly all you need, especially with a guy his size. The
club's upscale. We rarely have any real trouble there. I run a clean place,
Lieutenant. Roarke won't tolerate less.”

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

The
preliminary report was straightforward, and for Eve, unsatisfactory. She had
the facts. A dead cop, bludgeoned to death with serious overkill and the wild
destruction that pointed to an addict popping on Zeus or some lethal
combination of illegals. A sloppy attempt to cover with the look of attempted
robbery, a missing palm-link, and thirty loose credit chips.

The victim was
apparently moonlighting to supplement his family income, had no blemishes or
commendations on his service record, was well liked by his associates, and
loved by his family. He had not, at least as far as she had uncovered, lived
above his means, engaged in extramarital affairs, or been involved with a hot
case that could have led to his death.

On the
surface, it looked like just bad luck. But she was damned if that suit fit.

She brought
his ID photo up on her screen, studied it. Big guy, with a proud look in his
eyes. Firm jaw, wide shoulders.

“Somebody
wanted you out, Kohli. Who'd you piss off?”

She shifted,
sat up again. “Computer, run probability. Current case file, scheming cause of
death and ME prelim, running primary's report on victim. What is the
probability that victim Kohli knew his assailant?”

Working...
Probability, given known data and primary's report is ninety-three point four
percent that victim Kohli knew his assailant.

“Yeah, well,
good for me.” She leaned forward, scooped her fingers through her hair. “Who do
cops know? Other cops, weasels, bad guys, family. Neighbors. Who do bartenders
know?” She let out a short laugh. “Every fucking body. Which hat were you
wearing for your meet this morning, Detective?”

“Lieutenant?”
Peabody poked her head in the door. “I've got Kohli's current case load.
There's no record of him asking for files other than apply to his open logs. I
ran into a trip with the financials. Everything's jointly owned, so we need a
warrant or spousal permission to poke around.”

“I'll take
care of it. Full service record?”

“Right here.
Nothing special caught my eye. He was in on a big bust about six months ago.
Some dealer named Ricker.”

“Max Ricker?”

“Yeah. Kohli
was down in the feeding chain, mostly leg or drone work. He didn't get the
collar, that went to a Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez. They tied the
warehouse of illegals to Ricker, got him indicted, but he slipped through.
Still, they nailed six others in the cartel.”

“Ricker's not
the type to ruin his manicure by getting blood on the polish. But he wouldn't
think twice about paying for a hit, even on a cop.”

And the idea
of it gave her a little ping of excitement. “Find out if Kohli testified. Seems
to me it got to court before the whole business was dismissed on techs. See
just what his part was in the bust. Get it from Captain Roth, and if she
hassles you over it, pass her to me. I'll be with the commander.”

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

Commander
Whitney stood at his window while Eve reported on the status of her
investigation. He had his big hands folded together behind his back and stared
out at the sky traffic.

One of the new
Cloud Dusters winged by close enough for him to see the color of its young
pilot's eyes and in direct violation of traffic codes.

Ballsy, Whitney thought absently, and stupid, he added
as he heard the high, whining beep of the air patrol.

Busted, he thought. It should always be so easy to uphold the
law.

When Eve fell
silent behind him, Whitney turned. His face was dark and wide, his hair a
close-cut military crop that was showing hints of gray. A big man with cool and
sober eyes, he'd spent the first half of his career on the streets. Though he
was spending the second half riding a desk, he hadn't forgotten what it meant
to strap on a weapon.

“Before I
comment on your report, Lieutenant, I want to inform you that I've had
communications from Captain Roth of the One twenty-eighth. She's put in a
formal request to have the Kohli homicide transferred to her squad.”

“Yes, sir. She
indicated she would do so.”

“And your
opinion of that request?”

“It's
understandable. And it's emotional.”

“Agreed.” He
waited a moment, inclined his head. “You don't ask if I intend to grant Captain
Roth's request.”

“There's no
tactical reason to do so, and if you'd decided to put the investigation in Captain
Roth's hands, you'd have told me up front.”

Whitney pursed
his lips, then turned back to the window. “Correct on both counts. The
investigation remains on you. The case is emotional, Lieutenant. For
Captain Roth's squad and for every cop on the NYPSD. It's difficult when one of
us goes down, even though each of us knows the risks. But the nature of this
killing takes it to another level. The excessive violence doesn't smack of a
professional hit.”

“No. But I'm
not discounting that angle. If Ricker's involved, whoever he hired may have
been using or may have had instructions to make it messy. I don't know what
kind of cop Kohli was yet, Commander. Whether he was foolish enough or cocky
enough to put himself in a vulnerable position with one of Ricker's hammers. I
have Peabody digging into his record and case load. I need to know who he was
close to, the names of his weasels, and how involved he was in the Ricker
investigation and trial.”

“It's not the
first time Ricker's suspected of arranging a cop killing. But he's generally
more subtle.”

“There was
something personal in this, Commander. Whether for the badge or for Kohli, I
don't know. But it was very personal. Roarke owned the club,” she added.

“Yes, so I've
heard.” He turned back, skimmed his gaze over her face, and walked to his desk.
“Personal all around, Lieutenant?”

“It will be
easier and quicker to obtain data on the club and on its staff and clientele.
The manager's already come in voluntarily for interview. The fact that Kohli
concealed his attachment to the NYPSD makes me wonder if he was on the job --
on his own. He deliberately misrepresented himself and went so far as to
arrange a cover. There's no indication he was working in soft clothes for the
department, so it would have been unofficial.”

“I have no
knowledge of any investigation, official or otherwise, that required Detective
Kohli to go under in Purgatory. But I will pursue that matter with Captain
Roth.” He held up a hand before Eve could object. “It'll be smoother if that
particular inquiry comes from this office rather than from you, Dallas. Let's
keep it smooth.”

“Yes, sir.”
But it grated. “I want a warrant to open Kohli's financials. They're jointly
held with his widow. At this time, I prefer not to request permission from Mrs.
Kohli.”

“Or alert her
before they're open,” he finished. He spread his hands on the desk. “You think
he was taking?”

“I'd like to
eliminate that angle, sir.”

“Do it,” he
ordered. “And do it quietly. I'll get your warrant. You get me a cop killer.”

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

Eve spent the
rest of the day poring over Kohli's record, familiarizing herself with his case
load, trying to get a handle on the man. The cop.

What she saw
was an average officer who'd performed steadily, if slightly under his
potential. He'd rarely missed a shift and just as rarely put in any overtime.

He'd never
used his weapon for maximum force and therefore had never undergone extensive
Testing. Still, he'd closed or been in on the closing of a good number of
cases, and his reports on those closed and those open were efficient, carefully
written, and thorough.

This was a
man, Eve thought, who followed the book, did the job, then went home at night
and put his day away.

How? she wondered. How the hell did anyone manage that?

His military
record was similar. No trouble, no glow. He enlisted at the age of twenty-two,
served six steady years, the last two in the military police.

Every t was
crossed, every i dotted. It was, to her mind, a perfectly ordinary life. Almost
too perfect.

The call to Nester
Vine from Purgatory got her as far as his harassed-looking wife, who informed
Eve that Vine had come home before the end of his shift the night before,
dog-sick. She herself had just gotten in from the hospital where she'd taken
her husband at three that morning for what turned out to be appendicitis.

As alibis
went, it was a beaut. The only tip she pried out of Mrs. Vine was that she
should get in touch with some stripper named Nancie, who'd apparently stuck
around after Kohli had urged Vine to go home.

Still, she
contacted the hospital and verified one Nester Vine had indeed had his appendix
removed, in emergency, early that morning.

Scratch
Nester, she thought, and put the
stripper on her talk-to list.

Calls to
Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez went unreturned. In the field and
unavailable was the response. She left one last message for each, gathered the
files, and prepared to go home.

She'd take a
hard look at Kohli's financials that evening.

She caught
Peabody in her cubicle in the bullpen dealing with the follow-up paperwork.

“Leave the
rest of that until tomorrow. Go home.”

“Yeah?”
Peabody's face lit up as she glanced at her wrist unit. “Almost on time, too.
I've got an eight o'clock dinner with Charles. Now I'll have just enough time
to go snazz myself up.”

When Eve's
response was a grunt, Peabody grinned. “You know the problem with juggling two
guys?”

“Do you
consider McNab a guy?”

“On a good
day, he's a nice contrast to Charles. Anyway, you know the problem with seeing
both of them?”

“No, Peabody,
what's the problem with seeing both of them?”

“There isn't
one.”

With a hoot of
laughter, Peabody grabbed her bag and shot out of her cubicle. “See you
tomorrow.”

Eve shook her
head. One guy, she decided, was plenty problem enough for her taste. And if she
got the hell out of Central, she might even beat him home for a change.

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

In a kind of
test, she tried to click her mind off her case files. Traffic was ugly enough
to keep her mind occupied, and the current blast of the billboards were hyping
everything from spring fashions to the latest hot sports car.

When she
caught a familiar face burst across one of the animated screens, she nearly
side-swiped a glide-cart.

Mavis Freestone,
her hair a riot of flame-colored spikes, whirled over the street at
Thirty-fourth. She jiggled, spun, in a few sassy and amusingly placed scraps of
electric blue. With each revolution, her hair changed from red to gold to
blinding green.

It was, Eve thought
with a foolish grin on her face, just like her.

“Jesus, Mavis.
Would you just look at that? What a kick in the ass.”

A long way.
Her oldest friend had come a long way from the street grifter Eve had once
busted, to performance artist in third-rate clubs, and now to bona fide musical
star.

Musical, Eve thought, in the broadest sense of the word.

She reached
for her car-link, intending to call Mavis and tell her what she was looking at,
when her personal palm-link beeped.

“Yeah.” She
couldn't take her eyes off the billboard, even when several impatient drivers
honked rudely. “Dallas.”

“Hey, Dallas.”

“Webster.”
Instantly, Eve's shoulders tensed. She might have known Don Webster on a
personal level, but no cop liked receiving a transmission from Internal
Affairs. “Why are you calling on my personal 'link? IAB's required to use
official channels.”

“I was hoping
to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”

“You are
talking to me.”

“Face-to-face.”

“Why?”

“Come on,
Dallas. Ten minutes.”

“I'm on my way
home. Tag me tomorrow.”

“Ten minutes,”
he repeated. “I'll meet you at the park right across from your place.”

“Is this
Internal Affairs business?”

“Let's talk.”
He gave her a winning smile that only increased her level of suspicion. “I'll
meet you there. I'm right behind you.”

She narrowed
her eyes, checked her rearview, and saw he meant it literally. Saying nothing,
she broke transmission.

She didn't
stop across from the gates of her home but drove another block and a half, on
principle -- then made certain she found the only convenient parking spot
before she pulled in.

It didn't
surprise her when Webster simply double-parked and, ignoring the snooty glares
from an elegant couple and their three equally stylish Afghan hounds, flipped
on his On Duty light and joined her on the curb.

His smile had
always been a handy weapon, and he used it now, keeping his light blue eyes
friendly. His face was thin, sharp-angled, and would probably be termed
scholarly as he aged. His dark brown hair waved a little and was cut to
flatter.

“You've come
up in the world, Dallas. This is some neighborhood.”

“Yeah, we have
monthly block parties and get crazy. What do you want, Webster?”

“How's it
going?” He said it casually and started strolling toward the lush green and the
trees still tender with spring.

Sucking in
temper, she jammed her hands in her pockets and matched her steps with his.
“It's going fine. How about you?”

“Can't
complain. Nice evening. You gotta love spring in New York.”

“And how about
those Yankees? Now, that should conclude our period of small talk. What do you
want?”

“You never
were much on chat.” He remembered very well the one and only time he'd managed
to get her into bed; they hadn't done any talking. “Why don't we find a bench?
Like I said, it's a nice evening.”

“I don't want
to find a bench. I don't want a soy dog, and I don't want to talk about the
weather. I want to go home. So if you don't have anything interesting to say,
that's what I'm going to do.”

She turned,
took three steps.

“You pulled
the Kohli homicide.”

“That's
right.” She turned back, and her inner alarm system flashed to red light. “What
does that have to do with IAB?”

“I didn't say
it had anything to do with IAB, other than the usual run we do when a cop goes
down.”

“The usual run
doesn't mean a private meet, off duty, with the primary.”

“We go back a
ways.” He lifted a hand. “Hell, all the way back to the Academy. It seemed
friendlier this way.”

She kept her
eyes on his as she walked to him, stood toe to toe. “Don't insult me, Webster.
Where does IAB come into my investigation?”

“Look, I've
seen the prelim. This is a rough one. Rough on the department, his squad, his
family.”

Something
started clicking in her brain. “Did you know Kohli?”

“Not really.”
Webster gave a thin smile, just a little bitter at the edges. “Most detectives
don't care to socialize with Internal Affairs. Funny how we all frown over a
dirty cop, but nobody wants to rub elbows with the ones digging them out.”

“Are you
saying Kohli was dirty?”

“I'm not
saying that at all. I wouldn't be at liberty to discuss an internal
investigation with you, if there was an internal investigation.”

“Bullshit,
Webster. Just bullshit. I have a dead cop. If he was mixed up in something off,
I need to know.”

“I can't
discuss IAB business with you. It came to my attention that you've opened his
financials.”

She paused a
minute as her temper threatened to spike. “I can't discuss a homicide
investigation with you. And why would part of the procedure of that
investigation come to the attention of the Rat Squad?”

“Now you're
trying to piss me off.” He kept his composure, gave a little shrug. “I thought
I would give you a heads-up, unofficially and in a friendly manner, that the
department, as a whole, will be better off if this investigation is closed
quickly and quietly.”

“Was Kohli in
bed with Ricker?”

This time a
muscle jumped in Webster's cheek, but his voice stayed smooth. “I don't know
what you're talking about. Digging into Detective Kohli's financials is a dead
end, Dallas, and will upset his family. The man was killed off duty.”

“A man was
beaten to death. A cop. A woman's been widowed. Two children lost their father.
And it's supposed to matter less that it happened when he was off duty?”

“No.” He had
the grace or the wit to look uncomfortable. And then to look away. “That's just
the way it went down. That's all there is to it.”

“Don't tell me
how to do my job, Webster. Don't ever tell me how to conduct a homicide investigation.
You gave up cop work. I didn't.”

“Dallas.” He
caught up with her before she reached the curb again. He gripped her arm and
braced himself for the storm when she whirled on him.

Instead, she
met his eyes, her own cold, flat, empty. “Move your hand. Now.”

He complied,
slipping his into his pocket. “I'm just trying to tell you IAB wants this
closed quiet.”

“What makes
you think I give one good fuck about what IAB wants? You have something to say
to me regarding my investigation into the death of Detective Taj Kohli, you do
it in an official capacity. Don't tail me again, Webster. Not ever.”

She climbed
into her car, waited for a break in the mild traffic, and swung into a U-turn.

He watched her
cover the distance, then turn into the high gates of the world she lived in
now. He took three deep breaths, and when that didn't work, kicked viciously at
his own rear tire.

He hated what
he'd done. And more, he hated knowing he'd never really gotten over her.

CHAPTER THREE

She was
steaming when she barreled down the drive to the great stone house Roarke had
made his home. And hers.

So much, she
thought, for checking your work at the door. What the hell were you supposed to
do when it followed you to the damn threshold? Webster was up to something,
which meant there was an agenda here, and the agenda was IAB's.

Now she had to
calm herself down so she could filter out her annoyance at being waylaid by
him. It was more important to puzzle out what he'd been trying to tell her. And
more important yet, to calculate what he'd been so damn careful not to tell
her.

She left the
car at the end of the drive because she liked it there and because it annoyed
Roarke's majordomo, the consistently irritating Summerset.

She grabbed
her bag that held the files and was halfway up the steps when she stopped.
Deliberately, she blew out a long, cleansing breath, turned, and simply sat
down.

It was time to
try something new, she decided. Time to sit and enjoy the pleasant spring
evening, enjoy the gorgeous simplicity of the flowering trees and shrubs that
spread over the lawn, speared into the sky. She'd lived here for more than a
year now and rarely, very rarely took time to see. Time to appreciate what
Roarke had built or the style with which he'd built it

The house itself
with its sweeps and turrets and dazzling expanses of glass was a monument to
taste, wealth, and elegant comfort. There were too many rooms to count filled
with art, antiques, and every pleasure and convenience a man could make for
himself.

But the grounds,
she thought, were another level. This was a man who needed room, who demanded
it. And commanded it. At the same time, he was a man who could appreciate the
simple appeal of a flower that would bloom and fade with its season.

He'd decorated
his grounds with those flowers, with trees that would outlive both of them,
with shrubs that spread and fountained. And closed it all away with the high
stone walls, the iron gates, and the rigid security that kept the city outside.

But it was
still there, the city, sniffing around the edges like a hungry, restless dog.

That was part
of it. Part of the duality of Roarke. And, she supposed, of her.

He'd grown up
in the alleys and tenements of Dublin and had done whatever was necessary to
survive. She'd lost her childhood, and the flickers of memory, the images of
what had been, of what she'd done to escape, haunted the woman she'd become.

His buffer
against yesterday was money, power, control. Hers was a badge. There was little
either of them wouldn't do, hadn't done, to keep that buffer in place. But
somehow, together, they were ... normal, she decided. They'd made a marriage
and a home.

That was why
she could sit on the steps of that home, with the ugliness of her day smearing
her heart, look at blossoms dancing in the breeze. And wait for him.

She watched
the long, black car slide quietly toward the house. Waited while Roarke climbed
out the back, had a word with his driver. As the car drove off, he walked to
her in that way he had, with his eyes on her face. She'd never had anyone look
at her as he did. As if nothing else and no one else existed.

No matter how
many times he did so, just that long, focused look made her heart flutter.

He sat beside
her, set his briefcase aside, leaned back as she was.

“Hi,” she
said.

“Hi. Lovely
evening.”

“Yeah. The
flowers look good.”

“They do, yes.
The renewal of spring. A cliche, but true enough, as most cliches are.” He ran
a hand over her hair. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.
That's out of character for you, darling Eve.”

“It's an
experiment.” She crossed her scarred boots at the ankles. “I'm seeing if I can
leave work at Central.”

“And how are
you doing?”

“I've pretty
much failed.” Still with her head back, she closed her eyes and tried to
recapture some of it. “I was doing okay with it on the drive home. I saw
Mavis's billboard.”

“Ah yes.
Fairly spectacular.”

“You didn't
tell me about it.”

“It just went
up today. I figured you'd see it on your way home and thought it would be a
nice surprise.”

“It was.” And
remembering brought her smile back. “I nearly clipped a glide-cart, and I was
sitting there, grinning at it, about to call her, but I had a transmission come
through.”

“So work
intruded.”

“More or less.
It was Webster.” Because the smile was gone again, and she was scowling at the
trees, she didn't notice the slight tension in Roarke's body. “Don Webster from
Internal Affairs.”

“Yes, I
remember who he is. What did he want?”

“I'm trying to
figure that out. He called on my personal and asked for a private meet.”

“Did he?” Roarke
murmured, his voice deceptively mild.

“He went out
of his way for it, tailed me from Central. I met up with him just down the
block from here, and after he got finished trying to make nice, he started a
song and dance on the Kohli case.”

Just thinking
about it again got her blood boiling. “Tells me how IAB wants it put away
quiet, doesn't like the idea that I'm going to look into Kohli's financials.
But he won't confirm or deny anything. Claims it's just a friendly, unofficial
heads-up.”

“And do you believe
him?”

“No, but I
don't know what he's feeding me. And I don't like IAB's sticky fingers poking
into my case files.”

“The man has a
personal interest in you.”

“Webster?” She
looked over now, surprised. “No, he doesn't. We blew off some steam one night
years back. That's the beginning and end of it.”

For you,
perhaps, Roarke thought, but let it
go.

“Anyway, I
can't figure if the meet was really about Kohli or if it's more about the
Ricker connection.”

“Max Ricker?”

“Yeah.” Her
eyes sharpened. “You know him. I should've figured that.”

“We've met.
What's the connection?”

“Kohli worked
on the task force that busted Ricker about six months back. He wasn't a key
player, and Ricker slithered through, but it had to cost him a lot of time and
money. Could be Ricker put out contracts and is getting some of his own back by
whacking cops.”

“What I saw in
Purgatory today didn't seem like Ricker's style.”

“I don't
figure he'd want his fingerprints on it.”

“There's
that.” Roarke was silent for a moment. “You want to know if I ever did business
with him.”

“I'm not
asking you that.”

“Yes, you
are.” He took her hand, kissed it lightly, then got to his feet. “Let's have a
walk.”

“I brought
work home with me.” She let him pull her up, smiled. “So much for the experiment.
I should get to it.”

“You'll work
better if we clear this up.” He kept her hand in his, started across the lawn.

The breeze had
shaken some of the petals from the trees so they lay like pink and white
snowdrops on the green. Flowers, banks of them she couldn't name, flowed out of
beds in soft, blurry blues and shimmering whites. The light was beginning to
go, softening the air. She caught drifts of fragile perfumes, country sweet.

He bent,
snapped off a tulip, its cup as perfect as something sculpted from white wax,
handed it to her.

“I haven't
seen or dealt with Max Ricker in a number of years. But there was a time we had
business of sorts.”

She held the
tulip and heard the city sniffing at the gates. “What kind of business?”

He stopped,
tipped her head back so their eyes met. Then saw, with regret, that hers were
troubled. “First, let me say that even one with my ... let's call it eclectic
palate ... hasn't the taste for certain activities. Murder for hire being one
of those. I never killed for him, Eve, nor for that matter, for anyone but
myself.”

She nodded
again. “Let's not go there, not now.”

“All right.”

But they'd
come too far to shy away now. She walked with him. “Illegals?”

“There was a
time in the beginning of my career, I couldn't... No,” he corrected, knowing
that honesty was vital. “When I wasn't particularly selective in the products I
handled. Yes, I dealt in illegals from time to time, and some of those dealings
involved Ricker and his organization. The last time we associated was ...
Christ, more than ten years back. I didn't care for his business practices, and
I'd reached a point where I wasn't obliged to negotiate with those who didn't
appeal to me.”

“Okay.”

“Eve.” He kept
his hand on her face, his eyes on hers. “When I met you, most of my business
was legitimate. I made that choice long ago because it suited me. After you, I
dispensed with or reconstructed those interests left that were questionable. I
did that because I knew it would suit you.”

“You don't
have to tell me what I already know.”

“I think I do,
just now. There's little I wouldn't do for you. But I can't, and I wouldn't,
change my past, or what brought me here.”

She looked
down at the tulip, perfect and pure. Then back up at him. Not pure, God knew,
but for her, perfect. “I wouldn't want you to change anything.” She put her
hands on his shoulders. “We're okay.”

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

Later, after
they'd shared dinner where they were both careful not to discuss his business
or hers, Eve settled down in her home office and began to study the data on Taj
and Patsy Kohli's financials.

She came at
them from several different angles, drank three cups of coffee, reached certain
conclusions, then rose. She knocked briefly on the door that adjoined her work
space to Roarke's, then stepped inside.

He was at his
console, and from what she could gather, he was talking to someone in Tokyo. He
held up a hand, out of the range of his screen, in a signal for her to wait.

“I regret that
projection will not meet my needs at this time, Fumi-san.”

“The
projection is, of course, preliminary and negotiable.” The voice through his
desk-link was precise and cool, but no cooler, Eve thought, than her husband's
mild and polite expression.

“Then perhaps
we should discuss it further when the figures are no longer preliminary.”

“I would be
honored to discuss the matter with you, Roarke-san, in person. It is the
feeling of my associates that such a delicate negotiation would be better
served in this way. Tokyo is lovely in the spring. Perhaps you will visit my
city, at our expense, of course, some time in the near future.”

“I regret that
such a trip, as appealing as it may be, is impossible, given my current
schedule. However, I would be happy to meet with you, and any of your
associates, in New York. If this is possible for you, you have only to contact
my administrator. She will be delighted to assist you in any travel
arrangements.”

There was a
slight pause. “Thank you for your gracious invitation. I will consult with my
associates and contact you through your administrator as soon as possible.”

“I look forward
to it. Domo, Fumi-san.”

“What are you
buying now?” Eve asked.

“That remains
to be seen, but how do you feel about owning a Japanese baseball team?”

“I like
baseball,” Eve said after a moment.

“Well then.
What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“If you're busy
buying sports teams, it can wait.”

“I'm not
buying anything, at least not until negotiations are completed.” The wolf came
into his eyes. “And on my turf.”

“Okay, first a
question. If I were to refuse to discuss any part of my work with you, or my
professional business, what would you do?”

“Slap you
around, of course.” He rose, amused, when she laughed. “But, I imagine we can
both be spared that unhappy event as the question doesn't apply. So, why do you
ask it?”

“Let me put it
another way, since I'm so terrified of being slapped around. Can two people be
married, live in the same house, have a solid marriage, and one of them have no
clue about the other's outside business?”

When he merely
lifted his eyebrows, she swore. “You don't apply. Nobody could keep up with
your outside business. Besides, I know stuff you do. You buy everything you can
get your hands on and manufacture and sell almost every product known to
humankind. And right now, you're considering buying a Japanese ball team. See?”

“My God, my
life's an open book.” He came around the desk. “But to go back to your
question, yes, I suppose it's possible for people to live together and not know
the thrust, or at least the intricacies of the other's work or outside
interests. What if I liked to fish?”

“To fish?”

“As an
example. We'll hypothesize that fishing is a passion of mine, and I often
toddle off for a wild weekend of dry fly fishing in Montana. Would you pay
attention to my recitation of every cast and catch upon my return?”

“To fish?” she
repeated and made him laugh.

“And there you
have my point. So, yes to your question. Now, why do you ask?”

“Just tying to
get a picture. Anyway, since you might be tempted to belt me -- and then I'd
have to take you down -- I'm willing to share some of my professional business
with you. How about taking a look at something?”

“All right.
But you couldn't take me down.”

“Can and
have.”

“Only when you
cheat,” he said and walked by her into her office.

She'd left the
financials on the wall screen. Roarke eased a hip onto her desk, angled his
head, and scanned them.

Figures, they
both knew, were like breath to him. He simply drew them in.

“Standard
outlays for a typical middle-class lifestyle,” he commented. “Reasonable rent
payments, made in a timely fashion. Vehicle payments and maintenance costs,
garage fees are a little on the high side. They ought to shop around a bit.
Taxes, clothing, food, entertainment are a bit light. They don't get out much.
Deposits are regular bimonthly, which would coincide with salaries. You
certainly couldn't accuse this family of living over their incomes.”

“No, you
couldn't. Interesting though about the vehicle expenses. Seeing as Kohli had a
city unit and neither he nor his wife own a personal vehicle.”

“Is that so?”
Frowning, he re-focused. “So, there's some skimming or padding going on, but at
just under four thousand a month, it's hardly big time.”

“Every little
bit,” Eve murmured. “Now take a look at this. Investment account. College
funds, retirement, savings.” She flipped the screens and heard Roarke's quiet
“Ah.”

“Someone was
looking to the future. A half million in the past five months, and earning
decently. Though I'd advise a bit more diversity and more of the pie in growth
areas if college tuition is, indeed, the goal.”

“He won't be
needing a portfolio consult. A cop doesn't come up with a half million by
watching his pennies. He comes up with it by being dirty.”

With anger
simmering, she sat. “He was taking. The question is, from who and why. The
deposits and the accounts were down a couple of levels, but not buried deep,
not covered up so a full scan didn't pop them right out. Pretty damn cocky.”

She rose again
to pace. “Pretty damn cocky. I don't think he was stupid. I think he was just
sure of himself, sure he'd be covered.”

“If he hadn't
been killed, no one would have been looking at his financials,” Roarke pointed
out. “His lifestyle wasn't sending up red flags. He lived within his means.”

“Yeah, he did
his job, no more, no less. Went home at night to his pretty wife and pretty
kids, then got up the next morning and did it all over again. No flash. The
kind of cop nobody pays a lot of attention to and everybody likes. Nice guy,
quiet guy. But IAB was looking at him.”

She stopped in
front of the wall screen. “They were looking, and they knew about the take.
They don't want it coming out. Last time I looked, IAB didn't have a heart, so
it's not concern for his grieving widow. So who's covering whose ass?”

“Perhaps
they're simply being territorial. If they had him under investigation, they
want to close that internal business up themselves.”

“Yes, could
be. I wouldn't put it past them.” But it stuck in her craw. “Dirty or not, I've
got a dead cop. And he's mine.” She nodded at the screen. “I want to talk to Max
Ricker.”

“Lieutenant.”
Roarke moved behind her, rubbed her shoulders. “I have every confidence in your
abilities, your intellect, and your instincts. But Ricker is a dangerous man,
with a taste for the unpleasant. Particularly where women are involved. You'll
appeal to him on several levels, not the least of which is your connection to
me.”

“Really?” she
murmured and turned around.

“We didn't
sever our business association on the best of terms.”

“So, I can use
that. If he's interested, it'll be easier to wade through his lawyers and set
up a meet.”

“Let me do
it.”

“No.”

“Stop and
think. I can get you to him quicker and more directly.”

“Not this
time, and not this way. You can't change your past,” she said, “and he's part
of that. But he's not part of your today.”

“He's part of
yours.”

“That's right.
Let's try to keep this, if not separate, sort of side by side. If he's part of
it, you'll probably know before I do, because you won't leave it alone. But
whatever kind of cop Kohli was, I'm the one standing for him now. I'll set up
the meet when the time's right.”

“Let me look
into it a bit first, then you'll have more in your pocket when you do.” And
he'd have more time to do what needed to be done to keep her away from Ricker.

“Go ahead and
look.” But she was careful not to agree. “Tell me what you know about him. Give
me an inside track.”

Troubled,
Roarke walked away, poured a brandy. “He's very smooth, educated, and can be
charming when it suits him. He's quite vain and enjoys the company of beautiful
women. When they please him, he can be very generous. When they displease him
...”

Roarke turned,
swirling the brandy. “He can and will be brutal. He's the same with his
employees and associates. I once saw him slit the throat of a servant over a
chipped wine goblet.”

“It's hard to
get good help these days.”

“Isn't it? His
main income is through the manufacture and distribution of illegals on a wide
scale, but he also dabbles in weapons, assassinations, and sex. He has several
high-placed officials in his pocket, which keeps him protected. Within an hour
of your contact with him, he'll know whatever there is to know about you. He'll
know, Eve, things you would prefer no one knew.”

Her gut
clenched, but she nodded. “I can handle that. Does he have family?”

“He had a
brother. Rumor is Ricker dispensed with him over some sibling dispute. In any
case, his body was never discovered. He has a son about my age, perhaps a few
years younger. Alex. I never met him as he was living primarily in Germany when
I had dealings with Ricker. Word is he's kept close, and insulated.”

“Weaknesses?”

“Vanity,
arrogance, greed. So far, he's been able to indulge himself in all three with
relative impunity. But over the last year or so, there've been rumors. Quiet,
very cautious ones, that his mental health is deteriorating, and as a result,
some of his businesses are in mild distress. That's one of the avenues I'll
explore more carefully.”

“If he's
involved in Kohli's death, that impunity ends. If he's mentally defective, it
won't keep him out of a cage. Do you figure he'll agree to meet me if I make an
approach?”

“He'll see you
because he'll be curious. And if you take a shot at him, he'll never forget it.
He's cold, Eve, and he's patient. If he has to wait a year, ten years, to
circle back to you, he will.”

“Then if I
take a shot at him, I'll have to make it count.”

More, Roarke
thought as he finished his brandy. If she went after Ricker, Ricker would have
to die.

He, too, could
be cold. And patient.

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

She turned to
him in the night. It was rare for her to do so unless the dreams were chasing
her. When she slept, she slept deep and unprotected. Perhaps she knew he needed
it, needed to feel her wrapped around him in the dark, the intimacy of it that
stated more truly than words what they'd come to be to each other.

Her mouth
found his, offered, while her hands roamed up the solid length of his back,
down again to his hips.

They shifted
on the wide bed, a tangle of limbs, of warm flesh, of breath beginning to
quicken with each touch.

The taste of
her -- lips, throat, breasts -- filled him, as it always did, even as it
stirred hunger for more. Her heartbeat under his hand, under his mouth, and her
first sign of pleasure trailed off into a quiet moan.

She arched
against him, strength and surrender. Opened for him, invitation and demand.

He slipped
inside her -- hot and wet and waiting -- and it was he who moaned as she closed
around him. Shadows in the dark, their bodies rose and fell together, a slow,
silky rhythm to draw out the night.

Pleasuring
her, pleasuring himself, he slipped his hands under her hips, lifted her. Gave
her more.

She locked
herself around him, rode the edge. And when she felt herself begin to fall, she
said his name.

He lifted his
head, saw the gleam of her eyes, open, on him. “Eve,” he said, and let himself
fall with her.

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

Into the
night, in the dark, he lay beside her, listening to her breathe. He knew the
varied and sundry reasons a man would kill. But none were more fierce, none
were more vital than to hold safe what he loved.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lieutenant
Alan Mills caught Eve on her communicator as she was grabbing her second cup of
coffee. Her first thought was that he looked as though he could have used a
good jolt of caffeine himself.

His eyes were
sleepy and irritable, a watery gray in a pale face.

“Dallas.
Mills, here. You looking for me.”

“That's right.
I'm primary on the Kohli homicide.”

“Son of a
bitch.” Mills snorted, sniffed. “I'd like a piece of the dickweed who did
Kohli. What have you got?”

“This and
that.” She wasn't about to share investigative data with a man who looked like
he'd yet to roll out of bed and had probably rolled into it with a little
chemical enhancement, not strictly departmentally approved. “You and a
Detective Martinez worked with Kohli on a task force over the past year. Max
Ricker.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
Mills rubbed his face. She could actually hear the scrub brush sound of his
stubble against his palm. “Him and about a dozen other cops, and the slick
bastard still oozed through the cracks. You think Ricker's tied to this?”

“I'm covering
my bases here. I need a picture of Kohli, then maybe I'll get a picture of his
killer. You got some time this morning, Mills, maybe you could hook Martinez
and meet me at the crime scene. I'd appreciate any input.”

“I heard the
case was being transferred to our house.”

“You heard
wrong.”

He seemed to
digest this information and not find it particularly to his liking. “Kohli was
one of ours.”

“And now he's
mine. I'm asking for some cooperation on this. Are you going to give it to me?”

“I want a look
at the scene anyway. When?”

“No time like
the present. I'll be at Purgatory in twenty minutes.”

“I'll round up
Martinez. Probably still taking her siesta. She's a Mex.”

He ended
transmission and left Eve regarding her communicator thoughtfully before she
stuck it in her trouser pocket. “Gee, Mills. Nobody told me you were a complete
and total asshole. Go figure.”

“The asshole
is still going to want to prove he has harder balls than you,” Roarke
commented. He'd stopped scanning the morning stock reports to watch her handle
her colleague.

“Yeah, I got
that.”

She snagged
her weapon harness, strapped it on in a way, Roarke thought, another woman
clipped on earrings. He rose, slid a finger down the dent in her chin. “He'll
find out, very shortly, he's wrong. No one has harder balls than you,
Lieutenant.”

She checked
her weapon, settled it. “Is that a compliment or a dig?”

“An
observation. I'd like to take another look at the scene myself -- for insurance
purposes.”

For insurance
purposes her ass, Eve thought. “Not today, pal. But I'll try to clear it for
you by tomorrow.”

“As property
owner, I'm entitled to an on-site scan to determine damage costs.”

“As primary in
a homicide investigation, I'm entitled to seal and preserve the crime scene
until I'm satisfied all evidence has been gathered.”

“The sweep was
completed yesterday afternoon, and the scene was fully recorded.” He reached
down to the table in the sitting area of the bedroom, lifted a file disc. “At
this point, the property owner is allowed admittance, in the company of a
police representative and his insurance agent, to estimate repair and
replacement costs. The memo from my attorney on the matter, Lieutenant.”

She snatched
the disc he offered. “Now who's rattling their balls,” she muttered and made
him grin. “Maybe I don't have time for you this morning.”

He strolled to
his closet, selected a suit jacket from the vast forest of his wardrobe. She
had never figured out how he knew what went with what when there was so damn
much to choose from.

“Maybe you'll
have to make time. I'll ride with you. I've made arrangements to be picked up
at the club when I'm finished there.”

“You had this
set up before you got home last night.”

“Hmmm.” He
moved to her closet, found the gray vest that matched her trousers. If she'd
thought to look for it herself, it would have taken her an hour not to find it.
“It's cool out this morning,” he said as he handed it to her.

“You think
you're slick, don't you?”

“Yes.” He bent
down, kissed her, deftly did up the vest buttons for her. “Ready?”

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

“You don't
talk to the other cops,” Eve warned as they approached the club.

“What in the
world would I have to say to them?” He continued to read and respond to
overnight correspondence on his PPC while she pulled to the curb.

“You don't go
anywhere on scene unless you're accompanied by me, Peabody, or an officer I
designate,” she continued. “And you take nothing -- that means nothing -- off
scene.”

“Are you
interested in a small summer home in Juno, Alaska?” He glanced at her, met her
narrowed eyes. “No, I see you're not. I don't believe I am, either. Ah, here we
are.” He pocketed the mini-unit. “And we appear to be the first to arrive.”

“Roarke, no
funny business.”

“Fortunately,
I left my red rubber nose at the office.” He climbed out of the car. “Shall I
open it for you?” He gestured at the police seal on the club's entrance door.

“Don't start
with me.” Struggling not to rise to the bait, she strode to the door, uncoded
the seal. “If you screw around, I promise I'm calling a couple of big, burly
uniforms and having them remove you from the scene.”

“But darling,
it's so much more arousing when the police brutality comes from you.”

“Keep it up,
smart guy.” She shoved open the door. The light was dim through the windows,
and she could still smell the unpleasant aroma of spilled liquor and stale
blood that mixed with the chemical stench of sweeper dust.

“Lights on,”
she ordered. “Main bar area.”

Those that
were still operational brightened and cast a cool white light over the
destruction.

“Doesn't look
any better today, does it?” Roarke scanned the room, felt the little stir of
temper.

“Close the
door.” She said it quietly, took a breath, and did what she did best. She put
herself in the middle of murder.

“He comes in,
after closing. He's been here before. He has to know the place, the setup, the
security. Maybe he worked here, but if he did, and was on last night, he left
with everyone else. Nobody's going to tag him as being alone here with Kohli.”

She moved
around and through the debris, toward the bar. “He sits down, asks for a drink.
Friendly, casual. They've got business to discuss, something to talk over. That
needs privacy.”

“Why doesn't
he have Kohli disarm the security cameras?” Roarke asked.

“He's not
worried about the cameras. He's going to take care of them. After. Just a
friendly after-hours drink, a little conversation. Nothing that's going to set
off Kohli's cop vibes. If he had any. Kohli gets himself a beer, stays behind
the bar. He's comfortable. Eats some nuts. He knows this guy. They've probably
had a drink together before.”

She glanced
up, checking out the locations of the cameras. “Kohli's not worried about the
security cams either. So either they're not talking about anything that's going
to jam him, or he has turned them off. All the while, this guy's sitting here
thinking about how to make his move. He comes behind the bar, helps himself to
a drink this time.”

She walked
behind the bar, seeing it in her head. Kohli, big, strong and alive, wearing
his Purgatory uniform. Black shirt, black slacks. Sipping at a beer, popping
some bar nuts.

“The blood's
pounding in his head, and his heart's thumping like a drum, but he doesn't let
it show. Maybe he makes a joke, asks Kohli to get something. Just enough to
make him turn his back for an instant. Long enough for him to grab the bat and
swing.”

A second, she
thought, no more. No more than that to close a hand around the bat, jerk it
free. Swing.

“The first
crack of it sings up his arms, right into the shoulders. Blood sprays, and
Kohli's face smashes into the glass. Bottles crash, and it's like an explosion.

“An
explosion,” she repeated, with her eyes slitted, flat. “That screams in his
head. It makes his blood swim, pump, boosts the adrenaline. He turned the
corner now, no going back. He swings the second time, into the face. It's good
to see Kohli's face, the pain and the shock in it when he takes him out. The
third swing does the job, cracks his head wide open. Blood and brains. But it's
not enough.”

She lifted her
hands, fisted them one over the other like a batter waiting for a clutch pitch.
“He wants to obliterate. He strikes again and again, and the sound of snaps and
crunches when bones go is like music. Raging through him. He tastes blood. His
breath's whistling. When he pulls himself back, pulls back just enough to think
again, he gets Kohli's shield out of the pocket, tosses it down in the blood.
That means something, blood on the shield, then he rolls the body on top of
it.”

She stopped a
moment, thinking. “He's covered with blood. His hands, his clothes, his shoes.
But there aren't any signs of it in the rest of the club. He changed. He had
the sense to clean up first. The sweepers found traces of Kohli's blood, skin,
brain matter in the drain of the bar sink.”

She turned,
looking at the bowl, covered with powder now, under the bar. “He washed up
right here, with the body behind him. Cold. Stone cold. Then he took care of
business, went around smashing everything. Made a real party out of it.
Celebrate. But he's still got his wits. He tosses the bat with Kohli behind the
bar. Here's what I've done, and here's how I did it. Then he takes the security
discs and walks away.”

“Do you know
what it takes to put that kind of image inside your own head, Lieutenant?
Courage. An amazing level of courage.”

“I'm just
doing what has to be done.”

“No.” Roarke
laid a hand over hers, found it cold. “You do a great deal more.”

“Don't
sidetrack me.” She drew away because she was cold, and faintly
embarrassed. “Anyway, it's just a theory.”

“A damn good
one. You made me see it. Blood on the shield. If you're right about that
meaning something, he was probably killed because he was a cop.”

“Yeah. That's
what I keep circling back to.”

She glanced
over as the door opened. She recognized Mills right away, though he was bigger
than she'd assumed, and most of the big had run to fat.

Didn't take
advantage of the department's physical fitness program, she thought, or the
break they were given on body sculpting.

The woman
beside him was small and lean, built for action. Her skin had the olive cast
that always made Eve think of sun-baked countries. Her hair was black and
glossy and tamed back into a long sleek tail. Her eyes were nearly as dark and
seemed to snap with vibrancy.

Beside her,
Mills looked like an overfed, sloppy mongrel.

“Word came
down it was bad.” Martinez's voice was clipped and faintly exotic. “But it's
worse.” Her eyes skimmed over Roarke, lingered an instant, then locked on Eve.
“You'd be Lieutenant Dallas.”

“That's
right.” Eve moved back across the room. “Thanks for coming down. The civilian's
the property owner.”

With barely a
nod in acknowledgement, Mills lumbered to the bar. He moved like a bear. An
overfed one. “Bought it back here, huh? Shitty way to die.”

“Most ways are
crap.” Martinez turned to the door, fingers dancing a little too quickly for
Eve's taste toward her side arm.

“My aide,” Eve
said when Peabody stepped in. “Officer Peabody, Detective Martinez and
Lieutenant Mills.” With a slight shift of her body, she tapped a finger to her
collar, then turned back to follow Martinez to the bar.

Recognizing
the signal, Peabody clipped on her recorder and engaged.

“How long did
you know Kohli?” Eve asked.

“Me, a couple
of years. I transferred to the One two-eight from Brooklyn.” She looked down at
the mess murder had left behind. “The lieutenant knew him longer.”

“Yeah, since
he came in rookie. Spit and polish and by the book. Did some military time and
brought that with him. He was a one-shift wonder.”

“Give him a
break, Mills,” Martinez muttered. “We're standing in his goddamn blood here.”

“Hey, just
saying it like it was. The guy did his shift, clocked out. Couldn't get an
extra minute out of him without it being a direct order from the captain. But
he did his job while he was on.”

“How'd he get
picked for the Ricker team?”

“Martinez
wanted him.” Mills shook his head at the mess behind the bar. “Last cop I'd've
figured for getting taken out. I'da made book he'd have done his twenty-five
and spent his retirement building birdhouses or some shit.”

“I tagged him
for the task force,” Martinez confirmed. She angled her body away from Mills in
a way that told Eve the detective wanted distance from the lieutenant. Bad. “I
was head investigator under Lieutenant Mills. Kohli was a detail freak. He
never missed a word. You had him on surveillance, you got a report that
described everything he saw for four hours, down to the garbage in the gutter.
He had good eyes.”

She frowned at
the blood splatter. “If you're thinking Ricker ordered a hit on him, I can't
see it. Kohli was background, he was a drone on that investigation. He was in
on the bust, but he didn't do anything but record the scene. I took Ricker
down, for all the fucking good it did.”

“Kohli was the
one with the details,” Eve said. “Anyway, some of those details could've gotten
through to Ricker, helped him slide?”

There was a
long pause. Eve saw Martinez's eyes meet Mills's before they both turned toward
her. “I don't like what I'm hearing coming out of your mouth, Dallas.”

Mills's tone
was a jagged threat, like rusted metal in a sweaty hand. Out of the corner of
her eye, Eve saw Roarke shift, and damn it, Peabody as well. She took a step
forward as if to shake off the guard dogs. “What you're hearing coming out of
my mouth is standard.”

“Yeah, for
some half-ass or lowlife who ends up in a bag. It's not fucking standard for a
cop. Kohli carried a badge same as you, same as me. Where do you come off
saying he was dirty?”

“I didn't say
he was.”

“Hell you
didn't.” Mills jabbed a finger at her. “You start heading down that road,
Dallas, you won't get any help from me. This is why the case belongs in our
house and not with some bitch down at Central.”

“The case is
with some bitch down at Central, Mills. Live with it.” At her easy response,
Eve thought she caught Martinez biting back a grin. “The question has to be
asked, I asked it. I still haven't heard the answer.”

“Fuck you.
There's your answer.”

“Mills,”
Martinez murmured. “Take it down.”

“And fuck
that, too.” He rounded on her. His fists were clenched, and the blood had
surged to his face. “Goddamn skirts don't belong on the job anyway. You go
ahead and play with Whitney's pet cunt, Martinez, and see where it gets you. No
cop turns on another, no matter what he was, and gets by me.”

With a last vicious
look at Eve, he stalked out.

Martinez
cleared her throat, scratched her head. “The lieutenant has a problem working
with women and minorities.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. So you
shouldn't take it more personal than that. Look, the Ricker deal was mine, and
Kohli was a straight arrow. That's one of the reasons I tagged him for some of
the drone work. I don't like your question either, but I figure it's like you
said. It had to be asked. Kohli may not have been one to go the extra mile, but
he respected his badge. He liked being a cop, standing for the law and order
thing. I can't see him going on the take, Lieutenant. Just doesn't fit.”

It depended,
Eve thought, on where you put the pieces. “What did Mills mean, no matter what
he was.”

“On Kohli?”
Her eyes sparkled with what might have been humor or temper. “Meaning Kohli was
black. Mills is of the opinion the only real cop is male and white and hetero.
Personality-wise, Mills is pretty much a flaming asshole.”

Eve waited
until Martinez left. “You get all that, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Record off.
Make a copy for my file, keep the other under wraps. Walk Roarke through the
place so he can get his damage report. You've got fifteen minutes,” she told
him. “Then you're out, and the place is sealed until I say different.”

“She's lovely
when she's annoyed, isn't she, Peabody?”

“I've always
thought so.”

“Fourteen
minutes,” Eve warned. “And counting.”

“Why don't we
start at the top?” He offered Peabody his arm. “And work our way down.”

When they were
out of earshot, she pulled out her communicator and called Feeney in the
Electronic Detective Division. “I need a favor,” she said the minute his worn
and weary face floated on-screen.

“If it ties to
the cop killing, we won't count it. Every man in my unit'll put in whatever
time you need on it. Son of a bitch thinks he can get off with doing a cop like
that, he's gonna find out different, and the hard way.”

Eve waited
until he'd run down. “Switch this transmission to privacy mode, would you?”

Feeney frowned
but made the switch and slipped on his headset. “What's the deal?”

“You're not
going to like it. Let's clear that up front so you don't have to give me grief
on it. I need you to run two cops for me. Lieutenant Alan Mills and Detective
Julianna Martinez, both in Illegals out of the One twenty-eight.”

“I don't like
it.”

“I need a
quiet run, Feeney. I don't want any flags going up.”

His already
mournful face dropped into sags. “I especially don't like it.”

“I'm sorry to
ask. I'd do it myself, but you can do it faster and quieter.” She glanced up to
where Roarke and Peabody walked along the top level. “I don't like it either,
but I've got to open the door before I can close it.”

Though he was
alone in his office, Feeney lowered his voice. “You just looking, Dallas, or
are you looking for dirt?”

“I can't fill
you in now, but I've got too many connections to ignore. Do this for me,
Feeney, and when it's done, let me know. We'll hook up somewhere, and I'll
bring you up to date.”

“I know Mills.
He's an asshole.”

“Yeah, I've
had the pleasure.”

“But I can't
see him dirty, Dallas.”

“That's the
problem, isn't it? We never want to see it.”

She pocketed
the communicator, righted a bar stool, and sat. In her notebook she began
listing names, putting Kohli's in the center with arrows out to Ricker,
connecting his with Mills and theirs with Martinez. She added Roth, curving a
line to all, then in the bottom corner she added Webster. IAB.

She arrowed
his to Kohli and wondered if she would be connecting him to anyone else before
it was done.

Then, because
it had to be done, she added Roarke, hooked him to Kohli and to Ricker. And
hoped to God that would be the end of it.

Death, she
thought, left a picture, told a story, from both the victim's and the killer's
point of view. The scene itself, the body, the method, time and place, what was
left behind, what was taken away. They were all part of the story.

Illegals, she thought, continuing to scribble in her book. Blood
on the shield. Overkill. Strippers. Missing security discs. Vice. Sex? Money.
Thirty credit chips.

She continued
to make notes, frown over them as Roarke and Peabody worked their way back to
her. “Why the credit chips?” she asked out loud. “Because he died for money?
Not to make it look like a robbery. Another symbol? Blood money. Why thirty
chips?”

“Thirty pieces
of silver,” Roarke said, watching Eve's blank stare. “Your state education,
Lieutenant, wouldn't have included Bible study. Judas was paid thirty pieces of
silver for betraying Christ.”

“Thirty pieces
of silver.” It clicked with her, and she nodded as she pushed to her feet. “We
can figure Kohli stands for Judas. But who's standing as Jesus?” She scanned
the scene one last time. “Time's up,” she told Roarke. “You'll want to call
your ride.”

“He'll be
outside by now.” Roarke opened the door himself, holding it. As Eve moved by
him, he caught her, yanked her against him and closed his mouth warmly over
hers. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.”

“Oh man, he
can really kiss.” Peabody all but sang it as Roarke strolled to the limo
waiting at the curb. “You can tell, just by watching him do it, he's a
seriously excellent kisser.”

“Just stop
imagining he was kissing you.”

“I can't.”
Peabody rubbed her lips together as Eve re-sealed the door. “And I can tell
you, that one's going to get me through the day and into the night.”

“You've got
your own men now.”

“Not the
same.” Peabody sighed as she trudged to Eve's car. “Just nowhere near the same.
Where are we going?”

“To see a
stripper.”

“Tell me it's
a male stripper and my day is made.”

“You're doomed
to disappointment.”

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

Nancie lived
in an attractive prewar building on Lexington. There were window boxes spilling
with flowers on several of the upper levels, and a cheerful-faced uniformed
doorman gave Eve a dazzling grin when she held up her badge.

“I hope
there's no trouble, Lieutenant Dallas, ma'am. If there's anything I can do, you
just let me know.”

“Thanks, I
think we can handle it.”

“I bet he
makes tons in tips,” Peabody commented as they entered the small, dignified
lobby. “Great smile, nice butt. What else could you ask for in a doorman?”

She studied
the lobby with its discreet name plaques, polished brass elevator, and
attractive arrangement of spring flowers. “I never figured a place like this
for a nude dancer. It's more like what you'd think of for upper-level office
drones and junior execs. I wonder what she makes a year.”

“Thinking of
switching professions?”

“Yeah, right.”
Peabody snorted as they stepped onto the elevator. “Guys are lining up to see
me naked. Though McNab -- “

“Don't go
there. I just can't take it.” Eve hurried off the elevator on six, made a
beeline for apartment C. She was relieved when the door opened promptly and cut
off any idea Peabody might have harbored about finishing the statement.

“Nancie
Gaynor?”

“Yes.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, NYPSD. Can we come in and speak with you?”

“Oh, sure.
This is about Taj.”

Nancie fit the
image of the apartment. Tidy, attractive and pretty as a sunbeam. She was
young, mid-twenties by Eve's estimation, and cute as a damn button with a
curling mop of golden hair, doll-baby lips painted rosy pink, and huge green
eyes. The buttercup-yellow skin suit she wore showed off her talent and still
managed to look sweet.

She stepped
back into the room on bare feet, leaving a faint trace of lilies in the air.

“I'm just sick
about it,” she began. “Just sick. Rue called us all yesterday to tell us.”
Those big eyes filled, swam like irrigated green fields. I just can't believe something
like this could happen at Purgatory.”

She made a
helpless gesture toward a long, curving sofa covered in velvety pink fabric and
an avalanche of shimmering pillows. “I guess we'd better sit down. Should I get
you something, like to drink?”

“No, don't
bother. Do you mind if we record this conversation, Miss Gaynor?”

“Oh. Oh.
Golly.” Nancie bit her pretty bottom lip, clasped her hands together between
her truly spectacular breasts. “I guess not. Are you supposed to?”

“With your
permission.” A stripper who said golly, was all Eve could think. Just
when you'd thought you'd seen it all.

“Okay, gee. I
want to help if I can. But we can sit down, right? Because I guess I'm a little
nervous. I've never been involved in a murder case. I was questioned once, right
after I moved here from Utumwa, because my roommate, she was an LC, and she'd
let her license lapse, but I'm sure it was just an oversight. Anyway, I talked
to the officer in charge of the licensing committee and all. But that was
different.”

Eve just
blinked. “Utumwa?”

“Iowa. I moved
here from Iowa four years ago. I was hoping maybe to be a dancer on Broadway.”
She smiled a little. “I guess girls move here thinking stuff like that all the
time. I'm really a pretty good dancer, but well, so are a lot of other girls,
and it can be pretty expensive to live here, so I took a job in a club. It
wasn't a very nice club,” she confided, blinking those big eyes. “And I was
getting pretty scared and discouraged and thinking maybe I should just go back
to Iowa and marry Joey, but he's sort of a cluck, you know, and then Rue came
in to catch my act and got me a job at this better club. It was nice, and the
pay was much better, and the customers didn't paw at you. Then when Rue went to
Purgatory, she took some of us with her. That's a really classy club. I just
want you to know that. Nothing hinky-dink goes on there.”

“Hinky-dink,”
Eve repeated, slightly dazed by the tumble of words and information. “I
appreciate you telling me all that.”

“Oh, I want to
help.” Nancie leaned forward, leading with her eyes. “Rue said if any of us
knew anything, we should contact you. Lieutenant Eve Dallas. And that we should
answer all your questions and do whatever we could, because, well, it's the
right thing and you're married to Roarke. He owns Purgatory.”

“I heard that
somewhere.”

“Oh gee, I'd
answer the questions even if you weren't married to Roarke. I mean, it's my
civic duty and all, and Taj was a really nice guy. He respected your privacy,
you know? Even in a classy club, some of the staff can take peeks when they're
not supposed to. But you could walk right in front of Taj naked as a jay, and
he never looked. I mean he looked because you were right there, but he never looked.
He had a wife and kids, and was a real family man.”

How did you
shut this one off? Eve wondered.
“Miss Gaynor -- “

“Oh, you can
call me Nancie.”

“Fine, Nancie,
you were working last night. Was a dancer named Mitzi also on?”

“Sure. We work
pretty much the same schedule. Mitzi left kind of early last night. She was
blue, you know, because that asshole -- excuse my French -- of a boyfriend
dumped her for some sky waitress. She kept breaking down and crying in the
dressing room because like, well, he was the love of her life and all and was
going to marry her and buy a house in Queens. I think, or maybe it was
Brooklyn, and then -- “

“Miss Gaynor.”

“I guess that
doesn't matter, huh?” she said with a cheery smile. “Anyway, Rue took her home.
Rue's really good at taking care of us dancers. She used to be one. Maybe I
should call Mitzi and see how she's doing.”

“I'm sure
she'd appreciate that.” A tangle of information it might have been, Eve
thought, but it corroborated Rue MacLean's alibi. “Why don't you tell me about
the last time you saw Taj.”

“Okay.” Nancie
sat back, wiggled her butt into the cushions, and folded her hands, tidy as a
schoolgirl, in her lap. “I had two shows that night, plus the two group dances,
and three private performances, so I was kind of busy. On my first break, I saw
Taj eating a chicken sandwich. I said, 'Hey, Taj, that looks good enough to
eat.' You know, like a joke, because you make a sandwich to eat it.”

“Ha,” Eve
managed.

“So he laughed
a little and said that it was, and that his wife had made it for him. I got a
soda pop, a Cherry Fizz, and said how I'd see him later because I had to go
change costumes.”

“Did you talk
about anything else?”

“No, just his
chicken sandwich. Then I went back to change, and the dressing room was a real
zoo. One of the girls, that's Dottie, couldn't find her red wig, and like I
told you, Mitzi -- “

“Yes, we
covered Mitzi.”

“Uh-huh. One
of the other girls, I think it was Charmaine, was telling Mitzi how she should
say good riddance, which only made Mitzi cry harder, so Wilhimena, who used to
be a guy but opted for the sex change, told her to shut up. Charmaine, I mean,
not Mitzi. And everybody was running around because we had a group dance coming
up. So we did that, the group dance, then I had a private. I saw Taj working
the bar, and I waved.”

Her ears were
going to start ringing in a minute. Eve was sure of it. “Was he talking to
anyone in particular?”

“Not that I
noticed. He had a way of working the bar so everybody had their drink and
didn't get all huffy. So I did the private for this businessman from Toledo. He
said it was his birthday, but sometimes they say stuff like that so you'll do
extra, but Rue doesn't want any of the dancers doing extra unless they're
licensed. He gave me a hundred tip anyway, then I had a turn in the spinner,
that's the level that revolves. I don't really remember seeing Taj again till
closing because we were pretty packed. I wanted another Cherry Fizz, and he got
me one, and I sat at the bar for a little while after the place cleared out,
just unwinding, sort of.”

She sucked in
a breath, Eve opened her mouth. But Nancie recovered first. “Oh, and Viney was
sick. Um, Nester Vine. We girls call him Viney 'cause he's long and skinny. Isn't
it funny how sometimes people look just like their names? Anyway, he was all
pale and sweaty and kept going back to the John until Taj told him to go home
and take care of himself. I was feeling a little blue because I heard how Joey
got engaged to Barbie Thomas back home.”

“In Utumwa.”

“Right. She
was always chasing after him.” Nancie frowned over it, then appeared to let it
go. “So Taj was being sweet and telling me not to fret over that. How I was a
pretty young girl and would find the right man when the time came. He said how
when you found the right person, that was just it, and you didn't even have to
wonder about it. I'd just know. I could tell he was thinking about his wife,
because he always got this soft look in his eyes when he thought about her. It
made me feel good, so I stayed a little longer. Viney should have been there to
close up with him, but he was sick. Did I tell you that?”

“Yes,” Eve
said, a little dizzy. “You did.”

“Okay, he was
sick, like I said. We aren't really supposed to close up alone, but
sometimes we do. Taj said to me how it was getting late, and I should go on
home. He said he'd call me a cab, but I was going to take the subway. He
wouldn't let me, because the streets can be dangerous at night, so I called a
cab, and he waited at the door until I got in it. That was like him,” she said,
and her eyes went damp again. “He was sweet that way.”

“Did he tell
you anything about expecting a friend to come by that night?”

“I don't
think...” She trailed off, pursed her lips. “Maybe. Maybe he did, when I was
crying the blues a little over Joey, and missing my friends from home, I think
he said something about how friends were always friends. I think maybe he said
he was looking forward to seeing a friend later. But I didn't take it to mean
that night, at the club. Anyway.” She sighed, dabbed under her eyes with a
fingertip. “A friend didn't hurt Taj that way. Friends don't do that.”

It depends,
Eve thought. It very much depends
on the friend.

CHAPTER FIVE

Eve calculated
she could spend the next three days interviewing strippers, table dancers,
customers, and club crawlers, or she could zero in on Max Ricker.

It wasn't a
tough choice, but both areas had to be covered.

She walked
into the detectives' squad room, scanned faces. Some cops worked the 'links,
others wrote reports or studied data. A team was taking a statement from a
civilian who appeared to be more excited than distressed. The scent of bad
coffee and aging disinfectant stung the air.

She knew these
cops. Some were sharper than others, but all of them did the job. Pulling rank
here had never been her style, and she thought she could get what she wanted
without resorting to it now.

She waited
until the civilian, looking flushed and pleased with himself, left the bullpen.

“Okay, listen
up.”

A dozen faces
turned in her direction. She watched expressions shift. Every one of them knew
the case in her hands. No, she thought when 'links were disengaged and screens
ignored. She wouldn't have to pull rank.

“I've got over
six hundred potential witnesses to either eliminate or interview in the matter
of Detective Taj Kohli. I could use some help. Those of you who aren't on
priority cases or who can see their way clear to put in a couple of extra hours
over the next few days can see either me or Peabody.”

Baxter was the
first to get to his feet. He was an occasional pain in the ass, Eve thought,
but Christ, he was dependable as sunrise.

“I got time.
We all got time.” He glanced around the room himself as if daring anyone to
disagree.

“Good.” Eve
slipped her hands in her pockets. “To give you an update on the investigation
...” And here she had to step carefully. “Detective Kohli was bludgeoned to
death while moonlighting in a high-class strip club called Purgatory. The club
was closed, and it appears Kohli knew his attacker. I'm looking for someone he
knew well enough to be alone with, to turn his back on.”

Someone, she thought, who was contacted by him or contacted
him on his personal palm-link during his shift. That's why the killer removed
it from the scene.

“At this
point, it doesn't appear that Kohli was working on a sensitive case or pursuing
information regarding one. But it's possible the killer was a weasel or outside
informant. Robbery isn't a motive that holds. This was personal,” she added,
watching faces. “A personal attack on the badge. The One twenty-eight thinks
the investigation belongs with them. I say it stays here.”

“Damn right it
stays here.” A detective named Carmichael lifted her coffee mug, scowled into
it.

“The media's
leaving this alone so far,” Eve continued. “It's not a hot story. A bartender
doesn't boost ratings, and the fact that he was a cop doesn't make much of a
ripple onscreen. He doesn't matter to them.”

She waited,
scanned faces. “But he matters here. Any of you who want in can let Peabody
know how many witnesses you feel you can handle. She'll assign. Copy all
statements and reports to me.”

“Hey, Dallas,
can I have the strippers?” Baxter teased. “Just the well-stacked ones?”

“Sure, Baxter.
We all know the only way you're going to see a woman naked is if she's paid for
it.” There was a chorus of snorts and whoops. “I'll be in the field most of the
day. Anyone pulls anything I need to know, tag me.”

As she headed
toward her office, Peabody hurried after her. “You're going in the field
alone.”

“I need you
here, coordinating the witness assignments.”

“Yeah, but --
“

“Peabody, up
until last year, I did most of my field work solo.” As she shoved back her desk
chair to sit, she caught the gleam of hurt in Peabody's eyes. Nearly rolled her
own. “That doesn't mean you haven't aced the job, Peabody. Get a hold of
yourself. I need you here right now, running this and scanning data. You're
better at the tech stuff than I am.”

That appeared
to brighten Peabody again. “Yeah, I am. But I could hook up with you when I'm
clear here.”

“I'll let you
know. Why don't you get started while everyone's in the mood to put in extra
time?” In dismissal, Eve turned to her desk unit. “Let's get moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eve waited
until Peabody left, then got up to close the door. Back at her desk she called
up all known data on Max Ricker.

She didn't
want any surprises.

She'd seen his
picture before, but she studied it more carefully now. He had a powerful look,
a strongly carved face with prominent planes that looked glass sharp. His mouth
was hard, with the silver brush of a mustache doing nothing to soften it. His
eyes were silver as well, opaque and unreadable.

The vanity
Roarke had spoken of showed in the waving mane of dark hair tipped with silver
wings, in the single diamond stud he wore in his right ear, and in the smooth
polish of his white, white skin that showed neither line nor fold but looked as
if it had been stretched taut as bleached silk over those ice-edged bones.

Subject
Ricker, Max Edward. Height, six feet, one inch. Weight two hundred two pounds.
Caucasian. DOB 3 February 2000. Born Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Parents Lean
and Michelle Ricker, deceased. One sibling, deceased.

Educated
University of Pennsylvania with degree in business.

No
marriages or legal cohabitations. One son, Alex, DOB 26 June 2028. Mother
listed as Morandi, Ellen Mary. Deceased.

Current
residences include Hartford, Connecticut, Sarasota, Florida, Florence, Italy,
London, England, Long Neck Estates on Yost Colony and Nile River Hotel on Vegas
II.

Profession
listed as entrepreneur with interests and holdings as follows .. .

Eve sat back
now, closed her eyes, and listened to the rundown of Ricker's businesses. There
had been another time she'd done a run on a man who had extensive and varied
interests, who'd owned strings of companies and organizations. Who'd looked, as
Ricker did, dangerous.

That run had
changed her life.

She intended
for this one to change Ricker's.

“Computer,
list criminal record, all arrests and charges.”

Working.. .

She sat up
again when the data began to roll, and her eyebrows lifted. There were a number
of charges over the years, beginning with petty larceny in 2016, continuing
with gun running, illegals distribution, fraud, bribery, and two conspiracies
to commit murder. None of it had stuck, he'd slipped and slithered through, but
his sheet was long and varied.

“Not as clever
as Roarke, are you?” she murmured. “He never got caught. There's the arrogance.
You don't mind getting caught, not really.” She studied his face again.
“Because it gives you a kick to fuck the system. That's a weakness, Ricker. A
big one. Computer, copy all data to disc.”

She turned to
her 'link. It was time to find out just where Ricker was currently cooling his
well-shod heels.

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

She considered
it good luck that Ricker was spending some time in his Connecticut compound.
She considered it his arrogance that he'd agreed to meet with her without
making her dance through a sea of attorneys.

She made the
drive in good time and was met at the gate by a trio of hatchet-faced guards
who put her through an ID scan for form's sake. She was instructed to leave her
vehicle just inside the gates and get into a small, sleek cart.

Its operator
was an equally small and sleek female droid who drove her along the winding,
tree-lined path to a sprawling three-story house of wood and glass that perched
on a rocky slope over a restless sea.

There was a
fountain at the entrance where a stone woman draped in a flowing gown
gracefully poured pale blue water from a pitcher into a pool teeming with red
fish. A gardener worked a plot of flowers at the east side of die house.

He wore baggy
gray pants and shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, and a double-scoped distance laser.

Another female
droid met her at the door, this one a comfortably built serving model in a
starched black uniform. Her smile was welcoming, her voice warm.

“Good day,
Lieutenant Dallas. Mr. Ricker is expecting you. I hope you had a pleasant trip.
If you'd follow me, please.”

Eve studied
the house as they walked through. Here, the money all but dripped. It didn't
have the class of Roarke's place where the mood was rich but somehow homey,
with its polished woods and muted colors. Ricker went for the modern and the
garish, surrounding himself with eye-searing colors, too much fabric, and not
enough taste.

Everything was
sharp-edged and accented by what she now concluded was his signature silver.

Thirty
pieces of silver, she thought as she
stepped into a room done in blood-red with a breathless view of the sea through
the window-wall. The other walls were jammed with art, all of it modernistic or
surreal or whatever the hell they called stuff that was nothing more than
slashes of paint on canvas and pulsing slides of ugly colors on glass.

The scent of
flowers was heavy here, and funereal, the light over-bright, and the furniture
all sliding, sinuous curves with glimmering cushions and silver limbs.

Ricker sat in
one of the chairs, sipping something violently pink out of a long, slim tube.
He got graciously to his feet, smiled.

“Ah, Eve
Dallas. We meet at last. Welcome to my humble home. What can we offer you in
the way of refreshment?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, well,
you've only to ask if you change your mind.” There was a roundness to his
voice, something that reminded her of the dialogue in some of the old
black-and-white videos Roarke liked to watch. “That will be all, Marta.”

“Yes, Mr.
Ricker.” She backed out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

“Eve Dallas,”
he said again, eyes sparkling as he gestured to a chair. “This is absolutely
delightful. May I call you Eve?”

“No.”

The sparkle
turned cold, silver sleet now, even as he let out a hearty laugh. “Pity.
Lieutenant, then. Won't you sit down? I have to admit to some curiosity about
the woman who married one of my old ... I was going to say proteges,” he said
as he sat again. “But I'm sure Roarke would object to the term. So I'll say one
of my former associates. I had hoped he would accompany you today.”

“He has no
business here, or with you.”

“Not at the
moment. Please sit. Be comfortable.”

Comfort wasn't
one of the options in the ugly chair, but she sat.

“How
attractive you are.” He spoke smoothly while his gaze crawled over her.

Men who looked
at a woman in just that way wanted her to feel sexually vulnerable, physically
uneasy. Eve only felt mildly insulted.

“In a
competent, unpretentious sort of fashion,” Ricker finished. “Not what one
expected of Roarke, of course. His taste always ran to the more stylish, more
obviously female.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and she
noted he had his nails painted in his signature color. And the tips were filed
to vicious little points.

“But how
clever of him to have selected you, a woman of your more subtle attributes and
profession. It must be very convenient for him to have such an intimate ally on
the police force.”

It was meant
to get a rise out of her, so she only angled her head. “Really? And why would
that be convenient for him, Mr. Ricker?”

“Given his
interests.” Ricker sipped his drink. “Business interests.”

“And does his
business concern you, Mr. Ricker?”

“Only in an
academic sense, as we were once connected. So to speak.”

She leaned
forward. “Would you like to speak, on record, about your connections?”

His eyes
narrowed, snakelike. “Would you risk him, Lieutenant?”

“Roarke can
take care of himself. Can you?”

“Have you
tamed him, Lieutenant? Neutered the wolf and made him a lapdog?”

This time she
laughed, and meant it. “The lapdog would rip out your throat without breathing
hard. And you know it. I had no idea you were so afraid of him. That's
interesting.”

“You're
mistaken.” But his fingers had tightened on the tube.

She watched
his throat work, as if he were struggling to swallow something particularly
vile.

“I don't think
so. But Roarke isn't the reason I'm here. It's your business I'd like to
discuss, Mr. Ricker.” She took out her recorder. “With your permission.”

His lips
curved, a hard line under that brush of silver that was nothing like a smile.
“Of course.” And he tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. Across the room a
hologram swam into view. Six dark-suited men sat side by side at a long table,
hands folded, eyes sharp.

“My
attorneys,” he explained.

Eve set the
recorder on the silver table between them, read off the necessary data, and
recited the revised Miranda.

“You're
thorough. Roarke would appreciate that. As do I.”

“You
understand your rights and obligations, Mr. Ricker?”'

“I do indeed.”

“And you have
engaged your right to have your attorneys -- all six of them -- present at this
informal interview. You were arrested six months ago for...” She held up a
hand, and though she knew the charges by rote, took out her memo book and read
them off precisely. “The manufacture, possession, and distribution of illegal
substances including hallucinogens and known addictives, the international and
interplanetary transportation of illegal substances, possession of banned
weapons, the operation of chemical plants without a license, the -- “

“Lieutenant,
to save us both valuable time, I will state that I was aware of all charges
levied against me at the time of my unfortunate arrest last fall. As I'm sure
you are aware that most of those ridiculous charges were subsequently dropped,
and those that were not resulted in a trial in which I was acquitted.”

“I'm aware
that your attorneys and the prosecuting attorney of New York negotiated a deal
in which several of the more minor charges against you were dropped. In return,
the names of four arms and illegals dealers and information against them were
given to the PA's office through your representative. You're not overly loyal
to your associates, Mr. Ricker.”

“On the
contrary, I'm exceedingly loyal to them. I have no associates who are arms
and/or illegal dealers, Lieutenant. I'm a businessman, one who makes
considerable donations to charitable and political causes every year.”

“Yes, I know
about your political donations. You gave generously to an organization known as
Cassandra.”

“I did.” He
lifted a hand as one of his attorneys started to speak. “And was shocked,
shocked to the bone, when I discovered their terrorist activities. You did the
world a great service, Lieutenant, by breaking open that ugly sphere, by
destroying it. Until the story came out in the media, I had been deluded into
believing the Cassandra group was dedicated to insuring the safety and rights
of the American public; yes, through paramilitary means. But legal ones.”

“A pity you
didn't research Cassandra more closely, Mr. Ricker, as I would assume someone
with your resources would do before he tossed in more than ten million of his
hard-earned dollars.”

“A mistake I
deeply regret. The employee who oversaw the donations has since been
terminated.”

“I see. You
were scheduled for trial on several of the charges, not within the scope of the
deal with the prosecutor's office. However, evidence went missing, and certain
data from the operation leading to and including the raid on the warehouse
owned by you was damaged.”

“Is that the
official word for it?” He tossed his head, causing his silver wings to flutter.
“The data was thin, incomplete, and ridiculously weighted with misinformation
by the police in order to arrange for the attack on a warehouse which, though
one of my properties, was run and operated by an independent contractor.”

His eyes began
to gleam, she noted, his voice to rise, and those lethally tipped fingers to
beat a fast tattoo on the arm of the chair.

“The entire
matter was nothing more than police harassment, and my attorneys are looking
into a suit against the NYPSD as a result.”

“What is your
connection with Detective Taj Kohli?”

“Kohli?” He
continued to smile, the hard glitter bright in his eyes. “I'm afraid that name
doesn't ring a bell. I do have acquaintance with many in your profession,
Lieutenant. I am a strong supporter of the men and women who serve. But that
particular name... Wait, wait.”

He rubbed a
finger against his lips, and damn him, she heard the light chuckle. “Kohli,
yes, of course. I heard about the tragedy. He was killed recently, wasn't he?”

“Kohli was on
the task force that busted your New York warehouse and cost you several million
dollars in goods.”

“Mr. Ricker was
never legally connected to the warehouse, labs, or distribution center in New
York City, which was discovered by and closed down by the New York City Police
and Security Department. We object to the statement claiming otherwise being
read into this record.”

The lawyer's
voice droned, but neither Ricker nor Eve bothered to glance in his direction.

“It's most
unfortunate that your Detective Kohli was killed, Lieutenant. Am I to be
questioned every time a police officer meets a tragic end? It could be construed
as additional harassment.”

“No, it
couldn't, as the request for this interview was granted without condition.” Now
she smiled. “I'm sure your fleet of lawyers will verify that. Kohli worked
details, Mr. Ricker. He was good at details. As a businessman, and man of the
world, I'm sure you'll agree that the truth is in them -- and the truth has a
way of surfacing, no matter how deep it's buried. It just takes the right
person to dig it out. I have a real fondness for the truth and a serious
objection to having a fellow officer executed. So finding that truth, and
finding the person who killed Kohli -- or arranged for it -- is going to be a
personal mission of mine.”

“I'm sure it
offends you to have had your colleague murdered, and brutally, in an establishment
owned by your husband.” Excitement jangled in his voice, just a little off-key.
“Sticky, isn't it, Lieutenant? For both of you. Is that why you're troubling me
with veiled accusations rather than calling your own husband into Interview?”

“I didn't say the
murder was brutal or that it took place in an establishment owned by Roarke.
How did you come by that information, Mr. Ricker?”

For the first
time, he appeared flustered, his stare going blank, his mouth drooping. All six
lawyers began talking at once, a buzz of noise that was no more than cover and
wasted air. It gave Ricker time to compose himself.

“I make it my
business to know things, Lieutenant. My business. I was informed that there was
an incident at one of your husband's properties.”

“Informed by
who?”

“Another
associate, I believe.” He waved a hand idly, but it curled into a fist before
it rested on the arm of the chair again. “I can't recall. Is it against the law
to have that information? I collect information. A kind of hobby. Information
on people who interest me. Such as yourself. I'm aware, you see, that you were
raised by the state, found in considerable distress when you were but a child
of eight.”

His hand
uncurled as he spoke, but his eyes grew brighter. Hungrier, Eve thought. Like a
man anticipating a particularly fine meal.

“Raped,
weren't you, and quite violently. It must be difficult to live with a trauma
such as that, to reconcile yourself to such viciously stolen innocence. You
don't even have your own name, do you, but one given to you by a harried social
worker. Eve, a rather sentimental choice, indicating the first woman. And
Dallas, a practical one, reflecting the city where you were discovered, broken,
bruised, and all but mute in a filthy alley.”

It did the
job. It took her back, slicked her insides with illness, chilled her bones. But
she never took her eyes off his face. Never flinched. “We play the cards we
were dealt. I collect information, too. Mostly on people who disturb my sense
of style. Dig up all the data you want on me, Ricker. It'll only help you get a
good, clear picture of just who you're up against this time. Kohli's mine now,
and I'll find the who and why and how for him. Depend on it. Interview end,”
she said, and picked up her recorder.

Even as his
lawyers erupted with warnings and objections, Ricker clicked off the hologram.
If possible, he was paler than he'd been when she'd come in. “Be careful,
Lieutenant. Those who threaten me meet unpleasant ends.”

“Look at my
data again, Ricker, and you'll see the unpleasant doesn't worry me.”

He rose as she
did, took a step forward in a way that had her bracing and hoping, hoping he'd
lose control just for an instant. An instant would be long enough. “You think
you can pit yourself against me? You think your badge is power.” He snapped his
fingers in front of her face. “Like that, you can be gone and forgotten.”

“Try it. And
see.”

Muscles worked
in his face, but he drew himself back. “Perhaps you believe, mistakenly, that
your connection to Roarke will protect you. He's weak, gone soft and
sentimental, and over a cop. I had plans for him once. I have different ones
now.”

“You'd better
take a closer look at your data, Ricker, and you'll see I don't and never have
needed anyone to protect me. But I'll tell you this: Roarke's going to get a
real kick out of knowing just how much you fear him. We'll have a good laugh
over it, over you, later.”

When she
turned, he grabbed her arm. Her heart leapt in anticipation as she looked up
coolly. “Oh, please do,” she murmured.

His fingers
dug in once, viciously, the nails drilling into her flesh before they released.
Control? she thought. No, he wasn't nearly as controlled as he believed he was.

“I'll show you
out.”

“I know the
way. You'd better get to work, Ricker, make sure you've covered your tracks.
I'm going to be turning up every rock you crawl under. I'm going to enjoy it.”

She strolled
out, unsurprised to see the servant droid hovering close by and smiling homily.
“I hope you enjoyed your visit, Lieutenant Dallas. I'll see you to the door.”

As she walked
away, Eve heard the unmistakable sound of glass smashing.

No, she thought and smiled herself. Not nearly as
controlled.

She was taken
back to her car and was watched carefully as she drove through the gates.

Ten minutes
later, she spotted the first tail. They didn't even try to be subtle about it.
She let them tag her, kept her speed just over the legal limit, and passed
another twenty miles before the second car swung on from a ramp and pulled in
front of her. Caged her in.

Let's play,
she decided, and hit the accelerator.

She changed
lanes, threaded through traffic, but didn't make it too hard for them. As she
calculated the lay of the land, she made a call on her 'link. Almost casually.

With what she
hoped looked like panic, she pulled off the freeway just over the New York
line. “I knew you wouldn't let me down,” she murmured as the cars closed in
behind her. “Morons.”

Satisfied the
road was quiet enough, she punched the accelerator again, flew along. Then
swung in a hard circle and drove headlong toward the pursuing cars. One veered
right, one left, and at the speed they were traveling, they skidded off the
road just as she hit her sirens.

She hopped
out, weapon drawn.

“Police! Out!
Everybody out, hands where I can see them.” She saw the passenger in the second
car reach inside his jacket, and she shot a blast at the headlights.

Glass exploded
even as the screams of other sirens joined hers.

“Get your
asses out of those vehicles right now.” With her free hand, she whipped out her
badge. “NYPSD. You're under arrest.”

One of the
drivers got out, looking cocky. But he kept his hands in sight as two black and
whites pulled up behind. “What's the charge?”

“Why don't we
start with speeding and go from there.” She jerked a thumb. “Hands on the roof.
You know the position.”

The uniforms
swarmed in like bees. “Want them cuffed, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, I think
they were resisting. And would you look at this?” She stopped patting down the
first driver and plucked out his side arm. “Concealed weapon. Man, a banned
weapon, too. Wow, you're in really big trouble.”

A quick search
turned up more weapons, six ounces of Exotica, two of Zeus, a fancy set of
burglary tools, and three short steel pipes, handy for spine cracking.

“Haul these
losers into Central for me, will you?” she asked the uniforms. “Book them on
carrying concealed, possession of illegals, transporting banned weapons in a
motor vehicle, and crossing state lines with same. Possession of suspicious
merchandise.”

She grinned
fiercely as she dusted off her hands. “Oh, and don't forget speeding. Mr.
Ricker's going to be very unhappy with you boys. Very unhappy.”

She slid back
into her car, rolled her shoulders.

Temper,
temper, Ricker, she thought, and
rubbed absently at the ache where his fingers had dug. Never give orders
when in emotional distress.

Round one
goes to me.

CHAPTER SIX

Ian McNab
tried to look casual as he wandered into the detectives' bullpen. It wasn't
easy for a man sporting a waist-long braid and wearing orange flight pants to
look casual, but he worked at it.

He had an
excuse for being in that area. A few of the detectives had tossed run requests
on the witnesses listed in the Kohli case over to EDD. That was McNab's story,
and he was sticking to it.

He also had a
reason for being in that area. And the reason was tucked into a skinny cubicle
in the far corner, studiously doing tech work.

She looked so
cute when she was studious. He was gone on her, all right. He wasn't
particularly happy about it, as his plan had always been to scoop as many women
into his life as humanly possible. He just plain loved women.

But then
Peabody had marched into his life in her ugly cop shoes and spit-spot uniform,
and that, as the historians say, was that.

She wasn't
completely cooperating. Oh, he'd finally gotten her into bed -- on the kitchen
floor, in an elevator car, in an empty locker room -- and anywhere else his
fluid imagination could devise. But she wasn't moony over him.

He was forced
to admit, though it grated daily, that he was well over that moon as regarded
Officer Delia Peabody.

He squeezed
into her cubicle, settled his skinny butt on the corner of her desk. “Hey,
She-Body. What's up?”

“What are you
doing out of EDD?” She kept right on working, didn't even glance up. “You break
your chain again?”

“They don't
lock us up in EDD like they do over here. How do you work in this cage?”

“Efficiently.
Go away, McNab. I'm really swamped here.”

“The Kohli
deal? It's all anybody can talk about. Poor son of a bitch.”

Because there
was pity in his voice, she did glance up. And noted that his eyes, cool and
green, weren't just sad. They were pissed. “Yeah. Well, we'll get the slime who
killed him. Dallas is working the angles.”

“Nobody does
it better. Some of the guys here asked us to run some names. Everybody in EDD
from Feeney down to the lowest drone's on it.”

She worked up
a sneer. “Why aren't you?”

“I was elected
to swing over and see if I could wangle an update. Come on, Peabody, we're in
it, too. Give me something to take back.”

“I don't have
that much. Keep this part to yourself,” she said, lowering her voice and
peeking through the narrow opening of her work space. “I don't know what Dallas
is up to. She went out in the field and didn't take me with her. Didn't tell me
where she was going, either. Then a few minutes ago, I get a call from her.
She's got uniforms bringing in four mopes, booking them on various charges,
including carrying concealeds, and she wants me to run the names quick, fast,
and now. She's on her way in.”

“What'd you
find?”

“All four of
them have been guests of various government facilities, mostly violent crimes.
Assaults, assaults with deadlies. Spine-crackers and persuaders, from the
sheets. But get this.”

She lowered
her voice even more, so that McNab had to lean in, catch a teasing whiff of her
shampoo. “They're connected to Max Ricker.”

McNab opened
his mouth, then sucked in the exclamation when Peabody hissed at him. “You
think Ricker's behind the Kohli deal?”

“I don't know,
but I know Kohli was part of the team that busted him last fall, because Dallas
had me get the case file and the trial transcript. I took a quick look, and
Kohli was low level, didn't testify, either. Of course, the case was tossed out
of court within three days. But Dallas has some reason for hauling in four of
his goon squad.”

“This is good
stuff.”

“You can pass
on the mopes she's bringing in, but keep quiet about the Ricker connection
until we've got more.”

“I could do
that, but I want some incentive. How about you come by tonight?”

“I don't know
what Dallas has planned.” He was grinning at her. For reasons Peabody couldn't
figure, she was finding it harder and harder to resist that dopey grin. “But I
could probably swing by.”

“Speaking of
swinging, when you get there, we could ...” He started to lean closer, make a
suggestion he thought would keep her revved through shift. Then he shot off the
desk like a pebble from a sling. “Jesus, it's the commander.”

“Chill down.”
But Peabody came to attention herself.

It wasn't
unprecedented for Whitney to make an appearance in the squad room. But he
didn't make a habit of it, either.

“Oh man, he's
coming over here.”

She saw it and
had to resist the impulse to tug at her uniform jacket to make certain it was
straight.

“Detective.”
Whitney stopped, filled the entrance to the cubicle, and pinned McNab with
dark, steely eyes. “Have you transferred out of the Electronic Detective
Division?”

“No, sir,
Commander. EDD is working in conjunction with Homicide on the matter of
Detective Taj Kohli. We're confident that this interdepartmental cooperation
and effort will result in closing the case quickly.”

He was good,
Peabody thought with annoyed admiration. Slick as cat spit.

“Then perhaps
you should get back to your division and continue that cooperation, Detective,
instead of disrupting this officer's work.”

But not, she
thought, quite slick enough.

McNab nearly
saluted but managed to restrain himself. Then vanished like smoke.

“Officer, do
you have the data your lieutenant requested on the four individuals currently
in booking?”

In booking?
Already? Jeez. “Yes, sir.”

“Hard copy,”
he said and held out a hand.

Peabody
ordered the printout. “As ordered, Commander, I've sent copies of the data to
Lieutenant Dallas's vehicle and office units.”

He merely
grunted, then turned away already reading the data. He paused, glanced over as
Eve walked in. “Lieutenant, your office.”

Peabody winced
at the tone. It was hard as granite. And courageously, she stepped out of her
cubicle. She couldn't say she was disappointed when Eve signaled her back, then
swung toward her office.

There was a
fire being lighted, Peabody thought, but wasn't sure who was going to get
burned.

“Sir.” Eve
held the door open, waited for Whitney to pass through, then closed it behind
them.

“Explain,
Lieutenant, why you left the state, and your jurisdiction, interrogated Max
Ricker without discussing your intentions or going through the chain of
command?”

“Commander, as
primary, I am not required to clear investigative interviews through any chain
of command. And I am authorized to leave my jurisdiction to do so if the
interview is pertinent to the case.”

“And to harass
a civilian in another state?”

She felt the
first sting of temper, ignored it. “Harass, sir?”

“I received a
call from Ricker's attorney, who has also contacted the Chief of Police, and
who is threatening to sue you, this department, and the city of New York for
harassing his client and for assaulting and detaining four of Ricker's
employees.”

“Really? He's
running scared all right,” she murmured. “I didn't think I'd gotten to him that
deep. Commander,” she said, bringing herself back. “I contacted Ricker,
requested an interview at his convenience, and was granted same.”

She pulled a
sealed disc from a drawer. “The request, made from this unit, and the agreement
to said request, were recorded, as was my interview with Ricker, in his home
where he was properly Mirandized in the presence of six of his attorneys by
holograph.”

This time, she
took a disc from her bag. “Recorded, Commander, with his full knowledge. With
respect, sir, he's pissing in the wind on this.”

“Good. I
thought as much.” He took both discs. “However, angling for Ricker on a cop
killing is a dangerous and delicate matter. You'd better have a foundation you
can stand on.”

“It's my job
to pursue all possible leads. I'm doing my job.”

“And does your
job include rousting four men on a public road, endangering their lives and the
lives of innocent bystanders with reckless driving, and causing two vehicles to
incur damage?”

Her training
was too solid to permit her to snarl. But she thought about it. “While in
transit from Connecticut to New York City, I was tailed then pursued by two
civilian vehicles containing two men each. While I took evasive maneuvers, said
vehicles continued pursuit, exceeding the posted speed limits. Concerned at the
possible danger to other civilians, I left the heavily traveled freeway for an
empty stretch of road. At this time, the two pursuing vehicles further
increased speed, shifting into a charge pattern. The vehicles crossed the state
line. Unsure of their purpose, I called for backup, and rather than risk
continuing a high-speed chase into a populated area, I engaged my sirens,
executed a U-turn. As a result, the pursuing vehicles ran off the road.”

“Lieutenant --
“

“Sir, I would
like to complete my report of the incident.” Her temper might have been
spiking, but her tone was very cool.

“Go ahead,
Lieutenant. Complete your report.”

“I identified
myself as a police officer, ordered them out of the vehicles. At this time one
of the individuals made a suspicious move toward what I perceived, and later
discovered was, in fact, a weapon. I fired a warning shot, which damaged a
headlight. Two radio cars arrived as backup, and the four individuals were
restrained. During the resulting search, which is permissible given the
probable cause, banned weapons, two forms of illegals in small quantities,
suspicious tools, and two weighted steel pipes were found to be in the
individuals' possession or concealed in their vehicles. At this time, I requested
that the uniformed officers transport the individuals to Central for booking on
various charges, contacted my aide to execute a standard run on each man, and
returned with the intention of writing my report and questioning the
individuals I had so detained.”

Her voice
remained flat, cool, and dead calm. She refused to allow any temper or triumph
to glimmer in her eyes. Once again, she reached in her bag, took out two discs.
“All of the aforesaid was recorded, through my unit during the pursuit, and
during the arrest by my collar clip. It is my opinion that proper procedure was
followed as closely as possible.”

Whitney took
the discs and allowed himself the tiniest of smiles as he pocketed them. “Nice
work. Damn nice work.”

She ordered
herself to change gears, and change them smoothly. But her “Thank you, sir”
came out with a bite.

“Pissed off
that I questioned you?” Whitney asked.

“Yes, sir. I
am.”

“Can't blame
you.” Idly, he tapped his fingers on the discs in his pocket, then wandered, as
much as he was able, to her skinny window. “I was confident you'd have covered
yourself here, but not completely confident. Above that, you'll be hammered at
by the lawyer, even with the record. I wanted to see how you'd hold up to it.
You held, Dallas, as always.”

“I can handle
myself with the lawyer.”

“No doubt.”
Whitney drew a breath, studied the miserable view out her miserable window, and
wondered how she stood working in that box of a room. “Are you waiting for an
apology, Lieutenant?”

“No. No, sir.”

“Good.” He
turned back to her, his face closed and hard again. “Command rarely apologizes.
You followed procedure, and I'd expect no less. However, this doesn't negate
the fact that by pulling Ricker into the case, you've put the department in a
strained situation.”

“A dead cop
makes a strained situation for me.”

“Don't
second-guess me, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “And don't underestimate my personal
and departmental stand on the murder of Detective Kohli. If Ricker was involved
in this, I want his ass more than you do. Yes, more,” he added. “Now, tell me
why, if he agreed to interview, he sent four assholes after you?”

“I got under
his skin.”

“Specifics,
Lieutenant.” Then he looked around. “Where the hell do you sit in this
hole?”

Saying
nothing, she pulled out her creaky desk chair. He stared at it a moment, then
in a gesture that popped the tension out of the room like a pin in a balloon,
he threw back his head and roared.

“You think I
don't know that's an insult? I put half my ass on that excuse for a chair, and
I'm through it and on the floor. For Christ's sake, Dallas, you've got rank.
You can have an office instead of this cave.”

“I like it
here. You get something bigger, you end up putting more chairs in, maybe a
table. Then people start dropping by. To chat.”

Whitney hissed
through his teeth. “Tell me. Let me have some of that coffee Roarke scores
you.”

She moved to
the AutoChef, programmed for two cups, hot, strong, and black. “Commander, I'd
like to speak off the record for a moment.”

“Give me that
coffee, and you can speak any way you damn well want for the next hour. Jesus
God, what a scent.”

She smiled to
herself, remembering the first time she'd tasted Roarke's coffee. The real
thing, not soy or any of that man-made bean crap. She should have known, then
and there, he'd be it for her.

And because he
was it for her, she turned with the coffee and put her faith in her commander.
“Roarke was connected to Ricker in some areas of business. Roarke ended the
association more than ten years ago. Ricker hasn't forgotten it or forgiven it.
He'd like to sting Roarke if he could, through me if it works that way. During
the meet, I used Roarke to poke at him. It worked. He lost his cool a couple of
times. I keep pressing that sore spot, he'll keep losing it.”

“How bad does
he want Roarke?”

“Bad enough, I
think, but he's scared of him. That scrapes at him more than anything, that
underlying fear. Because, well, he doesn't see it as fear, but as intense
loathing. He sent those morons after me because he wasn't thinking, he was
reacting. He's too smart to order four piss-brains to hassle a cop, piss-brains
that can be tracked back to him. But he lost control just long enough to send
them out. He wanted me hurt because I sneered at him. Because I'm Roarke's cop,
and I sneered at him.”

“You baited
him. Consider this. He might have hurt you before you got clear of the house.”

“He wouldn't
foul his own nest. It was a risk, but calculated. If I can get one of those
jerks to roll, we could bring Ricker in, put more pressure on him.”

“These types
don't roll easy.”

“It wouldn't
take much. I want Ricker inside. He skated on the illegals bust. He shouldn't
have. I've studied the reports and transcripts. It looked like textbook, every
angle covered. Then there were all these screw-ups. The mix in the chain of
evidence, one of the primary witnesses disappearing when he was supposed to be
under protection, some clerk in the PA's office mis-files a statement. Little
holes make bigger holes, and he slides through.”

“I agree, and
there's no one who'd like to nail Ricker more than I would. But his connection
to Kohli is tenuous at best. I can't see your angle on it.”

“I'm working
it” was all she would say. She thought of Webster, the hints, but she wasn't
ready to talk about it.

“Dallas,
Ricker can't be your personal vendetta.”

“He's not. Let
me work it through, Commander.”

“It's your
investigation. But watch your step. If Ricker was the trigger on Kohli, he
won't hesitate to point at you. From what you've told me, he has more reason
to.”

“I get in his
face enough, he'll make a mistake. I won't make one.”

She went
around with the lawyers, one for each of the men she'd brought in. They were,
she thought, slime in five-thousand-dollar suits. They knew every trick. But
they were going to have a hard time weaseling around the fact she had
everything on record.

“Records,” the
head slime named Canarde said, with a lift of his perfectly manicured fingers,
“you alone had possession of. You have no corroboration that the discs were not
manufactured or tampered with for the purpose of harassing my client.”

“What was your
client doing riding my back bumper from Connecticut to New York?”

“It isn't
against the law to drive a public road, Lieutenant.”

She simply
flipped back, tapped her finger on the file. “Carrying concealed and banned
weapons.”

“My client
claims you planted those weapons.”

Eve shifted
her gaze toward the client, a man of about two hundred and fifty pounds with
hands like hams and a face only a mother could love -- if she were seriously
nearsighted. As yet, he hadn't opened his mouth.

“I must've
been pretty busy. So your client, who apparently has been struck mute, purports
that I just happened to be carrying four self-charging hand lasers and a couple
of long-scoped flame rifles in my police unit, with the hopes that some
innocent civilian might come along and I could frame him. Seeing as, what, I
didn't like his face?”

“My client has
no knowledge of your motives.”

“Your client
is a piece of shit who's been down this road before. Assault and battery,
carrying concealeds, assault with a deadly, possession with intent. You're not
standing for some choirboy, Canarde. With what we've got on him, he goes in,
and he stays in. My best guess is twenty-five, hard time with no parole option,
off-planet penal colony. Never been on an off-planet facility, have you, pal?”

Eve showed her
teeth in a smile. “They make the cages here look like suites at The Palace.”

“Police
harassment and intimidation is expected,” Canarde said smoothly. “My client has
nothing more to say.”

“Yeah, he's
been a real chatterbox up till now. You going to let Ricker make you the
sacrificial lamb here? You think he's worried about the twenty-five you'll do
in a cage?”

“Lieutenant
Dallas,” Canarde interrupted, but Eve kept her eyes on the man, saw the
faintest shadow of worry in his eyes.

“I don't want
you, Lewis. You want to save yourself, you want to deal with me. Who sent you
after me today? Say the name, and I cut you out of the herd.”

“This
interview is over.” Canarde got to his feet.

“Is it over,
Lewis? You want it over? You want to start your first night of twenty-five in a
cage? Does he pay you enough, can anyone pay you enough to make you swallow
sitting in a hole twenty hours every day for twenty-five years, with a slab for
a bed, with security cams watching you piss in a steel toilet? No luxuries
off-planet, Lewis. The idea isn't rehabilitation, no matter what the
politicians say. It's punishment.”

“Be quiet, Mr.
Lewis. I have ended this interview, Lieutenant, and demand my client's right to
a hearing.”

“Yeah, he'll
get his hearing.” She rose. “You're a sap, Lewis, if you think this mouth in a
pricey suit's standing for you.”

“I got nothing
to say. To cops or cunts.” Lewis looked up, sneered. But Eve saw the glitter of
fear in his eyes.

“I guess that
counts me out altogether.” Eve signaled to the guard. “Take this sack of shit
to his hole. Sleep tight, Lewis. I won't tell you to sleep, Canarde,” she said
as she walked out. “I hear sharks don't.”

She rounded
the corner, slipped down a hall, and through a door where Whitney and Peabody
stood in observation.

“The hearings
are set for tomorrow. Starting at nine,” Whitney told her. “Canarde and his
team put on the pressure to get them in.”

“Fine, our
boys'll still spend the night in a cell. I want to sweat Lewis again, before
the hearing. We can push his hearing to the end of the group, give me some time
with him tomorrow morning. He's the one who'll crack.”

“Agreed.
You've never visited an off-planet rehabilitation center, have you,
Lieutenant?”

“No, sir. But
I've heard they're gutters.”

“Worse. Lewis
will have heard, too. Keep playing that note. Go home,” he added. “Get some
sleep.”

“If I'd been
in there,” Peabody said when they were alone, “I'd've rolled over on my mother.
Could he really cop twenty-five off-planet?”

“Oh yeah. You
don't mess with a cop. The system frowns severely on it. He knows it, too. He's
going to be thinking about it tonight. Thinking hard. I want you back here at
six-thirty. I want to hit him again early. You can stand in, look mean and
heartless.”

“I love doing
that. Are you going home?” she asked, knowing how often her lieutenant sent her
off and stayed on the job herself.

“Yeah. Yeah, I
am. After rubbing shoulders with that bunch, I want a shower. Six-thirty,
Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

She'd missed
dinner and wasn't pleased to discover the candy thief who'd targeted her as
patsy had found her newest stash. She had to settle for an apple someone had
foolishly left in the squad's friggie.

Still, it
filled the hole so that by the time she got home she was more interested in a
long, hot shower than a meal. She was slightly disappointed that Summerset
didn't slide into the foyer on her arrival so they could have their evening
pissing match.

Shower first,
she decided, jogging up the stairs. Then she'd track Roarke down. The shower
would give her time to figure out just how much of her day she wanted to share
with him.

Editing Ricker
out of it, for the time being, seemed like the best path to marital harmony.

When she
stepped into the bedroom, she saw the flowers first. It was difficult to miss
them as there was a four-foot spread of them dead center of the room and the
scent was sweet enough to hurt her teeth.

It took
another moment to realize the flowers had long, skinny legs in black trousers.

Summerset. The
shower could wait.

“For me? Gee,
you shouldn't have. If you don't try harder to control your passion for me,
Roarke's going to fire your bony ass and make my life complete.”

“Your humor,”
the flowers said in a dry, faintly Slavic voice, “eludes me as usual. This
obnoxious and overstated arrangement just arrived by private messenger.”

“Watch the
cat,” she began as Summerset stepped forward and Galahad strolled in his path.
To her surprise and reluctant admiration, Summerset neatly sidestepped, avoided
Galahad's tail by a, well, a cat hair, and neatly set the enormous bouquet on
the wide table in the sitting area.

Galahad leaped
up, sniffed at it, then padded over to butt his head on Summerset's leg.

“The flowers
are for you,” Summerset said, and since she was looking, ignored the cat. “And
as of now, they become your problem.”

“Who sent
them? They're not Roarke's style.”

“Certainly
not.” Summerset sniffed, a great deal as Galahad had done, and eyed the
elaborate arrangement with distaste. “Perhaps one of your felonious acquaintances
considers it a suitable bribe.”

“Yeah, right.”
She snatched out the card, ripped it open, then snarled in a manner that had
the cat leaping down and standing between Summerset's legs. “Ricker, that son
of a bitch.”

“Max Ricker?”
Distaste turned to ice, the jagged sort that flayed skin. “Why would he send
you flowers?”

“To get my
goat,” she said absently, then a ripple of fear worked into her belly. “Or
Roarke's. Get them out of here. Bum them, stuff them in the recycler. Get rid
of them fast. And don't tell Roarke.” She grabbed Summerset's sleeve. “Don't
tell Roarke.”

She made it a
point never to ask Summerset for anything. The fact that she was, and urgently,
had alarm bells sounding in his brain. “What's Ricker to you?”

“A target. Get
them out, damn it. Where's Roarke?”

“In his office
upstairs. Let me see the card. Have you been threatened?”

“They're
bait,” she said impatiently. “For Roarke. Take the elevator. Move. Get them
gone.” She crumbled the card in her hand before Summerset could grab it from her.
“Now.”

Dissatisfied,
Summerset lifted the arrangement again. “Be very, very careful,” he said, then
maneuvered them onto the elevator.

She waited
until the doors closed before she smoothed out the card, read it again.

I never had
the chance to kiss the bride. M. Ricker

“I'll give you
the chance,” she muttered and carefully tore the card to bits. “The first time
we meet in hell.”

She flushed
the pieces, breathed a little easier, then stripped. She left her clothes where
they fell, laid her weapon harness over the long counter, then stepped into the
glass-walled shower.

“All jets
full,” she ordered, closing her eyes. “One hundred and two degrees.”

She let the
water beat at her everywhere, warm away the little chill the flowers had
brought with them. She would put that aside and calculate how she would drill
at Lewis the next morning.

Feeling
better, she turned the jets off, squeezed some of the water out of her hair,
and turned. Yelped.

“Jesus. Jesus
Christ, Roarke, you know I hate when you sneak up on me like that.”

“Yes, I do.”
He opened the door to the drying tube, knowing she preferred it to a leisurely
toweling off. While the fan whirled, he strolled over to take her robe from the
hook on the back of the door.

But when she
stepped out, he held onto it rather than offering. “Who put those marks on
you?”

“Huh?”

“Your arm's
bruised.”

“Yeah.” She
glanced down, had an image of Ricker, his eyes burning as his fingers dug into
her flesh. “You're right. Must've run into something.” She reached for the robe
only to have him hold it out of reach. “Come on, I'm not going to play your
sick games in the bathroom.”

Such a
statement usually made him smile. Her stomach began to quiver when his eyes
stayed cool and steady on hers.

“They're finger
marks, Lieutenant. Who handled you?”

“For God's
sake.” Working up irritation, she snatched the robe. “I'm a cop, remember? It
means I tend to run into a number of nasty characters in any given day. Have
you eaten? I'm starving.”

He let her
walk back into the bedroom, stand and fiddle with the AutoChef. Waited until
she punched in a request. “Where are the flowers?”

Oh shit. “What
flowers?”

“The flowers,
Eve, that were delivered just a while ago.”

“I don't know
what you're talking about. I just got -- Hey!”

He'd spun her
around so quickly her teeth nearly rattled. Might have if they hadn't frozen
solid at the fury in his eyes. The chill had turned to fire very quickly.
“Don't lie to me. Don't ever fucking lie to me.”

“Cut it out.”
He had her arms. But even now, she realized, even when he was furious, he
didn't hurt her, and was careful to keep his grip away from the bruise.
“Flowers come here all the time. What am I supposed to know about it? Now let
me go. I'm hungry.”

“I'll
tolerate, and by God do tolerate, a great deal from you, Eve. But you won't
stand here and lie to my face. You have bruises on you put there since I last
saw you, and by someone's hand. Summerset is downstairs feeding a bunch of
flowers into the recycler. On your orders, I assume, since he brought them up
here first. Goddamn it, I can still smell them. What are you afraid of?”

“I'm not
afraid of anything.”

“Then who? Who
put the fear behind your eyes?”

“You.”

She knew it
was wrong, knew it was cruel. And hated herself for it when his eyes went
blank, when he stepped just a little too carefully back from her.

“I beg your
pardon.”

She hated when
he used that rigid and formal tone, hated it worse than a shout. And when he
turned to walk away from her, she gave up.

“Roarke. Damn
it, Roarke!” She had to go after him, take his arm. “I'm sorry. Look, I'm
sorry.”

“I have work.”

“Don't freeze
me out. I can't take it when you do that.” She dragged her hands through her
hair, pressed the heels of them hard on her forehead where it had begun to throb.
“I don't know how to do this. Any way I do, it's going to piss you off.”

Disgusted, she
stalked back to the sitting area, flopped on the couch, scowled at nothing in
particular.

“Why don't you
try the truth?”

“Yeah, all
right. But you have to make me a promise first.”

“Which would
be?”

“Oh, get the
stick out of your ass and sit down, would you?”

“The stick in
my ass is surprisingly comfortable just now.” He'd been studying her face,
calculating, speculating. And he knew. “You went to see Ricker.”

“What are you,
psychic?” Then her eyes popped wide and she was up and running again. “Hey,
hey, hey, you promised.”

“No. I
didn't.”

She caught up
to him in the hallway, considered trying to muscle him to the floor, then
decided to go for his weak spot. She simply wrapped her arms around him.

“Please.”

“He put his
hands on you.”

“Roarke. Look
at me, Roarke.” She laid her hands on his face. The look in his eyes was
murder. She knew he could accomplish it, hot or cold. “I baited him. I've got
my reasons. And right now, I've got him shaken. The flowers were just a dig at
you. He wants you to come after him. He wants it.”

“And why
shouldn't I oblige him?”

“Because I'm
asking you not to. Because taking him down is my job, and if I play it right,
I'm going to do that job.”

“There are
times you ask a great deal.”

“I know it. I
know you could go after him. I know you'd find a way to get it done. But it's
not the right way. It's not who you are anymore.”

“Isn't it?”
But the rage, the first blinding rush of it, was leveling off.

“No, it's not.
I stood with him today, and now I'm standing with you. You're nothing like him.
Nothing.”

“I could have
been.”

“But you're
not.” The crisis had passed. She felt it. “Let's go in and sit down. I'll tell
you all of it.”

He tipped her
face back, a finger under her chin. Though the gesture was tender, his eyes
were still hard. “Don't lie to me again.”

“Okay.” She
closed a hand over his wrist, squeezed there in silent promise where his pulse
beat. “Okay.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

So she told
him, running through the steps and movements of her day in a tone very close to
the one she'd used in her oral report to Whitney. Dispassionate, professional,
cool.

He said
nothing, not a word, stretching out the silence until her nerves were riding on
the surface of her skin. His eyes never left her face and gave her no clue to
what he was thinking. Feeling. Just that deep, wicked blue, cold now as Arctic
ice.

She knew what
he was capable of when pushed. No, not even when pushed, she thought as her
nerves kicked into a gallop. When he believed whatever methods he used were
acceptable.

When she was
finished, he rose, walked casually to the wall panel that concealed a bar. He
helped himself to a glass of wine, held up the bottle. “Would you like one?”

“Ah ... sure.”

He poured a
second glass, as steadily, as naturally as if they'd been sitting discussing
some minor household incident. She wasn't easily rattled, had faced pain and
death without a tremor, had waded through the pain and death of others as a
matter of routine.

But God, he
rattled her. She took the glass he offered her and had to remind herself not to
gulp it down like water.

“So ... that's
all there is to it.”

He sat again, gracefully
arranged himself on the cushion. Like a cat, she thought. A very big, very
dangerous cat. He sipped his wine, watching her over the crystal rim.

“Lieutenant,”
he said in a voice so mild it might have fooled another.

“What?”

“Do you expect
me -- honestly expect me -- to do nothing?”

She set her
glass down. It wasn't the time for wine. “Yes.”

“You're not a
stupid woman. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most
about you.”

“Don't do
this, Roarke. Don't make this personal.”

His eyes
flashed, a hard glint of blue steel. “It is personal.”

“Okay, no.”
She could handle it. Had to. And leaned forward toward him. “It's not, unless
you let him string you. He wants it to be, wants you to make it personal so he
can fuck with you. Roarke, you're not a stupid man. Your instincts and
intellect are two of the things I admire most about you.”

For the first
time in more than an hour, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. “Well done,
Eve.”

“He can't hurt
me.” Seeing her opening, all but diving through it, she shifted onto her knees,
put her hands on his shoulders. “Unless you let him. He can hurt me through
you. Don't let him do that. Don't play the game.”

“Do you think
I won't win?”

She lowered to
her heels. “I know you will. It scares me knowing you will and what the cost
could be to both of us. To us, Roarke. Don't do this. Let me work it.”

He said
nothing a moment, looking in her eyes, studying what he saw there, felt there.
“If he touches you again, puts his mark on you again, he's dead. No, be quiet,”
he said before she could speak. “I'll stand back so far, for you. But he
crosses the line, and it's over. I'll find the way, the time, and it's over.”

“I don't need
that.”

“Darling Eve.”
He touched her now, just a skim of his fingertips over her jaw. “I need that.
You don't know him. As much as you've seen, as much as you've done, you don't
know him. I do.”

Sometimes, she
reminded herself, you had to settle for what you could get. “You won't go after
him.”

“Not at the
moment. And that costs me, so leave it at that.”

When he pushed
off the couch, she felt the chill, swore under her breath. “You're still pissed
off at me.”

“Oh yes. Yes,
I am.”

“What do you
want from me?” Exasperated, she scrambled to her feet and wished she didn't
want to punch a fist into his gorgeous face for lack of a better solution. “I
said I was sorry.”

“You're sorry
because I pinned you.”

“Okay, right.
That's mostly right.” Out of patience with him, with herself, she kicked
viciously at the sofa. “I don't know how to do this! I love you, and it makes
me crazy. Isn't that bad enough?”

He had to
laugh. She looked so baffled. “Christ Jesus, Eve, you're a piece of work.”

“I ought to at
least get some sort of handicap for... Damn it,” she hissed as her communicator
beeped. She resisted the urge to simply pluck it out and wing it against the
wall. Instead, she just kicked the sofa again. “Dallas. What?”

Dispatch,
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DOS reported, George Washington Bridge, eastbound,
level two. Victim is preliminarily identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan,
assigned to Precinct One two-eight, Illegals Division. You are ordered to
report to scene immediately, as primary.

“Oh God. Oh
Christ. Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia, to act as aide. I'm on my
way.”

She was
sitting now, her head weighing heavily in one hand, her stomach dragging to her
knees. “Another cop. Another dead cop.”

“I'm going
with you. With you, Lieutenant,” Roarke said when she shook her head. “Or
alone. But I'm going. Get dressed. I'll drive. I can get us there faster.”

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

The bridge
sparkled, an arch teeming with lights against the clear night sky. In that sky,
busy air traffic streamed, all but obliterating the tentative light of a
thumbnail moon.

Life surged
on.

On the second
level of the bridge, closed now to traffic, a dozen black and whites and city
units crowded together like hounds on a hunt. She could hear the 'link chatter,
the mutters and oaths, as she cut through the uniforms and plain-clothes.

More lights,
cold blue, iced white and blood red washed over her face. She didn't speak but
walked to the dirty beige vehicle parked in the break-down lane.

Mills was in
the passenger's seat, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest as if he'd stopped
to take a catnap. From the chin down, he was blood.

Eve stood,
coating her hands with Seal-It, and studied the position of the body.

Posed, she thought as she leaned in the open window. She saw
the badge, facedown on the bloody floor of the car, and she saw the dull glint
of silver coins.

“Who found
him?”

“Good
Samaritan.” One of the uniforms stepped forward, as if he'd been waiting
anxiously for his cue. “We got him stashed in a unit with a couple of cops.
He's pretty shook.”

“You get a
name, a statement?”

“Yes, sir.”
Smartly, the uniform flipped out his notebook, keyed in. “James Stein, 1001
Ninety-fifth. He was heading home from work -- worked late tonight -- and saw
the vehicle in the break-down lane. Wasn't much traffic, he said, and he saw
somebody sitting in the car. Felt bad about it. Stopped, went over to see if he
could lend a hand. When he saw the deceased, he called it in.”

“When did the
call come in?”

“Ah,
twenty-one-fifteen. My partner and I were first on-scene, and arrived at
twenty-one-twenty-five. We recognized the vehicle as departmental, called it
in, and transmitted the vehicle identification number and a physical
description of the deceased.”

“All right.
Have Stein taken home.”

“Sir? You
don't want to question him?”

“Not tonight.
Verify his address and have him taken home.” She turned away from the uniform
and saw Peabody and McNab hustle out of another black and white.

“Lieutenant.”
Peabody glanced toward the car, and her mouth went tight. “I was with McNab
when the call came through. I couldn't shake him off.”

“Yeah.” Eve
looked over to where Roarke stood, dark against the lights. “I know the
feeling. Seal up, record the scene, all angles.” She didn't bother to bite back
an oath when yet another car squealed up, and Captain Roth jumped out.

Eve walked over
to meet her.

“Report,
Lieutenant.”

Eve didn't
report to Roth, and they both knew it. They studied each other a moment, a
subtle flexing of muscles. “At this point, Captain, you know what I know.”

“What I know,
Lieutenant, is you fucked up, and I've got another man dead.”

The chatter
around them cut off, as if someone had severed vocal chords with a knife.

“Captain Roth,
I'll give you leeway for emotional distress. But if you want to try to set me
down, you do it officially. You don't come at me on my crime scene.”

“It's no
longer your scene.”

Eve simply
sidestepped and blocked Roth from shoving by her. “Yes, it is. And because it
is, I have the authority to have you removed, should it become necessary. Don't
make it necessary.”

“You want to
take me on, Dallas?” Roth jabbed a finger between Eve's breasts. “You want to
go a round with me?”

“Not
particularly, but I will if you put your hands on me again or try to interfere
with my investigation. Now, you either back off, fall in, or remove yourself
from the sealed area.”

Roth's eyes
flared, her teeth bared, and Eve braced herself for what was to come.

“Captain!”
Clooney pushed his way through the crowd of cops. His face was flushed, his
breath short as if he'd been running. “Captain Roth, may I speak with you, sir?
In private.”

Roth vibrated
another moment, then seemed to pull herself in. With a brisk nod, she turned
and strode back to her vehicle.

“I'm sorry
about that, Lieutenant,” Clooney murmured. His gaze slid past her, rested
miserably on Mills. “This cuts deep with her.”

“Understood.
Why are you here, Clooney?”

“Word
travels.” He sighed, long and deep. “I'm going to be knocking on another door
tonight, sitting with another widow. Goddamn it.”

He turned
away, walked to where Roth waited.

“She's got no
cause slapping at you that way.” McNab said it, from just behind her.

Eve shifted,
stared at the scene Peabody meticulously recorded. “That's cause,” she said.

He didn't
think so but decided to let it go. “Can I help out here?”

“I'll let you
know.” She took a step away, looked back. “McNab?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You're not
always a complete asshole.”

It made him
grin, and he slipped his hands into his pockets and wandered over to Roarke.
“Hey. You doing a ride-along, too?”

“Apparently.”
Roarke had a low-grade urge for a cigarette, which annoyed him. “What's the
story on Captain Roth?” When McNab started to shrug, Roarke smiled. “Ian, no
one knows the gossip like an e-detective.”

“You got that
right. Okay, maybe we poked around a little when we heard about Kohli, seeing
as he was hers. She's a hard-ass, eighteen years on, got a shit-pot load of
busts under her belt, a slew of commendations, and a couple minor reprimands
for insubordination. They came early on, though. Moved up the ranks, and took a
lot of crap work to do it. Been captain under a year, and word is she's holding
onto it by her fingernails since the Ricker case blew up under her.”

They both
glanced back to where Roth and Eve had squared off. “And that,” Roarke said,
“makes her touchy.”

“Looks like.
Had a little problem with alcohol a few years back. Did voluntary rehab before
it became a big one. On her second marriage, and my source says it looks pretty
shaky right now. She lives and breathes the job.”

He paused a
minute, watching Roth talk to Clooney. “You want my take, she's territorial and
competitive. Probably have to be to wear captain's bars. Losing two men stings.
Having another cop handle the cases is going to eat at her. Especially when
it's a cop with a rep like Dallas.”

“And what
would that rep be?”

“She's the
best there is,” McNab said simply. He smiled a little. “Peabody wants to be her
when she grows up. Speaking of Peabody, I just wanted to say how that advice
you gave me -- you know about the romance angle -- it's working pretty good.”

“Glad to hear
it.”

“She's still
seeing that slick-handed LC though. Burns my ass.”

Roarke glanced
down as McNab held out a jumbo pack of wild grape bubble gum. What the hell,
he thought, took a cube.

Chewing
thoughtfully, they watched their women work.

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

Eve ignored
the onlookers. She could have ordered the scene cleared except for essential
personnel, but it felt wrong to do so. The cops were there, a kind of homage to
the badge, and to reassure themselves they were alive.

Both were
valid reasons to stand by.

“Victim is
identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, attached to the One two-eight, Illegals
Division. Caucasian, age fifty-four.”

Eve recited
the data into the record as she gently lifted the chin. “The victim was found
by civilian Stein, James, in the passenger seat of his official vehicle, on the
break-down lane on the George Washington Bridge, eastbound. Cause of death not
yet determined. He'd been drinking, Peabody.”

“Sir?”

“Gin, from the
smell of it.”

“I don't know
how you catch it,” Peabody muttered, breathing between her teeth. “With the
rest of the stench here.”

With a sealed
hand, Eve turned back Mills's jacket, saw his weapon still holstered. “Doesn't
look like he even went for it. Why wasn't he driving? It's his unit. Most cops
have to have their hands pried off the wheel before they let somebody else man
their ride.”

She wrinkled
her nose. “That's more than blood and bowels and gin I'm smelling.”

She released
the seat belt, then jerked her hands back, an instinctive move, as his guts
slithered out, sliding nastily from under his shirt.

“Oh. Oh
Christ.” Peabody choked, went glassily pale, stumbled back. “Dallas ...”

“Get some air.
Go on.”

“I'm okay,
I...” But her head spun, her stomach revolted. She managed to get to the side
of the bridge before she lost the cheese and bean tacos she'd shared with
McNab.

Eve closed her
eyes a moment, bore down and bore down hard. There was a dull roar in her head,
like the sea cresting. She blanked her mind until she was certain the rumbles
she heard were from the traffic on the level below and from the sky overhead.

With steady
hands, she unbuttoned Mills's fouled shirt. He'd been sliced, one long wide
swath, from breastbone to crotch.

She noted it
into the record while Peabody retched.

Sickened, she
straightened, stepped back, let the marginally fresher air fill her lungs. Her
gaze skimmed over a sea of faces: some grim, some horrified, some frightened.
Peabody wasn't the only cop leaning over the bridge.

“I'm all
right. I'm okay.”

Through the
pounding bells in her ears, Eve heard Peabody's weak voice.

“Come on, sit
down a minute. Sit down, honey.”

“McNab, get
her recorder. I need it here.”

“No, I can do
it. I can.” Peabody nudged McNab's patting hands away, straightened her
shoulders. Her face was dead white to the lips. She shuddered once, but she
walked back. “I'm sorry, Lieutenant.”

“There's no
shame in it. Give me your recorder. I'll finish this.”

“No, sir. I
can hold.”

After a
moment's study, Eve nodded. “Get him on record. Don't think about it. Close
your mind to it.”

“How?” Peabody
asked, but turned to do the work.

Eve lifted a
hand, had nearly rubbed it over her face before she remembered what it was
smeared with. “Where the hell's the ME?”

“Lieutenant.”
Roarke stepped to her, held out a pristine white silk handkerchief.

“Yeah,
thanks.” She used it without a thought. “You can't be here. You have to stay
back.” She looked around for somewhere to dispose of the smeared silk and ended
up stuffing it into an evidence bag.

“You need to
take a minute,” Roarke said quietly. “Anyone would.”

“I can't
afford it. I fold, even look like I'm going to, and I lose control of the
scene.” She stayed crouched, added a fresh coat of sealant to her hands. She
got to her feet, handed him the ruined handkerchief in its bag. “Sorry about
that.”

Then she
planted her feet, legs spread, as Roth marched back to Mills's car with Clooney
in her wake. Roth stopped short, as if she'd run into an invisible wall, and
stared at what there was of the man who'd served under her command.

“Ah, holy
mother of God.” It was all she said, her only sign of distress. While her eyes
were burning dry, Clooney's misted with tears.

“Jesus, Mills.
Jesus, look what they did to you.” He closed his eyes, breathed long and deep.
“We can't tell the family this. Can't give them the details of this. Captain
Roth, we have to go inform next of kin before they hear some other way. We have
to cover over the worst of this for their sakes.”

“All right,
Art. All right.” She looked over as Eve took out her communicator.

“What are you
doing?”

“Checking on
the ME, Captain.”

“I've just
done so. ETA is under two minutes. A moment, Lieutenant. In private. Clooney,
assist the lieutenant's aide in keeping the scene secure. I don't want any of
those cops moving closer.”

Eve walked
away with her, away from the glare of lights into the softer shadows. The air
cleared, the scent of exhaust and pavement was like balm after a burn.

“Lieutenant, I
apologize for my earlier outburst.”

“Apology
accepted.”

“That was very
quick.”

“So was your
apology.”

Roth blinked,
then nodded slowly. “I hate making them. I haven't gotten where I am on the job
by indulging my temper or apologizing for it. Neither, I imagine, have you.
Women are still more closely scrutinized in the department and more strictly
judged.”

“That may be
true, Captain. I don't let it concern me.”

“Then you're a
better woman than I, Dallas, or a great deal less ambitious. Because it burns
the living hell out of me.” She inhaled, hissed the breath out through her
teeth. “My coming at you as I have has been an emotional reaction, an
indulgence again, that was both inappropriate and ill-advised. I'm going to
tell you that I overreacted to Kohli's death because I liked him, very much. I
believe I overreacted to Mills because I disliked him. Very much.”

She glanced
back at the car. “He was a son of a bitch, a mean-spirited man who made no
secret that, in his opinion, women should be having babies, cooking pies, and
not wearing a badge. He disliked blacks, Jews, Asians .. . hell, he disliked
everyone who wasn't just what he was: an overfed white male. But he was my cop,
and I want whoever opened him up that way.”

“So do I,
Captain.”

Roth nodded
again, and together they watched the ME arrive. Morse, Eve noted. Only
the top dog for one of the boys in blue.

“Homicide
isn't my sphere, Dallas, as Clooney in his calm, reasonable manner has pointed
out to me. I know your rep, and I'm depending on it. I want...” She trailed off
and seemed to bite down on impatience. “I'd appreciate being sent a copy
of your report.”

“You'll have
it in the morning.”

“Thank you.”
She looked back, her eyes skimming over Eve's face. “Are you as good as they
say?”

“I don't
listen to what they say.”

Roth gave a
short laugh. “You want to wear bars, you'd better start.” And she held out a
hand.

Eve took it.
They parted ways, one to speak of death and the other to stand over it.

As she walked,
Eve glanced up and spotted the first media copter.

That, she
decided, was a problem for later.

“Well, they
made a mess out of him, didn't they?” Morse took the time to pull on a
protective gown, then placidly sealed his hands and shoes while Eve waited beside
him.

“Push the tox
reports. I'm betting he was unconscious when he was sliced. His weapon's still
on safety, and there aren't any defensive wounds. I could smell gin on him.”

“Take a hell
of a lot of gin to take a man his size under far enough that this could be done
to him without his objection. You think he was killed while he sat there?”

“Too much
blood for otherwise. The killer got him drunk, doped, whatever, took the time to
unbutton his shirt, sliced him right down the middle. Then he buttoned him up
again, strapped him in. Even tipped the seat back just enough so that his
insides would stay in, more or less, until some lucky winner unstrapped him.”

“Bet I can
guess who that lucky winner was.” Morse smiled at her with a great deal of
sympathy.

“Yeah, I rang
that bell.” She was, damn it, going to feel the sensation of Mills's intestines
slopping over her hands for a long, very long time. “The killer drove Mills
here,” she continued, “and walked away. We won't find any prints.”

She scanned
the area. “Ballsy. Ballsy again. He'd have to sit here. Maybe he even did it
here, but I'm thinking he's not that much of a fucking daredevil. But he'd have
to sit here and wait until he was sure it was clear enough for him to get out
of the car. He had to have another transpo close by.”

“An
accomplice?”

“Maybe. Maybe.
I can't rule it out. We'll check with the traffic cops, see if they spotted
another car in the breakdown lane tonight. He didn't just walk off the goddamn
bridge. He had a plan. He knew the steps. Get me the tox, Morse.”

Peabody was
standing by the rail, McNab beside her. She'd gotten her color back, but Eve
thought she knew the kind of images her aide would see when she closed her eyes
that night.

“McNab, you
want in on this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go with
Peabody, get the traffic discs from the toll booths. All discs, all levels, for
the last twenty-four hours.”

“All?”

“We're going
to be thorough, and maybe we'll get lucky. Start scanning them, starting
backward with this level from twenty hundred hours. Find me this vehicle.”

“You got it.”

“Peabody, do a
standard background on James Stein, the Good Samaritan. I don't expect you to
find anything, but let's clear him out. Report, my home office, oh eight
hundred.”

“You've got
Lewis in the morning,” Peabody reminded her. “I'm scheduled for six-thirty at
Central.”

“I'll handle
Lewis. You're going to be putting in a long night.”

“So are you.”
Peabody's face turned mulish. “I'll report to Central as ordered, Lieutenant.”

“Christ, have
it your own way.” Eve dragged a hand through her hair and reorganized her
thoughts. “Have the first uniforms on-scene provide your transpo. One of them's
a hot dog. He needs something to do.”

She turned
away from them, strode to Roarke. “I have to ditch you.”

“I'll ride
with you to Central, then find transportation home.”

“I'm not going
to Central straight off. I have some stops to make. I'll have one of the black
and whites take you back.”

He looked
toward the units with mild disdain. “I believe I'll find my own transportation,
thanks all the same.”

Why, she
thought, was everyone arguing with her tonight? “I'm not going to just leave
you on the damn bridge.”

“I can find my
way home, Lieutenant. Where are you going?”

“Just some
things I have to do before I write my report.” His voice was so damn cool, she
thought. His eyes so detached. “How long are you going to be pissed off at me?”

“I haven't
decided. But I'll be sure to let you know.”

“You're making
me feel like a jerk.”

“Darling, you
managed that perfectly well on your own.”

Guilt and
temper tangled inside her, had her glaring at him. “Well, fuck it,” she said,
then grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, yanked him to her, and kissed him
hard. “See you later,” she muttered and stalked away.

“Count on it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Don Webster
was awakened out of a dead sleep by what he initially took to be a particularly
violent thunderstorm. When the clouds cleared from his brain, he decided someone
was trying to beat through the walls of his apartment with a sledgehammer.

As he reached
for his weapon, he realized someone was pounding on his door.

He pulled on
jeans, took his weapon with him, and went to look through his security peep.

A dozen thoughts
ran through his head, a morass of pleasure, fantasy, and discomfort. He opened
the door to Eve.

“Just in the
neighborhood?” he said.

“You son of a
bitch.” She shoved him back, slammed the door behind her. “I want answers, and
I want them now.”

“You never
were much on foreplay.” The minute it was out, he regretted it. He covered that
with a cocky grin. “What's up?”

“What's down,
Webster, is another cop.”

The grin
vanished. “Who? How?”

“You tell me.”

They stared at
each other a moment. His gaze shifted first. “I don't know.”

“What do you
know? What's IAB's angle on this? Because there is one. I can smell it.”

“Look, you
come barging in here at... Christ, after one in the morning, jump down my
throat, and tell me a cop's dead. You don't even tell me who or how it happened
and I'm supposed to be some fount of fucking information for you.”

“Mills,” she
snapped. “Detective Alan. Illegals, same squad as Kohli. You want to know how?
Somebody sliced him wide open from neck to balls. I know because his guts
spilled out on my hands.”

“Christ.
Christ.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I need a drink.”

He walked
away.

She stormed
after him. She remembered, vaguely, his old place, the one he'd had when he'd
worked the streets. This one had a lot more space, and more of a shine on it.

IAB, she
thought bitterly, paid well.

He was in the
kitchen, at the refrigerator, pulling a beer out. He looked back at her, took
out a second. “Want one?” When she simply stared at him, he put it back. “Guess
not.” He flipped off the top, let it fly, then took one long swallow. “Where'd
it happen?”

“I'm not here
to answer questions. I'm not your goddamn weasel.”

“And I'm not
yours,” he countered, then leaned back against the refrigerator door. He needed
to get his thoughts in order, his emotions under control. Unless he did, she'd
spring something out of him he wasn't free to say.

“You came to
me,” she reminded him. “Either fishing or smelling bait. Or maybe you're just
IAB's messenger boy.”

His eyes
hardened at that, but he lifted the bottle again, sipped. “You got a problem
with me, you take it to IAB. See where it gets you.”

“I solve my
own problems. What do Kohli and Mills and Max Ricker have in common?”

“You're going
to stir up a hornet's nest and get stung if you mess with Ricker.”

“I've already
messed with him. Didn't know that, did you?” she said when his eyes flickered.
“That little gem hasn't dropped in your lap quite yet. I've got four of his
storm troopers in cages right now.”

“You won't
keep them.”

“Maybe not,
but I might get more out of them than I'm getting from one of my own. You used
to be a cop.”

“I'm still a
cop. Goddamn it, Dallas.”

“Then act like
one.”

“You think
because I don't get all the press, don't go out closing high-profile cases so
the crowds cheer, I don't care about the job?” He slammed the bottle on the
counter. “I do what I do because I care about the job. If every cop was as
hard-line straight as you, we wouldn't need Internal Affairs.”

“Were they
dirty, Webster? Mills and Kohli. Were they dirty?”

His face
closed in again. “I can't tell you.”

“You don't
know, or you're not saying.”

He looked into
her eyes. For an instant, just an instant, she saw regret in his. “I can't tell
you.”

“Is there an
ongoing investigation in IAB involving Kohli, Mills and/or other officers in
the One two-eight?”

“If there
was,” he said carefully, “it would be classified. I wouldn't be at liberty to
confirm or deny that, or to discuss any of the details.”

“Where did
Kohli get the funds he's funnelled into investment accounts?”

Webster's
mouth tightened. Spring it out of him? She'd pry it out, he thought, with her
fingernails. “I have no comment regarding that allegation.”

“Am I going to
find similar funds in an account under Mills's name?”

“I have no
comment.”

“You should be
a fucking politician, Webster.” She turned on her heel.

“Eve.” He'd
never used her first name before, not out loud. “Watch your step,” he said
quietly. “Watch your back.”

She never
stopped, never acknowledged the warning. When she'd slammed the door behind
her, he stood for a moment while a war waged inside him.

Then he walked
to his 'link and made the first call.

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

Her next stop
was Feeney's. For the second time, she woke a man from a dead sleep.
Heavy-eyed, more rumpled than usual, and wearing a ratty blue robe that had his
pale legs sticking out like a chicken's, he answered the door.

“Jeez, Dallas,
it's going on two o'fucking clock.”

“I know;
sorry.”

“Well, come
in, but keep it down before the wife wakes up and thinks she has to come out
and make coffee or some damn thing.”

The apartment
was small, several steps down from Webster's in size and style. A big, ugly
chair sat in the center of the living area, facing the entertainment screen.
The privacy screens on the windows had been pulled, giving the place the
feeling of a tidy, and well-worn box.

She felt more
at home immediately.

He went toward
the kitchen, a short, skinny space with a battered counter running along one
wall. She knew he'd added that on himself because he'd bragged about it for
weeks. Saying nothing, she boosted herself on one of the stools and waited
while he programmed the AutoChef for coffee.

“I thought you
were going to tag me earlier. Waited around awhile.”

“Sorry, I got
held up on something else.”

“Yeah, I
heard. Taking Ricker on. That's a big chunk to chew.”

“I'm going to
swallow him down before I'm finished.”

“Just make
sure he doesn't give you permanent indigestion.” He set two steaming mugs on
the counter, settled onto the other stool. “Mills is dirty.”

“Mills is
dead.”

“Well, shit.”
Feeney paused, thinking while he drank some coffee. “He died rich. Found two
and a half million tucked into different accounts so far, and there may be
more. He did a good job of burying them, used names of dead relatives mostly.”

“Can you trace
where it came from?”

“Haven't had
any luck with that yet. With Kohli either. Money's been through the wash so
many times, it oughta be sterilized. But I can tell you Mills started pumping
up his goddamn pension fund and portfolio big time two weeks before the Ricker
bust. There were dribbles before that, but that's when it started rolling.”

He rubbed his
hand over his face where the nightly complement of chin hair itched.

“Kohli started
later. Months after. Don't have anything on Martinez yet. She's either clean or
more careful. I took a look at Roth.”

“And?”

“She's had
some sizable withdrawals over the last six months. Big chunks taken out of her
accounts. On the surface, it looks like she's damn near broke.”

“Any of the
withdrawals connect?”

“I'm still
looking.” He blew out a breath. “Thought maybe I'd see if I can work into their
logs and 'links. Take a little time, since I have to be careful.”

“Okay,
thanks.”

“How'd Mills
go down?”

She sat, drank
her coffee, and told him. It was still raw inside her, but by the time she'd
finished, it was easier.

“He was an
asshole,” Feeney said. “But that's ugly. Somebody he knew. You're not going to
get that close in on a cop, open him up that way, without some solid resistance
unless the cop's relaxed.”

“He'd been
drinking. My hunch is he'd been drinking with somebody. Just like Kohli. Taking
a meet in his ride maybe, having a drink. He gets sloppy, gets drugged, gets
dead.”

“Yeah, most
likely. You did good putting McNab on the traffic scans. He'll do the job.”

“I've got him
and Peabody in my home office at eight. Can you come in on it?”

He looked at
her, smiled his sorrowful basset-hound smile. “I thought I already was.”

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

It was nearly
four when she got home, and a soft spring rain had started to fall. In the dark
she showered off the greasiness of the night. Resting her forehead on the tiles
until she stopped smelling blood and bile.

She set her
wrist alarm for five. She meant to hit at Lewis again, and that meant another
trip to Central in just over an hour. For that hour, she promised herself she'd
sleep.

She climbed
into bed, grateful for Roarke's warmth. He'd be awake, she thought. Even if
he'd slept before she got home, he slept like a cat and would have sensed her.

But he didn't
turn to her as he usually did, didn't reach out or say her name to help her
slip into comfort.

She closed her
eyes, willed her mind to blank and her body to sleep.

And when she
woke an hour later, she was alone.

She was out in
her car, nearly ready to pull out, when Peabody ran out of the house behind
her.

“Nearly missed
you.”

“Missed me?
What are you doing here?”

“I bunked here
last night. Me and McNab.” In a bedroom, she thought, she'd dream about for the
rest of her life. “We brought the traffic discs back here. Roarke said it'd be
easier to do that instead of running us back to McNab's, then all of us coming
here this morning.”

“Roarke said?”

“Well, yeah.”
She settled into the passenger's seat, strapped in. “He rode along with us to
pick up the discs, then he'd called for a car, so we drove back here with him
and got to work.”

“Who got to
work?”

Peabody's
brain had engaged enough now to catch the edginess in Eve's tone. She'd have
squirmed if it hadn't been so undignified. “Well, me and McNab ... and Roarke.
He's done some tech consults with us before, so I didn't think anything of it.
Are we in trouble?”

“No. What
would be the point?”

There was a
weariness in the answer Peabody didn't like. “We broke off about three.” She
infused her voice with cheer as they headed down the drive. “I never slept in a
gel bed before. It's like sleeping on a cloud, except I guess you'd fall
through a cloud. McNab was snoring like a cargo tram, but I fell out about two
seconds after I hit the bed anyway. Are you mad at Roarke?” she blurted out.

“No.” But
he's mad at me. Still. “Did you spot Mills's vehicle on the disc?”

“Oh, man, I
can't believe I didn't tell you. Yeah, we got it. Passed the toll through the
e-pass at twenty-eighteen. You'd swear he was just sleeping until you enhance
and see the blood.”

“The driver,
Peabody?”

“That's the
not-so-good news. There was no driver. McNab said you'd need to go over the
in-dash computer, but it looks like it was on auto.”

“He programmed
it.” She hadn't thought of that. Very slick, very confident. Took Mills out
somewhere else, then programmed the auto. If it ran into a snag and there was
nobody in the vehicle to correct, what did he care?

“Yeah, that's
what we came to. McNab started calling it the Meteor of Death. You know, it was
a Meteor model,” Peabody said lamely. “Gets to be that late, you start making
stupid jokes, I guess.”

“You need a
code to program a police unit. You need a code, or you need clearance. It'll
have security override to keep it from being boosted, even by electronic-savvy
car-jackers.”

“Yeah, Roarke
said.” Peabody yawned comfortably. “But if you know what you're doing, it can
be finessed.”

He'd know, Eve thought sourly. “If it was finessed, it'll show.”
She snagged her 'link, called Feeney, and asked him to go down to vehicle
impound and run the test personally.

“If it doesn't
show,” she said, thinking out loud as she swung into Central's garage, “he had
the code or clearance.”

“He couldn't
have had clearance, Dallas, that would make him...”

“Another cop.
That's right.”

Peabody
goggled at her. “You don't really think -- “

“Listen to me.
Murder investigation doesn't just start with a body. It starts with a list,
with potentials, with angles. You close the case by cutting down that list,
narrowing the potentials, working the angles. You take that, the evidence, the
story, the scene, the victim, and the killer. And you put it together as many
different ways as you have to, until it fits.

“You keep this
to yourself,” Eve added. “You don't say anything. But if we put it together and
it fits a cop, then we deal with it.”

“Yeah, okay. A
lot of this one's making me kind of sick.”

“I know it.”
Eve pushed out of the car. “Call in, have Lewis brought up to interview.”

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

She fueled
herself with coffee, took her life in her hands and bought what was reputed to
be a cherry danish from vending on the Interview level. It tasted more like
cherry-flavored glue over sawdust, but it was something in her stomach. She
strolled into Interview, carrying an oversized mug of her own -- or Roarke's
own -- coffee because she knew the smell of it could make a grown man beg. She
settled down, all smiles, while Peabody took up her post by the door and
glowered. She set the recorder, read in the current data.

“Morning,
Lewis. Beautiful day out there.”

“I heard it's
raining.”

“Hey, don't
you know the rain's good for the flowers? So how'd you sleep?”

“I slept just
fine.”

She smiled
again, sipped from her mug. He had circles layering the circles under his eyes.
She doubted he'd gotten much more sleep than she had. “Well, as we were saying
when last we met -- “

“I don't have
to say dick to you without my lawyer.”

“Did I ask you
to say dick? Peabody, replay the record and verify that I at no time
requested that the subject say dick.”

“That shit
don't work on me. I got nothing to say. I'm sticking with silence. It's one of
my civil rights.”

“You hold onto
those civil rights, Lewis, while you can. They don't count for a whole hell of
a lot on Penal Station Omega. That's where I'm sending you. I'm going to make
it my mission in life to put you in one of their smaller concrete cages. So you
stick with that silence, and I'll do the talking. Conspiracy to kidnap a police
officer.”

“You can't
prove that. We never touched you.”

“Four armed
men in two vehicles, pursuing poor little me, at high rates of speed, over the
state line. You shouldn't have gone over the state line, ace. I can make that
federal, and my guess is the FBI would just love a shot at you. With your
record, the concealeds are enough to shoot you on the next transit to Omega.
Add the illegals.”

“I don't use
no drugs.”

“They were in
the vehicle you were driving. That was another mistake. You know, if you'd been
a passenger, you might have had a better chance to cut back on that hard time.
But being the driver, the driver with concealeds, with illegals, that makes you
my favorite patsy. Ricker's not even going to wave bye-bye when you're strapped
in the prison transport.”

“I got nothing
to say.”

“Yeah, I heard
that.” But he was starting to sweat. “I bet the lawyer's made you promises. I
bet I can list them right off for you. You'll do some time, but you'll be
compensated. They'll work the politics and get you into a nice, cushy facility.
Five years, seven tops. And you walk out a rich man. I bet that's real close.”

She could see
by the worry in Lewis's eyes that it was more than close. It was bull's-eye.
“Of course, he's a lying sack of shit, and I think you're smart enough to have
figured that out during the night. Once you're in, you're in, and if you're
unhappy with the arrangement and make noises, one of your upstanding fellow
inmates is going to get a message. Poison sprinkled in your rehydrated mashed
potatoes. A shiv in the kidneys during your single hour a day in the yard. An
accident in the showers where you slip on the soap and break your neck. You
won't know where it's coming from until you're dead.”

“I talk to
you, I'm dead before I get there.”

That was it,
she thought, leaning forward. The first crack. “Witness protection.”

“Fuck that. He
can find anybody anywhere.”

“He's not a
magician, Lewis. I'm offering you a nice ride, Lewis. You give me what I need,
I can get you immunity, a free walk, a new life anywhere you want to go, on or
off planet.”

“Why should I
trust you?”

“Because I've
got no reason to want you dead. That's a big one, isn't it?”

Lewis said
nothing, but he licked his lips.

“I got the
impression Ricker's not real stable. He strike you as real stable, Lewis?” She
waited a moment while he thought about it. “Ricker's going to tell himself you
screwed up. Doesn't matter, won't matter that he sent you out after me. That he
was stupid. He's going to blame you for missing me and for getting caught. You
know it. You know that, and you know he's just a little crazy.”

He'd stewed
about it all night, tossing, turning as best he could on the narrow bunk in the
dark cell. He'd come around to that himself, and he didn't like the fish-eye
look of Canarde. Ricker wasn't known for forgiving what he considered employee
mistakes.

“I don't do
any time.”

“That's what
we're going to work on.”

“Work on?
Screw that. You get me immunity. I don't say squat until I see the PA and the
paperwork. Immunity, Dallas, a new name, a new face, and a hundred fifty
thousand in seed money.”

“Maybe you'd
like me to arrange a pretty wife and a couple of rosy-cheeked children while
I'm at it.”

“Hah. Funny.”
He was feeling better now, better than he had in hours. “You get me the PA, get
me the deal. Then I'll talk to you.”

“I'll start on
it.” She got to her feet. “You might have to go through the hearing. Keep cool
about it, and try out that silence as a civil right. You let Canarde get a
whiff of this, he'll go straight to Ricker.”

“I know how it
works. Get me the deal.”

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

“You called
that one right,” Peabody commented as they headed down the hall.

“Yeah.” Eve
was already calling the PA's office, and was disgusted when she got the snooty
recording listing working hours. “Looks like I'm getting somebody else out of
bed today. Let's head back while I start the wheels rolling on this. I want a
look at the disc. Then everyone needs to be briefed.”

“Everyone?”

“Feeney's
coming in on it.”

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

She expected
to find Roarke there, huddled with McNab over her office unit, working some of
his magic. When she found McNab alone, she was surprised, irked, and
disappointed. A glance at their adjoining doors showed the red locked light
engaged.

Damn if she'd
knock.

“I can't get
you more than I've got, Lieutenant,” McNab told her. “I cleaned up the image,
and it's crystal now. But all you see's a dead guy riding in a car.”

She picked up
the hard copy he'd printed out for her, studied Mills. “Go through the discs,
following this segment. I want you to freeze and enhance every car, van,
scooter, and fucking jet bike that came through that level from this point
until the area was blocked off.”

“You want
every vehicle that crossed eastbound on the GW on level two for over an hour?”

She shot him a
cool look. “That was my order, Detective. Do you have a problem understanding
it?”

“No. No, sir.”
But he allowed himself one weighty sigh.

She went to
her 'link, contacted Dr. Mira's office, and set up a conference for the next
day with the department's top profiler. After a moment's hesitation, she put
through a transmission to her commander.

“Sir, I've
requested that Captain Feeney and Detective McNab assist in the electronics
work as regards my current case.”

“You're
cleared to enlist EDD or any assistance you deem appropriate or necessary.
That's standard, Lieutenant, and per your judgment. What is the current status
on the Mills homicide?”

“I would
prefer to report that in person, sir, when I have more data to offer. In the
meantime, I'd like to have Detective Martinez, from the One twenty-eight, put
under surveillance.”

“Is it your
opinion that Detective Martinez is connected to these deaths?”

“I have no
data supporting that, Commander. But it is my opinion that Martinez, if not
connected, may be a target. I intend to interview her more extensively, but in
the meantime, I have some concerns.”

“Very well,
Lieutenant. I'll see to it.”

“Commander,
are you aware of any investigation involving Kohli, Mills, and/or Martinez
currently being run through IAB?”

His eyes went
to slits. “I am not. Are you aware of any such investigation?”

“I am not...
but I have concerns.”

“So noted. I
want a report, by noon. The media's sniffed this out, and they're clamoring.
Two cops dead is news.”

“Yes, sir.”

She put the
next call through to Nadine Furst from Channel 75, and caught the reporter at
home. “Dallas, great minds. I just got an interesting lead from a source. Who's
killing cops?”

“My office...”
Eve checked her wrist unit, calculated time. “Ten-thirty, sharp.” She would
finish with Feeney, zip down to Lewis's hearing, and back to Central. “You get
what I've got to give, before any scheduled press conference, in a one-on-one.”

“And for this,
I have to kill who?”

“We won't take
it quite that far. I want a story planted ... leaked, let's say. From an
unnamed police source. You scare easy, Nadine?”

“Hey, I dated
a dentist. Nothing scares me.”

“Well, you're
going to want to cover your pretty ass anyway. The leak's going to involve Max
Ricker.”

“Jesus Christ,
Dallas. Let's get married. What have you got on him? Is it confirmed? What's
that I smell? Hey, I think it's an Emmy, or no, no, it's a Pulitzer.”

“Slow down.
Ten-thirty, sharp, Nadine. And if I hear anything about this before then,
deal's off, and I fry your ass.”

“My pretty
ass,” Nadine reminded her. “I'll be there. Bells on.”

She broke the
connection, mulled over what she was about to do, then turned to see both
Peabody and McNab staring at her. “Problem?”

“No, sir,
working away here. I've already got the first ten minutes run.”

“Work faster.”

“Maybe if I
had some breakfast.”

“You've been
here about eight hours. There's probably nothing left to eat.” She looked
toward Roarke's door again. Tempted, very tempted. Then was saved from making
the decision as Feeney came in.

“Got the
breakdown.” He laid discs on her desk, took a chair, stretched out his legs.
“Diagnostics, computer analysis. Ran it through up, down, and sideways. The
programming wasn't jumped. I'll swear to that.”

“Was Mills's
code used?” Eve demanded.

“No. If it had
been, I'd've figured whoever killed him got the code from him first, one way or
the other.” Feeney rattled in his pocket and began to nibble mournfully from a
bag of nuts. “It was an emergency clearance code -- an old one, but it still
works on that unit. It's one Maintenance used to go by to transport or run
scans on disabled units. They've got a new system the past few years, but the
older units still respond to this one. Thing is, he had to have a master to tie
it in. He didn't bypass.”

“Mills's
master was still in his pocket.”

“Yeah.” Feeney
sighed. “Yeah, you said. Anyway, the killer went right through the stages. I
can follow it like a map.”

She nodded
because it fit, and the dread in her stomach was ignored. On Feeney's face she
read her own thoughts and her own conflict.

“Okay, odds
are we're looking for a cop, retired or active.”

Feeney
crunched down on an almond. “Hell.”

“Both victims
knew their killer and trusted him or considered him no particular threat.” She
moved behind her desk, brought up a wall screen. “Kohli,” she began, drawing a
diagram. “To Mills. Mills to Martinez. Roth connects to all three. At the
center of it is Max Ricker. Who else connects?” As an answer, she brought up a
list of the names of the task force from Illegals who worked on Ricker's case.
“We run all these cops.”

She paused
long enough to scan faces. “Inside and out. I want it done without sending up
any flags. Concentrate on financials. Both Kohli and Mills had suspicious
funds. Follow the money.”

“Sucks,” McNab
commented. His eyes were cool and flat as he studied the names. “Lieutenant, if
these two were dirty, taking money from Ricker or one of his sources, why take
them out? Why would another cop on the take go after them?”

“You think
there's honor among thieves, McNab?”

“No ... well,
sort of. I mean what would be the point?”

“Self-protection,
covering your ass. Guilt, remorse.” She lifted a shoulder. “Or it could be as
simple as Ricker paying one more to cut down the field. Thirty pieces of
silver,” she mused. “Ricker's really fond of silver. You may not find the killer
on this list. But you may find the next target. Thirty pieces of silver,” she
said again. “A symbol of betrayal. Maybe whoever killed these men wanted us to
know they were wrong cops. We need to find out why. You start by finding out
how many more are wrong.”

“Shit's going
to hit the fan when this comes out,” Feeney told her. “Some aren't going to be
happy you tossed mud on the badge.”

“There's
already blood on it. I've got to get to Central, then over to court. We'd
better work out of here today. I'll get another computer brought in so you can
network.”

The lock light
was still on the adjoining door. She wasn't about to humiliate herself by
knocking on it in front of her associates. Instead, she went out, walked down
the hall and, swallowing pride, knocked from there.

Roarke opened
it himself, briefcase in hand. “Lieutenant. I was just heading out.”

“Yeah, well,
me, too. My team's going to set up here today. It'd be helpful if they had
another computer unit or two.”

“Summerset
will get them whatever they need.”

“Yeah, good.
Well...”

He touched her
arm, turning her so that they walked toward the steps together. “Was there
something else?”

“It's really
distracting trying to work and knowing you're still torqued at me.”

“I imagine so.
What would you like me to do about it?”

It was said so
pleasantly, she wanted to kick him. “I said I was sorry. Damn it.”

“So you did.
How rude of me to still be ... what was it? Torqued.”

“You're better
at this than I am,” she said grimly. “We're not on even ground.”

“Life has very
little even ground.” But he couldn't hold out against her misery and stopped
halfway down the stairs. “I love you, Eve. Nothing changes that, nothing could.
But Christ, you piss me off.”

The wash of
relief at hearing him say he loved her warred with irritation that she should
be slapped, again, for doing what she'd thought best. “Look, I just didn't want
you involved in -- “

“Ah.” He
tapped a finger on her lips to silence her. “There it is. There's quite a world
of trouble with that single statement. As I doubt you have time, and know I
don't, to explore that world right at the moment, why don't you, between your
quests for justice today, give it some thought.”

“Don't talk to
me like I'm a moron.”

He kissed her,
which was something, but did so lightly before continuing down the steps. “Go
to work, Eve. We'll talk about this later.”

“How come he's
in charge?” she muttered. She heard him say something to Summerset, something
quick and careless before the door opened. Closed.

She started
down, replaying the scene in her head, with all the sharp, pithy, and clever
things she would have said if she'd had a few minutes to think about it.

“Lieutenant.”
Summerset stood at the base of the stairs, holding out her jacket. It was
something he never did. “I'll see to it that your associates have the equipment
they require.”

“Yeah, great.
Fine.”

“Lieutenant.”

She shoved her
arms into the jacket, snarled at him. “What, goddamn it?”

He didn't so
much as blink. “Regarding your actions of last evening -- “

“Don't you
start on me, hatchet-face.” She shoved by him, wrenched open the doors.

“I believe,”
he continued in the same mild tone, “those actions were quite correct,”

He might as
well have stunned her with her own weapon. Her mouth fell open as she looked
back at him. “What did you say?”

“I also
believe your hearing is unimpaired, and I dislike repeating myself.” That said,
he walked down the hall and left her staring at him.

CHAPTER NINE

Nadine Furst
was precisely on time, and ready to roll live. Eve hadn't agreed to a live
feed, but she didn't object. It was a minor point, but one that Nadine noted.

They were
friends, which didn't surprise either of them as much as it once had. They
settled into the one-on-one interview in Eve's office with the smooth rhythm of
practice. There were no bombshells. Nadine was fully aware Eve Dallas dropped
no ammunition unless she intended to use it for her own purposes.

Still, the
early interview with the primary investigator and the precise and carefully
edited data put her report and her ratings considerably higher than her
competition.

“With the
available information,” Nadine concluded, “it would appear that Detective Kohli
and Lieutenant Mills were killed in broadly different manners. Is it their
attachment to the same precinct, the same squad, that leads you to believe
their deaths are connected?”

Smart, Eve thought. She had no doubt Nadine had done a quick
crash course on both victims and knew of their work on the Ricker bust. But she
was clever enough not to bring up the man's name before Eve gave her the
signal.

“That
connection, and certain evidence the department is not able to make public,
leads us to believe both Detective Kohli and Lieutenant Mills were killed by
the same individual. In addition to their attachment to the One twenty-eighth,
these officers had worked on some of the same cases. Those avenues are being
pursued. The New York Police and Security Department will employ all available
means to track down, identify, and bring to justice the killer of two of its
own.”

“Thank you,
Lieutenant. This is Nadine Furst reporting live from Cop Central for Channel
75.” She tossed the playback to her station, nodded at her camera operator,
then sat back.

Much like, Eve thought, a cat preparing to feast on a fat
canary.

“Now,” she
began.

“I'm running a
little short on time here. I have to be in court.”

Nadine popped
out of the chair. “Dallas -- “

“Why don't you
walk me over?” Eve said casually, and gave the camera person a bland stare.

“Sure. It's a
nice day for a walk. Lucy, go on back to base. I'll catch transpo.”

“Whatever.”
Always affable, and perfectly aware something more was up, Lucy hauled her
camera out.

“Talk to me,”
Nadine demanded when they were alone. “Ricker.”

“Not here.
Let's walk.”

“Oh. You
actually meant that.” Nadine glanced down at her stylish but impractical heels.
“Hell, how I suffer to give the public their right to know.”

“You only wear
those torture devices because they make your legs look hot.”

“Damn right.”
Resigned, Nadine followed Eve out of the office. “So how are things on a
personal front?”

Eve took the
glide down, surprised at how nearly she skimmed toward telling Nadine about her
problem with Roarke. Nadine was a woman, after all, and Eve had a feeling she
needed to talk to a female about strategy or something.

Then it
occurred to her that Nadine, for all her polished looks, sharp brains, and
basic good humor, wasn't one of the top runners in the successful race of
male-female relationships.

“Fine.”

“Well, that
certainly took some time. A little trouble in paradise?”

There was just
enough sympathy in the tone to have Eve skirting a little closer to the edge.
“I'm just distracted.”

She stepped
outside, opting to take the long way around. She wanted the air, she wanted the
time. And she wanted the relative privacy of a crowded street.

“An anonymous
police source, Nadine.”

“I'll give you
that, Dallas, but I have to tell you that coming so hard on the one-on-one,
it's going to be fairly easy to pin you as that source.”

“No kidding?”

Nadine studied
her friend's face. “Excuse me for being one step behind. I'll just catch up
now. You want certain parties to tag you, or at least suspect you, as the
source of the information you're going to give me.”

“I'm not going
to give you information so much as supposition. You do what you like with it.
You already know, or I'm wasting my time talking to you, that Kohli and Mills
were on the task force that busted Max Ricker.”

“Yeah, I've
picked that up. But then again, there were more than a dozen cops and various
official drones on that task force. Ricker's bad news, but it's a long stretch
to think he'd scrape his knuckles having a whole group of cops taken out. And
for what? The annoyance factor? He lost a big pile of money, but he got off.”

“There's
reason to believe he had a connection to at least one of the victims.” Keep
it vague, Eve thought. Let the reporter do the digging. “There are
four men coming up for a hearing this morning who are allegedly employed by Max
Ricker. They are charged with various crimes, including the unlawful vehicular
pursuit of a police officer. Seems to me if Ricker's ballsy enough to send
goons after a cop in broad daylight, he wouldn't stick at arranging for the
murder of cops.”

“He came after
you? Dallas, as a reporter, that tip makes me incredibly hot and excited.” But
she laid a hand on Eve's arm. “As your friend, I'd like to advise you to take a
vacation. Far, far away.”

Eve stopped at
the steps of the courthouse. “Your police source can't tell you that Ricker is
a suspect in the murder, or the conspiracy to murder, two NYPSD officers. But
your source can tell you that the investigation is taking a cold, hard look at
the activities, associations, and businesses of one Max Edward Ricker.”

“You won't
nail him, Dallas. He's like smoke, just keeps shifting and vanishing.”

“Watch me,”
Eve invited, and strode up the steps.

“I'm going
to,” Nadine murmured. “And I'm going to worry, damn it.”

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

Eve pushed
through the doors and tried not to sigh over the line for the security scan.
She chose the shortest for police and city officials, inched her way forward,
and had just cleared when all hell broke loose.

She heard the
shouts from the second level where Lewis's hearing was scheduled and, charging
up the stairs, pushed her way through the crowd of lawyers and court groupies
that had already gathered.

Lewis was on
the floor, his face gray, his eyes rolled back.

“He just
keeled over!” someone called out. “Just keeled right over. Somebody call the
MTs. Get a doctor.”

She was
swearing as she charged forward, crouched down.

“Ma'am, you'll
have to move back.”

She looked up
at the uniform. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. This one's mine.”

“Sorry,
Lieutenant. I've called for medical.”

“He's not
breathing.” She straddled him, ripped open his shirt, and started CPR. “Get
these people back. Lock down the area -- “

“Lock down --
“

“Lock it
down,” she ordered, and gave her breath to Lewis, knowing it was futile.

She worked on
him until the medical techs arrived and pronounced him. Disgusted, she cornered
his guard. “Report. I want to know everything that happened from the time you
got him out of his cell.”

“Standard,
sir, right down the line.” The uniform was ready to be resentful that anyone
would point the finger at him because some hired hammer's heart went bad. “Due
to the charges, the subject was cuffed, then transported here.”

“Who was in
the transport?”

“Myself and my
partner. The orders were that he wasn't to come into contact with the other
three suspects. We walked him through, walked him up to this level.”

“You didn't
use the secured elevator?”

“No, sir.” He
twitched very slightly at that. “It was jammed, Lieutenant. We brought him up
the steps. He didn't give us any trouble. His lawyer was here and asked us to
wait a moment until he'd finished up a consult with another client, via
palm-link. We stood by, then the subject staggered and fell. He gasped for
breath, and while my partner checked him over, I attempted to keep the crowd at
a distance. Shortly thereafter, you arrived on the scene.”

“What precinct
are you with?” She skimmed a glance over his nameplate. “Officer Harmon.”

“Sir, I'm
assigned to Central, Security Division.”

“Who
approached or had contact with the subject?”

“No one, sir.
My partner and I flanked him, per procedure.”

“Are you
telling me no one came close to this guy before he dropped?”

“No. That is,
we went through security, as required. There were a number of people on line,
and a number moving through the area. But no one spoke to the deceased or had
physical contact with him. Someone stopped my partner and inquired about
directions to the civil court area.”

“The person
who wanted directions -- how close did he get to the subject?”

“She, sir. It
was a female. She appeared to be in some distress and stopped as we were
walking by each other.”

“Get a good
look at her, Harmon?”

“Yes, sir.
Early twenties, blonde, blue eyes, fair complexion. She'd been crying, sir, was
crying but trying not to, if you understand me. She was visibly distressed, and
when she dropped her handbag some of the contents scattered.”

“I bet you and
your partner were very helpful picking up those items for her.”

Her tone
alerted him, and Harmon began to feel slightly ill. “Sir. It couldn't have
taken more than ten seconds, and the suspect was restrained and never out of
our sight.”

“Let me show
you something, Harmon, and you can tell your partner once he finishes jerking
off.” She signaled the MTs aside. “Come down here,” she ordered, once again
crouching by the body. “Do you see this faint red mark, the small circular mark
over the deceased's heart?”

He had to look
hard, but since he was now close to terrified, Harmon all but jammed his nose
against Lewis's chest. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know
what that is, Officer?”

“No, sir. No,
sir, I don't.”

“It's the mark
left by a pressure syringe. Your weepy blonde assassinated your charge under
your goddamn nose.”

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

She had every
corner of the building searched for a woman matching the description Harmon
gave her, but she expected to find nothing. And found exactly that. She called
in a crime scene unit to start the process of a homicide investigation and gave
herself the pleasure of interrogating Canarde.

“You knew he
was going to roll, didn't you?”

“I have no
idea what you're talking about, Lieutenant.” Back at Central, idly examining
his manicure, Canarde sat placidly in Interview Three. “I will remind you that
I'm here voluntarily. I was nowhere near my unfortunate client this morning,
and you have yet to determine whether his death was other than by natural
causes.”

“A healthy
man, under fifty, keels over from a heart attack. Convenient, particularly
since the PA's office was prepared to offer him immunity for turning evidence against
another of your clients.”

“If immunity
was being offered, Lieutenant, I am unaware of it, as I was uninformed of such
an offer. As the deceased's attorney of record, it would have been required
that such an offer be made through me or in my presence.”

He had small
teeth, perfect little teeth. And he showed them when he stretched his lips in a
smile. “I believe you've stepped over, or certainly around, a line of legal
procedure. It doesn't appear to have worked out well for my client.”

“You got that
right. You can inform your client, Canarde, that all he's done here is piss me
off. I work harder when I'm pissed off.”

Canarde gave
her another of his snakelike smiles. “My client, Lieutenant, is beyond caring.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must do my duty by the tragic Mr. Lewis. I believe
he had an ex-wife and a brother. I'll offer them my condolences: And, if by
some quirk of fate, you happen to be correct about Mr. Lewis being helped into
the grave, I will advise his family to sue the NYPSD for negligence and
wrongful death. It would be a great personal pleasure to represent them in the
civil case.”

“I bet he
doesn't even have to pay you, Canarde. He just tosses you the fish, and you
jump up, squeal, and dive into the muck to get it back.”

The amusement
faded from his eyes, though his mouth continued to smile. He got to his feet,
nodded, then left the room.

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

“I should have
anticipated it,” Eve told her commander. “I should have figured Ricker had
sources in the department and in the PA's office.”

“You covered
yourself.” A low, burning anger simmered inside Whitney. He would use it like
fuel. “Only necessary personnel were informed of the plans to grant immunity.”

“Still, it
leaked. And with Lewis taken out this way, I'll never turn any of the others on
Ricker. I can't even assure myself they'll do the maximum time. I need a lever,
Commander. I got under his skin once, and I can do it again. But I need
something, no matter how minor, to justify bringing him in to Interview.”

“That won't be
easy. He's too well insulated. Mills,” Whitney said. “You have no doubt he was
taking.”

“No, sir. I
don't. But as to connecting the funds back to Ricker, I don't know. Feeney's on
it, and I have several different angles I'm going to pursue.”

“From this
point on in this investigation, I want daily reports of every step you and your
team makes. Every step, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want the
names of every cop you're looking at, the ones you've cleared to your
satisfaction, and the ones you haven't.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you
believe the involvement in the department goes beyond Mills and Kohli, IAB will
have to be informed.”

They watched
each other a moment, treading a line.

“Sir, I would
hesitate to inform Internal Affairs until such time as I have evidence
substantiating what, at this point in the investigation, is only a suspicion of
further involvement.”

“And how much
time do you estimate your hesitation will encompass?”

“If I could
have twenty-four hours, Commander.”

“One day,
Dallas,” he said with a nod. “Neither of us can afford to dance around it
longer than that.”

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

She didn't
waste time but tracked down Martinez, contacted her, and requested a meeting.
Off police territory, Eve thought, would make it easier all around.

She met
Martinez at a small coffee shop between both their bases. Far enough away from
each location to insure it wasn't a cop hangout.

Martinez
arrived a few minutes late, giving Eve the opportunity to observe, to judge.
Going by body language, it was clear Martinez's defenses were up.

“I had to take
personal time for this.” Her shoulders as stiff as her voice, Martinez slid
into the booth across from Eve. “And I don't have a lot of it.”

“Fine. My
clock's ticking, too. You want coffee?”

“I don't drink
it.”

“How do you
live?”

Martinez gave
a sour smile, signaled the serving droid, and ordered water. “And don't pour it
from the tap,” she warned. “I'll know and fry your circuits. Let's just cut
through the crap,” Martinez continued, turning back to Eve. “You're looking for
me to hang something on Kohli and Mills, and it ain't gonna happen. You're
looking to dig up dirt, doing scut work for IAB. That turns my stomach.”

Eve picked up
her coffee and watched Martinez placidly over the rim. “Well, that covers that.
Now, just where do you get all this information?”

“Word gets
around when one cop's hunting others. It's all over the One two-eight. We've
got two dead cops. It seems to me you'd be more interested in finding out who
did them than in turning up muck before they're even in the fucking ground.”

That kind of
temper, while Eve respected it, wasn't going to help Martinez work her way up
the chain in rank. “Whatever you've heard, whatever you think, finding out who
did them is my priority.”

“Yeah, right.
Your priority is covering your husband's ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“He owns
Purgatory. I figure maybe something was up there, and Kohli tuned into it. They
didn't know he was a cop, so maybe they weren't careful. And when he got too
close, they took him out.”

“And Mills?”

Martinez
shrugged. “You're the one saying they're connected.”

“You know,
Martinez, when I first met you and Mills, I figured he was the moron of the
pair. Now, here you are, seriously damaging my self-esteem by showing me my
character judgment stinks.”

“You're not my
commanding officer.” Martinez had dark eyes. Now they fired like black suns. “I
don't have to take crap from you.”

“Then take
some advice from someone who's been on the job longer. Learn when to jab and
when to wait. You've been here under five minutes and told me more than I've
asked.”

“I haven't
told you dick.”

“You told me
that someone's starting talk at your precinct. That word's already out --
likely through that source -- that there's reason to believe Kohli and Mills
were taking. Ask yourself where that came from? Who'd want to put cops on their
guard and looking sideways at me? Think, Detective.”

To give her a
minute to do so, Eve sipped at her coffee. “I don't have to cover for Roarke.
He's been handling himself for a long time. Nobody but someone who'd have
something to worry about has cause to suspect or know that part of my
investigation is turning up dirt on the two victims.”

“Word gets
out,” Martinez said, but her tone wasn't quite so confident. She reached for
her water the minute it was on the table.

“Yeah,
especially when someone wants it to. You think I arranged to put over three
million dollars in Kohli's and Mills's accounts to cover my husband's ass? You
think I've maybe been funneling it there for months to try to create a scandal
involving fellow cops?”

“You're the
one saying the money was there.”

“That's right.
I'm saying it.”

Martinez said
nothing for a moment, just staring back into Eve's eyes. Then she closed her
own. “Hell. Oh, hell. I'm not turning on another cop. I'm fifth generation.
There's been a cop in my family for over a hundred years. That means something
to me. We have to stand up for each other.”

“I'm not
asking you to judge. I'm asking you to think. Not every one of us respects the
badge. Two of the men on your task force are dead. Both of them had more money
stashed away than most cops can save in a lifetime on the job. Now they're
dead. Somebody got close enough to them to take them out before they could
blink. Are you ready to be next?”

“Next? You see
me as a target?” The fire came back into Martinez's eyes. “You think I've been
taking.”

“I haven't
seen anything to make me think that. And I've looked.”

“Goddamn
bitch. I worked my ass off to make detective. Now you're going to toss me to
IAB?”

“I'm not
tossing you anywhere. But if you're not straight with me, you're going to hang
yourself. One way or another. Who's at the core of this?” Eve demanded, leaning
forward. “Be a detective, for Christ's sake, and figure it. Who connects Kohli
and Mills and has the money to turn a cop into a weasel?”

“Ricker.”
Martinez's fingers curled on the table until her fist ran white across the
knuckles. “Goddamn it.”

“You had him,
didn't you? You went into that bust knowing you had everything you needed for
an arrest, an indictment, and a conviction. You were careful.”

“It took me
months to set it up. I lived with that case twenty-four/seven. I made sure I
didn't miss anything. Didn't rush it. Then to have it all fall apart. I
couldn't figure it. I kept telling myself the son of a bitch was just too slick,
too well covered. But still... Part of me knew he had to have somebody inside.
Had to. But I didn't want to look there. I still don't.”

“But now you
will.”

Martinez
lifted her glass, drank water as though her throat was scorched. “Why am I
being tagged?”

“Spotted the
surveillance, did you?”

“Yeah, I
spotted it. I figured you were going after me next.”

“If I find out
you're in bed with Ricker, I will. Right now, the tag's for your protection.”

“I want it
off. If I'm going to throw in with you, I need to move without somebody
breathing down my neck. I have a personal copy of all the data, all my notes,
every step leading up to Ricker's bust. After the case fell apart, I looked
over them, but my heart wasn't in it. It will be now.”

“I'd like a
copy.”

“It's my
work.”

“And when we
take him down, I'll see to it you get the collar.”

“It means
something to me. The job means something to me. This case... the captain said
I'd lost my objectivity. She was right,” Martinez added with a twist of her
lips. “I did. I ate that case for breakfast every morning and I slept with it
every night. If I'd kept the right distance, I might have seen all this coming.
I might have seen how Mills insinuated himself into it until he was calling
shots. I just took it as his usual macho bullshit.”

“We're
supposed to stand for each other. You had no reason to look his way.”

“Kohli's
memorial's scheduled for day after tomorrow. It comes to me, without doubt,
that he was looped with Ricker, I'll spit on his grave. My grandfather went
down in the line of duty during the Urban Wars. He saved two kids. They're
somewhat older than I am, and they write my grandmother every year at
Christmas, and again on the anniversary of the day it happened. They never
forget. It's not just about the collar, Dallas. It's about being a cop.”

Eve nodded,
and after a moment's hesitation, leaned in again. “Martinez, I worked on one of
Ricker's spine crackers, had him ready to roll. The deal was going through the
PA's office for immunity. He had a hearing this morning. Walking down the hall
in the courtyard, between two cops, he got hit. He's dead. Just like that.
There are leaks, and I don't know where to begin to plug them. I want you to
know before you start on this that I may not be able to keep a lid on it. I may
not be able to keep your name out of the mix. And that could put you in the
crosshairs.”

Martinez
pushed her empty glass aside. “Like I said. It's about being a cop.”

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

Eve spent the
rest of the day backtracking, reading data until her eyes stung. She went back
to Patsy Kohli under the pretext of a follow-up. After twenty minutes, she was
convinced the grieving widow had known nothing.

That's what
her gut told her, Eve thought as she got into her car again. She just wasn't
sure she could trust her gut anymore.

She had a new
list working in her brain, the one McNab was shooting her every few hours. A
line of cops he'd cleared, another line of those who remained suspect.

Because
Central was closer, she slipped back to her office there and ran a series of
probabilities using the new data and the new list of names.

No matter how
she juggled it, she found nothing conclusive. And would find nothing, she
thought, until she dug deeper. They would have to pick the lives of these cops
apart, like crows on fleshy bones. Every time they cleared one, it would put
more weight on the rest.

She knew what
it was to undergo an internal investigation, to have the hounds of IAB sniffing
at her heels. Being clean didn't make it less nasty. Being clean didn't wash
the vile aftertaste out of your throat.

She couldn't
go deeper without sending up flags. Unless she made use of Roarke's
unregistered and illegal equipment. She couldn't make use of it without his
help. She didn't have the skill to peel those layers away on her own.

And she
couldn't ask him for help when she'd made such a big damn deal about wanting
him uninvolved.

She put her
head in her hands, unsurprised, in fact almost pleased that it was throbbing. A
good, solid headache would give her something else to be unhappy about.

She decided to
head home. And on the way passed Mavis's billboard. Before she could think
about it, she'd engaged her 'link and tried Mavis at home, without any real
hope of catching her there.

“Hello. Hey!
Hey, Dallas!”

“Guess what
I'm looking at?”

“A naked,
one-armed pygmy.”

“Damn. Okay,
you're too good at this. Talk to you later.”

“Wait, wait.”
Giggling, Mavis shifted in front of her own 'link as if that would somehow give
her the angle of Eve's view. “What is it really?”

“You. About a
million times bigger than life over Times fucking Square.”

“Oh! Is that
iced, or what? Is that beyond Arctic? I keep finding excuses to go down and
look at it. I want to give your husband a big, wet, sloppy kiss. Leonardo says
it's all right with him, under the circumstances, but I thought I should clear
it with you.”

“I don't tell
Roarke who he can kiss.”

Mavis's
eyebrows, currently a neon magenta, rose straight up into her blueberry-colored
hair. “Oh oh. Are you having a fight?”

“No. Yes. No.
I don't know what the hell we're having. He's barely speaking to me. Are you --
never mind.”

“Am I what?”
She put a hand over her screen, made Eve roll her eyes while she had a
whispered conversation with someone else in the room. “Sorry. Leonardo's trying
out a new stage costume. Hey, why don't you come by?”

“No. You're
busy.”

“Uh-uh. Come
on, Dallas, you never come by the old place. If you're in Times Square, you can
be here in a heartbeat. I was just thinking I was going to make a big batch of
screamers. So I'll see you in a few.”

“No -- I -- “
She hissed a breath at the blank screen, nearly called back and made excuses.
Then she shrugged, felt her back go up when she remembered that coolly distant
tone Roarke had used on her that morning. “What the hell,” she muttered. “Just
for a few minutes.”

CHAPTER TEN

Mavis
Freestone and her lover Leonardo cohabited in Eve's old apartment.

What a
difference a year made.

Eve had lived
in the single-bedroom unit contentedly enough with a few basic pieces of
furniture, no decor to speak of, and an AutoChef that was empty more often than
stocked. She'd preferred to think of her lifestyle as simple rather than bland.

Then again,
compared to Mavis, a surf on Saturn's outer rings in a comet buster was bland.

The minute
Mavis opened the door, Eve was struck with color. Blasts of it. Every hue and
tone on the palette was turned up to scream level, in patterns and textures
that boggled the eye.

And that was
just Mavis.

The living
area of the apartment was draped with miles of fabrics. Some, she supposed,
were art of some kind; others, Leonardo's designs in progress. The rather lumpy
sofa Eve had left behind when she'd moved in with Roarke was covered now with a
bright and nervy pink material that shimmered like polished glass. If that
wasn't enough, it was heaped with pillows and throws of clashing colors that
seemed to drip onto the floor where more cloths were cleverly tossed in lieu of
rugs.

Beads and
spangles and ribbons, and God knew what, rained down the walls, tinkled gaily
from the ceiling, which had been painted a high-sheen silver studded with
crimson stars.

Even the
tables were fabric, arty lumps of shape that could be called in for seating in
a pinch. Eve didn't think there was a hard surface or a right angle left in the
place.

And while she
was vaguely concerned that staying there for any length of time might bring on
a stroke, it was a frame that suited the picture of her oldest friend
perfectly.

The effect was
something like a storm-edged sunrise. On Venus.

“I'm so glad
you came by.” Mavis dragged Eve into the psychedelia, then turned a stylish
circle. “What do you think?”

“Of what,
exactly?”

“Of the new
gear?”

Tiny, slim,
and bright as a fairy wand, Mavis turned again, showing off a short-skirted ...
you couldn't call it a dress, Eve decided. A costume, she supposed, of crossed
diagonal stripes that ran from deep purple to neon pink and back again. The
bodice scooped low, just tucking the nipples under and left Mavis's shoulders
-- adorned now with twin pansy tattoos -- bare.

Sleeves --
they had to be sleeves because as far as Eve knew, gloves had hands -- skimmed
down her arms. Needle-heeled boots, in the same dizzy stripes, rode up her legs
to just under crotch level.

“It's -- “ She
had no idea. “Amazing.”

“Yeah, isn't
it? TTT. Too totally terrific. Trina's going to do my hair to match. Leonardo's
a complete genius. Leonardo, Dallas is here. He's making a batch of screamers,”
she told Eve. “You came by at the exact moment. I hate drinking alone, and you
know how Leonardo can't.”

She kept up
the chatter, pulling Eve toward the pink couch. She wasn't giving her friend a
chance to escape until she knew what was going on.

“Here he is.”
Her voice went to coo, her eyes went gooey. “Thanks, honey love.”

Leonardo, a
giant of a man with long, glossy braids, gold eyes, and the smooth copper skin
of a mixed-race heritage, swirled into the room. He moved with uncanny grace
for a man topping six-five and wearing a hooded ankle duster of Atlantic blue.
He beamed at Mavis, and the ruby studs beside his mouth and just under his left
eyebrow winked flirtatiously.

He cooed right
back at her. “You're welcome, turtledove. Hello, Dallas. I put together a
little snack, in case you haven't had dinner.”

“Isn't he
TTT?”

“You bet,” Eve
said as Mavis cuddled up against him. Even in the boots, she didn't make it to
his breastbone. “You didn't have to go to any trouble, Leonardo.”

“None at all.”
He set down a tray loaded with food and drink. “It's nice you came by so Mavis
won't spend the evening alone. I have some appointments.”

Mavis sent him
an adoring look. Their plans had been to have a rare quiet evening together.
When she'd told him Eve was coming by and something was wrong, he'd agreed
without a murmur to her request that he make himself scarce.

He was, Mavis
thought with a sigh, perfect.

“I can't stay
long,” Eve began, but Leonardo was already scooping Mavis up in his long arms,
kissing her in a deep and intimate way that had Eve wincing and looking away.

“Enjoy
yourself, my dove.”

He sent Eve a
quick, flashing smile and managed to glide out of the apartment without running
into anything.

“He didn't
have any appointments.”

Mavis started
to protest, then grinned, shrugged, and plopped down to pour the first round of
screamers. “I told him we wanted a little girl time. He was ultra-cool with it.
So ...” She passed Eve a glass the size of a small birdbath, filled to the rim
with emerald green liquid. “You wanna get a buzz on, then tell me about it, or
just dive in?”

Eve opened her
mouth, then closed it and pursed her lips. It had been a hell of a long time
since she'd downed a batch of screamers with Mavis. “Maybe I can get a buzz on
while I tell you.”

“Solid.” Mavis
tapped her glass against Eve's and knocked back the first of what promised to
be many.

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

“So ...” Mavis
was on her third screamer, and most of the soy chips, whey-cheese dip, and corn
doodles Leonardo had arranged were long consumed. “Let me sort of put this in a
box. You went to square off with some bad guy who used to have business with
Roarke, without telling Roarke you were going.”

“It's police
business. It's my job.”

“Okay, okay,
I'm just scoping it down. Then the bad guy sent second-string bad guys after
you.”

“I handled
it.”

Mavis glanced
over with a gimlet look in her eye. “You want my take or just your own?”

“I'm shutting
up,” Eve muttered and poured another screamer.

“When you got
back home, there were flowers from the bad guy and a smarmy card.” Because
Eve's mouth opened again, Mavis held up a purple-tipped finger. “You figured he
did it to rile you up and to get Roarke's goat, so you had Summerset ditch the
posies. But Roarke saw them and called you on it. Then you were like: 'Duh,
what flowers?' “

“I didn't say
'duh.' “ The screamers were doing the job. “I never say that. I think, maybe, I
said 'Huh.' That's entirely different.”

“Whatever. You
... what's a word that means lie, but's nicer than lie?” Mavis closed one eye
as if to sharpen her focus. “Fib. You fibbed because you didn't want Roarke to
go out and crush the bad guy like a bug and maybe get messed up in the
process.”

Eve actually
preferred the word lie to the word fib but decided not to make an issue of it.
“More or less.”

“Well, that
was stupid.”

Eve's mouth
fell open. “Stupid? You're saying I was stupid? You're supposed to tell me I
was right. That's how this works.”

“Dallas.”
Mavis leaned over, then slid gracefully to the floor. “You didn't figure the
man factor. They got dicks. You can't ever forget the dick when you're dealing
with a man.”

“What're you
talking about?” Eve slid to the floor as well, sucked down the rest of her
drink. “I know Roarke has a dick. He uses it every chance he gets.”

“The dick's
connected to the ego. It's medical fact. Or maybe it's the other way around.”
With a shrug, Mavis emptied the last of the screamers. “It's a mystery to all
womankind. You didn't trust him to handle himself.”

“He didn't
trust me to handle myself.”

“Dallas,
Dallas.” Shaking her head, Mavis patted Eve's thigh. “Dallas,” she said a third
time, with great pity. “Let's make more screamers. We'll need them when we get
to the men are pigs stage.”

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

Halfway
through batch two, Eve lay on the floor staring up at the beads raining from
the silver ceiling. “If men are pigs, why do so many of us have one?”

“Because women
work on an emotional level.” Mavis hiccupped delicately. “Even you.”

Eve rolled
over, eyed Mavis narrowly. “Do not.” “Do, too. First he got you by the
hormones. I mean, Jesus, look at him. The man's a sexual... Gimme a minute. A
sexual... banquet. Yeah, that's a good one. Then he clicked into your head,
because he's smart and interesting and mysterious and all that stuff you'd
really go for. But then, the whammer was when he jammed right into your heart.
Whatcha gonna do then? A guy's got his hooks in your heart, he just reels you right
in.”

“I'm not a
goddamn fish.”

“We are all
fish,” Mavis said in rounded tones, “in the great sea of life.”

Eve had
swallowed enough screamers to find that hysterically funny. “You moron,” she
managed when she got her breath back.

“Hey, I'm not
the one in emotional crisis here.” On her hands and knees, Mavis crawled over
and kissed Eve, smackingly, on the cheek. “Poor baby. Mommy's gonna tell you
just what to do to make it all better.”

She crawled
off for the screamers, crawled back, and poured them out into the glasses,
somehow managing not to spill a single potent drop.

“Well, what?”

“Fuck his
brains out.”

“That's it?
That's Mommy's best advice?”

“It's the only
advice. Men, being pigs and having the dick factor, will usually forget what
they were pissed about if you lay them right.”

“So I'm
supposed to use sex to fix this?” Somewhere in her alcohol-dulled brain there
was a glimmer of a thought that this approach was seriously marred. But she
couldn't quite grab onto it. “It could work,” she decided.

“Guaranteed.
But...”

“I knew there
was a but. I could almost feel it.”

“It's only a
... what do you call it, a temporary measure. Dallas, you've got like, you
know, issues. So you gotta figure out why you went behind his back. Not that
there's anything really wrong with that, 'cause sometimes you just gotta do
what you do. But what you got here are two really rock heads that are rapping
up against each other.” She demonstrated by banging her hands together, and
spilled some screamer after all. “Oops.”

“You're saying
I'm a rock head?”

“Sure you are.
That's why I love you. And when you got those rock heads smacking together like
that, you're gonna have something crack now and again.”

“He's hardly
speaking to me.”

“He's so
mean.” Mavis polished off the screamer, then gave Eve a hard hug. “Want some
ice cream?”

“I'll be sick.
What kind?”

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

They ended up
back on the floor with enormous bowls of Triple Fudge Decadence topped with
clouds of pink whipped cream.

“I wasn't
wrong,” Eve said between bites.

“Of course you
weren't. We're women. We're never wrong.”

“Even
Summerset went on my side, and he hates me.”

“Doesn't hate
you.”

“I love the
stupid son of a bitch.”

“Aw, that's so
sweet.” Mavis's eyes, seriously blurred, went moist with sentiment. “If you'd
tell him, you guys would get along better.”

It took Eve a
minute. “Not Summerset. Jeez. Roarke. I love that stupid son of a bitch.
You'd think he could cut me a break when this case is hammering at me, and I
don't know what I'm doing.”

“You always
know what you're doing. That's why you're Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

“Not with the
job, Mavis. I know what I'm doing with the job. With Roarke, with the marriage
deal, with this love crap. You must be drunk.”

“Of course I'm
drunk. We each drank an entire batch of Leonardo's -- isn't he the cutest thing
-- special screamer mix.”

“You're
right.” Eve set her empty bowl aside, pressed a hand to her stomach. “I have to
go throw up now.”

“Okay. I'm
next, so let me know when you're done.”

As Eve
stumbled to her feet, staggered out of the room, Mavis simply curled up, tucked
one of the satin throws under her head, and went blissfully to sleep.

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

Eve washed her
face, studied her pale, sloppy-eyed reflection in the mirror. She looked soft,
she thought. Soft, a little stupid, and more than drunk. With some regret, she
raided Mavis's supply of Sober-Up. After brief consideration, she decided to
take only one. She wasn't quite ready to give up the buzz a full dose would
dull.

When she found
Mavis asleep on the floor, like a doll among a forest of colorful toys, she
grinned. “What would I do without you?”

She leaned
down, gave Mavis's shoulder a little shake. When she got a sexy little purr as
a response, she decided to forgo her plan to help Mavis to bed. Instead, she
plucked one of the many fabric throws off the sofa, tucked it around her
sleeping friend.

And
straightening again, had her head spin.

“Yep, still
half drunk. Good enough.”

She left the
apartment, rolling her shoulders like a boxer prepping for a bout. She would
deal with Roarke all right, she thought. She was more than ready for it.

The fresh air
hit her, knocked her back. She stood a moment, breathing slowly, then walked,
in mostly a straight line, to her car. She had wit enough to program it to auto
and let it take her home.

She was going
to straighten this out, she told herself. Yes, she was. And if she had to get
Roarke into bed to do it, well... the sacrifices she had to make.

That made her
snort with laughter and settle back to enjoy the ride.

New York
looked so cheerful, she decided. The glidecarts were doing brisk business, as
the pedestrian traffic was thick. The street thieves, she thought with mild
affection, were having a field day plucking the tourists and the unwary.

Greasy smoke
stinking of overcooked soy dogs and rehydrated onion bits plumed in front of
her car. Two street LCs were in a shoving match on the corner of Sixth and
Sixty-second while a hopeful John cheered them on. One Rapid Cab tried a sneak
maneuver around another, missed, and scraped fenders. The two drivers were out
of the cars like jacks from the box, squaring off with fists.

God. She loved
New York.

She watched a
flock of the head-shaven Pure Sect, well out of their bailiwick, herd each
other uptown. An ad blimp, past curfew, glided overhead and touted the delights
of a package trip to Vegas II. Four days, three nights, round-trip and deluxe
accommodations for two, all for the low-low-low price of twelve thousand and
eighty-five.

What a deal.

The blimp
chugged its way downtown as she continued up.

The pedestrian
traffic thinned out and trimmed up. The glide-carts took on a sheen.

Welcome to
Roarke's world, she thought, amused at herself.

As she
approached the gates, a figure stepped into the path of her vehicle. Eve let out
a yelp, and fortunately, the programming accessed the obstruction and hit the
brakes. Mild annoyance turned to disgust when Webster stepped out of the
shadows.

She rolled
down her window, glared at him. “You got a death wish? This is a city vehicle,
and I was on auto.”

“Good thing,
as you look a little impaired.” Sleepy, he thought. Sleepy, smashed, and sexy.
“Night on the town?”

“Bite me,
Webster. What do you want?”

“I need to
talk to you.” He glanced at the gates. “It's not easy getting into this place.
How about a lift?”

“I don't want
you in my house.”

The engaging
smile he'd fixed on his face hardened. “Ten minutes, Dallas. I promise not to
steal the silver.”

“I have an
office at Central. Make an appointment.”

“If it wasn't
important, do you think I'd be hanging out in front of your house waiting to
give you a chance to bust my balls?”

She wished she
didn't see the logic of that. Wished she wasn't sober enough to resist the urge
to roll the window up and leave him outside the gates. She jerked a thumb
toward the passenger seat. While he walked around the car to get in, it
occurred to her that for the last few hours, murder hadn't entered her head.

“It better be
important, Webster. If you're hosing me, I'm going to do a lot more than bust
your balls.”

She completed
the turn toward the gates. Her vehicle ID was scanned, and they opened
silently.

“Pretty heavy
security for a residence,” he commented.

She didn't
nibble at that particular bait, but she wished she'd gone for both Sober-Ups so
her mind would be absolutely clear.

She left the
car at the end of the drive, led the way up the steps. He was doing his best
not to gape at the house but didn't manage to swallow the low whistle when she
opened the front door.

“I've got a
meeting,” she said, even as Summerset stepped into view and opened his mouth.

With her hands
jammed in her pockets, she headed upstairs. Webster gave up, stared down at the
elegant butler, scanned what he could see of the lower floor. “Some place. I'm
trying to picture you in this palace. You never struck me as the princess
type.”

But when he
stepped into her office, one Roarke had modeled to reflect her previous
apartment, he nodded. “This is more like it. Streamlined and practical.”

“Now that I
have your approval, spill it. I've got work to do.”

“You had time
to go out and knock a few back tonight.”

She angled her
head, folded her arms. “Are you under the impression you have any say in what I
do with my time, on or off the job?”

“Just an observation.”
He prowled the room, picking up, setting back, items at random, then nearly
jolted when he saw the enormous cat curled up in his sleep chair and watching
him out of narrowed bicolored eyes.

“Palace
guard?”

“Damn right.
One word from me, and he'll claw your eyes out and eat your tongue. Don't make
me set him off.”

He laughed,
ordered himself to relax. “Got any coffee?”

“Yes.” She
stood just where she was.

He laughed
again, a short, resigned sound. “I was going to say you used to be friendlier,
but you weren't. Something about that mean streak of yours always did it for
me. I must be sick.”

“Get to the
point, or get out.”

He nodded, yet
still he stalled, walking to her window, staring out. “Your current avenues of
investigation are infringing on an IAB movement.”

“Aw, I feel so
bad about that.”

“I warned them
about you. They didn't listen. Had this idea that you could be handled.” He
turned back, met her eyes. “I'm here to order you off Ricker.”

“You have no
authority to order me off anything.”

“Request,” he
amended. “I'm here to request you back off your investigation of Max Ricker.”

“Request
denied.”

“Dallas, you
push the wrong buttons, you could screw up an investigation that's been in the
works for months.”

“An internal
investigation?”

“I'm not at
liberty to confirm or deny.”

“Then leave.”

“I'm trying to
give you a hand here. If you just back off, we'll both end up getting what
we're after.”

She eased a
hip on the edge of her desk. “I want a cop killer. What do you want?”

“You think it
doesn't matter to me.” His voice took on heat. His eyes flashed with it. “The
way those two men went down?”

“I don't know
what matters to you, Webster. Why don't you tell me?”

“Doing the
job,” he shot back. “Making sure the job gets done right, and it gets done clean.”

“And Mills and
Kohli were dirty.”

He started to
speak, then jammed his fists in his pockets. “I can't comment.”

“I don't need
your comments. IAB might have its reasons for wanting to keep that information
under wraps for now. Fine. As it happens, so do I. But it's not going to stay
under. The connection to Ricker's going to explode before much longer. How many
more dead cops do you want me to stand over while you guys dick around with
your internal investigation? You knew they were dirty, and you left them out
there.”

“It's not as
black and white as that.”

“You knew,”
she repeated, heating up. “And that they were in Ricker's pocket, that they'd
helped him slide on charges that should have put him in for the rest of his
unnatural life. How long have you known?”

“Knowing isn't
proving, is it, Lieutenant?”

“Bullshit,
Webster. That's just bullshit. In a matter of days I've put together enough on
those two cops to have pulled them in and taken their badges. You left them out
for a reason. Now you want me to back off Ricker. How do I know he hasn't made
room in his pocket for you?”

His eyes
flashed again, and he was on her before he could stop himself, dragging her off
the desk. “That's low.”

“IAB gives
lessons in low.”

“You want to
go through the door with a dirty cop? With one who might hesitate just long
enough to have you on a slab? There's a reason for what I do, and I don't have
to justify it to you. You used to draw a hard, straight line, Dallas. When did
it start to go crooked? About the time you hooked up with Roarke?”

“Step back.
Now.”

But he didn't.
Couldn't. “Mills was garbage. You want to risk destroying the case we've been
building for months so you can stand for him? He'd have sold you out for pocket
change.”

“Now he's
dead. Is that IAB's sense of justice, to have your guts spilled out for being
on the take? If Ricker took him out, he used another cop to do it. Does that
balance it in your world?”

His eyes
flickered. “That's reaching.”

“No. No, it's
not.” She watched him closely now. “It's accurate. And you knew it. You knew
it, starting with Kohli, and that's why you ...”

She trailed
off as pieces began to shift and fall into another pattern. One that made her
stomach churn. “Kohli. You didn't mention him. Just Mills. Because Kohli wasn't
garbage, was he, Webster? He was just a tool. You set him up. You used him.”

“Leave it
alone.”

“The hell I
will.” Her fury was like a living thing, and it was clawing at her brain. “He
was under for you. He wasn't taking, you were giving. To make him look wrong,
so he could pick up information for you, get closer to Ricker's police
contacts.”

She closed her
eyes as she worked it out. “You picked him because he was clean, and more,
because he was average. Almost invisible. A data cruncher who had a strong
sense of right and wrong. You'd have played to him, recruited him,” she
murmured, opening her eyes again and studying Webster's.

“His
background in the MPs, that was on his side. He was good at taking orders. You
probably offered him extra pay, help him save for the bigger place he wanted
for his family while his wife stayed home with the kids. Put a real package
deal together, appealing to his sense of duty, sense of family. Then there was
the Ricker edge. He'd put in a lot of time on that, had to be bummed when it
fell apart. You set him up.”

“Nobody held a
blaster to his head.” Webster's voice was raw as guilt ate at him. “There's a
serious problem at the One twenty-eight. Kohli fit the profile for what we
needed. All he had to do was say no.”

“You knew he
wouldn't because he fit the fucking profile. Goddamn it, Webster,
goddamn it, he was killed because somebody believed the setup. Somebody killed
him for being dirty.”

“Are you going
to stand there and tell me we should have anticipated that?” He had plenty of
fury of his own, and mixed with it was a sticky guilt that made a bitter brew.
“It came out of the fucking blue. He was on the job, Dallas. He knew the risks.
We all know them.”

“Yeah, we know
the risks, and we live with them. Or we die with them.” But she stepped closer,
shoved her face into his. “You used me, Webster, the same way. And nobody
asked. You came to me, all friendly, all unofficial, to toss just enough
garbage in my path so I'd look in the right places, so I'd find the money
Kohli'd put away, just like you told him to. So I'd look and I'd paint him
dirty. You had me looking at a good cop and tossing muck at him.”

“You think
that doesn't make me sick?”

“I don't know
what makes you sick.”

She started to
turn away, but he grabbed her arm. “He'll be exonerated when the time comes.
He'll be put in for a posthumous promotion. His family will be taken care of.”

At her side,
her hand bunched into a fist. But she didn't use it. Instead, she used frigid
disdain. “Get away from me. Get out of my house.”

“For God's
sake, Dallas, nobody meant for this to happen.”

“But you
jumped right on it when it did. He wasn't even cold.”

“It's not my
choice.” Enraged, he took her other arm, shook her once. “I'm not supposed to
be here tonight. I'm not supposed to have told you any of this.”

“Then why did
you?”

“The bureau
will find a way to kick you off the case, or if it suits better, to put you
right in Ricker's path. Either way, you're going to walk around with a target
on your back. You matter to me.”

He jerked her
against him, and she was too shocked to block the move. “Hey.”

“You matter.
You always have.”

She slapped
both hands on his chest, felt the rapid pump of his heart. The heat. “Jesus,
Webster. Are you crazy?”

“I'd prefer
that you take your hands off my wife before I break them,” Roarke said from the
doorway. “But either way works for me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The voice was
rigidly pleasant and didn't fool Eve for an instant. She knew the sound of
savagery when she heard it, however elegantly it was cloaked. Just as she
recognized it in the frigid blue of Roarke's eyes.

She felt the
punch of fear, like a blow to her solar plexus. As a result, her voice was
sharp and clipped as she broke Webster's hold and stepped deliberately between
him and her husband.

“Roarke.
Webster and I are in the middle of a meeting, and a professional disagreement.”

“I don't think
so. Go find something to do, Eve. Elsewhere.”

Insult worked
hard to kick fear aside but didn't manage the job. She felt her muscles begin
to tremble and had an image of capping off the evening by arresting her husband
for murder.

“Get a grip.”
She did her best to plant her boots. “You've mistaken the situation here.”

“No, he
hasn't. Not on my end.” Webster moved away from Eve. “And I don't hide behind
women. You want to do this here?” he said with a nod toward Roarke. “Or
outside?”

Roarke smiled,
much Eve thought, like a wolf might before a kill. “Here and now.”

They leapt at
each other. Charged, she would think later when her brain engaged again, like a
couple of rams in rutting season. For a moment, she was too stunned to do more
than goggle.

She watched
Webster fly, come heavily down on a table, which crashed under the weight.
Galahad sprang up, hissing, and took a vicious swipe at his shoulder.

He was up
quickly, she'd give him that, bleeding. Fists flew with the ugly sound of bone
against bone. A lamp shattered.

She was
shouting, she could hear herself calling out in a voice that seemed oddly
unlike her own. At wit's end, she drew her weapon, hastily checked to insure it
was on lowest stun, then fired a stream between them.

Webster's head
whipped around in shock, but Roarke didn't so much as flinch. And his fist,
already swinging, smashed into Webster's face.

Another table
went, splintering into toothpicks. And this time Webster stayed down. Or would
have if Roarke hadn't leaned over and hauled him up by the collar.

“Roarke.” Her
hand steady, Eve kept her weapon trained. “That's enough. Let him go or I'll
stun you. I swear I will.”

His eyes met
hers, hot now, hot enough to burn. He released Webster so the half-conscious
man crumpled in a heap. Even as Roarke started toward Eve, Summerset slid into
the room.

“I'll just
show your guest out.”

“Do that,”
Roarke said without taking his eyes from Eve's. “And close the door. Stun me,
will you?” He murmured it, silkily, when he was a foot away.

She backed up,
all but hearing her nerves fray. “If you don't calm down, yes. I'm going to go
see how bad he's hurt.”

“You're not,
no. That you're not. Stun me then,” he invited, and she heard the alleyways of
Dublin in his voice. “Do it.”

She heard the
doors close, the locks click. Fear had her by the throat, infuriating her even
as she took another step in retreat. “There was nothing going on here. It's
insulting for you to think there was.”

“Darling Eve,
if I thought there'd been anything, on your part, going on here, he wouldn't
have left breathing.” There was no change in his expression as his hand snaked
out and knocked the weapon from hers. “Yet you stood between us.”

“To try to
avoid this.” She threw out her arms. “This testosterone explosion. Damn it, you
wrecked my place and assaulted an officer, and over nothing. Over my having a
professional disagreement with a colleague.”

“A colleague
who was once a lover, and what I walked in on was personal.”

“Okay, all
right, maybe. But that's no excuse. If I jumped every one of your old lovers,
I'd be bashing every female face in New York and the known universe.”

“That's
entirely different.”

“Why?” She had
him now, she thought with satisfaction. “Why is it different for you?”

“Because I
don't invite those former lovers into my home and let them put their hands on
me.”

“It wasn't
like that. It was -- “

“And because.”
He fisted a hand at the front of her shirt, hauling her up until she was forced
to her toes. “You're mine.”

Her eyes all
but bulged out of her head. “What? What? Like property? Like one of your damn
hotels?”

“Aye. If you
like.”

“I don't like.
Not one damn bit.” She shoved at his hand, twisted, and only succeeded in
ripping the shoulder seam of her shirt. Alarm bells went off in her head even
as she tried to break his hold with another counter maneuver. She ended up with
her back pressed into him and her arms pinned.

“You've
crossed a number of lines in a short time, Lieutenant.” His voice was warm
against her ear. Warm and dangerous. Erotic. “Do you think I'm a man who'll go
meekly about your bidding? Do you think loving you has taken my teeth?”

As if to prove
otherwise, he sank them lightly in her throat.

She couldn't
think, not with the red haze covering her brain. She quite simply couldn't get
her breath. “Let go of me. I'm too mad to deal with you tonight.”

“No, you're
not mad.” He whipped her around again, slammed her back to the wall, and yanked
her arms over her head. And his face, the face of a condemned angel, was close
to hers. “Intrigued is what you are, and reluctantly aroused. Your pulse is
pounding, and you tremble. Some of it's fear, just a touch of it to add an
edge.”

He was right.
She could have damned him for it, but need was crawling through her like savage
little ants.

“You're
hurting me. Let go of my hands.”

“No, I'm not,
but perhaps I've been too careful, too often, not to hurt you. Have you
forgotten what you took on with me, Eve?”

“No.” Her eyes
skimmed down to his mouth. God help her, she wanted it on her.

“You're mine,
and you'll say it before we're done tonight.” He reached out with his free hand
and ripped her shirt down the center. “And now I'll have what's mine.”

She resisted,
but that was pride, and pride was weaker than lust. She twisted her body,
hooking a foot behind his in an attempt to overbalance him. He merely shifted
his weight into the move and took her down with him.

The shock of
the fall knocked the breath out of her, but her knee came up, an automatic jerk
of defense. He rolled away from it, still gripping her hands. Pinned her. She
bucked, swore at him, whipping her head to the side as his mouth came down.

He settled for
her throat. Savaged it, and sent the pulse beneath his teeth and lips bounding.

He might have
stopped himself. The civilized veneer he'd coated over himself was hard set and
hard won. But the beast inside him had been teased to raging. He wanted it
loose. And the scent of her, of his mate, was humming in his blood.

She was
strong. He'd pit his strength and his will against hers before, but always with
a sense of fair play underneath. Not this time, was all he could think.

Not this
time.

He clamped a
hand over her breast, found the skin hot and damp. She made some sound between
a snarl and a moan, and when he crushed his mouth to hers, she bit.

The quick
flash of pain only appealed to the primal lust surging inside him. When he
lifted his head, his eyes were wild and fierce. “Liomsa.”

He'd said it
to her once before, in the language of his youth. Mine. She struggled,
fighting herself now, but when his mouth came to hers again, hot and hard and
hungry, she lost.

Desire, with
its more primitive barbs, scraped through her. She wanted. Wanted. And now her
body arched not in protest but in demand, and her mouth met his with feral
force.

He released
her hands only to jerk her up, yanking what was left of her shirt over her
shoulders. Her weapon harness tangled, locking her arms as effectively as
restraints. And now the fear leaped back. She was defenseless.

“Say it back
to me. Damn you, Eve. Say it.” His mouth fused to hers again, then streaked
down her throat, over her breasts. His teeth raked at her. And his hands.

On a sharp
cry, her head fell back. Pleasure, its edge as keen as razors, sliced at her,
leaving what was left of pride in tatters.

Then she was
rolling with him over a floor littered with splintered wood in something too
fierce to be surrender.

She fought
free of the harness and tore at his shirt. She wanted flesh, his flesh. The
feel of it, the taste. Every breath she took was a desperate gasp.

His hands
took, possessed, bruising as they moved over her. Those long, skilled fingers
arousing mercilessly until she was mad for more. He yanked her trousers down
her hips, flung them aside. And ruthlessly used his mouth on her.

Release gushed
through her, a flood that scorched her system. Floundering, she dug her fingers
into the rug, tried to find some anchor to hold her. But she was flying,
catapulted out of control.

And still he
wouldn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

The small, mad
sounds she made inflamed him, whipped his already crazed blood into a fever of
greed. Every gulp of air he took in was full of her, the hot, sharp taste of
woman. His.

His mouth
raced up her shuddering body, feasted on her breasts while he plunged his
fingers into her.

She came
again, brutally, and her shocked cry was a dark thrill to him, the sudden bite
of her nails on his back a vicious pleasure.

“Say it. Say
it back to me,” he demanded while his breath heaved, while he watched her eyes
go blind as he pushed her to the edge yet again. “Damn it, I'll hear it from
you.”

Somehow,
through the madness ruling her, she understood. Not surrender, even after this,
it wasn't surrender he asked for. But acceptance. Her throat burned, her system
screamed to mate. As she opened for him, lifted to him, she fumbled out the
Gaelic.

“Mine,” was
what she said. “You're mine, too.” And her mouth rose to his as he drove
himself inside her.

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

She lay
beneath him, enervated, stupefied. Her ears were ringing, making it impossible
to think. She wanted to find herself in this body that had responded so
primitively. But more, she simply wanted to wallow in the echoes of sensations
that still rippled through her.

When he
shifted, she would have rolled to her stomach, the position she assumed when
exhaustion ruled. But he plucked her off the floor, into his arms. “We're not
done yet.”

Leaving the
wreckage of her office behind, he carried her out, and took her to bed.

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

When she woke,
light was streaming through the sky window, her body pulsed with a thousand sly
aches. And he was gone.

She lay where
she was, on a bed that had been well used, on sheets that were tangled to
ropes, and let the tug-of-war between shame and pleasure play out inside her. Nothing
was resolved, she realized. Nothing was balanced. She rose, went in to shower
wondering if they'd fixed anything or only damaged it further.

She managed to
dress for the day without once meeting her own eyes in the mirror. Her harness
and weapon were on the table in the sitting area. Wondering when he'd put them
there, she strapped it on.

And with her
weapon in place, she felt steadier. Or did until she walked into her office and
found Peabody staring at the carnage.

“Ah ... some
party,” Peabody said.

“We had an
incident.” Eve kicked the broken lamp aside, strode directly to her desk. Her
only goal at that moment was to stay in charge. “I have information that needs
to be considered in the investigation. Sit down.”

Peabody
cleared her throat, righted a chair. It was the first time in her memory her
lieutenant had started a morning briefing without a cup of coffee in her hand.
But Peabody sat, took out her memo book.

“An IAB
operation has come to my attention,” Eve began, and told her aide what she needed
to know.

When she was
done, Peabody set her book on her knee. “If I can offer an opinion, sir, that
sucks.”

“Your opinion
is noted and agreed with.”

“They've been
impeding two homicide investigations by withholding pertinent data. Even IAB
doesn't have that right.”

“No, they
don't, and I'm going to deal with it. In the meantime, I'd like you to contact
Dr. Mira and request that our consult be moved here. I don't want IAB catching
any scent. Call McNab in. I want a harder, closer look at the list from the One
twenty-eight, and I want that done here, too. Until we've worked out the
feeding chain, officially, we give Internal Affairs nothing.”

“So much for
solidarity,” Peabody muttered. “Those rat bastards.”

“Put your
personal feelings aside. Cops are being murdered. We can't afford the
indulgence of resentment.” But she felt it, deep and dark inside her. “I want
to inform Whitney of this new information in person. I'll be back within two
hours or contact you if I'm delayed.”

“Yes, sir.
Would you like me to clean up in here?”

“That's not
your job,” Eve snapped, then squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath. “Sorry.
Personal distraction. Don't worry about it unless something's in your way.
Relay to Mira that this consult is now a priority. Have the backgrounds on as
many from the One twenty-eight as possible before that consult.” She hesitated,
then shrugged as she walked toward the door. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd
inform Roarke's offices that we'll clear Purgatory by end of day.”

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

He wasn't the
least bit interested in Purgatory, even the time he assumed he'd spend there
for his sins. Nor was Roarke overly surprised to find Don Webster waiting for
him in the reception area of his midtown offices.

Roarke's
admin, an exceptional woman of great efficiency and insight, moved into
reception, cutting neatly between the two men. “Your schedule is quite full
this morning. This gentleman would like to see you and is reluctant to make an
appointment for later in the week.”

“I'll make
time for him now. Thank you, Caro. Webster.”

He gestured
toward the corridor that led to his office and wasn't displeased to note
Webster sported a violent bruise running from under his right eye to his
cheekbone and a split lip that had yet to be treated.

His own ribs
were aching like a bitch, something he'd refused to see to as a matter of
pride. He stepped into his office, moved directly to the desk, but didn't sit.
With his hands lightly in his pockets, his body balanced on the balls of his
feet, he measured his adversary.

“You want
another round, mate?”

“More than I
want to see the sunrise,” Webster replied, then shook his head when the light
came into Roarke's eyes. “But I'm going to have to pass. I hate saying this,
but you had every right to pound the shit out of me last night.”

“And there,”
Roarke said smoothly, “we're in perfect accord. And if I find your hands on
what's mine again, you'll lose them. That's a promise.”

“She'd have
taken care of that herself if you'd been five minutes later. Shit, five seconds
later. I want you to know that.”

“Eve's
fidelity was never in question.”

“Okay.”
Webster felt part of the weight that had hung on him through the night lift. “I
didn't want you to get the idea that she ... hell.” He raked a hand through his
hair. “We have a professional problem, which I used to move on a personal one.
A problem I have,” Webster elaborated. “I think I'm in love with your wife.”

“That's indeed
a problem. I have to admire your courage in saying that to my face.”
Considering, Roarke chose a chair, took out a cigarette. He caught Webster's
quick glance at it, lifted a brow. “Would you like one?”

“I haven't had
one in five years. Three months, and ... I think it's twenty-six days. I've
managed to lose track of the hours. Fuck it.” He took one, drew deep until his
eyes all but crossed. “I don't know you,” Webster continued, “but I know about
you.”

“I can say the
same.” Roarke replied. “Did you think Eve hadn't told me you'd once had a night
together?”

Doing his best
to shrug, Webster sat as well. “It didn't mean anything to her. I knew it then,
and I know it now. I know your rep, Roarke. If you want to come after me,
that's what you'll do. I'm up for that. I just didn't want Dallas to take any
heat for it.”

“An attempt
like that to protect her would tempt her to kick your balls into your throat.”

For the first
time, Webster smiled, then swore as the cut lip burned like fire. “Yeah, well.”
He pressed a finger gingerly to his lip. “When I screw up, I don't like anybody
else catching the flak.”

“Whatever you
know or think you know about me, know this: I don't strike out at women,
particularly when they've done nothing but be who they are.”

He thought of
the way he'd handled her the night before, then ruthlessly pushed that aside
again. For later.

“And going
after you would make Eve unhappy. I might risk that, but I've no reason to.”

Webster stared
down at his cigarette. “You're not what I expected.”

“I could have
been.”

“Could have
beens don't mean squat.” Biting back a sigh, Webster took one last drag. “It's
what is that counts. That's ah ...” He tapped his bruised cheek. “Something I
needed to be reminded of.” He crushed out the cigarette before getting to his
feet. Meeting Roarke's eyes, he held out a hand. “I appreciate the time.”

Roarke rose.
He felt a stir of pity, another of respect. Each as unexpected as the other. He
accepted the hand, smiled. “I've a fucking bruise the size of a dinner plate on
my ribs, and my kidney feels like it's been slammed with a brick.”

Despite the
split lip, Webster grinned. “Thanks.” He started for the door, turned back
briefly. “You fit, you know, you and Dallas. Christ, the two of you fit.”

They did, yes,
Roarke thought when the door closed. But the fit wasn't always comfortable.

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

Commander
Whitney didn't explode when Eve relayed the information she'd come by, but it
was a close thing.

“Can you
verify?”

“No, sir, not
at this time. But my information is accurate. My source unimpeachable.”

“And that
source is?”

She'd considered
this, debated it, and saw no choice. “I regret, sir, that I'm unable to reveal
the name of my source.”

“I'm not a
goddamn reporter, Dallas.”

“Commander,
this information was given to me in confidence. I have no compunction about
using the information but can't name the source.”

“You're making
it more difficult for me to kick ass in IAB.”

“I'm sorry
about that.”

“I'll hit them
with it,” he continued, drumming his fingers on his desk. “They'll deny, stall,
prevaricate. If, as you relate, this operation has been in place some time,
they're going to be very reluctant to open it, even with this office.”

He sat back,
eyes slitted with concentration. “Politics is a dirty little game. I'm very
good at it.”

“Yes, sir.”
Eve allowed herself the barest hint of a smile. “You are.”

“Be prepared
to be called into The Tower to discuss this matter, Lieutenant,” he said,
referring to the offices of the police commissioner. “I'll start the wheel
rolling.”

“I'll be
available, Commander. At this time, and until this area of my investigation is
resolved to our satisfaction, I'll be working with my team at my home office.”

He nodded,
already turning to his 'link. “Dismissed.”

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

As she jogged
through the garage toward her vehicle, Carmichael hailed her.

“Got a little something
that might interest you. I've been through most of the witnesses on my list,
and hit with one of the waitresses.”

“Hit what?”

“Seems this
server did some short time for running scams. Nothing major, a little bait and
switch. But it gave her a good eye for cops. She claims she made Kohli as one
but didn't think anything of it. Didn't make much of the other cop who came in
from time to time and sat at the bar sucking down whiskey sours.”

“What other
cop?”

“Yeah,”
Carmichael said with a grin. “That was my question. And the answer was the lady
cop. The good-looking blonde. When I nudged her a little more, she gave me a
pretty fair description of Captain Roth of the One two-eight.”

“Son of a
bitch.”

“Yeah. The
general description could have fit a few hundred women, but it rang bells. So I
pulled some photos and had her do a match. She plucked Roth's out, first shot.”

“Thanks. Keep
this quiet, will you?”

“Can do. I was
on my way up to drop the record of the interview on your desk.” Carmichael
pulled a disc out of her bag. “Want it now?”

“Yeah. Thanks
again.”

Eve jammed the
disc in her pocket, hurried to her car. She was going to squeeze in time for a
trip to the One two-eight.

“Peabody.” She
tagged her aide on the run. “Pull up data on Roth and dig. Don't worry about
flags, I want them to wave.”

“Yes, sir.
Your consult with Dr. Mira is set for your home office at ten-thirty.”

“I'll try not
to keep her waiting. Pull the data now, make it noisy.”

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

Eve didn't
expect a brass band welcome when she walked into the One twenty-eighth. What
she got was a number of cool stares, muttered asides. One particularly
inventive officer oinked.

Rather than
ignoring it, she strolled over to his desk, smiled. “You've got a lot of talent
there, Detective. Do you hire out for parties?”

He curled his
lip. “I got nothing to say to you.”

“That's good,
because I don't have anything to say to you, either.” She kept her eyes on his
until he shifted, looked away. Satisfied, she made her way back to Captain
Roth's office.

It was a
corner room, one Eve imagined had been hard won, with a pair of windows, a good
solid desk, and a thriving vining plant on the sill.

The door was
glass, and through it Eve saw Roth surge to her feet when their eyes met. Eve
didn't bother to knock.

“How dare you
run my personal file without notification?” Roth began. “You're over the line,
Lieutenant.”

“One of us
is.” Eve closed the door at her back. “Why are you worried about what I might
find in your personal?”

“I'm not
worried. I'm furious. There's a matter of professional courtesy, which you've
summarily ignored in some vendetta you have to smear my house. I intend to
report your conduct to Commander Whitney and all the way up to The Tower.”

“Your
privilege, Captain. Just as it's mine, as primary on two homicides, to ask you
why you concealed the fact from me that you had visited Detective Kohli at
Purgatory -- a number of times,” she added when she saw Roth flinch.

“Your
information is inaccurate.”

“I don't think
so. We talk about it here, Captain, or at Central. Your choice -- as a
professional courtesy.”

“If you think
I'm going to let you ruin me, you're mistaken.”

“If you think
I'm going to let you hide behind your captain's bars, you're mistaken. Where
were you on the night Detective Kohli was murdered?”

“I don't have
to answer your insulting questions.”

“You will if I
pull you into Interview. And I will.”

“I was nowhere
near Purgatory the night Kohli was killed.”

“Prove it.”

“Oh, I hope
you rot in hell.” Roth marched around her desk, snapped her privacy screens
into place to block the view from the bullpen. “My whereabouts on that night
are personal.”

“Nothing's
personal in a murder investigation.”

“I'm a cop,
Lieutenant, a good one. Better at the desk than on the street, but a goddamn
good cop. My having a drink at a club now and then has nothing to do with
Kohli's death or my position as captain of this squad.”

“Then why did
you withhold the information?”

“Because I'm
not supposed to drink.” Her color came up, a flag of mortification. “I have a
problem with alcohol, and have already been through rehab. But you know that,”
she muttered and walked back behind the desk. “I'm not going to have a lapse in
my recovery endanger my job. I didn't know Kohli was moonlighting in Purgatory
when I went in the first time. I went back because he was a familiar face. I
didn't mention it because it was irrelevant.”

“You know
better than that, Captain.”

“All right,
goddamn it, I was protecting myself. Why shouldn't I?”

They were
squared off again, with Roth planted behind the desk. Defending her territory.
She'd do whatever it took to hold what she'd worked to win.

“I know damn
well you're trying to say Kohli was dirty, that Mills was dirty. You won't say
I am.”

“There have
been a number of substantial deposits in your husband's financial accounts.”

“Goddamn it.
I'm calling my rep.” She reached for her 'link, then curled her hand into a
fist. The room was silent as Eve watched her battle for control. “I do that,
and this goes on record. You've got me by the short hairs.”

She took a
deep breath, expelled it. “A few months ago I began to suspect my husband was
involved with someone else. The signs were there. Distraction, disinterest,
late arrivals, missed appointments. I confronted him, he denied. Some men have
a talent for turning such an accusation around until you're at fault. Even when
in your gut you know better. Very simply, Lieutenant, my marriage was falling
apart, and I found myself unable to stop it. You're a cop, a woman, married.
You know it's not easy.”

Eve didn't
reply nor did Roth expect her to. “I was upset, edgy, distracted. I told myself
it wouldn't hurt to smooth out the nerves with a drink. Or two. And I ended up
in Purgatory. Kohli was working the bar. We both pretended it was no big deal
for either of us to be in there. Meanwhile, my marriage was crumbling. I
discovered that my husband was not only rolling around on someone else's sheets
but had been steadily transferring funds from our account to one under his own
name. Before I could stop it, he'd ruined me financially, had me heading right
back into the bottle, and was adversely affecting my work performance.

“About two
weeks ago, I pulled myself together. I kicked his lying, lazy ass out and put
myself back into rehab. I did not, however, report my counseling, which is a
violation of procedure. A minor one, but a violation. Since that time, I have
not been back to Purgatory nor had I seen Detective Kohli outside of the job.”

“Captain Roth,
I sympathize with your personal difficulties during this period, but I need to
know your whereabouts on the night of Kohli's death.”

“Until
midnight I was at an AA meeting in a church basement in Brooklyn.” She smiled
thinly. “Not much chance of running into anyone I know there, which was the
point. After that, I went out for coffee with several of the other
participants. We tell war stories. I returned home, alone, about two, and went
to bed. I have no alibi for the time in question.”

Steadier now,
Roth looked into Eve's eyes. “Everything I told you is off record and
inadmissible, as I wasn't Mirandized. If you take me in, Lieutenant, I'm going
to make it very hard on you.”

“Captain, if I
decide to take you in, I can promise, it'll be a lot harder on you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

She needed
time to absorb and access, to let the new pieces shift into patterns. And she
needed to consider, carefully, whether she wanted to damage another cop's
career before she was certain that cop had done more than be careless.

But under it
she was afraid her own marital strain made her too sympathetic to another's.

She would have
her consult with Mira, input the new data, run probabilities. She would do it
all by the book.

When she
walked into her home office, she saw Mira sitting in a chair in the now tidy
office, while Peabody and McNab worked back-to-back at their individual
keyboards.

“I'm sorry I
kept you waiting.”

“That's
perfectly all right.” Mira set aside a cup of what Eve assumed was tea.
“Peabody explained you might be delayed.”

“Do you mind
if we take this in another room?”

“Not at all.”
Mira rose, elegant as always in a sleek suit of spring leaf green. “I always
enjoy seeing parts of your home.”

Though she
wasn't sure if it was strictly appropriate for a consult, Eve led the way to
one of the lounging rooms. Mira sighed in appreciation. “What a lovely space,”
she murmured, studying the soft colors, the gracious lines of the furniture,
the gleam of wood and glass. “My God, Eve, is that a Monet?”

Eve glanced at
the painting, something in that same soft pallette that seemed to flow together
and form a garden. “I have no idea.”

“It is, of
course,” Mira said after she'd walked over to admire the painting. “Oh, I do
envy you your art collection.”

“It's not
mine.”

Mira only
turned and smiled. “I envy it nonetheless. May I sit?”

“Yeah, sure.
Sorry. I'm sorry, too, that I've dumped so much data on you in such a short
time.”

“We're both
accustomed to working under pressure. These killings have ripples radiating
throughout the department. Being in the center of those ripples is a very
difficult position.”

“I'm used to
that, too.”

“Yes.” Something
else here, Mira thought. She knew Eve too well to miss the small signs. But
that would wait. “I concur with your analysis that both victims were killed by
the same hand. The methodology notwithstanding, there is a pattern. The coins,
the victims themselves, the brutality, and the knowledge of security.”

“It's another
cop,” Eve said. “Or someone who used to be.”

“Very likely.
Your killer is enraged but controlled enough to protect himself by removing
evidence. The rage is personal. I'd go as far as to say intimate. This may
substantiate your cop-to-cop profile.”

“Because he
believed Mills and Kohli were dirty, or because he is?”

“The former, I
believe. This isn't the act of someone protecting themselves but one of
avenging. Your killer is systematic and sees himself as dispensing justice. He
wants his victims marked as Judas, wants their crimes to be revealed.”

“Then why not
simply expose them? The data's there if you want to find it.”

“That isn't
enough. The loss of the badge, the disgrace. It's too easy. Their punishment
must come from him. He or she was punished in some way, very likely through the
job, in a manner that is perceived as unjust. Perhaps he was falsely accused of
some infraction. The system somehow failed him, and now cannot be trusted.”

“They knew
him, or her.”

“Yes, I'm sure
of it. Not only because the victims seem to have been unprepared for the attack
but because, psychologically, this connection only increases the rage. It's
very likely they worked with their killer. Possibly, some act of theirs was responsible,
at least in the killer's judgment, for the injustice that occurred to him. When
you find him, Eve, you'll find connections.”

“Do you see
him in a position of authority?”

“A badge is a
position of authority.”

“Of command,
then?”

“Possibly. But
not as one who's confident of command, no. His confidence comes from his rage,
and his rage, in part, from his disillusionment in the system he's represented.
In the system his victims had sworn to represent.”

“The system
screwed him, they screwed the system. Why blame them?”

“Because they
profited by its flaws, and he lost.”

Eve nodded. It
jelled for her. “You're aware now that the One twenty-eight is suspected of
having a serious internal problem. The connection with organized crime. With
Max Ricker.”

“Yes, your
report to me made that clear.”

“I have to
tell you, Dr. Mira, that it's been established that Detective Kohli was clean,
and part of an IAB operation attempting to uncover this corruption.”

“I see.” Her
clear eyes clouded. “I see.”

“I don't know
if the killer is aware of this as yet, but I doubt it. What will his reaction
be when he learns Kohli was clean?”

Mira got to
her feet. Her training and her position made it necessary for her to put
herself into the mind of murderers. As she did so, she wandered to the wide
band of windows and looked out on the gardens where a sea of candy-pink tulips
danced. She saw beyond them to the sweeps of shape and color, very much as
Monet had reflected them in oil.

There was
nothing so comforting, she thought, as a well planted garden.

“He will
disbelieve it initially. He's not a killer but a servant of justice. When he
can't deny it, he'll turn to rage. It's his salvation. Once again, the system
has betrayed him and tricked him into taking an innocent life. Someone will
pay. Perhaps someone in Internal Affairs, where it began. Perhaps you, Eve,”
she said and turned back. “As you are the one who has, indirectly at least,
shoved this horror into his face. He'll be doubly fueled now. For himself, and for
Kohli. Very shortly after he learns, and accepts, he'll kill. He'll kill, Eve,
until he's caught.”

“How do I make
him turn to me, specifically?”

Mira walked
back, sat down. “Do you think I would help you with that, even if I could?”

“It's better
to know his target than to guess.”

“Yes, you'd
think so,” Mira said placidly. “Particularly if you can make yourself that
target. But you can't direct his mind, Eve. His logic is his own. He's already
selected his next victim. This information, when he learns of it, may alter his
plans. He'll have to grieve, then he'll have to balance his scales.”

Eve frowned.
“He has a conscience.”

“Yes, and
Kohli will weigh on it. Kohli will cost him. But who he'll blame? That's the
shading I can't give you.”

“Why the hell
doesn't he go after Ricker?”

“He may, but
first he'll clean his own house.”

“How do you
protect and investigate every cop in a precinct?” Eve murmured. “And how do you
manage it when they look at you as if you're the enemy?”

“Is that
what's troubling you? Having your own step away from you?”

“No.” She
shrugged it off. “No, I can handle it.”

“Then, since
there's little to nothing more I can give you on this profile at the moment, I
wish you would tell me what is troubling you.”

“I have a lot
on my mind.” In dismissal, Eve got to her feet. “I appreciate you taking the
time to come here. I know it's an inconvenience.”

Eve wasn't the
only stubborn woman in the room. “Sit down; I'm not finished.”

A little
surprised by the authoritarian tone, Eve sat. “You said -- “

“I said to
tell me what's troubling you. You're unhappy and distracted, and I suspect its
cause is personal.”

“If it's
personal,” Eve said coolly, “then it has no place in this consult.”

“Have the
nightmares increased? Are you having more flashbacks?”

“No. Damn it.
This has nothing to do with my father, with my past, with any of that. It's my
business.”

“You need to
understand something. I care very much about you.”

“Dr. Mira -- “

“Be quiet.”
And the command, in that warm, pleasant voice, brooked no argument. “I care, on
a very personal level. However much it may discomfort you, Eve, I look on you
as a kind of surrogate daughter. It's a pity that causes you embarrassment,”
she said mildly when that emotion ran over Eve's face. “You don't know my
children, but I can promise you that they would tell you I am relentless when
concerned about their happiness. While I will try not to interfere, I will know
the cause.”

Eve was
dumbfounded, and she was chased by so many emotions they ran over themselves on
their way to clog her throat. She had no mother, no memory of one. And no
defense against the offer from the woman who watched her and seemed so
determined to stand as one.

“I can't talk
about it.”

“Of course you
can. If it's not your past, it's your present. If it's personal... it's Roarke.
Have you had a disagreement?”

The term, so
tame, so civilized, caused a reaction Eve never expected. She laughed, laughed
until her sides ached and she realized to her utter shock the sound was coming
perilously close to sobs. “I don't know what we had. He's not speaking to me,
basically.”

“Eve.” Mira
reached for her hand, clasped it. The gesture snapped the last lock.

It poured out
of her, everything from the time she'd walked into the bedroom and seen
Summerset staggering under the weight of the flowers.

“I went to see
Mavis,” Eve continued. “And got drunk. That sounds stupid, but -- “

“On the
contrary, it sounds perfectly sensible. You went to a trusted friend, one who
knows both of you and is herself in a committed, monogamous, and loving
relationship. Getting drunk was a release valve, but talking it over with her
was an avenue.”

“She said I
should ...” Eve couldn't quite bring herself to repeat Mavis's descriptive
phrase. “Seduce him.”

“Again,
sensible. Sex opens doors to communication and relieves tension. It didn't
work?”

“I didn't
really get the chance to try it out. There was an individual, I can't give you
the name, who has a connection with the case and an older one with me, who was
waiting outside. I brought him up to my office to discuss the case, and ...
Jesus ... I don't know what got into him. I guess you could say he made a move
on me, which I was about to repel, with some violence, when Roarke . . .”

“Oh dear. I imagine
he was seriously displeased.”

Eve simply
stared for a minute, stunned by the phrase. She was afraid to laugh again.
Afraid she wouldn't stop. “You could say that. Words were exchanged, and then
they went at each other. The worst is, for a minute, I just stood there with my
mouth open. They're breaking furniture, and blood's flying and I stand there,
stupid.”

“Not for long,
I take it.”

“No, but
still. Anyway, I drew my weapon.”

“Good God,
Eve.”

“It was on
stun.” She made a defensive move with her shoulders. “I fired a warning, which
Roarke ignored. Unfortunately for ... for the other individual, he didn't and
Roarke cold-cocked him. Summerset got the guy out, and I'm telling Roarke to
calm his ass down or I'll stun him. I meant it.”

“I'm sure you
did.”

“He didn't
seem to care. He sort of backed me into a corner, and I couldn't seem to ...
Then he, hmmm, he ...”

“Oh.” Mira
felt something flutter in her belly. “I see.”

“No, no, he
didn't punch me or anything.”

“That's not
what I thought. He ... made love to you.”

“No. That's
not the way it was. He just took me over. I wasn't going to stand for it. I
told myself I wouldn't, but I was ... Damn it, I was aroused, and he knew it,
and he was ripping my clothes and we were sort of struggling a little, then we
were on the floor and I was ripping his clothes and we were on each other like
animals or something. I couldn't stop him, or myself, or any of it, and I
didn't want to because, God, I was so hot I'd have let him eat me alive.”

“Oh my,” Mira
managed.

“I shouldn't
have told you.” Mortified, Eve squeezed her eyes shut. “What was I thinking?”

“No, no,
sweetheart, that was a very unprofessional reaction, and I apologize. But it
was a very female one.” And she thought her husband was going to be quite
delighted with the aftereffects of this heart-to-heart with Eve.

“I didn't just
let him take me, I helped him. I enjoyed it.” She looked down, miserably, at
her empty hands. “That's got to be sick.”

“Not enjoying what you just described to me might be.
Enjoying it was completely healthy. Extremely healthy, if I might say so. Eve,
you love each other. Passionate sex -- “

“It went over
the top of passionate.”

“Please, my
system can only handle so much.” And now Mira laughed. “You and Roarke are two
strong, stubborn, physical people who are wildly in love. He was angry with you
for your attempt to protect him at your own risk. As you would be if he did the
same.”

“But -- “

“You know
that's true. As much as you know you'd do the same thing again, just as he
would. You dented his ego, always a tricky proposition with a man, particularly
a man like him. Then, before he could come to full terms with it, he walks in
on you being hit on by another man.”

“He had to
know that I wouldn't have -- “

“He did, of
course. But he wouldn't stand for two slaps at his ego. Think a moment, and
answer honestly. Would you really want him to stand for it?”

“I... maybe
not,” she admitted, grudgingly. Then she blew out a breath, surprised that she
felt considerably better. “No, I wouldn't want him to stand for it.”

“Of course
not. And his reaction was, given who he is, physical. The fight reasserted his
ego. Territoriality, Eve. This woman is mine.”

“That's what
he said,” she muttered.

“Naturally
enough. You are. Just as he's yours. Then you stand there, holding your weapon
on him. Oh, what a sight that would have been. So he, metaphorically speaking,
drew one of his own.”

Eve's lips
quivered. “Dr. Mira, I think that's crude.”

“Nonetheless.
Both of you reacted as natural for you, engaged in a bout of rough, sweaty sex
that no doubt satisfied you.”

“You'd have
thought so, but we hadn't even cooled off when he picked me up off the floor
and carried me into bed and did it all over again.”

Mira stared,
rather blankly. “Does he have a particular diet? Vitamins?”

Eve felt her
grin spread and the muscles that had been tied all day loosen. “Thanks. And I
don't even have to throw up like I did after drinking screamers and eating ice
cream with Mavis.”

“That's a
plus. The man loves you with everything he has, everything he is. Eve, that
means you can hurt him. Make the time, and go talk to your husband.”

“I will.”

“I have to get
back to the office.” Mira rose. “I plan to finish up early today, go home, and
ravish my husband.”

Amused, Eve
watched Mira, dignity and grace, walk to the door. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“The, um,
mother thing? That was weird. But nice.”

“It's nice for
me, too. Good-bye, Eve.”

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

Recharged, Eve
walked into her office and ordered Peabody and McNab to take a twenty-minute
break. But when McNab made a beeline for the kitchen in her office, she headed
him off.

“No,
downstairs, upstairs, outside. Somewhere else. I want quiet. Stay out of the
bedrooms,” she added when she caught the gleam in his eye.

She settled
down, contacting Feeney first. If and when she was called to The Tower, she
wanted him along.

“Computer, run
probability using all available data re Roth, Captain Eileen, as perpetrator in
homicide cases in file.”

Working...

Eve wandered
the room while the computer crunched data and percentages. Recharged, yes, she
thought. She was also restless, energized, ready to move.

She thought of
Roth, desperately trying to blend her professional and personal lives. Failing
at one, endangering the other.

“That's not
going to happen to me.”

Whatever it
took, she thought, she was going to make it work. On both sides.

Requested
analysis as follows. .. Using available data, probability Roth, Captain,
committed homicides on file is sixty-seven point three percent.

Low, Eve thought, but not out of the running.

“Computer,
recalibrate with additional data, for my eyes only. Captain Roth's recurrent
alcohol addiction, failing marriage, and financial crisis. In addition, subject
Roth was aware of victim's employment at Purgatory and had visited the scene in
the weeks prior to the incident.”

Working ..
. Additional data increases probability by twelve point eight percent for a
total percentage of eighty point one.

“Yeah, it
makes a difference. That puts you on the short list, Captain. Who else have we
got?”

Before she
could move on, her 'link beeped. “Dallas.”

“Martinez.”

There was
background noise, a great deal of it. Air and street traffic, Eve decided.
Martinez wasn't calling from the squad room.

“You got
anything for me?”

“I've got
holes in the data files, holes that don't match my own records. I've
backtracked, cross-referenced, but I can't pin down who did the shifting.
Somebody sure as hell messed with the reports, just a little twist here and
there.”

“You get me a
copy, I'll have a friend -- a discreet friend -- in EDD pin it down. He's a
bloodhound. He'll smell it out.”

“I don't want
to send it through the system at Central.”

“Home office.”
Eve rattled off the proper identification code.

“Got it. Hey,
I thought you were going to pull the tag on me.”

“I did.”

“Well, if you
did, I've picked up another one. And they're cops. I know a cop tag.”

“Just go about
your routine. Don't contact me on any departmental line.”

“I know the
drill, Lieutenant.”

“Right. You
need to talk to me, contact through my home or my personal 'link. Ready?” She
reeled off the numbers. “Don't take any chances, don't be a hero. And don't
trust anybody.”

“I don't. Not
even you.”

“Fine,” Eve
murmured when the transmission ended. “Just so you keep breathing.”

She turned
away from the 'link. She scanned through Peabody's current runs and results and
found an additional three potentials in the One twenty-eighth. Wanting a visual
impression, she called up ID photos, stopped, smiled a little, and focused on
one.

“Well, well,
if it isn't our oinking detective. Vernon, Jeremy K. I don't like your face,
Jerry. Let's have a closer look at you, and the hell with the flags.”

She dug
through his financials and saw nothing to ring alarms. She did a search and
scan on connecting accounts, keying in variations of his name, trying for the
numbers by using date of birth, address, his precinct, his badge number.

She was well
into it when Peabody strolled back in. “Did you know you have paella? With
honest-to-God shellfish? I've never had paella for lunch.”

“Yum yum.” Eve
didn't bother to look up. “Use the other unit and copy the data on Detective
Jeremy Vernon.”

“You got
something?”

“Yeah, I got
me a nibble here. How many cops have numbered bank accounts in another city?”
Now she did glance up, giving Peabody a speculative look.

“Not me. By
the time I pay the first of the months, factor in transpo costs and food
allowance, I'm lucky to have enough left over for new underwear, which I'm in
desperate need of at the moment. Having a sex life is great, and a nice change,
but you have to have decent drawers.”

“Detectives
make more than uniforms,” Eve speculated, “but unless the pay scale's gone up
since my day, this guy shouldn't be able to tuck away three hundred grand and
change. But it's not enough. Dead relatives,” she murmured. “Mills used dead
relatives. Where the hell's McNab?”

“He was still
stuffing his face. You also have strawberry shortcake. Don't make me go get
him. I'm weak, and it looked really mag.”

Eve turned to
her 'link. She'd never used the house intercom, but now seemed like a good time
to start. She flipped it to full open. “McNab! Get your bony ass up here. Now.”

“It's not bony
so much as tight,” Peabody offered and earned a killing look from Eve.

“I've told you
about that.”

“Just saying,”
Peabody muttered. “Do you want me to start a search for ancestors?”

“Let McNab do
it. He's faster than both of us.”

And
delegating, she thought, would give her time to balance those scales. She rose.

“I want him to
do the run, then the two of you split the names. Look for current accounts. If
the names crap out, go for numbers. DOBs, DODs, IDs, driver's license, and
anything else that comes to you. All combinations. I'm taking an hour personal
time.”

She headed out
as McNab rushed in. “Man, Dallas, it was like hearing the voice of God. You
nearly scared me to death.”

“You've got
strawberry gunk on your lip. Clean up and get to work.”

“Where's she
going?” McNab demanded when Eve breezed out.

“An hour
personal time.”

“Dallas? Personal
time? Maybe it was the voice of God and this is the end of the world.”

That got a
smirk out of Peabody, but she told herself she'd been too nice to him lately
and refused to let the laugh loose. “She's entitled to a life like everybody
else. And if you don't get that bony ass in gear, she's going to kick it to New
Jersey when she gets back.”

“I didn't get
my coffee.” But he wandered to the desk on his way to the kitchen. “What's she
running?”

“This guy. She
wants a financial search.”

“Hey, I know
him. Vernon.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, yeah, I
remember him. I got called on-scene, backup for an illegals bust, when I was in
uniform. He's an asshole.”

“Why's that?
Wasn't he properly awed by the brilliance of your mind?”

He gave her a
sour look. “He's a strutter. Preening around. Hitting on the LCs we hauled in
during the bust. Made a big deal out of himself, and it was a penny-ante bust,
too. Bunch of street hookers, couple of Johns, and a couple kilos of Exotica.
Acted like he'd just taken down some major cartel, and he treated the uniforms
like slaves. I heard one of the LCs yelled sexual harassment and he got called
in on it. Took a knuckle rap.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yeah, a
prince. Seems I heard a rumor that he liked to bust the hookers for Exotica
because he could skim a couple ounces for personal use. Well, Jerry old pal,
what goes around comes around.”

He forgot the
coffee, dramatically flexed his fingers, and got to work.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Roarke's
midtown offices were in his own sleek black tower that speared up from the
street like a shaft into the blue belly of the sky. That sheer ebony lance was
a favorite image on the tourists' postcards and holo-cubes.

Inside, it was
just as sleek, with edges of the lush, in banks and pools of stunning flowers,
tropical trees, acres of animated maps, and an ocean of glossy tile.

Not all the
businesses housed in the tower were his. But he owned a piece of most that
were, including the shops, restaurants, and chic salons.

He worked on
the top floor, which Eve could access through a private elevator. She arrived,
unannounced and unexpected, and with a chip the size of a meteor on her
shoulder.

The
receptionist beamed at her. Because she was a clever and experienced woman,
that welcoming smile stayed in place even when she caught the combative
expression on Eve's face.

“Lieutenant
Dallas, how nice to see you again. I'm afraid Roarke's in a meeting at the
moment and can't be disturbed. Is there anything I can do to -- “

“Is he back
there?”

“Yes, but --
Oh, Lieutenant.” She scrambled up from her post as Eve marched past her.
“Please. You really can't -- “

“Watch me.”

“It's an
extremely important meeting.” The receptionist risked her very
attractive face by throwing herself in Eve's path. “If you could just wait,
possibly ten minutes. They should be breaking for the lunch portion very
shortly. Perhaps I can get you some coffee. A pastry.”

Eve gave her a
considering look. “What's your name?”

“I'm Loreen,
Lieutenant.”

“Well, Loreen,
I don't want coffee or a pastry, but thanks. And I'll be sure to tell Roarke
you tried. Now move.”

“But I -- “

“Tried really
hard,” Eve added, then simply shouldered Loreen aside and yanked open the door.

Roarke was in
front of his desk, leaning back against it, looking cool, casual, and
completely in control with the staggering view of the city behind him. He was
listening with polite interest to something one of the six people, all
sober-suited and seated, said to him. But his gaze shifted to the door as it
burst open, and Eve had the pleasure of seeing surprise flash into his eyes.

He recovered
instantly. “Ladies, gentlemen.” With lazy grace, he straightened. “My wife,
Lieutenant Dallas. Eve, the representatives, attorneys, and financial advisers
of Green Space Agricultural Port. You know Caro, my admin.”

“Yeah, hi.
How's it going? We have to talk.”

“Excuse me a
moment.” He walked to the door, took her arm firmly, and pulled her through.

“I'm sorry,
sir,” Loreen began, nearly stuttering. “I couldn't stop her.”

“Don't worry
about it, Loreen. No one can. It's all right. Go back to your desk.”

“Yes, sir.
Thank you.” With obvious relief, Loreen fled, with the single-minded intensity
of a woman fleeing a burning building.

“This isn't a
convenient time, Eve.”

“Then you'll
have to settle for an inconvenient time, because I have things to say, and I'm
saying them now.” She peered past him. “Want me to say them in front of the
representatives, attorneys, and financial backers of Green Space Agriculture
Port and your trusty admin, Caro?”

He didn't care
for her mood or the position she put him in. And his hand stayed, a not
particularly subtle warning, on her arm. “We'll talk at home.”

“We haven't
been doing a lot of that lately. I say we talk now.” She lifted her chin. A not
particularly subtle challenge. “And if you think you can call security and have
them change my mind, I'll haul you downtown on some trumped-up charge. In fact,
I like the idea of that. I'm making time,” she said, quietly now. “You make
it.”

He studied her
face. If he'd seen only temper, he'd had met it with his own or dismissed it.
But he saw something more. “Give me ten minutes. Caro?” When his hand ran down
Eve's arm like a caress, she felt the clutch in the gut that came with relief.
“Would you show my wife to Conference Room C, please?”

“Of course.
This way, Lieutenant. Shall I get you some coffee?”

“I got an
offer of a pastry with that before, when I scared Loreen.”

Caro's smile
remained polite as she steered Eve through the corridors, but her eyes twinkled
with humor. “I'll make good on that offer. I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable
in here.” She opened one of a pair of double doors and escorted Eve into a
pretty, almost homey room with two cozy seating areas, a gleaming wood bar, and
a spectacular and lofty view of the city.

“Doesn't look
like any conference room I've ever seen.”

“Amazing,
really, how much business can be done in comfortable surroundings. What kind of
pastry would you like, Lieutenant?”

“Hmm? Oh, I
don't know. Whatever. Are you allowed to tell me what that meeting was about?”

“Certainly.”
Placidly, Caro programmed the AutoChef behind the bar. “Green Space is
floundering, though they claim otherwise. Their costs of maintaining the space
port have steadily overrun their profits for the past three years. Their
production level is down, though the quality of their produce remains very
high. Transportation costs, in particular, are taking an enormous bite and
causing their overhead to soar.”

She removed a
china cup and saucer steaming with coffee and a pretty matching plate with a
selection of flaky pastries.

“So, is he
making them a deal on transpo?”

“Quite
possibly. I imagine he'll have done so, and have a controlling interest in the
port, with his hand-selected team assigned to restructure Green Space from the
ground up, so to speak, before he joins you.”

“Caro, do they
want to sell him controlling interest?”

“They didn't.”
She set the tray on a table. “They will before it's done. Is there anything
else I can get you, Lieutenant?”

“No. Thanks.
Does he always win?”

Caro's smile
didn't shift by a single degree. She didn't even blink. “Of course. Just ring
Loreen if you need anything.” She walked to the door, then turned back, her
smile waning a little. “You surprised him, Lieutenant. That's not easy to do.”

“Yeah, well,”
Eve muttered when Caro quietly closed the door, “you ain't seen nothing yet.”

She was
revved, edgy, and didn't have any interest in the damn pastries. But she ate
one anyway, decided the sugar rush could only help, and started on another.

She was
licking flakes from her thumb when Roarke walked in. He aimed those eyes at
her, closed the door at his back.

Pissed, she thought. Not just surprised but seriously
pissed. Good. When you were dealing with the richest and potentially the
most deadly man in the world, you needed every advantage you could get.

“I'm pressed
for time, so let's save some,” he began. “If you're here for an apology
regarding last night, you won't get it. Now, is there something else you need
to discuss with me? I've people waiting for me.”

That's how
he worked it, she mused. All those
deals, all those wheels. Draw your line in cold, cold sand, then intimidate. He
was good at it, but there were any number of cons doing time who could have
vouched that Eve Dallas was a bitch in Interview.

“We'll get to
that, but since I'm pressed for time myself, let's start right at the beginning
and move along. Going to see Ricker was my job, and I'm not apologizing for
that.”

He inclined
his head. “That's one each.”

“Okay. I don't
know if I'd have told you about it or not. Probably not, if I thought I could
skate by it. And I didn't intend to tell you about him sending his hammers
after me because I dealt with it.”

He could feel
temper fighting to get out of his belly and into his throat but said nothing.
He merely walked to the bar and got himself a cup of coffee. “I have no dispute
over your job, Lieutenant. But the fact is, Ricker and I were connected. You
knew that going in. We discussed it.”

“That's right.
That's right exactly. And we discussed the fact that I would set up a meet.”

“You didn't
indicate you'd move on that intention immediately, without preparation.”

“I don't have
to indicate anything when it comes to my work. I just have to do the job. And I
was prepared. I knew after five minutes with him that his fondest wish was to
get to you. Using me to do that wasn't going to be an option I tossed in his
lap.”

He studied the
pretty pattern on his china cup, even as he fantasized about hurling it against
the wall. “I'm quite able to take care of myself.”

“Yeah, well,
me, too. So what? Did you tell me about your plans to corner the market on
broccoli?”

He shot her a
look of mild interest. “Excuse me?”

Oh, she hated
when he used that formal, adult-to-idiot-child tone on her. And he knew it.
“This deal with the Green Space people. Did you bring me in on it?”

“Why would I?
Have you developed a stirring interest in fresh produce?”

“It's a big deal,
taking them over. It's what you do. You didn't consult me about it. I don't
have to consult you about what I do.”

“It's an
entirely different matter.”

“I don't see
it that way.”

“The
representatives of Green Space aren't likely to put out a contract on my life.”

“The way you
work, they may want to. But yeah, that's a point. On the other hand, dealing
with the criminal element is part of the package with me. You married a cop.
Live with it.”

“I do. This is
different. It's my head he wants. Taking yours would simply be a bonus.”

“Oh, I got
that. I got that as soon as I saw the flowers. Why do you think I panicked?”
She strode over, slapped her hands on the bar. “Okay, I panicked, and I don't
like knowing it. When I read the card, I was annoyed. And then, it hit me, hit
hard what you might do. What he was hoping you'd do, and all I could think was
to get rid of them. To make them go away so you wouldn't see them or know about
them. Maybe I wasn't thinking at all but just reacting. I was afraid for you.
Why isn't that allowed?”

He had no
answer for that and, setting the coffee aside, struggled to put his own
thoughts in order. “You lied to me.”

“I know it,
and I said I was sorry. But I'd do it again. I wouldn't be able to stop myself.
I don't care if it put your dick in a twist.”

He stared at
her now, torn between annoyance and amusement. “Do you really think this is
about my ego?”

“You're a man,
aren't you? I have it on good authority that what I did put a big dent in your
ego, which is the same as a kick in the groin to a man.”

“And who,” he
said with deceptive sweetness, “is this authority?”

“I talked to
Mavis.” She caught the glint in his eye and narrowed her own. “She made sense,
and so did Mira. I had a right to talk to somebody since you were freezing me out.”

He had to take
a minute, had to walk it off. He paced to the window, stared out until reason
could make its way through the haze of temper. “All right. You had every right,
and every reason to talk to friends. But whether or not some of my reaction had
to do with ego isn't the sticking point, Eve. You didn't trust me.”

“You're
wrong.” And if the kick to his ego had made him believe that, she had to fix
it. “Altogether wrong. I've never trusted anyone the way I trust you. Don't
turn away from me again, damn it. Don't do that. I was afraid,” she said when
he turned back to her. “I don't deal well with fear. I don't let it in, but it
snuck up on me. I wasn't wrong, and neither were you. We were just right on
different levels.”

“That's an
amazing and accurate analysis. One I'd nearly reached myself before I happened
upon that little scene last night.” He walked to her then, until they were
face-to-face. “Do you expect me to take two kicks in the groin, Eve, then just
sit meekly, like a puppy when ordered?”

Another time
she might have laughed at that image. The man in front of her would never be
meek. He would do as he pleased when he pleased, and hang the consequences.

“That was
about work.”

He took her
chin in his hand, fingers strong and firm. “Don't insult me.”

“It started
out that way, I don't know how it got where it did. Webster had information,
confidential, the kind that could get his ass burned for passing it to me. We
were going around about it, arguing, then ... I don't know what the hell got
into him.”

“No,” Roarke
murmured, not particularly surprised. “I see you don't.” She was refreshingly,
sometimes frustratingly, oblivious to her own appeal.

“He caught me
off balance,” she continued, “but I'd've dealt with it. Next thing I know,
there you are. And the two of you are like a couple of rabid dogs fighting over
a bone. Talk about insulting.”

“You pulled
your weapon on me.” He couldn't get over that one. Wasn't sure he ever would.

“That's
right.” She shoved his hand away from her chin. “You think I'm stupid enough to
jump physically between two crazy men trying to break each other's faces? I had
it on stun.”

“Oh, well
then, what am I whining about? You had it on stun.” He had to laugh. “Christ,
Eve.”

“I wouldn't
have used it on you. Probably. And if I had, I'd've been really sorry.” She
tried a smile, thought she saw the hint of one in return. It made her decide to
give him the rest of it.

“Then you were
standing there, sweaty and messed up and mad as hell. And so fucking sexy. I
wanted to jump you, bite you right... there,” she said, tracing a finger on the
side of his neck. “It wasn't a reaction I was expecting. Before I could work it
out, you had me against the wall.”

“Slugging you
seemed like the less enjoyable of the two options.”

“Why weren't
you there this morning? Why have you only touched me twice since I've been
here?”

“I said I
wouldn't apologize for what happened between us last night. I won't. I can't.
Still... Still,” he repeated and touched her now, just a brush of his fingers
on the ends of her hair. “I took your choice away. If not physically,” he said
before she could argue, “then emotionally. I meant to. It's given me some bad
moments since, some concern that it might have reminded you of your childhood.”

“My
childhood?”

She could have
no idea what her confused expression did to him. How it cooled and smoothed
every hot and ragged edge inside him. “Your father, Eve.”

Now confusion
turned to shock. “No. How could you think that? I wanted you. You knew I wanted
you. There's nothing between us that would make me ...” It stirred hideous
images to think of it, but she faced them. “There was no love there, no
passion, not even need. He raped me because he could. He raped a child, his own
child, because he was a monster. He can't hurt me when I'm with you. Don't let
him hurt you.”

“I won't say
I'm sorry.” He lifted his hand, skimmed his fingers over her cheek. “I wouldn't
mean it. But I will say I love you. I've never meant anything more.”

He drew her
into his arms. She pressed her face to his shoulder and held on. “I've been so
messed up.”

“So have I.”
He brushed his lips over her hair, felt his world balance again. “I've missed
you, Eve.”

“I won't let
the job screw this up.”

“It doesn't.
We manage that on our own.” He drew her back, touched his lips gently to hers.
“But it keeps things lively, doesn't it?”

She sighed,
stepped back. “It's gone.”

“What is?”

“I've had this
low-grade headache for a couple of days. It's gone. I guess you were my headache.”

“Darling.
That's so sweet.”

“Yeah, I'm
sugar. Did I queer this Green Space deal for you?”

“Well now,
what's a few hundred million in the grand scheme of things?” He'd have played
with that awhile, but she looked so appalled. “Just kidding. It's fine.”

“Glad you
found your sense of humor. Anyway, I've got a lot going on. Maybe, unless you
want to talk more about that broccoli, we could go into it later.”

“I think we've
said all there is to say about broccoli already.”

“Good. You
know, even though we're all mushy again, it's hard to say this. But I could use
some help. Your kind of help on this case.”

“Why,
Lieutenant, you've made my day.”

“I thought it
would, though it doesn't do a lot for mine.”

Her
communicator sounded. She pulled it out, listened to Whitney's aide order her
immediately to The Towers. “Acknowledged. There's the bell for the next round,”
she told Roarke.

“My money's on
you.”

“So's mine.”
She rose on her toes, kissed him hard before she broke away to stride to the
door. “By the way, ace, you owe me a new lamp.”

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

She was revved
and ready to do battle when she entered The Tower. Chief Tibble ruled here,
with a steady, if an occasionally ruthless hand.

A great many
cops feared him. Eve respected him.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” He wasn't behind his desk but stood in front of it. The style, the
positioning, made her think of Roarke. Standing put him in control of the
people who sat in the room and of the situation that brought them there.

At his signal,
she took a seat between Whitney and Captain Bayliss from IAB. Captain Roth sat
rigidly on the other side of Bayliss. Feeney lounged, or appeared to lounge, on
Roth's far side.

“We'll begin
with information that has come to my attention regarding an internal
investigation, centering most specifically on the Illegals Division of the One
hundred and twenty-eighth Precinct.”

“Chief Tibble,
I wish to state my objection that such an investigation was initiated and
proceeded without my knowledge.”

“So noted,” he
said, nodding at Roth. “However, it is within the authority of the IAB to
conduct such an investigation without informing the squad captain. However,” he
continued, shifting his hard gaze to Bayliss, “neglecting to inform the
commander and myself of the operation exceeds that authority.”

“Sir.” Bayliss
started to get to his feet, but Tibble gestured him down.

Good move, Eve mused. Keep the little rodent in his place.

Bayliss kept
his seat, but a faint wash of color stained his cheeks. “The Internal Affairs
Bureau is allowed some leeway on technical procedure when it deems an
investigation warrants secrecy. After consideration of the information, the
suspicion of certain leaks and confirmation of others, it was agreed that this
operation be held within the confines of IAB and its chosen officers.”

“I see.”
Tibble leaned back against his desk in a way that forced Eve to bite back a
small, satisfied smile. “And may I ask, Captain, who made this agreement?”

“It was
discussed between myself and several high-ranking members of my division.”

“I see. You
decided among yourselves to disregard the chain of command.”

“Yes, sir.” He
said it stiffly, stubbornly. “We had reason to believe that the leaks reached
up that chain. By informing other departments, we would compromise that
investigation before it began.”

“Then am I
given to understand that Commander Whitney is under suspicion in your
division?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps I am
part of your internal investigation.”

Bayliss opened
his mouth, wisely closed it again to give his brain time to engage. “Sir, you
are under no suspicion.”

“Any longer?”
Tibble finished silkily. “That's a comfort, Captain. And having established
that neither myself nor the commander were suspected of infractions or crimes
that warrant IAB action, you still neglected to inform either of us of this
investigation.”

“Witch hunt,”
Roth said under her breath and earned a glare from Bayliss.

“It seemed
unnecessary to do so, sir, until the operation was satisfactorily completed.”

“Shall I
explain to you, Captain, why you are mistaken?”

Bayliss bore
up under the penetrating stare. “No, sir. I regret the oversight. And as
ordered, Chief Tibble, all records, all documents, all notes on said operation
are now in your possession.”

“Including, I
presume, all data pertaining to the homicide investigations currently under the
hand of Lieutenant Dallas?”

Stubbornness
set like concrete on Bayliss's face. “It is my opinion that the two matters do
not connect.”

“Really? Do
you have an opinion on that, Lieutenant, Dallas?”

“Yes, sir. My
opinion is that Captain Bayliss has made another error in judgment. Two police
officers, both from the One two-eight, have been murdered in under a week by
the same hand. I believe that one, Lieutenant Mills, was under IAB
investigation and will prove to be guilty of accepting bribes, tampering with
evidence, and conspiring to undermine a criminal case. Detective Kohli, an IAB
plant, agreed to pose as an NYPSD officer who was also taking. While this
portion of the operation is acceptable, the investigation into his death was
compromised and tampered with by the withholding of Kohli's status. There is no
precedent that I'm aware of that gives IAB the authority to compromise a
homicide investigation in order to protect one of its own operations.”

“I am also
unaware of such a precedent. Captain?”

“Our operation
was at a delicate point.” He was beginning to ruffle, badly, and swerved in his
chair to scowl at Eve. “Look, Kohli went into this eyes open. Nobody pressured
him. He wanted the extra duty and the extra pay. We had no reason to believe
his life was in danger and every reason to believe that he would, in his
position at Purgatory, connect with Ricker.”

She wanted to
ask what Ricker had to do with Purgatory, but she didn't dare. Not here and now.
“And when he was dead, Captain?”

“We couldn't
change that, but we felt if we maintained Kohli's cover, let it leak to the
primary that he was dirty, it would open opportunities to uncover other leaks
in the One twenty-eight.”

“You used one
of my men,” Roth shot out. “Do you think I've got the only squad with a Mills?
Cops on the take aren't the exclusive property of my house.”

“You've got
more than your share of them.”

“I was given
false information,” Eve cut in. “That's a violation of code. Above that --
above it, beyond it, over it, and under it -- trying to push the investigation
of a murdered fellow cop into a dead end, using that dead cop as a blind, is
contemptible. As far as I'm concerned, Kohli died in the line of duty. He damn
well deserved respect.”

“Lieutenant,”
Whitney muttered, but without heat. “Enough.”

“No, sir, it's
a long way from enough.” When she got to her feet, Tibble said nothing. “IAB
has a purpose, because a wrong cop smears all of us. But when some tin desk
soldier takes on his own agenda, using his position to order those under his
authority to circumvent procedure, tries to twist a homicide investigation for
his own purposes, he's as dirty as the cops he purports to hunt.”

“You're over
the line.” Bayliss surged to his feet. “You think you can point the finger at
me. I've spent fifteen years keeping the department clean. You're not lily
white, Lieutenant. Your husband's link to Ricker may be buried, but it can be
dug up. You shouldn't be on this case.”

“You will back
away from my officer,” Whitney said quietly. He held up a hand to waylay
Feeney, who'd come out of his chair and was moving toward Bayliss.

“And you will
cease and desist any comments on her personal life or her professional
abilities. If I were to indulge myself in personal snipes, I would say, with
pleasure, that you can only aspire to achieve half the integrity Lieutenant
Dallas has. But... I won't so indulge. Chief Tibble, I'd like to make a
statement.”

Tibble spread
his hands. “Commander.”

“After
reviewing the documentation belatedly provided by Internal Affairs, it is my
opinion that Captain Bayliss seriously overstepped his authority and should
face disciplinary action. Further, while said data is being analyzed and
confirmed, and until the decision is made whether to continue or abort the
internal investigation, it's my recommendation that Captain Bayliss take a
leave of absence.”

“There are
cops feeding Ricker,” Bayliss objected. “I'm on the point of breaking that
network open.”

“Be that as it
may, Captain, there can be no law without order.” Tibble watched him.
“Particularly with those of us who have sworn to uphold that law. You'll take
leave, with pay and without the suspension of benefits. Disciplinary action
will be considered. You are advised to consult your union rep and/or your
private attorney. You are dismissed.”

“Chief Tibble
-- “

“Dismissed,
Captain. Believe me when I tell you, you don't want me to indulge myself in
personal comments at this time.”

Bayliss set
his teeth, turned on his heel. His eyes burned over Eve before he strode from
the room.

“Captain
Roth.”

“Sir. If I
might speak.” She got quickly to her feet. “I request that the documentation on
the investigation into my squad be made available to me. My men are under
suspicion, my house under the gun.”

“Captain Roth,
your house is a mess. Request denied. You have until noon tomorrow to write a
full report and a complete analysis of the status of your squad. I'm making
your house my personal business and will expect you in this office with that
report and analysis at noon.”

“Yes, sir.
Chief Tibble?”

“Yes,
Captain.”

“I accept full
responsibility for that status. Mills was under my hand, and I can't claim to
have held that hand steady. If, after this situation is resolved, you wish for
my resignation -- “

“Let's not
jump our fences, Captain. Noon tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

When she left,
Tibble once again leaned on his desk. “Now, Lieutenant. Just how deep into this
mess are you, and who is your informant? You are required to give me that name
when ordered to do so. Consider this such an order.”

“Sir, I am hip
deep and regret I am unable to follow orders and divulge the name of my
informant.”

Tibble shot a
look at Whitney. “I owe you fifty, it seems. Your commander bet me, and I was
foolish enough to accept, that you'd hold the name. It's come to my attention
you did a deep search on Captain Roth.”

“Yes, sir. I
initiated the search as part of my investigation into the homicides of Kohli
and Mills. It's my belief they were killed by one of our own.”

“So I gather.
That's a very serious avenue to walk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You suspect
Roth?”

“She captains
the squad. It would have been negligent not to consider her. I've questioned
her, analyzed her data, and run a probability.”

“And the
result?”

“In the
sixties.”

“Low, but
troubling. I won't take up your time or mine by asking you to go through the
steps of your investigation. At this time,” he qualified. “But I will ask you,
Lieutenant, if your husband is connected to Max Ricker, on a personal level or
a business one, and if that connection should concern this office.”

“My husband is
not connected to Max Ricker on a business level. It is my understanding that at
one time, over a decade ago, there may have been some business between them.”

“And on a
personal level?”

This was
tougher. “It was my impression, sir, during my interview with Ricker, that he
held a personal grudge against Roarke. He did not specify this, but intimated.
Roarke is a successful man, and a glamorized one,” she said for lack of a
better term. “Such status invites resentment and envy in certain types of
individuals. However, I see no reason why a potential grudge held by Ricker for
Roarke should concern this office.”

“You're
honest, Dallas. Carefully so. Almost politically so. And my saying that, I see,
insults you.”

“Somewhat,”
Eve managed.

“Do you have
any conflict of feeling or loyalty in pursuing a killer who may be a fellow
officer, even though the victims were dirty or perceived to be so?”

“None
whatsoever. Law and order, Chief Tibble. We uphold the law. We are not allowed
to nor are we equipped to judge and sentence.”

“Good answer.
She does you credit, Jack. Lieutenant,” he continued while she dealt with the
sheer surprise of his comment, “you'll report your findings to your commander
and keep him closely apprised of your progress. Go to work.”

“Yes, sir.
Thank you.”

“One last
thing,” he said as she reached the door. “Bayliss would like your skin on a
rack -- roasted.”

“Yes, sir, I'm
aware of that. He wouldn't be the first.”

When the door
closed, Tibble went behind his desk. “It's a fucking mess, Jack. Let's pick up
some shovels and start cleaning it up.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Nice job,
Dallas.” Feeney rode down with her to lobby level. “Now I'm going to tell you
what they didn't. If Bayliss gets back behind his desk, he's going to be
gunning for you.”

“I can't let a
rat turd like Bayliss worry me. I got two cops and one witness in the morgue.
Until I work through the layers of that, Bayliss can blow all the hot air he
wants.”

“Enough hot
air blows at you, you get scalded. Just watch your back. I'm going over to your
place, switch off with McNab for awhile.”

“I'll meet you
back there. I want to swing by Kohli's, have another talk with the widow. I'll
pull Peabody. You know an Illegals Detective, Jeremy Vernon?”

Lips pursed,
Feeney ran through his head files. “Nope. Doesn't ring for me.”

“He's got an
attitude -- and a fat bank account. I'm probably going to pull him in for a
chat, tomorrow latest. You want in on that?”

“I always like
sitting in on one of your chats.”

They
separated, with Eve moving through the late-lunch pedestrian traffic to her
vehicle. She waited for a maxibus to clear, contacting Peabody as she pulled
away from the curb.

“I'm on my way
to Kohli's. Meet me there. I want a follow-up with the widow.”

“I'll head out
now. Dallas, McNab's picked up three more accounts for Detective Vernon. We've
got a total of two million six, and still counting.”

“Isn't that
interesting? Look, Feeney's on his way over there. I want McNab to pick his way
through Vernon's financials. Make certain the son of a bitch didn't win some
lottery or inherit a bundle from one of those dead relatives. Pin down his
income and his outlay. I don't want to give him any wiggle room when I pull him
in.”

“Yes, sir.
I'll report to the Kohli residence as soon as our city's marvelous public
transportation system will get me there.”

“Take a cab.
Put it on expense account.”

“Do I have
one?”

“Jesus,
Peabody, put it on mine. Get moving.”

She cut
transmission and let her mind wander through the tiers of her case while she
cut across town.

There was a
corruption problem in the One two-eight. In the Illegals Division and
potentially elsewhere. The corruption pointed at Max Ricker, and two of the
detectives on the task force formed to take him down were dead. One of them had
been in Ricker's pocket.

IAB had
conducted an unauthorized and clandestine operation involving the other of
those detectives as a plant.

In Purgatory,
she reminded herself. Roarke's place. What did Ricker have to do with Roarke's
club?

Had Bayliss
been fishing there, trying to dig up the old connection? The man struck her as
a fanatic, but that was reaching.

Still, IAB had
sent Webster, an old connection of hers, to feed her misinformation on Kohli.

The captain of
the squad had either let her men get beyond her control or was part of the
corruption. She had a problem, or she was one. Either way, Eve had a ranking
officer on her short list of murder suspects.

Ricker was a
key, maybe the key. He'd lured the cops and most certainly knew which
members of the department were on his payroll. His businesses, she imagined,
depended heavily on them. If she found enough of them, pulled them out of the
loop, would he come out? Come after her?

As much as
she'd enjoy that, and emptying the dirty cops out of his pocket, those were
second-level goals. Her first was to flush those cops in order to find a
killer.

Avenging a
loss or betrayal, Mira had said. Not revenge, avenge. And the difference
was, in Eve's mind, another key. Scouring off the badge with blood to purify
it.

A fanatic? she wondered. On a parallel line with Bayliss. One
who tossed the rules aside when it suited his agenda.

She scouted
out a parking place, pleased to find one on street level less than half a block
from the Kohli residence.

Even as she
pulled in, a car rolled up beside her. Distracted, she glanced over. As the
doors of the blocking car swung open, her instincts kicked in. She was out of
her vehicle on a forward roll and came up with her weapon drawn.

There were
four of them, and she saw with one sweeping glance they were better and more
heavily armed than the ones Ricker had sent after her the first time.

“No point in
making a fuss here, Lieutenant.” The man on the far left spoke politely and
held his long-nosed laser pistol just under the open flap of a natty spring
topcoat.

Out of the
corner of her eye, Eve saw the one on the far right begin to circle. She
considered trying for a stun-sweep; her finger all but quivered on the trigger.

And a boy of
about ten zipped behind the group of men on a dented street bike. One of them
plucked him off. The bike skidded down the street, and while the boy yelped,
the man nudged his stunner against the young throat at the pulse.

“Him or you.”

It was said
almost offhandedly, and it enraged her.

“Let him go.”
Deliberately, she clicked the power up on her weapon.

The boy's eyes
were wide and terrified. He made sounds like a small cat being choked. She
couldn't risk looking at him.

“Get in the
car, Lieutenant. Quietly and quickly, before innocent civilians are injured.”

She had a
choice to make and made it fast. The weapon seemed to leap in her hand as she
fired it, struck the man holding the boy between the eyes. She saw the kid
fall, heard with sweet relief his screams of terror and, diving for cover,
fired again.

She rolled
under the car, grabbed the boy by the foot, and scraped off a few layers of his
skin when she dragged him under. “Stay. Shut up.”

Even as she
rolled again to block his body with hers and come out on the other side, she
heard the whine of another weapon.

“Drop it! Drop
it, fucker, or what's left of your brains'll be leaking out of your ears.”

Webster, she
thought, then came out from under the car like a lightning bolt, hit her target
mid-body with a full tackle, and sent him crashing to the street. She lifted
his head, bounced it smartly off the pavement, then looked up to see that
Webster had the only remaining problem standing, unarmed, with his hands
lifted.

“You trailing
me again, Webster?”

“I needed to
talk to you.”

She got to her
feet, winced a little, and glanced down to see a long, nasty gash in her knee.
“You sure run off at the mouth a lot lately. You got that one?”

“Yeah.” He
smiled a little at the sound of sirens. “There's the backup. I took the liberty
of calling for some.”

She limped
over, picked up weapons, scanning the three unconscious men. Then she went
back, crouched, and peered under the car.

The kid had
shut up, she gave him that. And big, fat tears ran down his freckled face.
“Come on out. It's okay.”

“I want my
mom.”

“Can't blame
you. Come on.”

He crab-walked
out, swiped his hand under his nose. “I wanna go home.”

“Okay, in a
minute. You hurt much?”

“No.” His lip
trembled. “Did I wreck my bike?”

“I don't know.
We'll get somebody to look at it for you.”

“I'm not
supposed to ride in the street. My mom said.”

“Yeah, well,
next time, listen to your mother.” She gestured to a uniform the minute the
black and white pulled up. “Send somebody after the kid's bike. Give your name
to this policeman,” she told the boy. “He's going to take you home. If your mom
wants to talk to me ...”

She dug in her
pockets, mildly surprised when she discovered she'd remembered her cards. “Tell
her to call me at this number.”

“ 'Kay.” He
sniffed again, studying her with more interest than fear now. “Are you a
policeman, too?”

“Yeah.” She
pulled her restraints out of her back pocket. “I'm a policeman, too.”

She rolled the
first man over, checked for a pulse, lifted one of his eyelids. She wasn't
going to need restraints for this one.

“You couldn't
risk a stun,” Webster said from behind her. “You had to take a kill shot to
insure the safety of the civilian.”

“I know what I
had to do,” she said. Bitterly.

“You'd been
slower, less accurate, or if you'd lowered your weapon, that kid wouldn't be
going home to his mother.”

“I know that,
too. Thanks for the help here.”

He nodded,
then stood back and waited while she organized the scene and had one of the
uniforms disperse the small crowd that had gathered.

The MTs rolled
up, and right behind them a cab. He saw Peabody leap out, rush to her
lieutenant. To his surprise, she shook her head when Eve gestured her aside. What
appeared from his viewpoint to be a short, snarly argument took place. In the
end, Eve threw up her hands, then hobbled over to one of the MTs to have her
leg treated.

Amused, he
wandered up to Peabody. “How'd you manage that?”

She was
surprised to see him, and it showed, but she shrugged. “I threatened her with
Roarke.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Reminded her
that if she went home without having that gash seen to, he'd be pissed, treat
it himself. And pour a pain blocker into her. She hates that.”

“So, he handles
her.”

“They handle
each other. It works for them.”

“I noticed.
Will you give me a minute with her?”

“It's not up
to me.” But Peabody walked away to oversee the transportation of the suspects.

Webster strode
over to the medi-van, crouched down, and studied the gash being treated. “Not
so bad, but those pants will never be the same.”

“It's a
scratch.”

“Got grit in
it,” the MT stated.

“Got grit in
it,” she mimicked and scowled at him as he closed the cut. “I hate you guys.”

“Oh, we know.
My partner paid me twenty so I'd treat you instead of him.” He finished the job
while she sat and stewed, then stepped back. “There now. Want a lollitape?”

Because her
lips quivered she didn't risk cursing him but simply got to her feet. “Easiest
twenty you ever made, pal.”

She walked
away, still limping a little, and Webster fell into step beside her. “Now that
we've had our little party, can I have a minute?”

“I've got a
follow-up to do, then I've got to go in and hammer these guys, write a
report...” She sighed. “What do you want?”

“To
apologize.”

“Okay.
Accepted.” But before she could walk away he took her arm. “Webster.”

“Just a
minute.” Cautiously, he removed his hand, put both in his pockets. “I was way
over the line last night, and I'm sorry for it. I put you in a bad spot. I was
pissed, at myself a lot more than you, but it gave me an excuse to ... Okay
truth, goddamn it. I never got over you.”

He could
probably have given her a quick roundhouse kick in the face and shocked her
less. “What? What was to get over?”

“Well, ouch.
That should have my ego limping for the next couple of weeks. Let's just say I
got hung up. It's not like I thought about you every waking minute for the past
few years, but there were moments. And when that shit came down on you last
winter and we had a few face-to-faces, it got stirred up again. It's my
problem, not yours.”

She
considered, strained for something, but her mind stayed blank. “I don't know
what I'm supposed to say.”

“Nothing. I
just wanted to clear it up, get it out of my gut. Roarke has every right to
kick my teeth in.” Experimentally, Webster ran his tongue around them now.
“Which he damn near did. Anyway.” He tried a shrug. “I'd like to set that aside
if it's just the same to you.”

“Yeah, let's
do that. I've got to -- “

“One more
thing while I'm clearing my conscience. I was following orders when I came to
you on Kohli. I didn't like doing it. I know you had a meet at The Tower, with
Bayliss.”

“Your
captain's an asshole.”

“Yeah. Yeah,
he is.” He sucked in a breath. “Look, I went into IAB because I wanted to do
good work, because I believed in keeping a clean house. I'm not going to give
you a song and dance on abuse of power, but -- “

“Good, because
I could sing a hell of a tune about your captain.”

“I know it. I
didn't come to you last night just because I was hung up on you. This
operation, the direction it's taken, has stuck in my craw. Bayliss says look at
the big picture, but if you don't see the details, what the hell's the point?”

He looked back
as the medi-vans and their police escort headed out. “I'm adding up the
details, Dallas, and they're making a whole new pattern. You're going after a
cop killer, and it's going to swing you right into Ricker's face.”

“Tell me
something I don't know.”

“Okay, I
will.” He looked back at her. “I want in.”

“Forget it.”

“If you don't
think you can trust me, you're wrong. And if you think I'll give you any
personal grief, you're wrong there, too.”

“I'm not
worried about personal grief. Even if I wanted you in, I don't have the
authority to sanction it.”

“You're
primary. You pick your team.”

She stepped
back, hooked her thumbs in her front pocket, and measured him with a
deliberately insulting up-and-down glance. “When's the last time you've been on
the street, Webster?”

“Awhile, but
it's like sex. You don't forget the moves. I just saved your ass, didn't I?”

“I was saving
my own, thanks. Why the hell should I bring you in?”

“I've got
information. I can get more. It may be my last duty in IAB. I'm thinking about
transferring out, maybe putting back in for Homicide or Violent Crimes. I'm a
good cop, Dallas. We worked together before. We did all right. Give me a shot.
I could use some redemption.”

There were a
dozen reasons to refuse. But there were one or two offsetting those. “I'll
think about it.”

“Good enough.
You know how to reach me.” He walked away, then turned, walking backward as he
grinned at her. “Don't forget. I share the collar for these assholes.”

She stood
frowning after him, trying to figure the angles.

“We're cleaned
up here, Lieutenant.” Peabody, curiosity burning, walked up to her. “The
uniforms are taking the single subject who was still standing into booking.
Weapons are confiscated. The dead guy's on his way to the morgue, the other two
en route to the hospital under guard. I have the name and address of the little
boy. Should I notify child services so a rep can be present while you take his
statement?”

“Hold off on
that. Let's have a female uniform take his statement later today. Since maximum
force was used, it's better, cleaner, if I don't take it myself. I'll write it
up when I get back and report to Whitney after I talk to the scum who's still
standing. Let's go on and do what we came for.”

“How's the
leg?”

“It's fine.”
Because Peabody was eyeing her, she made a concerted effort not to limp.

“Sure was
handy Webster was around, huh?”

“Yeah, handy.
Let's leave it at that for now.”

“You're the
boss.”

“Try to
remember that next time,” Eve said with some heat as they entered Kohli's
building. “And don't nag me about medical treatment in front of a bunch of
uniforms and gawking civilians.”

Got the job
done, Peabody thought, but she was
wise enough to button her lip.

A woman Eve
didn't recognize opened the door of the Kohli apartment.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to eye level. “I'd like to speak with Mrs.
Kohli.”

“She's
indisposed.”

“I'm sorry to
disturb her at this difficult time, but I'm in charge of her husband's case. I
need to ask Mrs. Kohli some questions that may aid in my investigation.”

“Who is it,
Carla?”

Patsy came to
the door, peered out.

“It's you.”
She wrenched open the door while the other woman made helpless, soothing
noises. “How dare you come here? How dare you show your face in my
house.”

“Patsy, come
on now, Patsy. You should go lie down. Go away,” the woman said to Eve. “Just
go away.”

“No, no, let
her in. I have things to say.”

As Eve stepped
in, Sergeant Clooney hurried to the group by the door. “Patsy, you have to stay
calm.”

“I'm supposed
to stay calm when I'm burying my husband tomorrow and this woman is trying to
smear him? To ruin his reputation? Everything he worked for.”

There were no
tears, but there was fury. Eve preferred it. “Mrs. Kohli, you're mistaken.”

“You think I
haven't heard? You think I don't know?” She sneered as Eve's
glance shifted to Clooney. “No, not from him. He says you're doing your job.
But I know what you're doing.”

“Patsy.”
Clooney laid a hand on her back, kept his voice low and calm. “You don't want
to upset the children.”

And there were
plenty of them, Eve noted. A couple of babies, and one of those bigger babies
who waddled around on shaky legs and made her nervous. The young boy Peabody
had taken to the park on their first visit sat on the floor with a girl of
about the same age. Their eyes were wide and focused on her.

She much
preferred the four men with guns she'd just dispatched.

“Carla.” With
rigid control, Patsy turned to the woman Eve now identified as her sister.
“Would you take the children to the park? Would you do that for me?”

“I don't like
to leave you alone.”

“I'm all
right. Just take the children. They've been cooped up too long.”

Eve stood
where she was and watched what appeared to be a well-rehearsed if chaotic
circus. Babies were packed into some sort of rolling cart where they wiggled
and shook pudgy fists. The one who could walk, more or less, tumbled onto his
padded butt, laughed uproariously, and was hooked into a safety harness.

The older
children were ordered to hold hands. There was a short but desperate moment
until the little boy's jacket was discovered. The noise level reached a
dangerous peak, then cut off abruptly when the entire contingent trailed out
the door.

“I will not
ask you to sit down,” Patsy said stiffly. “I will not offer you refreshment. My
husband was a good man.” Her voice trembled, nearly broke. But she continued.
“An honest man. He would do nothing to shame his name, or me, or his children.”

“I know that,
Mrs. Kohli,” Eve said and stopped what promised to become a tirade in its
tracks. “Everything I've learned in my investigation of your husband's death
confirms that he was a solid cop.”

“Then how can
you spread vicious lies about him? How can you let people think -- his own
co-workers believe -- he was taking money?”

“Patsy.”
Before Eve could speak, Clooney took the woman's arm. “Lieutenant Dallas is
doing her job, just as Taj did his job. Come sit down now.”

“I want
answers.” But she went with Clooney now, let him guide her to a chair. “I
deserve answers.”

“Yes, ma'am,
you do. I'm only able, at this time, to tell you that I've learned Detective
Kohli was working under cover, and part of that cover involved the pretense
that he was accepting illicit funds. He was part of an operation formed to
expose corruption in the department. His death, Mrs. Kohli, was, in my opinion,
in the line of duty. And that will be stated in my official findings.”

“I don't
understand.” Tears threatened as she lowered her face into her hands. “I don't
understand any of this.”

“I can't
explain it to you in detail at this time. Mrs. Kohli, I intend to find your
husband's killer. You can help me.”

“I don't know
how to help. I'm sorry, please sit down. I'll get coffee.”

“There's no
need -- “

“I have to
settle myself.” She drew herself up. “I need a moment to think. Excuse me.”

“She's been
holding up so well,” Clooney muttered when Patsy left the room. “Almost too
well. For the children, I imagine. Then this.”

“What this,
Clooney?” Eve didn't sit but turned her full attention on him. “What have you
been telling her?”

“That her
husband was a good man,” he shot back. “And that you're doing your job.”

He paused,
held up a hand as he took the time to compose himself. “Look, I don't know
where she got the information that you were heaping dirt on him. She won't tell
me. All I know is I got a call from her a few hours ago. She was close to
hysterical.”

He picked up a
little toy truck from the cushions of the couch, turned it over in his hand.
“Kids,” he said, as if to give himself a moment to calm down as well. “You
never know what you're going to sit on when you've got kids in the house.”

“What did she
want from you, Sergeant?”

“Reassurance.
That's all survivors want in the end. And that's what I've tried to give. I'd
heard the talk around the squad the last day or two but didn't put much
credence in it.” He paused another moment. “I don't know you, so I didn't
discount the talk, either. But it's not my function here to stir up the
survivors. I've been working to calm her down since I got here.”

“Fair enough.
Can you think of any reason I'd decide to smear an honest cop I didn't even
know?”

“No.” Clooney
sighed. “That's what I've been telling her. That's what I've been telling
myself.” What, he thought it would be unwise to admit, he'd been telling his
captain. “But you've stirred up a lot of bad feelings in the One two-eight.
It's hard to ignore that.”

Patsy came
back with a tray, set it on the table. “Taj would want me to try,” she said
quietly. “He'd want me to cooperate. I didn't know about this ... operation. He
never told me. I know about the money now, the other accounts. I... I thought
you'd put it there. You have a rich husband. I was so angry.”

“Now we both
are.” Eve sat. “I don't like being used to bring you pain or to damage the
reputation of the man I've sworn to stand for. Who told you I put the money
there?”

“No one told
me, exactly.” She looked tired again, and embarrassed. The heat of fury had
burned away and left her empty and confused. “It was just one of the things
some people were saying in the heat of the moment. He had a lot of friends in
his squad. I didn't know he had so many. They've been so kind. His captain came
here herself, to assure me that Taj would have an official memorial.”

“Did Captain
Roth tell you I was going after your husband's reputation?”

“No, no, not
really. Just that no matter what anyone said, I could be proud of Taj. It meant
a lot to me for her to say that, to my face. Most of the squad's come by, to
pay their respects, and to offer to help in any way.”

“But someone
contacted you today?”

“Yes, but he
was only trying to help. He only wanted me to know the squad was behind Taj a
hundred percent. I didn't understand at first, then he said that I shouldn't
let any of the trash coming out of your office concern me. It was all a setup.
He even backed off when he saw I didn't know anything, but I pushed. Then he
told me.”

“Who told
you?”

“I don't want
him to get in trouble.” She clasped her hands together, all but wrung them as
she weighed confidentiality against justice for her husband. “Jerry Vernon.
Detective Vernon. But he was only trying to help.”

“I see. Was he
a close friend of your husband's?”

“I don't think
so. Not particularly. Taj didn't socialize a great deal with his co-workers.
There were a few who came here to dinner, and some whose wives I got together
with now and then.”

“It would help
me to know who his friends were.”

“Oh, all
right.” She listed off a few names, seemed to relax a little more as she spoke.

“You're going
to hurt my feelings, Patsy,” Clooney said.

“Of course,
you, Art.” She took his hand, seemed to anchor to it.

“Taj was
friendly with my son,” Clooney explained. “Now and again they let the old man
tag along for a beer on a boys' night out. For the most part, Taj was a
homebody.”

“Mrs. Kohli,
you told me Taj called you that night, told you he was meeting someone after
he'd finished at Purgatory.”

“Yes, but he
didn't tell me who, and I didn't ask. I guess I was getting a little tired of
the long hours he was putting in. I was a bit short with him at first, but he
brought me around. He always could,” she said with a smile. “He promised it
wouldn't be for too much longer, that he was close to having what he needed. I
thought he meant the extra money for the new place we wanted. Then he told me
to kiss the babies for him, and he said, 'I love you, Patsy.' It was the last
thing he said to me. It was like him for that to be the last thing.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The assailant
with the polite voice and the natty topcoat went by the name of Elmore Riggs. A
quick search proved that it had been the name he'd been born with, some
thirty-nine years before, in Vancouver, Canada.

There had been
a small dispute with the Canadian authorities over smuggling explosive devices
across the border, and Elmore had done some time before he'd been considered
rehabilitated and had moved to New York.

His address
was listed in a tidy, moderately wealthy enclave north of the city, and his
profession was reported to be security consultant.

A fancy name
for a hired hammer, Eve decided.

Armed with
this data, she headed toward the Interview level to link up with Feeney and put
Elmore Riggs through his paces.

Vernon stepped
in front of her when she reached the top of the glide.

“A little out
of your territory, aren't you, Detective?”

“You think you
can shake me?” He gave her a body bump that had a number of the cops moving
through the area pausing.

Eve simply
waved the hand she held at her side to keep them back. “I don't know, Jerry.
You look shaken.”

“Everybody
knows you're trying to throw trash at the squad. IAB sow's what you are. If you
think you can dump on me like you're doing on Kohli and Mills, think again. I've
contacted my union rep, and we're coming down on you.”

“Gee, Vernon,
now you're scaring me. Not the union rep.” She gave a deliberate shudder.

“You won't be
so smart when you're hit with a lawsuit, and I start bleeding that rich husband
you hooked.”

“My God,
Peabody, a lawsuit. I feel faint.”

“Don't worry,
Lieutenant, I'll catch you.”

“They'll take
your badge.” Vernon sneered. “Like they did before, only this time they'll keep
it. Before I'm done, you'll wish you never heard my name.”

“We aren't
close to done, and I already wish that, Jerry.” She grinned at him. “I've got
you cold, and when Ricker gets wind of it, when he starts worrying how I'm
tracing those numbered accounts you set up back to him, he's going to be very
unhappy with you. I don't think your union rep's going to be much help where
he's concerned.”

“You got
nothing. You're just trying to set me up. I figure you want Roth's job over the
One two-eight, so you're messing us up so she gets the boot, and you can sail
in. That's what she thinks, too.”

“Make sure you
put that in your lawsuit. How I pulled your name out of a hat and decided to
dedicate myself to destroying you and your squad, so I can sit behind a desk.
That ought to fly.”

She shifted a
little closer, her eyes drilling into his. “Only you'd better start thinking
how to cover yourself. The money you've been taking isn't going to help much,
since I'm arranging to have those accounts frozen. And while you're dealing
with that, remember I'm the only one coming at you who has even a marginal
interest in keeping you breathing. While I'm coming at your face, Ricker's
going to be at your back. And there's a cop killer hunting dirty cops. You
won't know which direction he's coming from.”

“That's a rash
of shit.”

He lifted his
fists, she cocked her chin. “I wouldn't,” she said softly. “But you go right
ahead.”

“I'm taking
you down.” He stepped back, clenched those fists at his sides. “You're
finished.” He shoved past her, hopped on the downward glide.

“No, but I'm getting
there,” Eve murmured. “Let's put some men on him. I don't want him rabbiting.”
She rolled her shoulders. “You know what I'm in the mood for now?”

“Kicking
righteous ass, sir?”

“Got it in
one. Let's go sweat Riggs.”

“You're
limping again.”

“I am not. And
shut up.”

She limped,
damn it, to Interview A, where Feeney was waiting and popping nuts in his
mouth. “What kept you?”

“Just a little
kissy-face with a close personal friend. Did Riggs lawyer?”

“Nope. Made
his phone call. Claimed it was to his wife. I gotta say, he's a cucumber. And
polite with it. Cool and well mannered, that's our boy.”

“He's
Canadian.”

“Oh. I guess
that explains it.”

They walked in
to where Riggs sat patiently in a miserably uncomfortable chair.

“Good
afternoon, Mr. Riggs,” Eve said and moved to the table.

“Lieutenant.
Nice to see you.” He glanced down at the rip in her pants. “A pity about those
trousers. They look so well on you.”

“Yeah, I'm
pretty torn up about it. Record on.” She read in the information as she took
her seat. “No lawyer, Riggs?”

“Not at this
time, though thank you for asking.”

“You do, then,
understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Perfectly.
First let me say I'm full of remorse for my actions.”

Clever, she thought. This was no moron. “Are you?”

“Absolutely. I
regret what happened today. It was, of course, never my intention to cause any
injury. I see now how reckless and foolish it was to approach you in the manner
I did. I'd like to apologize.”

“That's really
big of you. How did it happen you were armed with banned weapons while
traveling on a New York street with the intention of abducting and/or
assaulting a police officer?”

“I fell in
with bad companions,” he said with a soft smile. “I have no excuse for having
illegal weapons in my possession. I would like to say, however, that in my line
of work, security consultation, it's often part of the routine to rub shoulders
with criminal elements and to find oneself in possession of illegal weapons.
Naturally, I should have turned those weapons over to the proper authorities.”

“Where did you
acquire those weapons?”

“From the man
you killed. I was hired by him, you see, just this morning.”

“The dead guy
hired you.”

“Yes. I was
unaware, of course, that you were a police officer when I accepted the commission.
I was told that you were a dangerous individual who had threatened him and his
family with bodily harm. Obviously, I was deceived, and I'm afraid I accepted
his story and the weapons at face value. Very poor judgment on my part.”

“If you
weren't aware I was a police officer, why did you call me Lieutenant at the
scene?”

“I have no
recollection of having done so.”

“So you just
took this job. What was the name of the guy who hired you?”

“Haggerty,
Clarence Haggerty. Or so he told me at the time. Imagine my shock when I
discovered his purpose was not, as he told me, to frighten away by show of
force, a woman who was endangering his family.”

“I'm trying to
do just that,” Eve said mildly. “I guess having him grab some innocent kid and
hold a stunner to his throat where it could cause permanent paralysis or death,
seemed like a fine way to frighten me.”

“It happened
so fast. I was shocked when he grabbed the boy. I'm afraid my reaction was
slow. Obviously Haggerty -- or whoever he was -- was not the man I believed him
to be. Anyone who would endanger a child in that manner ...”

He trailed
off, sadly shaking his head. “I'm quite glad you killed him, Lieutenant.” He
smiled again. “I can't begin to tell you how glad I am.”

“I'm sure
you're dancing.” She leaned forward. “Do you really think this lame story is
going to fly, Riggs?”

“Why shouldn't
it? If you require any documentation to corroborate my brief employment by Mr.
Haggerty, I'll be happy to supply it. I keep excellent records.”

“I'll just bet
you do.”

“This, of
course, in no way negates my responsibility for what took place. I will, no
doubt, lose my security license. I face a prison term, or at the very least
home incarceration. I'm prepared to take my punishment, as the law demands.”

“You work for
Max Ricker.”

“I'm afraid I
don't recall the name. If a Mr. Ricker has hired me as a consultant at any
time, it would be in my records. I'll be happy to sign an authorization so that
you can search those records.”

“You're
looking at twenty-five years, Riggs. Minimum.”

“I hope the
courts won't be too harsh, as I was unaware of the true purpose when I was
hired. And I certainly did nothing to harm that little boy. I was duped.” He
lifted his hands, his face still placid. “But I stand prepared to accept the
punishment due me.”

“You figure
that's better than ending up like Lewis.”

“I'm sorry? Do
I know a Lewis?”

“He's worm
food. And we both know Ricker may cut his losses with you so you end up the
same.”

“I just don't
understand, Lieutenant. I'm sorry.”

“Let's run it
through again, in words of one syllable.”

She worked him
for more than an hour, shifting over to Feeney to change the pace, coming back
hard, leading in soft.

Riggs never
broke a sweat, never varied his story by an iota. It was, she thought, like
interrogating a goddamn droid with perfect programming.

“Get him out
of here,” Eve ordered in disgust, then stalked out of the room.

“This guy
won't roll,” she said when Feeney joined her. “Ricker sent brains this time.
But Riggs wasn't completely in control. He didn't expect that creep to grab the
kid. So while he's got brains, there's no saying the others do. I want to
double the guards on the two in the hospital, get an update on their
condition.”

“Riggs gets a
decent lawyer, using that line, holds to it, won't even do five years.”

“I know it,
and so does he. Self-satisfied son of a bitch. Let's get a run on the two in
the hospital, find a level.”

“I'll take
that. We don't need the smoke now, so I'd as soon work out of my office.”

“Okay. I'm
going to go write this up, then head home. I've got some lines to tug on that
end.”

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

By the time
she was finished, it was well after shift. She cut Peabody loose, then headed
down to the garage. Her leg hurt, which pissed her off. Her head throbbed,
which was only a minor annoyance.

But when she
reached her parking level and saw the condition of her vehicle, she was ready
to spit rock.

“Goddamn it.
Goddamn it.”

She'd had this
unit -- one that actually worked -- for less than eight months. It was ugly,
had already been wrecked once and repaired, but it was hers, and she'd kept it
in decent shape.

Now the hood,
the trunk, the doors on both sides were smashed in, the tires slashed, and the
rear glass looked like it had been attacked by lasers.

And all, she
thought, in a police garage with full security cams.

“Whoa.” Baxter
strolled up behind her. “I heard you had a little trouble earlier, but didn't
know you'd wrecked your vehicle. Maintenance isn't going to be happy with you.”

“I didn't
wreck it. How the hell did somebody walk in here and beat the crap out of my
ride?” She took another step toward it, and Baxter grabbed her arm.

“Let's just
keep some distance. Call the bomb squad. You've got a very temperamental enemy
at the moment. Could be rigged.”

“You're right.
Yeah, you're right. If it blows up, they'll never issue me another one. They
hate me in Requisitions.”

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

It wasn't
rigged, and she managed to cop four new tires. Because Baxter called down for
them and sweet-talked Maintenance. While they were being changed and two crabby
Maintenance men were doing something to the doors to make them open and close
again, she checked with Garage Security.

A blip, she
was told, in the disc run.

“What's the
verdict?” Baxter asked when she came back.

“A blip,
fifteen minutes of snow and blocked audio. This level only. They didn't
notice.” Her eyes narrowed into tawny glints. “I guarantee they'll notice the
next time. You didn't have to hang, Baxter.”

“This may be
your game, Dallas, but we all want part of the ball. You should take something
for that leg. You're limping.”

“I am not.”
She sighed as she wrenched open her dented car door. “Thanks.”

“Don't I get a
kiss good-bye?”

“Sure, honey.
Come on over here.”

He laughed,
backed away. “You'll hit me. You heading home?”

“Yeah.”

He wandered to
his vehicle. “I'm heading uptown, myself.” He said it casually and didn't fool
her for a minute. “I'll follow you up.”

“I don't need
a baby-sitter.”

“I'm heading
uptown,” he said and got in his car.

She wanted to
be annoyed with him but couldn't quite pull it off. On the drive, she stayed
alert, watching for tails, preparing for ambush. Other than her vehicle making
ominous whining noises when she got over thirty miles an hour, and thumping
ones when she turned left, the trip home was uneventful.

She waved
Baxter off at her gates, figured she'd raid Roarke's liquor supply for a bottle
of unblended scotch as payment for the favor.

She wanted a
drink herself, she thought as she walked up the front steps. A nice cool glass
of wine, maybe a quick swim to work out the kinks.

She had a
feeling it was going to be a long night.

“I assume,”
Summerset began while the cat streaked between his legs to greet Eve, “you've
been involved in some sort of vehicular accident.”

“You assume
incorrectly. My unit was involved in some sort of vehicular accident.” She
bent, picked up Galahad, and found a little comfort by rubbing her cheek
against his fur. “Where's Roarke?”

“He is not yet
home for the evening. If you had consulted his schedule, you'd be aware he
isn't expected for another hour. Those trousers are ruined.”

“People keep
telling me that.” She set the cat down, stripped off her jacket, and tossed it
over the newel post. She walked past him, intended to go down to the pool
house.

“You're
limping.”

She kept
going, but she did indulge herself in a single short scream.

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

The swim
helped, and once she was alone and naked, she took a good look at the wound on
her leg. The MT had done a good job, she had to admit. It was healing up well,
even if it did ache like hell.

There were a number
of scrapes and bruises to go along with it. Some of which, she decided, she'd
gotten during the jungle sex with Roarke. It didn't seem so bad when she backed
those out of the mix. Feeling better, she tugged on a robe and, giving in to
her knee, took the elevator up to the bedroom.

And coming
out, nearly rapped straight into Roarke on the point of going in.

“Hello,
Lieutenant. I was coming down to join you.”

“I took a long
swim, but I could sit and watch you take one. If you're naked.”

“Why don't we
take one together later?” He drew her into the bedroom. “What happened to your
car?”

“I can't prove
it, but my guess is Ricker. It was like that when I got down to the garage. We
seem to keep annoying each other.” She started toward her closet.

“Why are you
limping?”

She rolled her
eyes but resisted banging her head against the wall. “I rapped my knee. Look, I
want to get dressed, have a drink. I'll tell you about it.” She started to tug
off the robe, remembered the range of bruises and scrapes. “I ran into some
trouble today, took a roll on the street. I'm a little banged up, so don't go
crazy on me.”

“I'll try to
retain my sanity.” His only reaction when she stripped was a sigh. “Very
colorful. Lie down.”

“No.”

“Eve, lie down
so I don't have to knock you down. I'll treat them, and it'll be done.”

She grabbed
out a shirt. “Listen, ace, I missed a very much desired ass-kicking round
today. I can substitute you for my intended target.” But when he took a step
toward her, she tossed down the shirt. “All right, all right. I'm not in the
mood to fight. But if you're going to play doctor, I want a drink.”

She stalked to
the bed, flopped onto her stomach, and said in a tone she hoped would irritate
him a little, “Wine. White and cold.”

“We're here to
serve.” He got the glass, slipped a pain blocker into it, knowing it would
irritate her when she figured it out. He retrieved the medication for her
injuries, set them down, and flipped her over.

“Sit up, and
no whining.”

“I don't
whine.”

“Rarely,” he
agreed. “But when you do, you make up for the lack of quantity with quality.”

She picked up
the glass while he ran the healing wand over the worst of the bruises. “Why
don't you crawl up in here with me, doc?”

“I intend to,
a bit later. That's how I collect my fee.”

She'd finished
half the glass before she noticed the effects. “What did you put in here?” she
demanded. “You put a blocker in here.” When she started to set the glass aside,
he simply plucked it out of her hand, gave her hair a yank to pull her head
back, and poured the rest down her throat.

She choked,
sputtered. “I hate that.”

“Yes, I know,
but I so enjoy it. Turn over.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Darling, I
will, once you turn over.”

She had to
laugh. She rolled, forced to admit, at least to herself, that the worst of the
pain had eased. Better yet, she decided with a sigh, when that wonderful mouth
of his brushed over her butt. “Keep going,” she invited.

“Later. I want
these aches to settle down first.”

“I feel okay.”

“I want to
make love with you, Eve.” He turned her over again, gently this time, leaned
over her. “Slowly, thoroughly, and for a very long time. I want you to feel
much better than okay before that happens.”

“I'm starting
to feel really good.” She reached for him, but he took her hands, tugged her
up.

“Tell me what
happened.”

“Well, if
you're not going to jump me, I'm getting dressed.”

“The robe.” He
held it out. “You'll be more comfortable in something loose. And it'll be less
for me to take off you later.”

Finding it
hard to argue with his logic, she put the robe back on, then walked to the
AutoChef. “You want something?”

“Whatever
you're having's fine.”

She ordered
pasta for two, going for the spicy sauce. She sat with him, began to eat to
fuel herself for the night to come, and told him about her day.

He listened,
and the fact that he made no comments while she spoke had the nerves dancing at
the base of her neck. Even when the delicate pasta began to taste like paste in
her throat, she continued to eat.

“I've got some
angles I want to play, and it takes a load off knowing I have the full support
of the chief of police. It did my heart good to watch him skewer Bayliss.
Bloodlessly. You have to admire that.”

“Eve.”

She met his
eyes, cold as winter, blue as an iced ocean. Odd, she thought, how facing down
four armed men only hours before had merely kicked her adrenaline into gear.
One look from Roarke was a great deal more potent.

“He's gone
after you three times. However much you dislike it, disapprove of it, I will
deal with him.”

“Two times,”
she corrected. “The third was just my car, and the score's been in my favor
every time. But,” she continued, “I anticipated your reaction. It's not going
to do any good, but I'm going to point out that given my job, I've been gone
after before and will be again. This personal thing between the two of you
shouldn't enter into it.”

“You're
mistaken.” And his voice was terrifyingly mild.

“But since it
does, I want you to work with me on this.”

She could
sense his underlying fury.

“Do you think
you can placate me, Eve?”

“No. Hell, no.
Stop staring at me that way. You're spoiling my appetite.” She tossed down her
fork. “I could use your help. I asked for it before this happened today, didn't
I? All that's changed is he sent another goon squad after me, and I took them
down. He's got to be royally burnt by that. If we go at this from the same
angle, work together, we can both get what we want.

“Well, you
won't get exactly what you want, which is, at my guess, eating Ricker's
liver after you've roasted it on a spit over a slow fire. But we can get as
close to that as the law allows.”

“The law's
your yardstick, not mine.”

“Roarke.” She
put a hand over his. “I can get him without you, but it wouldn't be as quick
and it sure as hell wouldn't be as satisfying. You could get him without me.
Maybe quicker, and maybe more satisfying to you. But think about this: Wouldn't
you rather picture him living a long, miserable life in a cage than just
throwing the switch on him?”

He considered
it. “No.”

“You're a
scary guy, Roarke. A very scary guy.”

“But I'll work
with you on this, Lieutenant. And I'll contemplate, depending on how that work
goes, settling for that image. I'll do that for you. I promise you, it costs me
more than I can tell you.”

“I know that.
So, thanks.”

“Don't thank
me until it's done. Because if it doesn't work your way, it will work mine.
What do you need?”

She let out a
breath. “First I need to know why IAB sent Kohli into Purgatory. What is there
in the club or who is there they wanted? Bayliss said something today about
Ricker's connection to it, but you told me you severed business with him over
ten years ago.”

“That's right,
I did, taking some of his more lucrative accounts with me. I've sold them off
since, or adjusted them. As for Purgatory, he has no connection to it. But he
did. I bought it from him five years ago. Or I should say,” he added when she
gaped. “My representatives acquired it from his representatives.”

“He owned the
place? And you didn't tell me?”

“Lieutenant, I
have to point out, you didn't ask.”

“For God's
sake,” she grumbled and got to her feet to pace, to think.

“And at the
time your Kohli was murdered, I didn't think of it, see a connection, or
consider it relevant. It's been mine for a number of years and has been
completely overhauled, remodeled, and re-staffed.”

“If he used it
for a front, it could be some of his people still come in. Do business.”

“None that's
ever been reported to me. If that's the case, it's very minor business.”

“A cop died
there. That's not minor.”

“Point taken.”

“Why did he
sell it?”

“My research
at the time indicated that it was becoming a little too warm. He often dispenses
of businesses and property when they've outlived their usefulness to him. It's
basic business practice.”

“If he's got
this hard-on for you, why did he sell it to you?”

“He didn't
know until after the fact. I assume he was displeased, but the deal was done.”
He sat back, doing some thinking himself. “Possibly he put out word that there
was outside business being done there, or had some of his people come in to do
some. He may have hoped to take a swipe at me that way. I can see that. He'd
have waited until the club was well established, until it was running smoothly,
then tried to disrupt it. He's a patient man. A few years wouldn't have been
any time to wait.”

“And with his
connections in the department, he'd have had a funnel for the rumors. IAB
picked up on them, started looking into it, and put Kohli in. It plays. And
it's looking more and more like the poor guy died for nothing.”

“You'll fix
that.” Roarke got to his feet.

“Yeah, I'll
fix it. I want to look at some data, data I'm not supposed to see, without
anyone knowing I'm looking.”

He smiled now.
“Lieutenant, I believe I can help you with that.”

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

In his
brilliantly lit lounging room in his expansive Connecticut estate, Max Ricker
stomped viciously on the face of a house droid he'd called Marta.

She would
never be the same.

Canarde wisely
kept his distance during this torrent of temper. He'd seen it before, and it
wasn't always a droid Ricker broke to pieces when the rage was on him.

For a time,
the only sounds in the room were harsh, ragged breathing and the distressing
crunch of plastic and metal. Canarde had seen it before, yes indeed. But these
lapses of control were getting much worse.

He began to
think it would soon be time to put his carefully outlined escape plan into
action, and spend the rest of his days in the relative peace and elegance of
the home he'd purchased under a false name on the Paradise Colony.

But for now,
he was confident he could weather the storm.

“One woman,
one single woman, and they can't deal with her? Can't deal with her? I
promise you, promise you, they will be dealt with.”

He kicked what
was left of Maria's head out of his way. The air stank with the stench of fried
circuits. Calmer, as he always was after an ... episode, he walked to the bar,
filled a glass with his favored pink liquid that was sweetened rum with a heavy
lacing of barbiturates.

“One dead, you
say?” His voice was mild now, as were his eyes as he glanced toward Canarde. He
might have said, “Two for dinner?” for all the inflection in the tone.

“Yes. Yawly.
Ines and Murdock are being treated for injuries. Riggs has been booked and has
followed my instructions as to his story. He'll stick to it. He's an
intelligent man.”

“He's a fool,
like the rest of them. I want them disposed of.”

Prepared for
this directive, Canarde stepped forward. “That may be prudent with Ines and
Murdock. I believe, however, that if you act on Riggs when he proves himself to
be loyal, it will seriously damage your organization's morale.”

Ricker sipped,
and his silver eyes slithered over Canarde's face. “Why would you be under the
impression I'm the least bit concerned with morale?”

“You should
be,” Canarde said, knowing he risked a great deal. “By demonstrating goodwill,
even lenience, to an employee under these circumstances -- as you showed
instant discipline to Lewis under different circumstances -- you send a clear
message to those who work for you. And,” he added, “Riggs can always be handled
after a period of time has passed.”

Ricker
continued to drink, continued to calm. “You're right. Of course, you're right.”
His smile was quick and almost terrifyingly brilliant. “Thank you. I'm afraid I
let the matter of this annoying cop influence my better judgment. Some things
are worth waiting for.”

He thought of
Roarke. He'd waited there. Years now. And hadn't he found just the right place
to strike?

But it was
harder to wait, harder to see clearly, when he could almost taste the blood.

“Assure Mr.
Riggs that his loyalty is appreciated and will be rewarded.”

He started
toward the window-wall, saw the droid debris scattered over the floor. For a
moment he was blank, for another simply puzzled. Then, dismissing it from his
mind, he walked around it, slid open the glass, and stepped out on the deck
overlooking his lawns.

“I spent a
lifetime building what I have, and will one day pass it all to my son. A man
needs a legacy to pass on to his son.” He was mellowing now, his tone turning
dreamy. “But I have a number of goals to reach before that time comes. And one
I intend to achieve very soon is to crush Roarke. To have him on his knees. I
will accomplish that, Canarde. Make no mistake.”

He sipped his
bright drink and looked out over the grounds, a man satisfied and still vital.
“I'll accomplish that,” he said again, “and have his cop begging for mercy.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the sealed
room of Roarke's private office, the equipment was state of the art, expansive,
and unregistered. The wide, searching eye of CompuGuard was blind to it.
Nothing generated on it or scanned from it could be detected by any outside
factor.

And in the
hands of a man with Roarke's talents, there were no data that could not, eventually,
be unearthed.

Despite the
fact that besides Roarke, only Eve and Summerset had ever been through the
secured doors, and the purpose of the area was business, it was a handsome room
with generous privacy-screened windows and a floor of beautiful tile.

She'd often
thought the glossy U-shaped control deck resembled the bridge of a particularly
well-designed spacecraft. And when he was behind those controls, Roarke was
very much captain of the ship.

Here, she
would bend the rules. Or let Roarke bend them for her.

“Roth first,”
Eve began. “Her story is her husband's been bleeding out her financial
accounts, setting up a nest egg for himself and his on-the-side piece. Roth,
Captain Eileen. Her address is -- “

“That isn't
necessary.”

He enjoyed
this type of work nearly as much as he enjoyed the annoyed look on Eve's face
when he easily danced through the blocks and obstacles even the brains and
talents in EDD couldn't budge. He put the data on a wall screen rather than
commanding the computer to read it off.

“Not a very
impressive nest egg,” he commented. “But enough, one supposes, to set himself
and his on-the-side piece up cozily enough. He's an unemployed writer. Some
women are attracted to the struggling artist type. All those pale, Byronic
moods.”

“Is that so?”
Eve said in a voice dry as dust.

“Indeed. In my
experience. She isn't his first,” he added, shooting more data to a second
screen. “He has two marriages and three cohabitations under his belt, and
repeats this pattern of tapping into his partner's financial resources toward
the end of the run.”

“You'd think
she'd be too smart for that kind of con. Christ, she's a cop.”

“Love,” Roarke
said, “is blind.”

“The hell it
is. I see you clear enough, don't I?”

His grin was
quick and gorgeous. “Why, Lieutenant, you've made my heart flutter.” He grabbed
her hand, kissed her knuckles lavishly.

“No funny
stuff.” She slapped him aside, an absent gesture that only made him smile
again.

It was good,
he thought, to be back in synch.

“She's got two
payments to a Lucius Breck,” Eve noted. “Three thousand a pop. Who's Breck?”

Because she
hadn't realized he'd cued her into the system, she nearly jumped when the
computer's polite voice answered.

Breck,
Lucius. Substance abuse counselor. Private practice. Office address 529 Sixth
Avenue, New York City. Residence -- -

“Never mind.
That jibes with the story she gave me. Jesus, she's close onto flat busted
financially and still paying through the nose for private counseling when she
could get it through departmental sources for nothing. And she's going to lose
anyway. She won't keep her squad command when this all washes down.”

And she thinks
I'm bucking for her desk. Eve shook her head. No, thanks. Eve would wear
captain's bars one day, but damn if they'd drag her off the street by them.

“You can't
find any other accounts linked to her?”

“I can't find
what's not there,” Roarke said reasonably. “As you've seen for yourself, your
Captain Roth is very nearly in financial ruin. She's borrowed from her
retirement account in order to pay Breck's fee. Her living expenses are
otherwise frugal.”

“So she's
clean, and her squad's dirty, which may go to motive. She commanded both
victims and had visited Kohli at Purgatory. Her probability scan's still fairly
low, but that could change if I can add in her personality analysis from the
department files and my own take on her.”

“And your take
is?”

“She's hard,
got a mean temper, and she's been so busy rising up the ladder, she's been
missing details. She's covering up personal mistakes in a scramble to protect
her position. Could be she's covered up more, in her squad, to keep her
superiors from yanking her out. A lot of temper went into that first murder.
Like I said, she's got a mean one.”

She turned
back to Roarke. “Vernon, Detective Jeremy. I've already got enough on him to
haul him in -- after I let him sweat awhile.”

“What do you
need from me?”

“I want to
connect the money to Ricker. Getting it this way, I won't be able to use it as
evidence. But I can make him think I can. I break Vernon, I've got new lines to
tug. He's connected to both victims and to Roth. And to Ricker.”

“Ricker's
going to be insulated, thickly. Any funds he disperses in that manner would
have been washed.”

“Can you find
it?”

His brow
winged up. “That is, I assume, a rhetorical question. It'll take time.”

“Then why
don't you get started? Can I use this subunit to check a few other names?”

“Hold on.” He
issued some commands she didn't understand, keyed in something manually. The
computer acknowledged him and began a low hum. “It'll sift through the initial
layers on auto,” he explained, “as quickly as I could do it. What are the other
names?”

She looked at
him. “Rue MacLean.”

If he was
annoyed or surprised, he didn't show it. “You suspect her?”

“She manages
Purgatory, knows or should know what goes down there. Now you tell me Ricker
used to own the place, and we know IAB suspects or suspected a connection. If
he's doing any business there, she should've known about it. And,” she
concluded, “you already thought of that.”

“I did a run
on her yesterday. Deep search. Computer, results of search on MacLean, Rue, on
screen three. You can study the data yourself,” he told Eve. “I found nothing
to alarm me. Overmuch. But then again, if she's playing with Ricker, she'd be
careful. She knows me.”

“Would she
risk it?”

“I wouldn't
have thought so.”

Eve scanned
the financial first. “Jesus, Roarke, you pay her a goddamn mint.”

“Which
traditionally inspires loyalty. She essentially runs the club. She earns her
salary. You'll see she enjoys the financial rewards and doesn't pinch her
credits. She took a vacation to Saint Barthelemy this winter. Ricker's known to
have a base near there.”

He paused for
a moment, strolling over to pour himself a brandy. “I intend to ask her about
that tomorrow.”

“Just ask
her?”

“That's right,
and I'll know if she's lying.”

Eve studied
his face: cool, hard, ruthless. Yes, he would know, and God help MacLean if she
lied. “I'd rather you didn't. I'll ask her.”

“If she's
connected in any way to Ricker, it's a very tenuous connection to your case.
She's my employee, and I deal with my own.”

“If you scare
her off -- “

“If she has
reason to be frightened, she'll have nowhere to go. Then she'll be yours to
question. Do you have more names?”

“You're not
cooperating.”

“On the
contrary.” He spread his hands, indicating the room and the busy equipment.
“Let me ask you a question, Lieutenant. Are you after a killer or Max Ricker?”

“I'm after a
killer,” she snapped. “And since Ricker's hooked to it somewhere, I intend to
haul them both.”

“Because he's
connected to the case, or once was, to me?”

“Both.” She
shifted her stance, an unconscious move into combat. “So what?”

“Nothing.
Unless, when the time comes, you intend to stand between us.” He studied his
brandy. “But why borrow trouble? Names?”

She didn't
intend to borrow anything. But she fully intended to get to Ricker first.
“Webster, Lieutenant Don.”

The faintest
smirk touched his mouth. “Well now, isn't that interesting? What do you suspect
him of? Being the killer or being a target?”

“At the
moment, neither, which is the same as both. He tailed me today. Maybe it was
like he said, to apologize for being an idiot. Or maybe that whole business was
staged. I want all the facts before I decide to trust him.”

Saying
nothing, Roarke tapped keys and had data shooting onto a screen.

“You already
ran him?”

“Did you think
I wouldn't?” Roarke said coolly. “Webster appears to be as clean as the
traditional whistle. Which, using the standard you applied to Roth, puts him on
your suspect list.”

“Except for
one thing.” She moved closer to the screen, frowning over the data. “He knew
about Kohli, helped set it all up. Why take out a straight cop? Going from
evidence, from my own instincts, and from Mira's profile, I'm looking for
someone avenging themselves. Someone who's taking out cops who went wrong.
Webster was one of the few who knew Kohli hadn't. So no, I'm not looking at him
for this, not if he's clean.”

“And if he
wasn't?”

“Then maybe I
could've stretched it that he took Kohli out because Kohli was clean and knew
Webster wasn't. What are these payments here? Steady outlay every month for the
last two years to LaDonna Kirk.”

“He's got a
sister, divorced. She's going to medical school. He's helping her out.”

“Hmmm. Could
be a blind.”

“It's
legitimate. I checked. She's in the top ten percent of her class, by the way.
He gambles occasionally,” Roarke continued, sipping his brandy. “Small stakes,
typical entertainment gambling pattern. He springs for season tickets for arena
ball every year and has an affection for suits made by an overpriced and, in my
opinion, woefully inferior designer. He doesn't put much away for a rainy day,
but lives within his means. Which isn't difficult. He makes twice as much as
you do, at the same rank. I'd complain about that.”

“Desk
jockeys,” Eve said with obvious disdain. “Who can figure it? You went awfully
deep on him.”

“I prefer being
thorough.”

She decided,
under the circumstances, to leave it at that. “He wants in.”

“I beg your
pardon?”

“On the case,
Roarke. He wants me to let him in on the homicide investigation. He's feeling
used and abused at the way it was set up. I believe him.”

“Are you
asking me my opinion?”

Relationships,
she thought darkly, were so often a major pain in the ass. “I'm asking you if
it's going to cause any problems around here if I let him in.”

“If I said
yes?”

“Then he stays
out. He'd be useful, but I don't need him.”

“Darling Eve.
You needn't worry about...” He remembered her phrase, and her tone when she'd
used it. “About my dick getting in a twist. Do what suits you. This needs my
attention,” he said as the computer signaled a pause. “Do you have more names?”

“A few.”

“Be my guest.”
He gestured to the side unit, then took his seat behind the console.

Marriage, Eve
thought as she took her seat, was a puzzle she didn't think she'd ever solve.
Too many damn pieces. And the shapes of them were constantly changing on her.
He seemed perfectly fine with the idea of her working with Webster, a man he'd
pounded on gleefully the night before.

But maybe he
wasn't, and this complacent agreement was just a ruse.

She'd just
have to worry about it later.

She got down
to work. At least that was something she understood. She ran the names Patsy
Kohli had given her. Her husband's cop friends. Detectives Gaven and Pierce and
an Officer Goodman, along with Sergeant Clooney.

On her first
pass, every one of them looked clean enough to glint. Gaven, Detective Arnold,
had a nice pocketful of commendations and a solid number of closed cases. He
was tidily married, had a five-year-old daughter, and was lead-off batter in
the squad's softball team.

Pierce,
Detective Jon, ran along a parallel route, only he had a son, age three.

Goodman,
Officer Thomas, was younger by two years, and considered a shoe-in for a
detective's shield. He was recently married and a lay minister at his church.

Religion, she
thought. Thirty pieces of silver.

Clooney, a
twenty-six-year vet, had been attached to the One two-eight for the last twelve
years. He'd partnered with Roth at one time, Eve noted, intrigued. Then Roth
had sprinted past him up the brass ladder. That could piss a certain type of
individual off.

He had a wife,
and though her residence listed was different than his, there was no record of
a legal separation or divorce. His son, Thadeus, had been killed in the line of
duty while attempting to prevent a robbery.

Walked in on
in progress, Eve noted, frowning. According to witness reports, he'd drawn his
weapon, stepped in to shield one of the civilians, and had been attacked from
behind. He'd suffered numerous stab wounds and had been pronounced dead on the
scene.

His assailants
had cleaned out the 24/7 store and escaped. The case remained open.

Thadeus
Clooney had left behind a wife and infant daughter.

Suffered a
loss, she considered. A big one. Could that turn a twenty-six-year vet with a
spotless record into a killer?

But why blame
other cops for the loss?

Last, she ran
Bayliss, Captain Boyd.

Oh, he was
clean, she thought as she read his data. If you looked only at that slick
surface. Churchgoer, community volunteer, chaired a couple of charitable
organizations, had his two kids in posh private schools. Married for eighteen
years to a woman who'd come to him with money and social status.

Never worked
the streets, she mused. Even in uniform, which he'd shed quickly, he'd been
assigned to a desk: administration, evidence management, office aide. A born
drone.

But a smart
one. He'd moved up, then over, into IAB.

And there, she
thought, he'd found his calling.

Interesting,
she noted, that this last business wasn't his first official sanction. He'd
been warned before about his methods. But whatever his means, he'd dug the
dirt. The department had stepped nimbly aside, with a frown perhaps, but no
serious block.

He'd skirted
the rules: entrapment, illegal tapping, and surveillance. His favored ploy was
to set cop against cop.

Cop against
cop. How big a leap was it from destroying a career to taking a life?

Most
interestingly, she discovered that shortly after the Ricker debacle, Bayliss
had found himself under review, and had earned another sanction, for his
attempt to discredit the sergeant in charge of the evidence area.

He'd gone so
far as to harass the man's wife and children, to haul the sergeant into an IAB
interview room and keep him there, without benefit of counsel or
representation, for over four hours.

The IRS had
received an anonymous tip, and though it hadn't been traced to Bayliss or his
crew, it had resulted in a full audit of the sergeant's financials. Nothing
suspicious had been found, but the audit had cost the unlucky cop thousands of
dollars in legal fees and lost time.

She would have
to take a much closer look at Bayliss, and now at the beleaguered Sergeant Matt
Myers.

She wanted to
go deeper but lacked the tech skill. She glanced over at Roarke, but she knew
from his intent and focused expression that he wouldn't welcome the interruption.

Rather than
humiliate herself with failure by attempting to access Bayliss's personal
files, she tried another route.

She contacted
Webster.

“Bayliss,” she
said without preamble. “Talk to me.”

“A fanatic
disguised as a crusader. A disguise I bought, I'm sorry to say, for a
considerable amount of time. Dedicated to his particular mission. Charismatic
along with it, like some prophet preaching a new religion.”

She sat back,
hummed. “Really?”

“Yeah, gets
you hyped, which is what can pull you along before you realize you've just
stepped knee-deep in a pile of shit. On the other hand, he's exposed corruption
and moved a lot of dirty cops out of the system.”

“By any means
necessary.”

“Okay.”
Webster sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “That's true, particularly over
the last year. His methods have been making me uneasy. I'm pretty sure he has
files, extensive ones, on every cop in the department. Not that he shares them
with me. He crosses over the line, privacy and procedure wise. I used to think
it was justified.”

“What changed
your mind?”

“Sergeant
Myers. He was officer of record on the Ricker evidence that mysteriously
vanished or became corrupted. Jesus, Bayliss hounded him to death. He was
convinced Myers was in Ricker's pocket, though there was no evidence, overt or
covert, to substantiate it. My take is he figured he'd get Myers off the job
one way or the other, but the guy stood up. He just wouldn't break, he wouldn't
shake. When the department cleared him, he transferred to a house in Queens.
Bayliss never forgot it, and he's been burning low over the slap on the wrist
he took from The Tower.”

“Tibble rapped
him.”

“That's the
word. Right after the rap, he started the operation with Kohli. Maybe he
figured he'd vindicate himself and end up with a shine. I don't know, Dallas,
he's a hard one to figure.”

“Do you know
if this Myers is still alive and well in Queens?”

“I never heard
otherwise.” Webster's eyes widened. “Christ, Dallas, you don't think Bayliss is
out there killing cops?”

“It would get
them off the job, wouldn't it?” she countered. “One way or the other. You said
you wanted in, Webster. Did you mean it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I
meant it.”

“Then here's
your first assignment. Check out Myers, make sure he hasn't met with any recent
accidents. And if he's still breathing, see if you can find out if he's been
visiting our fair city.”

He hadn't
worked Homicide for years, but he picked up fast. Nodded. “He'd have plenty of
reason to resent dirty cops. What angle are you working?”

“I've got
plenty of them. Right now, I'm going to get a warrant for Bayliss's personal
files.”

“I'll believe
that when I see it,” he muttered.

“When I do,”
she continued coolly, “I want your help sorting through them. I'll be in
touch.”

She cut
transmission, then turned to see Roarke watching her. “Are you looking at
Bayliss for this?”

“There's dirty
and there's dirty. He's got grime under his manicure. How much distance is
there between deliberately ruining lives and taking them?” She shrugged.
“Webster can keep busy getting me some data on Myers, and we'll see where that
goes. I can't say Bayliss is my first choice. I don't think he's got the
stomach for blood -- and we've still got Kohli being clean. But one way or the
other, he's a connection.”

“It's a simple
matter to access his personal files.”

“It would be,
for you. I'll get a warrant, do it straight. If I'm going to bring Bayliss into
Interview, and I am, I want it straight, and I want it clean.”

“Then you may
want to ask for another warrant while you're at it. On Vernon.”

“It's already
on my list,” she began, then got slowly to her feet. “You followed the money.”

“I did indeed,
through a circuitous, convoluted, and tedious route, back to Max Ricker
Unlimited. That doesn't give you Ricker personally passing funds from his hand
to Vernon's, but it does involve his corporation. He's not as clever as he once
was,” Roarke murmured. “Or as careful. It should have taken me twice this long
to trace it back to him.”

“Maybe you're
more clever than you once were.” She walked over to study the screen, laying a
hand on Roarke's shoulder. Most of what she saw was a jumble of accounts,
names, companies. But one name in particular jumped out, made her smile.

“Canarde, am I
reading this right? He's attorney of record for Northeast Manufacturing, a
subsidiary of Ricker's main deal?”

“That's
right.”

“And am I
reading this one? Canarde authorized the electronic transfer of funds, funneled
through the main deal, into Northeast, over into this other corporation, up
into the casino in Vegas II, where Vernon picked it up, ostensibly as gambling
winnings.”

“I'm so
proud.” He took the hand on her shoulder, pressed his lips to her palm.

“Thanks, but
you've diagramed it here so a moron could connect the dots. I wanted a shot at
that smug son of a bitch Canarde. Now I've got one. Except I can't use it,” she
said in disgust and paced away. “Unless I can get Vernon to roll.”

She'd get him
to roll, she promised herself, then moving away from the control center so that
her communicator screen would show nothing but the screened window, she
contacted her commander.

She wanted
some brass knuckles.

Roarke sat
where he was, watching her, listening to her make her case: clear, he thought,
concise, detailed, and dispassionate. He knew her like a book and could already
see the steps she planned to take.

He wasn't the
least surprised when she pressed Whitney after he agreed to throw his weight
into her request for a warrant in the morning.

“Sir, I want
to move on Captain Bayliss tonight.”

“Lieutenant,
Captain Bayliss remains a ranking officer in the NYPSD. Convincing a judge to
grant an immediate warrant ordering him to submit to interrogation regarding
two homicides is going to be tricky.”

“I realize
that, Commander. Which is why I contacted you, in the hopes that you will, in
turn, contact Chief Tibble.”

“You want me
to call Tibble in on this?”

“Certain information
has come into my hands that leads me to believe Chief Tibble will be receptive
to this request. I cannot at this point in my investigation ascertain whether
Captain Bayliss is a suspect or a target. However, I have no doubt he falls on
one side of the line. If he's a target, quick action may save his life. If he
is a suspect, that same action may save another.”

“Dallas, your
personal feelings -- “

“Do not apply,
sir, and have not influenced my current findings.”

“Be damn sure
of it,” Whitney muttered. “I'll contact the chief.”

“Thank you,
Commander. At this time, I request a second warrant for Detective Jeremy Vernon
of the One two-eight, requiring him to report for a formal interview at nine
hundred tomorrow morning, regarding the same investigation.”

“Christ.” It
was his first and only exclamation. “You've been busy.”

“Yes, sir,”
she said so coolly he let out a short laugh.

“I'll get the
warrants, Lieutenant. Expect me, and in all probability Chief Tibble, in
observation during these interviews. Let's take some care here. We're going to
look like we've taken a page from IAB's book.”

“Understood.
I'll await verification and receipt of the warrants.”

“Well done,”
Roarke said quietly when she ended the transmission.

“Not close to
done. I have to go get dressed. Thanks for the help.”

“One moment.”
He rose and walked to her. He took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth,
taking hers in a kiss of quiet, somehow desperate tenderness.

She felt it in
her heart, that answering flutter; in her stomach, that slow, sliding drop. Her
hands came up to settle at his waist. “Roarke -- “

“Just be quiet
a minute.” He changed the angle, taking the kiss deeper, a long, lazy trip into
glory.

Her hands slid
around him, her arms wrapped to bring him close. And she understood he was
showing her, offering her, the other side of passion. The sweetness of it, and
the promise.

When he drew
back, she found herself smiling, even as her head spun. “I could probably spare
one more minute.”

“Come home
soon.” This time he pressed his lips to her forehead. “And we'll take all the
time we want.”

“Good
thinking.” She started for the door, then with a half laugh turned back to look
at him. “Whenever you do that, you know, like you just did, I always feel a
little drunk after. I kind of like it.”

She watched
his grin flash before she slipped out the door.

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

In just over
an hour, she was standing, with Peabody, at another door. Bayliss lived in a
stylish neighborhood in a stylish suburb of New York. His home was a graceful
if unimaginative two-story dwelling in a tidy forest of others like it. Lawns
were rigorously mowed, tastefully fenced, and security lighted.

The house
itself was dark and silent, with a discreet plaque by the door warning that the
premises was guarded by Alarm Dog Security Systems, Inc.

Still, when
she rang the bell, the summons was almost immediately answered by a polite
request for identification.

“Police.” Eve
held up her badge. “I have a warrant. You're required to open the door.

It was opened,
quickly, by an attractive house droid in a simple gray maid's uniform. “I'm
sorry, Lieutenant, neither Captain nor Mrs. Bayliss are at home this evening.”

“And where
would they be?”

“Mrs. Bayliss
is in Paris on a spring shopping trip with her sister. She has been from home
for three days. I am unable to tell you where Captain Bayliss is this evening.
He is not at home.”

“This warrant
allows me to enter the premises and ascertain that for myself.”

“Yes,
Lieutenant. I am fully programmed on the law.” She stepped back. “But you will
find the captain is not at home this evening.”

Eve stepped
in. “Has he been home today?”

“Oh yes. He
arrived home at shortly after four o'clock this afternoon. He left
approximately fifty-eight minutes later. I do not expect him to return
tonight.”

“And why is
that?”

“The captain
left with a suitcase.”

“Where's his
room? His bedroom?”

“On the second
level, first door to the left. Would you like me to escort you?”

“No.” Eve
bounded up the stairs, shoved into the room, swore.

He'd been in a
hurry, she thought. The closet door was open, two drawers were open as well.

“Another clothes
horse,” she muttered. “Hard to say how much he took. Peabody, find out where
the wife's staying in Paris. He's got a weekend place, vacation home, whatever.
I think it was the Hamptons. Get the address.”

“Do you think
he's gone under?”

“I think he's
gone,” Eve said sharply. “Get the addresses. He's got to have an office in this
place. I'm going to check it out.”

She found his
office on the first level and had already formed an opinion of Bayliss's
lifestyle by the time she reached it. The house was as cold and as organized as
a computer. Everything in its place.

And, she'd
noted, he and his wife didn't share a bedroom. Or, she assumed, a bed, as the
bedroom down the hall from Bayliss's was an obvious feminine retreat, complete
with dressing area, two-level walk-in closet, and a sitting area that had
contained a desk holding fancy writing paper with his wife's name at the top.

His office was
ruthlessly organized as well, and she saw immediately he'd run through it
quickly. The desk chair was pushed back, and a file box of discs stood with its
cover not quite straight.

Nerves, she
thought. Nerves that made him not quite so smart and not quite so careful this
time. What are you afraid of, Bayliss?

She pulled out
her palm-link and, using her badge and identification, ran checks on
transportation to Paris. Though she found nothing under Bayliss's name, she
couldn't be sure he hadn't used an alias.

She walked to
the door, gave a shout to Peabody, who came on the run. “I have the information
for you.” She ran it off.

“Good. We're
going to stretch the warrant to its limit. I want you to contact Feeney. That
unit,” she said, jerking her thumb back. “I want it gone over with
microgoggles. He took data with him, but Feeney will find what's on the
machine. While he's doing that, I want you going over this house inch by inch.”

“Yes, sir.
Where are you going?” she asked as Eve strode out.

“I'm going to
the beach.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eve checked
the fit of her safety harness and resisted the urge, the increasingly desperate
urge, to simply close her eyes. “I'm not really in that much of a hurry.”

Roarke cocked
a brow in her direction while piloting the new Air/Land Sports Streamer through
a sky turning soft with evening. “That's not what you said when you asked me to
get you there.”

“I didn't know
you had some new toy you were dying to try out. Jesus.” She made the mistake of
glancing down and saw the coastline and its complement of houses, hotels, and
beachfront communities whiz by. “We don't have to be this high, either.”

“We're not
that high.” If Eve had one phobia, it was heights. To his way of thinking,
she'd feel better as soon as they landed, so why not open the ALS up and see
what it could do?

“High enough
to crash,” she muttered and ordered herself to think of something -- anything
-- else. It would have taken her a great deal longer to make the trip to
Bayliss's beach hideaway in her city unit, particularly now that it was acting
up.

Even if she'd
used one of Roarke's spiffy cars, the distance couldn't have been covered so
quickly by road.

The most
logical solution was to draft him to fly her there. Logical, she thought, if
she lived.

“Bayliss is up
to something,” she said over the smooth roar of the ALS's engines. “He was in
and out of his place too fast, didn't re-program his house droid, and he took
files.”

“You'll be
able to ask him what he's up to yourself in a few minutes.” Testing the
controls, Roarke took the sleek little streamer up another twenty feet,
executed a turn.

Eve cut her
eyes in his direction as he fiddled with controls, manually, then through voice
command. “What are you doing?”

“Just
checking. I'd say this baby's ready for production.”

“What do you
mean ready for?”

“This is just
the prototype.”

She felt the
color drain out of her face. Actually felt it. “As in experimental?”

With his dark
hair whipping in the air blowing through his open window, he tossed her a wide,
delighted grin. “Not anymore. We're going down.”

“What?” She
braced every cell in her body. “What?”

“On purpose,
darling.”

If he'd been
by himself, he'd have taken the streamer into a dive to check the responses,
but in consideration of his wife, he kept the descent slow and smooth,
targeting the road, hovering over it.

“Switch to
landing mode,” he ordered.

Switch in
mode confirmed. Flaps lowering. Retracting.

“Touching
down.”

Touchdown
confirmed. Switching to land drive.

There was
barely a bump as the silver streamer set its wheels on the road. And barely,
Eve noted sourly, a decrease of speed.

“Slow down,
hotshot. This is a posted area.”

“We're on
official business. When the weather warms up a bit more, we can try this with
the top down.”

As far as Eve
was concerned, hell wouldn't be warm enough to induce her to skim along in the
fancy little two-seater without a roof. But she looked at the dash map,
impressed that it not only had Bayliss's house targeted, but that Roarke had
set down less than a mile from their destination.

Logic, she
thought now that she was on solid ground again, had its uses.

She could hear
the water, a steady rise and slap of sound to the east. Houses, predominately
of glass and recycled wood rose and spread, each seeming to try to outdo the
next with how many decks they could manage to jut out toward sand and sea. The
patches between them were manicured with sea oats, sand roses, and odd little
sculptures that carried over the ocean theme.

Lights
twinkled here and there, but for the most part, the houses were dark. This was
where the rich and the privileged escaped from New York on weekends or during
the long, hot summer.

“How come you
don't have a place here?”

“Actually, I
do have a string of properties that rent out, but I never had a yen to stay in
one. Too ordinary and obvious.” He smiled at her. “But if you'd like one ...”

“No. It's too
much like a neighborhood or something. You'd come down to kick back and
probably have to talk to people. And have, I don't know, get-togethers and
stuff.”

“Hideous
thought.” Amused, he turned off and pulled into the drive behind a hulking
black sedan. “Do we assume that's his car?”

“Yeah.” She
scoped out the house. Not so different from the others lining the coast. Big
arches filled with glass that opened to decks and were loaded with enormous
urns of enormous flowers or potted trees. The structure was blond and gleaming
in the half light and came to triple points on the third level where another
deck ran in a ring.

“Pretty snazzy
for a cop,” she commented. “But then he's got a rich spouse.” She glanced at
Roarke. “That kind of thing comes in handy.”

“So I've
heard.”

“If he's in
there, he's in the dark. I don't like it.” It had been her plan to convince
Roarke to wait in the car. Something she'd assumed would take some doing. Now
her gut told her to try a different plan.

They got out
opposite sides and walked up a narrow boardwalk to the front door. There were
tall, glass panels flanking it, etched with stylized seashells. Through them she
could scan the main living area with its soaring ceilings and pale walls.

Instinctively,
she hitched her jacket back so her weapon would be more accessible. And rang
the bell. “You'd think the place was empty, wouldn't you? Except for the car.”

“He might've
taken a walk on the beach. People tend to do that here.”

She shook her
head. “He wouldn't be in the mood to stroll through the surf.” She made the
decision, bent down, and took her clinch piece from her ankle holster.

“I need you to
go around, cover the back. Don't use this, okay? Do not use this unless you're
in immediate jeopardy.”

“I know the
rules.” He slipped it in his pocket. “Do you think Bayliss is dangerous?”

“No. No, I
don't. But someone is. I'm going up to the second level. I'll circle around,
left to right. Watch your back.”

“Same goes.”

They
separated, each confident the other could handle whatever came. Eve moved to
the side, up the open steps, over the deck. The doors here were clear sheets of
glass and fully secured with their privacy shields lowered. She started to the
left, moving slowly, her eyes tracking.

The gleam at
her feet had her pausing, crouching. Water, she mused. Someone had slopped
water on the deck, a path of it, she noted as she straightened to follow the
trail.

The sound of
the sea rose, a sly thrash and suck. Stars were beginning to come out, adding
faint light to a sky going indigo. Ears cocked, she heard the footsteps
mounting the steps to her right. Her fingers danced to her weapon.

It was in her
hand when Roarke rounded the building.

“There's water
on the steps,” he told her.

“Here, too.”
She lifted a hand, signaled. The side doors were open.

Roarke nodded,
moved to the far side of them, and she to the near. Their eyes met, she took a
breath, held it. They went through. He took high, she low.

“Take the
right,” she ordered. “Lights on.” When they appeared, she adjusted her eyes to
the change, sidestepped left. “Captain Bayliss,” she called out. “This is
Lieutenant Dallas. I have a warrant. I need you to make your location known.”

Her voice
echoed off the high ceilings, off the sand-colored walls.

“Bad feeling,”
she muttered. “Very bad feeling.” Sweeping with her weapon, she followed the
tracking water. She saw Bayliss's suitcase open on the bed, a jacket tossed
carelessly beside it.

She glanced
toward Roarke, watched him check a room-sized closet, did the same herself on
the other side, then moved along the wet to a door.

She signaled
again, waiting until he'd joined her. With her free hand, she turned the knob,
then shoving it open went in under Roarke's arm.

Music blared.
It gave her a jolt to hear Mavis's voice screeching out into the opulent
bathroom. All white and gold, the room almost hurt the eyes with its sheer
white walls, gilt pools of mirrors, twin sinks large enough to bathe in.

Under the
music she heard the rumble of a motor. She crossed the floor, damp and gleaming
white, to the leg of the L-shaped room.

The tub was
waist high and white as the Alps, but for the wet river of blood that ran down
the side, just below a single hand. Red dripped onto the badge tossed on the
floor.

“Damn it.
Goddamn it.” She leaped to the tub and saw immediately it was far too late for
the MTs.

Bayliss lay on
the lounging level, his head pillowed on a silver cushion, his body strapped
down with long ribbons of adhesive.

His eyes
stared up at her, wide and horrified, and already filmed over with death.

Glinting on
the floor of the tub were credits. She knew there would be thirty.

“I wasn't fast
enough. Somebody wanted him dead more than I wanted him alive.”

Roarke lifted
a hand to the base of her neck, rubbed once. “You'll want your field kit.”

“Yeah.” Her
assent was a sound of disgust. “Whoever did this is gone, but be careful
anyway.” She reached for her communicator. “I have to contact the locals.
Protocol. Then I'm calling it in. Meanwhile, you're drafted as aide. Seal up
before you come back in, and don't -- “

“Touch
anything,” he finished. “Hell of a way to die,” he added. “He'd have been kept
alive, aware, strapped down there while the water level rose. The room's
soundproofed. No one would have heard him screaming.”

“The killer
heard him,” Eve said and, turning away, opened transmission.

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

She recorded
the scene and did a preliminary sweep before the local police arrived. Knowing
she had to balance authority with diplomacy, she requested rather than ordered
the sheriff to send his men out to knock on doors.

“Not many
people around here just now,” Sheriff Reese told her. “Come June, it'll be a
different story.”

“I realize
that. Maybe we'll get lucky. Sheriff, this is your turf, but the victim comes
from mine. The killer, too. As this murder links to my ongoing investigation,
it falls under my authority. But I need all the help I can get. And your
cooperation.”

“You'll have
it, Lieutenant.” He studied her for a moment. “Some people might think we're in
the boondocks here, but we're not boobs. Don't get your city crimes too much,
but we know how to handle them when we do.”

“I appreciate
it.” She passed him her Seal-It. “Did you know Captain Bayliss?”

“Sure.” Reese
sprayed his shoes, his hands. “He and his wife were regulars. They spent the
month of August here most every year, and about a weekend a month rest of the
year. Popped in now and again otherwise. Had parties, spent some money in the
village. Didn't have much to do with the locals but were friendly enough.
Didn't cause any trouble.”

She started
upstairs with him. “Did Bayliss make a habit of coming here alone?”

“Not really.
He'd come down on a Friday night now and again -- once, twice a year -- stay
till Sunday. Went out on his boat, did some fishing. The wife didn't care for
fishing. You notify her?”

“My
information is that she's in Paris. She'll be contacted. Bayliss ever bring
anybody here other than his wife?”

“Can't say he
did. Some do, men bring a buddy or a side piece, you'll pardon the expression.
Women do the same. Bayliss stuck with his wife. Never heard of him bringing any
. . . entertainment with him.”

She nodded,
walked to the tub with him. Reese stared down, blew out a breath. “Jesus,
that's a sorry sight. I don't mind saying I'm glad this is yours, Lieutenant.”
Reese scratched his head. “If he was trying to make it look like suicide, why'd
he leave the man strapped in there?”

“He wasn't
trying to mock a self-termination. He just needed the blood on the badge. It's
pattern. I've got the scene recorded, and now that you've officially witnessed
it. I'm going to drain the tub, examine the body.”

“You go right
on.” He stepped back and watched Roarke come in.

“My temporary
aide,” Eve explained. “This is Sheriff Reese.”

“I know who
you are,” Reese said. “Seen your face onscreen often enough. You own some
property around here.”

“That's
right.”

“You keep it
in good maintenance. We appreciate that around here. That your rig out front?”

“Yes.” Roarke
smiled a little as Eve turned off the motor. “It's a new line.”

“Slick.”

“I'll give you
a closer look before we go,” Roarke offered.

“I'd
appreciate that.”

“Victim is
male, Caucasian,” Eve began. “Identified as Bayliss, Captain Boyd, age
forty-eight. Cause of death appears to be drowning. Single laceration in left
wrist is potentially life-threatening.”

She fit on her
microgoggles. “No visible hesitation marks,” she reported, then pushed them off
again. “Victim is wearing a gold wedding ring and a gold wrist unit. A strong
adhesive tape has been used to strap the victim to the tub at throat, left
forearm, chest, torso, waist, hips, and on both thighs and ankles. No defensive
wounds are evident.”

The water
drained out, little sucking sounds, while she spoke. As the level lowered, Bayliss's
hair and genitals floated toward the surface.

“I need to get
in to examine the body. Sheriff, will you record?” She slipped the recorder off
her jacket, held it out.

“I like my job
better than yours.” He fixed it to his shirt, moved closer.

She stepped
onto the platform, swung a leg over the edge. Already in her mind, the scene
played out. He'd have been unconscious, she was sure of that. It wouldn't have
been possible to get a healthy, well-built, adult male into the tub and
restrained without signs of a struggle.

She planted
her feet on either side of the body as she imagined the killer had done.
Bending, she began to work at the tape. “Strong stuff. It looks like that tape
used for packing cargo and heavy shipments. He used a smooth-bladed tool to cut
it. No ragged edges. Probably shears or scissors. Neat, patient work. He took
his time.”

The tape
screeched a little as it pulled away from the smooth, damp surface of the tub.
She took her time with it, carefully sliding the tape into evidence bags.

With his head
free, Eve lifted it, turned it. And saw no signs of a blow.

Stunned him,
she thought. Used a weapon. Probably a standard police issue. Damn.

She worked her
way down the body, handing Roarke the bagged tape as she freed it.

Her movements
were brisk and efficient, Roarke thought. Her eyes were flat. Distancing
herself, as much as she was able, focusing her mind, her skill on the job.

She wouldn't
have called it courageous, but he did. To give herself over, to stand over
death and work doggedly to balance the scales, even for a man he knew she had
disliked.

“Microgoggles,”
she ordered, and Roarke passed them back to her.

With them on,
she crouched, examining the abraded skin where Bayliss had futilely fought
against the tape. Yeah, she thought, wanted him alive and awake while
the water churned up. Screaming, begging, sobbing.

Did he call
you by name? I'd lay odds on it.

She turned
him, her hands unconsciously gentle. On his back, his buttocks, she saw faint
marks where his body had pressed and rubbed against the tub.

And on his
hips was a small tattoo, gold and black, a replica of the shield that was now
smeared with his blood.

“A cop through
and through,” she commented. “At least that's what he considered himself. He'd
have hated dying like this. Naked, helpless, and undignified.”

She gathered
the coins littering the bottom of the tub. “Thirty,” she said, jingling them in
her palm before dropping them into the bag Roarke held out for her. “He
deviates his method but not his symbolism. Bayliss hasn't been dead long. We
didn't miss this one by much. The blood barely started to settle to its lowest
level, and what's been spilled out there's still wet. I need the gauge to get
time of death.”

“Lieutenant.”
Roarke held out the gauge. “I believe your team's here.”

“Hmm?” She
took the gauge. She heard it now, the muted voices traveling from below up the
stairs and through the open door. “Okay. I'm almost done in here. An hour,” she
said in disgust when she read the gauge. “We didn't miss him by more than an
hour.”

She climbed
back out of the tub as Peabody strode into the room. “Lieutenant.”

“Record on.
See that he's bagged and transport's arranged, Peabody. Get some sweepers
started in here. Did you bring EDD?”

“Feeney and
McNab are right behind me.”

“When they get
here, have them start on the security, then the 'links. For what it's worth.
Thank you, Sheriff.” She held out a hand for her recorder. “This is my aide,
Officer Peabody. She'll handle the scene, if you have no objection.”

“None at all.”

“I want to go
through the house. Bayliss had files with him. I need to find them.”

“First-level
office,” Roarke put in, bringing her eyes to his. “I can show you where it is.”

Something in
his tone told her he didn't want to show her with company. She blocked off the
automatic annoyance that he'd gone through the house without her and turned to
Reese. “I'd like you to check with your men doing the door-to-doors. Also, if
you could contact your patrols, inquire as to whether anyone noticed a strange
vehicle in this area tonight.”

“I'll get
right on it. Outside, if it's all the same to you. I'd like some air.”

“Thanks.” She
started out with Roarke, waited until the first wave of the crime scene unit
passed them on the stairs. “What's the idea of poking around the house on your
own? We're on official business. I can't have civilians making themselves at
home.”

“I was acting
in my capacity as temporary aide,” he said smoothly. “All of the other doors
and windows were secured, by the way. The alarm system's one of mine, and top
of its line. It wasn't tampered with. Whoever bypassed it had a code. And I
located the security control,” he continued. “Feeney's going to find that
system was also bypassed. There won't be a recording of tonight's activities,
in or out of the house, after seven o'clock.”

“Busy boy.”

“Me or your
killer?”

“Ha ha. He
doesn't panic, he doesn't rush, he covers his tracks. And he does all that with
rage working through him. Must be a damn good cop.”

She moved
through the door Roarke indicated, into a large office space with views of the
sea through the glass wall in the rear.

Here there
were signs of hurry. Here there were things out of place. A glass turned over
on the desk, its contents spilled out on the brushed chrome surface. A jumble
of discs, a disordered pile of clothes heaped on the floor. She recognized the
suit Bayliss had been wearing at the meeting.

“He took him
out here, from the front,” she began. “Surprised him at work. Bayliss had fixed
himself a drink.” She lifted the glass, sniffed. “Smells like scotch. Settled
himself down to go through his files. He hears something, looks up, sees
someone in the doorway. Jumps to his feet, spills his drink. Maybe he even has
time to say a name, then he's out.”

She walked
around the room, around the desk. “The killer undresses him here. He's already
got the plan. He came in upstairs, checked the place out. Hell, maybe he's been
to parties here before and knew the setup. He went out, disarmed the security
cam, took the discs that recorded him. Did he bring the packing tape with him?”

She began
opening compartments, drawers. “No, look. Here's a roll of the same stuff,
unopened. He got what he needed right here in Bayliss's office. He'll dispose
of the rest of the roll and what he used to cut the tape. We won't find it.”

“Lieutenant,”
Roarke said quietly. “Look at the discs.”

“I'm getting
to them. Then he carried Bayliss upstairs. He's strong. I didn't notice any
signs the victim was dragged, no bruising or scrapes on the heels. Laid him in
the tub. Didn't toss him in. No bruising again. Laid him out, strapped him
down. Took his shoes off to do it, but not his clothes. No scuff marks in the
tub, and too much water outside of it for him to have dried off.”

Yes, she could
see it that way. Patience, while the rage ate inside you. Meticulous patience
coated over murderous fury.

“Then he
waited for Bayliss to come around. When he did, a little conversation. This is
why you're going to die. This is why you deserve to die. To suffer fear and
humiliation. And he starts the water, a hot gush, and listens to Bayliss plead
for his life. As the water rises, and the motor kicks in churning into a hot
froth, he stays cold. Ice cold. That's how it is when you stand over death. You
stay cold so it can't get inside you. He stands there, right over it, and
watches it come.

“It doesn't
thrill him, doesn't make him sad. It's just a job that needs to be done, and
done well. Done with purpose. When water fills Bayliss's lungs, when he stops
struggling and his eyes are fixed and staring, he takes the coins and throws
them in the water, over the body. The Judas coins.

“Then he gets
out of the tub, dripping, picks up his shoes, and leaves the way he came in. He
leaves the door open because he doesn't want the murder to go undiscovered for
long. He wants it known. Announced. Discussed. The job isn't done until the
department knows another cop is dead.”

“I can't
re-create the way you can,” Roarke said. “It's admirable.”

“It's basic.”

“Not the way
you do it,” he murmured. How many scenes such as she'd described had a place in
her memory? How many victims lived there with how many killers?

Stay cold,
she'd said, so that it doesn't get inside of you. That, he knew, was one skill
she lacked. The very fact that it all got inside her was what made her
brilliant. And haunted.

“Look at the
discs, Eve.”

“I saw them.”

There were
dozens, many of the names she recognized. Cops. Bayliss's little rat file of
cops. Reaching, she noted, all the way to The Tower.

“At least he
was democratic in his witch hunt.” She saw the one with her name on the label.
“We'll bag them all. It's going to be a tedious and nasty job to go through
them. His machine's still on.” She sat down, frowned at the blank screen.

“There's a
disc in. And not, I think, one of the victim's.”

“You touched
this?” She whirled in the chair, snarled at him. “I told you not -- “

“Shut up, Eve,
and run the disc.”

She had more
to say, a great deal more. But it could wait until they were alone and she
could pound on him in private. She turned back to the screen. “Run current
disc,” she ordered.

Words swirled
silently onto the screen. There was no audio backup or readout, but simply
clear, cool letters on a smoke-gray background.

Lieutenant
Dallas, as you are primary in the investigation of the deaths of Kohli, Mills,
and now Bayliss, I address this message to you.

I deeply
regret the death of Detective Taj Kohli. I was misled, largely by the efforts
of the man I am about to execute for his crimes. Crimes against the badge he
has misused in his own thirst for power. Is that any less a sin against his
oath than that of Mills, who betrayed his badge for money?

Whether or
not you agree with me is not my concern. I have pledged to do what I have done
and will continue to do.

Because of
our connection, I took the time to read the file Bayliss generated on you. If
the allegations, the accusations, the data he has compiled is based in fact,
you have dishonored your badge. I am not willing to trust the words of a liar,
of a twisted, power-hungry cop. But they must be considered.

I will give
you seventy-two hours to exonerate yourself. If you are involved with Max
Ricker through your husband, you will die. If these allegations are false, and
you are as skilled and dedicated as your reputation indicates, you will find
the way to break Ricker and his organization in the time allotted. It will
require your full focus and all your skills. To be fair, as fairness is my
goal, I give you my word that I will make no move against you or anyone else
during this time period.

Take down
Max Ricker, Lieutenant. Or I will take you.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eve made
copies of the message, took the disc and the files into evidence, and turned
the computer over to Feeney. He'd haul it into EDD, take it apart, run his
scans and checks. That was for form, she knew. The killer had left nothing of
himself on the machine but his single personal message to her.

Ricker was on
her list, and she meant to take him down. But he couldn't be, wouldn't be a
priority. Whatever his connection to the killer, Ricker wasn't the one at the
controls.

She was after
a rogue cop, and if he wanted to go head-to-head with her, that was fine. But
he wouldn't threaten her into shifting her focus. There was a process to be
gone through, and she meant to take it step by meticulous step.

She harassed
the sweepers, called the lab personally and issued a few threats of her own
along with her demand for priority on the samples she was sending in. As far as
she was concerned, if she had to work twenty-four/seven until the case was
closed, she would do so. And so would everyone on her team.

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

Roarke had a
different process to work through, a different priority. And an entirely
different style. He hadn't wasted time asking what Eve intended to do or
arguing with her over taking precautions for her personal safety.

He left her
with her work and made the trip back to New York alone. By the time he'd
arrived, he'd already begun the groundwork on his own plans.

He pulled up
in front of Purgatory, uncoded the door. The wreckage had been removed, and the
first layers of repair were already under way. It wasn't the elegant arena of
sin it had been, but it would be. Very soon.

The lights
were on, shimmering over the floor with its newly laid squares of reflective
silver squares and circles. The mirrors behind the bar had been replaced, in a
deep blue glass per his instructions. The overall effect was somewhat
otherworldly.

Or perhaps, he
thought, underworldly, which was his intent.

He moved to
the bar and was pouring two snifters of brandy when Rue MacLean came down the
long, curving stairs.

“I ran a security
check,” she said, smiling a little. “We're up and running. You work fast.”

“We'll be open
for business within seventy-two hours.”

“Seventy -- “
She picked up the snifter he nudged over the bar, blew out a breath. “How?”

“I'll deal
with it. I want you to put the staff on notice in the morning, get the work
schedules done tonight. We reopen Friday night, and we reopen with a bang.” He
lifted his snifter, watching her.

“You're the
boss.”

“That's
right.” He took out his cigarettes, left the case on the bar as he lighted one.
“How did he get to you?”

He saw just
the barest glint of panic before puzzlement slid over her face. “What?”

“He's been
using my place to do a little business. Oh, nothing too overt, nothing too
important. Just enough so he can sit smug in his little fortress and imagine
fucking me over with my own. He'll get sloppy after a bit, if he hasn't
already. That's his pattern. Makes him dangerous, that carelessness of his.
Might be that the cop who died here began to sniff something, just a whiff of
it. Then he was dead before he could follow through.”

She'd gone
pale, so pale her skin was nearly translucent. “You think Ricker had the cop
killed?”

He drew in
smoke, watching her through the veil of it as he exhaled. “No, I don't, at
least not directly. But the timing's interesting. Bad timing for the cop.
Potentially for me, and certainly for you, Rue.”

“I don't know
what you're talking about.”

She started to
step back, but Roarke simply laid a hand over hers, the pressure firm enough to
warn her to hold her place. “Don't.” He spoke softly, and she shivered. “You'll
only piss me off. I'm asking how he got to you. I'm asking because we've been
in the way of being friends for a considerable amount of time now.”

“You know
there's nothing between me and Ricker.”

“I'd hoped
there wasn't.” He angled his head. “You're trembling. Do you think I'll hurt
you? Have you ever seen me strike a woman, Rue?”

“No.” One
tear, huge, glistening, spilled over and trailed down her white cheek. “No, you
wouldn't. It's not your way.”

“But it's his.
How did he hurt you?”

It was shame
now that pushed tears from her eyes, had her voice choked with them. “Oh God,
Roarke. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He had me picked up off the street, two of his
men, right on the street. They took me out to his place, and he -- Jesus, he
had lunch, this fancy lunch all spread out in his solarium. He told me how it
was going to be, and what would happen to me if I didn't go along.”

“So you went
along.”

“Not at
first.” She fumbled one of his cigarettes out, tried to light one. Roarke took
her hand, held it steady until the flame caught. “You've been good to me.
Treated me with respect and with fairness. I know you don't have to believe me,
but I told him to go to hell. I told him that when you found out what he'd
tried to do, you'd ... well, I made up all sorts of interesting, nasty things
you'd do. He just sat there, that vicious little smile on his face, until I ran
down. I was scared. I was so scared, the way he watched me. Like I was a bug he
was contemplating squashing if the mood struck. Then he said a name, and an
address. My mother's name. My mother's address.”

Her breath
hitched as she picked up the snifter, drank quick and drank deep to steady
herself. “He showed me videos. He'd had her watched -- her in the little house
upstate I bought her -- that you helped me buy her. Shopping, going to a
friend's house, just day-to-day stuff. I wanted to be enraged, I wanted to be
furious, but I couldn't get through the terror of it. I would go along, he told
me -- and really, he said, what harm was it -- and my mother wouldn't be raped
and tortured and disfigured.”

“I would have
seen her safe, Rue. You could have trusted me to see her safe.”

She shook her
head. “He always knows the weak spot. Always knows. It's his gift. And he
presses down on that spot, until you'd do anything to make him stop. So I
betrayed you to make him stop.” She brushed tears away. “I'm sorry.”

“He won't
touch your mother, I promise you. I've a place she can go and be safe until
we're done with this.”

Rue stared at
him. “I don't understand.”

“You'll feel
better once she's seen to, and I need your energies focused on the club for the
next few days.”

“You're
keeping me on? After this?”

“I don't have
a mother, but I know what it is to love beyond yourself, and just what you'd do
to keep that love safe from harm. I'll say you should have trusted me, Rue, and
so you should. But I don't blame you.”

She sat then,
buried her face in her hands. He topped off the brandy as she wept soundlessly,
then got a bottle of water, opened it, set it in front of her. “Go on, drink
that first, clear your head a bit.”

“This is why
he hates you.” Her voice was raw but steady. “Because of everything you are,
everything he could never be. He can't understand what's inside you, what makes
you. So he hates. He doesn't just want you dead. He wants you ruined.”

“I'm counting
on it. Now, I'm going to tell you what it is we're going to do.”

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

Eve figured
she'd been playing the marriage game for going on a year, so she knew the
moves. The easiest way to dodge a problem with Roarke over her handling of the
case was not to talk to him about it for as long as humanly possible.

To buy time,
she called home on her car-link, shifting to silent mode. She channeled the
call to the bedside 'link, figuring he'd most likely be in his office. This way
when the message light blinked on, he wouldn't be there to see it and
intercept.

“Hey.” She
gave the screen a quick, distracted smile. “Figured I should let you know I'll
be at Central. I'll catch some sleep there. Mostly I'll be working straight
through after a swing by the lab to nag Dickhead for results. I'll tag you when
I get a chance. See you.”

She broke
transmission and wasn't aware she let out a quiet, relieved breath until she
caught Peabody's gimlet stare. “What?”

“Want a single
woman's take on that marriage-go-round?”

“No.”

“You know he's
going to have some choice words to say about you ignoring the threat,” Peabody
went on, unperturbed by Eve's scowl. “So you're dancing around him. Too busy to
talk, don't wait up.” She couldn't resist a snort. “Like that's going to work.”

“Shut up.” Eve
shifted in her seat, tried biting her tongue, then gave up. “Why won't it
work?”

“Because
you're slick, Dallas, but he is way slicker. He might even let you tango
awhile, then ... bop.”

“Bop? What the
hell is bop?”

“I don't know,
because I'm not as slick as either one of you. But we'll both know it when we
see it.” Peabody stifled a yawn as they pulled up to the lab. “I haven't ridden
in a black and white for awhile.” She patted the thin, miserably uncomfortable
seat. “I haven't missed it.”

“It was the
best I could do. I'm going to get grief for commandeering this at the scene,
but my unit's trash.”

“Nah.” Peabody
yawned again, rubbed her eyes. “The uniform you snagged it from's too much in
awe. He'll probably put a plaque in this thing. Eve Dallas sat here.”

“Give me a
break.” But the idea made her snicker as they climbed out. “I want you to contact
Maintenance. They don't hate you as much as me. Yet. Get them to put my unit
back in shape.”

“It'll go
quicker if I lie and put in the request under another badge number.”

“Yeah, you're
right. Use Baxter's. You're punchy,” she added when Peabody yawned again. “When
we're done here, take an hour's down time, or pop some Wake-Up, whatever. I
need you focused.”

“I'll get my
second wind.”

The guard at
the door looked as if he'd missed his second wind altogether and was sliding
under his third. His eyes were half closed, his uniform wrinkled, and he had a
sleep crease deep into his right cheek.

“You're coded
in,” was all he said and lumbered back to his station.

“This place is
like a tomb at night.” Peabody gave a little shudder. “Worse than the morgue.”

“We'll liven
things up.”

She didn't
expect Dickie to be happy to see her. But then again, she hadn't expected to
once again hear Mavis's voice blasting into the air when she stepped into the
main lab.

Chief Lab Tech
Berenski, not so affectionately known as Dickhead, was hunched over a
compu-scope, his skinny butt twitching as he sang tunelessly along.

At that
moment, Eve knew she could ask for the moon and the stars. She had a solid-gold
bargaining chip.

“Hey, Dickie.”

“That's Mister
Dickie to you.” He lifted his head and she saw she'd been right. Happy, he was
not. His eyes were puffy, his oversized lips snarling. And, she noted, his
shirt was on inside out. “Get me out of bed middle of the night. Everything's
always an emergency with you, Dallas. Everything's priority one. Just keep off
my ass. You'll get results when I got results and not a minute before. Go
somewhere and stop breathing down my neck.”

“But I get off
just being near you.”

He slid his
eyes up and over, studied her dubiously. Usually she came in with both feet
poised to kick him in the ass. You just couldn't trust her when she was smiling
and joking around.

“You're in a
pretty chipper mood for somebody who's got bodies piling up and the brass ready
to crawl down your drawers.”

“What can I
say? This music just gives me happy feet. You know Mavis has a gig coming up
here next week. I heard it was sold out. Did you hear it was sold out,
Peabody?”

“Yeah.” She
might have been tired, but Peabody clued in quickly. “A one-night-only, too.
She's pretty hot.”

“She's beyond
hot,” Dickie said. “I got me two tickets. Pulled a few strings. Second
balcony.”

“Those kind of
strings make your nose bleed.” Eve examined her fingernails. “I can get two in
the orchestra, with backstage passes. If I had a pal, that is.”

His head shot
up, and his clever spider's fingers gripped her arm. “Is that straight shit?”

“The
straightest. If I had a pal,” she repeated, “and that pal was busting his ass
to get me data I needed, I'd get him those tickets and those passes.”

Dickie's puffy
eyes went moist. “I'm your new best friend.”

“That's so
sweet. Start feeding me results, Dickie, within the hour, and those tickets are
in your greedy little hands. You find me something, anything that gives me a
line on this guy, and I'll see to it Mavis plants a big, wet kiss right on your
mouth.”

She patted his
head, started out. At the door she glanced back saw him standing, staring, his
mouth still hanging slack. “Fifty-nine minutes, Dickie. Ticktock.”

He all but
leapt at his scope.

“Slick,”
Peabody said as they headed out. “You are so slick.”

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

When they got
back to Central, Eve sent Peabody off to write the initial report from the
record and notes on-scene. And Eve made the miserable call to the next of kin.

It took longer
than she had to spare, did little more than depress her. Bayliss's wife had no
answers for her, and if there were any buried in the shock, it would take too
long to dig them out.

The widow
declined the option of making a video identification of the deceased, became
increasingly hysterical, until her sister took over the 'link.

Eve could hear
the woman sobbing in the background as a pretty, pale-cheeked brunette came
on-screen. “There's no mistake?”

“No, there's
no mistake. I can arrange for a counselor from the local police department to
come by your hotel.”

“No, no,
she'll do better with me. She'll do better with family. Strangers only make it
worse. She bought him cuff links this afternoon. God.”

The brunette
shut her eyes, took a breath. She seemed to steady, which did a great deal for
Eve's peace of mind. “We'll arrange to come back immediately. I'll take care of
it. I'll take care of my sister.”

“Contact me as
soon as possible. I'll need to speak with Ms. Bayliss again. I'm sorry for your
loss.”

Eve sat back,
stared at the blank screen.

Kohli, Mills,
Bayliss. She took a mental step away from the evidence and tried to see the
people. Cops. Though they'd all carried badges, each one had carried his
differently. All, she was certain, had known their killer. The first two had
known him well enough to trust him.

Especially
Kohli. A late-night chat over drinks in an empty club. That was something you
did with a friend. Still, he'd talked of a meeting with his wife. If he meant
that literally, perhaps it had been more an associate than a friend. One he'd
respected. Someone he'd felt he could ask advice. Informally. Over a beer.

Someone, she
thought, from his own house. Someone, she suspected, who had some link to
Ricker.

“Computer,
compile roster from Precinct One two-eight, this city, including any retirees
within the last two, no correction, within the last three years. Run a search
and scan for any cases or investigations connected to any police officer of
said precinct regarding Max Ricker. Secondary search and scan, same parameters
regarding ... what was his name, the son. Alex. Alex Ricker. Final search and
scan, include any investigation wherein Canarde acted as representative during
interview or court appearance.”

Working. .
. multitask request of this nature will require minimum of four hours-twenty
minutes to complete . ..

“Then you'd
better get your ass in gear.”

Command
unknown. Please rephrase command . ..

“Christ. Begin
task.”

She fueled up
on coffee and let the computer hum while she ducked out and into the conference
room. On that unit, she brought up all the current data on Vernon. She
should've been able to run the data on her machine while the search and scan
was in progress. It was a new one, a gem compared to the whining, stuttering
heap she'd been stuck with before.

But she didn't
trust her luck.

She spent an
hour going over Vernon's data. She'd be pulling him into interview shortly. She
intended to hit him and hit him hard.

The coffee was
wearing off and the words beginning to blur when her communicator beeped.

“Dallas?”

“I'm going to
get me a big sloppy tongue kiss.”

“I never said
anything about tongues,” Eve said, and made a mental note to warn Mavis to keep
her mouth locked tight when Dickhead was backstage. “What have you got,
Dickie?”

“Something
that should make even your cold, cold heart pitty-patter. I got a little swab
of Seal-It off the edge of the tub.”

“Jesus, tell
me you got a print, I'll kiss you myself.”

“Cops always
want a miracle.” He hissed out a breath, deflated. “What I got is Seal-It. My
guess is he used it to protect his hands and feet, but he got a little carried
away with it. You know what happens if you hit it too thick?”

“Yeah it glops
some. You can knock or scrape it on something and end up leaving some behind.
Damn it, Dickie, what the hell does a swab of Seal-It give me?”

“You want to
hear this, or you want to mouth off? He knocked some of the seal off, probably
when he was getting your guy thrust up for the last spin in the bubble tub.
That's why it's pretty damn likely this little piece of fingernail I got, which
my diligence and sharp skills located, is your killer's.”

She held
herself level. “Have you checked the DNA against Bayliss's?”

“What do I
look like? A moron?”

She opened her
mouth, reminded herself she needed him, and virtuously shut it again. “Sorry,
Dickie, it's been a long night.”

“Tell me. It
doesn't match Bayliss. I got it -- and I mean it's barely a sliver, the little
darling -- off the underside of the tape. Got Bayliss's hair with it. You
figure that came off his arm, as that's the location label on the evidence bag,
but you don't figure to get a piece of the dead guy's nail on the under side
of the tape, do you?”

“No, no, you
don't. Goddamn, Dickie, that's good. That's beautiful. I think I'm falling in
love with you.”

“They all do,
in the end. Got the prelim data coming through now.” He shot across the room on
his favored rolling chair. “Male. Caucasian male. Can't give you much more than
that right now. You want me to try to pin down approximate age and heritage and
all that happy stuff, it's going to take time. And I ain't got a lot of this
sucker to work with. Could be I'll find more. He broke the seal one place,
might be he broke it another. So far, the only hair is from Bayliss.”

“Keep on it.
Good work, Dickie.”

“Yeah. You
know what, Dallas? You bring this guy in, we'll nail him in court. Get it? Nail
him.”

“Yeah, I get
it. That's a real knee-slapper.”

She cut
transmission, sat back.

A sliver of a
fingernail, she thought. Sometimes a man could hang for nothing more than that.

A sliver of a
fingernail. Carelessness. The first small chink of it.

Thirty pieces
of silver. Symbolism. Religious symbolism. If the victims were Judas, who was
the Christ figure? Not the murderer, she decided as her mind drifted. Christ
was the sacrifice, he was the pure. The Son. What was the phrase?

The only
begotten Son.

A personal
message to the primary. Conscience. The killer had a conscience, and his
mistake with Kohli troubled him enough that he needed to soothe it by
explaining, by justifying. And by setting up an ultimatum.

Bring down
Ricker. It circled back to Ricker.

Ricker. The
Son. Purgatory.

Roarke.

Business, she
thought. Old business.

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

She was in
bed, in the dark, but she wasn't sleeping. It wasn't safe to sleep, to let
herself hide in dreams.

He was
drinking, and he wasn't alone.

She could hear
words when their voices raised, and they raised often. It was her father's
voice she focused on, because he was the one who might slide into the dark with
her if he didn't drink enough. Just enough. He would come in, make a shadow in
the doorway with the light hard and bright behind him.

If he was
angry with the man, and not drunk enough, he would hurt her. Maybe just slaps,
maybe. If she was lucky.

But if she
wasn't lucky, his hands would bruise and squeeze -- and his breath, candy-scented
-- would begin to come fast and hard. The ragged T-shirt she wore to sleep in
would be no defense. Her pleas and struggles would only make him mad, make him
mad so his breathing got faster, faster, like a big engine.

Then he would
put his hand over her mouth, cutting off her air, cutting off her screams as he
pushed his thing into her.

“Daddy's got
something for you, little girl. Little bitch.”

In her bed she
shuddered and listened.

She was not
yet eight.

“I need more
money. I'm the one taking the risks. I'm the one putting my ass out there.”

His voice was
slurred, but not enough. Not yet enough.

“We made the
deal. Do you know what happens to people who fuck with me? The last employee
who tried to ... renegotiate terms didn't live long enough to regret it.
They're still finding small pieces of him in the East River.”

This voice was
quiet; she had to strain to catch it. But he wasn't drunk. No, no, she knew the
sound of a man who'd been drinking, and this wasn't it. Still, the tone had her
shivering. There was a nasty undercurrent to the cultured voice.

“I'm not
looking for trouble, Ricker.” There was a whine now, which had her cringing. If
he was afraid, he'd hurt her. And he'd use his fists. “I got expenses. I got a
daughter to raise.”

“I'm not
interested in your personal life but in my merchandise. See that it's delivered
tomorrow night, at the appropriate time and place, you'll get the rest of your
fee.”

“It'll be
there.”

A chair
scraped the floor. “For your sake -- and your daughter's -- it better be.
You're a drunk. I dislike drunks. See that you're sober tomorrow night.”

She heard
footsteps, the door opening, closing. Then silence.

It was broken
by the smashing of glass, of roaring oaths. In her bed she trembled and braced
for the worst.

The walls
shook. He was pounding his fists on them. Better than on her, was all she could
think. Let him beat the walls, let him find another bottle. Please, please, let
him go out to find more to drink, to find someone else to punish.

Please.

But the door
of her room burst open. He stood, a shadow, big, dark, with the light bright
and hard behind him.

“What're you
staring at? You been listening to my private conversations? You been poking
your nose in my business.”

No. No. She didn't speak, only shook her head fast and fierce.

“I ought to
leave you here for the rats and the cops. Rats'll chew your fingers off, and
your toes. Then the cops'll come. You know what they do to little girls who
don't mind their own?”

He lumbered to
her, dragging her up by the hair so fire burst in her scalp and she cried out
despite her efforts to stay quiet.

“They put them
in dark holes in the ground and leave them there so bugs crawl into their ears.
You wanna go into a little dark hole, little girl?”

She was crying
now. She didn't want to, but the tears simply spurted out. He slapped her.
Once, twice, but it was almost absent-minded, and she began to hope.

“Get your lazy
ass out of bed and pack your junk. I got places to go, people to see. We're heading
south, little girl.”

He smiled
then, a big, toothy grin that left his eyes wild. “Ricker thinks he scares me.
Well, hell I got the first half of his money and his goddamn drugs. We'll see
who has the last laugh. Mother fucking Max Ricker.”

As she scrambled
to obey, stuffing what clothes she had into a bag, she could only think she was
saved, for one night, she was saved. Thanks to a man named Max Ricker.

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

Eve shot out
of sleep with her heart pounding, her throat dry.

Ricker. Oh
God. Ricker and her father.

She gripped
the arms of the chair to steady herself, to keep herself in the now. Had it
been real or just a product of fatigue and imagination?

Real. When
those little flashes of the past came to her, they were always real. She could
see herself, a tangle of hair, huge eyes, skinny arms, huddled in the bed like
an animal in a cave.

She could hear
the voices.

Leaning
forward, she pressed her fingers to her temples. Max Ricker had known her
father. In New York. Yes, she was sure they'd been in New York that night. How
long had it been before they'd landed in Dallas? How long before the night
she'd found the knife in her hand when her father was raping her?

How long
before the night when she'd killed him?

Long enough
for the money to run low. Long enough, she realized, for Ricker to have been
hunting, to have set wolves on the trail of the man who'd stolen from him.

But she'd
ended it first.

Rising, she
paced the room. What had happened then didn't apply now, and she couldn't allow
it to interfere with her investigation or influence her.

And yet, what
sneering twist of fate had brought this circle around again? Ricker to her
father. Ricker to Roarke.

And without
question, Ricker to herself.

What choice
did she have but to end it again?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She needed
more coffee. She needed some sleep. Dreamless sleep. And she needed the rest of
the data from the search and scan.

But something
had rooted in her brain, something that had her leapfrogging over the current
data and running yet another search.

She'd just
begun when the summons came from The Towers.

“I don't have
time for this. Goddamn politics. I don't have time to go running up to Tibble
and giving him updates he can pass to the media.”

“Dallas, you
go up to The Towers. I'll finish the run for you,” Peabody said.

Eve wanted to
do the run herself. It was personal. And that was the whole damn problem, she
admitted. She'd let it get personal. “Vernon's due in an hour. If he's thirty
seconds late, send uniforms, have him picked up. Familiarize yourself with his
profile,” she added as she grabbed her jacket. “Contact Feeney. I want him and
McNab in on the interview. I want the room full of cops.”

She hesitated,
looked back at the computer. No point in wasting time, she reminded herself. No
point in it. “Add the data I'm compiling to the file, and run a probability on
our three homicides.”

“Yes, sir. On
who?”

“You'll know,”
Eve said as she stalked out. “If you don't, you're in the wrong business.”

“I live for
pressure,” Peabody muttered and sat down.

She was going
to make it short, Eve told herself. And she was going to make it direct. Tibble
might have to be concerned about departmental image, about politics, about the
drooling and slathering in IAB, but she didn't.

She had one
job, and that was to close her case.

She wasn't
going to sit still for having to squeeze another damn press conference into her
schedule. And if he thought he could yank her off the investigation to make the
proper noises to the media, he could just...

Oh boy.

It wouldn't
help matters for her to march into Tibble's office leading with attitude. Any
more, she thought, than this underlying pity would help if her suspicions
regarding the killer's identity proved out.

Her job was
to close the case. And the dead, whoever they were, deserved her best.

As for Ricker,
she intended to close that circle as well.

Tibble didn't
keep her waiting. That surprised her a little. But it was nothing compared to
the jolt she got when she stepped into his office and saw Roarke sitting there,
cool-eyed and comfortable.

“Lieutenant.”
From his desk, Tibble gestured her inside. “Have a seat. You've had a long
night,” he added. His face was calm, blank. As was that of her commander who
sat with his hands on his thighs.

It was, Eve
thought, like coming in late to a high-stakes poker game. And she didn't know
the price of the damn ante.

“Sir. The
preliminary report on Bayliss has already been updated with initial lab
reports.” She glanced meaningfully toward Roarke. “I am unable to specify
regarding the evidence in the presence of a civilian.”

“The civilian
came in handy last night,” Tibble said.

“Yes, sir.”
She, too, knew how to hold her cards close, and merely nodded. “It was vital to
arrange the fastest transportation to Bayliss's weekend home.”

“Not quite
fast enough.”

“No, sir.”

“That wasn't a
criticism, Lieutenant. Your instincts regarding Captain Bayliss were correct.
If you hadn't followed them as you did, we might still, at this point, be
unaware of his murder. As I admire your instincts, Lieutenant, I'm about to
follow them myself. I've made Roarke a temporary civilian attache as regards
the investigation of Max Ricker, concurrent with your investigation of these
homicides.”

“Chief Tibble
-- “

“You have an
objection, Lieutenant?” Tibble spoke smoothly. If her head hadn't been busy
exploding, she might have heard the whiff of humor in the tone.

“A number of
them, beginning with the fact that the Ricker matter is not priority. I am on
the point of analyzing new evidence and data that I believe will lead to an
arrest in the matter of my current investigation. The connection to Ricker
exists,” she continued, “is key, but it has no bearing on these leads or on the
anticipated arrest. The connection is, I believe more emotional than tangible.
Therefore, the pursuit of Ricker is secondary, and it is my belief that this
pursuit can and will be continued subsequent to interview with the suspect in
the homicides. I request that any steps in the Ricker area be postponed until
my current case is closed.”

Tibble watched
her. “You're now a target.”

“Every cop's a
target. The killer is attempting to shift my focus from him onto Ricker. I
don't intend to accommodate him. And respectfully, sir, neither should you.”

There was just
enough heat in the last of her statement to cause Tibble's brows to lift. Just
enough to have the corners of his mouth lift in what could never be mistaken
for amusement.

“Lieutenant
Dallas, in my observations of your work, I have never perceived your focus
shifting one degree once set on course. But perhaps I've missed something, or
perhaps these current matters are more than you can reasonably handle. If
that's the case, I'll assign the Ricker matter to another officer.”

“That's my
second ultimatum in the last few hours. I don't like ultimatums.”

“You're not
required to like it. You're required to do your job.”

“Chief Tibble.”
Roarke, voice quiet, interrupted. “We've taken the lieutenant off guard, after
a difficult night. My presence here adds a personal level. I wonder if we might
explain the reason I'm here before this goes any farther.”

It was nearly
out of her mouth, the pissy little snipe that would tell Roarke in no uncertain
terms she didn't need him defending her. But Whitney got to his feet, nodded.

“I think we
might take a breath here, calm ourselves down. I'd like some coffee, sir. With
your permission, I'll get some for all of us while Roarke outlines the basic
plan for Lieutenant Dallas's benefit.”

Tibble gave a
brief nod, gestured to Roarke, then sat back in his chair.

“As I've told
you and have informed your superiors, I once had a brief business association with
Max Ricker. An association,” Roarke added, “which I severed upon discovering
not all of Ricker's dealings were legal.

“We did not
have a friendly parting of the ways. My ending of our association cost Ricker a
considerable amount of money, and a number of accounts -- clients. He's known
to hold a grudge over much less, and to bide his time in seeking retribution. I
can't say this worried me overmuch, until recently.”

He glanced up
at Whitney as the commander offered him a cup of coffee. Cop coffee, Roarke
thought with an inward wince but took it just the same. “As you know, I
purchased, through a representative, a property owned by Ricker. I remodeled,
re-staffed, and renamed the club Purgatory. It does good business, legal
business, but since the time of the murder of your associate, I discovered that
Ricker has been using my property, and some of my staff, to do business of his
own.”

MacLean, Eve thought. She'd been sure of it.

“Illegals,
primarily,” Roarke added. “As he hardly needs one of my properties for this
purpose, his goal was to build up these illegal activities, essentially under
my nose, and eventually connect me to them. Causing me and my wife a great deal
of trouble and discomfort.”

“She sold you
out.” Eve felt fury bubbling in her throat. “Rue MacLean.”

“On the
contrary.” He never missed a beat. “She discovered Ricker's infiltration and
reported it to me only last night.”

That was
bullshit, Eve thought, but she'd let it pass for now. “IAB had a tip on it --
no doubt through one of Ricker's sources -- set Kohli up to sniff it out. He
had a good nose. He'd have caught the scent.”

“I believe he
did. Sooner than Ricker might have wanted. He was only doing minor business.
But killing a cop, having a cop killed in my place, changes the level.”

“It wasn't
Ricker.” It was out thoughtlessly, almost defensively; then she made herself
consider. “He lit the fuse,” she murmured. “Connections inside the department,
inside the One twenty-eight. He knew which buttons to push, which wounds to
pour salt in. He couldn't have known what he was starting. Couldn't have
anticipated that, but he's been sucking it in, just the same.”

She paused,
then continued at Tibble's gesture. “He'd have been distracted, angry, at the
bust last fall. It shifted the balance. Martinez had him, all her data clicked.
But Mills moved in and undermined the bust and the subsequent evidence. Ricker
slid through, but the whole deal twisted him up.”

“And with his
need to prove he still had the power, he offset that annoyance by arranging for
a cop in my place. His reasoning there will come out eventually. And really,
does it matter? I can get him for you. Isn't that enough?”

Too much, she wanted to say. She was afraid it would be too
much. “I can get him myself.”

“I don't doubt
it,” Roarke admitted. “However, I can help you do it quickly, without taking
your energies and your considerable skills away from your homicide
investigation. Or taking them only minimally. Purgatory reopens at eight on
Friday night. Ricker will be there at ten.”

“Why?”

“To do
business with me. Business I'll agree to do because I'm concerned about my
wife's safety. Eve,” he murmured, “surely you can swallow your pride long
enough to let me set him up so you can kick his ass.”

“He won't
believe you.”

“He will, yes.
First because it's true, and second because I'll pretend it isn't and let him
see through. He expects deceit because he's a liar himself. I'm bored, you see,
toeing the line. Want a bit of excitement back. Then there's the money. So much
money to be made when you don't worry about the refinements.”

“You already
own half the universe.”

“Why settle
for half when you can have all?” He took a sip of coffee, found it just as
bitter and bad as expected. “He'll believe me because he wants to. Wants to
believe he's won. And because he's not as clever as he once was, or as careful.
He'd like me, at least, under his thumb so he can pick me apart at his leisure.
We'll lead him to believe that can happen. When the deal's made, you'll have
him.”

“We'll put men
in the club.” Whitney picked up the plan. “And Roarke is arranging for his
security system to record the entire discussion. His club manager will be
acting as liaison, setting up the meet. I need you to brief Roarke on Kohli so
that he can steer Ricker in that direction. If he had any involvement in that
murder, I want him to go down for it.”

“He'll know
it's a setup,” Eve insisted. “Why should he talk business off his own turf?
He'll insist on having his men do a security sweep.”

“He'll talk,”
Roarke corrected, “because he won't be able to resist. Because he still
considers the club his turf. And he can do his sweep. He won't find what I
don't want him to find.”

She turned
from him, got to her feet. “Sir, Roarke lacks objectivity in this matter, and
he's not trained. It's probable that under these conditions Ricker will attempt
to cause him physical harm. Most certainly a plan along these lines will put a
civilian in serious jeopardy and could cause him considerable legal
difficulties.”

“Let me assure
you, Lieutenant Dallas, the civilian has covered himself in all legal areas.
He'll have his immunity regarding any information or allegations stemming from
any areas discussed, past, present, or future, in this operation. As for
physical jeopardy, I imagine he can handle himself every bit as well there as
he has in the legal arena. His cooperation in this matter will save the
department untold man-hours and financial resources. Objectively, Lieutenant,
this is an opportunity we can't afford to miss. If you feel unable to head the
team or be a part of the operation, you have only to say so. Under the
circumstances, it won't be held against you.”

“I'll do my
job.”

“Good. I'd
have been disappointed to hear you say otherwise. Coordinate your schedule.
Make time to brief Roarke on Kohli and to be briefed by him on the security
setup at Purgatory. I want every member of the team linked and locked within
twenty-four hours. There'll be no leak, no mistake, no legal loophole for
Ricker to slip through this time. Bring me his goddamn head on a plate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Full updates,
on my desk, concurrent cases, by sixteen hundred. Dismissed.”

When Roarke
walked out with her, she said nothing. Didn't dare. Anything that spilled out
would be hot and lethal and likely burn them both.

“Noon.” She snapped
it out when she felt she had some measure of control. “My home office. Have
your security diagrams, all data. A list, with all background data on any and
all staff members who'll be on duty Friday night. You've already planned to
broach some sort of deal to Ricker, I want to know every angle of it. I don't
want any more goddamn surprises. Don't talk to me now,” she ordered in a hiss.
“Don't even speak. You ambushed me. You fucking ambushed me.”

He took her
arm before she could stalk away, and she rounded, one fist clenched and ready.

“Go ahead.”
The invitation was mild. “Take a shot if it'll make you feel better.”

“I'm not doing
this here.” It took every scrap of control to keep her voice down. “It's bad
enough already. Just let go. I'm late for Interview.”

Instead, he
simply yanked her into the elevator. “Do you think I would do nothing? Stand
back and do nothing?”

She was
trembling, and she knew it. What the hell was wrong with her? She was trembling
and tired and riding too close to panic. “I think you have no right poking into
my job.”

“Only when it
suits you? Only when I come in handy. Then it's all right for me to poke in.
Invitation only.”

“Okay, fine!
Fine, fine!” She threw up her hands, furious because he was right, and that
made her wrong. “Do you know what you've done? Do you know what you've risked?”

“Can you
imagine what I wouldn't risk for you? You can't, because there's nothing.
There's bloody nothing.” He took her by the shoulders, fingers hard and tense.

It was always
a weird sort of fascination to see him lose control, to hear his voice take on
that jagged edge. But she wasn't in the mood to be fascinated. “I was handling
it, and I Would've finished it.”

“Well, now we're
handling it. And we'll finish it. When you swallow that pride, Eve,
take care you don't choke on it.” Leaving it at that, he strode off the
elevator when the doors opened and left her fuming inside.

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

It was
Vernon's bad luck that she was ready to chew glass. He leaped to his feet when
she walked into Interview.

“You had me
picked up. You had me picked up and dragged in here like a criminal.”

“That's right,
Vernon.” She shoved him, hard, and knocked him into the chair.

“I want a
goddamn lawyer.”

This time she
grabbed him one-handed by the collar and shoved him against the wall while
Feeney, McNab, and Peabody stood aside and watched with varying degrees of
interest.

“I'll get you
a goddamn lawyer. You're going to need one. But you know what, Vernon, we're
not on record yet. You notice that? And you notice how my pals here aren't
making any move to stop me from pounding your ugly face in. I'm just going to
kick you around the room a few times before we call for that goddamn lawyer.”

He tried to
shove her, found her elbow hard in his gut. “Get your hands off me.”

He took a
swing at her that went wide as she sidestepped. Then he was doubled over,
retching from the agony of her knee slamming into his crotch.

“I've got
three witnesses here that're going to testify that you assaulted me. That's
going to put you in lockup, where all the big, bad guys will be drawing straws
to see who gets to be your date for Friday night. I bet you know what those
big, bad guys do to cops in lockup, don't you, Vernon? They can do a lot of it
in the couple of hours it's going to take me, given my physical distress as a
result of said assault, to contact your representative.”

Every breath
he drew cut into his throat like glass.

“Now, I came
in here in the mood to dance with you, but I'm losing the urge. You don't want
to talk to me and my pals, we'll just book you on the assault, then finish up
by slamming you with corruption, misuse of authority, accepting bribes,
collusion with suspected members of organized crime, and top it all off with conspiracy
to murder.”

“That's
bullshit.” He had most of his breath back, though his face was still white and
sheened with sweat.

“I don't think
so. Ricker's not going to think so, either, when it leaks you're in here
squealing like a pig. And it will leak, because I've got a warrant out on
Canarde.”

Not yet, she
didn't, but she would.

“If we let you
out, you're going to wish you were in a cage playing house with some guy named
Bruno.”

“I came in to
make a deal.”

“Yeah, but
then you didn't show up on time.”

“I got
sidetracked.”

“And I don't
like your attitude. Fact is, Vernon, I don't need you anymore. I'll have the
case wrapped by end of day, and I'm going to take Ricker down, just for my own
amusement. You're what they call superfluous.”

“You're
bluffing. You think I don't know how this works? I'm a fucking cop.”

“You're a
fucking disgrace, and don't you call yourself a cop again in my presence, or I
will kick your ass.”

If she had
Canarde, he thought, if she was that close to Ricker, he was done. And he'd
better save himself, quick and fast. “You want to make your case, you're going
to want what I know. I know plenty. You haven't scraped the surface at the One
twenty-eight.”

“I've scraped
it, and I'm busy mucking out the slime on the bottom. That's where I found
you.”

“I can give
you more.” Desperation had him trying out a shaky smile. “I can give you a
promotion. Names, Dallas, not just in the One twenty-eight. Names in the
mayor's office, in the media, and right on through to East Washington. I want
immunity, a new ID, and the seed money to relocate.”

She yawned,
hugely. “Jesus, Vernon, you're boring me.”

“That's the
deal.”

“Here's mine.
Peabody, dump this piece of garbage in lockup. And see if Bruno's back in
town.”

“I believe he
is, and he's lonely.”

“Wait, Jesus.
What'd you bring me in for if you didn't want to deal? I gotta have immunity.
You put me in, I don't come out. We both know it. What's the point in my
talking if I'm going to get stuck in the heart?”

“Gee, Vernon,
now you're breaking mine. Immunity, for everything up to conspiracy to murder.
You get hooked to that, you go down. As for the new name, face, location,
that's your problem.”

“That's not
enough.”

“That's it;
that's all. And even that leaves a taste in my mouth it's going to take weeks
to get out again.”

“I didn't have
anything to do with killing cops.”

“Then you
don't have to worry, do you?”

“I got a right
to my union rep.” He whined now, in a voice that reminded her of her father's
in the flashback.

“Sure you do,”
was all she said and turned to the door.

“Wait. Okay,
wait. Reps just complicate things, right? We'll do it straight. You put the
immunity on the record, and we do it straight.”

She turned
back to the table. Sat. “Interview with Vernon, Detective Jeremy, conducted by
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also present are Feeney, Captain Ryan; McNab, Detective
Ian; and Peabody, Officer Delia. Subject Vernon has agreed to give statements
and answer questions in return for immunity on any related charges of
corruption and misuse of authority. Do you give these statements and agree to
answer these questions of your own volition?”

“That's right.
I want to cooperate. I want to make things right. I feel -- “

“That's
enough, Vernon. You are a ranked detective in the NYPSD, correct?”

“I've been a
cop for sixteen years. Been a detective in Illegals at the One twenty-eight for
the last six.”

“And at this
time you are prepared to admit that you have accepted financial bribes and
other favors in exchange for passing information to, aiding in the illegal
practices of, and generally following the orders of Max Ricker.”

“I took money.
Fact was, I was afraid not to. I'm ashamed of it, but I feared for my life and
well-being. I'm not the only one.”

Once he got
started, Eve thought, you couldn't shut him up. In the first hour, he reeled
off streams of names, activities, connections.

He brought
down the One twenty-eight, even as he doggedly treaded water to keep his own
neck above the swamp.

“Captain
Roth?”

“Her?” Vernon,
feeling perkier, sneered. “She didn't see. Didn't want to, you ask me. Has her
own agenda. Wants to make commander. Plays a good game of politics, but she's
got this problem. She don't have a dick and wishes she did. Always going off
about how some of the men didn't like taking orders from her 'cause she's a
woman. Then she's got that useless husband screwing around on her. She drinks.
She got so hot on this op to take Ricker down, she didn't watch her back or
look down at her feet neither. Made it easy to pull the rug out, you know. We
just passed the data along, lost some key evidence, skewed a couple of reports,
and that was that.”

“Yeah, that
was that.”

“Listen.”
Vernon leaned forward. “Ricker's smart. He knows he doesn't need the whole
squad. He gets key men, and they keep a look out for him, and for other
recruits. You know who's up for a take and who's not.”

“Kohli
wasn't.”

“Straight as a
damn arrow, Kohli. One of the guys in the One two-eight, see, he'd heard
something on an op from say, the Six-four. Easy to poke around, talking shop.
Then you got a guy knows how to hack data, and you get the deets. Pass that to
Ricker, and you get a nice fee.”

He lifted his
hands, actually smiling. “Smooth. Simple. If the op was after one of Ricker's
connections, he had time to change locations, pull out, whatever, so the op's a
bust. If it's one of his competitors, he can sit back, wait for the shit to
fly, then pick up the clients, maybe even the merchandise, after. He's got key
men in Evidence when he needs them. Then the media guys to spin stories his
way, the politicians to keep the heat off. Thing is, I've been noticing, last
couple years the guy's getting erratic.”

“Ricker?”

“Yeah. He's
starting to dip into his own stock a little too heavy. Slurping that drink of
his, laced with illegals, every time you turn around. He's a damn addict now,
half gone to a funky-junky. I mean he's slipping and sliding in a big way,
making some bad moves. Then offing a cop. I mean, Jesus.”

Eve's hand
shot out, gripped his wrist. “Do you have knowledge that Max Ricker arranged
for the murder of Taj Kohli?”

He wanted to
say yes. Somehow, it had all taken on the shining sheen of bragging. But if he
didn't play it straight, she'd catch him up and find a way to hang him. “I
can't say as he ordered it, but I heard some talk.”

“Give me the
talk, Vernon.”

“Now and again
I'd maybe have a drink or share an LC with one of Ricker's guys. Lemme tell
you, I wasn't the only one noticing he was losing his touch here and there. So
this guy, Jake Evans, he was telling me about a month ago that Ricker was
playing games with IAB, getting his jollies turning cops on cops. He knew IAB
put a man into that club, looking for cops doing deals. Only there weren't cops
doing deals. Get me?”

“Yeah, I get
you.”

“Right.
Ricker'd put that out, playing his games. Ricker, Evans tells me, has this bug
up his ass to cause trouble there, in that club, and that's why he's having
some of his men channeling illegals through it. But seems he got a better idea,
and he thinks he's found a way to put a cop on a cop, all the way. Some
psychological shit, Evans said. Ricker, he's big on mind games. He's feeding
skewed data to this other cop on the first cop. The second cop ... You
following this?”

“Yes. Keep
going.”

“Okay, the
second cop's got some problems. Personal problems or something, and Ricker's
chewing away on them, making them raw, giving this cop lots of little nudges so
he'll think the first cop, that's Kohli, did something dirty. But it was more
than that, like whatever the dirty was went back on the first cop. Evans said
it was complicated and risky, and Ricker wasn't saying much, but he, Evans,
didn't like it. Then Ricker's man in IAB ... he's got one there, too. His man
there was supposed to make sure all this shaded data sort of fell in the second
cop's lap. I guess it worked.”

Vernon had the
good sense to take the excitement off his face. “I figured when Kohli got hit,
and it came around he got hit by another cop, I figured Ricker'd worked it.”

“What's the
name in IAB?”

“I don't know.
Swear to God,” he said when her eyes narrowed. “We don't all know each other.
Mostly we found out, but not every one, every time. Probably Bayliss, right?
Bayliss is dead. Come on, Dallas. I've given you close to twenty names. You put
a fire under some of them, you'll get more.”

“Yeah, I'll
get more.” She got to her feet. “But I can't stomach any more from you. McNab,
get this thing into a safe house. Two guards at all times, on eight-hour
shifts. Feeney, can you hand-pick them.”

“Can do.”

“I gave you a
hell of a lot, Dallas. You could go to bat for me on the new ID.”

She didn't so
much as look at him. “Peabody, with me.”

“Dallas, hey!”

“Count your
blessings, jerk,” Feeney muttered as Eve walked out. “You only got your balls
bruised. Another little while in here with you, if she didn't cut them off, I
would have.”

“I can't even
get mad.” Peabody stood in the hallway, turned away from Interview. “I'm too
sick to my stomach to get mad. I love being a cop, and he's made me ashamed of
it.”

“That's the
wrong take. He's beyond shame. You just do the job, day after day, and you've
got nothing to be ashamed of. I need you to make a copy of that record and get
it to Tibble. That's going to be his problem, thank Christ. I've got another
meet at noon. I'll fill you in on it when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.
What about Canarde?”

“We hold
there. I'm saving him for later.”

“Do you want
the results of the search and scan and probability you had me run?”

“Is it enough
to pick him up?”

“Probability's
under seventy-six percent with known data. But -- “

“But,” Eve
repeated, “the computer doesn't count grief or mind games. Or Ricker playing
cop against cop. We'll bring him in. We'll do it quiet, when I get back.”

“He may try
another hit.”

“No, he gave
his word. He won't break it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Eve marched
into the house, emitted a low, rumbling growl at a hovering Summerset, and
headed straight up the stairs. She had a great deal to say and intended to get
started immediately.

The growl came
again, a quiet threat, when she noted her office was empty. But the door
leading to Roarke's was open. Rolling her shoulders, she started toward it, and
heard the impatience in his voice as she approached the door.

“It's neither
possible nor is it convenient for me to make the trip at this time.”

“But, sir, the
situation requires your personal attention. With Tonaka dragging their feet
over this acquisition, and the delays in the environmental clearance on the
tropical sector, we can't hope to meet deadline without your immediate
intervention. Cost overruns and penalties will -- “

“You're
authorized to deal with it. I pay you to deal with it. I'm unable to make the
trip to Olympus for the next several days, perhaps longer. If Tonaka is
dragging feet, cut them off at the knees. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. If
I could have any sort of estimate as to when you might clear the time to survey
on site, it would -- “

“I'll let you
know when I know.”

Roarke cut
transmission, sat back, closed his eyes.

And two things
occurred to Eve: First, that he had a complicated, vital, and demanding life
apart from hers, one she too often took for granted.

Second, and
more important, he looked tired.

He never
looked tired.

The temper
she'd hoarded like gold slipped away, unneeded. Unwanted. Still, instinct moved
her into the room and kept a scowl on her face.

He sensed her
instantly, his eyes opening. “Lieutenant.”

“Roarke,” she
said in exactly the same cool and measured tone. “I have a number of things to
say to you.”

“I'm sure you
do. Would you prefer your office?”

“We can start
right here. First, in my own fumbling way, I've managed to narrow my
investigation -- my homicide investigation -- to one suspect. This
suspect will be brought in, detained, and questioned before end of day.”

“Congratulations.”

“Premature.
Questioning is not an arrest. At the same time, through another source and
through police procedure, I've tied Ricker -- loosely, but tied him -- to those
homicides and hope to charge him with conspiracy. It's a stretch, but it could
work and will certainly be enough for me to pull him in and interrogate him. I
did those things without you going behind my back and over my head to formulate
an operation with my superiors. An operation that puts you at considerable
risk, not only physically but in ways we both understand. If the operation goes
through, what's said between you and Ricker will be admissible in court.”

“I'm perfectly
aware of that.”

“Your immunity
deal will keep you out of a cage, but could -- and you know it -- potentially
damage your reputation and your business.”

Even through
the fatigue in his eyes, she caught the glint of arrogance. “Lieutenant, my
reputation and my business was forged in the same unsavory fire.”

“That may be,
but things are different now. For you.”

“Do you
honestly think I can't weather this?”

“No, Roarke, I
think you can and will weather anything, everything. I think there's nothing
beyond your capabilities when your mind is set. It's almost scary. You pissed
me off,” she added.

“I'm perfectly
aware of that.”

“You knew you
would. If you'd come to me with the idea first -- “

“Time was
short, and we were both busy. This involves me, Eve, whether you like it or
not.”

“I don't like
it, but maybe not for the reasons you think.”

“Regardless, I
did what makes sense, what's most direct. I'm not sorry for it.”

“No apologies?
I could make you apologize, pal.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that's
so. Because you're soft on me. Ask anybody.” She moved to the desk now,
watching him as he rose. “I'm soft on you, too. Don't you know that's why, or
part of why I was pissed off? I don't want him close to you. I don't want what
he is to touch you. Is that supposed to be your exclusive property? Not wanting
someone who means you harm to lay hands on you?”

“No.” He
sighed, ran a hand through his hair in a rare show of frustration. “No, it's
not.”

“The other
part was pride, and I don't have an easy time swallowing it. Neither do you.
The thing you said, about me going along with you poking in when it works for
me? You were right. I'm not saying that's going to change, but you were right.
I'm not real happy about that, either. And this other thing I know. You only
walk away like you did when you'd like to punch me.”

“I must do a
great deal of walking away.”

She didn't
laugh, as he meant her to. “No, that's the thing. You don't.” She came around
the counter, the console, then took his face in her hands. “You just don't.”

“Eve.” He ran
his hands up her arms, to her shoulders.

“I'm not
finished yet. It's a good plan. Not a great one, but we can fine-tune it. I'd
rather another way. I'd rather you'd use that 'link to contact whoever it was
you were just talking to and agree to go off planet and do whatever the hell it
is you do nobody else seems to be able to pull off. I'd rather that, Roarke,
because you mean more to me than anything ever has or ever could. But it's not
going to happen. And if anything happens to you Friday night -- “

“It won't.”

“If anything
happens to you,” she repeated, “I'm going to dedicate my life to making yours a
living hell.”

“Fair enough,”
he murmured as her mouth came up to his.

“An hour.” She
wrapped herself around him. “Let's go away from this for one hour. I need to be
with you. I need to be who I am when I'm with you.”

“I know the
perfect place.”

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

She had a
fondness for the beach -- the heat, the water, the sand. She could relax there
in a manner she allowed herself so rarely.

He could give
her the beach for an hour, take it for himself in the holo-room, where
illusions were only a program away.

The island he
chose, with its long sickle curve of white-sugar sand, its lazily waving palms,
and fat, fragrant flowers, was a setting that suited both of them. The baking
heat from the gold ball of sun was offset by the breeze that flowed in from the
sea like the tide and brought the scent of it to the air.

“This is
good.” She breathed deeply, felt the tension in her neck and shoulders melt
away. She wanted the same for him. “This is really good.” She started to ask if
he'd set the timer, then decided not to spoil the moment or the mood.

Instead, she
stripped off her jacket, yanked off her boots.

The water was
a clear and dreaming blue, frothed with white at the shore, like lace on a hem.
Why resist?

Her weapon
harness came next, then her trousers. She angled her head, looked at him.
“Don't you want to swim?”

“Eventually. I
like watching you strip. It's so ... efficient.”

She laughed.
“Yeah, well enjoy yourself.” She tugged off her shirt, then the little
scoop-necked tank beneath. Naked as a newborn, she raced to the sea and dived
under the waves.

“I intend to,”
he murmured, and watched her strike out, always just a little too far for
safety, before he undressed.

She swam like
an eel, fast and fearless. For a time he paced himself to her, a companionable
competition. Then he simply heeled over on his back to float in the current, to
let the water, the sun, the moment, wash away the fatigue that had nagged at
him.

And to wait
for her.

She swam up
beside him, treaded water. “Feel better?”

“Considerably.”

“You looked
tired before.” And she wanted to stroke that fatigue away. “You hardly ever
do.”

“I was tired
before.”

She let her
fingers tangle in his hair. “You get your second wind, I'll race you back to
shore.”

He had his
eyes closed and kept them that way. “Who says I don't have a second wind?”

“Well, you're
just floating there like flotsam. Or maybe it's jetsam. I never know which is
which.”

“I've heard,
in some circles, this is called relaxing. But...” His arm sneaked under the
water, then around her. “Since you have all this energy to spare.”

“Hey.” She
laughed a little as their legs tangled. “We're way over our heads here.”

“Just the way
I like it.” His mouth came to hers, wet and teasing. His arm drew her close
against him.

And they went
under.

Warm, clear water,
with the sun dancing on the surface. His mouth soft on hers, his body firm. For
both of them, she let herself go, sliding deeper into the liquid blue. Sliding
deeper into the kiss. When they surfaced, she filled her lungs and pressed her
cheek against his.

They let the
water rock them, a steady, undulating rhythm that reflected the mood. Here,
with light strokes over wet skin, was the tenderness they'd both needed. The
brush of his lips on her shoulder made her smile and let her float on sensation
as easily as she floated in the sea.

She turned her
face to his, found his mouth again, and drugged herself on the taste of him.

They drifted
lazily toward shore, rising up on the waves, sinking again, clinging together,
drawing apart only far enough to touch.

When she felt
sand beneath her feet, she stood in the waist-high water and watched his face
as he traced his fingertips over her.

“I love the
look of you, darling Eve. The way you look under my hands.”

Her breasts,
small and firm, cupped neatly in his palms, seemed to heat as he captured them.
Water sparkled over her skin, tiny diamonds that turned to tears and melted
back into the blue.

“Give yourself
to me.” His fingers trailed down her torso, over her hips. “Go under for me.”
And slid into her.

She let out
her breath on a sigh, caught it again on a moan. Pleasure, languid, liquid,
lapped at her senses. The sun dazzled her eyes until all she could see was
blue. He dazzled her body until all she could feel was bliss.

Even as that
pleasure swamped her, as her knees buckled from the thrill of it, the wave
crashed over them, stealing her breath and sweeping them closer to shore.

He rolled in
it with her, felt her release crest, her body tremble while the water sucked
them down, tossed them free again. She was locked around him -- trust, need,
invitation -- everything he wanted as they lay tangled together in the surf.

He took her
mouth again, still patient, though the need had begun to throb through him like
a restless heart. He skimmed his lips down her throat, her shoulders, her
breasts, while her hands stroked, aroused, urged.

The water
streamed over them, receded, and to its constant, endless beat, he filled her,
moved with her. Dreamily, with that pulse matching his own, he watched her head
arch back as the crest took her again.

“Roarke.” Her
voice was husky with passion, her breath already quickening again. “Give
yourself to me. Go under for me.”

Love swamped
him; more than need, it gushed through him, took his air, his heart, his
thoughts. And with his eyes on hers, still and always on hers, he let himself
drown.

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

The hour had
to end. But she wouldn't feel guilty for taking it. Dry, dressed, standing in
her office, she fully intended to brief Roarke and scan his readout of the
security system at Purgatory.

Feeney would
take a closer look at it, she thought, and coordinate with Roarke on that end.
She'd station herself in Control, where she could oversee the club, monitor the
moves, supervise all members of the team.

And be ready
for any move Ricker might make.

“He knew my
father.”

She blurted it
out without realizing it was there, weighing on the center of her mind.

Roarke, about
to explain the readout on-screen, turned, stared at her. She didn't have to say
a name, didn't have to say anything. He knew by her face.

“You're sure
of it?”

“I had a
flashback last night... this morning,” she corrected, feeling ridiculously
unsteady. “Something tripped it, I guess, in the data I was studying, and I was
back, just back.”

“Sit down and
tell me.”

“I can't sit.”

“All right.
Just tell me.”

“I was in bed.
In my room. I had a room. I don't think I always had one -- I know I
didn't always. But I think there was some money to spare. I think it was
Ricker's money. It was dark, and I was listening because he was drinking in the
next room, and I was praying he would keep drinking. He was talking to somebody
about a deal. I didn't understand. I didn't care. Because as long as he kept
talking, kept drinking, he wouldn't come in. It was Ricker. He called him by name.”

It was hard.
She hadn't expected it to be so hard to say it all, when the image of it was
still so brutally clear in her mind. “Ricker was telling him what would happen
if he screwed up the deal. Illegals, I think. It doesn't matter. I recognized
his voice. I mean, having the flashback, I remembered. I don't know if I'd ever
heard it before that night. I don't remember.”

“Did you see
him? Did he see you?”

“No, but he
knew about me. My father said something about me when he was trying to get more
money for the deal. So, he knew, and after he left, my father came in. He was
mad. Scared and mad. He knocked me around a little, then he told me to pack. We
were going to head south, he said. He had money, and I think the illegals, or
some of them. I don't remember any more, except it was in New York. I'm sure we
were in New York. And I think, I think we ended up in Dallas. After the money
ran out, we were in Dallas. There wasn't any more money because we just had
that horrible room, and hardly any food, and he didn't have enough to get drunk
enough in Dallas. God.”

“Eve.” He was
beside her now, his hands running up and down her arms. “Stay here. Stay with
me.”

“I am. I will.
It spooked me, that's all.”

“I know.” He
gathered her in for a moment. And realized on the heels of the flashback she'd
been called to The Tower.

Ambushed.

“I'm sorry.”
He turned her lips into her hair.

“It's a
circle, a circle. Link to link. Ricker to my father, my father to me. Ricker to
you. You to me. I don't believe in stuff like that. But here I am.”

“They won't
touch you through me.” He tipped her head back. “They'll never get through me
to hurt you.”

“That's not
what I meant.”

“I know, but
it's a fact all the same. We'll break the circle. We'll do that together. I'm
more inclined to believe in such things as fate.”

“Only when
your Irish comes out.” She managed a smile but moved away. “Could he know about
me? Could he have connected me from all those years ago?”

“I can't tell
you.”

“If he'd tried
to track my father, could he have found out who I am? Is it possible to dig up
the data on me from before?”

“Eve, you're
asking me to speculate -- “

“Could you?”
she interrupted, facing him again. “If you wanted the information, could you
find it?”

She didn't
want comfort, he knew, but facts. “Given the time, yes. But I have considerably
more to work with than he would.”

“But he could?
He has the capabilities? Particularly if he'd begun to track my father when he
was double-crossed.”

“It's
possible. I don't believe he'd have wasted his time keeping track of an
eight-year-old girl who was sucked into the system.”

“But he knew,
when I went to see him, that I had been in the system. He knew where I'd been
found, and in what condition.”

“Because he
researched Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Not because he'd been keeping tabs on a
young, abused girl.”

“Yes, you're
probably right. It hardly matters, anyway.” She paused by her desk, lifted a
small carved box he'd given her for odds and ends. “You could find the data?”

“Yes, I could
find it, if that's what you want.”

“No.” She set
the box down again. “It's not what I want. What I want is here. There's nothing
back there I need to know. I shouldn't have let it get to me the way it did. I
didn't realize it had.”

She sighed,
and this time she did smile when she turned. “I was too mad at you to think
about it. We've got a hell of a lot of work to do in a short amount of time.
You might as well come with me for now.”

“I thought you
wanted to go over the security.”

“I do, but
back at Central. I only set up this meet here so I could yell at you in
private.”

“Isn't that
odd? I agreed to the meet here so I could yell at you in private.”

“Shows how
screwed up we are.”

“On the
contrary.” He held out a hand for hers. “I'd say it shows we're incredibly well
suited for each other.”

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

As trying to
squeeze more than two people into Eve's cramped office violated several laws of
physics, she held the briefing in the conference room.

“Time's
short,” she began when her team was seated. “As the homicide cases and the
matter of Max Ricker have dovetailed, we'll be pursuing them both on parallel
lines. Lab results, data searches, and probability scans regarding the
homicides are in your reports. I haven't requested a warrant but will do so,
with an obligatory DNA test, if the suspect refuses to come in on his own
volition. Peabody and I will pick him up, quietly, after the briefing.”

“Probability's
low,” Feeney pointed out, frowning at the printout in his file.

“It'll get
higher, and his DNA will match that of the fingernail found on the Bayliss
crime scene. Due to Sergeant Clooney's years of service to the department, his
exemplary record, his emotional state, and the circumstances that built and
were built around him, I prefer to bring him in personally, and hope to
persuade him to make a full statement. Dr. Mira is on call to counsel him and
offer testing.”

“The media's
going to rock and roll over this.”

Eve gave McNab
a nod of acknowledgment. “We can and we will spin the media.” She'd already
decided to contact Nadine Furst. “A veteran officer with a perfect service
record whose son -- only son -- follows in his footsteps. A father's pride. A
son's dedication. Because of that dedication, because of that honor to the
badge in a squad where a few cops -- and let's keep it at a few for public
record -- are corrupt, the son is targeted.”

“Proving that
-- “ Feeney began.

“We don't have
to prove it,” she interrupted. “It just has to be said to be believed. Ricker,”
she continued. “He was behind it. I don't question that. Moreover, Clooney
didn't. His son was clean, intended to stay clean. He moved up the ranks to
detective. He couldn't be bought. He was assigned in the early stages of the
Ricker op, I have that from Martinez's notes. Just a peg in the board, but a
good cop. A hereditary cop. Put this together,” she suggested and rested a hip
on the conference table.

“He's
straight, he's young, and he's smart. He's ambitious. The Ricker task force is
a good break for him, and he's going to make the most of it. He pushes, he
digs. Ricker's sources in the squad relay that information. They're nervous.
Ricker decides to make an example. One night, the good cop stops off in his
neighborhood 24/7. He habitually swung by there on his way home after his
shift. A robbery's in progress. Look at the report: That location hasn't been
hit before or since, but it was being hit that night, at just the right time.
The good cop goes in and is killed. The proprietor makes a frantic emergency
call, but it takes a squad car ten full minutes to arrive on-scene. And the
med-techs, due to what's reported to be a technical delay, don't arrive for ten
more. The kid bleeds to death on the floor. Sacrificed.”

She waited a
beat, knowing any cop in the room would see it as clearly as she did. “The
squad car was manned by two men, and their names were on the list Vernon gave
me this morning. Ricker's men. They let him die, one of their own. And the
signal was sent: This is what happens if you cross me.”

“Okay, it
plays,” Feeney agreed. “But if Clooney's following the same dots, why didn't he
hit the cops in the squad car?”

“He did. One
of them transferred to Philadelphia three months ago. He was hanged in his
bedroom. Ruling was self-termination, but I think the PPSD will reopen that
case. Thirty credits were scattered on the bed. The other drowned, slipped in a
bathtub while on vacation in Florida. Ruled accidental. The coins were found
there, too.”

“He's been
eliminating them for months.” Peabody blew out a breath. “Just ticking them
off, and going on with business.”

“Until Kohli.
Kohli snapped him. He liked Kohli, knew his family, felt close to him. More,
his son and Kohli were friends, and when Ricker, through IAB, planted Kohli,
spread rumors that he was on the take, it was like losing his son all over
again. The eliminations became more violent, more personal, and more symbolic.
Blood on the badge. He can't stop. What he does now he does in his son's
memory. In his son's honor. But knowing he killed an innocent man, a good cop,
is breaking him down. That's Ricker's angle. He can sit back and watch us
destroy each other from within.”

“He's not that
clever, not anymore.” Roarke spoke up. “He wouldn't understand a man like
Clooney, or that kind of love and grief. Luck,” he said. “He put the pieces on
the tray, and luck, or if you prefer, love, linked them.”

“That may be,
but putting the pieces on the tray is enough to fry him. Which brings us to the
second avenue of this investigation. As you are now aware, Roarke has been
enlisted as temporary civilian liaison on the matter of Max Ricker. Peabody,
are you familiar with the street name for civilian liaison?”

Peabody
squirmed. “Yes, sir.” When Eve merely waited, Peabody winced. “Um ... weasel,
Lieutenant. The street name's weasel.”

“I imagine,”
Roarke said, “that weasels are adept at catching rats.”

“Good one.”
Feeney leaned over and slapped Roarke on the back. “Damn good one.”

“We have a
very big rat for you.” She straightened, jammed her hands in her pockets, and
outlined the plan for the rest of the team.

There was no
doubt who was in command here, Roarke thought as he watched her. Who was in
control. She left no angle unexplored, no corner unswept. She prowled the room,
thinking on her feet, and her voice was clipped.

In some past
life she'd have been wearing a general's braiding. Or armor.

And this
woman, this warrior, had trembled in his arms. That was the power between them.
The miracle of it.

“Roarke?”

“Yes,
Lieutenant.”

Something in
his eyes had her heart stuttering a bit. She clamped down on it, frowned at
him. “I'll leave you to go over the security with Feeney and McNab. I don't
want any holes in it. Not a single pinprick.”

“There won't
be any.”

“Make sure of
it. I'm calling Martinez in on this for the bust. And she'll get the collar
when it goes down. Any objections?” She waited, got none. “Peabody, you're with
me.”

She started
out, glanced back. Roarke was still watching her, the faintest of smiles on
that killer mouth, the faintest glint in those wild blue eyes.

“Jesus, he
makes your mouth water.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing.”
Mortified, she strode out. “Nothing. Has my unit been repaired or replaced?”

“Dallas,
that's so sweet. I didn't know you believed in fairy tales.”

“Damn it.
We'll steal one from somewhere.” Then she began to grin. “I'll just take
Roarke's.”

“Oh, tell me
it's the XX. The 6000. It's my favorite.”

“How the hell
are we going to bring in a suspect in a two-seater? It's some snazzy sedan type
today. I've got the code. Won't he be surprised when he goes down and finds it
gone. I think -- “

Distracted,
she nearly walked into Webster. “Lieutenant, a minute of your time.”

“I'm low on
minutes, walk and talk.”

“You're going
for Clooney.”

“Goddamn it.”
Though he'd kept his voice low, she whipped her head around to be sure no one
had heard. “What makes you think that?”

“I still have
my sources.” His face was grave, and his voice remained quiet. “You left the
breadcrumbs. I can still follow the trail.”

“Have you been
in my files?”

“Dallas.” He
laid a hand on her arm, felt the tremor of temper. “I'm deep in this. Part of
what I did, following orders, may have sparked what's gone down. I did the
internal run on Clooney's son. I feel responsible. Let me go with you to pick
him up.”

She angled her
head. “Someone in IAB's dirty, in Ricker's pocket. How do I know it's not you?”

His hand
dropped away. “You don't.” He let out a breath. “You can't. Okay.” He stepped
back, started to turn.

“Hold on.
Peabody.” She gestured, moved a few steps away. “Do you have a problem on
staying with the briefing, finishing the paperwork?”

Peabody
glanced back at Webster, who was standing with his hands in his pockets and a
miserable look on his face.

“No, sir.”

“All right.
Set up an interview room, block observation. I don't want anybody nosing in
while I'm talking to Clooney. Let's give him what dignity we can.”

“I'll take
care of it. Good luck.”

“Yeah.” She
walked back to Webster. “Let's go.”

He blinked,
then took in a breath. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank
me. You're along for ballast.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Peabody
dawdled. She procrastinated. She fiddled. Then when she couldn't avoid it any
longer, she went back into the conference room.

Some complex
schematic was on the wall screen, and Feeney was whistling at it as though it
were the image of a naked and nubile woman.

“Hey,
She-Body. What's up?” McNab asked.

“Just a change
of plans. I'm going to sit in on the security briefing.”

“Dallas isn't
going for Clooney?” Feeney asked.

“Yeah, yeah,
she's going.” As if it was vitally important, she selected a chair, brushed off
the seat, settled into it.

“Alone?”
Roarke's voice made her want to cringe, but she looked up over his shoulder,
shrugged her own. “No, no, she's got somebody. Um, you'll have to explain the
system to me in English. I only speak pidgin tech-speak.”

“Who's with
her?” Roarke asked, though he already knew. It was just like her.

“With her? Oh,
ah, hmmm. Webster.”

Silence fell,
a clatter of broken bricks. Peabody folded her hands in her pockets and
prepared for the explosion to follow.

“I see.” When
Roarke simply turned back to the screen and continued, she didn't know whether
to be relieved or scared to death.

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

Webster
resisted, barely, making some smart comment about the sleek luxury car and
instead settled in to enjoy the ride.

Or tried to,
but his nerves were jumping.

“Okay, let's
just get this out of the way. I'm not Ricker's man in IAB. I guess I figured
there had to be one, but I don't have a line on it. I will have. I'm going to
make a point of it.”

“Webster, if I
thought you were hooked to Ricker, you'd still be back at Central, crawling
over the floor trying to find what was left of your teeth.”

It made him
smile. “That means a lot to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,
save it.”

“So ... I went
into your files. You can kick me about that later if you want. I had your code
and password. Bayliss dug it out. I didn't have any right to and blah, blah,
but I did it. I followed your line on Clooney. It was good work.”

“You expect me
to blush and say aw, shucks? You try that crap again, and I'll have you up,
toothless, before the review board.”

“Fair enough.
You didn't get a warrant.”

“That's
right.”

“What you
got's thin, but it spreads enough that a judge Would've issued.”

“I don't want
a warrant. He's entitled to a little consideration.”

“Bayliss hated
cops like you.” Webster looked out at New York, the jam of it, crowded,
colorful, arrogant. “I'd forgotten what it was like to work this way. It's not
something I'm going to forget again.”

“Then listen
up, here's how we do it. Clooney's living on the West Side. It's an apartment.
He moved out of his house in the burbs a couple months after his son died. Hang
a busted marriage on Ricker while you're at it.”

“It's the
middle of shift. He's not going to be home.”

“You didn't
finish his file. It's his day off. If he's not there, we knock on doors until
somebody tells us where he might be. And we go find him, or we wait. I do the
talking. He's going to come in voluntarily. That's the way we're going to make
it happen.”

“Dallas, he's
killed three cops.”

“Five. You
didn't finish my notes, either. You're slipping, Webster. A thorough cop is a
happy cop.”

She found the
address, started to double-park, then remembered she not only had Roarke's
snappy sedan, but didn't have her On Duty light.

Cursing under
her breath, she cruised until she found a parking slot. Two blocks down and one
level up.

“It's a secured
building,” she noted, nodding toward the security cam and code box. “We bypass
it. I don't want him to have time to get ready for us.”

Webster opened
his mouth to remind her of the lack of warrant. Then closed it again. It was
her show, after all.

She used her
master, keyed in her badge number. A more sophisticated system would have
requested her to state her police emergency, but this one simply unlocked the
outer doors.

“Fourth
floor,” she told him, heading inside and to the single elevator. “You carrying?”

“Yeah.”

“I wasn't sure
you guys in IAB carried anything but a data book. Keep your weapon harnessed.”

“Well hell, I
was looking forward to going through the door blasting. I'm not a moron,
Dallas.”

“IAB, moron.
IAB, moron. I can never tell the difference. But enough of this frivolity.
Stand back,” she ordered when they reached the fourth level. “I don't want him
seeing you through the peep.”

“He may not
open the door for you.”

“Sure, he
will. He wonders about me.” She pressed the buzzer on the side of the door.
Waited. She felt herself being observed, kept her face blank.

Moments later,
Clooney opened the door. “Lieutenant, I wasn't -- “ He broke off when Webster
shifted into the doorway. “I wasn't expecting company.”

“Can we come
in, Sergeant, and speak to you?”

“Sure, sure.
Don't mind the mess. I was just making a sandwich the old-fashioned way.”

He stepped
back, casual, easy. A good, smart cop, she thought later. That's why she missed
it.

He brought up
the knife fast, a smooth, quick motion, aimed at her throat. She was a good,
smart cop, too. She might have dodged it. It was something she'd never know for
certain.

Webster shoved
her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the movement, the twist of his
body put him in the path of the knife.

She shouted
something as the blood spurted. Something as Webster went down. And was already
scrambling to her knees, already reaching for her weapon as Clooney sprinted
across the room. If she'd fired without warning, fired into his back, she would
have had him. The instinctive hesitation, the ingrained loyalty, cost her an
instant.

And he was out
the window and clambering down the fire escape.

She rushed to
Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from
the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.

“Jesus,
Jesus.”

“I'm okay.
Go.”

“Shut up. Just
shut up.” She ripped out her communicator as she leaped to her feet and ran to
the window. “Officer down. Officer down.” She rattled off the address, scanning
for Clooney. “Immediate medical assistance required this location. Officer
down. Suspect fleeing on foot, heading west. Suspect is armed and dangerous.
White male, sixty years.”

Even as she
spoke, she was shrugging out of her jacket, tearing through the apartment for towels.
“Five feet, ten inches, one hundred and eighty. Gray and blue. Subject is
suspect on multiple homicides. Hold on, Webster, you stupid son of a bitch. You
die on me, I'm going to be supremely pissed.”

“Sorry.” He
sucked in his breath as she ripped his shirt, pressed the folded towels over
the wound. “Christ, it really hurts. What the hell kind of...” He bore down,
fighting to stay conscious. “What the hell kind of knife was that?”

“How the hell
should I know? A big, sharp one.”

Too much
blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the
towels. It was bad. It was really bad.

“They sew you
up. You'll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you'll be able
to show it off to all your women and make them giddy.”

“Bullshit.” He
tried to smile, but he couldn't see her. The light was going gray. “He opened
me up like a trout.”

“Shut up. I
told you to shut up.”

He made a
little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping
at blood, and listened for the sirens.

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

She met
Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with
Webster's blood, her face pale as death.

“I screwed up.
I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in.
Instead, he's at large and another good cop's dying.”

“Webster's
getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself,
Dallas.”

“I took him
along.” It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh
God, no way to win.

“He took
himself along. Regardless, you've identified the suspect, and have done so
through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won't be at large for
long. We have an all-points. He's known. He fled with the clothes on his back.
He has no funds, no resources.”

“A smart cop
knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity
to take him down nor did I pursue.”

“If you were
again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow
officer's life, which way would you go?”

“I'd do the
same thing.” She looked toward the operating room. “For what it's worth.”

“So would I.
Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You'll need all the resources of your own
to finish this.”

“Sir, I'd like
to wait until they can tell us something on Webster.”

“All right.
Let's get some coffee. Can't be any worse here than it is at Central.”

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

When she
dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind
refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney's doorway a hundred times. Had
there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an
instant before the knife came up?

If Webster
hadn't moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?

What was the
point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.

“Eve.”

Roarke came
out of the parlor where he'd waited for her. She'd come home bloody before,
exhausted before, and carrying a cloak of despair. Now she stood with all three
hovering around her and just stared at him.

“Oh, Roarke.”

“I'm sorry.”
He moved to her, wrapped his arms around her. “I'm so sorry.”

“They don't
think he's going to make it. That's not what they say, exactly, but you can
read it on their faces. Massive blood loss, extreme internal damage. The knife
nicked his heart, his lung, and God knows. They've called his family in,
advised them to hurry.”

However
selfish it was didn't matter to him. All he could think was, It could have
been you. It could have been you, and I would be the one advised to hurry.

“Come
upstairs. You need to clean up and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, nothing
more to do but get some sleep.” She started toward the steps with him, then
just sank down on them, buried her face in her hands. “What the hell was I
thinking? Who the hell do I think I am? Mira's the shrink, not me. What made me
think I could get inside this man's head and understand what was going on in
it?”

“Because you
can, and you do. You can't always be right.” He rubbed her back. “Tell me what
he's thinking now.”

She shook her
head, got to her feet. “I'm too tired. I'm too tired for this.”

She walked
upstairs, stripping on her way across the bedroom. Before she could step into
the shower, Roarke took her hand. “No, into the tub. You'll sleep better for
it.”

He ran the
water himself. Hot, because she liked it hot, added scent to soothe, programmed
the jets to comfort. He undressed, got in with her, and drew her back against
him.

“He did it for
me. Clooney was going for me, and Webster knocked me down and stepped into the
knife.”

Roarke pressed
his lips to the top of her head. “Then I owe him a debt I can never repay. But
you can. By finishing it. And that's what you'll do.”

“Yeah, I'll
finish it.”

“For now,
rest”

Fatigue was a
weight bearing down on her. She stopped resisting and fell under it.

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

She woke to
sunlight and the scent of coffee. The first thing she saw was Roarke, with a
mug of coffee in his hand.

“How much
would you pay for this?”

“Name your
price.” She sat up, took it from him, drank gratefully. “This is one of my
favorite parts of the marriage deal.” She let the caffeine flow through her
system. “I mean, the sex is pretty good, but the coffee ... The coffee is
amazing. And you're all-around handy yourself most of the time. Thanks.”

“Don't mention
it.”

She took his
hand before he could rise. “I wouldn't have slept easy last night without you
being here.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then shifted toward the bedside
'link. “I want to call and check on Webster.”

“I've already
called.” She wouldn't want it cushioned, so he told her exactly what he knew.
“He made it through the night. They nearly lost him twice and took him back in
for more surgery. He remains critical.”

“Okay.” She
set the coffee down to scrub her hands over her face. “Okay. He felt like he
needed vindication. Let's give it to him.”

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

Purgatory had
taken on an edge. Glamour with a bright smear of sin.

“Fast repair
work,” Eve muttered as she wandered through, scanning the trio of winding, open
stairs with their treads edged with hot red lights. On closer study, she noted
the banisters that curved down them were sleek and sinuous snakes, and every
few feet, one was swallowing its brother's tail.

“Interesting.”

“Yes.” Roarke
ran one of his elegant hands over a reptilian head. “I thought so. And
practical. Start up.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

With a shrug,
she climbed the first three. “So?”

“Feeney? Do we
register on weapon check?”

“You bet.
Scanner shows police-issue laser on staircase one, and secondary weapon in
ankle harness.”

Eve glanced up
toward Control, and the hidden speakers where Feeney's voice boomed. With a
thin smile, she looked back at Roarke. “Why don't you come on up for a weapon
scan, ace?”

“I think not.
Similar scanners are set in all entrances and exits, in the bathrooms, and
privacy rooms. We'll know what we're up against in that area.”

“Boomers,” she
said, coming down again. “Knives?”

“We can scan
for explosives. Knives are trickier, though the metal detectors will take care
of any fashioned from that material. An hour before opening, the entire
building will be swept a final time, just as a precaution.”

“Where do you
plan to hold the meet?”

“We've divided
the area into twenty-two sectors. Each will have individual security, and all
will line to the main control. I'll have a privacy booth in sector twelve,
there.”

He gestured to
a table on the edge of the entertainment platform. She ran her gaze up over the
gold and red poles that lanced up from the stage, the pie plate -- topped
columns, the human-sized gilded cages.

“Close to the
action.”

“Well now, the
show must go on. The booth's been rigged specifically for our purposes. Audio
and video will be transmitted directly to the control.”

“He'll insist
on a scan, probably a jammer.”

“Yes, he will,
but the system design will override anything he has.”

“You're
awfully cocky.”

“Confident,
Lieutenant. I designed the system myself and have already tested it. Two of my
hand-picked security will be onstage, performing, during the meet.”

“You've got
security strippers?”

“Don't hate
them because they're beautiful. If it's necessary to deal with any of Ricker's
men, they'll do so.”

“The deal
didn't include civilian hammers. We'll have cops in every sector.”

He nodded
pleasantly. “I could, of course, simply set up my personal security team
without informing you of it. But as a temporary civilian attache, I feel
obliged to relay all pertinent information to the team commander.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I love you,
too.”

“The bathrooms
are mag,” Peabody reported as she strode up. “Wait till you see, Dallas. The
sinks are like little lakes, and there are like a million miles of counter. All
this sexy art painted on the walls. And even sofas.”

She caught
herself before Eve could reply, cleared her throat. “McNab and I completed our
run-through, sir, and all security -- audio, visual, and scans -- are
operational.”

“Your uniform
jacket is improperly secured, Officer Peabody.”

“My .. .” She
looked down, turned bright pink to the roots of her bowl-cut hair, and hastily
began to secure the brass buttons McNab had so hastily undone.

“Oh, for
Christ's sake, Peabody, are you a damn rabbit? Go fix yourself up somewhere and
put your hormones on hold for awhile.”

“Yes, sir.
Sorry, sir.”

Peabody slunk
away and left Eve scowling at Roarke. “Don't think I don't know what a big, fat
kick you're getting out of this. I told you this thing with McNab was
going to screw up my aide.”

“As a recent
liaison to the NYPSD, I found the conduct disgraceful.” He turned back, leading
with the grin that made his face impossibly young, ridiculously beautiful.
“Absolutely disgraceful. I think we should go do a run-through of the lounges
personally. Right now.”

“Pervert.” She
jammed her hands in her pockets and was about to walk away from him and up to
Control when the main door opened. Rue MacLean stepped in.

She hesitated
when Eve's cold stare blasted her, then straightened her shoulders and crossed
the room. They met in front of the bar where Kohli had served his last drink.

“Ms. MacLean.”

“Lieutenant.
I'm perfectly aware of what you think of me, and you're entitled to say it to
my face.”

“Why waste my
breath? I walked through a cop's blood on this floor. That says enough.”

“Eve.” Roarke
touched her shoulder. He turned to Rue. “You've seen Ricker?”

“Yes. He's --
“

“Not here.” He
gestured to the side wall. The control panel, as the elevator it operated, was
hidden in the mural depicting the fall of Adam. The door slid open to a small
private car. They rode silently to the owner's office.

Roarke moved
to a friggie behind a smoked mirror, took out chilled bottles of spring water,
poured. “Why don't you sit down, Rue? Conversations with Ricker have a tendency
to shake the spirit.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Aren't we
polite?” Furious, Eve gestured away Roarke's offer of water. “Aren't we just
delightful and civilized. You want to trust her, pal, that's your privilege.
Don't expect the same consideration from me. She set you up.”

“That's
right.” Roarke put the glass in Rue's unsteady hand. “And now she's returning
the favor. And not without risk.”

Roarke took
Rue's hand, and though she tried to jerk free, he calmly unbuttoned her cuff
and rolled the sleeve up on the arm he'd noticed her favoring.

Dark, ugly
bruises ran from wrist to elbow.

“He hurt you.
I'm sorry.”

“He likes
hurting people. Bruises fade. I'm sure your wife will agree, I deserve a great
deal worse.”

“He has
fingers like spikes,” was all Eve said, but she felt herself shift inside. “Why
did he use them on you?”

“Because he
could, for the most part. If he hadn't believed me, I'd have gotten that and
worse. Passing on the information from you put him in a good mood.”

She took a
drink, set the glass aside. “It ran almost exactly as you thought it would. I
went to him, asked for money for information. That pissed him off, so I let him
push me around a little until I gave it for free. That also cheered him up.”

Absently, she
rebuttoned her cuff. “I told him you were distracted, bad-tempered, how you
were cracking the whip to get the place open because it was costing you money
to keep the doors closed. That, and your feathers were ruffled because the cops
were breathing down your neck. I topped it off by saying I overheard you
arguing with your wife.”

“Good.” Roarke
sat on the arm of a chair.

“You were
going around about the investigation, how it was looking for you, and more,
about the position she was putting herself in. You're frantic about that, and
pushing her to resign from the force. You two had a real blowup about that.

“I told him
there were some hard words about being on opposite sides of the line, and you
just lost it. I hope you don't mind that I painted a very clear picture of a
man on the edge. You were getting damn tired of walking on eggshells, tired of
losing money by keeping your business on her side. A lot of threats and
recriminations. You cried,” she said to Eve, not without some satisfaction.

“Well,
thanks.”

“He liked that
part. Anyway, after you stormed out, I went in, offered Roarke a sympathetic
ear. He was prime for it, so we had a couple drinks. That's when you told me
you'd had enough of the straight life. You were bored, restless, and your
marriage was shaky. Not that you didn't love your wife, but you needed an
outlet. She didn't have to know you were dipping back into the pool, did she?
You needed something to distract you from worrying about her. And you figured
you might kill two birds by going to Ricker and making a deal. A nice quiet
business association, the high side of profit for him, and he leaves your wife
alone. You're going to get her off the force, but you want her in one piece
while you work on that. You're stupid in love with her, but damned if she's
going to castrate you and keep you on a leash. I agreed with you, then offered
to talk to Ricker for you. That was the part that took him awhile to buy.”

She touched
her fingers to her sore arm. “I convinced him you agreed to it because you
haven't been yourself. You'd gone soft and careless in certain areas. I think
he swallowed it because it's what he wanted and because he doesn't believe I'd
have the guts to lie to him.”

She picked up
her glass again, wet her throat. “It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be,”
she decided. “He was biting at the bait before I'd finished hanging it. The
lawyer, Canarde, he doesn't like it, but Ricker told him to shut up. When he
didn't, Ricker threw a paperweight at him. Missed, but it left a hell of a dent
in the wall.”

“Ah, to be a
fly,” Eve murmured.

“It was a
moment,” Rue agreed. “In any case, Canarde shut up then, and Ricker will be
here. He won't miss the chance to humiliate you, to grind you under his heel a
bit. And if he sniffs out that he should've listened to the lawyer, to take you
out where you stand. If he can't have you ruined, he'll have you dead. Those
were his words, exactly.”

“Then it's
perfect,” Roarke decided, and he felt the thrill of the hunt heat his blood.

“Not quite.”
Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets, and turned toward Rue. “Why didn't
you have Roarke cry?”

Rue shot her a
look of such profound gratitude Eve had hope it was all going to work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Time was
running short. Running two critical operations meant every hour was crammed
with two hours' work and worry. She left Purgatory in Roarke's perhaps
too-competent hands and, switching gears, drove out to Clooney's suburban
house.

“Whitney
already had Baxter question the wife,” Peabody said and earned a steel-tipped
stare from Eve.

“I'm following
up. Do you have a problem with that, Officer?”

“No, sir. No
problem at all.”

Time might
have been rushing by for Eve, but for Peabody it seemed the next thirty hours
were going to crawl like a slug. She decided it best not to mention the
surveillance car parked in full view of the single-story ranch house on the
postage-stamp lot.

Clooney would
spot it, too, if he attempted to get to the house. Maybe that was the point.

Keeping her
silence, she followed Eve up the walk, waited at the door.

The woman who
opened it might have been pretty in a round, homey way. But at the moment she
merely looked exhausted, unhappy, and afraid. Eve identified herself and held
up her badge.

“You found
him. He's dead.”

“No. No, Mrs.
Clooney, your husband hasn't been located. May we come in?”

“There's
nothing I can tell you that hasn't already been said.” But she turned away,
shoulders slumped as if they carried a fierce burden, and walked across the
tidy little living area.

Chintz and
lace. Faded rugs, old, comfortable chairs. An entertainment screen that had
seen better days. And, she noted, a statue of The Virgin -- mother of Christ --
on a table with her serene, compassionate face looking out over the room.

“Mrs. Clooney,
I have to ask if your husband's contacted you.”

“He hasn't. He
wouldn't. It's just as I told the other detective. I think, somehow, there's
been a terrible mistake.” Absently, she pushed a lock of brown hair, as faded
as the rugs, away from her face. “Art hasn't been well, hasn't been himself for
a long time. But he wouldn't do the things you're saying he did.”

“Why wouldn't
he contact you, Mrs. Clooney? You're his wife. This is his home.”

“Yes.” She
sat, as if her legs just couldn't hold her up any longer. “It is. But he
stopped seeing that, stopped believing that. He's lost. Lost his way, his hope,
his faith. Nothing's been the same to us since Thad died.”

“Mrs.
Clooney.” Eve sat, leaning forward in an attitude that invited trust and
confidence. “I want to help him. I want to get him the kind of help he needs.
Where would he go?”

“I just don't
know. I would have once.” She took a tattered tissue from her pocket. “He
stopped talking to me, stopped letting me in. At first, when Thad was killed,
we clung together, we grieved together. He was the most wonderful young man,
our Thad.”

She looked
toward a photograph, in a frame of polished silver, of a young man in full
dress uniform. “We were so proud of him. When we lost him, we held on tight, to
each other, to that love and pride. We shared that love and pride with his wife
and sweet baby. It helped, having our grandchild close by.”

She rose,
picked up another photograph. This time Thad posed with a smiling young woman
and a round-cheeked infant. “What a lovely family they made.”

Her fingers
brushed lovingly over the faces before she set the photograph down again, sat.

“Then, a few
weeks after we lost Thad, Art began to change, to brood and snap. He wouldn't
share with me. He wouldn't go to Mass. We argued, then we stopped even that.
Existing in this house,” she said, looking around at the familiar, the
comforting, as if it all belonged to strangers, “instead of living in it.”

“Do you
remember, Mrs. Clooney, when that change in your husband began?”

“Oh, nearly
four months ago. Doesn't seem like a long time, I suppose, when you think of
more than thirty years together. But it felt like forever.”

The timing
worked, Eve calculated, slid the puzzle piece of the first murder into place.

“Some nights
he wouldn't come home at all. And when he did, he slept in Thad's old room.
Then he moved out. He told me he was sorry. That he had to set things right
before he could be a husband to me again. Nothing I could say could change his
mind. And God forgive me, at that point I was so tired, so angry, so empty
inside, I didn't care that he was going.”

She pressed
her lips together, blinked away the tears. “I don't know where he is or what
he's done. But I want my husband back. If I knew anything that would make that
happen, I'd tell you.”

Eve left,
canvassed the neighborhood, talked to neighbors, and was given nothing but a
picture of puzzled disbelief. Clooney had been a good friend, a loving husband
and father, a trusted member of the community.

No one had
heard from him -- or would admit to it.

“Do you
believe them?” Peabody asked as they headed back to the city.

“I believe his
wife. She's too afraid and confused to lie. He knows we'd cover the house.
Friends and relatives. He's not stupid enough to go to any knowns, but I had to
check. We'll go back to Central, run through his data again. Maybe something
will click.”

But two hours
through, and nothing had. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, thought about
more coffee, then opened them and saw Mira in the doorway.

“You're
overdoing it, Eve.”

“My back's to
the wall. I'm sorry, did we have a meeting?”

“No, but I
thought you could use my professional opinion on Clooney at this point.”

“Yeah, I
could.” She glanced around, sighed. “This place is a dump. I wouldn't let the
cleaning crew in the last few days. Security clearances aren't enough right
now.”

“Don't worry
about it.” Mira made herself comfortable with a hip on the side of Eve's desk.
“I don't believe he has, or can, change his agenda. He'll still be focused on
you, which means he'll stay close.”

“He said he
wouldn't kill another cop, too. But he sure didn't hesitate to slice that knife
into Webster.”

“That was
impulse rather than calculated. He wanted you, and even then he would have
considered it self-defense. You were coming for him. You and a member of
Internal Affairs. I believe he's still in the city, still using whatever
considerable skill he has to observe and regroup. Wouldn't you?”

“Yeah, that's
exactly what I'd do if I'd decided I had to end something, would die trying.”
She'd thought it over carefully, in one of her journeys into Clooney's head.
“He means to die, doesn't he, Doctor?”

“Yes, I think
so. He'll give you until the stated deadline, and if you don't prove yourself
to his satisfaction, he'll try to kill you. He may finish this by an attempted
assassination of Ricker, then he will, almost certainly, self-terminate. He
will not be able to face his wife, his colleagues, his priest. But he will face
his son.”

“I'm not going
to let that happen.”

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

She intended
to go straight home. She'd called the hospital to check on Webster and was told
there was no change. But, as with Clooney's wife, she had to check for herself.

She strode
down the corridor toward ICU, dreading every step. Hating the scent, the sound,
the feel of the hospital. When the nurse on duty demanded if she was
family, she didn't hesitate. She lied.

And moments
later found herself in the narrow cubicle, made smaller by the bed and
machines, looking down on Webster's white face.

“Well, this is
just dandy, isn't it? Didn't I tell you this was going to piss me off? You know
how bad it makes me look for you to be lying here, taking the easy way? Damn
it, Webster.”

She broke down
and laid a hand over his. Cold, she thought. His was too cold. “You think I
have time for this? I'm up to my ears in work, and instead of lending a hand,
you're just stretched out hiding in a coma. You'd better get up off your ass.”

She leaned
down, spoke clear and strong into his face. “You hear me, you bastard? You'd
better get up off your ass, because I've had too many cops die on my watch just
lately. I'm not letting you add to the number. And if you think I'll put a posy
on your grave and shed a tear, you are wrong, pal. I'll spit on it.”

She squeezed
his hand, waited for a response that didn't come. “Jerk,” she muttered, with
more affection than she'd realized she had for him.

She turned
away, came to a skidding halt when she saw Roarke at the door. A thousand
thoughts jumbled into her head, and not a single one of them came through
clearly.

“I thought you
might drop by here.”

“I was
just...” Her hands found her pockets on the end of a shrug.

“Trying to
help a friend,” he finished and crossed to her. He laid his hands on her
shoulders, touched his lips to her forehead. The gesture was very gentle, very
supportive, and very married. “Do you think I begrudge that?”

“I guess not.
It's a ... the situation is a little weird, that's all.”

“Do you want
to stay with him awhile longer?”

“No. I said
what I came to say.” But she glanced back. “When he comes out of this, I'm
going to kick his ass just for the hell of it.”

“I'll hold
your coat.” Roarke slipped an arm around her. “Let's go home, Lieutenant. We
have a busy day tomorrow.”

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

It was busy
and went by too quickly. From her station in Security Control, she was able to
watch any and every section of the club on-screen.

She argued
about the lights -- too dim -- but he hadn't changed them. She sniped about the
music -- too loud -- but he'd gone his own way there, as well. Now she saw
she'd missed one more angle to hassle him over.

The crowd.

She hadn't
anticipated the number of people who'd pour in, jam in, elbow in for the club's
reopening. She went on slow burn, realizing that Roarke would have anticipated
it.

“We don't have
enough cops,” she said to Feeney. “He hasn't been open an hour, and they're
packed in like he's offering free drinks and group sex to every second
customer.”

“Might be he
is. He's got a way with drumming up business. We're okay, Dallas. This security
setup'll handle it. Look there, we got a joker in sector two, table six,
spiking his lady's drink. A little Exotica'd be my guess.”

“Let Roarke's
security handle that kind of thing.” She rested a hand on Feeney's shoulder as
they both watched the screen. “I don't want police interference in the
routine.” And she wanted to see just how good his security was.

Damn good, she
decided, when within thirty seconds a large man in a black suit strolled up to
the table in question, confiscated the drink, and lifted the offender out of
his chair in one smooth move.

“Slick and
quiet,” Feeney commented. “That's the way to keep things steady.”

“I don't like
it. I don't like the whole deal. Too much can go wrong.”

“Nothing's
going to go wrong. You just got the heebie-jeebies.”

“The what?”

“Ants in your
pants, nervous twitters.”

“Damn it,
Feeney, I've never twittered in my life.”

“Doing it
now,” he said solemnly. But there was a chuckle in his tone. “The man can
handle himself, Dallas. Nobody better.”

“Yeah, maybe
that's what worries me.” On-screen, she picked Roarke out easily, watched him
move through the crowd as if his biggest concern was the cut of his suit.

And she was
two floors up, and breaking a sweat.

Because she
was two floors up, she admitted. She'd have felt better, been cooler, if she'd
been down in the action. Like Peabody, she thought, idling at the bar in plain
clothes.

“Peabody, you
read?”

At the bar,
Peabody gave a barely perceptible nod as Eve's voice hummed in her ear.

“That better
be a soft drink you're guzzling.”

Then came the
smirk.

For some
reason, it made Eve feel better.

The buzzer
sounded at the door. With one hand on her weapon, she stepped over, checked the
security screen. Disengaging locks, she opened it.

“Martinez,
you're away from your station.”

“There's time.
Can I have a minute? I didn't have the chance to say it before,” she continued,
lowering her voice. “And if things go the way we want, there won't be time
after. I want to thank you for bringing me in on this.”

“You earned
it.”

“You better
believe it. But you didn't have to bring me in. You ever need a favor from me
or my squad, you'll have it.”

“Acknowledged
and appreciated.”

“Thought you'd
like to know the word on Roth, too. She's getting slapped on record. They're
sending in an evaluator, and she's going to be required to submit to
counseling. She gets a six-month probationary period before they decide if she
keeps her command.”

It was a hard
knock for a woman like Roth, Eve mused. But... “Could've been a lot worse for
her.”

“Yeah. Some
were betting she'd just toss in and resign. But no way. She'll tough it out.”

“Yeah, I think
she will. Now, if we've finished our gossip session, get back to your station.”

Martinez
flashed a grin. “Yes, sir.”

Eve secured
the door again and returned to the screens. She started to sit, to settle, then
tensed. “God. Why didn't I think of it? That's Mavis. Mavis and Leonardo.”
Going with the gut, or the heart, she switched to Roarke's channel.

“Mavis just
walked in. She and Leonardo are moving through section five. Get rid of them.
Make them go home.”

“I'll take
care of them,” was his murmured response, and all she could do was stand by
helplessly.

“Roarke!”
Mavis gave a squeal of delight, and launched herself, decked out in swirl of
blue feathers over a gold body paint job, into his arms. “The place is mag!
Even more mag than before! Where's Dallas? Isn't she here for the big night?”

“She's
working.”

“Oh, bum-time.
Well, we'll keep you company. Listen to that band! They're incendiary. Can't
wait to dance.”

“You'll have a
better view from the second level.”

“Lots of
action down here.”

“There, too.”
He'd never get them out, not without an explanation. But he could calm Eve's
nerves by moving them as far away as possible. “Rue?” He signaled his manager.
“These are friends of mine. Get them the best table on the second level. Their
tab's on the house.”

“That's
gracious of you.” Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. “And unnecessary.”

“It's my
pleasure. I've got some business to see to shortly. When it's done, I'll come
up and join you for a drink.”

“Aw, you're so
sweet. We'll see you upstairs later.”

When he was
sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. “Keep an eye on
them. Make certain they're tucked up until this is played out.”

“Don't worry,”
he replied.

Onstage, the
dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying
the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric
blue mist crawled over the floor.

Prowling
around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar
of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared
back at him.

Roarke turned
his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into
Purgatory.

He hadn't come
alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room
with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.

They would be
the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying mini-scanners,
high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.

They would
find only what he'd elected to have them find.

Ignoring them,
he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.

“Okay,” Eve
said from her station. “Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge,
everyone to move into first position. Let's do this right.”

And where
before she'd sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. “Feeney, give
me a weapons check. I want to know who's carrying and how many.”

“Already
coming through.”

And so, she
thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.

“It's been
awhile,” Roarke said.

Ricker's lips
curved, just at the corners. “Quite a long while.” He looked away from Roarke
just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. “Impressive,” he said with
the slightest hint of boredom. “But a strip club is still a strip club, however
it's trimmed.”

“And business
is still business.”

“I'd heard
you've had a little trouble with yours.”

“Nothing that
hasn't been dealt with.”

“Really? You
lost a few of your clients last year.”

“I did some
... restructuring.”

“Ah yes. A
wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife.”

“Leave my wife
out of it.”

“Difficult, if
not impossible.” It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of
tension in Roarke's voice. There'd been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn't
have shown. “But we can discuss just what you're willing to trade for that kind
of consideration.”

As with an
effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. “We'll use my booth.
I'll buy you a drink.”

As he started
to turn, one of Ricker's guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him
for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man's thumb, and jerked it
backward.

Too much
weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.

“Do that
again, and I'll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you.” His eyes went
back to Ricker's. “And you know it.”

“I'm glad to
see at least that much hasn't changed.” Ricker gestured his man back. “But you
can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions.”

“Have one of
the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn't satisfy, fuck yourself.
It's my place now.”

A muscle in
Ricker's cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he
nodded. “I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as
you say, it's your place. For the moment.”

“All right,”
Eve said. “They're moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system's going to
override their scan.”

“It overrode
mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled.” He swiveled
toward a secondary monitor. “Look, see, their sweep's coming up clean, getting
just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we'll settle us down
for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation.”

“Peabody,” Eve
said, reading off the weapons scan. “Your man is left end of the bar, mixed
race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He's
armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?”

At Peabody's
nod, she continued. “Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range,
but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered.
Martinez, your man is ...”

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

“Your droid
squad stays out of the booth,” Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. “I
don't talk business with an audience.”

“My thoughts
exactly.” Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut
behind him.

He had what he
wanted now, what he'd planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke
would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up
Ricker's left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome
face.

“Hell of a
view,” he commented as the dancers spun onstage. “You always did have a taste
for women. A weakness for them.”

“True enough.
As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife.”

“Did I?”
Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he'd been itching
for. So very long. “How careless of me. Does she know we're having this
conversation, or does she let you keep your balls now and then?”

Roarke took
out his cigarettes, tapping one on the table as he met Ricker's sneer. An inner
struggle showed on his face and made Ricker laugh. Then Roarke turned to the
menu. “Whiskey,” he ordered, lifted a brow.

“The same, for
old times' sake.”

“Two whiskeys.
Jameson's. Doubles, and straight up.” Then he sat back, lighted the cigarette.
“And I'll say this straight up, and that's for old times' sake as well. My
marriage stays out of your reach.”

Roarke's voice
took on an edge; then he paused as if to control it. “You've tried for my wife,
and she's tossed what you've sent at her back at you.”

“She's been
lucky.” But Ricker's mouth was tight as he reached for one of the glasses of
amber liquid that came through the serving slot. “Luck eventually breaks.”

Roarke's hand
shot out. As if he caught himself at the last moment, he drew it back, glancing
out toward the guard who had moved closer, whose own hand had drifted under his
coat.

“What do you
want in trade for a guarantee of her safety?”

“Ah.” Pleased,
Ricker sat back again. “That's a reasonable question. But why, I wonder, should
you think I'd offer a reasonable answer to it?”

“I'll make it
worth your while,” Roarke said quickly. Too quickly for pride or business
sense.

“That will
take some doing.” Thrilled, already desperate to push, he leaned forward. “You
see, I find I enjoy hurting your wife.”

“Listen -- “

“No, you'll
listen. You'll shut that arrogant mouth of yours as I should have shut it for
you years ago, and you'll listen. Do you understand?”

“The man must
have a death wish.”

Roarke heard
Feeney's voice clearly enough, appreciated the truth of his observation. He
fisted both hands on the table, let his breath in and out audibly. “Yes, I
understand. Just give me some terms, damn it. We're businessmen. Tell me what
you want.”

“Please.”

Christ, you
miserable prick, Roarke thought.
Carefully, he cleared his throat, picked up his whiskey. Drank. “Please. Tell
me what you want.”

“Better. Much
better. A number of years ago, you rashly severed our association, and did so
in a manner that cost me one point two million in cash and merchandise and
twice that in reputation and goodwill. So, to start, I'll take ten million, in
U.S. dollars.”

“And what,
precisely, will that ten million buy me?”

“Precisely,
Roarke? Your wife's life. Transfer that amount to an account I'll give you by
midnight tonight, or I will initiate the contract on her that I have pending.”

“You need to
give me a little time to -- “

“Midnight, or
I terminate her.”

“Even you
should hesitate before contracting on a cop, and such a high-profile one.”

“I owe you a
great deal more than one cop. Your choice. Keep the money, lose the woman.” He
ran the saber points of his nails over the side of the glass in a nasty,
shrieking sound. “It's not negotiable.”

“That's enough
right there,” Eve murmured. “It's enough to put him away.”

“He'll get
more.” Feeney shifted in his seat. “He's just warming up.”

“She's worth
ten million to me, but...” Roarke lifted his glass, sipped slowly now, as if
calculating. “I believe we forge a truer trust in this matter by adding to the
arrangement. I'm interested in more than a single deal. I have some funds I'd
prefer to invest in a manner that doesn't require government scrutiny.”

“Tired of
being an upstanding citizen?”

“In a word?
Yes.” He shrugged, glanced around, and let his gaze linger just a moment too
long on the dancer grinding out her routine on the other side of the dome.

And in doing
so, he felt Ricker's amusement.

“I'm
considering changing my home base, doing some traveling. I'm looking for some new
business ventures. Something with some juice.”

“And you're
coming to me? You would dare to come to me, as if we're equals? You'll have to
crawl before I throw you a scrap.”

“Then this
conversation is pointless.” Roarke shrugged again, but made it jerky, drained
his glass.

“You used to
be so cocky, so cold. Now look at you. She's sucked you dry. Gone soft, haven't
you? Forgotten what it's like to give orders that change lives. That end them.
I could end yours now with a snap of my finger.” Ricker's eyes gleamed as he
leaned close, whispered. “Maybe I will, for old times' sake.”

It was
brutally hard not to smash that leering face with his fist and take out the
guard with his hand under his coat. “Then you won't get your ten million or
anything else from me. Maybe you have a right to be angry with the way I backed
out on you before.”

“Backed out?
Backed out?” He pounded his fist on the table, shouting so that at the control
station, Feeney's ears rang. “You betrayed me, stole from me. You threw my
generosity back in my face. I should have killed you for it. Perhaps I still
will.”

“You want
payback, Ricker, for what I did, or didn't do, I'm willing to pay. I'm willing.
I know what you're capable of. I respect that.”

For effect,
Roarke added a slight tremor to his hand as he ordered a second round. “I've
still got sources and resources. We can be an asset to each other. My
connection to the NYPSD is valuable in itself.”

Ricker let out
a short laugh. His chest was hurting from the pounding of his heart. He didn't
want another whiskey. He wanted his beautiful pink drink. But he would finish
first. Finish Roarke first. “I don't need your cop, you pathetic fool. I've got
a whole damn squad in my pocket.”

“Not like
her.” Roarke edged forward, eager to deal. “I want her out, but until I
convince her, she can be useful. Very useful to you.”

“She's barely
useful to you. Rumor is you and she are having some marital difficulties.”

“Just some
bumps. They'll pass. The ten million will help that,” Roarke said as he took
the second round of drinks. “It takes the pressure off. And I'll get her to
resign before much longer. I'm working on it.”

“Why? As you
said, a police connection's useful.”

“I want a
wife, not a bloody cop. I prefer having my woman available at my convenience,
not running around all hours of the day and night investigating cases.”
Scowling now, he drank deeply. “A man's entitled to that, isn't he? If I want a
cop, I'll buy one. I don't have to marry one.”

It was better,
Ricker calculated. Even better than he'd expected. He'd have Roarke's money,
his humiliation, and his obligation. And he could hold all of them until he
killed him. “I can arrange it for you.”

“Arrange
what?”

“Her
resignation. I'll have her out in a month's time.”

“In return
for?”

“This place. I
want it back. And there's a little matter of a shipment I'm expecting. The
client I anticipated for it hasn't proved financially solvent. Take it off my
hands for, we'll say, another ten million, turn the deed to this club over to
one of my subsidiaries, and we'll have a deal.”

“What's the
merchandise?”

“Pharmaceuticals.”

“You know I
don't have the contacts to deal in illegals.”

“Don't tell me
what you do or don't have.” Ricker's voice spiked, all but cracked. “Who do you
think you are to turn your nose up at me.” He lunged over the table, grabbed
Roarke by the collar. “I want what I want!”

“He's
unstable. We need to move in.” She was already striding out of the room when
Feeney called out.

“Hold on! Let
it play out.”

“I can't stay
up here.”

“I'm not
turning up my nose,” Roarke said quickly, nervously. “I haven't developed the
sources for illegals distribution.”

“That's your
problem. Your problem. You'll do what I say, all that I say, or get
nothing. Take the deal or the consequences.”

“Let me think,
for God's sake. Pull your men back. Let's not have any trouble in here.”

“Fine, that's
fine. No trouble.”

Well, he's
mad, Roarke thought. Stark and
raving. The rumors of Ricker's instability hadn't touched on the reality.

“Twenty million's
a lot of money. But I'm willing to risk it to get what I want. And to ... pay
the debt I owe you. But I need to know how you'd work her out of the department
without it coming back on me.”

It was
Ricker's breathing that was audible now, but he didn't hear it. He picked up
his whiskey, and his hand trembled, but he didn't see it. All he saw was the
fulfillment of a long-cherished wish.

“I can ruin
her career inside of a week. Yes, in no time at all. Strings to be pulled. The
case she's working on now ... she annoys me. She insulted me. Laughed at me.”

“She'll
apologize.” Roarke all but crooned it. “I'll see to it.”

“Yes, she'll
have to do that. Have to apologize. I won't tolerate anyone laughing at me.
Especially a woman.”

He had to be
pushed, Roarke thought. Gently and quickly. “She will. You have the controls.
You have the power.”

“That's right.
Of course. I do. If I let her live, as a favor to you, I'll take a fee for
moving her off the case and out of the department. Misinformation, skewed data
in the right computer. It works.”

Roarke rubbed
the back of his hand over his mouth. “The cops who've been killed. For Christ's
sake, Ricker, you're behind that?”

“And there'll
be more before it's done. It amuses me.”

“I don't want
any part in cop killing. They'll bury you.”

“Don't be
ridiculous. They'll never touch me. I didn't kill anyone. I simply put the idea
in the right head, the weapon in the most vulnerable hand. Just a game. You
remember how fond I am of games? And how I enjoy winning them.”

“Yes, I
remember. No one did it better. How did you pull this off?”

“Arrangements,
Roarke. I enjoy arrangements and watching how the pieces fall into place.”

“I sleep with
a woman in the department, and I can't get that close.” Roarke's voice filled
with admiration. “I underestimated you. It must have taken years to set up.”

“Months. Only
a few months. It's simply a matter of selecting the right target. A young cop,
too stiff-necked to play the game. Eliminating him is simple enough, but the
beauty is how it can be connected, how it can be expanded upon by
planting the seeds in the heart of the grieving father. Then I simply sit back
and watch a once-dedicated cop kill. Again and again. And it costs me nothing.”

“Brilliant,”
Roarke murmured.

“Yes, and
satisfying. Best, I can do it again, any time I like. Murder by proxy. No one's
safe, certainly not you. Transfer the money, and until the wind changes, I'll
protect you. And your wife.”

“That was
twenty million?”

“For the
moment.”

“A bargain,”
Roarke said quietly, brought the hand he'd slipped under the table, under his
jacket back into view. And the gun with it. “But I find the idea of doing
business with you turns my stomach. Oh, tell your man to hold, or it'll give me
great pleasure to use this. Recognize it, Ricker? It's one of the banned
weapons you trafficked in, years back. I have quite a collection of
twentieth-century handguns -- and a collector's license. They leave a horrible
nasty hole in a man. This one's a nine-millimeter Glock and will blow your face
right off the skull.”

The shock of
having a weapon aimed at him robbed Ricker of speech. It had been years, a
lifetime, since anyone had dared. “You've lost your mind.”

“No, indeed.
Mine's sound enough.” He slapped a hand on Ricker's wrist, twisted viciously
until the laser scalpel fit into his own palm. “You always had a weakness for
sharp things.”

“You'll die
painfully for this. Painfully. Do you think you'll walk out of this place
breathing?”

“Certainly.
Ah, there's my wife now. Lovely, isn't she? And by the sound of things through
the scanner your inferior sweepers missed, it appears your team of fools is
even now being rounded up and moved along.”

He waited
while Ricker focused beyond him, through the dome, and saw for himself.

“One of us has
lost his touch, Ricker, and it appears to be you. I set you up, and it was
child's play.”

“For a cop.”
Eyes wild, Ricker leaped to his feet. “You rolled on me for a cop.”

“I'd have done
it for a mongrel dog, given half the chance. Ah, please, try for it,” Roarke
murmured. “And make my life worth living.”

“Enough.
Roarke, back off.” Eve opened the door to the booth, slid her police issue into
Ricker's ribs.

“You're dead.
You're both dead.” He whirled, backhanded Eve as he leaped. She took the blow
and dropped him.

“Tell me you
had it on full.”

“He's stunned,
that's all.” She wiped the blood from her mouth with her sleeve and ignored the
scramble of people who rushed away from the trouble. Onstage, the strippers
continued to dance.

Roarke handed
her a handkerchief, then reached down, lifting Ricker's head off the floor by
his throat.

“Don't -- “

“Keep back,”
he snapped as Eve crouched to hold him off. “You'll bloody well keep back till
I've finished this.”

“If you kill
him, it's been for nothing.”

He stared at
her face, and all the strength, the purpose, all the danger he hadn't shown to
Ricker leaped out of them. “It would be for everything, but I don't mean to
kill him.” To prove it, he handed her the Glock.

But he kept
the scalpel and, holding its keen point to the pulse in Ricker's throat,
imagined. “You can hear me, can't you, Ricker? You can hear me well enough. I'm
the one who took you down, and you'll remember it while you're pacing the box
they'll put you in. You'll think of it every day with what's left of your
mind.”

“Kill you,”
Ricker choked out, but he couldn't so much as lift his hand.

“Well, you
haven't managed that as yet, have you? But you're welcome to try again. Listen
to me now, and carefully. Touch her, put your hand on what's mine again, and
I'll follow you to hell and peel the skin from your bones. I'll feed you your
own eyes. I take an oath on it. Remember what I was, and you'll know I'll do
it. And worse.”

He
straightened again, his body rigid. “Get someone to drag him out of here. This
is my place.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She didn't
sleep long, but she slept deeply, knowing Ricker was in a cage. He'd screamed
for his lawyer, quite literally, once the effects of the stun had worn off.

Since she'd
whipped right around and dumped Canarde in a cage as well, Ricker's lawyer was
going to be a very busy boy for awhile.

She'd made two
copies of every record disc of the operation in Purgatory. She sealed all of
them, and secured one copy in her home office.

There would be
no lost evidence, no missing data, no damaged files this time around.

And they had
him cold.

She told
herself it was enough, would have to be enough, then had tumbled into bed. She
switched off like a frayed circuit, then came awake with a jolt when Roarke put
a hand on her shoulder and said her name.

“What.”
Instinctively, she reached down where her weapon would have been had she not
been naked.

“Easy,
Lieutenant. I'm unarmed. And so are you.”

“I was ...
whoa.” She shook her head to clear it. “Out.”

“I noticed.
I'm sorry to wake you.”

“Why are you
up? Why are you dressed? What time is it?”

“A bit past
seven. I had some early calls to take. And while I was at it, one came in. From
the hospital.”

“Webster,” she
whispered. She hadn't checked on him the night before after the operation was
complete. And now... too late, she thought.

“He's awake,”
Roarke continued, “and it seems he'd like to see you.”

“Awake? Alive
and awake?”

“Apparently
both. He improved last night. He's still in serious condition, but stable.
They're cautiously hopeful. I'll take you.”

“You don't
need to do that.”

“I'd like to.
Besides, if he thinks I'm guarding my territory ...” He lifted her hand, nipped
the knuckle. “It might cheer him up.”

“Territory, my
ass.”

“Your ass is,
I'll point out, my exclusive territory.”

She tossed the
cover aside, and gave him a good view of that territory as she dashed toward
the shower. “I'll be ready in ten minutes.”

“Take your
time. I don't believe he's going anywhere.”

She took
twenty, because he bribed her with coffee. And she indulged in a second cup as
he got behind the wheel. “Do we take him flowers or something?”

“I think not.
If you did that, the shock would likely put him back in a coma.”

“You're such a
funny guy, and so early in the morning, too.” She sipped her coffee, bided her
time. “That, urn, phrase -- feed you your own eyes? Is that some kind of Irish
curse?”

“Not that I'm
aware of.”

“So you just
made it up on the spot last night? I've said it before, and I'll say it again:
You're scary.”

“I'd have
killed him for striking you if you hadn't been in the way.”

“I know it.”
So she'd made certain she'd stayed in the way. “You had no business bringing
that handgun. Carrying a banned weapon into a public place. You know how much
dancing I'm going to have to do on that one?”

“Who says it
was loaded?”

“Was it?”

“Of course,
but who's to say? Relax, Lieutenant. You brought him down.”

“No, I didn't.
You did.”

“Compromise,”
he decided. “Which we've neglected to do just lately. We brought him
down.”

“I'll take
that. One more thing. All that business about a man having this right and that
right, and wanting your woman when you want her. That was just show, right?”

“Are you going
to share that coffee?”

She moved it
just a little farther out of reach. “No. It was just show. Right?”

“Well, now,
let me think. It might be nice to have the little woman puttering about the
house and meeting me at the door of an evening, after a hard day's business,
with a smile and a drink. That's a lovely image, isn't it?”

He turned to
see her snarling at him and laughed. “How long before we'd be bored brainless
with it, do you figure?”

“It's a good
thing you said that before I wasted this very nice coffee by pouring it into
your lap. But I'm still not sharing it.”

When they
turned into hospital parking, she shifted on her seat to face him. “It's going
to take several days to close this Ricker business and hand it over to the PA.
His psych evaluation is going to be one big mess, seeing as he's loon crazy.”

“He'll end up
in a mental defective prison unit.”

“Oh yeah, and
believe me, they're no picnic. Anyway, we've got a lot of people to interview,
and I can't calculate how many of his businesses and properties to search and
seize. I'm letting Martinez take the bulk of it, but I'm still going to be tied
up for awhile. If you can put off the trip you need to take to Olympus, I'd
like to go with you.”

He pulled into
a slot, stopped the car. “You'd voluntarily take off several days? Not only
that, but go off planet without me having to drug you?”

“I said I'd
like to go with you. If you're going to make a big deal out of it, we can just
-- “

“Quiet down.”
He leaned over, kissed her sulky mouth. “I'll put it off until we can go
together.”

“Okay. Good.”
She climbed out of the car. Stretched. “Look, there's some whattayacallems.”

“Daffodils,”
he said and caught her hand in his. “Daffodils, Eve. It's spring.”

“Finally feels
like it, too.”

She kept her
hand in his as they walked into the hospital, and all the way to Webster's tiny
room.

His face
wasn't gray as it had been the last time she'd been there, but it wasn't pink
with health, either. Instead, it was as white as the bandages stretched across
his chest.

She felt a
trip of alarm cut into her cheerful mood as he lay, silent and still.

“I thought
they said he was awake.”

Even as she
said it, in a sickroom whisper, Webster's eyes fluttered open. They stayed
dazed for a moment with the baffled, vulnerable look of the very ill. Then, as
they focused the faintest glint of humor shot into them. “Hey.”

She had to
step closer; his voice was pitifully thin.

“You didn't
have to bring the guard dog. I'm too weak to make a half-decent pass at you.”

“You never
worried me in that area, Webster.”

“I know. Damn
it. Thanks for coming.”

“It's okay.
It's not much out of my way.”

He started to
laugh, lost his breath, then just lay there concentrating on finding it again.

“You stupid
bastard.” She said it with enough passion to bring that baffled look back on
his face.

“Huh?”

“You think I
can't handle myself? That I need some idiot IAB moron half-ass to knock me down
and stick out his chest for a knife?”

“No.” The
humor was coming back. “I don't know what got into me.”

“If you'd
stuck with the streets instead of getting fat and happy behind a stupid desk,
you wouldn't be lying here. And when you're on your feet, I'm going to put you
right back in the hospital.”

“That'll be
fun. Give me something to look forward to. Did you get him? They won't tell me
a damn thing in here.”

“No. No, I
didn't get him.”

“Shit.” He
closed his eyes again. “That's on me.”

“Oh, shut up.”
She stalked to the tiny window, fisted her hands on her hips, while she tried
to calm down.

In her place,
Roarke moved to the side of the bed. “Thank you.”

“You're
welcome.”

And that was
all they needed to say on the subject.

“We got
Ricker,” Eve continued, as her anger abated. “Took him down last night.”

“What? How?”
Webster tried to sit up, couldn't even lift his head. And swore with as much
energy as he could muster.

“It's a long
story. I'll fill you in some other time. But we got him, solid, and have his
lawyer on the hot seat for good measure, and a dozen of his men.”

She turned
back, walked to the bed. “He's going to stay in MD status by the looks of
things, and we're going to take his organization apart, piece by piece.”

“I can help.
Do some of the data searches, run scans. Let me in on this. I'll go crazy in
here with nothing to do.”

“Stop, you're
breaking my heart.” Then she shrugged. “I'll think about it.”

“Come on, you
know you'll cave on it. You feel sorry for me.” He managed a grin. “And I
should tell you, both of you, so there's no baggage, I'm pretty much on the way
to getting over you.”

“That really
adds to my peace of mind, Webster.”

“It does a lot
for mine. Only took getting sliced in half, more or less. Nothing like a good
coma to give a guy the opportunity to put things in perspective.”

His eyes
drooped, nearly shut before he fought them open again. “Man, the meds just
knock you out.”

“So, get some
sleep. Word gets out you're coming around, you'll have plenty of company.
You'll need all the rest you can manage.”

“Yeah, but
wait.” He was losing it, struggling to hold out another minute. “I gotta ask
you a question. Did you come in before?”

“Before what?”

“Come on,
Dallas. Before now. Did you come in and talk to me?”

“Maybe I
dropped in to see what an idiot looked like. Why?”

“ 'Cause I had
this dream. Maybe a dream. You were standing over me. I was just floating and
you were standing there, ragging my ass. Ever tell you how sexy you look when
you're ragging ass?”

“Jesus.”

“Sorry, a
little re ... residual lust. D'ya say you'd spit on my grave?”

“Yeah. I will,
too, if you try to cash out again.”

He gave a weak
chuckle. “Who's the idiot? Not gonna have a grave. You gotta be rich or
religious these days for that. Recycle and cremation, thatsa way to go. Return
and burn. Sure nice to hear your voice though. Made me think I'd prob'ly get
bored floating. Gotta go. Tired.”

“Yeah, you go
on.” And because he was asleep, and Roarke would understand, she gave his hand
a little pat. “He'll be okay.”

“Yes, he'll be
okay.”

“I think he
was glad you came along.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Return and burn.
What a jerk. But I guess he's right. Graves are out of style, mostly. Except...
Oh no.” She whirled to Roarke. “I am such an idiot. Rich or religious. I
know where he'll go, where he'll go to end it. You drive.”

She was
already out of the room, running down the hall.

“His son's
grave.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
She yanked out her PPC. “Where the hell is it? They'd have one. People who have
religious statues in the living room want to bury their dead and put crosses
up.”

“I'll find it
faster.” He had his own unit out as they hit the elevator. “Call your backup.”

“No, no
backup, not yet. I have to find him first, to be sure. Son's name was Thad.
Thadeus Clooney.”

“I've got it.
Three plots, Sunlight Memorial. New Rochelle.”

“Near the
house. Makes sense.” She exchanged her PPC for her communicator as she strode
across the lobby and out to the lot. “Peabody. Listen up.”

“Sir? Dallas?”

“Wake up, get
dressed. You're on call.” She climbed into the car. “I want you to get a squad
car, have it and an officer ready to transport you. I'm following a lead on
Clooney. If it pans out, I'll contact you. I want you to move fast.”

“Where? Where
are you going?”

“Back to the
dead,” Eve said. “Push this thing,” she added as Roarke headed out of the lot.
“He could have heard about Ricker by now.”

“Strap in,”
Roarke advised, and he punched the accelerator.

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

The dead
rested in sunlight and dappled shade, in gentle green hills, with markers of
soft white, soft gray. The rows of them, the crosses and curves, made Eve
wonder how the living could find comfort there, faced with the unassailable
proof of their own mortality.

But some must.
For even in these days when few chose to go into the ground or could afford the
real estate, many of the graves were splashed with flowers. That symbol of life
given to the dead.

“Which way?”

Roarke had a
diagram of the cemetery on his pocket screen. “To the left, over that rise.”

They walked
around the markers together. “The first time I spoke to you,” she remembered,
“we were in a graveyard. Kind of creepy, I guess.”

“Apt.” He laid
a hand on her shoulder. “There he is. Your instincts are excellent.”

She paused,
taking a moment to study the man sitting on the tended grass beside a
flower-strewn grave. And the marker was indeed a cross, pure and white.

“I need you to
hang back.”

“No.”

Saying
nothing, she crouched, pulled out her clinch piece. “I'm trusting you not to
use this unless you have no choice.” She handed it to him. “Trust me to do my
job. I need to try to talk him in. I'm asking you to let me give him that
chance. Compromise.”

“All right.”

“Thanks. Call
Peabody. Tell her where to come. I need her here.”

Alone, she
walked down the gentle slope and through the graves. He knew she was coming. He
was cop enough to hold his ground, to bide his time, but she saw from the
slightest shift in his body, he knew.

Better that
way, she thought. She preferred not to surprise him.

“Sergeant.”

“Lieutenant.”
He still didn't look at her, didn't take his attention from the name carved in
that perfect white cross. “I want you to know I'm carrying. I don't want to
harm you.”

“I appreciate
that. You should know I'm carrying, and I don't want to harm you, either. I
need to talk to you, Sergeant. Can I sit down here?”

He looked at
her then. His eyes were dry, but she could see he'd been weeping. There were
still tracks of the tears on his cheeks. And she saw, too, that his weapon, the
same make and model as her own, was in the hand resting in his lap.

“You've come
to take me in. I don't intend to go.”

“Can I sit
down?”

“Sure. Sit.
It's a good spot for it. That's why we picked it. But I always thought that
Thad would be the one to sit here, to sit and talk to me and his mother. Not
that I would be the one to sit. He was the light of my life.”

“I read his
service record.” She sat on the opposite side of the grave. “He was a good
cop.”

“Yeah, he was.
Oh, I was proud of him. The way he carried himself, the way he took to the job
like he was born to it. Maybe he was. I was always proud of him, though, from
the first instant they put him in my arms and he was squalling and wriggling.
All that life in one little package.”

With his free
hand, he brushed at the grass that grew over his son. “You don't have children
as yet, do you, Lieutenant?”

“No.”

“I'll tell you
that whatever you feel for anyone, however much love's inside you, there's more
of it when you have a child. You can't understand it until you've experienced
it. And it doesn't change as they grow into men, into women. It just grows with
them. It should be me in there, and not my boy. Not my Thad.”

“We took
Ricker.” She said it quickly, because she'd seen his hand tighten on his
weapon.

“I know it.”
And relax again. “I heard it on-screen in the little room where I've been
staying. My hidey-hole. We all need our hidey-holes, don't we?”

“He's going
down for your son, Sergeant.”

She used his
rank, and would use it, again and again, to remind him what he was.

“I want you to
know that. Conspiracy to commit murder. The murder of a police officer. And
he'll go down for the others, the same way. With everything else we'll nail on,
he'll never get out of a cage. He'll die there.”

“It's some
comfort. I never thought you were part of it. Not in my gut. I can't say I've
been clear in my mind for the last bit of time. After Taj...”

“Sergeant -- “

“I took that
boy's life, a life as innocent as my son's. Made a widow of his sweet wife, and
took away a good father from those babies. I'll carry that regret, that shame,
that horror to my own grave.”

“Don't.” She said
it quietly, urgently, as he lifted his weapon and placed it to the pulse at his
throat. It would be lethal there. And on maximum setting would end it
instantly. “Wait. Is that the way you honor your son, by taking another life on
his grave? Is that what Thad would want? Is that what he'd expect from his
father?”

He was so
tired. It showed in his face now, in his voice. “What else is there?”

“I'm asking
you to listen to me. If you're set on this, I can't stop you. But you owe me
some time.”

“Maybe I do.
The boy who was with you when you came to my door, when I knew you knew. I
panicked. Panicked,” he said again like an oath. “I don't even know who he
was.”

“His name's
Webster. Lieutenant Don Webster. He's alive, Sergeant. He's going to be okay.”

“I'm glad of
that. One less stone to carry.”

“Sergeant. ..”
She fumbled for the words. “I'm a murder cop,” she began. “You ever work
Homicide?” She knew he hadn't. She knew it all.

“No, not as
such. But you deal with it wherever you are if you're a cop. And you deal with
it too much if you've been one as long as me.”

“I work for
the dead. I can't count the number of them I've stood over. I don't think I
could stand to try. But I dream of them. All those lost faces, those stolen
lives. It's hard.”

She was
surprised she was telling him this, surprised it seemed the way. “Sometimes
it's so hard to see those faces in your sleep, you wake up hurting. But I can't
do anything else. I've wanted to be a cop as long as I can remember. It was my
one clear vision, and it's all I can do.”

“Are you a
good cop?” The tears were overflowing again. In sympathy or despair, she
couldn't tell. “Eve. Your name's Eve, isn't it? Are you a good cop, Eve?”

“Yeah. I'm a
damn good cop.”

Now he wept,
and she felt her eyes tear up in concert. “Thad, he wanted the same as you. The
one clear vision. I like that. Yeah, his one clear vision. They let him bleed
to death. They let him die. And for what? For what? Money. It rips my heart.”

“They've paid,
Sergeant. I can't tell you what you did was right, or what the judgment on you
will be in the end of things. But they've paid for what they did to your boy,
for what they did to their badge. Ricker's going to pay, too, I swear it to
you, here on the grave of this good cop. He'll pay for playing them all like
puppets. He played you, too. Played on your love for your son. Your grief. Your
pride. Will you let him keep pulling your strings? Will you dishonor yourself
and your son by letting him win?”

“What can I
do?” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I've lost. I'm lost.”

“You can do
what Thad would expect of you. You can face it.”

“I'm shamed,”
he whispered. “I thought when it was over, I'd be glad. I'd be free. But I'm
shamed.”

“You can make
up for it, best you can. You can erase some of the shame. You can come with me,
Sergeant. You can be a cop now and come with me.”

“Prison or
death.” He looked at her again. “Those are hard choices.”

“Yes, very
hard. Harder to live, Sergeant, and balance the scales. Let the system make its
judgment on you. That's what we believe in, people like us, what we work for
when we pick up the badge. I'm asking you to do that, Sergeant. I'm asking you
not to be one of the faces I see in my sleep.”

He bowed his
head, rocked, so his tears fell on the flowers he'd laid on the grass. He
reached out a hand across the grave, clasped Eve's. Clung. She sat like that
while he sobbed.

Then he leaned
forward, pressed his lips to the white cross. “I miss him. Every day.” With a
sigh, he held out his weapon to Eve. “You'll want this.”

“Thank you.”
She got to her feet, waiting for him to get laboriously to his.

He wiped his
face with his sleeve, drew in a breath. “I'd like to call my wife.”

“She'll be
glad to hear from you. I don't want to put restraints on you, Sergeant Clooney.
I'd like you to give me your word you'll go with my aide and walk into Central
of your own volition.”

“You have my
word on it. Eve. It's a good name. I'm glad it was you who came today. I won't
forget it was you. It's spring,” he said as they walked up the rise. “I hope
you'll take time to enjoy it. Winter comes too soon, and always lasts too
long.”

He paused at
the top where Peabody waited with Roarke. “Those faces in your dreams? Have you
thought they might be coming to thank you?”

“No. I guess I
never thought of that. Officer Peabody will accompany you in the black and
white, Sergeant. I'll follow you in. Officer, Sergeant Clooney is turning
himself in.”

“Yes, sir.
Will you come with me, Sergeant?”

As they moved
off, Eve slipped Clooney's weapon into her pocket. “I thought I was going to
lose him.”

“No, you had
him the minute you sat down.”

“Maybe.” She
blew out a breath. “It's a hell of a lot easier just to put a boot to their
throats. He got to me.”

“Yes. And you
to him.” He crouched down, and to her amusement, tugged up her trouser leg and
slipped her weapon back into the ankle harness. “Our own variation on
Cinderella.”

The laugh went
a long way to easing the rawness around her heart. “Well, Prince Charming, I'd
ask for a lift to the ball, but how about giving me one in to work?”

“My pleasure.”

They linked
hands, skirted around a young tree with leaves unfurling tender green. And
walked away from the dead.

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 11 Judgement In Death v1.1

Title:

Judgement In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective